the ground.
The Owl reappeared from behind a ridge, one sleeve shred-
ded, his thin face clawed. He beckoned them wordlessly, turn-
ing away from the path they had been following, taking them
swiftly down from the summit of a rise to a narrow gully that
wound ahead into the fog. They watched closely now, alert for
further attacks, reminded that the demons would be every-
where, that not all of them would have gone to the Keel. The
sky overhead turned a peculiar yellow as the sun ascended the
sky yet struggled unsuccessfully to penetrate the vog. Wren
crept ahead with long knives in both hands, her eyes sweep-
ing the shadows cautiously for any sign of movement.
They were nearing the Rowen when Aurin Striate brought
them to a sudden halt. He dropped into a crouch, motioning them
down with him, then turned, gestured for them to remain where
they were, and disappeared ahead into the haze. He was gone
for less than five minutes before reappearing. He shook his head
in warning and motioned them left. Keeping low, they slipped
along a line of rocks to where a ridge hid them from the Rowen.
From there they worked their way parallel to the river for more
than a mile, then resurfaced cautiously atop a rise. Wren peered
out at the sluggish gray surface of the river, empty and broad
before her as it stretched away into the distance.
Nothing moved.
The Owl rejoined them, his leathery face furrowed. “The
shallows are filled with things we don’t want anything to do
with. We’ll cross here instead. It’s too broad and too wide to
swim. We’ll have to ferry over. We’ll build a raft big enough
to hold on to-that will have to do.”
He took the Elven Hunters with him to gather wood, leaving
Gavilan and Garth with the women. Ellenroh came over to Wren
and gave her a brief hug and a reassuring smile. All was well,
she was saying, but there were worry lines etched in her brow.
She moved quietly away.
“Feel the earth with your hands, Wren,” Eowen whispered
suddenly, crouching next to her. Wren reached down and let
the tremors rise into her body. “The magic comes apart all about
us-everything the Elves sought to build. The fabric of our ar-
rogance and our fear begins to unravel.” The rust-colored hair
tumbled wildly about the distant green eyes, and Eowen had the
look of someone awakening from a nightmare. “She will have to
tell you sometime, Wren. She will have to let you know.”
Then she was gone as well, moving over to join the queen.
Wren was not sure exactly what she had been talking about,
but assumed she was referring to Ellenroh, and that, as the Rover
girl already knew, there were secrets still unrevealed.
The vog swirled about, screening off the Rowen, snaking
through the cracks and crevices of the land, changing the shape
of everything as it passed. Cort and Dal returned hauling lengths
of deadwood, then disappeared again. The Owl passed through
the gloom heading toward the river, stick-thin and bent as if at
hunt. Everything moved as if not quite there, a shading of some
half-forgotten memory that could trick you into believing things
that never were.
A sudden convulsion rocked the earth underfoot, causing
Wren to gasp in spite of herself and to reach down hurriedly to
regain her balance. The waters of the Rowen seemed to surge
sharply, gathering force in a wave that crashed against the shore-
line and rolled on into the distance.
Garth touched her shoulder. The island shakes itself apart.
She nodded, thinking back to Eowen’s declaration that the
impending cataclysm was the result of a disruption in the magic.
She had thought the seer was referring solely to Ellenroh’s use
of the Loden, but now it occurred to her that the seer meant
something more. The implication of what she had just told Wren
was that the disruption of the magic was broader than simply
the taking away of Arborlon, that at some time in the past the
Elves had sought to do something more and failed and that what
was happening now was a direct result.