by Terry Brooks
“Look at them,” Atalan growled. “Afraid to do anything more than stand out there and hope that by calling on their spirit guardians something bad will happen to us. Stupid.”
“They do the only thing they know to do,” Cinnaminson said quietly.
The Rock Troll glanced over at her, his gaze flat and unfriendly. “Don’t make excuses for them, blind girl. They don’t deserve it. They would have killed you.”
“A blind girl understands something about the need for excuses,” she replied, turning her empty eyes toward his face. “A blind girl perceives savagery differently than you do, I think.”
Kermadec appeared and knelt down beside them. Without a word, he took out his hunting knife, cut off Pen’s pant legs, and used the scraps of cloth to bind the wounds. “You can wash and dress this later, once we are deeper into the ruins and safely away from the Urdas.”
Pen nodded. “I’ll be all right.”
Kermadec moved away again, and Pen looked over at Atalan. “I owe you my life,” he said.
The burly Troll glanced at him, startled. His blunt features tightened. “You don’t owe me anything, little man,” he replied.
Then he rose with a grunt and walked away.
Perplexed, Pen stared after him. “What is wrong with him? Why is he so unfriendly?”
“He isn’t sure how he feels about what he has just done,” Cinnaminson answered. “He doesn’t know why he did it.” She touched his shoulder. “This doesn’t have to do with you, Pen. It has to do with his brother and himself. I think almost everything does.”
Pen thought about that for a time, sitting with his back to the wall and listening to the Urdas chant, and decided she was probably right. Atalan’s relationship with his brother was complex and disturbing, and he didn’t think there was much point in trying to understand it without knowing a good deal more than he did. He glanced over at Khyber Elessedil, who was sitting by herself, looking off into the ruins, and then at Tagwen, who sat with his head between his legs, as if he was sick to his stomach. Pen didn’t like it that the four outlanders had become so dependent on the Trolls. He couldn’t put his finger on why that bothered him so, but he thought it had more than a little to do with his uncertainty about Kermadec and Atalan. Rock Trolls were strange enough in their own right without the unwelcome addition of sibling conflict; it only heightened his uneasiness to think that at some point their safety might depend on how well the brothers could manage to get along. He knew how highly Tagwen thought of Kermadec, but Kermadec was only one man. They would have to depend on the other Trolls, as well, and that included Atalan.
How much did Atalan care about what happened to them? It was an unfair question, of course. Atalan had just saved his life. There was no reason for him to be suspicious. Nevertheless, he was.
Kermadec allowed them a short rest, then gathered them together again. They knelt behind the wall at the edge of the ruins, listening as the Urda chant rose and fell in a steady, monotonous rhythm.
“We’re going now,” he said quietly, ignoring the wailing. “I want us to be at the bridge by nightfall. We will make camp there, then cross in the morning, when it is light and we can see clearly. I don’t think the Urdas will come after us. They are afraid of the spirits and won’t chance angering them, no matter how badly they want to get their hands on us. They will rely on the spirits to punish us for them.”
He paused. “Still, I don’t want to take anything for granted. So we will leave quietly and in secret, just two or three of us at a time.”
At the mention of spirits, Pen glanced at Cinnaminson, but the Rover girl was staring straight ahead.
“Young Penderrin,” Kermadec said, causing Pen to jump. “You and your Rover girl will go first. I want you to keep a sharp watch for anything moving once we start inside. I’ve been here only once, years ago, and I barely got past these walls. What I know, I’ve heard from others, and none of it is reliable. I know of the bridge and the island. I know of the thing that sleeps in the ravine. But there may be other dangers, and I depend on you, with your special talents, to warn us of them.”
Pen nodded. He noticed that Khyber looked relieved. The onus of having to risk using her Druid magic again had been lifted for the moment. As Kermadec finished his instructions to Pen and Cinnaminson and turned his attention to his Trolls, Pen moved over to the Elven girl. “Well done, Khyber,” he said. “That was a clever bit of magic back there. You saved us all.”
