The touch of a human hand, the sound of a voice, had awakened Simon to his terrible pain once more. The pa.s.sing hours or days or weeks-he had long since given up trying to mark time-had begun to smear into a gradually increasing nothingness; he had been floating in fog, drifting slowly away from the lights of home. Now he was back again, and suffering.

The wheel turned. Sometimes, when all the forge chamber's torches were lit, he saw masked, soot-blackened men hustling past him, but none ever spoke to him. Inch's helpers brought him water with excruciating infrequency, and did not waste words on him when they did. On a few occasions he even saw the huge overseer standing silently, watching as the wheel bore Simon around. Strangely, Inch did not seem interested in gloating: he came only to inspect Simon's misery, as a householder might pause to mark the progress of his vegetable garden while on the way to some other duty.

The pain in Simon's limbs and belly was so constant that he could not remember what it was like to feel any other way. It rolled through him as though his body were only a sack to contain it-a sack being tossed from hand to hand by careless laborers. With each rotation of the wheel, the pain rushed to Simon's head until it seemed his skull would burst, then pushed through his empty, aching guts to lodge in his feet once more, so that'it seemed he stood on blazing coals.

Neither did the hunger go away. It was a gentler companion than the agony of his limbs, but still a dull and unceasing hurt. He could feel himself becoming less with every revolution-less human, less alive, less interested into holding onto whatever made him Simon. Only a dim flame of vengefulness, and an even dimmer spark of hope that someday he might come home to his friends, kept him clinging to the remains of his life.

I am Simon, he told himself until it was hard to remember what that meant. he told himself until it was hard to remember what that meant. I won't let them take that. I am Simon. I won't let them take that. I am Simon.

The wheel turned. He turned with it.

Guthwulf did not return to speak to him. Once, as he floated in a haze of misery, Simon felt the person who gave him water touch his face, but he could not move his lips to make a sound of inquiry. If it was the blind man, he did not stay.

Even as Simon felt himself shrinking away to nothingness, the forge chamber 'seemed to grow larger. Like the vision the glowing speck had shown him, it seemed opened to the entire world-or rather, it seemed that the world had collapsed in upon the foundry, so that often Simon felt himself to be in many different places at the same moment.

He felt himself trapped upon the empty, snow-chilled heights, burning with the dragon's blood. The scar upon his face was a searing agony. Something had touched him there, and changed him. He would never be the same.

Below the forge, but also inside Simon, Asu'a stirred. The crumbled stone shivered and bloomed anew, gleaming like the walls of Heaven. Whispering shadows became golden-eyed, laughing ghosts. Ghosts become Sithi, hot with life. Music as delicately beautiful as dew-spotted spiderwebs stretched through the resurrected halls.

A great red streak climbed into the sky above Green Angel Tower. The heavens surrounded it, but the other stars seemed only timid witnesses.

And a great storm rolled down out of the north, a whirling blackness that vomited wind and lightning and turned everything beneath it to ice, leaving only dead, silent whiteness in its wake.

Like a man floundering in a whirlpool, Simon felt himself at the center of powerful currents with no strength to alter them. He was a prisoner of the wheel. The world was turning toward some mighty, calamitous change, but Simon could not even lift his hand to his burning face.

"Simon."

The fog was so thick he could not see. Gray blankness surrounded him. Who called him? Couldn't they see he needed to sleep? If he waited, the voice would go away. Everyone went away if he waited long enough.

"Simon. " The voice was insistent. " The voice was insistent.

He did not want voices any more. He wanted nothing except to go back to sleep, a dreamless, endless sleep....

"Simon. Look at me. " "

Something was moving in the grayness. He did not care. Why couldn't the voice leave him be? "Go away. "Go away. " "

"Look at me, Simon. See me, Simon. You must reach out. " "

He tried to shut out the troubling presence, but something inside him had been awakened by its voice. He looked into the emptiness.

"Can you see me?"

"No. I want to sleep."

"Not yet, Simon. There are things you must do. You will have your rest someday-but not today. Please, Simon, look!"

The moving something took on a more definite form. A face, sad and beautiful, yet lifeless, hovered before him. Something like wings or flowing garments moved around it, barely distinct from the gray.

"Do you see me?"

"Yes."

"Who am I?"

"You're the angel. From the tower."

