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sides were the line posts, little circles representing
wooden fetish poles. Most had rotted and fallen, their spells
drooping with them. The Eternal Guard had no staff wizard capable
of restoring or replacing them.
    Within the mound proper there were symbols ranked in three
rectangles of declining size. The outermost resembled pawns, the
next knights, and the inner, elephants. The crypt of the Dominator
was surrounded by men who had given their lives to bring him down.
Ghosts were the middle line between old evil and a world capable of
recalling it. Bomanz anticipated no difficulty getting past them.
The ghosts were there, in his opinion, to discourage common grave
robbers.
    Within the three rectangles Bomanz had drawn a dragon with its
tail in its mouth. Legend said a great dragon lay curled round the
crypt, more alive than the Lady or Dominator, catnapping the
centuries away while awaiting an attempt to recall the trapped
evil.
    Bomanz had no way of coping with the dragon, but he had no need,
either. He meant to communicate with the crypt, not to open it.
    Damn! If he could only lay hands on an old Guardsman’s
amulet . . .  The early Guards had worn amulets
which had allowed them to go into the Barrowland to keep it up. The
amulets still existed, though they were no longer used. Besand wore
one. The others he kept squirreled away.
    Besand. That madman. That sadist.
    Bomanz considered the Monitor his closest acquaintance—but a
friend, never. No, never a friend. Sad commentary on his life, that
the man nearest him would be one who would jump at a chance to
torture or hang him.
    What was that about retirement? Someone outside this forsaken
forest had recalled the Barrowland?
    “Bomanz! Are you going to eat?”
    Bomanz muttered imprecations and rolled his chart.
    The Dream came that night. Something sirenic called him. He was
young again, single, strolling the lane that passed his house. A
woman waved. Who was she? He didn’t know. He didn’t
care. He loved her. Laughing, he ran toward
her . . .  Floating steps. Effort took him no
nearer. Her face saddened. She faded . . . 
“Don’t go!” he called. “Please!” But
she disappeared, and took with her his sun.
    A vast starless night devoured his dream. He floated in a
clearing within a forest unseen. Slowly, slowly, a diffuse silver
something limned the trees. A big star with a long silver mane. He
watched it grow till its tail spanned the sky.
    Twinge of uncertainty. Shadow of fear. “It’s coming
right at me!” He cringed, threw his arm across his face. The
silver ball filled the sky. It had a face. The woman’s
face . . . 
    “Bo! Stop it!” Jasmine punched him again.
    He sat up. “Uhn? What?”
    “You were yelling. That nightmare again?”
    He listened to his heart hammer, sighed. Could it take much
more? He was an old man. “The same one.” It recurred at
unpredictable intervals. “It was stronger this
time.”
    “Maybe you ought to see a dream doctor.”
    “Out here?” He snorted disgustedly. “I
don’t need a dream doctor anyway.”
    “No. Probably just your conscience. Nagging you for luring
Stancil back from Oar.”
    “I didn’t lure . . .  Go to
sleep.” To his amazement, she rolled over, for once unwilling
to pursue their squabble.
    He stared into the darkness. It had been so much clearer. Almost
too crisp and obvious. Was there a meaning hidden behind the
dream’s warning against tampering?
    Slowly, slowly, the mood of the beginning of the dream returned.
That sense of being summoned, of being but one intuitive step from
heart’s desire. It felt good. His tension drained away. He
fell asleep smiling.
     
    Besand and Bomanz stood watching Guardsmen clear the brush from
Bomanz’s site. Bomanz suddenly spat, “Don’t burn
it, you idiot! Stop him, Besand.”
    Besand shook his head. A Guard with a torch backed away from the
brush pile. “Son, you don’t burn poison ivy. The smoke
spreads the poison.”
    Bomanz was