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. As they 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.