and frozen about her, a still life in which only they moved. The
koa rose ahead, massive trunks trailing yards of mossy vines,
great hoary giants rooted in time.
Wren started unexpectedly. Nestled against her breast, the
Elfstones had begun to burn.
Not again, she thought desperately, I won’t use the magic again,
but knew even as she thought it she would.
They reached the shelter of the koa, moving hurriedly
within, down a hall formed of trunks and shadows. Wren looked
up, searching for snares. There were none to be seen. She
watched Stresa scurry to one side toward a gathering of brush
and push within. She and Garth followed, stooping to make
their way past the branches, pulling their packs after them,
clutching them close to mask any sound.
Crouched in blackness and breathing heavily, they knelt
against the jungle floor and waited. The minutes slipped by. The
leafy branches of their shelter muffled any sound from without,
so they could no longer hear the rustling. It was close within
their concealment, and the stench of rotting wood seeped up
from the earth. Wren felt trapped. It would be better to be out
in the open where she could run, where she could see. She felt
a sudden urge to bolt. But she glanced at Garth and saw the
calm set of the big man’s face and held her ground. Stresa had
eased back toward the opening, flattened against the earth, head
cocked, stubby cat’s ears pricked.
Wren eased down next to the creature and peered out.
The Splinterscat’s quills bristled.
In that same instant she saw the Wisteron. It was still in the
trees, so distant from where they hid that it was little more than
a shadow against the screen of vog. Even so, there was no
mistaking it. It crept through the branches like some massive
wraith . . . No, she corrected. It wasn’t creeping. It was stalking.
Not like a cat, but something far more confident, far more de-
termined. It stole the life out of the air as it went, a shadow that
swallowed sound and movement. It had four legs and a tail and
it used all five to grasp the branches of the trees and pull itself
along. It might have been an animal once; it still had the look
of one. But it moved like an insect. It was all misshapen and
distorted, the parts of its body hinged like giant grapples that
allowed it to swing freely in any direction. It was sleek and
sinewy and grotesque beyond even the wolf thing that had
tracked them out of Grimpen Ward.
The Wisteron paused, turning.
Wren’s breath caught in her throat, and she held it there
with a single-mindedness that was heartstopping. The Wisteron
hung suspended against the gray, a huge, terrifying shadow.
Then abruptly it swung away. It passed before her like the
promise of her own death, hinting, teasing, and whispering silent
threats. Yet it did not see her; it did not slow. On this afternoon,
it had other victims to claim.
Then it was gone.
THEY EMERGED FROM HIDING after a time to continue on, edgy
and furtive, traveling mostly because it was necessary to do so
if they ever wanted to get clear of the In Ju. Even so, they had
not succeeded when darkness fell and so spent that night within
the swamp. Stresa found a large hollow in the trunk of a dead
banyan, and the Rovers reluctantly crawled in at the Splinters-
cat’s urging. They were not anxious to be confined, but it
was better than sleeping out in the open where the creatures
of the swamp could creep up on them. In any event, it was
dry within the trunk, and the chill of night was less evident.
The Rovers wrapped themselves in their heavy cloaks and sat
facing the opening, staring out into the murky dark, smelling
rot and mold and damp, watching the ever-present shadows
flit past.
“What is it that’s moving out there?” Wren asked Stresa fi-
nally, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. They had just
finished eating. The Splinterscat seemed capable of devouring
just about anything-the cheese, bread, and dried meats they