Bearers of the Black Staff

Tenerife, who had poured himself a second cup of ale, shook his head in dismay. “Just tell the story and get on with things, Tasha,” he admonished. “We have to be going.”


Tasha ignored him. “It was destroyed in a struggle between the descendants of the only two Knights of the Word known to have survived the Great Wars and made it safely into the valley. One was an Elf, the other a human. Apparently, they knew each other well and had even liked each other. But something triggered a deep-seated and long-lasting dispute between the descendants, the source of which has been forgotten over time. In the ensuing battle, the human prevailed. The Elf was killed and his staff shattered in the bargain.”

He paused. “The Gray Man now carries the remaining staff. It was his predecessor who fought the Elf who bore the other.”

“I hadn’t heard that,” Panterra said, thinking anew of his encounter with Sider Ament. “How long ago was this?”

“Twenty years, at least.” Tasha Orullian shrugged. “It’s not well known outside the Elven royal family. Even they never talk about it. It’s rumored that Sider Ament witnessed the struggle and took the last staff from the hands of his predecessor, who died in the battle, as well.”

There was a long silence as his listeners mulled over the details of his story. “What about the blue Elfstones?” Prue asked.

“The blue Elfstones were in the possession of the descendants of Kirisin and Simralin Belloruus and could be traced through the first four centuries of our time in this valley. But a hundred years ago, they disappeared again. Someone took them.”

“Supposedly,” Phryne interrupted suddenly. “No one knows for sure. Isn’t that so, Tasha?”

“It is. So you’ve heard the story?”

She shrugged, made a dismissive gesture. “It’s just a story, a myth. Except for the parts about the Elfstones being missing and the last staff being in the hands of Sider Ament, which everyone knows, it’s all speculation. No one was there to witness the battle between the bearers of the staffs, or when the Elfstones disappeared.”

“Tasha and I heard the story from our grandfather years ago, but admittedly he wasn’t the most reliable source,” Tenerife cut in. “Tasha just likes it because it’s strange.”

His brother got to his feet abruptly. “As you say, it’s just a story, Phryne. No need to question it. Anyway, it’s time to be going. Enough of stories for now.”

They packed up their gear and set out anew, striding off into the mistiness of Eldemere, heading toward the mountains north and Aphalion Pass.



XAC WEN WAS TRYING for what must have been the thousandth time to restring a bow that was several sizes too big for him, an effort that was generating new levels of frustration, when the old lady hobbled into view. Xac was sitting outside his cottage home, propped up on a stool, the bow clutched between his knees as he struggled to bring the loose end of the bowstring to the notch. He wouldn’t have put so much into doing this if the bow hadn’t belonged to his father, who had been killed when Xac was only four. The bow had been given to him by his mother as a gift to remember his father by. The boy remembered his father well enough anyway, a tall, kindly man with great patience and a decided lack of good sense, which was the reason he had gotten himself killed, choosing a thunderstorm to go looking for his missing dog. He found the dog, but a bolt of lightning found him. He died instantly, they said, didn’t suffer, an unfortunate accident, but all Xac knew was that once you were dead you weren’t coming back, so what did it matter how you died?

The old woman drew his attention immediately. She was stooped over and shuffling like she might not be too far off from joining his father in the world of shades. She was clothed in layers of blouses and skirts and scarves and such, a woman who apparently dressed without knowing when to stop. A cloth sack bundled full of something loose and soft was clutched under one arm, a change of clothes, perhaps. He stopped trying to do anything with the bow when he saw that she was making directly for him and instead set down his work and stood up.

“Good day, young man,” the old lady greeted him, her voice high and querulous. “Is your name Xac Wen?”

Xac almost said no. The old lady was just this side of scary, a crone all the way from the frizzled tips of her thick black hair, where it escaped the scarf that was trying futilely to bind it, to the tips of her worn boots, the leather cracked and the iron-shod tips scuffed and worn. She barely looked at him as she spoke, her head lowered like a supplicant’s, her eyes flicking up just momentarily to take him in before shifting away again. One mottled hand gestured at him like a claw.

“I’m Xac Wen,” he admitted.

“I’m looking for my daughter,” the old woman said. “Her name is Prue. She came to Arborlon in the company of a young man from the village of Glensk Wood, some miles west of here. I’ve been looking for her for days. Do you know her?”