Padishar shook his head slowly. “Don’t worry about your friend, lad. He’s tough as leather and swift as light. And determined. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, he’ll be fine. We’ll see him one day soon.”
Oddly enough, Par was inclined to agree. If ever there was someone who could find a way out of any mess, it was Morgan Leah. He pictured his friend’s clever eyes, his ready smile, the hint of mischief in his voice, and found that he missed him very much. Another of his journey’s casualties, lost somewhere along the way, stripped from him like excess baggage. Except the analogy was wrong—his friends and his brother had given their lives to keep him safe. All of them, at one time or another. And what had he given them in return? What had he done to justify such sacrifice?
What good had he accomplished?
His eyes fell once more upon the Sword of Shannara, tracing the lines of the upraised hand with its burning torch. Truth. The Sword of Shannara was a talisman for truth. And the truth he most needed to discover just now was whether this blade for which so much had been given up was real.
How could he do that?
Across from him Padishar stretched and yawned. “Time to get some rest, Par Ohmsford,” he advised, rising. “We need our strength for what lies ahead.”
He moved to the couch on which the stuffed animals were seated, gathered them up perfunctorily, and plopped them down on a nearby chair. Turning back to the couch, he settled himself comfortably on the worn leather cushions, boots hanging off one end, head cradled in the crook of one arm. In moments he was snoring.
Par stayed awake for a time watching him, letting the dark thoughts settle in his mind, keeping his resolve from scattering like leaves in a wind storm. He was afraid, but the fear was nothing new. It was the eroding of hope that unsettled him most, the crumbling of his certainty that whatever happened he would find a way to deal with it. He was beginning to wonder if that was so anymore.
He rose finally and went to the chair where Padishar had dumped the stuffed animals. Carefully he gathered them up—Chalt, Lida, Westra, Everlind and the others—and carried them to where the Sword of Shannara leaned up against the bureau. One by one, he arranged them about the Sword, placing them at watch—as if by doing so they might aid him in keeping the demons from his sleep.
When he was finished, he walked to the back of the Mole’s lair, found some discarded cushions and old blankets, made himself a pallet in a corner dominated by a collection of old paintings, and lay down.
He was still listening to the sound of water dripping when he finally drifted off to sleep.
When he woke again, he was alone. The couch where Padishar had been sleeping was empty and the Mole’s chambers were silent. All of the candles were extinguished save for one. Par blinked against the sharp pinprick of light, then peered about into the gloom, wondering where Padishar had gone. He rose, stretched, walked to the candle, used it to light the others, and watched the darkness shrink to scattered shadows.
He had no idea how long he had slept; time lost all meaning within these catacombs. He was hungry again, so he made himself a meal from some bread, cheese, fruit, and ale, and consumed it at the three-legged table. As he ate, he stared fixedly across the room at the Sword of Shannara, propped in the corner, surrounded by the Mole’s children.
Speak to me, he thought. Why won’t you speak to me?
He finished eating, shoving the food in his mouth without tasting it, drinking the ale without interest, his eyes and his mind focused on the Sword. He pushed back from the table, walked over to the blade, lifted it away from its resting place, and carried it back to his chair. He balanced it on his knees for a time, staring down at it. Then finally he pulled it free of its scabbard and held it up before him, turning it this way and that, letting the candlelight reflect off its polished surface.
His eyes glittered with frustration.
Talisman or trickster—which are you?
If the former, something was decidedly wrong between them. He was the descendant of Shea Ohmsford and his Elven blood was as good as that of his famous ancestor; he should have been able to call up the power of the Sword with ease. If it was the Sword in truth, of course. Otherwise... He shook his head angrily. No, this was the Sword of Shannara. It was. He could feel it in his bones. Everything he knew of the Sword, everything he had learned of it, all the songs he had sung of it over the years, told him that this was it. Rimmer Dall would not have given him an imitation; the First Seeker was too eager that Par accept his guidance in the matter of his magic to risk alienating him with a lie that would eventually be discovered. Whatever else Rimmer Dall might be, he was clever—far too clever to play such a simple game...
Par left the thought unfinished, not as certain as he wanted to be that he was right. Still, it felt right, his reasoning sound, his sense of things balanced. Rimmer Dall wanted him to accept that he was a Shadowen. A Shadowen could not use the Elven magic of the blade because...
Because why?
The truth would destroy him, perhaps, and his own magic would not allow it?
But when the Sword of Shannara had burned him in the Pit after he had destroyed Coll and the Shadowen with him, hadn’t it been the blade’s magic that had reacted to his rather than the other way around? Which magic was resisting which?
He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching tightly about the Sword’s carved handle. The raised hand with its torch pressed against his palm, the lines sharp and clear. What was the problem between them? Why couldn’t he find the answer?
He shoved the blade back into its scabbard and sat unmoving in the candle-lit silence, thinking. Allanon had given him the charge to find the Sword of Shannara. Him, not Wren or Walker, and they had Elven Shannara blood as well, didn’t they? Allanon had sent him. Familiar questions repeated themselves in his mind. Wouldn’t the Druid have known if such a charge was pointless? Even as a shade, wouldn’t he have been able to sense that Par’s magic was a danger, that Par himself was the enemy?
Unless Rimmer Dall was right and the Shadowen weren’t the enemy—the Druids were. Or perhaps they were all enemies of a sort, combatants for control of the magic, Shadowen and Druid, both fighting to fill that void that had been created at Allanon’s death, that vacuum left by the fading of the last real magic.
Was that possible?
Par’s brow furrowed. He ran his fingers along the Sword’s pommel and down the bindings of the scabbard.
Why was the truth so difficult to discover?
He found himself wondering what had become of all the others who had started out on the journey to the Hadeshorn. Steff and Teel were dead. Morgan was missing. Where was Cogline? What had become of him after the meeting with Allanon and the giving of the charges? Par found himself wishing suddenly that he could speak with the old man about the Sword. Surely Cogline would be able to make some sense of all this. And what of Wren and that giant Rover? What of Walker Boh? Had they changed their minds and gone on to fulfill their charges as he had?
As he thought he had.
His eyes, staring into the space before him, lowered again to the Sword. There was one thing more. Now that he had possession of the blade—perhaps—what was he supposed to do with it? Giving Allanon the benefit of the doubt on who was good and who was bad and whether Par was doing the right thing, what purpose was the Sword of Shannara supposed to serve?
What truth was it supposed to reveal?
He was sick of questions without answers, of secrets being kept from him, of lies and twisted half-truths that circled him like scavengers waiting to feast. If he could break just a single link of this chain of uncertainty and confusion that bound him, if he could sever but a single tie...
The door slipped open across the room, and Padishar appeared through the opening. “There you are,” he announced cheerfully. “Rested, I hope?”