Pen was still trying to decide what to do, still frozen by fear and indecision, when he heard the voices. At first he was certain that his hearing was playing tricks on him, that he was imagining things, that the loss of Cinnaminson had affected his mind. He cocked his head in response, trying to understand why the wind would sound as it did and why it would do so now.

–Follow–

The chorus whispered softly to him from out of the twilight before dancing away in a fading echo. The aeriads, and no mistake about it. Not Cinnaminson alone, but the entire chorus, a blend of identical voices as they called to him.

He stared into space, hesitant and confused.

–Follow. It comes–

He understood. They were speaking of the black thing back in the trees, the creature that was hunting him. They were trying to help him get away from it.

He began moving, obedient to the voices, thinking that in some way Cinnaminson was reaching out to him from her prison, giving him one more gift. He slipped silently through the trees and grasses, casting quick glances toward where he had last seen his pursuer. He could feel its presence. He could sense it as it tracked him. It had found his trail and was following him, but it did not yet realize how close Pen was. Once it cut across his most recent tracks, the ones leading out of the ravine, it would be on him in seconds.

How far, he wondered suddenly, was he from the bridge?

He looked for it in the fading light, but could not find it. He was right at the edge of the ravine then, skirting its rim as the voices beckoned him on. He peered down into its darkness, but nothing could be seen. He glanced across its span, as well, but there was nothing to see there, either. The voices whispered more urgently, redirecting his concentration. They were humming now, but he could detect in the rise and fall of their music the need they were trying to communicate to him. Don’t slow down, they were saying. Don’t hesitate.

He gripped the darkwand in both hands, moving ahead in a crouch, the twilight deepening swiftly toward nightfall. If he failed to reach the bridge quickly, he would be left in darkness. What chance would he have against his pursuer then?

He felt a sudden rush of panic, sweat forming on his brow and trickling down his spine, soaking through his tunic.

–Follow–

He did so, focusing his attention on the sound of the voices, the direction of their humming becoming his compass. He must trust in them. He must believe that it was Cinnaminson who guided him, the controlling voice among the many, no different now than before, when she had led him down into the ravine to find Mother Tanequil. She was watching out for him still. She was protecting him.