The Heritage of Shannara (202 page)

“He's right,” Damson said suddenly. “A large force would be heard in the tunnels. There would be nowhere for them to hide in the city. We can slip two dozen in and hide them until the attempt.” She looked directly at Morgan. “What I don't know is whether two dozen will be enough to free Padishar when the time comes.”

Morgan met her gaze. “Because of the Shadowen?”

“Yes, because of the Shadowen. We don't have Par with us this time to keep them at bay.”

“No,” Morgan agreed, “you have me instead.” He reached back over his shoulder, drew out the Sword of Leah, brought it around in front of him, and jammed it dramatically into the earth. It rested there, quivering slightly, polished surface smooth and silver in the starlight. He looked at them. “And I have this.”

“Your talisman,” Chandos muttered in surprise. “I thought it was broken.”

“It was healed when I went north,” Morgan replied softly, seeing Quickening's face appear and then fade in his mind. “I have the magic back again. It will be enough to withstand the Shadowen.”

Damson glanced from one face to the other, confused. Perhaps Par hadn't told her about the Sword of Leah. Perhaps he hadn't had time in the struggle to escape Tyrsis and reach the free-born. And no one knew about Quickening save for Walker Boh.

Morgan did not care to explain, and he did not try. “Can you find the men?” he asked Chandos instead.

The black eyes fixed him. “I can, Highlander. Twenty times that for Padishar Creel.” He paused. “But you're asking them to place a lot of faith in you.”

Morgan jerked his sword free of the earth and slid it back into its sheath. In the distance, along the bluff edge, free-born patrolled in the darkness. Behind, back against the trees, cooking fires burned low, and the clank and rattle of cookware was beginning to diminish as the meal ended and thoughts
turned to sleep. Pipes were lit, small bits of light against the black, fireflies that wavered in the concealment of the trees. The sound of voices was low and easy.

Morgan looked at the big man. “If there were a better choice, Chandos, I would take it gladly.” He held the other's dark gaze. “What's it to be, yes or no?”

Chandos looked at Damson, his gold earring a small glitter as his head turned. “What do you say?”

The girl brushed back her fiery hair, the look in her eyes a determined one, edged with flashes of anger and hope. “I say we have to try something or Padishar is lost.” Her face tightened. “If it was us instead of him, wouldn't he come?”

Chandos rubbed at the scarred remains of his ear. “In your case, he already did, didn't he?” He shook his head. “Fools to the end, we are,” he muttered to no one in particular. “All of us.” He looked back at Morgan. “All right, Highlander. Two dozen men, myself included. I'll pick them tonight.”

He rose abruptly. “You'll want to leave right away, I expect. First light, or as soon thereafter as we can put together supplies for the trip.” He gave Morgan a wry look. “We don't have to live off the land by any chance, do we, Highlander?”

Morgan and Damson stood up with him. Morgan extended his hand to the free-born. “Thank you, Chandos.”

The big man laughed. “For what? For agreeing to a madman's scheme?” He clasped Morgan's hand nevertheless. “Tell you what. If this works, it'll be me thanking you a dozen times over.”

Muttering, he trudged off toward the cooking fires, carrying his empty plate, shaggy head lowered into his barrel chest. Morgan watched him go, thinking momentarily of times gone by and of places and companions left behind. The thoughts were haunting and filled with regrets for what might have been, and they left him feeling empty and alone.

He felt Damson's shoulder brush up against his arm and turned to face her. The emerald eyes were thoughtful. “He may be right about you,” she observed quietly. “You may be a madman.”

He shrugged. “You backed me up.”

“I want Padishar free. You seem to be the only one with a plan.” She arched one eyebrow. “Tell me the truth—is there any more to this scheme than what you've revealed?”

He smiled. “Not much. I hope to be able to improvise as I go along.”

She didn't say anything, just studied him a moment, then took his arm and steered him out along the bluff face. They walked without saying anything for a long time, crossing from the edge of the trees to the cliffs and back again, breathing the scent of wildflowers and grasses on the wind that skipped down off the ridges of the peaks beyond. The wind was warm and soothing, like silk against Morgan's skin. He lifted his face to it. It made him want to close his eyes and disappear into it.

