I don’t care what it takes,she vowed. I don’t care!
She was sleeping when Triss touched her shoulder and brought her awake again. “Lady Wren,” he whispered gently. “Go lie down. Rest now.”
She blinked, accepting the blanket he slipped about her. “In a minute,” she replied. “Sit with me first.”
He did so, a silent companion, his lean brown face strangely untroubled, his eyes distant. She remembered how he had looked when she had told him of Gavilan’s treachery. Treachery, wasn’t that what it was. That look was gone now, washed away by sleep or by acceptance. He had found a way to come to terms with it. Triss, the last of those who had come out of Arborlon’s old life—how alone he must feel.
He looked over at her, and it seemed as if he could read her thoughts. “I have been Captain of the Home Guard for almost eight years,” he ventured after a moment. “A long time, Lady Wren. I loved your grandmother, the queen. I would have done anything for her.” He shook his head. “I have spent my whole life in service to the Elessedils and the Elven throne. I knew Gavilan as a child; we were children together. I grew to manhood with him. We played. My family and his still wait within the Loden, friends,...” He drew a deep breath, groping for words, understanding. “I knew him. He would not have killed Dal unless ... Could it be that something happened to change him? Could one of the demons have done something to him?”
She had not considered that possibility. It could have happened. There had been opportunity enough. Or why not something else, a poison, for instance, or a sickening like that which had killed Ellenroh? But she knew in her heart that it was none of those, that it was simply a wearing away of his spirit, a breaking apart of his resolve.
“It could have been a demon,” she lied anyway.
The strong face lifted. “He was a good man,” he said quietly. “He cared about people; he helped them. He loved the queen. She would have named him king one day, perhaps.”
“If not for me.”
He turned away, embarrassed. “I should not have said that. You are queen.” He looked back again. “Your grandmother would not have given the Staff to you if she had not believed it best. She would have given it to Gavilan instead. Perhaps she saw something in him that the rest of us missed. Yours is the strength the Elven people need.”
She faced him. “I didn’t want any part of this, Triss. None of it.”
He nodded, smiled faintly. “No. Why would you?”
“I just wanted to find out who I was.”
She saw a flicker of despair in his dark eyes. “I don’t pretend to understand what brought you to us,” he told her. “i only know that you are here and you are Queen of the Elves.” He kept his eyes fixed on her. “Don’t abandon us,” he said quietly, urgently. “Don’t leave us. We need you.”
She was amazed at the strength of his plea. She placed her hand on his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Triss. I promise I won’t run away. Ever.”
She left him then, went over to where Garth slept and curled up next to her big friend, needing both his warmth and bulk for comfort this night, wanting to retreat into the past, to recover the protection and safety it had once offered, to recapture what was irretrievably lost. She settled instead for what was there and finally slept.
At dawn she was awake, more rested than she had a right to expect. The light was faint and gray through the haze, and the world about them was still and empty feeling, smelling of rot. Killeshan’s rumble was distant and faint, yet steady now for the first time since they had begun their journey, a slow building of tremors that promised bigger things to come. Time was running out, Wren knew—quicker now, swifter with the passing of each hour. The volcano’s fire was beginning to build at the core of the island toward a final conflagration, and when it exploded everything would be swept away.
They set out immediately, Stresa leading, Garth a step behind, Wren following with Faun, and Triss trailing. Wren was calmer now, less distraught. Gavilan, she reasoned, had nowhere to go. He might run for the beaches in search of Tiger Ty and Spirit, but how likely was he to find his way through the In Ju? He was not a Tracker and had no experience in wilderness survival. He was already half mad with fear and despair. How far could he get? He would likely travel in circles, and they would find him quickly.
Yet in the back of her mind lurked the specter of his somehow managing to get clear of the jungle, finding his way down to the beach, convincing Tiger Ty that everyone else was dead, and having himself and the Ruhk Staff carried safely away while the rest of the company was left behind. The possibility infuriated her, the more so when she considered the possibility that Gavilan didn’t really think her dead at all and had simply decided to strike out on his own, convinced of the Tightness of his cause and the inevitability of his rule.
Unable to ponder the matter further, she brushed it roughly aside.
Blackledge began to drop away from the Harrow almost immediately, but it was not as steep here as where Garth and she had climbed up. The cliff face was craggy and thick with vegetation, and it was not difficult for them to find a pathway down. They descended quickly, Stresa keeping Gavilan’s scent firmly before them as they went. Broken limbs and crushed leaves marked clearly the Elven Prince’s passing; Wren could have followed the trail alone, so obvious was it. Time and again they discovered places where the fleeing man had fallen, apparently heedless of his safety, anxious only to escape. He must be frantic, Wren thought sadly. He must be terrified.
They reached the edge of the In Ju at midday and paused to eat. Stresa was gruffly confident. They were only a few hours behind Gavilan, he advised. The Elven Prince was staggering badly now, clearly exhausted. Unless something happened to change things, they would catch him before nightfall.
Stresa’s prediction was prophetic—but not in the way they had hoped. Shortly after they resumed tracking Gavilan’s futile efforts to circumvent the In Ju, it began to rain. The air had grown hotter with the descent off the mountain, a swelter that built slowly and did not recede. When the rain commenced, it was a dampness that layered the air, a thick moisture that hung like wet silk draped against their skin, beading on their leather clothing. After a time, the dampness turned to mist, then drizzle, and finally a torrent that washed over them with ferocious determination. They were blinded by it and forced to take shelter beneath a giant banyan. It swept through quickly and took Gavilan’s scent with it. Stresa searched carefully in the aftermath, but all trace was gone.
Garth studied the damp green tangle of the jungle. He beckoned Wren. The marks of his passing are still evident. I can track him.
She let Garth assume the lead with Stresa a half step behind, the former searching for signs of their quarry’s passing, the latter keeping watch for Darters and other dangers. Their quarry. Wren thought, repeating the words. Gavilan had been reduced to that. She felt pity for him in spite of herself, thinking he should have stayed within the city, reasoning she should have done more to keep him safe, still wishing for what could never be.