The eyes of those women and children haunted him, burned into his memory, became ghosts in his mind. That wouldn’t have happened had he felt less guilt over their fate. But he could not absolve himself of the responsibility he felt, no matter what Kermadec might say. Too much of what had transpired already on the journey was directly attributable to him. Fortunes altered, plans shattered, and lives given up—that was pretty much the story for everyone with whom he had come in contact since leaving Patch Run. It might not be his fault and his involvement might not matter anyway in the long run, but he could only see what was, not what might be. His presence was the catalyst for everything that had happened. So much depended on him, and the weight of it was terrifying.

“Keep right,” Kermadec called over his shoulder, motioning toward Pen and his companions. “Don’t look down.”

They entered a cavern that dropped away on the left into a black hole so vast that it looked as if it could swallow whole villages. The trail became a narrow ledge that hugged the wall of the cavern, and the company pressed close to that wall as they edged forward. They were strung out in single file, torches spaced along the ledge. Pen could see for the first time the other Trolls who had joined them somewhere along the way, a line of burly, dark shadows in the flicker of the firelight. They wore no armor, only leather tunics and pants, closed-toe sandals, and heavy cloaks. All carried weapons strapped across their backs, along with packs of supplies. They moved ponderously, but with no visible effort or strain. They had the look of massive rocks into which faces had been carved.

On the far side of the cavern, a tunnel opened into the rock wall, and soon they were burrowing downward once more. They had been descending steadily since they had set out, and if Pen was judging right, they were below the level of the village of Taupo Rough by several hundred feet. He wanted to know where they were going, wanted to reach a place where he could ask, and wanted most of all to get out in the open air again, where he could breathe. The mountain and its darkness pressed down against him with suffocating force. He was a flier, born to the air, and he hated being closed away.

But the tunnels wound on, deep and dark passageways thick with stale air and tar smoke, dead feeling and tomblike. Pen closed his mind to them after a while, a defense against his distaste and the hint of fear that lay behind it. He whispered now and again to Cinnaminson, just so that he could hear her voice. Each time, she squeezed his hand, as if sensing his need to make contact.