ged had set off down the road from re albi in the winter dark before sunrise, and before noon he came to the port of gont. ogion had given him decent gontish leggings and shirt and vest of leather and linen to replace his osskilian finery, but ged had kept for his winter journey the lordly cloak lined with pellawi-fur. so cloaked, empty-handed but for the dark staff that matched his height, he came to the land gate, and the soldiers lounging against the carven dragons there did not have to look twice at him to see the wizard. they drew aside their lances and let him enter without question, and watched him as he went on down the street.

on the quays and in the house of the sea-guild he asked of ships that might be going out north or west to enlad, andrad, oranea. all answered him that no ship would be leaving gont port now, so near sunreturn, and at the sea-guild they told him that even fishingboats were not going out through the armed cliffs in the untrusty weather.

they offered him dinner at the buttery there in the sea-guild; a wizard seldom has to ask for his dinner. he sat a while with those longshoremen, shipwrights, and weatherworkers, taking pleasure in their slow, sparse conversation, their grumbling gontish speech. there was a great wish in him to stay here on gont, and foregoing all wizardry and venture, forgetting all power and horror, to live in peace like any man on the known, dear ground of his home land. that was his wish; but his will was other. he did not stay long in the sea-guild, nor in the city, after he found there would be no ships out of port. he set out walking along the bay shore till he came to the first of the small villages that lie north of the city of gont, and there he asked among the fishermen till he found one that had a boat to sell.

the fisherman was a dour old man. his boat, twelve foot long and clinker-built, was so warped and sprung as to be scarce seaworthy, yet he asked a high price for her: the spell of sea-safety for a year laid on his own boat, himself, and his son. for gontish fishermen fear nothing, not even wizards, only the sea.

that spell of sea-safety which they set much store by in the northern archipelago never saved a man from stormwind or storm-wave, but, cast by one who knows the local seas and the ways of a boat and the skills of the sailor, it weaves some daily safety about the fisherman. ged made the charm well and honestly, working on it all that night and the next day, omitting nothing, sure and patient, though all the while his mind was strained with fear and his thoughts went on dark paths seeking to imagine how the shadow would appear to him next, and how soon, and where. when the spell was made whole and cast, he was very weary. he slept that night in the fisherman's but in a whale-gut hammock, and got up at dawn smelling like a dried herring, and went down to the cove under cutnorth cliff where his new boat lay.

he pushed it into the quiet water by the landing, and water began to well softly into it at once. stepping into the boat light as a cat ged set straight the warped boards and rotten pegs, working both with tools and incantations, as he had used to do with pechvarry in low torning. the people of the village gathered in silence, not too close, to watch his quick hands and listen to his soft voice. this job too he did well and patiently until it was done and the boat was sealed and sound. then he set up his staff that ogion had made him for a mast, stayed it with spells, and fixed across it a yard of sound wood. downward from this yard he wove on the wind's loom a sail of spells, a square sail white as the snows on gont peak above. at this the women watching sighed with envy. then standing by the mast ged raised up the magewind lightly. the boat moved out upon the water, turning towards the armed cliffs across the great bay. when the silent watching fishermen saw that leaky rowboat slip out under sail as quick and neat as a sandpiper taking wing, then they raised a cheer, grinning and stamping in the cold wind on the beach; and ged looking back a moment saw them there cheering him on, under the dark jagged bulk of cutnorth cliff, above which the snowy fields of the mountain rose up into cloud.

he sailed across the bay and out between the armed cliffs onto the gontish sea, there setting his course northwestwards to pass north of oranea, returning as he had come. he had no plan or strategy in this but the retracing of his course. following his falcon-flight across the days and winds from osskil, the shadow might wander or might come straight, there was no telling. but unless it had withdrawn again wholly into the dream-realm, it should not miss ged coming openly, over open sea, to meet it.

