Boh and for Wren, the others who had been given charges by
Allanon.
But that was wrong, of course. He should be doing exactly
what he was; he should be searching for his brother so that he
could help him. If he lost Coil, who had stood by him through
so much, who had given up everything, lost him after losing
him once already, after having found him again …
He shook his head. He would not lose Coll. He would not
allow that to happen.
The minutes slipped away, and Par Ohmsford continued to
wait. Coil would come. He was certain of it. He would come
as he had the night before. Perhaps he would only sit and stare
at Par, but at least he would be there, nearby.
He reached into his tunic and brought out the broken half of
Skree that Damson had given to him. He had wrapped it tight
with a leather cord and hung it about his neck. If Damson was
close, the Skree was supposed to brighten. He inspected it
thoughtfully. The metal reflected dully in the pale starlight, but
did not glow. Damson was far away.
He looked at the Skree a moment longer, then slipped it
back into his tunic. Another bit of magic to keep him safe, he
thought ruefully. The wishsong, the Sword of Sharmara, and
the Skree. He was well equipped with talismans. He was
awash in them.
But his bitterness served no purpose, so he tried to brush it
away. He took off the Sword and set it on the ground beside
him. Somewhere out on the Mermidon a fish splashed. From
The Talismans of Shannara 165
the trees behind him came the Sow hoot of an owl, sudden and
compelling.
A heritage of magic, he thought, unable to help himself, the
darkness of his mood inexorable, and all it does is make me
wonder if Rimmer Dall is right—if I am indeed a Shadowen.
The thought lingered as he stared out into the night.
The thing that was a mix of Shadowen and Coil Ohmsford
stared out from its concealment in the trees some fifty feet
from where the one who tracked it sat waiting for it to appear.
But I will not, no, it thought to itself. / will stay here, safe
within the dark, where I belong, where the shadows protect me
from …
What? It could not remember. This other creature? The
strange weapon it carried? No, something else. The cloak it
wore? It fingered the material uncertainly, feeling something
unpleasant stir at the tips of its fingers as it did so, aware again
of the vision it had witnessed when it had struggled with the
other, the one who was … who was … It could not remem-
ber. Someone it had known. Once, long ago. Confusion beset
it; the confusion never left, it seemed.
The Shadowen/Coll thing shifted silently, eyes never leaving
the figure wedged into the rocks.
It thinks it can see me from there, but it is wrong. It can see
nothing 1 do not wish it to see—not while I wear the cloak, not
while I have the magic. I come to it when I wish, and I go
away -when I choose. It cannot see me. It cannot catch me. It
hunts me, but I take it where I wish. I take it south, south to,
to …
But it wasn’t sure, the confusion clouding its thoughts again,
distracting it. It could think better if it took off the cloak, it
sometimes seemed. But no, that would be foolish. The cloak
protected it, the Mirrorshroud, given to it by—no, stolen, taken
from—no, tricked away by someone … dangerous …
The thoughts came and went, fragmented and fleeting. They
spun like eddies in a river, touching down against silt and rock
for just an instant before moving on.
Tears of frustration came to its eyes, and it brought one
soiled hand up to brush them away. Sometimes it remembered
things from before, from when it did not wear the cloak, from
166 The Talismans of Shannara
when it was someone else. The memories made it sad, and it
seemed that something bad had been done to it to cause the