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 trying 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.

“Pap!” a voice shouted. “He’s over here! I’ve got him trapped!”

At once he was up and running, weaving through the darkness, angling away from the voice and the attack. He ran deeper into the woods, the elleryn clutched to his chest. He had forgotten about the Fortrens watching the roads leading out of Portlow, of Gammon’s warning that they were waiting for him to try to escape. He was so caught up in the mystery behind the Druid attack that they had slipped his mind completely.

Still, whatever his assailant might think, he was far from trapped. He tore through the rain and the dark, fighting down the fear building within him. The road branched just ahead, one path running on to Sterne, the other to Wayford. Along the way were dozens of small villages. He needed only to reach one of them to find a place to hide. Someone would take him in.

But when a fresh crossbow bolt whizzed past to one side, he was reminded that the Fortrens were woods people and more at home in these surroundings than he was. He ducked instinctively and took a new direction back toward the road. The trees and the heavy scrub of the woods hindered his efforts, and he might make better time in the open. He wasn’t as skilled at wilderness survival as the Fortrens, but he was strong and quick. He might be able to outrun them.

A tree trunk exploded in a shower of bark nearby, seconds before the explosive discharge of a handheld flash rip. Others followed, bracketing him as he twisted and dodged, fighting to keep his feet in the slick grasses. There was more than one of them now, the pursuit growing. If he couldn’t find a way to lose them, he would have to turn and fight. The thought chilled him. Use of his magic would likely lead to someone dying. Worse, it would alert the Druids to his presence and bring them down on him.

But what choice did he have?

He was breathing heavily now, the ache in his leg muscles slowing him. He was running out of space and time; his strength was failing. He pushed himself harder, clearing the fringe of the trees just where the road ahead branched toward Sterne and Wayford. He felt a surge of hope. Which should he take? What if he took neither, but went between them, angling toward the former but keeping off the road entirely? It might confuse them enough to make them decide to wait until daylight, giving him extra …

The thought died before he could finish it. Ahead, a grouping of figures emerged from the darkness to block the split, closing off all choices of where he might flee. He slowed automatically, knowing he could not go forward, that he must turn back. But that would mean returning to Portlow, and there was no hope for him if he did.

Figures emerged from the trees behind him, his pursuit having caught up. He stood frozen in place for several long moments, watching the figures close in from all sides. He must run, but he no longer believed that running would be enough. He would have to stand and fight. He would have to use his magic if he were to get out of this alive.

He set down the elleryn. He was about to step away from it, still hoping to protect the one possession he had left, when he was struck a blow to the head that knocked him sprawling. The blow had been sharp and painful, and he knew a sling stone had struck him. They were disabling him before he could do anything. He tried to rise, but he was dizzy and slow, and those closest were on top of him too quickly, bearing him to the ground. Screams and shouts of wild elation filled the air.