Thistle nudges the air with a toe and the cold there responds instantly, a sharp - shocking but not painful - cold spreading into the steel toe of her boot, even as her kenning responds to give her an impression, a little clearer than came to Madern.
The magic here is not concealment, nor protection - but recognition. Something here is built to respond to the correct invocation rather than to resist intrusion.
The stillness in the valley shifts from waiting to listening. A voice echoes - seeming to come from everywhere, or nowhere, or perhaps in her own mind, as Thistle hears the murmur clearly but no one else seems to hear or respond.
Speak the name of what you seek to find.
Followed by,
Speak its name as it is known to you.
The air... waits.