“Tell me about your sword,” she said suddenly, her voice very quiet. Her gaze was steady despite the sudden shifting of his eyes away from her. “Tell me how it was healed—and why you hurt so much, Morgan. Because you do in some way, don't you? I can see it in your eyes. Tell me. I want to hear.”

He believed her, and he discovered all at once that he did want to talk about it after all. He let himself be pulled down onto a flat-surfaced rock. Sitting next to her in the darkness, both of them facing out toward the cliffs, he began to speak.

“There was a girl named Quickening,” he said, the words thick and unwieldy sounding as he spoke them. He paused and took a deep, steadying breath. “I loved her very much.”

He hoped she didn't see the tears that came to his eyes.

He spent the night rolled into a blanket at the edge of the trees, body wedged within the roots of an ancient elm, head cradled by his rolled-up travel cloak. The makeshift bedding proved less than satisfactory, and he woke stiff and sore. As he shook the leaves and dust out of the cloak he realized that he had not seen Matty Roh since the night before, that he hadn't actually seen her even at dinner, although he had been pretty preoccupied with his plan for rescuing Padishar—his great and wonderful plan that on reflection in the pale first light of dawn appeared pretty makeshift and decidedly lacking in common sense. Last night it had seemed pretty good. This morning it just looked desperate.

But he was committed to it now. Chandos would have already begun preparations for the journey back to Tyrsis. There was nothing to be gained by second-guessing.

He stretched and headed for the little stream that ran down out of the rocks behind him some distance back in the trees. The cold water would help to unclog his brain, chase the sleep from his eyes. He had talked with Damson Rhee until well after midnight. He had told her everything about Quickening and the journey north to Eldwist. She had listened without saying much, and somehow it had brought them closer together. He found himself liking her more, found himself trusting her. The suspicions that had been there earlier had faded. He began to understand why Par Ohms-ford and Padishar Creel had gone back for her after the Federation had taken her prisoner. He thought that he would have done the same.

Nevertheless, there was something she wasn't telling him about her relationship with the Valeman and the leader of the free-born. It was neither a deception nor a lie; it was simply an omission. She had been quick enough to acknowledge that she was in love with Par, but there was something else, something that predated her feelings for the Valeman, that formed the backbone for everything that had led to her own involvement in trying to recover the Sword of Shannara from the Pit. Morgan wasn't sure what it was, but it was there in the fabric of her tale, in the way she spoke of the two men, in the strength of her conviction that she must help them. Once or twice Morgan had almost been able to put his finger on
what it was that she was keeping to herself, but each time the truth skittered just out of reach.

In any case, he felt better for having told someone about Quickening, for having given some release to the feelings he had kept bottled up inside since his return. He'd slept well after that, a dreamless rest cradled in the crook of that old tree, able to let go a little of the pain that had dogged him for so many weeks.

He heard the sound of the stream ahead, a small rippling against the silence. He crossed a clearing, pushed through a screen of brush, and found himself staring at Matty Roh.

She sat across from him at the edge of the stream, her pants rolled up and her bare feet dangling in the water. The moment he appeared she jerked away, reaching for her boots. Her feet came out of the water in a flash of white skin, disappearing into the shadow of her body almost immediately. But for just an instant he had a clear view of them, hideously scarred, the toes missing or so badly deformed that they were almost unrecognizable. Her black hair shivered in the light with the urgency of her movements as she turned her face away from him.

“Don't look at me,” she whispered harshly.

Embarrassed, he turned away at once. “I'm sorry,” he apologized. “I didn't know you were here.”

He hesitated, then started away, following the stream toward the rocks, the picture of her feet uncomfortably clear in his mind.

“You don't have to leave,” she called after him, and he stopped. “I … I just need a minute.”

He waited, looking out into the trees, hearing voices now from just beyond where he stood, a snatch of laughter here, a quick murmur there.

“All right,” she said, and he turned back again. She was standing by the stream with her pants rolled down and her boots on. “I'm sorry I snapped at you like that.”

