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“How will anyone spot them in the night?” Pranmore argues.

“No, he’s right,” I say absently. “And stay quiet. Our voices might carry.”

“See anything?” Clover asks from my shoulder, peering around the rocks. But the forest wraps in front of us, blocking our view.

“No.” I sigh as we back down the hill. “We’ll have to get closer.”

I lead them to the trail once more, confident we’re still too far away to be spotted.

“What’s that?” Bartholomew asks suddenly, pausing.

A new sound has joined the others—this one from behind us.

“Henrik, it’s a wagon,” Clover gasps.

She’s right, and it’s not far away. With the wind blowing, I didn’t hear it approaching.

“Get down,” I say urgently, rushing to the side of the road. We drop to our stomachs, hoping the tall grass will cover us.

“Oh, no,” Clover whispers urgently. “Pranmore, your antlers are sticking up. Can’t you get any lower?”

“Not unless I dig a—”

“Quiet,” I command. “They’re coming.”

The cart appears on the trail. The driver travels by the light of the moons, with no additional light to aid his progress.

“Is he a High Vale?” Pranmore asks at a bare whisper.

“I can’t tell yet.”

As I wait for the cart to get closer, hoping the driver won’t spot us, I try to stay as still as possible. But the ground is cold and rocky, and several of the dry weeds that grow with the grass are prickly.

Bartholomew shifts, and Pranmore tries to get lower.

I’m afraid we’re conspicuous, but they won’t be looking for us, so they might drive right by.

“There’s more than one,” Clover whispers, and she’s right. The first cart is followed by several more, each pulled by two strong Vallen mules—a cross between draft horses and the native muircorns, each stronger than an ox.

The first cart passes us slowly, and I finally get a glimpse of the driver. Even in the dim light, I can make out his distinguishing features—he’s tall and slender, with gently pointed ears that are visible thanks to his partially pulled-up hair.

There’s no mistaking it—he’s a High Vale.

After the lead cart, five more pass. The drivers don’t talk to each other. They simply stay their course, as silent as wraiths.

Only once they’re out of sight, and the rumble of the wheels on the rough road fades, do we leave the grass.

“What do you think they’re hauling?” Bartholomew asks.

“Talvernum,” Clover says darkly. “What else could it be? I bet they’re secretly mining all over these mountains and carting the ore here.”

It seems we’ve come to the same conclusion.

The commotion and sudden presence of people likely spooked the aynauths, causing them to move lower.

“But if it is talvernum, where are they taking it?” Pranmore asks. “Have they found a place to make a port? And even if they have, how are they transporting the ore down the cliff?”

I continue walking down the narrow road. “I’m not certain.”