The Scions of Shannara

“It’s almost time,” Coll, said when he reached his brother.

Par nodded. He looked small and slender next to Coll, who was a big, strong youth with blunt features and mud-colored hair. A stranger would not have thought them brothers. Coll looked a typical Valeman, tanned and rough, with enormous hands and feet. The feet were an ongoing joke. Par was fond of comparing them to a duck’s. Par was slight and fair, his own features unmistakably Elven from the sharply pointed ears and brows to the high, narrow bones of his face. There was a time when the Elven blood had been all but bred out of the line, the result of generations of Ohmsfords living in the Vale. But four generations back (so his father had told him) his great-great-grandfather had returned to the Westland and the Elves, married an Elven girl, and produced a son and a daughter. The son had married another Elven girl, and for reasons never made clear the young couple who would become Par’s great-grandparents had returned to the Vale, thereby infusing a fresh supply of Elves blood back into the Ohmsford line. Even then, many members of the family showed nothing of their mixed heritage; Coll and his parents Jaralan and Mirianna were examples. Par’s bloodlines, on the other hand, were immediately evident.

Being recognizable in this way, unfortunately, was not necessarily desirable. While in Varfleet, Par disguised his features, plucking his brows, wearing his hair long to hide his ears, shading his face with darkener. He didn’t have much choice. It wasn’t wise to draw attention to one’s Elven lineage these days.

“She has her gown nicely in place tonight, doesn’t she?” Coll said, glancing off down the alleyway to the city beyond. “Black velvet and sparkles, not a thread left hanging. Clever girl, this city. Even the sky is her friend.”

Par smiled. My brother, the poet. The sky was clear and filled with the brightness of a tiny crescent moon and stars. “You might come to like her if you gave her half a chance.”

“Me?” Coll snorted. “Not likely. I’m here because you’re here. I wouldn’t stay another minute if I didn’t have to.”

“You could go if you wanted.”

Coll bristled. “Let’s not start again, Par. We’ve been all through that. You were the one who thought we ought to come north to the cities. I didn’t like the idea then, and I don’t like it any better now. But that doesn’t change the fact that we agreed to do this together, you and me. A fine brother I’d be if I left you here and went back to the Vale now! In any case, I don’t think you could manage without me.”

“All right, all right, I was just . . .” Par tried to interrupt.

“Attempting to have a little fun at my expense!” Coll finished heatedly. “You have done that on more than one occasion of late. You seem to take some delight in it.”

“That is not so.”

Coll ignored him, gazing off into the dark.

“I would never pick on anyone with duck feet.”

Coll grinned in spite of himself. “Fine talk from a little fellow with pointed ears. You should be grateful I choose to stay and look after you!”

Par shoved him playfully, and they both laughed. Then they went quiet, staring at each other in the dark, listening to the sounds of the ale house and the streets beyond. Par sighed. It was a warm, lazy midsummer night that made the cool, sharp days of the past few weeks seem a distant memory. It was the kind of night when troubles scatter and dreams come out to play.

“There are rumors of Seekers in the city,” Coll informed him suddenly, spoiling his contentment.

“There are always rumors,” he replied.

“And the rumors are often true. Talk has it that they plan to snatch up all the magic-makers, put them out of business and close down the ale houses.” Coll was staring intently at him. “Seekers, Par. Not simple soldiers. Seekers.”

Par knew what they were. Seekers—Federation secret police, the enforcement arm of the Coalition Council’s Lawmakers. He knew.