He shrugged and walked over to her. “Well, I didn't mean to surprise you. I'm still a little bit asleep, I guess.”

“It wasn't your fault.” She looked embarrassed as well.

He knelt by the stream and splashed water on his face and hands, used soap to wash himself, and rubbed himself dry again on a soft cloth. He could have used a bath, but didn't want to take the time. He was conscious of the girl watching him as he worked, a silent shadow at his side.

He finished and rocked back on his heels, breathing deeply the morning air. He could smell wildflowers and grasses.

“You're leaving for Tyrsis to rescue Padishar,” she said suddenly. “I want to go with you.”

He looked up at her in surprise. “How did you know about the rescue?”

She shrugged. “Doing what I've trained myself to do—keeping my eyes and ears open. Can I come?”

He stood up and faced her. Her eyes were level with his. He was surprised all over again at how tall she was. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I'm tired of standing about, of doing nothing more than listening in on other people's conversations.” Her gaze was steady and determined. “Remember our conversation on the trail? I said I was waiting for something to happen? Well, it has. I want to go with you.”

He wasn't sure he understood and didn't know what to say in any case. It was bad enough that Damson Rhee had to go back with them. But Matty Roh as well? On a journey as dangerous as this one would undoubtedly be?

She stepped back a pace, measuring him. “I would hate to think that you were stupid enough to be worried about me,” she said bluntly. “The fact of the matter is I can take care of myself a lot better than you can. I've been doing it for a much longer time. You might remember how things went back at the Whistledown when you tried to grab me.”

“That doesn't count!” he snapped defensively. “I wasn't ready—”

“No, you weren't,” she cut him short. “And that is the difference between us, Highlander. You aren't trained to be ready, and I am.” She stepped close again. “I'll tell you something else. I'm a better swordsman than anyone this side of Padishar Creel—and maybe as good as he is. If you don't believe me, ask Chandos.”

He stared at her, at the piercing cobalt eyes, at the thin line of her lips, at the slender shoulders squared and set, everything thrust forward combatively, daring him to challenge her.

“I believe you,” he said, and meant it.

“Besides,” she said, not relaxing herself an inch, “you need me to make your plan work.”

“How do you know about—”

“You're the wrong one to go into Tyrsis with Damson,” she interrupted, ignoring his unfinished question. “It should be me.”

“… the plan?” he finished, trailing off. He put his hands on his hips, frustrated. “Why should it be you?”

“Because I won't be noticed and you will. You're too obvious, Highlander. You look exactly like what you are! Anyway, your face is known to the Federation and mine isn't. And if anything goes wrong, you don't know your way around Tyrsis, and I do. I've been there many times. Most important of all, they won't be looking for two women. We'll walk right past them, and they won't give us a second glance.”

She squared up to him again. “Tell me I'm wrong,” she challenged.

He smiled in spite of himself. “I guess I can't do that.” He looked away into the trees, hoping the answer to her demand lay there. It didn't. He looked back again. “Why don't you ask Chandos? He's in charge, not me.”

Her expression did not change. “I don't think so. At least not in this case.” She paused, waiting. “Well? Can I go?”

He sighed, suddenly weary. Maybe she was right. Maybe having her along would be a good idea. She certainly gave a convincing argument. Besides, hadn't he just finished telling himself that his plan needed help? Perhaps Matty Roh was a little of what was needed.

“All right,” he agreed. “You can come.”

“Thanks.” She turned away and started back toward the camp, her cloak slung over one shoulder.

“But Chandos has to agree, too!” he called after her, still looking for a way out.

“He already has!” she shouted back in reply. “He said to ask you.”

She gave him a quick smile over her shoulder as she disappeared into the trees.

Chandos was terse and withdrawn at breakfast, and Morgan left him alone, choosing to sit instead with Damson Rhee. The long table they occupied was crowded and the men were boisterous, so the Highlander and the girl didn't say much to each other, concentrating on their food and the conversation around them. Matty Roh appeared briefly, passing next to Morgan without looking at him, on her way to someplace else. She paused long enough to say something to Chandos, which caused him to scowl deeply. Morgan didn't hear what she said but had no trouble imagining what it might be.