"How strange he looks," Ermanar murmured. "Is he ill?"

A spasm of astonishing pain swept through him. There was a terrible droning buzz in his ears, and his breath was as hot as flame. He felt himself descending into night, a night so terrible that it obliterated all light and swept across his soul like a tide of black blood. The wine-bowl fell from his hand and shattered; and it was as if the entire world had shattered, flying apart into thousands of crumbling fragments that went tumbling crazily toward every corner of the universe. The dizziness was overwhelming now. And the darkness—that utter and total night, that complete eclipse—

"Lordship!" someone bellowed. Could that have been Hissune?

"He's having a sending!" another voice cried.

"A sending? How, while he is awake?"

"My lord! My lord! My lord!"

Valentine looked downward. Everything was black, a pool of night rising from the floor. That blackness seemed to be beckoning to him. Come, a quiet voice was saying, here is your path, here is your destiny: night, darkness, doom. Yield. Yield, Lord Valentine, Coronal that was, Pontifex that will never be. Yield.

And Valentine yielded, for in that moment of bewilderment and paralysis of spirit there was nothing else he could do. He stared into the black pool rising about him, and he allowed himself to fall toward it.

Unquestioningly, uncomprehendingly, he plunged into that all-engulfing darkness.

I am dead, he thought. I float now on the breast of the black river that returns me to the Source, and soon I must rise and go ashore and find the road that leads to the Bridge of Farewells; and then will I go across into that place where all life has its beginning and its end.

A strange kind of peace pervaded his soul then, a feeling of wondrous ease and contentment, a powerful sense that all the universe was joined in happy harmony. He felt as though he had come to rest in a cradle, where now he lay warmly swaddled, free at last of the torments of kingship. Ah, how good that was! To lie quietly, and let all turbulence sweep by him! Was this death? Why, then, death was joy!

— You are deceived, my lord. Death is the end of joy.

— Who speaks to me here?

— You know me, my lord.

— Deliamber? Are you dead also? Ah, what a safe kind place death is, old friend!

— You are safe, yes. But not dead.

— It feels much like death to me.

— And have you such thorough experience of death, my lord, that you can speak of it so knowingly?

— What is this, if it is not death?

— Merely a spell, said Deliamber.

— One of yours, wizard?

— No, not mine. But I can bring you from it, if you will permit. Come: awaken. Awaken.

— No, Deliamber! Let me be.

— You must, my lord.

— Must, Valentine said bitterly. Must! Always must! Am I never to rest? Let me stay where I am. This is a place of peace. I have no stomach for war, Deliamber.