"No. But that doesn't matter. " The angel moved closer. Simon could see the discolorations on her weathered The angel moved closer. Simon could see the discolorations on her weathered bronze skin. "I suppose it is good you can see me at all. I have been waiting for you to come close enough. I hope you can still get back. " bronze skin. "I suppose it is good you can see me at all. I have been waiting for you to come close enough. I hope you can still get back. "

"I don't understand." The words were too difficult. He wanted only to let go, to float back into uncaring, to sleep.... The words were too difficult. He wanted only to let go, to float back into uncaring, to sleep....

"You must understand, Simon. You must. There are many things I must show you, and I have only a little time left. "

"Show me?"

"Things are different here. I cannot simply tell you. This place is not like the world. "

"This place?" He labored to make sense. "What place is this?"

"It is ... beyond. There is no other word."

A faint memory came to him. "The Dream Road?"

"Not exactly: that road travels along the edge of these fields, and even to the borders of the place where I will soon go. But enough of this. We have little time. " The angel seemed to float away from him. The angel seemed to float away from him. "Follow me. "Follow me."

"I . . . . . . I can't." I can't."

"You did before. Follow me."

The angel receded. Simon did not want her to go. He was so lonely. Suddenly, he was with her.

"You see, " she she said. "Ah, Simon, I waited so long for this place said. "Ah, Simon, I waited so long for this place-to be here all the time! It is wonderful! I am free!"

He wondered what the angel meant, but he had no strength for more riddles. "Where are we going?" "Where are we going?"

"Not where, but when. You know that." The angel seemed to give off a sort of joy; if she had been a flower, Simon thought, she would have been standing in a patch of sunlight, surrounded by bees. The angel seemed to give off a sort of joy; if she had been a flower, Simon thought, she would have been standing in a patch of sunlight, surrounded by bees. "It was so terrible those other times when I had to go back. I was only happy here. I tried to tell you that once, but you could not hear me. " "It was so terrible those other times when I had to go back. I was only happy here. I tried to tell you that once, but you could not hear me. "

"I don't understand. "

"Of course. You have never heard my voice until now. Never my own voice, that is. You heard hers. "

There were no words, Simon realized suddenly. He and the angel were not speaking as people spoke; rather, she seemed to give him her ideas and they found a home in his head. When she talked of "her," of the other whose voice he had heard, he did not perceive it as a word, but as a feeling of a protecting, holding, loving, but still somehow dangerous, female.

"Who is 'her'?"

"She has gone on ahead, " the angel said, as though he had asked a completely different question. " the angel said, as though he had asked a completely different question. "Soon I will join her. But I had to wait for you. Simon. It doesn't bother me, though. I am happy here. I'm just glad I didn't have to go back. "Soon I will join her. But I had to wait for you. Simon. It doesn't bother me, though. I am happy here. I'm just glad I didn't have to go back. " Simon felt "back" as a trapped, hurting " Simon felt "back" as a trapped, hurting place. "Even before, when I first came here, I never wanted to go back ... but she always made me." place. "Even before, when I first came here, I never wanted to go back ... but she always made me."

Before he could question further-before he could even decide whether, in this strange dream, he wanted wanted to question further-Simon found himself in the tunnels of Asu'a. A familiar scene spread before him-the fair-haired man, the torch, the spear, the great glittering to question further-Simon found himself in the tunnels of Asu'a. A familiar scene spread before him-the fair-haired man, the torch, the spear, the great glittering something something that lay just beyond the archway. that lay just beyond the archway.

"What is this?"

"Watch. It is your story-or part of it. "

The spearman took a step forward, every inch of him aquiver with fearful expectation. The great beast did not move. Its red claw lay curled on the ground just a few paces before his feet.

Simon wondered if the beast slept. His own scar, or the memory of it, stung him.

Run away, man, he thought. he thought. A dragon is more than you can know. Run away! A dragon is more than you can know. Run away!

The spearman took another cautious step, then stopped. Simon was suddenly closer, looking into the wide chamber as though he saw through the eyes of the golden-haired man. What he saw was at first hard to take in.

The room was huge, with a ceiling that stretched up beyond the limits of the torchflame. The walls had been blasted and melted by great fires.

It's the forge, Simon realized. Simon realized. Or that's what it is now. This must be the past. Or that's what it is now. This must be the past.

The dragon lay sprawled across the cavern floor, red-gold, as though the countless scales mirrored the torchlight. It was larger than a house, its tail a seemingly endless coil of looping flesh. Great wings stretched from its haunches to the elongated spurs behind its front claws. It was magnificent and terrifying in a way that even the ice-dragon Igjarjuk had not been. And it was completely and utterly dead.

The spearman stared. Simon, floating in a dream, stared.

