They clung to each other in silence, and Par let himself drift
with the feel of her, closing his eyes, letting the weariness seep
away. He wished suddenly that he were back in the Vale, re-
turned home again to his family and his old life, that Coil were
alive, and that none of this had ever happened. He wished he
had it all to do over again. He would not be so eager to go in
search of Allanon. He would not be so quick to undertake his
search for the Sword of Shannara.
And he would not be tricked into believing that his magic
was a gift.
He thought then of how much a part of him the wishsong
had once been and how alien it seemed now. It had broken free
56 The Talismans of Shannara
of his control again when he had called upon it in the watch-
tower. Despite his preparations, despite his efforts. Could he
even say, in fact, that he had summoned it—or had it simply
come on its own when it sensed those Shadowen? Surely it
had done as it chose in any case, lancing out like knives to cut
them apart. Par felt himself shudder at the memory. He would
never have wished for that. The magic had destroyed the black
things without thought, without compunction. His brow fur-
rowed. No, not the magic. Him. He had destroyed them. He
had not wanted to, perhaps, but he had done so nevertheless.
Par didn’t like what that suggested. The Shadowen were what
they were, and perhaps it was true that they would not hesitate
the span of a breath to kill him. But that did not change who
and what he was. He could still see the eyes of that soldier
Padishar had killed. He could see the life fade from them in an
instant’s time. It made him want to cry. He hated the fact that
it was necessary and that he was a part of it. Understanding the
reasons for it did not make it any more palatable. Yet what sort
of hypocrite was he, despairing for a single life one moment
and putting an end to half-a-dozen the next?
He didn’t want to know the answer to that question. He
didn’t think he could bear it. What he recognized was that the
magic of the wishsong had changed somehow within him and
in so doing had changed him as well. It made him think more
closely of Rimmer Dall’s claim that he, too, was a Shadowen.
After all, what was the difference between them?
“Damson? ”
The Mole’s tentative voice whispered from out of the black
and parted her from him as she looked up. Funny, he thought,
how the Mole only speaks to her.
The little fellow slipped into the light, blinking and squint-
ing. “They do not follow. The tunnels are empty.”
Damson looked back at Par. “What do we do now. Elf-
boy? ” she whispered, reaching up to brush back his hair.
“Where do we go? ”
Par smiled and took the hand in his own. “I love you. Dam-
son Rhee,” he told her quietly, his words so soft they were lost
in the rustle of his clothing.
He rose. “We get out of this city. We try to find help. From
Morgan or the free-bom or someone. We can’t continue on
The Talismans of Shannara 57
alone.” He looked down at the hunched form of the Mole.
“Mole, can you help us get away? ”
The Mole glanced at Damson. “There are tunnels beneath
the city that will take you to the plain beyond. I can show
you.”
Par turned back to Damson. For a moment she did not
speak. Her green eyes were filled with unspoken thoughts.
“All right. Par, I’ll go,” she said at last. “I know we can’t stay.
Time and luck are running out for us here in Tyrsis.” She
stepped close. “But now you must give me your promise—just
as you gave it to Padishar. Promise that we will come back for
him—that we won’t leave him to die.”
She does not give a moment’s consideration to the possibility