"No. There are bad memories there. Magic wakes magic. Let them sleep. I think . . . I shall come with you to London. There is one I know who will help. He won't like it, but he will will help." help."

"Mayhap I maun be coming, too," said Bradachin with an air of reluctance that deceived no one.

It was left to Fern to dissuade him. "You are a house-goblin," she said. "Your duty is here, with the house. Anyway, there has to be someone to keep an eye on the place. As Ragginbone said, too much has happened here in the past, and . . . trouble wakens trouble. As I turned into Yarrowdale, a car nearly hit me. It was coming straight at me-I had to swerve onto the verge to avoid it-and whatever was driving it wasn't human. Morgus is not our only problem: the Old Spirit has more reason than ever to hate us. He's He's always preferred to seek me out here, away from civilization. If there are any developments, I can get a message to you." Wisely, she gave him no time to argue. "You can use the telephone?" always preferred to seek me out here, away from civilization. If there are any developments, I can get a message to you." Wisely, she gave him no time to argue. "You can use the telephone?"

"Ay, but-"

"Good. When magic fails, there is always technology." She turned to include the former wizard, pushing the discussion past the danger point. "What do you make of this business with the tree?"

"It is . . . disturbing," Ragginbone admitted. "I am wondering if she has brought a cutting from the Eternal Tree out of its native dimension into the real world. I do not know what would happen if one did. It might wither instantly, unable to bear the pressure of Time and life. Or-"

"The Eternal Tree exists in stasis," Fern said. "It has enormous power-a kind of treeish hunger-I felt that-but it couldn't couldn't grow any more, it couldn't reach out any farther. It was trapped in timelessness, in a cycle that went nowhere. When I bore the-the fruit here I was told it would rot far more quickly: that is the nature of fruit. And it was seedless. But maybe if you brought something living into this world-something with the potential for growth . . ." grow any more, it couldn't reach out any farther. It was trapped in timelessness, in a cycle that went nowhere. When I bore the-the fruit here I was told it would rot far more quickly: that is the nature of fruit. And it was seedless. But maybe if you brought something living into this world-something with the potential for growth . . ."

"It would grow," Ragginbone said somberly. "As a theory, it is all too viable. Bring here a twig, a leaf, a toadstool, a blade of gra.s.s. The pulse of the Tree is in it, and the restraints of its usual environment are removed. On reflection, perhaps that is what caused the great birds who roost there-the owls, the raptors, the eagle, and the roc-to far outgrow their everyday cousins. They fly between worlds, and the Tree's hunger is in their blood. It is not a comfortable thought. But Morgus must plant her sapling: it will need earth and water, sunlight and shade. It cannot take root in the air or flourish in a silken shroud."

"And have ye asked yoursel," Bradachin interjected, "if sic a tree grew in this this world, what kind o' apples wid it be bearing?" world, what kind o' apples wid it be bearing?"

"That," said Ragginbone dryly, "was the question I was trying to avoid."

That night Fern slept little, troubled by a confusion of dreams. She saw the Dark Tower where Azmordis ruled in the city, and the same tower on a barren plain-it was stone now, and ruinous, but she knew it was the same-and eager tendrils came groping through the fractured walls, twining themselves around and around it until the tower was a great tree, and a million leaves unfurled, choking the sky. And there there was a single fruit, swelling, ripening, till it became a living head, with features that at first she did not recognize. (The heads of the dead grow like apples on the Eternal Tree, until they are plucked, or fall and rot, and the wild hog devours them. All who have done evil must hang a season there . . . ) And then the eyelids split, and the lips parted, and she knew herself. was a single fruit, swelling, ripening, till it became a living head, with features that at first she did not recognize. (The heads of the dead grow like apples on the Eternal Tree, until they are plucked, or fall and rot, and the wild hog devours them. All who have done evil must hang a season there . . . ) And then the eyelids split, and the lips parted, and she knew herself.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Penance," said the head. "For all that I did, and all that I did not do. For the friend I failed, and the love I forgot, and the blood on my burned hand, and the blood on the hand that was whole."

"The blood I shed with my burned hand has risen up against me," Fern said. "My other hand is clean."

"Not for long," said the head.

"What friend have I failed? Tell me!"

"Search your heart."

"I did not forget my love!"

"Search your head."

