"Swallow,"Herewiss said. "Your ears'11 pop." At last, his strength returning, he looked around with satisfaction. "You're better than I am with distances, Lorn. How far from Lake Rilthor would you say we are?" Freelorn shaded his eyes, looking first at the Sun to orient himself. "It's lower—" "Of course. We're sixty leagues west." Freelorn looked southwest toward the lake, and to the mist-girdled peak rising from its waters. "Four miles, I'd say." "That's about what I wanted,"Herewiss said, pleased. "Not bad for a first gating."' "It's so quiet," Harald said,, looking around suspiciously. "It's a holy place/" said Moris, unruffled and matter-of-fact as always. Segnbora looked around at the silent green country, agree-ing, opening out her undersemes to the affect of this place. Like most fanes or groves or great altars, Morrowfane had a feeling as if Someone was watching — Someone who would only speak using the heart's own voice. Yet the feeling was less personified, more awesome, than any she had ex-perienced before. Above everything hung a waiting silence like the one when the hawk sails high and no bird sings. Below the silence was a slow, steady throbbing of incalculable power, as if the world's heart beat nearby. A ruthless benevo-lence slept at the center of Lake Rilthor, she sensed, and slept lightly. It was no wonder that there wasn't a town or a farm or even a sheepfold for miles around. — It was not a smell, or a feeling, or a vision precisely, that started to creep up on her. Segnbora stood up straight, glanc-ing around at the others. None of them sensed what she had. Herewiss and Freelorn were leaning against Lorn's dun, Blackmane, together, speaking quietly; Moris and Dritt had walked off a little way to look southwest at the Fane; Lang was rubbing down the perpetually sweaty Gyrfalcon; Harald was seeing to yellow-coated Swallow's cinches.