She nodded. “At a cost I don’t care to contemplate.”
“You think you gave us away? You think we were detected?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t use much magic, and what I did use is not so different from what can already be found in this valley. Elemental magic, in its purest form. The Inkrim is known to the Druids as a place of such magic. Ahren told me of it on the way.” She hesitated. “I might not have attracted any attention at all. But I can’t be sure. I can’t really be sure about anything.”
She shook her head. “Ahren would know, if he were here. He would do better at this.”
Pen leaned close. “Don’t talk like that. I know you miss him. I miss him, too. I know it would be easier if he were still alive.” He lowered his gaze quickly when she wheeled on him, her eyes hot and angry, but he kept talking. “He gave you the responsibility for what happens to all of us. He knew what he was doing. You’ve saved us twice now, Khyber. I know we have placed ourselves in the hands of these Trolls, but it’s you we depend on. It’s you who really keeps us safe.”
He lifted his gaze again. She was still staring at him, but the anger had drained away. “Sometimes I think you are older than you look, Penderrin,” she said.
Kermadec was motioning that it was time to go. Pen reached over and squeezed Khyber’s hand. “We’ll be all right.”
The Maturen led Pen and Cinnaminson away from the rest of the company and into the ruins, creeping across the open spaces behind the crumbling wall to gain the concealment of the undergrowth and rubble beyond. The terrain was uneven and difficult to navigate, and it took them some time to make their way through the weeds and debris. Pen turned his attention to his surroundings, searching out any indication of danger. All he sensed were insects, ground birds, and small animals. Stands of trees rose from the piles of broken stone in sparse clumps, casting shadows across the open spaces like wooden fingers, marking the progress of the sun west. There weren’t more than a couple of hours of daylight left, and it was already obvious to the boy that Stridegate was much bigger than he had assumed. He saw bits and pieces of it poking out of the hills farther in and to either side of where they walked. He found himself wondering how old the city was and who had inhabited it. Once, it must have been enormous.
He kept his questions to himself. There would be a better time to ask them. He looked over at Cinnaminson, noted the concentration etched on her face, glanced back the way they had come, saw nothing of the others, and turned to what lay ahead.
They walked for a long time, more than an hour by his estimation, and Stridegate’s look never changed. At times, he thought he detected movement, but he was never able to pinpoint its source or its nature. He wanted to ask Cinnaminson if she noticed anything, but he decided that if she did and if it was important, she would say something. The daylight was beginning to fade more rapidly by then, the shadows to lengthen and the sky to darken. Pen was growing hungry and wondered if they would be permitted a fire.
The others caught up with them shortly afterwards, appearing in small groups until the entire company had re-formed. Atalan, bringing up the rear, reported that there was no indication of pursuit by the Urdas, who seemed content to remain outside the ruins. He started to say something more, then glanced at Cinnaminson and turned away.
They continued on, walking into the twilight, watching the shadows lengthen and feeling the air turn brisk as the mountain breezes increased. The Inkrim closed them away, yet they could still catch glimpses of the jagged peaks of the Klu throu
gh a cloak of mist and clouds that wrapped the tips of the mountains. Pen felt the enormity of those peaks, their immutability, their weight and age. They made him feel small and vulnerable, and he wished more than once he were somewhere else.
Then, all at once, it seemed as if he were. The ruins underwent a sudden and dramatic change that brought the entire company to a shocked halt. They had reached the entrance to a wall that, while ancient and worn, was almost whole. But beyond that wall, all evidence of time’s passing vanished. Spread out before them were gardens of such incredible beauty that it seemed as if they belonged to another place entirely. Blankets of columbine tumbled from rock walls. Fields of mountain violets, lupine, shooting stars, and paintbrush spread away in a dazzling mix of colors. Rhododendrons twenty feet high clustered against walls riddled with ferns and tiny yellow blossoms Pen had never seen. Clumps of pink-tipped heather grew everywhere.
