be heard, but Par sensed something nevertheless—the feel of
something alive and moving, just through the walls, just on the
other side. Within him, the magic of the wishsong stirred like
a hungry cat, and its fire purred anxiously. Par closed his eyes
and concentrated on muting its sound.
What he sensed beyond the wall was one of the Shadowen.
He felt his breath catch in his throat as an image formed in
his mind of the black thing, a vision brought to life by his
magic. It stole along a corridor within the tower, hooded and
cloaked, fingers testing the air like tentacles in search of prey.
46 The Talismans of Shannara
Could it sense them as well? Did it know they were there? The
magic rustled like a snake inside Par Ohmsford, coiling, tens-
ing, gathering force. Par muffled it and would not let go. Too
soon! It was too soon!
The air whispered in his ear as if it were alive. He gritted
his teeth and held on.
Then the Shadowen was gone, fading like a momentary
thought, dark and evil and full of hate. The wishsong’s magic
cooled, easing down once again. Par felt some of the tautness
let go, and the muscles in his chest and stomach relaxed. He
was aware of Padishar looking at him, of the uneasiness mir-
rored on the other’s face. Padishar reached back to grip his
shoulder questioningly. Par felt the iron in the other’s fingers,
and stole some of its strength. He managed a quick, reassuring
nod.
They continued on, climbing still, edging ahead through the
gloom. Everywhere it was still, the small sounds of Federation
voices and boots gone completely. The night was a blanket of
silence in which every living thing seemed to have drifted off
to sleep. Deceptive, Par thought as he labored on. Dangerous.
A moment later they stopped again, this time at a stretch of
mortared stone wall framed by heavy timbers that buttressed
one end of a floor overhead. The Mole handed the candle to
Padishar and began to explore the stone with his fingers.
Something clicked beneath his careful touch, and a section of
the wall gave way. A seam of light appeared, faint and smoky.
The Mole turned back to Padishar. His voice was hushed.
‘They keep her one flight down through the second door
somewhere.” He hesitated. “I could show you.”
“No,” Padishar said at once. “Wait here. Wait for us to
come back.”
The Mole studied him a moment and then nodded reluc-
tantly. “Second door,” he repeated.
With both hands braced against it, he pushed the portal in
the wall all the way open. Padishar and Par Ohmsford stepped
cautiously through.
They stood on a landing in a stairwell where the steps both
climbed and descended. A door across from them was closed
and barred, the metal thick with rust. Torches rested in iron
The Talismans of Shannara 47
brackets hammered into the stone, their glow tracing the line of
the worn steps, their acrid smoke rising into the tower’s gloom.
Everything was silent.
Behind them, the hidden door swung closed again.
Par glanced at Padishar. The big man was looking about
guardedly. There was renewed uneasiness in his eyes. He
shook his head at something unseen.
They began the descent, backs against the wall, ears strain-
ing to catch any threatening sounds. The stairs curled in ser-
pentine fashion along the wall, the patches of torchlight just
barely meeting at the turns. A hint of night sky was visible
now and again through the slits in the stone, high and beyond
reach from where they passed. Par’s stomach was churning. He
thought he heard something on the steps above, a small scrap-
ing of boots, a rustle of clothing. He blinked and wiped the
sweat from his face. There was only silence.
They reached the next landing. There was a single door,
unguarded, unlocked. They opened it and passed through
easily. Par didn’t like it If this was where Damson was being
kept, there should have been guards. He glanced again at
Padishar, but the big man was looking ahead, down a dimly lit
corridor that ran to the promised second door. They moved to