Coll’s eyes seemed haunted. Par studied his brother momentarily, debating whether to say anything to him, then turned abruptly to Damson. “Will you take me to this person—tonight?”
She stood up then, and both Valemen rose with her. She looked small between them, almost delicate; but Par knew the perception was a false one. She seemed to deliberate before saying, “That depends. You must first promise me something. When you go back into the Pit, however you manage it, you will take Coll and me with you.”
There was a stunned silence. It was hard to tell which of the Valemen was more astonished. Damson gave them a moment to recover, then said to Par, “I’m not giving you any choice in the matter, I’m afraid. I cannot. You would feel compelled to do the right thing and leave us both behind to keep us safe—which would be exactly the wrong thing. You need us with you.”
Then she turned to Coll. “And we need to be there, Coll. Don’t you see? This won’t end, any of it, not Federation oppression nor Shadowen evil nor the sickness that infects all the Lands, until someone makes it end. Par may have a chance to do that. But we cannot let him try it alone. We have to do whatever we can to help because this is our fight, too. We cannot just sit back and wait for someone else to come along and help us. No one will. If I’ve learned anything in this life, it’s that.”
She waited, looking from one to the other. Coll looked confused, as if he thought there ought to be an obvious alternative to his choices but couldn’t for the life of him recognize what it was. He glanced briefly at Par and away again. Par had gone blank, his gaze focused on the floor, his face devoid of expression.
“It is bad enough that I must go,” he said finally.
“Worse than bad,” Coll muttered.
Par ignored him, looking instead at Damson. “What if it turns out that only I can go in?”
Damson came up to him, took his hands in her own and squeezed them. “That won’t happen. You know it won’t.” She leaned up and kissed him softly. “Are we agreed?”
Par took a deep breath, and a frightening sense of inevitability welled up inside. Coll and Damson Rhee—he was risking both their lives by going after the Sword. He was being stubborn beyond reason, intractable to the point of foolhardiness; he was letting himself be caught up in his own self-perceived needs and ambitions. There was every reason to believe that his insistence would kill them all.
Then give it up, he whispered fiercely to himself. Just walk away.
But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t.
“Agreed,” he said.
There was a brief silence. Coll looked up and shrugged. “Agreed,” he echoed quietly.
Damson reached up to touch Par’s face, then stepped over to Coll and hugged him. Par was more than a little surprised when his brother hugged her back.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was dusk on the following day when Padishar Creel and Morgan Leah finally reached the Jut. Both were exhausted.
They had traveled hard since leaving Tyrsis, stopping only for meals. They had slept less than six hours the previous night. Nevertheless, they would have arrived even sooner and in better condition if not for Padishar’s insistence on doing everything possible to disguise their trail. Once they entered the Parma Key, he backtracked continuously, taking them down ravines, through riverbeds and over rocky outcroppings, all the while watching the land behind him like a hawk.
Morgan had thought the outlaw chief overcautious and, after growing impatient enough, had told him so. “Shades, Padishar, we’re wasting time! What do you think is back there anyway?”
“Nothing we can see, lad,” had been the other’s enigmatic reply.
It was a sultry evening, the air heavy and still, and the skies hazy where the red ball of the sun settled into the horizon. As they rose in the basket lift toward the summit of the Jut, they could see night’s shadows begin to fill the few wells of daylight that still remained in the forests below, turning them to pools of ink. Insects buzzed annoyingly about them, drawn by their body sweat. The swelter of the day lay across the land in a suffocating blanket. Padishar still had his gaze turned south toward Tyrsis, as if he might spy whatever it was he suspected had followed them. Morgan looked with him, but as before saw nothing. The big man shook his head. “I can’t see it,” he whispered. “But I can feel it coming.”
He didn’t explain what he meant by that and the Highlander didn’t ask. Morgan was tired and hungry, and he knew that nothing either Padishar or he did was likely to change the plans of whatever might be out there. Their journey was completed, they had done everything humanly possible to disguise their passing, and there wasn’t anything to be gained by worrying now. Morgan felt his stomach rumble and thought of the dinner that would be waiting. Lunch that day had been a sparse affair—a few roots, stale bread, hard cheese, and some water.
“I realize that outlaws are supposed to be able to subsist on next to nothing, but surely you could have done better than this!” he had complained. “This is pathetic!”
“Oh, surely, lad!” the outlaw chief had replied. “And next time you be the gravedigger and I’ll be the body!”
Their differences had been put aside by then—not forgotten perhaps, but at least placed in proper perspective. Padishar had dismissed their confrontation five minutes after it ended, and Morgan had concluded by the end of the day that things were back to normal. He bore a grudging respect for the man—for his brash and decisive manner, because it reminded the Highlander of his own, for the confidence he so readily displayed in himself, and for the way he drew other men to him. Padishar Creel wore the trappings of leadership as if they were his birthright, and somehow that seemed fitting. There was undeniable strength in Padishar Creel; it made you want to follow him. But Padishar understood that a leader must give something back to his followers. Acutely aware of Morgan’s role in bringing the Valemen north, he had made a point of acknowledging the legitimacy of the Highlander’s concern for their safety. Several times after their argument he had gone out of his way to reassure Morgan that Par and Coll Ohmsford would never be abandoned, that he would make certain that they were safe. He was a complex, charismatic fellow, and Morgan liked him despite a nagging suspicion that Padishar Creel would never in the world be able to deliver everything he promised.
Outlaws clasped Padishar’s hand in greeting at each station of their ascent. If they believe so strongly in him, Morgan asked himself, shouldn’t I?
But he knew that belief was as ephemeral as magic. He thought momentarily of the broken sword he carried. Belief and magic forged as one, layered into iron, then shattered. He took a deep breath. The pain of his loss was still there, deep and insidious despite his resolve to put it behind him, to do as Padishar had suggested and to give himself time to heal. There was nothing he could do to change what had happened, he had told himself; he must get on with his life. He had lived for years without the use of the sword’s magic—without even knowing it existed. He was no worse off now than he had been then. He was the same man.
And yet the pain lingered. It was an emptiness that scraped the bones of his body from within, leaving him fragmented and in search of the parts that would make him whole again. He could argue that he was unchanged, but what he had experienced through wielding of the magic had left its stamp upon him as surely as if he had been branded by a hot iron. The memories remained, the images of his battles, the impressions made by the power he had been able to call upon, the strength he had enjoyed. It was lost to him now. Like the loss of a parent or a sibling or a child, it could never be completely forgotten.
He looked out across the Parma Key and felt himself shrinking away to nothing.