on the sea he wished to meet it, if meet it he must. he was not sure why this was, yet he had a terror of meeting the thing again on dry land. out of the sea there rise storms and monsters, but no evil powers: evil is of earth. and there is no sea, no running of river or spring, in the dark land where once ged had gone. death is the dry place. though the sea itself was a danger to him in the hard weather of the season, that danger and change and instability seemed to him a defense and chance. and when he met the shadow in this final end of his folly, he thought, maybe at least he could grip the thing even as it gripped him, and drag it with the weight of his body and the weight of his own death down into the darkness of the deep sea, from which, so held, it might not rise again. so at least his death would put an end to the evil he had loosed by living.

he sailed a rough chopping sea above which clouds drooped and drifted in vast mournful veils. he raised no magewind now but used the world's wind, which blew keen from the northwest; and so long as he maintained the substance of his spell-woven sail often with a whispered word, the sail itself set and turned itself to catch the wind. had he not used that magic he would have been hard put to keep the crank little boat on such a course, on that rough sea. on he went, and kept keen look-out on all sides. the fisherman's wife had given him two loaves of bread and a jar of water, and after some hours, when he was first in sight of kameber rock, the only isle between gont and oranea, he ate and drank, and thought gratefully of the silent gontishwoman who had given him the food. on past the dim glimpse of land he sailed, tacking more westerly now, in a faint dank drizzle that over land might be a light snow. there was no sound at all but the small creaking of the boat and light slap of waves on her bow. no boat or bird went by. nothing moved but the ever-moving water and the drifting clouds, the clouds that he remembered dimly as flowing all about him as he, a falcon, flew east on this same course he now followed to the west; and he had looked down on the grey sea then as now he looked up at the grey air.

nothing was ahead when he looked around. he stood up, chilled, weary of this gazing and peering into empty murk. "come then," he muttered, "come on, what do you wait for, shadow?" there was no answer, no darker motion among the dark mists and waves. yet he knew more and more surely now that the thing was not far off, seeking blindly down his cold trail. and all at once he shouted out aloud, "i am here, i ged the sparrowhawk, and i summon my shadow!"

the boat creaked, the waves lisped, the wind hissed a little on the white sail. the moments went by. still ged waited, one hand on the yew-wood mast of his boat, staring into the icy drizzle that slowly drove in ragged lines across the sea from the north. the moments went by. then, far off in the rain over the water, he saw the shadow coming.

it had done with the body of the osskilian oarsman skiorh, and not as gebbeth did it follow him through he winds and over sea. nor did it wear that beast-shape in which he had seen it on roke knoll, and in its dreams. yet it had a shape now, even in the daylight. in its pursuit of ged and in its struggle with him on the moors it had drawn power from him, sucking it into itself: and it may be that his summoning of it, aloud in the light of day, had given to it or forced upon it some form and semblance. certainly it had now some likeness to a man, though being shadow it cast no shadow. so it came over the sea, out of the jaws of enlad towards gont, a dim ill-made thing pacing uneasy on the waves, peering down the wind as it came; and the cold rain blew through it.

because it was half blinded by the day, and because he had called it, ged saw it before it saw him. he knew it, as it knew him, among all beings, all shadows.

in the terrible solitude of the winter sea ged stood and saw the thing he feared. the wind seemed to blow it farther from the boat, and the waves ran under it bewildering his eye, and ever and again it seemed closer to him. he could not tell if it moved or not. it had seen him, now. though there was nothing a his mind but horror and fear of its touch, the cold black pain that drained his life away, yet he waited, unmoving. then all at once speaking aloud he called the magewind strong and sudden into his white sail, and his boat leapt across the grey waves straight at the lowering thing that hung upon the wind.

in utter silence the shadow, wavering, turned and fled.

upwind it went, northward. upwind ged's boat followed, shadow-speed against mage-craft, the rainy gale against them both. and the young man yelled to his boat, to the sail and the wind and the waves ahead, as a hunter yells to his bounds when the wolf runs in plain sight before them, and he brought into that spell-woven sail a wind that would have split any sail of cloth and that drove his boat over the sea like a scud of blown foam, closer always to the thing that fled.

now the shadow turned, making a half-circle, and appearing all at once more loose and dim, less like a man more like mere smoke blowing on the wind, it doubled back and ran downwind with the gale, as if it made for gont.

