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Simon felt a pang of joy and regret, as he remembered the familiar, soothing song of the gulls and thought of the fisherman-father he had never known. At last, when the hill's almost perpendicular face stood above them like a vast wall, they made camp in a ravine. The winds were less here, and Swertclif itself blocked much of the rain. Simon smiled grimly at the thought that the ogre's waiting was over: he and his companions were going to sleep in its lap tonight. No one wanted to be first to speak of what they would do tomorrow. The making of the fire and the preparation of a modest supper were undertaken with a minimum of conversation and little of the fellowship that usually enlivened the evenings. Tonight Miriamele did not seem angry but preoccupied, and even Binabik was hesitant in his actions, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. Simon felt surprisingly calm, almost cheerful, and was disappointed that his companions did not share his mood. This was a dangerous place, of course, and the next day's doings would be fearful—he was not letting himself think too much about where the sword was and what needed to be done to find it—but at least he was doing something. At least he was performing the kind of task for which he had been knighted. And if it worked—oh, glory! If it worked, surely Miriamele would see that taking the sword to Josua would be more important than trying to convince her mad father to halt a war that was doubtless already beyond his power to stop. Yes, surely when they had Bright-Nail—think of it, Bright-Nail! Prester John's famous sword!—in hand, Miriamele would realize that they had obtained the greatest prize they could hope for, and he and Binabik could coax her back to the comparative safety of her uncle's camp. Simon was considering these ideas and letting his meal settle when Binabik finally began to speak. "Once we are climbing this hill," the troll said slowly, "we will be having great difficulty to turn back. We are having no knowledge whether there are soldiers above—perhaps Elias has placed guards for protecting his father's sword and tomb. If we are going any farther westward, we will be coming to where people in that great castle can be seeing us. Do you have certainness—real, real true certainness!—that you both want this? Please think before you are speaking." Simon did as his friend asked. After a while, he knew what he wished to say. "We are here. The next time we are so close to Bright-Nail, there may be men fighting everywhere. We may never be able to get near it. So I think it would be foolish not to try to take it now. I'm going." Binabik looked at Simon, then slowly nodded. "So we will go to take the sword." He turned to the princess. "Miriamele?" "I have little to say about it. If we need to use the Three Swords, then that will mean I have failed." She smiled, but it was a smile Simon did not like at all.

"And if I fail to convince my father, I doubt that whatever happens afterward will mean much to me." The troll made a close-handed gesture. "There is never sure knowledge. I will help you as I can, and Simon will also, I am not doubting that—but you must not give up any chance of coming out again. Thinking of this sort will make you careless." "I would be very happy to come out again," said Miriamele. "I want to help my father understand so that he will cease the killing, then I want to say farewell to him. I could never live with him after what he has done." "I am hoping that you get the thing you are wishing for," Binabik replied. "So—first we are to go swordsearching, then we will decide what can be done for helping Miriamele. For such weighty efforts, I have need of sleep." He lay down, curling against Qantaqa, and pulled his hood over his face. Miriamele continued to stare into the campfire. Simon watched her awkwardly for a short while, then pulled his own cloak tight around him and lay back. "Good night, Miriamele," he said. "I hope ... I hope...." "So do I." Simon threw his arm over his eyes and waited for sleep. He dreamed that he sat atop Green Angel Tower, perched like a gargoyle. Someone was moving beside him. It was the angel herself, who had apparently left her spire and now seated herself beside him, laying a cool hand on his wrist. She looked strangely like the little girl Leieth, but made of rough bronze and green with verdigris. "It is a long way down." The angel's voice was beautiful, soft but strong. Simon stared at the tiny rooftops of the Hayholt below him. "It is." "That is not what 1 mean." The angel's tone was gently chiding. "I mean down to where the Truth is. Down to the bottom, where things begin." "I don't understand." He felt curiously light, as though the next puff of wind might send him sailing off the tower roof, whirling like a leaf. It seemed that the angel's grip on his arm was the only thing that held him where he sat. "From up here, the matters of Earth look small," she said. "That is one way to see, and a good one. But it is not the only one. The farther down you go, the harder things are to understand—but the more important they are. You must go very deep." "I don't know how to do that." He stared at her face, but despite its familiarity it was still lifeless, just a casting of rough metal.

There was no hint of friendship or kindness in the stiff features. "Where should I go? Who will help me?" "Deep. You." The angel suddenly stood; as her hand released him, Simon felt himself beginning to float free of the tower. He clutched a curving bit of the roof and clung. "It is hard for me to talk to you, Simon," she said. "I may not be able to again." "Why can't you just tell me?" he cried. His feet were floating off the edge; his body fluttered like a sail, trying to follow. "Just tell me!" "It is not so easy." The angel turned and slowly rose back to her plinth atop the tower roof. "If I can come again, I will. But it is only possible to talk clearly about less important things. The greatest truths lie within, always within. They cannot be given. They must be found.” Simon felt himself tugged free of his handhold. Slowly, like a cartwheel spun loose from its axle, he began to revolve as he floated out. Sky and earth moved alternately past him, as though the world were a child's ball in which he had been imprisoned, a ball now sent rolling by a vengeful kick.... Simon awakened in faint moonlight, sweating despite the chill night air. The dark bulk of Swertclif hung above him like a warning. The next day found Simon considerably less certain about things than he had been the night before. As they readied for the climb, he found himself worrying over the dream. If Amerasu had been right, if Simon had truly become more open to the Road of Dreams, could there be a meaning to what he had been told by the dream angel? How could he go deeper? He was about to climb a tall hill. And what answer was within? Some secret that even he didn't know? It just didn't make sense. The company set out as the sun began to warm in the sky. For the first part of the morning they rode up through the foothills, mounting Swertclif's lower reaches. As the lower, gentler slopes fell away behind them, they were forced to dismount and lead the horses. They stopped for a mid-morning meal—a little of the dried fruit and bread that Binabik had brought with him from Josua's camp stores. "I am thinking it is time to leave the horses behind us," said the troll. "If Qantaqa is still wishing to come, she will climb on her own instead of carrying me upon her back." Simon had not thought about having to leave Homefinder. He had hoped there would be a way to ride to the summit, but the only level path was the one on the far side of Swertclif, the funeral road that led across the top of the headland from Erchester and the Hayholt. Binabik had brought a good quantity of rope in his saddlebag; he sacrificed enough of it for Simon and Miriamele to leave their mounts tied on long tethers to a low, wind-curled tree within reach of a natural rocky pool full of rainwater.

The two horses had ample room to graze during the half a day or more they would be required to wait. Simon laid his face against Homefinder's neck and quietly promised her he would be back as soon as he could. "Any other things there are that need doing?" asked Binabik; Simon stared up at the pinnacle of Swertclif and wished he could think of something that would forestall the climb a little longer. "Then let us be going," the troll said. Swertclif's eastern face was not as sheerly vertical as it seemed from a distance. By traversing diagonally, the company, with Qantaqa trailing behind, were even able occasionally to walk upright, although more often than not they went crouching from handhold to cautious handhold.