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 almost 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 bore 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?