Perhaps he would kill his own brother, but this time kill him in truth, and then discover—when it was too late to change things back—what he had done.
And perhaps not. Perhaps he would let his brother escape—and be led to his doom.
The First Seeker shrugged. Either way, the result would be the same. Either way the Valeman was finished. Use of the magic and the series of shocks that would surely result from doing so would unbalance him. It would free the magic from his control and let him become Rimmer Dall’s tool. Rimmer Dall was certain of it. He could be so because unlike the Shannara scions and their mentor he understood the Elven magic, his magic by blood and right. He understood what it was and how it worked. He knew what Par did not—what was happening to the wishsong, why it behaved as it did, how it had slipped its leash to become a wild thing that hunted as it chose.
Par was close. He was very close.
The danger of grappling with the beast is that you will become it.
He was almost one of them.
Soon it would happen.
There was, of course, the possibility that the Valeman would discover the truth about the Sword of Shannara before then. Was the weapon he carried, the one Rimmer Dall had given up so easily, the talisman he sought or a fake? Par Ohmsford still didn’t know. It was a calculated risk that he would not find out. Yet even if he did, what good would it do him? Swords were two-edged and could cut either way. The truth might do Par more harm than good...
Rimmer Dall rose and walked again to the window, a shadow in the night’s blackness, folded and wrapped against the light. The Druids didn’t understand; they never had. Allanon was an anachronism before he had even become what Bremen intended him to be. Druids—they used the magic like fools played with fire: astounded at its possibilities, yet terrified of its risks. No wonder the flames had burned them so often. But that did not prevent them from refusing their mysterious gift. They were so quick to judge others who sought to wield the power—the Shadowen foremost—to see them as the enemy and destroy them.
As they had destroyed themselves.
But there was symmetry and meaning in the Shadowen vision of life, and the magic was no toy with which they played but the heart of who and what they were, embraced, protected, and worshipped. No half measures in which life’s accessibility was denied or self-serving cautions issued to assure that none would share in the use. No admonitions or warnings. No games-playing. The Shadowen simply were what the magic would make them, and the magic when accepted so would make them anything.
The tree-tips of the forests and the cliffs of the Runne were dark humps against the flat, silver-laced surface of the Rainbow Lake. Rimmer Dall gazed out upon the world, and he saw what the Druids had never been able to see.
That it belonged to those strong enough to take it, hold it, and shape it. That it was meant to be used.
His eyes burned the color of blood.
It was ironic that the Ohmsfords had served the Druids for so long, carrying out their charges, going on their quests, following their visions to truths that never were. The stories were legend. Shea and Flick, Wil, Brin and Jair, and now Par. It had all been for nothing. But here is where it would end. For Par would serve the Shadowen and by doing so put an end forever to the Ohmsford-Druid ties.
“Par. Par. Par.”
Rimmer Dall whispered his name soothingly to the night. It was a litany that filled his mind with visions of power that nothing could withstand.
For a long time he stood at the window and allowed himself to dream of the future.
Then abruptly he wheeled away and went down into the tower’s depths to feed.
Chapter Two
The cellar beneath the gristmill was thick with shadows, the faint streamers of light let through by gaps in the floorboards disappearing rapidly into twilight. Chased from his safe hole through the empty catacombs, pinned finally against the blocked trapdoor through which he had thought to escape, Par Ohmsford crouched like an animal brought to bay, the Sword of Shannara clutched protectively before him as the intruder who had harried him to this end stopped abruptly and reached up to lower the cowl that hid his face.
“Lad,” a familiar voice whispered. “It’s me.”
The cloak’s hood was down about the other’s shoulders, and a dark head was laid bare. But still the shadows were too great...
The figure stepped forward tentatively, the hand with the long knife lowering. “Par?”
The intruder’s features were caught suddenly in a hazy wash of gray light, and Par exhaled sharply.
“Padishar!” he exclaimed in relief. “Is it really you?”
The long knife disappeared back beneath the cloak, and the other’s laugh was low and unexpected. “In the flesh. Shades, I thought I’d never find you! I’ve been searching for days, the whole of Tyrsis end to end, every last hideaway, every burrow, and each time only Federation and Shadowen Seekers waiting!”
He came forward to the bottom of the stairs, smiling broadly, arms outstretched. “Come here, lad. Let me see you.”
Par lowered the Sword of Shannara and came down the steps in weary gratitude. “I thought you were... I was afraid...”
And then Padishar had his arms about him, embracing him, clapping him on the back, and then lifting him off the floor as if he were sackcloth.
“Par Ohmsford!” he greeted, setting the Valeman down finally, hands gripping his shoulders as he held him at arm’s length to study him. The familiar smile was bright and careless. He laughed again. “You look a wreck!”
Par grimaced. “You don’t look so well-kept yourself.” There were scars from battle wounds on the big man’s face and neck, new since they had parted. Par shook his head, overwhelmed. “I guess I knew you had escaped the Pit, but it’s good seeing you here to prove it.”
“Hah, there’s been a lot happen since then, Valeman, I can tell you that!” Padishar’s lank hair was tousled, and the skin about his eyes was dark from lack of sleep. He glanced about. “You’re alone? I didn’t expect that. Where’s your brother? Where’s Damson?”
Par’s smile faded. “Coll...” he began and couldn’t finish. “Padishar, I can’t...” His hands tightened about the Sword of Shannara, as if by doing so he might retrieve the lifeline for which he suddenly found need. “Damson went out this morning. She hasn’t come back.”
Padishar’s eyes narrowed. “Out? Out where, lad?”
“Searching for a way to escape the city. Or in the absence of that, another hiding place. The Federation have found us everywhere. But you know. You’ve seen them yourself. Padishar, how long have you been looking for us? How did you manage to find this place?”
The big hands fell away. “Luck, mostly. I tried all the places I thought you might be, the newer ones, the ones Damson had laid out for us during the previous year. This is an old one, five years gone since it was prepared and not used in the last three. I only remembered it after I’d given up on everything else.”
He started suddenly. “Lad!” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting on the Sword in Par’s hands. “Is that it? The Sword of Shannara? Have you found it, then? How did you get it out of the Pit? Where...?”
But suddenly there was a scuffling of boots on wooden steps from the darkness behind, a clanking of weapons, and a raising of voices. Padishar whirled. The sounds were unmistakable. Armed men were descending the back stairs to the room Par had just vacated, come through the same door that had brought Padishar. Without slowing, they swept into the tunnels beyond, guided by torches that smoked and sputtered brightly in the near black.
Padishar wheeled back, grabbed Par’s arm, and dragged him towards the trapdoor. “Federation. I must have been followed. Or they were watching the mill.”
Par stumbled, trying to pull back. “Padishar, the door—”
“Patience, lad,” the other cut him short, hauling him bodily to the top of the stairs. “We’ll be out before they reach us.”