Shannara? He had tried that once to no avail. Use the magic of
the wishsong? He had tried that as well and found it danger-
ously unpredictable. Still, he might have no choice. He would
have to use the wishsong if that was the only way he could
free his brother. The price he would have to pay was not a
consideration.
He thought often now of how the wishsong had evolved and
what it seemed to be doing to him when he summoned it. He
tried to think what he might do to protect himself, to keep the
magic under control, to prevent it from getting away from him
entirely. The power was building in a manner he could not
comprehend, evolving just as it had with Wil Ohmsford years
ago, manifesting itself in new and frightening ways that sug-
gested something fundamental was changing inside Par as
well. When he considered the extent of that evolution, he was
terrified. At one time it had been the magic of Jair Ohmsford,
a wishsong that could form images out of air, images that
seemed real but were only imaginings imprinted on the minds
of those who listened. Now it seemed more the magic of Jair’s
sister, Brin, magic that could change things in truth, that could
alter them irrevocably. But with Par it could create as well. It
could make things out of nothing, like that fire sword in the
Pit, or the shards of metal and wind in the watchtower at
Tyrsis. Where had power like that come from? What could
have made the magic change so drastically?
What frightened him most, of course, was that the answer to
all of his questions about the source of his magic was the
same, a faint and insidiously confident whisper in his mind,
the words spoken to him by Rimmer Dall when he had faced
The Talismans of Shannara 171
the First Seeker in the vault that had housed the Sword of
Shannara.
You are a Shadowen, Par Ohmsford. You belong with us.
Six days into his pursuit, four after the theft of the Skree, the
afternoon heat so intense it seemed to color the air and bum
the lungs. Coil’s trail turned sharply into the river and disap-
peared.
Par stopped at the water’s edge, scanned the ground in dis-
belief, backtracked to make certain he had not been deceived,
and then sat down in a patch of shade beneath a spreading
poplar to gather his thoughts.
Coil had gone into the river.
He stared out across its waters, over the sluggish, broad sur-
face to the tree-lined bank beyond. The Mermidon turned out
of the Runne where they were now, closing on the Rainbow
Lake. The mountains continued south along the east bank, but
the west flattened out into hilly grasslands and scattered groves
of hardwoods. If Coil had been thinking clearly, he might have
chosen to cross where travel was easier. But Coil was in the
thrall of the Mirrorshroud. Par decided he couldn’t be sure of
anything. In any event, if Coil had crossed, he must cross as
well.
He stripped off his clothing, used the fishing line and some
deadwood to create a makeshift raft, lashed his clothing, blan-
ket, pack, and the Sword of Shannara in place, and slipped into
the river. The water was cold and soothing. He pushed off into
the current, swimming with it at an angle toward the far shore.
He took his time and was across about a mile down. He
climbed out, dried himself, dressed, lashed the Sword and his
gear to his back, and set off to find Coil’s trail again.
But the trail was nowhere to be found.
He searched upriver and down until it was dark and discov-
ered nothing. Coil had disappeared. Par sat in the dark staring
out at the river’s flat, glittery surface and wondered if his
brother had drowned. Coil was a good swimmer under normal
circumstances, but maybe his strength had finally given out.
Par forced himself to eat, drank from his water skin, rolled
himself into his blanket, and tried to sleep. Sleep would not
come. Thoughts of Coil tugged and twisted at him, memories