Gavilan, but had chosen not to. Wren was not prepared to ques-
tion the queen’s judgment without thinking the matter through.
But she cared for Gavilan; she relied on his friendship and
support. That complicated things. She understood his disap
pointment, and she knew that he was right when he said that
the Elves were his people and Arborlon his city and that she
was an outsider. She believed that Gavilan wanted what was
best as much as she did.
A harsh, desperate determination took root inside her. None
of this matters, because Grandmother will recover, because she must recover,
she will not die, she will not! The words were a litany in her
mind, repeating over and over. Her breathing was ragged and
angry, and her hands were shaking.
She shook her head and fought back her tears.
Finally she sat down again next to her grandmother. Numb
with grief, she stared down at the ravaged face. Please, get well.
You must get well.
Weariness stole over her like a thief and left her drained.
THEY REMAINED CAMPED at the cliff wall all that day, letting
Ellenroh sleep, hoping that her strength would return. While
Wren and Eowen took turns caring for the queen, the men
kept watch. Time slipped away, and Wren watched it escape
with a quickness that was frightening. They had been gone
from Arborlon for three days now, but it seemed like weeks.
All about them, the world of Morrowindl was gray and hazy,
a bleak landscape of shadows and half-light. Beneath, the earth
rumbled with Killeshan’s discontent. How much time remained
to them? How much before the volcano exploded and the island
broke apart? How much before the demons found them? How
much before Tiger Ty and Spirit decided that there was no
point in searching any longer, that they were irretrievably lost?
She bathed Ellenroh’s face and whispered and sang to her,
trying to dispel the fever, searching for some small sign that her
grandmother was mending and the sickness would pass. She
stayed clear of the others, save for Eowen, and even when she
was close to the seer she spoke little. Her mind was restless,
however, and filled with misgivings to which she could not give
voice. The Ruhk Staff was a constant reminder of how much
Was at stake. Thoughts of the Elves plagued her; she could see
their faces, hear their voices, and imagine what they must be
thinking, more trapped than she was, more powerless. It terrified
her to be so inextricably tied to them. She could not shake the
feeling that she was all they had, that they must rely on her
alone and no one else in the company mattered. Their lives were
her charge, and while she might wish it otherwise, the fact of it
could not be easily changed.
Night fell, and Ellenroh’s condition grew worse.
Wren sat alone at one point and cried without being able to
stop, hollow with losses that suddenly seemed to press about
her at every turn. Once she would have told herself that none
of it mattered-that the absence of parents and family, of a
history, of a life beyond the one she lived was of no conse-
quence. Coming to Morrowindi and finding Arborlon and the
Elves had changed that forever. What had once seemed of so
little importance had inexplicably become everything. Even if
she survived, she would never be the same. The realization of
what had been done to her left her stunned. She had never felt
more alone.
She slept then for a time, too exhausted to stay awake lon-
ger, her emotions gone distant and numb, and woke again with
Garth’s hand on her shoulder. She rose instantly, frightened by
what he might have come to tell her, but he quickly shook his
head. Saying nothing, he simply pointed.
From no more than six feet away, a bulky, spiked form
stood staring at her with eyes that gleamed like a cat’s. Faun was
dancing about in front of it, chittering wildly.
Wren stared. “Stresa?” she whispered in disbelief. She scram-
bled up hurriedly, throwing her blanket aside, her voice shak-
ing. “Stresa, is that really you?”