to time she could see the calm that reflected in his eyes. She
marveled that her giant friend could keep everything so care-
fully closed away. Her own eyes searched the haze relentlessly,
for even now she was unsure how much the things that hid there
feared the Elfstones, how long the magic would continue to keep
them at bay. Her fingers strayed constantly to her tunic and the
leather bag beneath, seeking reassurance that her protection was
still there.
The day wore slowly down. They passed through forests of
koa and banyan, old and shaggy with moss and vines, along
slides where the lava rock was crusted and broken off into loose
pieces that crumbled and skidded away as they tried to find
footing, down ravines where the brush was thorny and across
the sweep of valleys over which heavy clouds stretched in an
impenetrable blanket of gray. All the while they continued to
climb, working their way up Killeshan’s slopes, catching brief
glimpses of the volcano through breaks in the vog, the summit
lifting away, seemingly never closer.
They began to recognize more and more of the dangers of
the island. There were certain plants, bright colored and intri-
cately formed, that snared and trapped anything that came
within reach. There were sinkholes that could swallow you up
in a moment’s time if you were unfortunate enough to step in
one. There were strange animals that showed themselves briefly
and disappeared again, hunters all, scaled and spiked, clawed
and sharp-toothed. No monsters appeared, but Wren suspected
they were there, watching and waiting, the specters that whis-
pered from the mist.
Night came and they slept, and this time the shadows did
not approach, but stayed carefully hidden. A moor cat prowled
close, but Garth blew into a thick stalk of grass, producing a
whistling sound the big cat apparently did not care for, and it
faded back into silence. Wren dreamed of home, of the West-
land when she was young and everything was new, and she
woke with the memories clear and bright.
“Garth, I used the Elfstones again,” she told him at breakfast,
the two of them huddled close against the chill gloom. “Two
nights ago when the shadows first appeared.”
I know, he replied, his eyes fixing her as he signed. I was
awake.
“How much did you see?” she whispered, shaking her head
in disbelief.
Enough. The magic frightens you, doesn’t it?
She smiled wistfully. “Everything we do frightens me.”
They walked through the silence of the dawn, lost in
thought. The land flattened out before them and the jungle
stretched away. The vog was thicker here, steady and unmov-
ing before them. The air was still. They crossed an open
space and found themselves at the edge of a swamp. Cautiously
they skirted its reed-lined borders, searching for firmer ground.
When they were successful, they started ahead again. The
swamp persisted. Time after time, they were forced to change
direction, seeking safer passage. The bog was a dull, flat
shimmer of dampness stretched across masses of grass and
weeds, and trees poked out of it like the limbs of drowned
giants. Winged insects buzzed about, glittering and iridescent.
Garth produced an ill-smelling salve that they used to coat
their faces and arms, a shield against bites and stings. Snakes
slithered in the mud. Spiders crawled everywhere, some lar-
ger than Garth’s fist. Webs and moss and vines trailed from
branches and brush, clinging and deadly. Bats flew through
the cathedral ceilings of the trees, their squeaking sharp and
chilling.
At one point they encountered a giant web concealed over-
head and set like a snare to fall on whatever passed beneath. A
less skilled pair of hunters might have missed it and been caught,
but Garth spotted the trap at once. The strands of the webbing
were as thick as Wren’s fingers, and so close to transparent that
they were invisible if you were not looking for them. She poked
at one with a reed, and the reed was instantly stuck fast. Wren
and Garth peered about cautiously for a long time without mov-
ing. Whatever it was that had spun that webbing was not some-