Par nodded. The outlaw chief slowed, moved over to a flower cart and stopped. He studied the flowers, apparently trying to select a batch. He had done so when Par felt an arm go about his waist and turned to find the red-haired girl who practiced sleight of hand pressing up against him.
“Hello, Elf-boy,” she whispered, her cool fingers brushing at his ear as she kissed him on the cheek.
Then two small children were beside them, a girl and a boy, the first reaching up to grasp Padishar’s rough hand, the second reaching up to grasp Par’s. Padishar smiled, lifted the little girl so that she squealed, kissed her, and gave half of the flowers to her and half to the boy. Whistling, he started the five of them moving into the park. Par had recovered sufficiently to notice that the red-haired girl was carrying a basket covered with a bright cloth. When they were close to the wall that separated the park from the ravine, Padishar chose a maple tree for them to sit under, the red-haired girl spread the cloth, and all of them began unpacking the basket which contained cold chicken, eggs, hard bread and jam, cakes and tea.
Padishar glanced over at Par as they worked. “Par Ohmsford, meet Damson Rhee, your betrothed for the purposes of this little outing.”
Damson Rhee’s green eyes laughed. “Love is fleeting, Par Ohmsford. Let’s make the most of it.” She fed him an egg“
“You are my son,” Padishar added. “These other two children are your siblings, though their names escape me at the moment. Damson, remind me later. We’re just a typical family, out for a late afternoon picnic, should anyone ask.”
No one did. The men ate their meal in silence, listening to the children as they chattered on and acted as if what was happening was perfectly normal. Damson Rhee looked after them, laughing right along with them, her smile warm and infectious. She was pretty to begin with, but when she smiled, Par found her beautiful. When they had finished eating, she did the coin trick with each child, then sent them off to play.
“Let’s take a walk,” Padishar suggested, rising.
The three of them strolled through the shade trees, moving without seeming purpose toward the wall that blocked away the ravine. Damson clung lovingly to Par’s waist. He found he didn’t mind. “Things have changed somewhat in Tyrsis since the old days,” the outlaw chief said to Par as they walked. “When the Buckhannah line died out, the monarchy came to an end. Tyrsis, Varfleet, and Kern ruled Callahorn by forming the Council of the Cities. When the Federation made Callahorn a protectorate, the Council was disbanded. The palace had served as an assembly for the Council. Now the Federation uses it—except that no one knows exactly what they use it for.”
They reached the wall and stopped. The wall was built of stone block to a height of about three feet. Spikes were embedded in its top. “Have a look,” the outlaw chief invited.
Par did. The ravine beyond dropped away sharply into a mass of trees and scrub that had grown so thick it seemed to be choking on itself. Mist curled through the wilderness with an insistence that was unsettling, clinging to even the uppermost reaches of the trees. The ravine stretched away for perhaps a mile to either side and a quarter of that distance to where the palace stood, its door and windows shuttered and dark, its gates barred. The stone of the palace was scarred and dirty, and the whole of it had the look of something that had not seen use for decades. A narrow catwalk ran from the buildings in the foreground to its sagging gates.
He looked back at Padishar. The outlaw chief was facing toward the city. “This wall forms the dividing line between past and present,” he said quietly. “The ground we stand upon is called the People’s Park. But the true People’s Park, the one from the time of our ancestors—” He paused and turned back to the ravine. “—is down there.” He took a moment to let that sink in. “Look. Below the Federation Gatehouse that wards the catwalk.” Par followed his gaze and caught sight of a scattering of huge stone blocks barely poking up out of the forest. “That,” the outlaw chief continued somberly, “is what remains of the real Bridge of Sendic. It was badly cracked, I am told, during the assault on Tyrsis by the Warlock Lord during the time of Panamon Creel. Some years later, it collapsed altogether. This other bridge,” he waved indifferently, “is merely for show.”
He glanced sideways at Par. “Now do you see?”
Par did. His mind was working rapidly now, fitting the pieces into place. “And the Sword of Shannara?” He caught a glimpse of Damson Rhee’s startled look out of the corner of his eye.
“Down there somewhere, unless I miss my guess,” Padishar replied smoothly. “Right where it’s always been. You have something to say, Damson?”
The red-haired girl took Par’s arm and steered him away from the wall. “This is what you have come for, Padishar?” She sounded angry.
“Forbear, lovely Damson. Don’t let’s be judgmental.”
The girl’s grip tightened on Par’s arm. “This is dangerous business, Padishar. I have sent men into the Pit before, as you well know, and not one of them has returned.”
Padishar smiled indulgently. “The Pit—that’s what Tyrsians call the ravine these days. Fitting, I suppose.”
“You take too many risks!” the girl pressed.
“Damson is my eyes and ears and strong right arm inside Tyrsis,” the other continued smoothly. He smiled at her. “Tell the Valeman what you know of the Sword, Damson.”
She gave him a dangerous look, then swung her face away. “The collapse of the Bridge of Sendic occurred at the same time the Federation annexed Callahorn and began occupation of Tyrsis. The forest that now blankets the old People’s Park, where the Sword of Shannara was housed, grew up virtually overnight. The new park and bridge came about just as quickly. I asked the old ones of the city some years ago what they remembered, and this is what I learned. The Sword didn’t actually disappear from its vault; it was the vault that disappeared into the forest. People forget, especially when they’re being told something else. Almost everyone believes there was only one People’s Park and one Bridge of Sendic—the ones they see. The Sword of Shannara, if it ever existed, simply disappeared.”
Par was looking at her in disbelief. “The forest, the bridge, and the park changed overnight?”
She nodded. “Just so.”
“But...?”
“Magic, lad,” Padishar Creel whispered in answer to his unfinished question.
They walked on a bit, nearing the brightly colored cloth that contained the remains of their picnic. The children were back, nibbling contentedly at the cakes.
“The Federation doesn’t use magic,” Par argued, still confused. “They have outlawed it.”
“Outlawed its use by others, yes,” the big man acknowledged. “Perhaps the better to use it themselves? Or to allow someone else to use it? Or something?” He emphasized the last syllable.
Par looked over sharply. “Shadowen, you mean?”
Neither Padishar nor Damson said anything. Par’s mind spun. The Federation and the Shadowen in league somehow, joined for purposes none of them understood—was that possible?
“I have wondered about the fate of the Sword of Shannara for a long time,” Padishar mused, stopping just out of earshot of the waiting children. “It is a part of the history of my family as well. It always seemed strange to me that it should have vanished so completely. It was embedded in marble and locked in a vault for two hundred years. How could it simply disappear? What happened to the vault that contained it? Was it all somehow spirited away?” He glanced at Par. “Damson spent a long time finding out the answer. Only a few remembered the truth of how the disappearance came about. They’re all dead now—but they left their story to me.”