they followed now was part of a series that cut through miles
of Blackledge from crown to base.
“If I don’t get us lost, we’ll be atop the rrwwllll ridge by
nightfall,” the Splinterscat had promised.
Wren had wanted to ask him where he had learned about
the tubes, but then decided the Splinterscat’s knowledge had
probably come from the Elves and it would only make him
angry to talk about it. In any event, he seemed to know where
he was going, nose thrust forward, pushing out at the edge of
the torchlight as if seeking to drag them along in his wake, never
hesitating once, even when he reached divergent passageways
and was forced to choose. They twisted and wound ahead
through the cool rock, climbing steadily, hauling themselves and
their packs through the gloom, and brushing at the drops of
water that fell on their faces and hands with cold, stinging splats.
Their booted feet echoed hollowly in the deep stillness, and
their breathing was an uneven hiss. They listened carefully for
the sounds of pursuit, but heard nothing.
At one point they were forced to descend a particularly steep
drop to a cross vent where the lava had cut through to a hollow
core within the mountain and left a yawning hole that fell away
into blackness. Farther on, there was a cavern where the lava
had gathered and pooled for a time, forming a series of passage-
Ways that crisscrossed like snakes. In each instance, Stresa knew
what to do, which tunnel to follow, and where the passage lay
that would take them to safety.
The hours slipped away, and the trek wore on. Wren let
Faun ride on her shoulder. The Tree Squeak’s bright eyes darted
left and right, and its voice was a low murmur in her ear. She
quit thinking for a time and concentrated instead on putting one
foot in front of the other, on studying the hypnotically swaying
shadows they cast in the torchlight, on these and a dozen other
mundane, purposeless musings that served to give her weary
mind and emotions a much needed rest.
It was nightfall when they finally emerged from the tunnels,
exiting the smokey blackness to stand amid a copse of thin-
limbed ash and scrub backed up against the cliff face. Before
them, a ledge spread away into the mist; behind, the mountain
sloped upward to a broken, empty ridgeline. Overhead, the sky
was murky and clouded, and a light rain was falling.
They moved away from the tunnels into a stretch of acacia
near the rim of Blackledge, and there settled in for the night.
They spread their gear and ate a hurried meal, then wrapped
themselves in their cloaks and blankets and prepared for sleep.
It was cold atop the mountain, and the wind blew at them in
sharp gusts. Far distant, Wren could hear Killeshan’s rumble and
see the red glow of its fire shimmering through the haze. The
earth had begun to tremble again, a slow, ominous vibration
that loosened rock and earth and sent them tumbling, that caused
the trees to sway and leaves to whisper like startled children.
Wren sat back against a half-fallen acacia whose exposed
roots maintained a tenuous grip on the mountain rock. The
Ruhk Staff rested on her lap, momentarily forgotten. Faun bur-
rowed into her shoulder for a time as the tremors continued,
then disappeared down inside her blanket to hide. She watched
the small, solid figure of Dal slip past to take the first watch.
Her eyes were heavy as she stared out at the dark, but she found
she was not yet ready to sleep. She needed to think awhile first.
She had been sitting there for only a few moments when
Gavilan appeared. He came out of the darkness rather suddenly,
and she started in spite of herself.
“Sorry,” he apologized hurriedly. “Can I sit with you awhile?”
She nodded wordlessly, and he settled himself next to her,
his own blanket wrapped loosely about his shoulders, his hair
tangled and damp. His handsome face was etched with fatigue,
but a hint of the familiar smile appeared.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right,” she answered.