“Because the mist is Druid-formed,” Khyber answered, an invisible presence somewhere behind him. “Because it isn’t real. We saw this before, Pen, when we crossed the Lazareen. The ones who track us now must have sent it through the peaks to trap us. They must know what we are trying to do!”

“Can you get rid of it, Elven girl?” Kermadec called back. “Can you counter their magic with your own?”

A long pause. “If I do, I will give us away. They will track my magic to where we are. I expect that is what they are hoping for.”

There was a long silence in the aftermath of this pronouncement, a silence filled with heavy breathing and a shuffling of feet.

“We can’t just stand out here!” Atalan snapped angrily. “They’ll find us anyway! Or the weather will. There’s snow coming.”

Cinnaminson leaned over to Pen and whispered in his ear. “I can’t see anymore. My sight is gone. The Druid magic must be affecting it.”

Pen leaned back against the rock, feeling the rough surface dig into his back. What could they do? If Cinnaminson couldn’t find the way, they were trapped. But if Khyber used her magic to spring the trap, Traunt Rowan and his Gnome Hunters would be on them in minutes. They needed to find another way. But what way? A cave in which to hide? Even a deep crevice would be sufficient. Just something . . .

He turned his face into the rock, peering ahead, and felt something move against his cheek. He jerked away, looking back in surprise at a greenish gray patch on the stone.

Lichen.

But it had moved. He had felt it move. He hesitated, then placed his cheek against the patch again. Again, he felt it move. He wasn’t sure if he was feeling it with his senses or his mind. It wasn’t quite one or the other. He held his cheek against it and closed his eyes.

Warm.

The lichen was expressing what it felt, and his odd magic was reading its communication. He placed his cheek against it once more, feeling the faint movement of its tiny bristles, the expression of its tiny intelligence.

Warm.

He looked around quickly. Lichen grew all over these rocks in mottled greenish gray patches. He peered into the mist. Everything looked the same to him, but maybe not to the lichen. The lichen couldn’t see, but it could feel. It was a plant. It sought the sun. That was what it was communicating to him. Warm. It was sensing the hidden sunlight.

Was there a way that he could use the lichen, a way that could help them get clear?

“Kermadec!” he said quickly, searching for the Maturen. The big man moved out of the haze past Cinnaminson. “What direction does the trail go, the one we need to follow?”