The Scions of Shannara

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 doors 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.”

His smile was wolfish. “Now I have an excuse to discover whether that story is true. Is the Sword of Shannara down there in that ravine? You and I shall discover the answer. Resurrection of the magic of the Elven house of Shannara, young Ohmsford—the key, perhaps, to the freedom of the Four Lands. We must know.”

Damson Rhee shook her titian head. “You are far too eager, Padishar, to throw your life away. And the lives of others like this boy. I will never understand.”