Garth moved down to help the Elven Hunters, who were beginning to lash together the logs for the raft. Gavilan was speaking in low tones with Ellenroh, and there was a restless anger reflected in his eyes. Wren watched him carefully for a moment, measuring what she saw now against what she had seen before, the hard-edged tension and the careless disregard, two images in sharp contrast. She found Gavilan intriguing, a complex mix of possibilities and enticements. She liked him; she wanted him close. But there was something hidden in him that bothered her, something she had yet to define.
“Just a few more minutes,” the Owl advised, passing by her like a shadow and fading back into the mist.
She started to climb to her feet, and something small and quick darted from the undergrowth and threw itself on her. She tumbled back, flailing desperately, then realized in shock that the thing clinging to her was Faun. She laughed in spite of herself and hugged the Tree Squeak close.
“Faun,” she cooed, nuzzling the odd little creature. “I thought something terrible had happened to you. But you’re all right, aren’t you? Yes, little one, you’re just fine.”
She was aware of Ellenroh and Gavilan looking over, puzzlement registered on their faces, and she quickly climbed to her feet again, waving to them reassuringly, smiling in spite of herself.
“Hrrwwwll. Have you forgotten your promise?”
She turned abruptly to find Stresa staring up at her from the edge of the gloom, quills all on end.
She knelt hurriedly. “So you are all right as well, Mr. Splinterscat. I was worried for you both. I couldn’t come out to see if you were safe, but I hoped you were. Did you find each other after I left?”
“Yes, Wren of the Elves,” the Splinterscat replied, his words cool and measured. “Pffttt. The Squeak came scampering back at dawn, fur all wild and ragged, chittering about you. It found me down by the river where I was waiting. So, now—your promise. You remember your promise, don’t you?”
Wren nodded solemnly. “I remember, Stresa. When I left the city, I was to take you with me to the Westland. I will keep that promise. Did you worry I would not?”
“Hssst, pfftt!” The Splinterscat flattened its quills. “I hoped you were someone whose word meant something. Not like—“ He cut himself short.
“Grandmother,” Wren called out to the queen, and Ellenroh moved over to join her, curly hair blowing across her face like a veil. “Grandmother, these are my friends, Stresa and Faun. They helped Garth and me find our way to the city.”
“Then they are friends of mine as well,” Ellenroh declared.
“Lady,” Stresa replied stiffly, not altogether charmed, it seemed.
“What’s this?” Gavilan came up next to them, amusement dancing in his eyes. “A Scat? I thought they were all gone.”
“There are a few of us—sssttt—no thanks to you,” Stresa announced coldly.
“Bold fellow, aren’t you?” Gavilan couldn’t quite conceal his disapproval.
“Grandmother,” Wren said quickly, putting an end to the exchange, “I promised Stresa I would take him with us when we left the island. I must keep that promise. And Faun must come as well.” She hugged the furry Tree Squeak, who hadn’t even looked up yet from her shoulder, still burrowed down against her, clinging like a second skin.
Ellenroh looked doubtful, as if taking the creatures along presented some difficulty that Wren did not understand. “I don’t know,” she answered quietly. The wind whistled past her, gathering force in the gloom. She gazed off at the Elven Hunters, at work now on loading backpacks and supplies onto the raft, then said, “But if you gave your promise...”
“Aunt Ell!” Gavilan snapped angrily.
The queen’s gaze was icy as it fixed on him. “Keep silent, Gavilan.”
“But you know the rules...”
“Keep silent!”
The anger in Gavilan’s face was palpable. He avoided looking at either her or Wren, shifting his gaze instead to Stresa. “This is a mistake. You should know best, Scat. Remember who made you? Remember why?”
“Gavilan!” The queen was livid. The Elven Hunters stood up abruptly from their work and looked back at her. The Owl reappeared from out of the mist. Eowen moved to stand next to the queen.
Gavilan held his ground a moment longer, then wheeled away and stalked down to the raft. For a moment, no one else moved, statues in the mist. Then Ellenroh said, to no one in particular, her voice sounding small and lost, “I’m sorry.”
She walked off as well, sweeping Eowen up in her wake, her youthful features so stricken that it kept Wren from following after.
She looked instead at Stresa. The Splinterscat’s laugh was bitter. “She doesn’t want us off the island. Fffttt. None of them do.”
“Stresa, what is going on here?” Wren demanded, angry herself now, bewildered at the animosity Stresa’s appearance had generated.
“Rrrwwll. Wren Ohmsford. Don’t you know? Hssst. You don’t, do you? Ellenroh Elessedil is your grandmother, and you don’t know. How strange!”
“Come, Wren,” the Owl said, passing by once more, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “Time to be going. Quick, now.”
The Elven Hunters were shoving the raft down to the water’s edge, and the others were hastening after. “Tell me!” she snapped at Stresa.
“A ride down the rwwlll Rowen is not my idea of a good time,” the Splinterscat said, ignoring her. “I’ll sit directly in the middle, if you please. Hsssttt. Or if you don’t, for that matter.”
A renewed series of shudders shook the island, and in the haze behind them Killeshan erupted in a shower of crimson fire. Ash and smoke belched out, and a rumbling rose from deep within the earth.
They were all calling for Wren now, and she ran to them, Stresa a step ahead, Faun draped about her neck. She was furious that no one would confide in her, that arguments could be held in her presence about things of which she was being kept deliberately ignorant. She hated being treated this way, and it was becoming apparent that unless she forced the issue no one was ever going to tell her anything about the Elves and Morrowindl.
She reached the raft as they were pushing it out into the Rowen, meeting Gavilan’s openly hostile gaze with one of her own, shifting deliberately closer to Garth. The Elven Hunters were already in water up to their knees, steadying the raft. Stresa hopped aboard without being asked and settled down squarely in the middle of the backpacks and supplies, just as he had threatened he would do. No one objected; no one said anything. Eowen and the queen were guided to their places by Triss, the queen clutching the Ruhk Staff tightly in both hands. Wren and Garth followed. Together, the members of the little company eased the raft away from the shoreline, leaning forward so that its logs could bear the weight of their upper bodies, their hands grasping the rope ties that had been fashioned to give them a grip.
Almost immediately the current caught them up and began to sweep them away. Those closest to the shore kicked in an effort to move clear of the banks, away from the rocks and tree roots that might snag them. Killeshan continued to erupt, fire and ash spewing forth, the volcano rumbling its discontent. The skies darkened with this new layer of vog, clouding farther against the light. The raft moved out into the center of the channel, rocking with the motion of the water, picking up speed. The Owl shouted instructions to his companions, and they tried in vain to maneuver the raft toward the far bank. Geysers burst through the lava rock on the shoreline behind them, rupturing the stone skin of the high country, sending steam and gas thrusting skyward. The Rowen shuddered with the force of the earth’s rumblings and began to buck. The waters turned choppy and small whirlpools began to form. Debris swirled past, carried on the crest of the river. The raft was buffeted and tossed, and those clinging to it were forced to expend all of their efforts just to hang on.
“Tuck in your legs!” the Owl shouted in warning. “Tighten your grip!”