There were fountains, ponds, and streams, too, their waters rippling and shimmering dark silver in the fading light. There were walkways formed of crushed stone and tile, set with benches of polished stone. There were shrines filled with strange images and inset with precious metals. There were columns of marble and granite. For as far as the eye could see, that part of Stridegate looked to have been untouched by time.
“How can this be?” Tagwen whispered, coming up to stand beside Pen. “Who could have done this?”
“Not those Urdas,” Khyber whispered back.
Pen didn’t hear them. He was listening to something else, something the others couldn’t hear. It was a voice, deep and resonant. He couldn’t locate its source, but he could hear it clearly. It was speaking to him. It was calling his name.
Kermadec and his Trolls were fanning out through the gardens, searching for hidden dangers, suspicious of what they were seeing. As they should be, Pen was thinking, still listening to the voice.
“Something lives here,” Cinnaminson whispered, her smooth face lifting toward the light. “Something waits.”
Pen shook his head slowly. The voice that called his name went silent. He was aware of something else then, perhaps the same thing that had attracted Cinnaminson’s attention. It was close, but it was deep underground, he thought. It was huge and ancient. It was not human. He was sensing it through his magic at every turn. He was reading it from the things that grew in the gardens, from the small rustlings and movements of the plants and flowers, vines and grasses. They whispered of it. They responded to it. Insects and birds and animals, they carried knowledge of it. They could not give it a name or a description; they could only give it a presence.
Pen took a deep breath. “I sense it, too,” he whispered.
Cinnaminson was already moving ahead into the gardens, her sun-browned face intense and her blind eyes sweeping over everything as if seeing what no one else could. She moved swiftly and determinedly, passing by Kermadec, who turned at her approach but did not try to stop her. Instead he joined her and beckoned for the others to follow.
Khyber was already hurrying after them. Pen stood rooted in place, still hesitating.
“There is something wrong here,” Tagwen said uneasily, standing beside him. “These gardens are beautiful, but there is something wrong about them.”
Pen felt it, too, although he couldn’t explain it. “We’d better go.”
They followed the others, Pen casting wary glances left and right, still searching for the voice, for the presence, for anything that would explain what they were seeing. But nothing appeared, and the gardens stretched on in a profusion of brilliant colors and sweet smells. Even in the enfolding twilight, they shimmered with a vibrancy that seemed so foreign to everything that had gone before that it was as if the travelers had entered a dream world.
Pen stared about in wonder. How could it be possible?
They caught up to the rest of the company, which was still following Cinnaminson. The Rover girl was walking as if she knew exactly where she was going, her head lifted into the breeze, her path steady and undeviating. It seemed to Pen as if she were listening to something. He wondered suddenly if the spirits of the air had returned, if she was responding to their voices. Was that who he had sensed, as well?
The group reached a set of broad stone stairs that led upward until they disappeared into the twilight haze. Cinnaminson never paused. She began to climb the steps as soon as she reached them, and the rest of them had no choice but to follow if they were to see where she was going. Pen and Tagwen still trailed the larger group. The boy was beginning to sense something again, a stirring or a whisper, it was hard to tell. He put out feelers, reaching for what was clearly there, but although he could sense it easily, he could not identify it. There was something confusing about what he was finding; it was almost as if he lacked a frame of reference with which to understand it.
At the top of the stairs, the little company came to a halt behind Cinnaminson, who had stopped finally and was pointing ahead. The Rover girl’s face was intense and she was breathing hard. Kermadec was trying to talk to her, but she wasn’t responding. Pen, seeing what was happening, abandoned Tagwen and hurried forward.
“Cinnaminson,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face him.
Her young face was flushed with excitement. “We have to go there. We have to follow them,” she said.