with hand and spell ged turned his boat, and it leaped like a dolphin from the water, rolling, in that quick turn. faster than before he followed, but the shadow grew ever fainter to his eyes. rain, mixed with sleet and snow, came stinging across his back and his left cheek, and he could not see more than a hundred yards ahead. before long, as the storm grew heavier, the shadow was lost to sight. yet ged was sure of its track as if he followed a beast's track over snow, instead of a wraith fleeing over water. though the wind blew his way now he held the singing magewind in the sail, and flake-foam shot from the boat's blunt prow, and she slapped the water as she went.

for a long time hunted and hunter held their weird, fleet course, and the day was darkening fast. ged knew that at the great pace he had gone these past hours he must be south of gont, heading past it towards spevy or torheven, or even past these islands out into the open reach. he could not tell. he did not care. he hunted, he followed, and fear ran before him.

all at once he saw the shadow for a moment not far from him. the world's wind had been sinking, and the driving sleet of the storm had given way to a chill, ragged, thickening mist. through this mist he glimpsed the shadow, fleeing somewhat to the right of his course. he spoke to wind and sail and turned the tiller and pursued, though again it was a blind pursuit: the fog thickened fast, boiling and tattering where it met with the spellwind, closing down all round the boat, a featureless pallor that deadened light and sight. even as ged spoke the first word of a clearing-charm, he saw the shadow again, still to the right of his course but very near, and going slowly. the fog blew through the faceless vagueness of its head, yet it was shaped like a man, only deformed and changing, like a man's shadow. ged veered the boat once more, thinking be had run his enemy to ground: in that instant it vanished, and it was his boat that ran aground, smashing up on shoal rocks that the blowing mist had hidden from his sight. he was pitched nearly out, but grabbed hold on the mast-staff before the next breaker struck. this was a great wave, which threw the little boat up out of water and brought her down on a rock, as a man might lift up and crush a snail's shell.

stout and wizardly was the staff ogion had shaped. it did not break, and buoyant as a dry log it rode the water. still grasping it ged was pulled back as the breakers streamed back from the shoal, so that he was in deep water and saved, till the next wave, from battering on the rocks. salt-blinded and choked, he tried to keep his head up and to fight the enormous pull of the sea. there was sand beach a little aside of the rocks, be glimpsed this a couple of times as he tried to swim free of the rising of the next breaker. with all his strength and with the staff's power aiding him he struggled to make for that beach. he got no nearer. the surge and recoil of the swells tossed him back and forth like a rag, and the cold of the deep sea drew warmth fast from his body, weakening him till he could not move his arms. he had lost sight of rocks and beach alike, and did not know what way he faced. there was only a tumult of water around him, under him, over him, blinding him, strangling him, drowning him.

a wave swelling in under the ragged fog took him and rolled him over and over and flung him up like a stick of driftwood on the sand.

there he lay. he still clutched the yew-wood staff with both hands. lesser waves dragged at him, trying to tug him back down the sand in their outgoing rush, and the mist parted and closed above him, and later a sleety rain beat on him.

after a long time he moved. he got up on hands and knees, and began slowly crawling up the beach, away from the water's edge. it was black night now, but he whispered to the staff, and a little werelight clung about it. with this to guide him he struggled forward, little by little, up toward the dunes. he was so beaten and broken and cold that this crawling through the wet sand in the whistling, sea-thundering dark was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. and once or twice it seemed to him that the great noise of the sea and the wind all died away and the wet sand turned to dust under his hands, and he felt the unmoving gaze of strange stars on his back: but he did not lift his head, and he crawled on, and after a while he heard his own gasping breath, and felt the bitter wind beat the rain against his face.

the moving brought a little warmth back into him at last, and after he had crept up into the dunes, where the gusts of rainy wind came less hard, he managed to get up on his feet. he spoke a stronger light out of the staff, for the world was utterly black, and then leaning on the staff he went on, stumbling and halting, half a mile or so inland. then on the rise of a dune he heard the sea, louder again, not behind him but in front: the dunes sloped down again to another shore. this was no island he was on but a mere reef, a bit of sand in the midst of the ocean.

