stumbled out of the fiery gloom, a ragged collection of mis-
shapen horrors, and attacked unthinkingly, responding to in-
stinct and to their own peculiar madness. Stresa heard them
coming, sharp ears picking out the sound of their approach, and
warned the others seconds before the attack. Sword drawn, Triss
met the rush, withstood it, and very nearly turned it aside, al-
most a match for the things even with only one useful arm. But
the demons were crazed past fear or reason, driven from their
high country by something beyond understanding. These hu-
mans were a lesser threat. They rallied and attacked anew, de-
termined to exact some measure of revenge from the source at
hand.
But now Wren was facing them, consumed by her own mad-
ness, cold and reasoned, and she sent the magic of the Elfstones
scything into them like razors. Too late, they realized the dan-
ger. The magic caught them up and they vanished in bursts of
fire and sudden screams. In seconds nothing remained but smoke
and ash.
Others came all during the night, small bunches of them,
launching out of the darkness in frenzied rushes that carried
them to quick and certain deaths. Wren destroyed them without
feeling, without regret, and then burned the forest about until
it was as fiery as the slopes above where the lava rivers steamed.
As morning approached, the whole of their shelter for fifty yards
out was barren and smoking, a charnel house of bodies black-
ened beyond recognition, a graveyard in which only they sur-
vived. There was no sleep, no rest, and little respite against the
assaults. Dawn found them hollow-eyed and staring, gaunt and
ragged figures against the coming light. Triss was wounded in
half a dozen new places, his clothing in rags, all of his weapons
lost or broken but his short sword. Wren’s face was gray with
ash, and her hands shook with the infusion of the Elfstones’
power. Stresa’s quills fanned out in every direction, and it did
not seem as if they would ever settle back in place. Faun
crouched next to Wren like a coiled spring.
As the light crept out of the east, silver sunrise through the
haze of fire and smoke, Wren told them finally what had be-
come of Garth, needing at last to tell, anxious to rid herself of
the solitary burden she bore, the bitter knowledge that was hers
alone. She told them quietly, softly, in the silence that followed
the last of the attacks. She cried again, thinking that perhaps
she would never stop. But the tears were cleansing this time, as
if finally washing away some of the hurt. They listened to her
wordlessly, the Captain of the Home Guard, the Splinterscat,
and the Tree Squeak, gathered close so that nothing would be
missed, even Faun, who might or might not have understood
her words, nestled against her shoulder. The words flowed from
her easily, the dam of her despair and shame giving way, and a
kind of peace settled deep within her.
“Rwwlll Wren, it was what was needed,” Stresa told her sol-
emnly when she had finished.
“You knew, didn’t you?” she asked in reply.
“Hssstt. Yes. I understood what the poison would do. But I
could not tell you, Wren of the Elves, because you would not
have wanted to believe. It had to come from him.”
And the Splinterscat was right, of course, although it no
longer really mattered. They talked a bit longer while the light
seeped slowly past the gloom, brightening the world about them,
their world of black ruin in which smoke still curled skyward
in wispy spirals and the earth still trembled with the fury of
Killeshan’s discontent.
“He gave his life for you, Lady Wren,” Triss offered sol-
emnly. “He stood over you when the Wisteron would have
claimed you and fought to keep you safe. None of us would
have fared as well. We tried, but only Garth had the strength.
Keep that as your memory of him.”
But she could still feel herself pushing against the handle of
the long knife as it slipped into his heart, still feel his hands