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remain with his master for a period of time afterwards to learn certain fine points of the Art which might have been neglected while he was studying the basics.”
    “Well, if I can’t locate a sponsor I guess that I’ll just have to muddle through life on my own.”
    “If you are aware of the dangers of initiation . . . ”
    “I’m not.”
    “Death and madness are the main ones. Every now and then they claim a few who were not quite ready.”
    “Could I get some coaching so as not to be unready?”
    “That could be arranged.”
    “Then I’d be willing.”
    “In that case, I will sponsor you in return for future goodwill. It’s always nice to have a few friends in the trade.”
    The dreams of the Gate and the peculiar land beyond them did not return that night, nor on any succeeding night until their arrival at the festival. The days passed uneventfully, routinely, as they hiked along, until only the feel of his changed appearance assured Pol that something unusual had actually occurred. The terrain had altered as they headed upward, though the ascent here was more gradual than the descent from the mountains about Rondoval. Belken itself was a great, black, fang-like peak, dotted with numerous depressions, bare of trees. The evening they first caught sight of it, it seemed outlined by a faint white light. Mouseglove drew Pol aside and they halted to regard it.
    “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” he asked him.
    “Ibal has outlined the initiation procedures for me,” Pol replied, “and he’s given me an idea of what to expect at the various stations.”
    “That is not exactly what I had in mind,” Mouseglove said.
    “What, then?”
    “A sorcerer tried to kill you back at Rondoval. Another came by, apparently to help you, last week. I get the impression that you are in the middle of something nasty and magical—and here you go, walking right into a den of magicians and about to attempt something dangerous without the normal preparations.”
    “On the other hand,” Pol replied, “it is probably the best place for me to discover what is going on. And I’m sure I will find uses for any additional insight and strength the initiation provides.”
    “Do you really trust Ibal?”
    Pol shrugged.
    “It seems that I have to, up to a point.”
    “Unless you decide to quit the whole game right now.”
    “That would put me right back where I started. No thanks.”
    “It would give you time to think things over more, perhaps find a different line of investigation to follow.”
    “Yes,” Pol answered, “I wish that I could. But time, I feel, is something I cannot afford to spend so freely.”
    Mouseglove sighed and turned away.
    “That mountain looks sinister,” he said.
    “I have to agree with you.”
     
    The following morning, proceeding among the foothills, they reached the top of a low ridge and the group halted. Spread out before the eastern base of the mountain was something out of dreamland or fairy tale: a sparkling collection of creamy towers and golden spires amid buildings which looked as if they had been carved out of massive gemstones; there were bright arches over glistening roadways, columns of jet, rainbow-hung fountains . . . 
    “Gods!” Pol said. “I’d no idea it was anything like that!”
    He heard Ibal chuckle.
    “What’s funny?” Pol asked.
    “One is only young once. Let it be a surprise,” the old sorcerer replied.
    Puzzled, Pol continued on. As the day advanced, the dream-city lost some of its glamour. First went the sparkling and the rainbows; then the colors began to fade. A haziness came over the buildings, and within it a uniform grayness settled upon the entire prospect. The structures seemed to diminish in size, and some of the spires and higher columns vanished altogether. Glassy walls grew opaque and took on motion, a gentle, flapping movement. Then the fountains and the archways were gone. It was as if he now looked upon the place