he was too worn out to despair, but he gave a kind of sob and stood there, bewildered, leaning on his staff, for a long time. then doggedly he turned to the left, so the wind would be at his back at least, and shuffled down the high dune, seeking some hollow among the ice-rimed, bowing sea-grass where he could have a little shelter. as he held up the staff to see what lay before him, he caught a dull gleam at the farthest edge of the circle of werelight: a wall of rain-wet wood.

it was a hut or shed, small and rickety as if a child had built it. ged knocked on the low door with his staff. it remained shut. ged pushed it open and entered, stooping nearly double to do so. he could not stand up straight inside the hut. coals lay red in the firepit, and by their dim glow ged saw a man with white, long hair, who crouched in terror against the far wall, and another, man or woman he could not tell, peering from a heap of rags or hides on the floor.

"i won't hurt you," ged whispered.

they said nothing. he looked from one to the other. their eyes were blank with terror. when he laid down his staff, the one under the pile of rags hid whimpering. ged took off his cloak that was heavy with water and ice, stripped naked and huddled over the firepit. "give me something to wrap myself in," he said. he was hoarse, and could hardly speak for the chattering of his teeth and the long shudders that shook him. if they heard him, neither of the old ones answered. he reached out and took a rag from the bed-heap, a goat-hide, it might have been years ago, but it was now all tatters and black grease. the one under the bed-heap moaned with fear, but ged paid no heed. he rubbed himself dry and then whispered, "have you wood? build up the fire a little, old man. i come to you in need, i mean you no harm."

the old man did not move, watching him in a stupor of fear.

"do you understand me? do you speak no hardic?" ged paused, and then asked, "kargad?"

at that word, the old man nodded all at once, one nod, like a sad old puppet on strings. but as it was the only word ged knew of the kargish language, it was the end of their conversation. he found wood piled by one wall, built up the fire himself, and then with gestures asked for water, for swallowing seawater had sickened him and now he was parched with thirst. cringing, the old man pointed to a great shell that held water, and pushed towards the fire another shell in which were strips of smoke-dried fish. so, crosslegged close by the fire, ged drank, and ate a little, and as some strength and sense began to come back into him, he wondered where he was. even with the magewind he could not have sailed clear to the kargad lands. this islet must be out in the reach, east of gont but still west of karego-at. it seemed strange that people dwelt on so small and forlorn a place, a mere sand-bar; maybe they were castaways; but he was too weary to puzzle his head about them then.

he kept turning his cloak to the heat. the silvery pellawifur dried fast, and as soon as the wool of the facing was at least warm, if not dry, he wrapped himself in it and stretched out by the firepit. "go to sleep, poor folk," he said to his silent hosts, and laid his head down on the floor of sand, and slept.

three nights he spent on the nameless isle, for the first morning when he woke he was sore in every muscle and feverish and sick. he lay like a log of driftwood in the but by the firepit all that day and night. the next morning he woke still stiff and sore, but recovered. he put back on his salt-crusted clothes, for there was not enough water to wash them, and going out into the grey windy morning looked over this place whereto the shadow had tricked him.

it was a rocky sand-bar a mile wide at its widest and a little longer than that, fringed all about with shoals and rocks. no tree or bush grew on it, no plant but the bowing sea-grass. the but stood in a hollow of the dunes, and the old man and woman lived there alone in the utter desolation of the empty sea. the hut was built, or piled up rather, of driftwood planks and branches. their water came from a little brackish well beside the but; their food was fish and shellfish, fresh or dried, and rockweed. the tattered hides in the but, and a little store of bone needles and fishhooks, and the sinew for fishlines and firedrill, came not from goats as ged had thought at first, but from spotted seal; and indeed this was the kind of place where the seal will go to raise their pups in summer. but no one else comes to such a place. the old ones feared ged not because they thought him a spirit, and not because he was a wizard, but only because he was a man. they had forgotten that there were other people in the world.

the old man's sullen dread never lessened. when he thought ged was coming close enough to touch him, he would hobble away, peering back with a scowl around his bush of dirty white hair. at first the old woman had whimpered and hidden under her rag-pile whenever ged moved, but as he had lain dozing feverishly in the dark hut, he saw her squatting to stare at him with a strange, dull, yearning look; and after a while she had brought him water to drink. when he sat up to take the shell from her she was scared and dropped it, spilling all the water, and then she wept, and wiped her eyes with her long whitish-grey hair.

