Pan sighed wearily, as if the effort to speak were too much for him. “Sider was killed by Arik Siq outside Declan Reach maybe ten days ago. I couldn’t stop it, even though I tried. When he was dying, he offered me the staff, and I agreed to take it. Now it’s mine to use in the defense of the people of the valley.”

“We hadn’t heard about this,” Tenerife said.

“The staff is a great responsibility,” Tasha said. “More than you probably want to deal with. But you are like that, Panterra. You always were. You will do as well with it as Sider would have. You will be strong like he was.”

“But the demon hunts you because of the staff,” Tenerife pressed. “So we’ll have to help you keep watch for it. Demons might be mythical in the lore of Men, but Elves know better. We have our histories, and demons have always been part of them. You are at great risk.”

“We can speak of that later,” Pan said, not comfortable talking about the matter. He knew how things stood without being reminded. “Do you have any idea at all where we can find Phryne?”

They talked about it at length, but neither of the Orullians could help. Normally, if she were in trouble, she would go either to her grandmother or to them. Or, in this instance, Tasha added, she would send Xac Wen in her place. Likely it would be the latter.

“He can’t stand not being at the center of things,” the big man insisted confidently. “Give it time. He’ll show.”

TASHA WAS RIGHT. But it didn’t happen until evening, long after Panterra and Prue had visited with the Orullians and even pitched in to help them build their snares, having more than a little experience in such matters. The friends had settled into a comfortable reunion, talking of mundane things as the hours rolled on and the daylight began to fade, keeping the more serious matters at bay until later that night when the day’s work was done and they could talk alone. They were all eating dinner, gathered about a cooking fire with other Elves, trading stories and sharing experiences, when one of the sentries from inside the valley appeared with Xac Wen in tow. The boy looked as if he had made a hard trek to reach them, his face dirty and sweat-stained, his clothing torn and rumpled.

Tasha rose to meet him, wrinkling his nose. “Stay downwind of me, you muddied little squirrel. No, wait. Don’t say anything just yet. Moren will take you out to wash and give you fresh clothes.” He turned to the sentry. “Anything close to a near fit will do. Then bring him back. We’ll feed and water him and see what he has to say. Go.”