“Guess they’ve made their peace.” Tagwen stretched and yawned. “I’m going to bed. Good night to all of you.”

He moved off, and seconds later Khyber went, too. Pen sat alone with Cinnaminson in the darkness, their shoulders touching as they listened to the forest sounds.

“This valley is filled with spirits,” the Rover girl said to him suddenly. Her fingers reached up to brush the air. “I can sense them all around, watching.” She paused. “I think they might have been waiting for us. I don’t know why they would do that, but they are very purposeful in their movements, very deliberate.”

“Maybe they are here because they were called just now by the Trolls.” Pen glanced at her. “Maybe they have come in response.”

The girl nodded. “They might be here to offer protection. I don’t sense hostility.” She touched his hand. “I have an idea, Pen. Use your magic to ask them. You can communicate with living things of all sorts. Spirits are alive. See if they will speak to you.”

He looked off into the velvet darkness, into the massed trees toward the black wall of the Inkrim, and wondered how to go about it. It began, in most cases, with whoever or whatever he was trying to communicate with making a sound or movement that he could interpret. A hawk might reveal its hunger or its desire for a mate through its cries. A rabbit might convey its fear by the way it looked at him. The way a small bird flew could reveal its urgency to reach its young. The brush of tree limbs or tall grasses against his face could tell him if they were in need of water. The movement of the wind told him of storms. He had once been warned of a wolf when a tiny ground squirrel darted through dried leaves.

But there was nothing to hear or see in this situation. Spirits did not always have a voice. They did not always take form. He would have to try something else.

He leaned forward and placed his hands against the earth, trying to read something from the feel of the ground. But after several minutes of patient concentration, there was still no response.

“No, Pen,” Cinnaminson whispered suddenly, taking his hands and lifting them away. “These are spirits of the air. Reach up to them.”

He did as she bid, holding up his hands with his fingers spread, as if to catch the feel of the wind. He held them steady, then moved them slowly about, groping for contact.