"Do you see?" the angel whispered. the angel whispered. "The dragon was dead." "The dragon was dead."

The spearman took a step forward to prod the inert claw with his spear. Rea.s.sured, he moved into the great chamber of melted stone.

Something pale lay beneath the dragon's breast.

"It's a skeleton, Simon whispered. Simon whispered. "A person's skeleton." "A person's skeleton."

"Hush, the angel said in his ear. the angel said in his ear. "Watch. This is your story. "Watch. This is your story. " "

"What do you mean?"

The spearman moved toward the pile of white bones, his fingers tracing the sign of the Tree in the air. The shadow of his hand leaped across the wall. He leaned close, still moving slowly and stealthily, as though any moment the dragon might suddenly roar back to life-but the man, like Simon, could see the ragged holes where the dragon's eyes had been, the withered, blackened tongue that lolled from the gaping mouth.

The man reached down and reverently touched the human skull that lay beside the dragon's breastbone like a pearl from a broken necklace. The rest of the bones were scattered close by. They were blackened and warped. Looking at them, Simon suddenly remembered Igjarjuk's scalding blood, and felt a pang of sadness for the poor wretch who had slain this creature and received his own death. For slain it he had, it seemed; the only bones which still hung together were a forearm and hand, and they were wrapped around the hilt of a sword driven nearly to the hilt in the dragon's belly.

The spearman stared at this odd sight for a long time, then at last lifted his head, looking wildly around the cavern as though in fear someone might be watching. His face was somber, but his eyes gleamed feverishly. In that instant Simon almost recognized him, but the grayness of his thoughts was not entirely dispersed; when the fair-haired man turned back to the skeleton, the recognition faded.

The man dropped his spear and detached the skeletal hand from the sword's hilt with trembling care. One of the fingers broke loose. The man held it for a moment, his expression unreadable, then kissed the bone and tucked it into his shirt. When the hilt was freed, the man put his torch down on the stone, then took the sword in a firm grip. He placed his boot against the dragon's arching breastbone and pulled. Muscles rippled on his arms and cords stood out in his neck, but the sword did not come free. He rested for a moment, then spat on his palms and gripped the sword again. At last it slid out, leaving a puckered hole between the gleaming red scales.

The man lifted the sword before him, his eyes wide. At first Simon thought the blade a simple, almost crude piece of work, but its lines were clean and graceful beneath the char of dragon's blood. The man regarded it with an admiration so frank that it was almost greedy, then lowered it abruptly and looked around again, as though still afraid someone might be watching. He picked up the torch and began to move back toward the chamber's arched doorway, but stopped to stare at the dragon's leg and clawed front foot. After a long moment's consideration, he kneeled and began sawing away with the blackened sword at the leg's narrowest point, just in front of the wing-spur.

It was hard labor, but the man was young and powerfully built. As he worked, he looked up anxiously, staring into the shadows of the vast room as though a thousand scornful eyes were watching him. Sweat was trickling down his face and limbs. He seemed possessed, as though some wild spirit had taken hold of him; when he had sawed almost halfway through the thing he suddenly stood and began hacking with the sword, smashing at the arm with blow after blow until bits of tissue spun away on all sides. Simon, still a helpless but fascinated observer, saw that the man's eyes were full of tears, that his youthful face was contorted in a grimace of pain and horror.

Finally the last of the flesh parted and the claw rolled free. Shivering like a terrified child, the man shoved the sword through his belt, then hefted the huge claw up onto his shoulder as though it were a side of beef. His face still full of misery, he staggered out of the chamber and disappeared up the tunnel.

"He felt the Sithi ghosts," the angel whispered to him. Simon had been -so caught up in the man's private torment that he was startled by her voice. the angel whispered to him. Simon had been -so caught up in the man's private torment that he was startled by her voice. "He felt them shame him for his lie. " "He felt them shame him for his lie. "

"I don't understand. " Something was tickling his memory, but he had been in the gray for so long.... " Something was tickling his memory, but he had been in the gray for so long.... "What was that? And who was the other one-the skeleton, the one who killed the dragon?" "What was that? And who was the other one-the skeleton, the one who killed the dragon?"

"That is part of your story, Simon." And suddenly the cavern was gone and they were in nothingness once more. And suddenly the cavern was gone and they were in nothingness once more. "There is much still to show you ... and there is very little time. " "There is much still to show you ... and there is very little time. "

"But I don't understand!"

"Then we must go deeper still. "

The gray wavered, then dissolved into another of the visions that had come to him in sleep upon the Tan'ja Stairs.

