The Scions of Shannara

Or would she? It suddenly occurred to Morgan that she might, if she thought there was a safe way to do so. That made him think. What if there was more than one way into the Jut? Didn’t there have to be, he asked himself? Even with the defenses as strong as they were, Padishar Creel would never take the chance that they might somehow be breached, leaving the outlaws trapped against the rocks. He would have an escape route, another way out. Or in.

He decided to find out. It was almost dusk, however, before he got his chance. Padishar was awake again by then, and Morgan found him sitting on the edge of his bed, heavily bandaged, streaks of blood showing vividly against his weathered skin, studying a set of crudely sketched drawings with Chandos. Another man would still be sleeping, trying to regain his strength; Padishar looked ready to fight. The men glanced up as he approached, and Padishar tucked the drawings out of sight. Morgan hesitated.

“Highlander,” the other greeted. “Come sit with me.”

Surprised, Morgan came over, taking a seat on a packing crate filled with metal fittings. Chandos nodded, got up without a word, and walked out.

“And how is our friend the Dwarf?” Padishar asked, rather too casually. “Better, now?”

Morgan studied the other man. “No. Something is very wrong with him, but I don’t know what it is.” He paused. “You don’t trust anyone, do you? Not even me.”

“Especially not you.” Padishar waited a moment, grinned disarmingly, and then made the smile disappear in the quickness of an eye’s blink. “I can’t afford to trust anyone anymore. Too much has happened to suggest that I shouldn’t.” He shifted his weight and grimaced with the pain it caused. “So tell me. What brings you to visit? Have you seen something you think I should know about?”

The truth was that with the excitement of the events of that morning, Morgan had forgotten about the charge that Padishar had given him to try to find out who it was that had betrayed them. He didn’t say so, however; he simply shook his head.

“I have a question,” he said. “About Par and Coll Ohmsford. Do you think that Damson Rhee might still try to bring them here? Is there another way into the Jut that she might use?”

The look that Padishar Creel gave him was at once indecipherable and filled with meaning. There was a long silence, and Morgan felt himself grow suddenly cold as he realized how it must look for him to be asking such a question.

He took a deep breath. “I’m not asking where it is, only if . . .”

“I understand what you’re asking and why,” the other said, cutting short his protestation. The hard face furrowed about the eyes and mouth. Padishar said nothing for a moment, studying the Highlander intently. “As a matter of fact, there is another way,” he said finally. “You must have figured that out on your own, though. You understand enough of tactics to know that there must always be more than one way in or out of a refuge.”

Morgan nodded wordlessly.

“Well, then, Highlander, I can only add that Damson would not put the Valemen at risk by trying to bring them here while the Jut was under siege. She would keep them safe in Tyrsis or elsewhere, whatever the situation might require.”

He paused, eyes hard with hidden thoughts. Then he said, “No one but Damson, Chandos, and I know the other way—now that Hirehone is dead. Better that we keep it so until the identity of our traitor is discovered, don’t you think? I wouldn’t want the Federation walking in through the back door while we were busy holding shut the front.”

Morgan hadn’t considered the possibility of such a thing happening until now. It was a chilling thought. “Is the back way secure?” he asked hesitantly.

Padishar pursed his lips. “Very. Now take yourself off to dinner, Highlander. And remember to keep your eyes open.”

He turned back to his drawings. Morgan hesitated a moment, thinking to say something more, then turned abruptly and left.