memories to make it feel that way.
/ saw, for a moment, in the light in my mind, in that vision,
I saw something about myself, about who I was, am, could be.
I want to see it again!
It fled now from the thing it had hunted once, frightened of
it without knowing why. The cloak reassured, but even the
cloak did not seem enough to protect it against this other. And
flight from its pursuer always seemed to bring it back around
to where that pursuer waited, a circle of running it could not
understand. If it ran from its pursuer, why did the running
bring it back again? Sometimes the cloak soothed and shel-
tered against the pursuer and the memories, but sometimes it
felt as if the cloak were fire against its skin, burning away its
identity, making it into something terrible.
Take off the cloak!
No, foolish, foolish! The cloak protects!
And so the battle raged within the tormented thing that was
both Coil and Shadowen, driving it this way and that, wearing
it down and building it up again, pulling and pushing both at
once until there was nothing of reason and peace left within it.
Help me, it pleaded silently. Please, help me.
But it did not know who it was asking for help or what form
that help should take. It stared down through the darkness at
the one who tracked it, thinking that its hunter would sleep
soon. What should it do then? Should it go down there, creep-
ing, creeping, silent as clouds drifting in the sky, and touch it,
touch …
The thought would not complete. The cloak seemed to fold
more tightly about it, distracting it. Yes, creep down perhaps,
show its hunter that it was not afraid (but it was!), that it could
do as it wished in the night, in its cloak, in the safety of the
magic …
Help me.
It choked on the words, trying to shriek them aloud, unable
to do so. It closed its eyes against the pain and forced itself to
think.
Take something from it, something it needs, that it treasures.
Take something that will make it … hurt as I do. Reason
The Talismans of Shannara 167
jarred loose a familiar memory. / know this one, know from
when, when we were, we were . . . brothers! This one can help,
can find a way …
But the Coll/Shadowen thing was not certain of this, and the
thought faded away with the others, lost in the teeming frag-
ments that jostled and fought for consideration in the confused
mind. It was both drawn to and repelled by the one it watched,
and the conflict would not resolve itself no matter how much
effort was expended.
Tears came again, unbidden, unwanted. The soiled, scraped
hands knotted and tightened. The ravaged face fought to shape
itself into something recognizable. For a second Coil was
back, recovered out of the web of dark magic that imprisoned
him.
Need to act, to do something that will let the other know!
Need to take something away!
I must!
Par was asleep when he felt the tearing at his neck. He
jerked and thrashed wildly in an effort to stop it, not knowing
what it was or who was causing it. Something was choking
him, closing off his throat so that he could not breathe. There
was a weight atop him, climbing on him, wrapping about.
A Shadowen!
Yet the wishsong had not warned him, so it could not be
that. He summoned the magic now, desperate to save himself.
He felt it build with agonizing slowness. Something was
breathing on his face and neck. There was a flash of teeth, and
he felt coarse hair rub against his skin. His hand reached out
to brace himself so that he might shove upward against his at-
tacker. His hand brushed the handle of the Sword of Shannara,
and the metal burned him like fire.
Then the pressure on his throat abruptly released, the weight
on his body lifted, and through a haze of colored light and
gloom he saw a crumpled, hunched form race away into the