A large room opened before him. A few candles made all the light, and shadows hung in the corners. The room's sole occupant sat in a high-backed chair at the room's center, surrounded by a scatter of books and scrolls.

Simon had glimpsed this person during his stairwell dream. As in that earlier vision, the man sat in the chair with a book spread open in his lap. He was past middle age, but in his calm, thoughtful features there still remained a trace of the child he had once been, an innocent sweetness only slightly diminished by a long hard life. His hair had mostly gone to gray, although it still held darker streaks and much of his short beard remained light brown. He wore a circlet on his brow. His clothes, though simple in form, were well-made and of good cloth.

As with the man in the dragon's lair, Simon felt a twinge of recognition. Before the dream, he had never seen this person-yet, in some way, he knew him.

The man looked up from his reading as two other figures entered the room. One, an old woman with her white hair caught up in a ragged scarf, came forward and kneeled at the man's feet. He put his book aside, then stood and gave the woman his hand to help her up. After saying a few words that Simon could not hear-as with the dragon-dream, all these shapes seemed voiceless and remote-the man walked across the chamber and squatted beside the old woman's companion, a little girl of seven or eight years. She had been crying: her eyes were puffy and her lip trembled with anger or fright. She avoided the. man's gaze, pulling fitfully at her reddish hair. She, too, wore simple clothing, an unadorned dark dress, but despite her disarray she looked well cared for. Her feet were bare.

At last the man reached out his arms for her. She hesitated, then flung herself at him and buried her face against his chest, crying. Tears came to the man as well, and he held her for a long time, stroking her back. At last, with clear reluctance, he let her go and stood. The girl ran from the room. The man watched her go, then turned to the old woman. Without saying another word, he slipped a thin golden ring from his finger and gave it to her; she nodded and wrapped her fingers around it as he leaned down and kissed her forehead. She bowed to him; then, as if her own composure was fast slipping, she turned and hurried away.

After a long moment the man walked to a book-covered chest that lay beside the wall, opened it, and withdrew a sheathed sword. Simon recognized it immediately: he had seen that spa.r.s.ely decorated hilt only moments before, standing in a dragon's breast. The man held the sword carefully, but did not look at it for more than a moment; instead, he c.o.c.ked his head as though he heard something. He made the Tree sign with slow deliberation, lips moving in what might have been prayer, then returned to his seat. He set the sword across his lap, then picked up his book and opened it, spreading it atop the sword. But for the set of his jaw and the faintest tremor in his fingers as he turned the pages, he might have been thinking only of a good night's sleep-but Simon knew that he was waiting for something far different.

The scene wavered and dissipated like smoke.

"Do you see? Do you understand now?" Do you understand now?" the angel asked, impatient as a child. the angel asked, impatient as a child.

Simon felt as though he groped at a large sack. Something was inside it, and he could feel strange corners and significant b.u.mps, but just when he thought he knew what it contained, his imagination failed. He had been in the gray fog a long time. Thinking was difficult-and it was hard to care.

"I don't know. Why can't you just tell me, angel?"

"It is not the way. These truths are too strong, the myths and lies around them too great. They are surrounded on all sides by walls I cannot explain, Simon. You must see them and you must understand for yourself. But this has been your story. "

His story? Simon thought again about what he had seen, but meaning seemed to slither away from him. If he could only remember what things had been like before, the names and stories he had known before the grayness surrounded him... !

"Hold to them," the angel said. "If you can get back, these truths will be of use to you. And now there is one more thing I must show you. "

"I'm tired. I don't want to see any more. " The urge for restful oblivion had returned, pulling at him like a powerful current. All he had gained from this visitor was confusion. Go back? To the world of pain? Why should he bother? Sleep was easier, the drowsy emptiness of not caring. He could just let go, and all would be so easy.... " The urge for restful oblivion had returned, pulling at him like a powerful current. All he had gained from this visitor was confusion. Go back? To the world of pain? Why should he bother? Sleep was easier, the drowsy emptiness of not caring. He could just let go, and all would be so easy....

"Simon!" There was fear in the angel's voice. There was fear in the angel's voice. "Don't! You must not give up. "Don't! You must not give up. " "

Slowly the angel's verdigrised features appeared once more. Simon wanted to ignore her, but although her face was a mask of lifeless bronze, there was something in her voice, some note of true need, that would not let him.

"Why can't I rest?"

"I have only a little while left with you, Simon. You were never near enough before. Then I must give you a push to send you back or you will wander here forever. "

"Why do you care?"