He looked in the direction she was pointing. An ancient stone arch, pitted by weather and time, bridged from the grassy area on which they stood to a forest of massive trees that sat atop a pinnacle of rock, a forested island surrounded by a deep ravine that ringed it like a moat, stretching away for as far as his eyes could see in the rapidly dimming daylight. The trees on the pinnacle were tall and straight and unbroken, rising hundreds of feet against the skyline, their bark mottled by greenish gray patches of moss. Their branches were deeply intertwined, forming a canopy so thick that it shut away the sky, but their trunks were widely spaced and the ground beneath opened through, clear and uncluttered by undergrowth. The forest backed away from the edge of the ravine in front of them until it joined with the curtain of the encroaching night.
Cinnaminson lowered her head against his shoulder, as if all the strength had gone out of her. “Did you hear them, too, Pen? Did you hear their voices?”
He wrapped her in his arms and stroked her long hair. “The spirits of the air?” he guessed. “The ones from before?”
She nodded. “From the edge of the gardens. Did you hear them?”
“I sensed them, but they spoke only to you.” Something else spoke to me.
“No. It wasn’t speaking. They didn’t use words. But I knew what they wanted. For us to follow them. For us to cross to the island.”
Pen looked again at the narrow stone arch and the forested pinnacle of rock beyond. The top of the pinnacle was mostly flat, though rock formations jutted from between the old growth and ravines split the forest floor. The interior of the woods was dark and shadowed in the failing light. It was difficult to tell how deep in it went.
“Is the tanequil in there?” he asked quietly. “Is this the place?”
She hesitated, then lifted her head to stare blindly at him. “Something is in there. Something is waiting.”
Kermadec touched Pen on the shoulder and, when he turned, directed his attention to a flat-faced boulder into which symbols had been carved, the markings so worn they were almost unreadable.
“This is the warning of which I spoke,” the Maturen advised. “Written in the Gnome language. Very old. It tells strangers that the place is forbidden. It warns that to cross the bridge is death.” He looked at the boy. “We can’t risk you going until we know. One of us will have to go first.”
“No!” Cinnaminson said sharply. Her eyes were suddenly frantic. “No one is to cross but Pen and me. We alone are permitted entry. The spirits of the air insist!”
Atalan gave an audible snort and looked off into the trees. Tagwen began rubbing at his beard the way he did when he was anxious.
&nbs
p; “They told you this?” Kermadec pressed her. “These spirits? You are not mistaken?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Khyber interrupted. “I’m going with them, whatever these spirits say. Ahren gave the responsibility of making this journey to me. He gave me the only real weapon we have. The Elfstones will protect us. And I have the use of Druid magic. Whatever threatens, I will be able to keep it at bay.”
“No,” Cinnaminson said again. She walked over to Khyber and embraced her. “Please, Khyber, no. The warning is clear. You cannot come with us. I wish you could. But whatever lies on the other side is for Pen alone.”
“And for you, it seems,” Khyber said quietly.
“And for me.” Cinnaminson released her and stepped back. There were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand why the spirits have chosen me. But my sense of what they want is very clear. Pen is to go and I am to go with him. But you cannot come. You must not.”
“This could easily be a trap,” Atalan pointed out, his flat face dark with suspicion as he swung back around again. “You are awfully trusting of invisible voices, Rover girl. If they have bad intentions, you will likely be dead before you know of them.”
“He is right,” Khyber agreed. “You are too trusting.”
Cinnaminson shook her head. “They are not dangerous to us. They mean us no harm. I have felt them guiding us ever since we entered Stridegate. They are a presence meant to shelter us, not to cause us harm.”
She turned to Kermadec. “Please. They have been waiting for us. They want something from us, but they won’t tell us what it is until we cross the bridge.” She hesitated. “What choice do we have but to do as they expect? Pen has come in search of the tanequil, and the Elfstones have shown it to be on this island. Doesn’t he have to cross over and find out if it is really there?”
There was a long silence as the other members of the company looked at one another uneasily. Even the Rock Trolls, who spoke little of her language, seemed to sense what was happening. Already on edge from their encounter with the Urdas, they were suspicious of everything in this strange place. Stridegate belonged to the past, to a time dead and gone. They had intruded on that past by going there, and they were anxious to do what was needed and be gone again. Most looked to Kermadec, waiting on his decision.