The scene changed, and she was back in Atlantis, the golden city in the Forbidden Past-Atlantis before the Fall. When she was sixteen she had been there, and loved and lost, and won and failed, and drowned in the great storm and crawled up on a beach of stars somewhere beyond the end of s.p.a.ce. And she had known ever since that nothing would fill her like Atlantis: no sight, no scent, no place, no love. But it was long, long ago, many thousand lifetimes to all but her, and when the dream showed her her love-her Raf-climbing out of the fountain, shaking the water drops from his hair, his face was a blur, and all she remembered was the sudden brightness of his smile, and the tooth missing in his lower jaw. She cried out: "My heart does not forget!" but he did not hear her, and when she turned there was the head again, smiling her own smile, and it rotted and shriveled before her eyes, and the wild pig came raging through the undergrowth . . .

She woke to absolute stillness, so that even her pulse seemed to have stopped. She got up and went to the window, but there was nothing outside save the night. Not an owl hooted. She stood there for some while, feeling herself menaced, knowing her enemy was neither near nor far, and watchful, and wore many faces.

The Tree grows faster now, in the soil of Logrez. Once, I could encircle the trunk with my fingers, but it thickens daily, quivering at the contact of my clasping hand. I have watched the leaves reaching for the evening sunlight, and seen how the sap glows like bright blood when the dimming light reaches back. Whoever built the original conservatory was a fool, situating it so that it faces north, occluded by the nearby wood; but it suits my purposes. I did not dare plant the Tree outdoors: it could gorge itself on too much light and air, and grow beyond containment. After so long outside Time, in a dimension where the light was spun from its own thought and the air was its stale breath, I know the risks of exposing it to the stimulus of reality. It will not flower, or if it does, flower and leaf are too much alike for the observer to differentiate, but it will will fruit, it must fruit. I have given it all my love, and it must give me issue-whatever that issue may be. fruit, it must fruit. I have given it all my love, and it must give me issue-whatever that issue may be.

I sent the nightmares to the prisoner three nights ago. Nehemet sat watching while I heated the cauldron, adding two drops of the precious sap to a recipe as old as evil. She was so still she might have been a ceramic statue, clumsily painted so the clay tone showed through the thin coating of black and white. Her skin looked smooth and matte, wrinkling around the joints, like human skin. Her ugliness fascinates me. Perhaps because it is hairless her face has a kind of bony intensity that you normally see only in the primates: something close to expression, which is rare in any beast. But I am not yet sure what Nehemet's expression may mean.

I poured my thoughts into the cauldron, and saw the mixture heave and sink, taking their shape, dissolving, re-forming, until at last they streamed upward in a column of black fume, pa.s.sing through ceiling and floor, through brick barrier and spell barrier, seeking their victim. He did not cry out, not then. He is strong in a crude, primitive way, even as the Stone men were strong-strong to withstand weather and disease, hardy hunters, brutal lovers. And he is intelligent; if he were not, there would be no satisfaction in tormenting him. When I went to him tonight I could hear him moaning from the stairwell, but as soon as he saw me he was silent. The nightmares clung to him, crawling over him, close as a miasma, insubstantial as smoke. They probed with shadow fingers through flesh and bone, twisting the eyeb.a.l.l.s in his sockets, the visions in his head. Red tears ran down his face, streaking the moonscape of pitted skin and jagged skull. I drew nearer, watching, riveted, as he writhed and wept. And then he jackknifed, for an instant-a second-shaking off his incubi, lunging for me with one huge fist. His strength was such that the spell barrier throbbed and sang at the blow, but it held, throwing him backward, and even as he fell the nightmares were on him again.

"Shall I call them off?" I asked him when I had studied him awhile. "Would you plead with me-would you beg beg me-to call them off?" me-to call them off?"

He made no answer, save for the stifled grunts of suffering.

"There is a small task you can do for me," I said. "Agree, and I will give you a respite-for a little time. For the duration of your task, at least." He knew I would not let him go. But he must have hope, or he will not endure. I will give him neither the labor of life nor the freedom of death, but I will offer offer both, and let him grasp at them in vain, and see his bitterness when he is left always empty. both, and let him grasp at them in vain, and see his bitterness when he is left always empty.

I have many uses for him, and he shall serve my purposes, even while I feed off his pain.

"Will you accept my task?" I murmured, in a voice softer than the rasp of his breathing. "For an atom of quiet, a moment of deliverance? You have no other chance. She She will not remember you. You were a p.a.w.n in her plans, a mere dupe, to be discarded when you had done your part. I alone have never abandoned you-and I never will. My child . . . my blood . . . Do not gnaw yourself in anger: I will have vengeance for us both. Her soft small face will not look so fair when I am done with it. Do not fear . . ." will not remember you. You were a p.a.w.n in her plans, a mere dupe, to be discarded when you had done your part. I alone have never abandoned you-and I never will. My child . . . my blood . . . Do not gnaw yourself in anger: I will have vengeance for us both. Her soft small face will not look so fair when I am done with it. Do not fear . . ."