now she watched him as he worked down on the beach, shaping driftwood and planks from his boat that had washed ashore into a new boat, using the old man's crude stone adze and a binding-spell. this was neither a repair nor a boat-building, for he had not enough proper wood, and must supply all his wants with pure wizardry. yet the old woman did not watch his marvellous work so much as she watched him, with that same craving look in her eyes. after a while she went off, and came back presently with a gift: a handful of mussels she had gathered on the rocks. ged ate them as she gave them to him, sea-wet and raw, and thanked her. seeming to gain courage, she went to the but and came back with something again in her hands, a bundle wrapped up in a rag. timidly, watching his face all the while, she unwrapped the thing and held it up for him to see.

it was a little child's dress of silk brocade stiff with seedpearls, stained with salt, yellow with years. on the small bodice the pearls were worked in a shape ged knew: the double arrow of the god-brothers of the kargad empire, surmounted by a king's crown.

the old woman, wrinkled, dirty, clothed in an illsewn sack of sealskin, pointed at the little silken dress and at herself, and smiled: a sweet, unmeaning smile, like a baby's. from some hidingplace sewn in the skirt of the dress she took a small object, and this was held out to ged. it was a bit of dark metal, a piece of broken jewelry perhaps, the half-circle of a broken ring. ged looked at it, but she gestured that he take it, and was not satisfied until he took it; then she nodded and smiled again; she had made him a present. but the dress she wrapped up carefully in its greasy rag-coverings, and she shuffled back to the hut to hide the lovely thing away.

ged put the broken ring into his tunic-pocket with almost the same care, for his heart was full of pity. he guessed now that these two might be children of some royal house of the kargad empire; a tyrant or usurper who feared to shed kingly blood had sent them to be cast away, to live or die, on an uncharted islet far from karego-at. one had been a boy of eight or ten, maybe, and the other a stout baby princess in a dress of silk and pearls; and they had lived, and lived on alone, forty years, fifty years, on a rock in the ocean, prince and princess of desolation.

but the truth of this guess he did not learn until, years later, the quest of the ring of erreth-akbe led him to the kargad lands, and to the tombs of atuan.

his third night on the isle lightened to a calm, pale sunrise. it was the day of sunreturn, the shortest day of the year. his little boat of wood and magic, scraps and spells, was ready. he had tried to tell the old ones that he would take them to any land, gont or spevy or the torikles; he would have left them even on some lonely shore of karego-at, had they asked it of him, though kargish waters were no safe place for an archipelagan to venture. but they would not leave their barren isle. the old woman seemed not to understand what he meant with his gestures and quiet words; the old man did understand, and refused. all his memory of other lands and other men was a child's nightmare of blood and giants and screaming: ged could see that in his face, as he shook his head and shook his head.

so ged that morning filled up a sealskin pouch with water at the well, and since he could not thank the old ones for their fire and food, and had no present for the old woman as he would have liked, he did what he could, and set a charm on that salty unreliable spring. the water rose up through the sand as sweet and clear as any mountain spring in the heights of gont, nor did it ever fail. because of it, that place of dunes and rocks is charted now and bears a name; sailors call it springwater isle. but the hut is gone, and the storms of many winters have left no sign of the two who lived out their lives there and died alone.

they kept hidden in the hut, as if they feared to watch, when ged ran his boat out from the sandy south end of the isle. he let the world's wind, steady from the north, fill his sail of spellcloth, and went speedily forth over the sea.

now this sea-quest of ged's was a` strange matter, for as he well knew, he was a hunter who knew neither what the thing was that he hunted, nor where in all earthsea it might be. he must hunt it by guess, by hunch, by luck, even as it bad hunted him. each was blind to the other's being, ged as baffled by impalpable shadows as the shadow was baffled by daylight and by solid things. one certainty only ged had: that he was indeed the hunter now and not the hunted. for the shadow, having tricked him onto the rocks, might have had him at its mercy all the while he lay half-dead on the shore and blundered in darkness in the stormy dunes; but it had not waited for that chance. it had tricked him and fled away at once, not daring now to face him. in this he saw that ogion had been right: the shadow could not draw on his power, so long as he was turned against it. so he must keep against it, keep after it, though its track was cold across these wide seas, and he had nothing at all to guide him but the luck of the world's wind blowing southward, and a dim guess or notion in his mind that south or east was the right way to follow.

