Valentine passed through an airy loggia to a small portico beyond that seemed to be suspended in space on the cliff's outermost rim. There he stood a long while in silence, with Carabella and the hierarch beside him, and Sleet and Tunigorn close by. It was wondrously quiet here: he heard nothing but the rush of the cool clear wind that blew without pause from the northwest, and the faint fluttering of Carabella's scarlet cloak. He looked down toward Alaisor. The great seaport lay like a giant outspread fan at the base of the cliff, ranging so far to the north and south that he could not see its limits. The dark spokes of colossal avenues ran its entire length, converging on a distant, barely visible circle of grand boulevards where six giant obelisks rose skyward: the tomb of Lord Stiamot, conqueror of the Metamorphs. Beyond lay only the sea, dark green, shrouded in the low-lying haze.

"Come, my lord," said Ambargarde. "The last light of the day is going. May I show you to your chamber?"

He would sleep alone that night, in an austere little room close by the tabernacle. Nor would he eat, or drink anything except the wine of the dream-speakers that would open his mind and make it accessible to the Lady. When Ambargarde had gone, he turned to Carabella and said, "I have not forgotten my promise, love."

"That I know. Oh, Valentine, I pray she tells you to turn back to the Mount!"

"Will you abide by it if she does not?"

"How can I not abide by whatever you decide? You are the Coronal. But I pray she tells you turn back.

Dream well, Valentine."

"Dream well, Carabella."

She left him. He stood for some time at the window, watching as night engulfed the shoreline and the sea. Somewhere due west of here, he knew, lay the Isle of Sleep that was his mother's domain, far below the horizon, the home of that sweet and blessed Lady who brought wisdom to the world as it dreamed.

Valentine stared intently seaward, searching in the mists and the gathering darkness as if he could see, if only he peered hard enough, the brilliant white ramparts of chalk on which the Isle rested.

Then he undressed and lay down on the simple cot that was the room's only furniture, and lifted the goblet that held the dark red dream-wine. He took a deep draft of the sweet thick stuff, and then another, and lay back and put himself into the trance state that opened his mind to impulses from afar, and waited for sleep.

— Come to me, mother. This is Valentine.

Drowsiness came over him, and he slipped downward into slumber.

— Mother—

— Lady—

— Mother—

Phantoms danced through his brain. Tenuous elongated figures burst like bubbles from vents in the ground, and spiraled upward to the roof of the sky. Disembodied hands sprouted from the trunks of trees, and boulders opened yellow eyes, and rivers grew hair. He watched and waited, letting himself glide downward and yet deeper downward into the realm of dreams, and all the while sending forth his soul to the Lady.