spit and struggled to break free. But its weight was significant
and drew it down; its legs could find no footing. The Elfstone
fire burned about it, coring the mud deeper and deeper, pooling
it in a bottomless pit. The Wisteron thrashed frantically, steadily
sinking. It shrieked, a sound that froze the air to silence.
Then the mud closed over it, the roiling surface glazing or-
ange and yellow with fire, and it was gone.
CHAPTER
27
WREN’S FINGERS CLOSED over the Elfstones, mechanical
appendages that seemed to belong to someone else. The
fire flared once in response and died. She stood frozen
in place for a moment, unable to find the strength to
make herself move-light-headed, floating, a half step out of
time. The magic spit and hissed within her, making small dashes
along her arms and legs that caused her to gasp and shiver. She
had trouble breathing; her chest was constricted, and her throat
was dry and raw.
Before her, the flames that seared the surface of the mud
flats diminished to small blue tongues and died into steam. Garth
was still braced on hands and knees, head lowered and chest
heaving. All about, the In Ju was cavernous and still.
Then Faun darted out of nowhere, scrambled up her arm,
and nuzzled into her neck and shoulder, squeaking softly. She
closed her eyes against the warm fur, remembering how the
little creature had saved her, thinking it was a miracle that any
of them were still alive.
She moved finally, forcing herself to take one step and then
another, driven by her fear for Garth and by the sight of all
that blood. She forced aside the last traces of exhilaration that
were the magic’s leavings, groped past her craving to savor the
power anew, slipped the Elfstones into her pocket, and knelt
hurriedly beside her friend. Garth lifted his head to look at her.
His face was muddied almost beyond recognition, but the dark
eyes were bright and certain.
“Garth,” she whispered.
He was ripped open from shoulder to ribs on his left side,
and his chest was burned black by the poison. Caked mud had
helped to slow the flow of blood, but the wounds needed clean-
ing or they would become infected.
She eased Faun down gently, then put her arms around Garth
and tried to help him to his feet. She could barely move him.
“Wait,” a voice called out. “I’ll help.”
It was Triss, stumbling out of the mist, looking only margin-
ally better off than Garth. He was streaked with mud and swamp
water. His left arm hung limp; he carried his short sword in his
right. One side of his face was a sheet of blood.
But the Captain of the Home Guard seemed unaware of his
injuries. He draped Garth’s arm about his shoulders and with a
heave brought the big man to his feet. With Wren supporting
from the other side, they recrossed the mud flats toward the
old-growth acacia.
Stresa lumbered into view, quills sticking out in every direc-
tion. “This way! Phhffft! In here! In the shade!”
They bore Garth to a patch of dry earth that lay in the
cradle of a cluster of tree roots and laid him down again. Wren
worked quickly to cut away his tunic. She had only a little fresh
water left, but used almost all of it to clean his wounds. The
rest she gave to Triss for his face. She used sewing thread and
a needle to stitch the gash closed and bound the big man with
strips of cloth torn from the last of her extra clothing. Garth
watched her work, silent, unmoving, as if trying to memorize
her face. She signed to him once or twice, but he merely nodded
and did not sign back. She did not like what she saw.
Then she worked on Triss. The face wound was superficial,
merely a deep abrasion. But his left arm was broken. She set it,
cut splints of wood and bound them with his belt. He winced
once or twice as she worked, but did not cry out. He thanked
her when she was done, solemn, embarrassed. She smiled at