before nightfall he saw away off on his left hand the long, faint shoreline of a great land, which must be karego-at. he was in the very sea-roads of those white barbaric folk. he kept a sharp watch out for any kargish longship or galley; and he remembered, as he sailed through red evening, that morning of his boyhood in ten alders village, the plumed warriors; the fire, the mist. and thinking of that day he saw all at once, with a qualm at his heart, how the shadow had tricked him with his own trick, bringing that mist about him on the sea as if bringing it out of his own past, blinding him to danger and fooling him to his death.

he kept his course to the southeast, and the land sank out of sight as night came over the eastern edge of the world. the hollows of the waves all were full of darkness while the crests shone yet with a clear ruddy reflection of the west. ged sang aloud the winter carol, and such cantos of the deed of the young king as he remembered, for those songs are sung at the festival of sunreturn. his voice was clear, but it fell to nothing in the vast silence of the sea. darkness came quickly, and the winter stars.

all that longest night of the year he waked, watching the stars rise upon his left hand and wheel overhead and sink into far black waters on the right, while always the long wind of winter bore him southward over an unseen sea. he could sleep for only a moment now and then, with a sharp awakening. this boat he sailed was in truth no boat but a thing more than half charm and sorcery, and the rest of it mere planks and driftwood which, if he let slack the shapingspells and the binding-spell upon them, would soon enough lapse and scatter and go drifting off as a little flotsam on the waves. the sail too, woven of magic and the air, would not long stay against the wind if he slept, but would turn to a puff of wind itself. ged's spells were cogent and potent, but when the matter on which such spells works is small, the power that keeps them working must be renewed from moment to moment: so he slept not that night. he would have gone easier and swifter as falcon or dolphin, but ogion had advised him not to change his shape, and he knew the value of ogion's advice. so he sailed southward under the west-going stars, and the long night passed slowly, until the first day of the new year brightened all the sea.

soon after the sun rose he saw land ahead, but he was making little way towards it. the world's wind had dropped with daybreak. he raised a light magewind into his sail, to drive him towards that land. at the sight of it, fear had come into him again, the sinking dread that urged him to turn away, to run away. and he followed that fear as a hunter follows the signs, the broad, blunt, clawed tracks of the bear, that may at any moment turn on him from the thickets. for he was close now: he knew it.

it was a queer-looking land that loomed up over the sea as he drew nearer and nearer. what had from afar seemed to be one sheer mountainwall, was split into several long steep ridges, separate isles perhaps, between which the sea ran in narrow sounds or channels. ged had pored over many charts and maps in the tower of the master namer on roke, but those had been mostly of the archipelago and the inner seas. he was out in the east reach now, and did not know what this island might be. nor had he much thought for that. it was fear that lay ahead of him, that lurked hiding from him or waiting for him among the slopes and forests of the island, and straight for it he steered.

now the dark forest-crowned cliffs gloomed and towered high over his boat, and spray from the waves that broke against the rocky headlands blew spattering against his sail, as the magewind bore him between two great capes into a sound, a sea-lane that ran on before him deep into the island, no wider than the length of two galleys. the sea, confined, was restless and fretted at the steep shores. there were no beaches, for the cliffs dropped straight down into the water that lay darkened by the cold reflection of their heights. it was windless, and very silent.