In the end, he agreed. But it was a gradual end, long and slow in the coming, and I tasted every drop of his anguish, sweet as wine on the tongue. At last I ordered the nightmares to withdraw, sending them back to the empty cauldron that waited in the bas.e.m.e.nt below. Later, I would melt them down, remake them in some other form. He was slumped against the wall, dumb now, mine to command. The sweat lay on him like slime and his own dirt befouled the floor.

"You are a mere beast," I said, "but a beast with brain-or brain enough for my needs. There is something I want-from the Eternal Tree."

I saw the flicker in his eyes as he glimpsed a chance of escape. But it died swiftly: he knew I would not be that careless.

"You will be released," I told him, smiling, mocking. "You will go freely from here, and freely return. If not . . . well, I shall put a spell on you, so the nightmares will find you, wherever you hide, and then they will never let you go. No hole will be small enough to conceal you, no shadow dark enough. Do you understand?"

He did not nod or speak, but his silence was a.s.sent.

"Then go to the Tree. You know the way. You explored all the paths of the ancient Underworld long ago, creeping like a thief through the caverns of legend. You have no soul to lose; you may sneak where others would not venture. On the Tree the heads are ripening. The one I want should be there now. She may not look as you remember-in the early season the heads are mostly still young, though they age fast-but you will know her, she will tell you her name. Bring me my coven sister Sysselore, who was Syrce the enchantress . . . We were together so long, I would not be without her. Even in death I want her to see my triumph, and envy me."

"She will rot in days," he said harshly. "Maybe in hours."

"Fool! Do you doubt me still? I can brew a potion that will keep an apple as crisp as the instant it was picked-for months, even years. I will pickle the head in h.e.l.l-broth, and it will stay sweet and firm for as long as I require. But carry her back quickly: those who die old are swiftest to degenerate."

"And then?" he asked, unable to exclude the faintest note of desperation-half hope, half fear-from his voice.

I smiled at him-for is he not my son?-savoring his illusions, toying with his trapped mind, his pliant emotions. "Then we shall see."

Later, when I opened the barrier, I marked him with the sigil Agares, the symbol of Finding. The acid burned deep into his skin, but though he hissed and sweated, he could not move until the brand was fixed. To remove it, he would have to flay his own brow to the bone.

"Return promptly," I whispered, "lest I become impatient." Then I let him go.

Tomorrow, there will be other matters. I must begin the search for her her. When the moon is at the full, I will prepare the circle.

"We should wait for the full moon," said Ragginbone. "The circle is more powerful at that time."

"We can't wait," Fern said tensely. "Morgus won't be content with collecting souls. Her Gift is formidable, and the strength of the Eternal Tree is in her. I must know what she's doing."

"Remember, she won't yet have realized that you know she's alive. You are young and inexperienced: by using the circle, you may betray yourself. I don't want to damage your confidence-"

"I haven't any," Fern interrupted, unsmiling. She was driving as they talked, and she did not take her eyes off the road.

"All I'm saying is that everyone makes mistakes. The more powerful the individual, the greater their capacity for error. Morgus has already shown her hand by what she did to this girl: her ego gives her away. So we have a slight advantage, a sliver of time. Full moon is in a few days. Don't slip up through impatience."

"I want to get on with it," Fern said baldly, "because I am afraid."

"Fear is healthy, but you should not let it guide you. In the conflict to come, the main responsibility may rest with you-though we cannot be sure of that-but you have friends and allies, known and unknown, and you must have faith in them. Even in Atlantis, among strangers, you found help. There is always help, if your intentions are good. Or so I like to believe. Don't try to take the whole burden on yourself."

"Last time, Will and Gaynor were in danger," Fern reminded him. "I couldn't bear it if they were hurt, or-or killed."

"The choice is not yours," Ragginbone retorted seriously.

There was a pause while the banks of the motorway rolled past, a bridge arced over them, a lorry roared by in the middle lane, going too fast.

"When I killed Morgus," Fern said suddenly, "I mean, when I thought I did-it was unreal. I was pure spirit, detached from my body, trapped in the otherworld. A world where myths come true. I cut a head from the Tree and brought it back here. It was only when I saw the head in the context of reality that I felt horror. Under the Tree-in the caverns of Hel-everything was like a dream. My feelings were vivid, often intense, but not quite . . . normal. Since then, there have been moments when I have told myself: I killed I killed. I killed a fellow human being-even if she was a psychotic witch queen with her mind stuck in the Dark Ages and her ambition fixed on an improbable future. It was only bearable because of the unreality factor: I never actually had to come to terms with it. I don't know if I can do it again. Here. In the real world. I don't know if I can kill her. I don't know if I can kill her."

