The Scions of Shannara

Par’s answering nod was barely discernible.

“But why would the Shadowen—or the Federation, for that matter—leave the Sword in the Pit all these years?” Coll demanded, irritated that they were even talking about the matter after what had happened to them last night. “Why not simply remove it—or better yet, why not destroy it?”

Par’s face was intense. “I don’t think either the Federation or the Shadowen can destroy it—not a talisman of such power. I doubt that the Shadowen can even touch it. The Warlock Lord couldn’t. What I can’t figure out is why the Federation hasn’t taken it out and hidden it.”

He clasped his hands tightly before him. “In any case, it doesn’t matter. The fact remains the Sword is still there, still in its vault.” He paused, eyes level. “Waiting for us.”

Coll gaped at him, realizing for the first time what he was suggesting. For a moment, he couldn’t speak at all. “You can’t be serious, Par,” he managed finally, the disbelief in his voice undisguised. “After what happened last night? After seeing . . .” He forced himself to stop, then snapped, “You wouldn’t last two minutes.”

“Yes, I would,” Par replied. His eyes were bright with determination. “I know I would. Allanon told me as much.”

Coll was aghast. “Allanon! What are you talking about?”

“He said we had the skills needed to accomplish what was asked—Walker, Wren, and myself. Remember? In my case, I think he was talking about the wishsong. I think he meant that the magic of the wishsong would protect me.”

“Well, it’s done a rather poor job of it up to now!” Colt snapped, lashing out furiously.

“I didn’t understand what it could do then. I think I do now.”

“You think? You think? Shades, Par!”

Par remained calm. “What else are we to do? Run back to the Jut? Run home? Spend the rest of our days sneaking about?” Par’s hands were shaking. “Coll, I haven’t any choice. I have to try.”

Coll’s strong face closed in upon itself in dismay, his mouth tightening against whatever outburst threatened to break free. He wheeled on Damson, but the girl had her eyes locked on Par and would not look away.

The Valeman turned back, gritting his teeth. “So you would go back down into the Pit on the strength of an unproven and untested belief. You would risk your life on the chance that the wishsong—a magic that has failed to protect you three times already against the Shadowen—will somehow protect you now. And all because of what you perceive as your newfound insight into a dead man’s words!” He drew his breath in slowly. “I cannot believe you would do anything so . . . stupid! If I could think of anything worse to call it, I would!”

“Coll . . .”

“No, don’t say another word to me! I have gone with you everywhere, followed after you, supported you, done everything I could to keep you safe—and now you plan to throw yourself away! Just waste your life! Do you understand what you are doing, Par? You are sacrificing yourself! You still think you have some special ability to decide what’s right! You are obsessed! You can’t ever let go, even when common sense tells you you should!”

Coll clenched his fists before him. His face was rigid and furrowed, and it was all he could do to keep his voice level. Par had never seen him so angry. “Anyone else would back away, think it through, and decide to go for help. But you’re not planning on any of that, are you? I can see it in your eyes. You haven’t the time or the patience. You’ve made up your mind. Forget Padishar or Morgan or anyone else but yourself. You mean to have that Sword! You’d even give up your life to have it, wouldn’t you?”

“I am not so blind . . .”

“Damson, you talk to him!” Coll interrupted, desperate now. “I know you care for him; tell him what a fool he is!”

But Damson Rhee shook her head. “No. I won’t do that.” Coll stared at her, stunned. “I haven’t the right,” she finished softly.