“Can’t you smell the dead things?”
“What’s back there?”
“Ssssttt! How would I know that, Wren of the Elves? I’m still
alive!”
She ignored his glare. “We’ll take a look. If we can talk, we
will. If not, we will withdraw and decide what to do.”
She looked at Garth and Triss in turn to be certain they
understood, then straightened. Faun clung to her like a second
skin. She was going to have to put the Tree Squeak down before
she went much farther.
They burrowed ahead through the grasses and into the col-
lapsing trees. Orps appeared from everywhere now, scattering
at their approach. They looked like giant silverfish, quick and
soundless as they disappeared into earth and wood. Wren tried
to ignore them, but it was difficult. The surface water of the
swamp bubbled and spit about them, the first sound they had
heard in some time. Killeshan’s reach was lengthening. They
passed out of the grasses and through the trees, the gloom set-
tling down about them in layers. It went still again, the air empty
and dead. Wren breathed slowly, deeply. Her hand tightened
about the Elfstones.
Then they were through the stand of acacia and moving
across a mud flat to a cluster of huge fir whose limbs wrapped
about one another in close embrace. Strands of webbing hung
everywhere, and as they neared the far side of the flats Wren
caught sight of bones scattered along the fringe of the trees.
Orps darted right and left, skimming the surface of the flats,
disappearing into the foliage ahead.
Stresa had slowed their pace to a crawl.
They gained the edge of the flats, eased down through an
opening in the trees on hands and knees, and froze.
Beyond the trees lay a deep ravine, an island of rock sus-
pended within the swamp. The fir trees lifted from its bedding
in a jumble of dark trunks that looked as if they had been lashed
together with hundreds of webs. Dead things hung in the webs,
and bones littered the ravine floor. Orps crawled over every-
thing, a shimmering carpet of movement. The light was gray
and diffuse above the ravine, filtered down to faint shadows by
the vog and mist. The smell of death hung over everything,
captured within the rocks and trees and haze. It was quiet within
the Wisteron’s lair. Except for the scurrying Orps, nothing
moved.
Wren felt Garth’s hand grip her shoulder. She glanced over
and saw him point.
Gavilan Elessedil hung spread-eagle in a hammock of web-
bing across from them, his blue eyes lifeless and staring, his
mouth open in a silent scream. He had been gutted, his torso
split from chest to stomach. Within the empty cavity, his ribs
gleamed dully. All of his body fluids had been drained. What
remained was little more than a husk, a grotesque, frightening
parody of a man.
Wren had seen much of death in her short life, but she was
unprepared for this. Don’t look! she admonished herself franti-
cally. Don’t remember him like this! But she did look and knew as
she did that she would never forget.
Garth touched her a second time, pointing down into the
ravine. She peered without seeing at first, then caught sight of
the Ruhk Staff. It lay directly beneath what remained of Gavi-
Ian, resting on the carpet of old bones. Orps crawled over it
mindlessly. The Loden was still fixed to its tip.
Wren nodded in response, already wondering how they
could reach the talisman. Her gaze shifted abruptly, searching
once more.
Where was the Wisteron?
Then she saw it, high in the branches of the trees at one
end of the ravine, suspended in a net of its own webbing, mo-
tionless in the haze. It was curled into a huge ball, its legs tucked
under it, and it had the curious appearance of a dirty cloud. It
was covered with spiked hair, and it blended with the haze. It
seemed to be sleeping.
Wren fought down the rush of fear that seeing it triggered.
She glanced hurriedly at the others. They were all looking. The
Wisteron shifted suddenly, a straightening out of its surprisingly