All his days he would remember the mists in the narrow part of the Ring Sea slowly dividing to reveal a rock spur jutting out of the mainland. The top part was flat and the last of the tall trees shaded it.

  She was there. Standing, looking at them. She was wearing what looked like a pelt gown. He remembered how her hair had seemed blacker than night and alive with lights. They were so far apart and yet he had the feeling of being seen by Her, of his own soul being seen and being approved of. Her hand slowly raised above her shoulder in a gesture that was at the same time salute and summon. Of how he knew suddenly there was a small cove with a sand beach just on the other side of the spur and that they should imperatively make land there this very minute. The wood of the hull was barely biting the sand that he was already in the air, jumping to land on this mountain fallen from the sky.

  She was standing in the shade again, just where the trees yielded it to the sand. She smiled. She smiled at him and nothing else mattered. The walk to her was one of the slowest of his existence. His body and his heart had never been so conflicted. Part of his mind tried to behave as the commodore his men had learned to respect, but the rest of his being felt an exhilaration that filled him with the desire to run in circles until he'd drop of exhaustion like a happy child. Then as each slow pace he took towards her was a fight not to run and throw himself at her feet begging to be allowed to kiss them; he heard her voice. Her lips were not moving and her face, serene and beautiful was composed, he understood she was speaking to his spirit only. It was the voice of the mother he had never heard. These were the words of love his father had never allowed to pass between them and finally they were the acknowledgement of his faith, of all Balàs faith. Centuries of being ostracized and hunted; centuries of hiding and then the slow rebuilding of their world on the Sillaribes, the settlement on the Evening Island; the ravages of the destruction, the silence of their god about the mountain from the sky, the slow rebuilding afterwards. Their sheer existence was vindicated by the silent words of the Veviensis.

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  Then, she touched his hand offering him a flower of Mahara?a.

  Of the trip back there are finally few memories. The trades were with them and the sea was sleek and easy. They made the crossing fast. And the white ship of Helecto was waiting for them in the harbor of Vulgato. Such a thing as that had never happened before. Even after the giant waves of the Event had crushed the shores of the three islands never the white ship had sailed else than to and from the white pier of Sancto. As he was ushered on board and in the main cabin Atacherel saw three figures veiled in white, sitting. He said nothing, he opened his hand and showed them Mahara?a's flower. Nothing was said. But all was changed that day for the Balà and for him.