They slipped down the back stairs and continued down Portlow’s only road, walking on until they saw a sign for the Boar’s Head. It was a big, sprawling building with dozens of windows that allowed the light from inside to spill out onto the surrounding grounds. Shouts and laughter came from inside, their intensity a clear indicator of the tavern’s popularity.
“Wait here,” Paxon told her, slowing as they neared the front door. “Let me see if I can find this fellow Gammon and persuade him to come outside to talk so we can hear each other.”
When she didn’t object, he moved quickly to the door and stepped inside. The tavern was crammed wall-to-wall with people and thick with smoke. The sound was deafening. He waited a moment until a serving girl came by and caught her arm. She gave him an annoyed look, but didn’t pull away.
He leaned close. “Gammon?”
She nodded toward a man working behind the service counter, took her arm back, and moved on.
Paxon squeezed his way over to the counter, waited until he caught the man’s eye, and beckoned him over. Gammon was burly and bluff; his face reflected an enthusiasm for his work. Or perhaps it was just the credits it generated. “Help you?”
Paxon smiled and bent close. “There’s someone waiting outside who needs to talk to you about the boy. She knows quite a bit about his history and is here to help him. Can you come talk to her?”
Gammon studied him. “Who are you?”
“A man in her service. Please. We mean no harm. We just need a few minutes of your time.”
Gammon studied him some more, and then he shrugged. “Why not? I’ve talked to everyone else under the sun.”
He came out from behind the bar, and together they made their way to the front door and outside where Avelene was waiting for them. She offered her hand to Gammon and introduced herself. All around them, patrons of the Boar’s Head were coming and going, some of them singing loudly and shouting, so Avelene took Gammon by the arm and led him all the way across the roadway to a quiet space between two shuttered buildings.
“How do you know Reyn?” he asked her.
“I don’t know him personally,” she answered. “Is that his name? Reyn?”
Gammon bristled, glaring at Paxon. “You tricked me into coming out here. You aren’t friends. You have some other—”
“We might be his best friends,” Avelene interrupted him. “I’m a member of the Druid order, and I’ve been sent by the Ard Rhys to find this boy and warn him about what’s happening. His magic is an old one that has been in his family for centuries. I’m not sure he knows this, but he needs to, because using magic as he does is dangerous. I don’t want anything from him; I just want to warn him.”
Gammon looked suspicious. “His family, you say? He doesn’t know who his family is. He told me so. A couple took him in when he was young and raised him. How can you be sure about what you’re telling me?”
“We can track the use of magic from Paranor. We can identify it. This magic matches one we already know, one that is linked to singing. And the match tells us he comes from a particular family that has had the use of that magic for a very long time. We need to speak with him.”
Gammon shook his head. “You and a few others. But no one can speak to him anymore. He’s gone. Set out this morning. Said he couldn’t stay around here any longer with the Fortrens looking for him. Didn’t matter what he promised that stranger.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. Just said he had to find a new place, far away from here. Those Fortrens don’t ever quit coming for you if you hurt one of them. He knew that.”
“Wait a minute,” Paxon said. “You said there was a stranger?”
“Wanted the boy to wait here for him. Wanted to talk to him about his singing. Was he another Druid?”
“No.” Paxon didn’t bother to hide his consternation. “Can you describe him?”
Gammon did so. “I didn’t much like him.”
“Your instincts aren’t lying to you. He’s very dangerous. If he comes back here, keep away from him. His name is Arcannen. He is not a good man. The Federation and the Druid order have both been hunting him for years.”
“Well, then, maybe it’s a good thing the boy is gone.” Gammon turned away. “Anyway, that’s all I know. I have to get back to work.”
“Do you know which way he went when he left?” Avelene called after him.
Gammon made a dismissive gesture and disappeared back through the tavern entry.
“He’s lying,” she said. “Or, at best, shading the truth.”
Paxon nodded slowly. “Should we go back in there and confront him?”
She thought about it a moment. “No,” she said finally, “let’s wait and see what happens. Why don’t you go around and watch the back door? I’ll remain here. I have a feeling about this.”
She moved farther back into the shadows and followed Paxon’s progress as he made his way back across the roadway and around the tavern. Intent on what she had decided to do, she missed noticing the black-cloaked form coming up behind her.
—
Reyn Frosch was sleeping when Gammon knocked on the door.
“Open up! Hurry! Something’s happened!”
Still sleepy-eyed and muddle-headed, the boy climbed from the bed and walked over to the door. “Gammon?”
“Yes, it’s Gammon! Open the door!”
It sounded urgent enough that Reyn did so, stepping back quickly as the innkeeper pushed his way in and closed the door behind him. “You’ve got to leave now! Right now!”
The boy found himself waking up more quickly. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“There’s two people downstairs asking for you. They say they are Druids. Or at least the young woman does. Don’t know about the other. They lured me out to talk to them by saying they knew you, then said they didn’t know you personally, but knew about your singing. Said it was a magic that ran in your family. They said that black-cloaked stranger you’re waiting for is a sorcerer and too dangerous for you to be getting involved with. I don’t know if I believe them or not, but I think you should get as far away from here as you can. Are you listening to me?”
