Val, back on his feet, climbs to look at the pedestal. He feels at the pedestal's surface, trying to push at it, to rotate it, to see if it, too, has any suggestion of a give, without touching the crescent-shaped depression or that etched bar.

"Silentir loves," does he remember, is it in his notes somewhere, "winter? Game is lean--thus, the horn, the wand. I think that to be correct at least."