The King of Dreams had skin as pale as the winter moon and hair as black as a raven's wings, and his eyes were pools of night inside which distant stars glittered and burned. His robe was the colour of night, and flames and faces appeared in the base of it and were gone. He began to speak in a voice that was gentle, yet soft as silk. You are welcome in this place, he said in words that the monk heard inside his head. But you should not be here.