Reyn nodded. “Of course I’m listening. You’re shouting right in my ear! If all they want to do is talk…”
“That’s what they say, but how can you know? I can’t even be sure if they’re Druids! They could be anyone. I don’t like it. You should get away. Besides, the Fortrens are back, hanging around at the edge of town, watching. They know you’re still here. It’s too risky for you to stay any longer. Go away for a while. Get to someplace safe. But go!”
He was intense and frantic enough that Reyn decided maybe he should pay attention. He gathered up his clothing and personal items, stuffed them in a pack, and slung it over his shoulder along with the new elleryn.
Gammon clasped his hand. “Get a message to me when you’re settled. Let me know how to find you. If I have any news, I’ll pass it on. I’m sorry about this, Reyn. I wish you could stay.”
The boy shrugged. “I’m used to quick departures. Good-bye, Gammon. Thank you for the elleryn. And for everything else.”
He shook hands with the tavern owner and went out of the room and down the back stairs to the rear door, where he spent a long time peering out into the darkness.
Just like that, he was cutting ties again, leaving for a new home.
He closed his eyes against the despair that filled him.
Finally, satisfied no one was watching, he went out the door and hurried toward the woods behind the tavern.
ELEVEN
Paxon was standing deep in the shadows cast by the trees at the rear of the Boar’s Head when the back door eased open and a figure emerged into the light. It was hard to be certain who it was—even if it was a man or woman—but a rucksack and a leather case shaped like a musical instrument were strapped to its back. Paxon stayed where he was, watching the figure cross the open space alm
ost directly toward him, moving quickly.
When the figure was less than a dozen yards away, he stepped out of the trees. “Reyn?” he called.
The boy stopped, his face lifting into the misty moonlight, clearly revealed now, surprise and consternation imprinted on his young features. For a moment, he looked poised to run. But then he seemed to think better of it and held his ground.
“Who are you?” he called back.
“My name is Paxon Leah. I came here from Paranor with a Druid companion. We need to warn you about the magic you are using.”
“How do you know I use magic?”
“If I am mistaken, just say so.”
The boy hesitated. “I’m just leaving. Please let me go.”
“I’m not here to cause you trouble,” Paxon said, pressing ahead quickly. “I just want to explain what sort of…”
In the next instant a rope of fire burst from between the buildings behind the boy, barely missing his head. He threw himself aside, trying to protect his belongings as a second explosion flashed past him, this one even closer.
“Stay down!” Paxon yelled, rushing to his aid, his black sword drawn and held protectively before him.
But Reyn was up and running, bolting away from Paxon and the source of the fire both, sprinting along the rear walls of the buildings left of the Boar’s Head until a gap appeared between them and he disappeared from view. Paxon kept advancing toward the source of the fire, but no further bursts appeared. Whoever had attacked them was gone.
“Reyn!” he called after the boy. “Wait! Come back!”
But he wouldn’t, of course. He would run and keep running. He would believe it was the Druids who had attacked him. He would think Paxon lured him out so he could be disabled or killed. But unless for some unknown reason it was Avelene who…
He caught himself and stopped short.
Avelene. Where is she?
He gave up on the boy. If they were going to find him, they would have to track him down in daylight and try to explain to him why he was mistaken. Assuming he was. Would Avelene have attacked him? No, there was no reason for her to do so. He began running hard, passing between the Boar’s Head and the building next door to the roadway and then crossing the street to where he had left her.
There was no sign of her. It was so shadowy in the narrow opening between the darkened buildings that he could barely see. He rushed back across the street, took down a torch from one of a matching set bracketing the front door to the Boar’s Head, and raced back across. Using the light it cast, he held it close to the ground and began to search. Like most Highlanders who hunted extensively, he could read sign. He found Avelene’s footprints right away, and then a second pair close behind where she had stood. A man’s, from the size of them. She had been facing away from whoever had come up on her. There were no signs of a struggle, just the prints coming up behind her and then moving away again.
Only they were deeper than before where they turned back. As if whoever made them had been carrying something heavy.
Someone had caught her off guard, rendered her helpless, and borne her off. He followed the prints to a door behind the building to his right. The door had been locked, but the lock was broken—burned loose from its hinges. His torch held out before him, Paxon slipped into the room.
Boxes, crates, and barrels were stacked everywhere. He held up the torch and looked around. He saw no one moving, sensed no one waiting. But he remained cautious anyway as he pushed farther in. The silence suggested nothing was amiss, yet something felt curiously out of place. He studied the stacks of supplies cautiously as he moved through the room, tying to decide what it was.
Then he noticed a patch of deep blackness. It was nothing more than what appeared to be empty space back between the crates, but his torchlight would not penetrate it. Tightening his grip on the Sword of Leah, he took a few steps forward, trying to make out what it was.
