into the shadows.
Finally, they quit. Stresa found shelter for them in the hol-
low stump of a banyan toppled by age and erosion, a massive
trunk with entries through its base and a narrow cleft farther
up. They blocked off the larger and set themselves to keep
watch at the smaller. Nothing of any size could reach them. It
was dark and close within their wood coffin and as dry as winter
earth. Night descended, and they listened to the jungle’s hunters
come awake, to the sounds of coughing roars, of sluggish pas-
sage, and of prey as it was caught and killed. They huddled
back to back with Stresa hunched down before them, spikes
extended back toward the faint light. They took turns standing
guard, dozing because they were too tired to stay awake but
too anxious to sleep. Faun lay cradled in Wren’s arms, as still as
death. She stroked the little creature affectionately, wondering
at how it could have survived in such a world. She thought of
how much she hated Morrowindi. It was a thief that had stolen
everything from her-the lives of her grandmother and her
friends, the innocence she had harbored of the Elves and their
history, the love and affection she had discovered for Gavilan,
and the strength of will she had thought she would never lose.
It was the loss of the latter that bothered her most, her confi-
dence in who and what she was and in the certainty that she
could determine her own fate. So much was gone, and Morrow-
indl, this once paradise made into a Shadowen nightmare, had
taken it all. She tried to picture life beyond the island and failed.
She could not think past escape, for escape was still uncertain,
still a fate that hung in the balance. She remembered how once
she had thought that traveling to find Allanon and speak with
his shade might be the beginning of a great adventure. The
memory was ashes in her mouth.
She slept for a time, dreamed of dark and terrible things,
and came awake sweating and hot. At watch, she found her
thoughts straying once again to Gavilan, to small memories of
him-the way he had touched her, the feel of his mouth kissing
hers, and the wonder he had invoked in her through nothing
more than a chance remark or a passing glance. She smiled as
she remembered. There was so much of him she had liked; she
hurt for the loss of him. She wished she could bring him back
to her and return him to the person he had been. She even
wished she could find a way to make the magic do what nature
could not-to change the past. It was foolish, senseless thinking,
and it teased her mercilessly. Gavilan was lost to her. He had
fallen prey to Morrowindi’s madness. He had killed Dal and
stolen the Ruhk Staff. He had turned himself into something
unspeakable. Gavilan Elessedil, the man she had been so at-
tracted to and cared so much for, was no more.
At daybreak they rose and set out anew. They did not have
to bother with breakfast because there was nothing left to eat.
Their supplies were exhausted, those that hadn’t been lost or
abandoned There was a little water, but not more than enough
for another day. While they traveled the In Ju, they would
find nothing to sustain them. One more reason to get clear
quickly.
Their search that day was over almost before it began. In
less than an hour, Gavilan’s trail abruptly ended. They crested
a ravine, slowed on Stresa’s warning hiss, and stopped. Below,
amid the wreckage of small plants and grasses trampled almost
flat in what must have been a frantic struggle, lay the shreds of
one of the Wisteron’s webs.
Stresa eased down into the ravine, sniffed cautiously about,
and climbed out again. The dark, bright eyes fixed on Wren.
“Hsssttt. It has him, Wren Elessedil.”
She closed her eyes against the horrific vision the Splinters-
cat’s words evoked. “How long ago?”
“Ssspptt. Not long. Maybe six hours. Just after midnight, I
would guess. The net snared the Elf Prince and held him until