Terry Brooks - The Scions of Shannara

“As for Allanon, he is first and always a Druid with a Druid’s mind and ways. What he seeks is known only to him and likely to remain that way. But you are well advised to be cautious of accepting too readily what he tells you.”

He spoke with such conviction that for the first time Par Ohmsford began to doubt. What if the shade of Allanon had lied? Wasn’t it true that the Druids had always played games with those from whom they wanted something? Walker had warned him that this was so, that it was a mistake to accept what Allanon was telling them. Something in what Rimmer Dall was saying seemed to whisper that it was true in this instance as well. It was possible, he thought in despair, that he had been misled completely.

The tall, cloaked form before him straightened. “You belong with us, Par Ohmsford,” he said quietly.

Par shook his head quickly. “No.”

“You are one of us, Valeman. You can deny it as long and as loudly as you like, but the fact remains. We are the same, you and I—possessors of the magic, successors to the Druids, keepers of the trust.” He paused, considering. “You still fear me, don’t you? A Shadowen. Even the name frightens you. It is the unavoidable result of having accepted as truth the lies you have been told. You think of me as an enemy rather than as kindred.”

Par said nothing.

“Let us see who lies and who tells the truth. There.” He pointed suddenly to the Sword. “Remove it from its stone, Valeman. It belongs to you; it is your bloodright as heir to the Elven house of Shannara. Pick it up. Touch me with it. If I am the black creature you have been warned against, then the Sword will destroy me. If I am an evil that hides within a lie, the Sword will reveal it. Take it in your hands, then. Use it.”

Par remained motionless for a long moment, then bounded up the steps to the block of red marble, seized the Sword of Shannara in both hands, and pulled it forth. It slid free unhindered, gleaming and smooth. He turned quickly and faced Rimmer Dall.

“Come close, Par,” the other whispered. “Touch me.”

Memories whirled madly in Par’s mind, bits and pieces of the songs he had sung, of the stories he had told. What he held now was the Sword of Shannara, the Elven talisman of truth against which no lie could stand.

He came down off the steps, the carved hilt with its burning torch pressed into his palms, the blade held cautiously before him. Rimmer Dall stood waiting. When Par was within striking distance, he stretched out the blade of the talisman and laid it firmly against the other’s body.

Nothing happened.

Keeping his eyes riveted on the other, he held the blade steady and willed that the truth be revealed. Still nothing happened. Par waited for as long as he could stand it, then lowered the blade in despair and stepped away.

“Now you know. There is no lie about me,” Rimmer Dall said. “The lie is in what you have been told.”

Par found that he was shaking. “But why would Allanon lie? What purpose could that possibly serve?”

“Think for a moment on what you have been asked to do.” The big man was relaxed, his voice calm and reassuring. “You have been asked to bring back the Druids, to restore to them their talismans, to seek our destruction. The Druids want to regain what was lost to them, the power of life and magic. Is that any different, Par, from what the Warlock Lord sought to do ten centuries ago?”

“But you hunted us!”

“To talk to you, to explain.”

“You imprisoned my parents!”

“I kept them safe from harm. The Federation knew of you and would have used them to find you, if I hadn’t gone to them first.”

Par caught his breath, his arguments momentarily exhausted. Was what he was being told true? Shades, was everything the lie that Rimmer Dall claimed it to be? He could not believe it, yet he could not bring himself to disbelieve it either. His confusion wrapped him like a blanket and left him feeling small and vulnerable.

“I have to think,” he said wearily.

“Then come with me and do so,” Rimmer Dall responded at once. “Come with me and we shall talk more of this. You have many questions that require answers, and I can give them to you. There is much you need to know about how the magic can be used. Come, Valeman. Put aside you fears and misgivings. No harm shall come to you—never to one whose magic is so promising.”

He spoke reassuringly, compellingly, and for an instant Par was almost persuaded. It would have been so easy to agree. He was tired, and he wanted this odyssey to end. It would be comforting to have someone to talk to about the frustrations of possessing the magic. Rimmer Dall would surely know, having experienced them himself. As much as he hated to admit it, he no longer felt threatened by the man. There seemed to be no reason to deny what he was asking.

But he did nevertheless. He did without really understanding why. “No,” he said quietly.

“Think of what we can share if you come with me,” the other persisted. “We have so much in common! Surely you have longed to talk of your magic, the magic you have been forced to conceal. There has never been anyone for you to do that with before me. I can feel the need in you; I can sense it! Come with me! Valeman, you have...”

“No.”

Par stepped away. Something ugly whispered suddenly in his mind, some memory that did not yet have a face, but whose voice he clearly recognized.

Rimmer Dall watched him, his craggy features gone suddenly hard. “This is foolish, Valeman.”

“I am leaving,” Par said quietly, tense now, back on his guard. What was it that bothered him so? “And I am taking the Sword.”

The black-cloaked form became another shadow in the half-light. “Stay, Valeman. There are dark secrets kept from you, things that would be better learned from me. Stay and hear them.”

Par edged toward the passageway that had brought him in.

“The door is directly behind you,” Rimmer Dall said suddenly, his voice sharp. “There are no passageways, no stairs. That was all illusion, my magic invoked to closet you long enough so that we might talk. But if you leave now, something precious will be destroyed. Truth waits for you, Valeman—and there is horror in its face. You cannot withstand it. Stay, and listen to me! You need me!”

Par shook his head. “You sounded for a moment, Rimmer Dall, like those others, those Shadowen who look nothing like you outwardly, yet speak with your need. Like them, you would possess me.”

Rimmer Dall stood silently before him, not moving, simply watching as he backed away. The light the First Seeker had produced faded, and the chamber slid rapidly into darkness.

Par Ohmsford grasped the Sword of Shannara in both hands and bolted for freedom.

Rimmer Dall had been right about the passageways and stairs. There were none. It was all illusion, a magic Par should have recognized at once. He burst from the blackness of the vault directly into the gray half-light of the Pit. The damp and the mist closed about him instantly. He blinked and whirled about, searching.

Coll.

Where was Coll?

He stripped the cloak from his back and wrapped it hurriedly about the Sword of Shannara. Allanon had said he would need it—if Allanon was still to be believed. At the moment, he didn’t know. But the Sword should be cared for; it must have purpose. Unless it had lost its magic. Could it have lost its magic?

“Par.”

The Valeman jumped, startled by the voice. It was right behind him, so close that it might have been a whisper in his ear if not for the harshness of its sound. He whirled.

And there was Coll.

Or what had once been Coll.

His brother’s face was barely recognizable, ravaged by some inner torment that he could only begin to imagine, a twisting that had distorted the familiar features and left them slack and lifeless. His body was misshapen as well, all pulled out of joint and hunched over, as if the bones had been rearranged. There were marks on his skin, tears and lesions, and the eyes burned with a fever he recognized immediately.