by power that exceeded her understanding and, she believed,
her need.
Except, of course, now-here on Killeshan’s slopes, sur-
rounded by demons, by things formed of magic and dark inten-
tion, set upon a landscape of fire and mist, where in a second’s
time she could be lost, unless .
She cut the thought short, refusing to complete it, focusing
instead on Stresa’s quilled bulk as the Splinterscat tunneled his
way through the gloom. Shadows wafted all about as the vog
shifted and reformed, cloaking and lifting clear from islands of
jungle scrub and bare lava rock, as if the substance of a kalei-
doscopic world that could not decide what it wanted to be.
Growls sounded, disembodied and directionless, low and threat-
ening as they rose and fell away again. She crouched down in
the haze, a frantic inner voice shrieking at her to disappear, to
burrow into the rock, to become invisible, to do anything to
escape. She ignored the voice, looking back for Garth instead,
finding him reassuringly close, then thinking in the next in-
stance that it made no difference, that he was not enough, that
nothing was.
Stresa froze. Something skittered away through the shadows
ahead, claws clicking on stone. They waited. Faun hung ex-
pectantly upon her shoulder, head stretched forward, ears
cocked, listening. The soft brown eyes glanced at her momen-
tarily, then shifted away.
What phase of the moon was it? she wondered suddenly.
How long had it been since Tiger Ty had left them here? She
realized that she didn’t know.
Stresa started forward again. They topped a rise stripped of
everything but stunted, leafless brush and angled downward into
a ravine. Mist pooled on the rocky floor, and they groped their
way ahead uncertainly. Stresa’s quills shimmered damply, and
the air turned chill. There was light, but it was difficult to tell
where it was coming from. Wren heard a cracking sound, as if
something had split apart, then a hiss of trapped steam and gases
being released. A shriek rose and disappeared. The growls qui-
eted, then started again. Wren forced her breathing to slow. So
much happening and she could see none of it. Sounds came
from everywhere, but lacked identity. There were no signs to
read, no trails to follow, only an endless landscape of rock and
fire and vog.
Faun chittered softly, urgently.
At the same moment, Stresa came to a sudden halt. The
Splinterscat’s quills fanned out, and the bulky form hunched
down. Wren dropped into a crouch and reached for her short
sword, starting as Garth brushed up against her. There was
something dark in the haze ahead. Stresa backed away, half
turned, and looked for another way to go. But the ravine was
narrow here, and there was no room to maneuver. He wheeled
back, bristling.
The dark image coalesced and began to take on form. Some-
thing on two legs walked toward them. Garth fanned out to one
side, as silent as the shadows. Wren eased her sword clear of its
sheath and quit breathing.
The figure emerged from the haze and slowed. It was a man,
clad all in close-fitting, earth-colored clothes. The clothes were
wrinkled and worn, streaked with ash and grime, and free of
any metal clasps or buckles. Soft leather boots that ended just
above the ankle were scuffed and had the tops folded down one
turn. The man himself was a reflection of his clothes, of medium
height but appearing taller than otherwise because he was so
angular. His face was narrow with a hawk nose and a seamed,
beardless face, and his dark hair was mostly captured in an odd,
stockinglike cap. Overall, he had the appearance of something
that was hopelessly creased and faded from having been folded
up and put away for so long.
He didn’t seem surprised to see them. Nor did he seem
afraid. Saying nothing, he put a finger to his lips, glanced over
his shoulder momentarily, and then pointed back the way they
had come.
For a minute, no one moved, still not certain what to
do. Then Wren saw what she had missed before. Beneath the
cap and the tousled hair were pointed ears and slanted