"You may not have to," said Ragginbone, and there was gentleness in his gaze, though she did not see it. "Don't waste time agonizing. Right now, you should worry more about whether she she will kill will kill you you."

"That makes me feel better," said Fern.

More motorway streamed beneath them; huge blue or green signs warned of approaching exits, distance from London, the next gas station or eatery. From time to time long rows of cones sprang up with apparently no other function than to congest the traffic flow. Reality, Ragginbone reflected, was every bit as strange as the surreal dimensions that clung around the edge.

Several miles later Fern resumed: "Where do you think I should do it?"

"Do what?" asked Ragginbone, emerging from temporary abstraction.

"The circle."

"Ah . . ."

"I thought of my flat, but there's a fitted carpet and anyway, even if you pushed back all the furniture there wouldn't be a lot of s.p.a.ce. How big does the circle have to be?"

"Big enough," said Ragginbone unhelpfully. "If it's too small you will constrict the magic and it could burst the boundary or even explode. Besides, you need to maintain a safe distance between you and whomever-or whatever-you summon. The perimeter of the circle is your security. Too small, and the spell is overconcentrated. Too large, and it becomes stretched, so you cannot sustain it. That may have been why the circle Alimond made in your old barn all those years ago broke so easily. It was too big for her power."

"We should have done it at Dale House," said Fern. "I can't think of anywhere else large enough. We may have to rent a studio or something."

"Possibly," said Ragginbone. "However . . . there's a place I know that would be suitable. If I can persuade the owner."

Fern considered this. "Who is is the owner?" she inquired suspiciously. the owner?" she inquired suspiciously.

"He is Gifted-after a fashion. A street wizard, a potion peddler . . . There were many like him once. They drew horoscopes, and sold love philters, and checked the auguries for one side or both before history's forgotten skirmishes. Those with real power lived until they grew weary and then pa.s.sed the Gate. Some had their throats cut in dark alleyways by whoever lost the latest skirmish, or choked on their own potions, or were tortured for secrets they did not possess. Religious organizations accounted for a good few. But this one . . . well, I think you could say he got stuck. Stuck in the past, more than four hundred years ago, but existing in the present. Out of sight, out of date, out of touch. He shut himself away from the world in his hermit's cave, and he never leaves. Or so he claims. Food is delivered and therefore presumably paid for, though heaven knows how. The building was reconstructed above him about a century ago, but he has spells enough to hide himself from the hapless and the curious. He says he has no contact with either witchkind or werefolk, but I'm not sure if I believe that. It may be wishful thinking on his part."

"He sees you," Fern pointed out. "Evidently."

"Reluctantly," Ragginbone amended. "He can be useful. He did me a favor when you were last in trouble. And I would not like him to be used by the wrong people."

"You mean," Fern translated, "you used him, but you don't want him doing any favors for anyone else."

Ragginbone smiled his appreciation, but did not answer.

"So where is this hermitage of his?" Fern demanded. "A desolate moor-a Welsh mountainside-a gloomy forest-if there is any gloomy forest left in this country, which I doubt."

"It's in the jungle," said Ragginbone.

"The jungle jungle?"

"The urban jungle. Lost in the crowd-the easiest place to lose yourself in the modern world. He has one bas.e.m.e.nt in an underground warren, one door among a million doors. In the country, people peer and question; in the city, who cares? Who notices?"

Fern said: "You mean he's in London London?"

"Soho," said Ragginbone.

In Soho, anything can happen. There are strange secret bars that only open at three in the morning, clubs that switch their decor and their names every couple of months, people who change their ident.i.ties, their faces, their s.e.x. Buildings interconnect, with rooftop escape routes and hidden pa.s.sageways. Subterranean kitchens steam and bubble. s.e.x shops and strip shows are available alongside the smartest restaurants, the coolest dives. In what was currently the most fashionable nightclub in town, Luc Walgrim was dancing. Most Englishmen dance badly: they are too inhibited, too protective of their machismo; they think dancing is for women and gays. But Luc was an exception. His style was deliberately restrained, his slow, snaky movements met the rhythm of the music at every other beat, his expression was that of someone whose mind was far away. His partner, intrigued, writhed closer, and then, when that expression did not alter, writhed away again. Luc did not notice. He felt alienated, out of place, not merely because it was Sat.u.r.day night and he was sober-he had been drinking steadily but without apparent effect, and had achieved that state of black, illusory sobriety in which too many people think they are capable of driving a car. The wall on one side was all mirror, and for a moment, catching the reflection of the gyrating crowd, he thought he saw a carnival of dancers with animal heads, not masks but real animals, with red tongues and whiteless eyes . . . He looked for his own face, and it was gray and vulpine, fang toothed and point eared. He turned away and moved back toward the bar, trying to talk to friends, mouth to ear, against the clamor of the music, but all he could hear of their answers was braying, cackling, screeching. He ordered a c.o.c.ktail from a barman who looked suddenly like a donkey, thinking rather too late that he had been unwise to stick with the absinthe.

