about the Mirrorshroud—that it was Shadowen-swom, that it
had been created to subvert him, that the only way he could
ever be free was to take off the cloak and throw it away. Coil
had done so. The Sword had given him the strength.
But even in that moment of supreme elation, when the
The Talismans of Shannara 179
struggle had been won and Coil had been returned to him. Par
felt something uneasy stir within. There should have been
more, a voice whispered. The magic should have done some-
thing more. Remember the tales of five hundred years gone?
Remember the first Ohmsford? Remember Shea? The magic
had done something different for Shea when he had summoned
it. It had shown him the truth about himself, revealed first all
that he had sought to hide away, to disguise, to forget, to pre-
tend did not exist. It had shown to Shea Ohmsford the truth
about himself, the harshest truth of all, in order that he might
be able to bear after any other truth that was required of him.
Why had nothing of this truth been shown to him? Why had
everything been of Coil alone?
Lightning flashed again, and Par’s thoughts disintegrated in
the movement of the dark forms on the rise surrounding them,
forms so clearly revealed this time that there could be no mis-
taking what they were. Par turned, seeing them crouched and
waiting everywhere, twisted and dark, red eyes gleaming. He
felt Coil edge close, felt his brother take up a protective stance
at his back. Coil was seeing them now as well.
A strange mix of despair and fury washed through Par
Ohmsford. The Shadowen had found them.
Then Rimmer Dall descended from the ranks, the raw, harsh
features lifted into the rain, the eyes as hard as stone and as red
as blood. A dozen steps from them, he stopped. Without saying
a word, he lifted his gloved hand and beckoned. The gesture
said everything. They must come with him. They belonged to
him. They were his now.
Par heard the First Seeker’s voice in his mind, heard it as
surely as if the other had spoken. He shook his head once. He
would not come. Neither he nor Coll. Not ever again.
“Par,” he heard his brother speak his name softly. “I’m with
you.”
There was a sudden rasp of the Sword of Shannara’s blade
against the pull of the earth as Coil slowly drew it free. Par
turned slightly. Coil was holding the talisman in both hands,
facing out at the Shadowen.
Fiercely determined that nothing would separate them again,
Par Ohmsford summoned the magic of the wishsong. It re-
sponded instantly, anxious for its release, eager for its use.
180 The Talismans of Shannara
There was something terrifying about the voracious intensity of
its coming. Par shuddered at the feelings it sent through him, at
the hunger it unleashed inside. He must control it, he warned
himself, and despaired that he could do so.
Across the darkness that separated them. Par could see Rim-
mer Dall smile. All about the crest of the rise, he could see the
Shadowen begin to edge down, the, rasp of claws and teeth
sliding through the wind’s quick howl, the glint of red eyes
turning the rain to steam. How many were there? Par won-
dered. Too many. Too many even for the wishsong’s volatile
magic. He cast about desperately, looking for a place to break
through. They would have to run at some point. They would
have to try to reach the river or the woods, someplace they
would have a chance to hide.
As if such a place existed. As if there were any chance for
them at all.
The magic gathered at his fingertips in a white glow that
seethed with fury. Par felt Coil press up against him, and they
stood back to back against the closing circle.
Lightning flashed and thunder rolled across the blackness,
booming into the wind’s rush. In the distance, trees swayed,
and leaves torn from their limbs scattered like frightened
thoughts. Run, Par thought Run now, while you can.
And then a light flared at the base of the ancient oak, a