The big man bent down, his barked face as rugged as the mountains they were trapped in. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just tell me. Which way?”

“Southeast. Why?”

“And the time? What time of day is it?”

“After noon by about an hour, I would guess. What are you asking, Penderrin?”

“Then north would be that way?” He pointed, and Kermadec nodded. “And south that way?” Again, the Rock Troll nodded. Pen took a deep breath. “Let me take the lead. I think I can get us out of here. If the trail leads down at some point, back to tree level, maybe we can get below this mist. Will you let me try?”

Kermadec eased him to the front of the line, and Pen began to move forward, running his hands along the patches of lichen that grew on the rock face. The afternoon sun would be south and west of them. He needed to lead them south and east to stay on the path. It was easy at first, because the trail only led in one direction and there were no choices to be made. But it quickly grew more difficult as the number of twists and turns increased and the path split, forcing him to read the lichen’s response to his touch and then advance accordingly.

He couldn’t be sure he was going the right way, not entirely, not while he was unable to see anything of his surroundings, the mist so thick and impenetrable it was like swimming underwater at night. But at least they were moving somewhere, rather than just standing out in the open with night coming on. It was better to take the chance, he told himself. It was better to do something than nothing.

Sometimes the lichen disappeared, and he was forced to continue on blindly until he found a new patch. Sometimes he found patches in places so cold and shadowy that they were locked down inside themselves and he could read nothing from them. Sometimes he was reduced to guessing at which way they should go, unable to be certain that he was interpreting the lichen’s message clearly. It was slow, torturous work; the lichen’s form of communication was much more subtle than that of a seagull or a deer. It wasn’t a life-form of high intelligence, and what it gave to him was not much more than a tiny response to the environment that sustained it.

I can do this.