not by sight, and that reputation was not enticing to
potential visitors.
Two days after the road had become a mere trail, they
settled down to enjoy the bright sunshine. A clear stream
followed the track, tumbling glassily on its course down to
the now distant Glittergeist. An octet of commune spiders
were busy building a six-foot-square web between two
trees. They would share equally in any catch.
Jon-Tom studied the pinecone that had fallen near his
feet. It was Jong and slim, and the scales shone like
bronze. Mudge had slipped out of his boots and was
wading the stream, wishing it were deep enough for him to
have a swim, while Jalwar had wandered into the woods in
search of berries and edible roots to supplement their
meager diet. Roseroar catnapped beneath an evergreen
whose trunk grew almost parallel to the ground, while
Folly, as always, stayed as close to Jon-Tom as he would
allow.
“Don’t look so discouraged,” she said. “We’ll get
there.”
Jon-Tom was picking at the cone, tossing the pieces into
the stream and watching the little triangular brown boats
until they disappeared over slick stones.
“How can we get there if nobody can give us direc-
tions? ‘West’ isn’t good enough. I thought it would be
easy once we got out of Snarken. I thought at least a few
of the country folk would know the way to Crancularn.
From what Clotharmmp told me, this store of the Aether
and Neither is supposed to be pretty famous.”
“Famous enough to avoid,” Folly murmured.
“Some of them must be lying. They must be. I can’t
believe not a soul knows the way. Why won’t they tell