The day was blue when he walked out. The shroud of fog had dissipated from the day before, lifted to reveal that there was space outside of those fringes from before. It was clear now; it lifted the mind back to normality. The sun shone, but it was early and the air had a chill to it which woke the mind and freed the limbs. It was quiet; because of the lack of life on the island there were no singing birds. The other people were inside the tower, perhaps still sleeping, perhaps preparing breakfast or cleaning fireplace, making beds. There was no sound here, but the waves crashed and carried up their sound to him through air without resistance. He walked.
There was something which led him down to the water, but there was such a desultory air to the morning that he didn't inspect the source of the feeling. He just walked, devoid of thought, through the wild life, through the barren brown, over the rock slopes. He looked out to sea.
There was a wooden ship, anchored out a distance from the stone plateau which was the endpoint of the rope bridge which led up to the cliffs. It didn't surprise him; he walked to the bridge. It was a caravel. When he came to the plateau, a rowboat came out to him. There within, was a man in a red cloak who gestured for the young lord to join him. He stepped over the side of the boat and within. He didn't slip, even though the rock and boat were coated in water.
They went back to the caravel and he met them all.
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