Wren was still trying to figure out what the Elves were doing using magic again. Where had the magic come from? They hadn’t had the use of magic when they had lived in the Westland—hadn’t had it since the time of faerie except for their healing powers. The real magic had been lost for years. Now, somehow, they had gotten it back again. Enough, it appeared, to allow them to create demons. Or to summon them, perhaps. A black choice, if ever there was one. What could have possessed them to do such a thing?
She wondered suddenly what her parents had to do with all of this. Were they involved in using the magic? If they were, then why had they given the Elfstones—the most powerful magic of all—to her?
“If the Elves... created these demons with their magic, why can’t they destroy them?” she asked, curious still about where these so-called demons had come from and whether they were really demons at all. “Why can’t they use their magic to free themselves?”
Stresa shook his head and picked up the root again. “I haven’t any idea. No one has ever explained any of it to me. I never go to the city. I haven’t spoken to an Elf in years. You are the first—and you’re not wholly elf, are you? Prruufft. Your blood is mixed. And your friend is something else altogether.”
“He is human,” she said.
“Ssspttt. If you say so. I haven’t seen anyone like him before. Where does he come from?”
Wren realized for the first time that Stresa probably didn’t know that there was anyone out there other than Elves and Wing Riders or any place other than the islands.
“We both come from the Westland, which is part of a country called the Four Lands, which is where all the Elves came from years ago. There are lots of different kinds of people there. Garth and I are just one of them.”
Stresa studied her thoughtfully. His quilled body bunched as his legs inched together. “After you find the Elves—rrrgggghh—and deliver your message, what will you do then? Will you go back to where you came from?”
Wren nodded.
“The Westland, you called it. Is it anything like—grwwl—Morrowindl?”
“No, Stresa. There are things that are dangerous, though. Still, the Westland is nothing like Morrowindl.” But even as she finished speaking, she thought, Not yet anyway, but for how long with the Shadowen gaining strength?
The Splinterscat chewed on the root for a moment, then remarked, “Pfftt. I don’t think you can get to Arborlon on your own.” The strange blue eyes fixed on Wren.
“No?” she replied.
“Pft, pft. I don’t see how. You haven’t any idea how to scale Blackledge. Whatever happens you have to avoid the hrrrwwll Harrow and the Drakuls. Below, in the valley, there’s the Revenants. Those are just the worst of the demons; there are dozens of others as well. Ssspht. Once they discover you...”
The quilled body bristled meaningfully and smoothed out again. Wren was tempted to ask about the Draculs and the Revenants. Instead, she glanced at Garth for an opinion. Garth merely shrugged his indifference. He was used to finding his own way.
“Well, what do you suggest we do?” she asked the Splinterscat.
The eyes blinked. The purr lifted from the creature’s throat. “I would suggest that we make a bargain. I will guide you to the city. If you get past the demons and deliver your message and get out again, I will guide you back. Hrrrwwll.” Stresa paused. “In return, you will take me with you when you leave the island.”
Wren frowned. “To the Westland? You want to leave Morrowindl?”
The Splinterscat nodded. “Sppppttt. I don’t like it here much anymore. You can’t really blame me. I have survived for a long time on wits and experience and instinct, but mostly on luck. Today my luck ran out. If you hadn’t happened along, I would be dead. I am tired of this life. I want to go back to the way things were before. Perhaps I can do that where you live.”
Perhaps, Wren thought. Perhaps not.
She looked at Garth. The big man’s fingers moved swiftly in response. We don’t know anything about this creature Be careful what you decide.
Wren nodded. Typical Garth. He was wrong, of course—they did know one thing. The Splinterscat had saved them from the Wisteron as surely as they had saved him. And he might prove useful to have along, particularly since he knew the dangers of Morrowindl far better than they did. Agreeing to take him with them when they left the island was a small enough trade-off.
Unless Garth’s suspicions should prove correct and the Splinterscat was playing some sort of game.
Don’t trust anyone, the Addershag had warned her.
She hesitated a moment, thinking the matter through. Then she shrugged the warning aside. “We have a bargain,” she announced abruptly. “I think it is a good idea.”
The Splinterscat spread his quills with a flourish. “Hrrwwll. I thought you would,” he said, and yawned. Then he stretched out full length before them and placed his head comfortably on his paws. “Don’t touch me while I’m sleeping,” he advised. “If you do, you will end up with a face full of quills. I would feel badly if our partnership ended that way. Phfftt.”
Before Wren could finish communicating the warning to Garth, Stresa’s eyes were closed, and the Splinterscat was asleep.
Wren took the early watch, then slept soundly until dawn. She woke to Stresa’s stirrings—the rustle of quills, the scrape of claws against wood. She rose, her mind fuzzy and her eyes dry and scratchy. She felt weak and unsettled, but ignored her discomfort as Garth passed her the aleskin and some bread. Their food was being depleted rapidly, she knew; much of it had simply gone bad. They would have to forage soon. She hoped that Stresa, despite his odd’eating habits, might be of some help in sorting out what was edible. She chewed a bit of the bread and spit it out. It tasted of mold.
Stresa lumbered outside, and the Rovers followed, crawling from the hollow trunk and pushing themselves to their feet, muscles cramped and aching. Daybreak was a faint gray haze seeping through the treetops, barely able to penetrate the darkness beneath. Vog swirled through the jungle as if soup stirred within a cooking pot, but the air at ground level was still and lifeless. Things moved in the fetid waters of the bogs and sinkholes and on the deadwood that bridged them, a shifting of shapes and forms against the gloom. Sounds wafted dully from the shadows and hung waiting in challenge.
They started walking through the half-light, Stresa in the lead, a shambling, rolling mass of spikes. They continued slowly, steadily through the morning hours, the vog enfolding them at every turn, a colorless damp wrapper smelling of death. The light brightened from gray to silver, but remained faint and diffuse as it hovered about the edges of the trees. Strands of the the Wisteron’s webbing wrapped about branches and vines, and snares hung everywhere, waiting to fall. The monster itself did not appear, but its presence could be felt in the hush that lay over everything.
Wren’s discomfort increased as the morning wore on. She felt queasy now and she had begun to sweat. At times she could not see clearly. She knew she had contracted a fever,—but she told herself it would pass. She walked on and said nothing.
The jungle began to break apart shortly after midday, the ground turning solid again, the swamp fading back into the earth, and the canopy of the trees opening up. Light shone in bold patches through sudden rifts in the screen of the vog. The hush faded in an undercurrent of buzzings and clicks. Stresa mumbled something, but Wren couldn’t make out what it was. She had been unable to focus her thoughts for some time now, and her vision was so clouded that even the Splinterscat and Garth were just shadows. She stopped, aware that someone was talking to her, turned to find out who, and collapsed.