'Height it is then'.
Clayton wove a trunk from the turf, growing it up under himself like a lift. The wood knew what he wanted and gathered.
And then, pushed by his will, he rose above the terraces, above the arch, and above the garden's lines.
The plain sprawled forever, but it was not empty now that he knew how to look. Threads of trained growth stitched the land in places, rings marked old seats. Some shone faint, some bright.
He saw movement too.
Herds of something like antlered ferns flowed over a ridge and vanished like a tide. On another side, he noticed a band of upright forms walking in a line near a distant stand of spike-trees.
They moved as one. Not human, not Behemorph either, but old-bred servitors, perhaps.
There was no flash of Ember, no burst of Soren's heat, and no arrow cutting air. There was also no laugh out of place where Kaelin would be; his companions were still nowhere to be found.
The plain kept its secrets.
