Терри Брукс - The Talismans of Shannara

They clung to each other in silence, and Par let himself drift with the feel of her, closing his eyes, letting the weariness seep away. He wished suddenly that he were back in the Vale, returned home again to his family and his old life, that Coll were alive, and that none of this had ever happened. He wished he had it all to do over again. He would not be so eager to go in search of Allanon. He would not be so quick to undertake his search for the Sword of Shannara.

And he would not be tricked into believing that his magic was a gift.

He thought then of how much a part of him the wishsong had once been and how alien it seemed now. It had broken free of his control again when he had called upon it in the watch-tower. Despite his preparations, despite his efforts. Could he even say, in fact, that he had summoned it—or had it simply come on its own when it sensed those Shadowen? Surely it had done as it chose in any case, lancing out like knives to cut them apart. Par felt himself shudder at the memory. He would never have wished for that. The magic had destroyed the black things without thought, without compunction. His brow furrowed. No, not the magic. Him. He had destroyed them. He had not wanted to, perhaps, but he had done so nevertheless. Par didn’t like what that suggested. The Shadowen were what they were, and perhaps it was true that they would not hesitate the span of a breath to kill him. But that did not change who and what he was. He could still see the eyes of that soldier Padishar had killed. He could see the life fade from them in an instant’s time. It made him want to cry. He hated the fact that it was necessary and that he was a part of it. Understanding the reasons for it did not make it any more palatable. Yet what sort of hypocrite was he, despairing for a single life one moment and putting an end to half-a-dozen the next?

He didn’t want to know the answer to that question. He didn’t think he could bear it. What he recognized was that the magic of the wishsong had changed somehow within him and in so doing had changed him as well. It made him think more closely of Rimmer Dall’s claim that he, too, was a Shadowen. After all, what was the difference between them?

“Damson?”

The Mole’s tentative voice whispered from out of the black and parted her from him as she looked up. Funny, he thought, how the Mole only speaks to her.

The little fellow slipped into the light, blinking and squinting. “They do not follow. The tunnels are empty.”

Damson looked back at Par. “What do we do now, Elf-boy?” she whispered, reaching up to brush back his hair. “Where do we go?”

Par smiled and took the hand in his own. “I love you, Damson Rhee,” he told her quietly, his words so soft they were lost in the rustle of his clothing.

He rose. “We get out of this city. We try to find help. From Morgan or the free-born or someone. We can’t continue on alone.” He looked down at the hunched form of the Mole. “Mole, can you help us get away?”

The Mole glanced at Damson. “There are tunnels beneath the city that will take you to the plain beyond. I can show you.”

Par turned back to Damson. For a moment she did not speak. Her green eyes were filled with unspoken thoughts. “All right, Par, I’ll go,” she said at last. “I know we can’t stay. Time and luck are running out for us here in Tyrsis.” She stepped close. “But now you must give me your promise—just as you gave it to Padishar. Promise that we will come back for him—that we won’t leave him to die.”

She does not give a moment’s consideration to the possibility that he might already be dead. She believes him stronger than that. And so do I, I guess.

“I promise,” he whispered.

She leaned close and kissed him on the mouth, hard. “I love you, too, Par Ohmsford,” she said. “I’ll love you to the end.”

It took them the remainder of the night to navigate the maze of tunnels that lay beneath Tyrsis, the ancient passageways that had served long ago as bolt holes for the city’s defenders and now served as their escape. The tunnels crisscrossed over and back again, sometimes broad and high enough for wagons to pass through, sometimes barely large enough for the Mole and his charges. At places the rock was dry and dusty and smelled of old earth and disuse; at times it was damp and chill and stank of sewage. Rats squealed at their coming and disappeared into the walls. Insects skittered away like dry leaves blown across stone. The sound of their boots and their breathing echoed hollowly down the passageways, and it seemed that they could not possibly go undetected. But the Mole chose their path carefully, frequently taking them away from the most direct route, choosing on the basis of things that he alone sensed and knew. He did not speak to them; he guided them ahead through his silent netherworld like the specter at haunt he had become. Now and again he would pause to look back at them or to study something he found on the tunnel floors or to consider the gloom that pressed in about them, distracted and distant in his musings. Par and Damson would stop with him, waiting, watching, and wondering what he was thinking. They never asked. Par wanted to, but if Damson thought it wise to keep silent he was persuaded to do so as well.

At last they reached a place where the darkness ahead was broken by a hazy silver glow. They stumbled toward it through a curtain of old webbing and dust, scrambling up a rocky slide that narrowed as it went until they were bent double. Bushes blocked the way forward, so thick that the Mole was forced to cut a path for them using a long knife he had somehow managed to conceal within his fur. Pushing aside the severed branches, the three crawled through the last of the concealing foliage and emerged into the light.

They came to their feet then and looked about. The mountains sheltering the bluff on which Tyrsis was settled rose behind them, a jagged black wall against the light of the dawn breaking east, the shadow of its peaks stretching away north and west across the plains like a dark stain until it disappeared into the trees of the forests beyond. The air was warm and smelled of grasses dried by the summer sun. Birdsong rose from the concealment of the trees, and dragonflies darted over small pools of weed-grown water formed by streams that ran down out of the rocks behind them.

Par looked over at Damson and smiled. “We’re out,” he said softly, and she smiled back.

He turned to the Mole, who blinked uncertainly in the unfamiliar light. Impulsively, he reached down. “Thank you, Mole,” he said. “Thank you for everything.”

The Mole’s face furrowed, and the blinking grew more rapid. A hand came up tentatively, touched Par’s, and withdrew. “You are welcome,” was the soft reply.

Damson came over, knelt before the Mole, and put her arms about him. “Good-bye for now,” she whispered. “Go somewhere safe, Mole. Stay well away from the black things. Keep hidden until we return.”

The Mole’s arms lifted and his wrinkled hands stroked the girl’s slim shoulders. “Always, lovely Damson. Always, for you.”

She released him then, and the Mole’s fingers brushed her face gently. Par thought he saw tears at the corners of the little fellow’s bright eyes. Then the Mole turned from them and disappeared back into the gloom.

They stared after him for a moment, then looked at each other.

“Which way?” Par asked.

She laughed. “That’s right. You don’t know where Firerim Reach is, do you? I forget sometimes, you seem so much a part of things.”

He smiled. “Hard to remember when you didn’t have me to look after, isn’t it?”

She gave him a questioning look. “I’m not complaining. Are you?”

He moved over to her and held her for a moment. He didn’t say anything; he simply stood with his arms about her, his cheek against her auburn hair, and his eyes closed. He thought about all they had come through, how many times their lives had been at risk, and how dangerous their journey had been. So little distance traveled to come so far, he mused. So little time to have discovered so much.