Even when he got close, though, it still didn’t seem to be anything more than an especially dark place. He reached out to touch it and discovered he was wrong. The blackness surrounded a hard shell, a sort of cylinder propped upright against the wall. He sheathed his sword and ran his free hand over the surface, gauging its size and strength. If there was something within, he couldn’t tell from looking; even when standing right on top of it he could not see inside.
After a moment, he stepped back again. Whatever this was, it didn’t belong here. It did not remind him of anything he knew or had ever seen, and he was pretty sure it did not contain supplies.
He felt a chill sweep through him. Magic? Could magic be involved? Didn’t it have to be? The fire thrown at the boy from the darkness between the buildings was clearly generated by magic. A magic wielder could have conjured this black cylinder.
Right away he thought of Arcannen.
Wedging the torch between stacks of boxes nearby so that he still had the use of its light, he unsheathed his sword once more and placed its edge against the surface of the black container, testing its response.
Instantly the familiar green snakes began to crawl through the weapon’s blade, writhing and twisting, and Paxon felt a familiar jolt as the sword’s magic awoke in response. A second later the opaque surface of the cylinder turned transparent, and he could see Avelene’s body suspended inside. She was held in place by invisible bonds, hands at her sides, body still. But her eyes were open, and she was looking at him.
Her eyes told him she was terrified.
He lifted his blade away from the cylinder and watched it go dark again. For a moment, he considered simply smashing his way into the young woman’s prison, but he resisted the urge. If whoever captured her wanted her dead, why hadn’t they simply killed her and been done with it? If they wanted her to be found, why bother with all this elaborate imprisoning?
Unless his suspicions were right, and it was Arcannen who was responsible. Especially if he knew Paxon was there. Wouldn’t he find it fitting if Paxon bulled his way recklessly into the black cylinder using his precious sword and thereby caused the death of the person he was supposed to be rescuing?
What he needed was someone who knew more about magic than he did. Someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who could tell him if by opening the container he was putting Avelene in worse danger still.
He sheathed his sword. The boy would have to wait. His first obligation was to the Druids he was sworn to protect. Avelene would have to be transported—cylinder and all—back to Paranor. He could only hope a way to release her could be found when he got her there.
Frustration at feeling so helpless gnawed at him as he made his decision. He was almost certain by now that imprisoning Avelene was Arcannen’s work. This whole business had a personal feel to it, and his suspicions suggested strongly that it was the sorcerer who was behind it.
He expected he would know soon enough.
Retrieving his torch from where he had wedged it between the supply boxes, he went back out into the night to find help.
—
Not until he had arrived at the outskirts of Portlow, following the road that led east toward the coast, did Reyn Frosch stop running long enough to pause and look back. No one seemed to be following. He thought the man who had approached him behind the tavern might have given chase, but apparently he had decided against it. Perhaps his cohort, the one using the magic, had held him back. Or perhaps they would try to track him after it got light. Anger and determination flooded through him. They would never catch up to him now. They had lost their best chance when the fire had missed and he had managed to escape. Now he would be watching out for them.
All that talk about warning him and wanting to help was nothing more than a ruse to delay him. He wondered what they were really after. Whatever they wanted, it must be connected to his use of magic. All magic was outlawed in the Southland, and there were rumors that the Druids were seeking to acquire any magic not already under their control.
Which suggested they might be try
ing to acquire his. His battle against the Fortrens might have drawn them to him. He had heard stories about the Druids and their machinations. He had heard how they hunted down and destroyed those who used magic.
It was beginning to rain. Hunching his shoulders, he tightened his travel cloak and pulled up its hood. He had lost the rucksack that contained his clothing and possessions. All he had managed to salvage was the elleryn Gammon had given to him. He had no food or water. A handful of Federation credits were stuffed down in his pants. It was a poor start to a new life, but he would have to make do.
He began walking, moving away from the lights of the town. If he could reach Sterne, he could disappear into the larger population. He couldn’t sing or play anymore—not in public, at least. Word would get around. It would draw attention. The Druids would hear of it and come for him once more.
His best bet was to work at a job that would give him enough money to buy passage on an air transport west into Elven country, where use of magic was not outlawed and therefore less noticeable, and a man could change his identity with ease. He could find a place in a Rover village, perhaps. He could use his voice again to make a living working at a tavern. He could start over.
Thoughts of what he could and couldn’t do ran through his head as he pushed ahead through the rain. The roadway quickly turned sodden and muddy, and he moved off to the side in the tall grasses where the ground was more solid. After a time, he deliberately angled toward the fringe of the forest trees. Standing out in the open seemed like a poor idea.
He tried to prepare himself mentally for what might happen. He could protect himself if his pursuers continued to come after him; he was not helpless against them. The magic would keep them at bay. But they had been so quick to attack him back in Portlow. Why would they do that when they didn’t even know him? The man who had approached him had seemed willing to talk. Why hadn’t they given him a chance to explain himself?
Something streaked past his head and struck the trunk of a tree to one side. A crossbow bolt. He darted into the trees at once, seeking shelter. Another bolt followed, this one nicking his shoulder as it sped past him into the darkness and disappeared. He dropped into a crouch, looking around frantically, fixing on the direction from which this new attack had come.