A week after Par had left his sickbed and begun moving about on his own, Damson returned with disquieting news.
“Some weeks ago,” she advised, “the Federation discovered the location of the Jut. A spy in the outlaw camp apparently betrayed it. An army was dispatched from Tyrsis to penetrate the Parma Key and lay siege. The siege was successful. The Jut fell. It was taken close to the time, Par, when you escaped the Pit.” She paused. “Everyone found there was killed.”
Par caught his breath. “Everyone?”
“So the Federation claims. The Movement, it says, is finished.”
There was momentary silence. They sat at the Mole’s long table surrounded by his voiceless, unseeing children, saucers and cups set before them. It had become a mid-afternoon ritual.
“More tea, lovely Damson?” the Mole asked softly, his furry face poking up from the table’s edge. She nodded without taking her eyes from Par.
Par frowned. “You don’t seem distressed by this,” he responded finally.
“I think it odd that it took weeks for word of this victory to reach the city.”
“So it isn’t true, then?”
She bit into one of the crackers that the Mole had provided for them and chewed. “It may be true that the Jut was taken. But I know Padishar Creel. It doesn’t seem likely that he would let himself be trapped in his own lair. He’s much too clever for that. More to the point, friends of the Movement here in the city with whom I spoke tell me that line soldiers with the army claim they killed almost no one, several dozen at most, and those were already dead when the Jut’s summit was breached. What happened, then, to the others? There were three hundred men in that camp. Besides, if the Federation really had Padishar Creel, they’d spike his head atop the city gates to prove it.”
“But there’s no message from Padishar?”
She shook her head.
“And no word of Morgan or Steff or any of the others?”
She shook her head again. “They’ve vanished.”
“So.” He let the word hang.
She smiled ruefully. They finished their tea without speaking.
The following day, his body stronger, his mind determined, Par again announced that he wanted to go up into Tyrsis. He had been shut away long enough; he needed to see something of his own world again. He needed to feel sunlight on his skin and breathe fresh air. Besides, as long as he remained hidden away, nothing was being accomplished. It was time for him to do something.
Damson objected strongly, pointing out that he was not yet fully recovered and that it was extremely dangerous for him to go anywhere. The Federation knew who he was now; his description was everywhere. After his escape from the Pit, Seekers had begun searching the lower levels of the old palace and discovered the tunnels leading in. Now they were searching the tunnels as well. There were miles of tunnel and sewer to search, but the risk of discovery remained. For now, it was best to lie low.
In the end, they compromised. Par would be allowed to go into the tunnels close at hand as long as he was in the company of Damson or the Mole. He would not go above-ground, even for a moment. He would go where he was told and do what he was advised. But at least he would be out of his sick rooms. Par agreed.
He began his exploration eagerly, studying the lay of the tunnels as he trailed after Damson and the Mole, mapping it all out carefully in his mind. He tired quickly the first day and had to return early. He was stronger the second and continued to improve. He began to grow comfortable with his understanding of how the tunnels and sewers wove together—enough so that he believed he could find his way to the surface on his own should the need arise. The Mole advised him cautiously, watched him with intense, glittery eyes, and nodded in satisfaction. Damson stayed close, her hands constantly touching him, as if to shield against danger. He smiled inwardly at their protectiveness.
A week passed away. He was much better now, almost completely recovered. More than a month had elapsed since he had been carried beneath the city of Tyrsis and placed in hiding. He thought constantly of leaving, of picking up again the threads of his life.
At the same time he found himself wondering where he would begin.
In the end the decision was made for him.
It was late afternoon ten days after he had begun his exploration of the tunnels surrounding the Mole’s lair. He was seated on the edge of his bed, once again examining the Sword of Shannara. Damson had gone up to the city to see what news she could learn of Padishar and the Federation. The Mole was a furtive shadow as he passed from room to room, straightening, arranging, and fussing with his possessions. Teatime had come and gone without the girl, and the Mole was unsettled. Par might have been if he had allowed himself to dwell on the matter, but as it was he was consumed with something else. His memory of the events surrounding the discovery of the Sword of Shannara and the death of Coll was still incomplete, the fragments piecing themselves back in place only intermittently as he recovered to form a complete picture. Now and then a new piece would recall itself. One did so now.
It had to do with the wishsong, actually. He remembered all too clearly how his magic had gathered within him, summoned on its own almost, when Coll—the thing that had been Coll—threatened him. Then, after Coll was gone and the others of the Shadowen in the Pit came for him, the wishsong had given him a flaming sword, a weapon unlike anything the magic had ever produced. It had destroyed the Shadowen effortlessly. For a few moments he had been possessed, infused with fury and madness, driven beyond any semblance of reason. He remembered how that had felt. But there was something more, something he had forgotten completely until now. When the Shadowen were destroyed and he had reached down to retrieve the Sword of Shannara from where it had fallen, the Sword had burned him—had seared his hand like fire. And instantly his own magic had died, and he had been unable to summon it again.
Why had the Sword of Shannara done that? What had happened to produce such a reaction?
He was pondering this, trying to make it fit with what little he knew of the mystery of the Sword, when Damson burst through the entry to the Mole’s subterranean refuge, long hair disheveled, her breathing quick and frightened.
“Federation soldiers!” she announced, rushing up to Par, pulling him to his feet. “Dozens of them, hunting through the sewers, making a thorough sweep! Not at the palace, but here. I barely slipped in ahead of them. I don’t know if someone betrayed us or if I was simply seen. But they have found the entry down and they’re coming!” She paused, steadying herself. “If we stay, they will find us. We have to get out right away.”
Par slung the Sword of Shannara over his shoulder and began shoving his few possessions into a sling pack. His thoughts scattered. He had been anxious to leave, but not like this.
“Mole!” Damson called out, and the furry fellow skittered quickly up to her. “You have to come with us. They will find you as well.”
But the Mole shook his head solemnly, and his voice was calm. “No, beautiful Damson. This is my home. I will stay.”
Damson knelt hurriedly. “You can’t do that. Mole. You will be in great danger. These men will hurt you.”
Par hurried over. “Come with us, Mole. Please. It is our fault that you are threatened.”
The Mole regarded him quizzically. “I chose to bring you here. I chose to care for you. I did it for Damson—but for myself as well. I like you. I like how you make... lovely Damson feel.”
Par saw Damson flush out of the corner of his eye and kept his gaze focused on the Mole. “None of that matters now. What matters is that we are your friends, and friends look out for one another. You have to come with us.”
“I will not go back into the world above,” the Mole insisted quietly. “This is my home. I must look out for it. What of my children? What of Chalt and little Lida and Westra and Everlind? Would you have me leave them?”