the shadow had tricked him out onto the moors in osskil, and tricked him in the mist onto the rocks, and now would there be a third trick? had he driven the thing here, or had it drawn him here, into a trap? he did not know. he knew only the torment of dread, and the certainty that he must go ahead and do what be had set out to do: hunt down the evil, follow his terror to its source. very cautiously he steered, watching before him and behind him and up and down the cliffs on either hand. he had left the sunlight of the new day behind him on the open sea. all was dark here. the opening between the headlands seemed a remote, bright gateway when he glanced back. the cliffs loomed higher and ever higher overhead as he approached the mountain-root from which they sprang, and the lane of water grew narrower. he peered ahead into the dark cleft, and left and right up the great, cavern-pocked, boulder-tumbled slopes where trees crouched with their roots half in air. nothing moved. now he was coming to the end of the inlet, a high blank wrinkled mass of rock against which, narrowed to the width of a little creek, the last sea-waves lapped feebly. fallen boulders and rotten trunks and the roots of gnarled trees left only a tight way to steer. a trap: a dark trap under the roots of the silent mountain, and he was in the trap. nothing moved before him or above him. all was deathly still. he could go no further.

he turned the boat around, working her carefully round with spell and with makeshift oar lest she knock up against the underwater rocks or be entangled in the outreaching roots and branches, till she faced outward again; and he was about to raise up a wind to take him back as he had come, when suddenly the words of the spell froze on his lips, and his heart went cold within him. he looked back over his shoulder. the shadow stood behind him in the boat.

had he lost one instant, he had been lost; but he was ready, and lunged to seize and hold the thing which wavered and trembled there within arm's reach. no wizardry would serve him now, but only his own flesh, his life itself, against the unliving. he spoke no word, but attacked, and the boat plunged and pitched from his sudden turn and lunge. and a pain ran up his arms into his breast, taking away his breath, and an icy cold filled him, and he was blinded: yet in his hands that seized the shadow there was nothing, darkness, air.

he stumbled forward, catching the mast to stay his fall, and light came shooting back into his eyes. he saw the shadow shudder away from him and shrink together, then stretch hugely up over him, over the sail, for an instant. then like black smoke on the wind it recoiled and fled, formless, down the water towards the bright gate between the cliffs.

ged sank to his knees. the little spell-patched boat pitched again, rocked itself to stillness, drifting on the uneasy waves. he crouched in it, numb, unthinking, struggling to draw breath, until at last cold water welling under his hands warned him that he must see to his boat, for the spells binding it were growing weak. he stood up, holding onto the staff that made the mast, and rewove the binding-spell as best he could. he was chilled and weary; his hands and arms ached sorely, and there was no power in him. he wished he might lie down there in that dark place where sea and mountain met and sleep, sleep on the restless rocking water.

he could not tell if this weariness were a sorcery laid on him by the shadow as it fled, or came of the bitter coldness of its touch, or was from mere hunger and want of sleep and expense of strength; but he struggled against it, forcing himself to raise up a light magewind into the sail and follow down the dark sea-way where the shadow had fled.

all terror was gone. all joy was gone. it was a chase no longer. he was neither hunted nor hunter, now. for the third time they had met and touched: he had of his own will turned to the shadow, seeking to hold it with living bands. he had not held it, but he had forged between them a bond, a link that had no breaking-point. there was no need to hunt the thing down, to track it, nor would its flight avail it. neither could escape. when they had come to the time and place for their last meeting, they would meet.

but until that time, and elsewhere than that place, there would never be any rest or peace for ged, day or night, on earth or sea. he knew now, and the knowledge was hard, that his task had never been to undo what he had done, but to finish what he had begun.

he sailed out from between the dark cliffs, and on the sea was broad, bright morning, with a fair wind blowing from the north.

he drank what water he had left in the sealskin pouch, and steered around the westernmost headland until he came into a wide strait between it and a second island lying to the west. then he knew the place, calling to mind sea-charts of the east reach. these were the hands, a pair of lonely isles that reach their mountain-fingers northward toward, the kargad lands. he sailed on between the two, and as the afternoon darkened with storm-clouds coming up from the north he came to shore, on the southern coast of the west isle. he had seen there was a little village there, above the beach where a stream came tumbling down to the sea, and he cared little what welcome he got if he could have water, fire's warmth, and sleep.

the villagers were rough shy people, awed by a wizard's staff, wary of a strange face, but hospitable to one who came alone, over sea, before a storm. they gave him meat and drink in plenty, and the comfort of firelight and the comfort of human voices speaking his own hardic tongue, and last and best they gave him hot water to wash the cold and saltness of the sea from him, and a bed where he could sleep.