The path did not go by a straight route at all. It switched back and forth, and dove in and out of buttresses of rock that jutted from the cliffs like outthrust bows of ships, or walls, or the askew bones of giants. The way had clearly been cut and carved to make progress easier, but it soon became more of a footpath than a road. In several places Dapplegrim had difficulty moving forward, and an ordinary horse would certainly have slipped and fallen. It was lucky that Dapplegrim, for all his size, could be as agile as a goat when he wanted to be.
When it became obvious that they were not going to find a path over the mountains before nightfall, Caewen–a little unhappily–suggested a halt. Everyone else agreed, much more happily. An early rest would be good for everyone. Even Caewen, despite what she may have thought.
Because the path spent so much time cutting in and out of the cliff-side, there were places where they could shelter from passing eyes. They found a tunnel that was large enough to accomodate everyone, and not too exposed to the wind. The boy slipped off the gear he was carrying, and slumped to the floor. Fleat seemed more intent on sleep than dinner. He curled up with a blanket and was soon snoring in his whistling half-bird, half-humanish way.
Dapplegrim rested his head but didn’t close his eyes.
It took the boy a few moments to realise that Caewen was missing. He looked around.
“Where did Caewen go?”
“Back out the way we came in. Hurm. I presume she wants to get a view of the landscape.”
The boy got to his feet, despite the pain in his calves and the blisters on his toes, and followed. As he passed out of the tunnel he noticed something that he had not seen on the way in: there was a very faint tracery of carving inside the mouth of the tunnel. It was so old and so encrusted with lichen, so bitten by the wind, that it was near invisible. Maybe there had been more carvings along the trail. He saw this one only because the light happened to strike against it exactly right.
It seemed to him like a rather awkward drawing of a man with a crown. That was all he could make out. He thought the man was bearded, and he thought maybe there were things at the man’s feet. But he couldn’t be sure. He ran his fingers over the surface and felt the brittle-soft touch of old lichen and faint crevices.
“I wonder what it is?” he said to himself, then, after a moment’s longer pause, he went outside.
Caewen had left the path and walked out onto a prominence of stone, so that she was standing at what seemed to be the very edge of a cliff. The whole of the southern lands were painted in late-afternoon silver and shadows: rivers glittered, forests exhumed murky air, hills glowed.
Then something strange struck the boy.
He could very clearly see the shadow-thing twisting and mincing it’s way, back and forth, in the dark lee of a stone. Caewen had her back to the creature, and yet, she seemed to be talking.
It looked very much as if she were talking to someone.
And yet, that someone would have to be perched in the air beyond the cliff’s edge.
And that someone would also have to be invisible.