Then abruptly she was on her feet, the blankets and the fears and doubts cast aside as she made her way on cat’s feet to where her grandmother lay sleeping. Ellenroh Elessedil’s breathing was shallow and quick, and her hands and face were cold. Her hair curled damply about her face, and her skin was tight against her bones. She lay supine within blankets that swaddled her like a burial shroud.
She’s dying, Wren realized in dismay.
The choices fell away instantly, and she knew what she must do. She crept to where Garth slept, hesitated, then moved on past Triss to where Gavilan lay.
She touched his shoulder lightly and his eyes flickered open. “Wake up,” she whispered to him, trying to keep her voice from shaking. Tell him first, she was thinking, remembering his kindness of the previous night. He will support you. “Gavilan, wake up. We’re getting out of here. Now.”
“Wren, wait, what are you...?” he began futilely for she was already hastening to rouse the others, anxious that there be no delays, so worried and distracted that she missed the fear that sprang demonlike into his eyes. “Wren!” he shouted, scrambling up, and everyone came awake instantly.
She stiffened, watching the others rise up guardedly—Triss and Eowen, Dal come back from keeping watch at the campsite’s edge, and Garth, hulking against the shadows. The queen did not stir.
“What do you think you are doing?” Gavilan demanded heatedly. She felt his words like a slap. There was anger and accusation in them. “What do you mean we’re getting out? Who gave you the right to decide what we do?”
The company closed about the two as they came face to face. Gavilan was flushed and his eyes were bright with suspicion, but Wren stood her ground, her look so determined that the other thought better of whatever it was he was about to say next.
“Look at her, Gavilan,” Wren pleaded, seizing his arm, turning him towards Ellenroh. Why couldn’t he understand? Why was he making this so difficult? “If we stay here any longer, we will lose her. We haven’t a choice anymore. If we did, I would be the first to take advantage of it, I promise you.”
There was a startled silence. Eowen turned to the queen, kneeling anxiously beside her. “Wren is right,” she whispered. “The queen is very sick.”
Wren kept her eyes fixed on Gavilan, trying to read his face, to make him understand. “We have to get her out of here.”
Triss pushed forward hurriedly. “Do you know a way?” he asked, his lean features lined with worry.
“I do,” Wren answered. She glanced quickly at the Captain of the Home Guard, then back again at Gavilan. “I don’t have time to argue about this. I don’t have time to explain. You have to trust me. You have to.”
Gavilan remained stubbornly unconvinced. “You ask too much. What if you’re wrong? If we move her and she dies...”
But Triss was already gathering up their gear, motioning Dal to help. “The choice has been made for us,” he declared quietly. “The queen has no chance if we don’t carry her from this swamp. Do what you can, Wren.”
They collected what remained of their supplies and equipment, and built a hasty litter from blankets and poles on which they placed the queen. When they were finished, they turned expectantly to Wren. She faced them as if she were condemned, thinking that she had no choice in this matter, that she must forget her fears and doubts, her resolutions, the promises she had made herself regarding use of the magic and the Elfstones, and do what she could to save her grandmother’s life.
She reached down into her tunic and pulled free the leather bag. A quick loosening of the drawstrings, and the Elfstones tumbled into her hand with a harsh, blue glitter.
Feeling small and vulnerable, she walked to the edge of the campsite and stood staring out for a moment into the shadows and mist. Faun tried to scramble up her leg, but she reached down gently and shooed the Tree Squeak away. Vog swirled everywhere, a vile stench of sulfur and ash clinging to its skirts. A mix of haze and steam rose off the swamp’s fetid waters. She was at the edge of her life, she sensed, brought there by circumstance and fate, and whatever happened next, she would never be the same. She longed for what once had been, for what might have been, for an escape she could not hope to find.
Frightened that she might change her mind if she considered the matter longer, she held forth the Elfstones and willed them to life.
Nothing happened.
Oh, Shades!
She tried again, concentrating, letting herself form the words carefully in her mind, thinking each one in order, picturing the power that lay within stirring, rising up. She had the Elven blood, she thought desperately. She had summoned the power before...
And then abruptly the blue fire flared, exploding out of the Stones as if a stopper had been pulled. It coalesced about her hand, brilliant and stunning, brightening the swamp as if daylight had at last broken through into the mire. The members of the company reeled away, crouching guardedly, shielding their eyes. Wren stood erect, feeling the power of the Stones flow through her, searching, studying, and deciding if it belonged. A pleasant, seductive warmth enveloped her. Then the light shot away to her right, scything through the mist and haze and the dying trees and scrub and vines, shooting across the empty waters hundreds of yards, farther than the eye should have been able to see, to fix upon a rock wall that lifted away into the night.
Blackledge!
As quickly as it had come, the light was gone again, the power of the Elfstones dying, returned from whence it had come Wren closed her fingers about the Stones, drained and exhilarated both at once, swept clean somehow by the magic, invigorated but left weak. Shaking in spite of her resolve, she slipped the talismans back into their pouch. The others straightened uncertainly, eyes shifting to find her own.
“There,” she said quietly, pointing in the direction that the light had taken.
For an instant, no one spoke. Wren’s mind was awash with what she had done, the magic’s rush still fresh within her body, warring now with the guilt she felt for betraying her vow. But she had not had a choice, she reminded herself quickly; she had only done what was needed. She could not let her grandmother die. It was this one time only; it need not happen again. This once, because it was her grandmother’s life and her grandmother was all she had left...
The words dissipated with Eowen’s soft voice. “Hurry, Wren,” she urged, “while there is still time.”
They set off at once, Wren leading until Garth caught up to her and she motioned him ahead, content to let someone else take charge. Faun returned from the darkness, and she scooped the little creature up and placed it on her shoulder. Dal and Triss bore the litter with the queen, and she dropped back to walk beside it. She reached down and took her grandmother’s hand in her own, held it for a moment, then squeezed it gently. There was no response. She laid the hand carefully back in place and walked ahead again. Eowen passed her, the white face looking lost and frightened in the shadows, the red hair flaring against the night. Eowen knew how sick Ellenroh was; had she foreseen what would happen to the queen in her visions? Wren shook her head, refusing to consider the possibility. She walked alone for a time until Gavilan slipped up beside her.
“I’m sorry, Wren,” he said softly, the words coming with difficulty. “I should have known you would not act without reason. I should have had more trust in your judgment.” He waited for her response, and when it did not come, said, “It is this swamp that clouds my thinking. I can’t seem to focus as I should...” He trailed off.
She sighed soundlessly. “It’s all right. No one can think clearly in this place.” She was anxious to make excuses for him. “This island seems to breed madness. I caught a fever on the way in and for a time I was incoherent. Perhaps a touch of that fever has captured you as well.”