The story so far:
He moved with greater grace and purpose now, with the silvery glow almost a physical companion. His pace was quicker and more sure, although he still had no clear idea of destination. Only the path. The path he must follow at all costs. Obstacles seemed fewer now, and the sounds in his ears less sinister. And so he moved -- for how long? Hours? Days? -- with dogged determination. He matched his pace to the rhythm of his own breath. He became lost in the pattern of his own footfalls, and felt he could continue on like this forever.
He hardly noticed at first the sound that made him suddenly stop short, almost dropping the shroud itself from his shoulders. As he gathered it up again, tighter around his frame, he strained his ears in disbelief. Then, yes. He heard it again, somewhere beyond the constant low howl of the wind and rattle of the leaves.
His own name called out in mournful lament. The call was neither threatening nor urgent, but beckoning and eerily alluring. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the direction of the call. North and somehow upward. Away from the path.
His heart beat faster and he felt a sudden panic begin to take hold. The path was his only way. He knew this with a conviction as certain as his next breath. But, already, as though of its own volition, he saw that his right foot had lifted and hovered shakily over the ground just off the path. Pulling back with all his might, for it took that to regain control of his own body, he fell backward onto the path. His heart beat faster still and the cal grew louder, more sinister now.
Ander stood up and looked again at the glowing silver orb above. The sight somehow calmed him and soon his breathing became steady and sure. He dared not take his eyes from the orb, sensing somehow, that its light was spilling into his very soul, sustaining and nourishing him as well as any food and drink might do.
"Tell me what to do," he said quietly at last. "Do I follow the voice? Stay on the path? I don't know where I'm going."
Then, finally, he saw an image taking shape. Was it before him, in the air? Or in his mind's eye? He couldn't tell. But it was as clear to him as his own hand. Without knowing, he was certain the image came to him from the moon above. He trusted it at once and devoured it like a welcome drink.
He saw a tower on a hill. It was somehow old and ageless at once. Tall and built completely of stones black and gleaming. A single window at the top that surely must look out into the clouds themselves.
He knew again, without knowing, that this was his destination -- at least for now. For it seemed not to herald an ending, but a beginning of his quest.
As the image melted away, he heard again a voice, but different this time. It was the girl's voice, gentle but with a power more total than he could fathom.
"The path, Ander. Stay true to the path. It will lead you surely. There are many who would see you stray. Beware. For these are spirit folk who have much to gain if you should fail."
"How will I know them?" he asked.
"They are clever in guise and guile," the voice said. "They will tempt you at every turn. They will strike when you're heart and mind are weary. But know this: They cannot touch the path -- their existence forbids it. Stay true, Ander. Stay true to the path and all will be well. To the tower. The climb is long, but through the window you will see your next step."
Ander gathered the heavy mantle again on his shoulders and turned again to the path. Strengthened now by the moon, and spurred by the notion at last of some destination, he continued on.