Bearers of the Black Staff

“Tell me what to do,” he begged.

The Gray Man managed a smile. “You’re doing it,” he said.

Pan braced him with his chest and shoulder and fumbled to bring out his water pouch. He held it to the other’s mouth and let him drink. Most of the water trickled down his chin and was lost. Pan could see the color of his skin beginning to change with the onslaught of the poison, taking on a bluish tinge.

“Is there something that will counteract the poison?”

Sider Ament shook his head. “Too much of it … is already in me.” He swallowed thickly. “Did any of them get out … of the valley alive?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Sider, was that Arik Sarn who attacked you? Why did he do that?”

“Because he’s not … who we believed. His real name is Arik Siq. He is the Maturen’s … oldest son. He tricked us … into bringing him into the valley. He would take that knowledge … back with him. But now … he’s trapped inside the valley. You … can’t let him escape.”

Pan shook his head. “But why didn’t they just leave when they had the chance? Why did they stay?”

“They needed you … dead so you … couldn’t warn the valley … about them. Would give them time to regain the pass … and bring others to help them.” The Gray Man smiled. “You stopped them … just by getting away.”

Pan shook his head, blinked away his tears. “You were the one that stopped them. I’m to blame for all of this. I’m the one that brought him into the valley in the first place.”

The stricken man took a quick gulp of air. “Doesn’t matter now. Listen to me. Time doesn’t allow for … anything more than this. I wish it did. But … you have to take the staff from me. No arguments, Panterra. You have … to do it now.”

Pan stared at him, unable to speak. In the rush of things, he had forgotten about the staff. He hadn’t decided if he was going to serve as the Gray Man’s apprentice. All that had been pushed aside as the hunt for Prue had begun.

Prue! A chill rippled up his spine. Where was Prue?

“Sider, I can’t …” He stopped, shook his head. “You have to tell me about Prue. Did you find her? You were going after her. What happened?”

Sider shook his head. “I sent someone … in my place … when I learned the truth about the Troll. Someone … better able than I … to save her. Best I could … do.” He seemed to gather himself. “The staff. Will you take up the staff?”

Pan shook his head in confusion and despair. “How can I agree to this when I don’t know if Prue …?”

The Gray Man’s hand clamped on his wrist, an iron band that cut off the rest of what he was going to say. “The staff … will help you save her. Otherwise …” He stopped, choking now, struggling to breathe. “Help you save them all. Men, Elves, all of them. You must … give them hope. You have to do what’s needed … because I can’t.”

“I don’t know if I can!” Pan fought to keep from screaming the words at him. “I’m not you! I don’t have your experience! I don’t even know how to summon the magic! I’ve never used it! I don’t know anything!”

The hand on his wrist tightened. “You know … more than you think. Trust in your instincts. The staff … responds to the … will of the … the user. Just … ask for what you need.”

He was gasping for air now. Panterra struggled to make it easier for him, holding him upright, trying to find a way to slow the poison. But nothing was helping.

“Take … the staff!” the other hissed. Then his gaze shifted. “When you … see Aislinne … tell her …”

The words caught in his throat, his body hunched violently, and then his eyes fixed on nothing. Panterra held him, crying openly now, unable to stop.

“Sider, no,” he whispered.

He said it like a prayer, like a plea. It was all he could manage. Then he laid the dead man down, released the hand still clamped on his wrist, and closed the eyes that now seemed to be staring at him.

“Walk softly, Sider Ament,” he whispered.

He closed his own eyes, sick at heart and bone-weary, and when he did so the dead man whispered back.

Take the staff.

The words echoed softly in the following stillness.

Take the staff.



THE BOY STANDS WITHOUT MOVING as the remains of the rogue Elf begin to blow away like ashes in a sudden gust of wind. His mentor has dropped to his knees, gripping the staff to hold himself upright. Everything seems frozen—time, place, events, even the boy himself.