At dawn, stiff and shivering, they stumbled outside and by unspoken
consent started directly up the slope.
By full daylight they found themselves in a chestnut grove. They
stopped to fill their pouches. The last mile was made in the hot warmth
of the sun. At the top of the ridge they stopped to rest.
As they did, they feasted their eyes on the orderly groves below them.
But Henry's eyes were seeking out the squares of brown among the green
of the lower valley. He counted twenty. Far more than he realized. The
defrosters had gone dead at intervals, years apart.
His eyes crept up the valley to the structure at its head, with the
captive lake behind it. It must be the House of the Old Ones the old
stories told about but no one had ever seen. From it they had worked
the magic that made the valley what it was. There, they said, they
could be seen and heard to speak.
If he could get to see the Old Ones, ask them questions, perhaps they
would tell him what should be done.
"Where are we going now?" Theta asked.
"To the House of the Old Ones. Up there," he said, pointing. "Perhaps
they can tell us something."