of their leather bag, ready for the use to which she knew they
must be put. She harbored no illusions as to what would be
required of her. She bore no false hope that use of the Elfstones
might be avoided, that her Rover skills might be sufficient to
save them. She did not debate whether it was wise to employ
the magic when she knew how its power affected her. Her
choices were all behind her. The Wisteron was a monster that
only the Elfstones could overcome. She would use the magic
because it was the only weapon they had that would make any
difference in the battle that lay ahead. If she allowed herself to
hesitate, if she fell prey yet again to indecision, they were all
dead.
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. Odd that
she should be so dry there and so damp everywhere else. Even
the palms of her hands were sweating. How far she had come
since her days with Garth when she had roamed the Tirfing in
what seemed now to have been another life, free of worry and
responsibility, answerable only to herself and the dictates of
time.
She wondered if she would ever see the Westland again.
Ahead, the gloom tightened into pockets of deep shad-
ow that had the look of burrows. Mist coiled out and wound
through the tree limbs and vines like snakes. Webbing cloaked
the high branches and filled the gaps between-thick, semi-
transparent strands that shimmered with the damp. Stresa
slowed and looked back at them. He didn’t speak. He didn’t
have to. Wren was aware of Garth and Triss at either shoulder,
silent, expectant. She nodded to Stresa and motioned for him
to go on.
She thought suddenly of her grandmother, wondering what
Ellenroh would be feeling if she were there, imagining how she
would react. She could see the other’s face, the fierce blue eyes
in contrast to the ready smile, the imposing sense of calm that
swept aside all doubt and fear. Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the
Elves. Her grandmother had always seemed so much in control
of everything. But even that hadn’t been enough to save her.
What then, Wren wondered darkly, could she rely upon? The
magic, of course-but the magic was only as strong as the
wielder, and Wren would have much preferred her grandmoth-
er’s indomitable strength just now to her own. She lacked Ellen-
roh’s self-assurance; she lacked her certainty. Even determined
as she was to recover the Ruhk Staff and the Loden, to carry
the Elven people safely back into the Westland, and to fulfill
the terms of the trust that had been given her, she saw herself
as flesh and blood and not as iron. She could fail. She could
die. Terror lurked at the fringes of such thoughts, and it would
not be banished.
Triss bumped up against her from behind, causing her to
jump. He whispered a hasty apology and dropped back again.
Wren listened to the pounding of her blood, a throbbing in her
ears and chest, a measure of the brief space between her life and
death.
She had always been so sure of herself .
Something skittered away on the ground ahead, a flash of
dark movement against the green. Stresa’s spines lifted, but he
did not slow. The forest opened through a sea of swamp grass
into a stand of old-growth acacia that leaned heavily one into
the other, the ground beneath eroded and mired. The company
followed the Splinterscat left along a narrow rise. The move-
ment came again, quick, sudden, more than one thing this time.
Wren tried to follow it. Some sort of insect, she decided, long
and narrow, many legged.
Stresa found a patch of ground slightly broader than his
body and turned to face them.
“Phhhfft. Did you see?” he whispered roughly. They nod-
ded. “Scavengers! Orps, they are called. Hsssst! They eat any-
thing. Hah, everything! They live off the leavings of the Wis-
teron. You’ll see a lot more of them before we’re finished. Don’t
be frightened when you do.”
“How much farther?” Wren whispered back, bending close.
The Splinterscat cocked its head. “Just ahead,” he growled.