Терри Брукс - Tanequil

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 through 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. Asthey 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.