Without conscious effort he found himself picturing Fern Capel appearing on the far side of the room, walking toward him. It was impossible to imagine her with the head of a beast; even on such short acquaintance, he sensed that she was always only herself. Yet he had very little idea who that self really was. He visualized her moving among the frenetic dancers with still, quiet purpose; the strobe lighting did not touch her; her face was isolated in its own pallor. Her lips parted and he knew she spoke, though he could not hear what she said. Then the image dissolved into the melee of the nightclub, and there were the animals again, making their animal noises, jerking their human limbs in a clumsy fandango. He called out, or thought he did-Help me-and there was a whisper in his head, louder than the surrounding cacophony: "Come with me." It took all the self-discipline he could muster not to run from the club.

Outside, he went where his feet took him. Past the statue of Eros, along Piccadilly, across Hyde Park Corner and on to Knightsbridge. The traffic was scarcer now, the beggars were asleep. Cabs curb-crawled suggestively at his heels, but he waved them away. In a doorway, he saw someone huddled in a blanket, moaning, but when he bent over hesitantly, she stared at him with glazed eyes and said she was fine. She may be dead by morning, he thought, and I can do nothing. Or she may be alive, and looking for another fix of whatever she is fixed on, and I can still do nothing. My sister's body lies in a hospital ward, and I have done nothing. He had found her teddy bear that day and laid it beside her, telling the nurses not to remove it. They indulged him. His father had not been to see Dana for nearly three weeks. Anger, frustration, guilt, despair had all gone cold inside him, and now the absinthe filled his mind with phantoms.

He was approaching his father's Knightsbridge home. It loomed over him in all its pale elegance, teetering above porch and pillar, slices of yellow light showing between half-drawn curtains. He was dimly aware that it was very late, surely too late for Kaspar, who rarely kept such hours. The front door opened inward and Luc retreated, moving from shadow to shadow, sheltering behind a gatepost. A woman came out wrapped in a full-length velvet evening cloak, black or some very dark color; his father followed. At least, he a.s.sumed it was his father, but he could not be sure, because the man had the head of a dog-a lean hound's head with dumb, obedient eyes. The woman's face was invisible, hidden in the lee of her hood. A car that must have been parked farther along the road drew up beside them, silent as smoke; the man opened the car door. The woman turned to say goodnight, and Luc saw under the hood.

He had been expecting some kind of cat, domestic or wild, a chocolate-tipped Siamese or a mottled ocelot. But the face beneath the hood belonged to neither animal nor human. The eyes were enormous, staring, deep as midnight; the skin shriveled against the skull. There was no nose, only two holes like pits set just above the mouth. The shrunken lips drew back from a ragged array of teeth. Even in his bemused condition Luc reeled, knocking his temple against the post, stifling an oath before it could escape. The woman got into the car. His father closed the door and stood watching while it drove away; then he went back inside the house. Luc slid to the ground and rested his brow on his hands, fighting in vain for some kind of clarity.

Fern telephoned his flat as soon as she returned to London. "h.e.l.lo," said the machine. "This is Luc. Leave a message, and I may get back to you." It did not sound promising. She considered trying his mobile, but guessed he was at the hospital and it would be better not to disturb him. Instead, while Ragginbone went off on affairs of his own, she decided to marshal her troops. One particular meeting was long overdue.

"Oh," Gaynor said rather lamely. "I didn't expect to see you."

"Nor I you," said Will.

"I knew, if I told you, you'd create difficulties." Fern addressed the two of them impartially. "I've had enough of this idiocy. Sit down. I got you to come here because I need you-both of you. Ragginbone says I should accept help, and you-" she looked at Gaynor "-said you were already a part of this, and you-" she turned to Will "-well, you always have been. According to Gaynor, you're my team, so behave like one. You have to work together. Talking to each other would be a start."

"I never stopped talking to Gaynor," Will said, with only a trace element of frigidity. "I simply haven't had the opportunity to do so-for quite some time."

"I'm in the book," Gaynor said before she could stop herself.

"I didn't know I was supposed to telephone you," Will responded evenly. "Somehow, that wasn't quite the message that came across."

"I didn't mean-"

"You ran off in such a hurry, you forgot to leave me your number."