He looked in the direction she was pointing. An ancient stone arch, pitted by weather and time, bridged from the grassy area on which they stood to a forest of massive trees that sat atop a pinnacle of rock, a forested island surrounded by a deep ravine that ringed it like a moat, stretching away for as far as his eyes could see in the rapidly dimming daylight. The trees on the pinnacle were tall and straight and unbroken, rising hundreds of feet against the skyline, their bark mottled by greenish gray patches of moss. Their branches were deeply intertwined, forming a canopy so thick that it shut away the sky, but their trunks were widely spaced and the ground beneath opened through, clear and uncluttered by undergrowth. The forest backed away from the edge of the ravine in front of them until it joined with the curtain of the encroaching night.

Cinnaminson lowered her head against his shoulder, as if all the strength had gone out of her. “Did you hear them, too, Pen? Did you hear their voices?”

He wrapped her in his arms and stroked her long hair. “The spirits of the air?” he guessed. “The ones from before?”

She nodded. “From the edge of the gardens. Did you hear them?”

“I sensed them, but they spoke only to you.” Something else spoke to me.

“No. It wasn’t speaking. They didn’t use words. But I knew what they wanted. For us to follow them. For us to cross to the island.”

Pen looked again at the narrow stone arch and the forested pinnacle of rock beyond. The top of the pinnacle was mostly flat, though rock formations jutted from between the old growth and ravines split the forest floor. The interior of the woods was dark and shadowed in the failing light. It was difficult to tell how deep in it went.

“Is the tanequil in there?” he asked quietly. “Is this the place?”

She hesitated, then lifted her head to stare blindly at him. “Something is in there. Something is waiting.”

Kermadec touched Pen on the shoulder and, when he turned, directed his attention to a flat-faced boulder into which symbols had been carved, the markings so worn they were almost unreadable.

“This is the warning of which I spoke,” the Maturen advised. “Written in the Gnome language. Very old. It tells strangers that the place is forbidden. It warns that to cross the bridge is death.” He looked at the boy. “We can’t risk you going until we know. One of us will have to go first.”

“No!” Cinnaminson said sharply. Her eyes were suddenly frantic. “No one is to cross but Pen and me. We alone are permitted entry. The spirits of the air insist!”

Atalan gave an audible snort and looked off into the trees. Tagwen began rubbing at his beard the way he did when he was anxious.