oned Wren. The marks of his passing are still evident. I can track him.
She let Garth assume the lead with Stresa a half step behind,
the former searching for signs of their quarry’s passing, the latter
keeping watch for Darters and other dangers. Their quarry, Wren
thought, repeating the words. Gavilan had been reduced to that.
She felt pity for him in spite of herself, thinking he should have
stayed within the city, reasoning she should have done more to
keep him safe, still wishing for what could never be.
They progressed more slowly now. Gavilan had given up his
efforts to bypass the In Ju and plunged directly in. What signs
they found-broken twigs and small branches, vegetation dis-
turbed, an occasional print-suggested he had abandoned any
attempt at stealth and was simply trying to reach the beaches
by the shortest possible route. Speed over caution was a poor
choice, Wren thought to herself. They tracked him steadily,
without difficulty, and at each turn Wren expected to find him,
the chase concluded and the inevitable confirmed. But somehow
he kept going, evading the pitfalls that were scattered every-
where, the bogs and sinkholes, the Darters, the things that lay
in wait for the unwary, and the traps and the monsters made of
the Elven magic he so foolishly thought to wield. How he man-
aged to stay alive, Wren could only wonder. He should have
been dead a dozen times over. A step either way, and he would
have been. She found herself wishing it would happen, that he
would make that one mistake and that the madness would cease.
She hated what they were doing, hunting him like an animal,
chasing after him as if he were prey. She wanted it to stop.
At the same time, she dreaded what it would take to make
that happen.
When they began to catch sight of the Wisteron’s webbing,
she despaired. Not like that, she found herself pleading with what-
ever fate controlled such things. Give him a quick end. Trip lines
were strung all about, draped from the trees, looped along
the vines, and attached in deadly nets. Stresa retook the lead
from Garth in order to guide them past the snares, pausing often
to listen, to sniff the air, and to judge the safety of the land
ahead. The jungle thickened into a maze of green fronds and
dark trunks that crisscrossed one another in jigsaw fashion.
Shadows moved slowly and ponderously about them, but the
sounds they made were anxious and hungry. The afternoon
shortened toward evening, and it grew dark. Far distant, screened
by the mountain they had descended, Killeshan rumbled.
Tremorc shook the island, and the jungle’s green haze shivered
with the echo. Explosions began to sound, muffled still, but
growing stronger. Whole trees trembled with the reverbera-
tions, and steam geysered out of swamp pools, hissing with
relief. As the light darkened, Wren could see through the
ever-present haze of vog and mist the sky above Killeshan turn
red.
It has begun, she thought as Garth’s worried eyes met her
own.
She wondered how much time was left to them. Even if they
regained the Staff, it was still another two days to the beach.
Would Tiger Ty be there waiting? How often had he promised
he would come? Once a week, wasn’t it? What if a whole week
must pass before he was scheduled to return? Would he see the
volcano’s glare and sense the danger to them?
Or had he given up his vigil long ago, convinced that she
had failed, that she had died like all the others and that there
was no point in searching further?
She shook her head in stern admonishment. No, not Tiger
Ty. She judged him a better man than that. He would not give
up, she told herself. Not until there was no hope left.
“Phhffttt! We have to stop soon,” Stresa warned. “Hssstt.
Find shelter before it grows any darker, before the Wisteron
hunts!”
“A little farther,” Wren suggested hopefully.
They went on, but Gavilan Elessedil was not to be found.
His ragged trail stretched before them, worming ahead into the
In Ju, a line of bent and broken stalks and leaves disappearing