looked out over the land beyond, dim and hazy, empty of move-
ment save where Killeshan’s steam erupted and the vog swirled.
They saw Phaeton again, passing from the city to the Keel,
oblivious to them, his strong features scarred and rough beneath
his sun-bleached hair. The Owl watched stone faced and was
turning to continue their walk when Wren asked him to tell her
about Phaeton. The queen’s field commander, Aurin Striate an-
swered, second in command only to Barsimmon Oridio and anx-
ious to succeed him.
“Why don’t you like him?” Wren asked bluntly.
The Owl cocked one eyebrow. “That’s a hard one to explain.
It’s a fundamental difference between us, I suppose. I spend most
of my time outside the walls, prowling the night with the de-
mons, taking a close look at where they are and what they’re
about. I live like them much of the time, and when you do that
you get to know them. I know the kinds and their habits, more
about them than anyone. But Phaeton, he doesn’t think any of
that matters. To him, the demons are simply an enemy that need
to be destroyed. He wants to take the Elven army out there and
sweep them away. He’s been after Barsimmon Oridio and the
queen to let him do exactly that for months. His men love him;
they think he’s right because they want to believe he knows
something they don’t. We’ve been shut away behind the Keel
for almost ten years. Life goes on, and you can’t tell by just
looking or even by talking to the people, but they’re all sick at
heart. They remember how they used to live and they want to
live that way again.”
Wren considered momentarily bringing up the subject of
how the demons got there and why they couldn’t simply be sent
back again, but decided against it. Instead she said, “You think
that there isn’t any hope of the army winning out there, I gather.”
The Owl fixed her with a hard stare. “You were out there
with me, Wren-which is more than Phaeton can say. You trav-
eled up from the beach to get here. You faced the demons time
and again. What do you think? They’re not like us. There’s a
hundred different kinds, and each of them is dangerous in a
different way. Some you can kill with an iron blade and some
you can’t. Down along the Rowen there’s the Revenants-all
teeth and claws and muscle. Animals. Up on Blackledge there’s
the Draculs-ghosts that suck the life out of you, like smoke,
nothing to fight, nothing to put a sword to. And that’s only two
kinds, Wren.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think we can win
out there. I think we’ll be lucky if we can manage to stay alive
in here.”
They walked on a bit farther and then Wren said, “The
Splinterscat told me that the magic that shields the city is weak-
ening.”
She made it a statement of fact and not a question and waited
for an answer. For a long time the Owl did not respond, his
head lowered toward his stride, his eyes on the ground before
him.
Finally, he looked over, just for a moment, and said, “The
Scat is right.”
They went down into the city proper for a time, wandering
into the shops and poring over the carts that dominated the
marketplace, perusing the wares and studying the people buying
and selling them. Arborlon was a city that in all respects but
one might have been any other. Wren gazed at the faces about
her, seeing her own Elven features reflected in theirs, the first
time she had ever been able to do that, pleased with the expe-
rience and with the idea that she was the first person to be able
to do so in more than a hundred years. The Elves were alive;
the Elves existed. It was a wondrous discovery, and it still ex-
cited her to have been the one to have made it.
They had a quick meal in the marketplace-some thin-baked
bread wrapped about seared meat and vegetables, a piece of