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a ramshackle graveyard of disemboweled clocks. A telescope, built by John according to accounts he’d found in a volume of Heronax, stood before the eastern window, the gnome-wrought crystal lenses pointed at the quadrant of the sky where six hundred years ago Dotys had predicted the rising of a comet at last summer’s end.
    Unerringly John picked from the disarray an onyx bottle that had once contained silver ink. Terens had described such a thing in
Deeds of Ancient Heroes
in writing of the villainous Greeth Demoncaller, who had been dismembered alive on orders of Agravaine III. John tied a red ribbon around it—
why red?
he wondered—and put it in his pocket. From a cupboard he took five new candles— marveling a little that he could find five unburned—and Volume VII of Gantering Pellus’
Encyclopedia
and finally, from the litter of the desk, a piece of black chalk.
    Gantering Pellus strongly recommended that experiments concerning demons not be conducted under roofs that would ever again shelter humans. In fact, he’d strongly recommended that such experiments not be conducted at all.
For whoso speaketh with the Spawn of Hell, even in their dreams
, the encyclopediast wrote,
is never after to be trusted in any congress with men. It is the whole art and pleasure of such wights to cause suffering. They are cunning beyond human imagining and, being deathless, will stay at nothing to avail themselves of access to the affairs of men.
    All of this, John reflected as he climbed from the tower, was true.
    As true as fever, and love, and duty, and death.
    He fought his way through the snow to his work shed. His hands could barely work the catch on the door. Drafts tore at the flame as he hung his lantern on a low rafter, shadows jittering among the bones and sinews of his larger experiments: the clockwork engine of his flying machine, the webby drape of the parachute that had cost him a week in bed with a broken collarbone the summer before last. Trying not to think of anything beyond the moment, he cleared the wheels and gears of the dragon-slaying machine away from the centerof the room and with the black chalk drew a pentagram on the dirt floor.
    Let the flame be virgin as the waxe
, the encyclopediast said of the candles. Their wobbly light threw his shape huge on the rough-cast walls. He placed the ink bottle beside him and settled himself cross-legged in the pentagram’s center, breathing deep.
    He had none of his son’s magic, none of the power Jenny had lost.
By all rights
, he thought, as the fivefold candleflame bent and shivered,
the world should have no more to fear from what I am doing than from a child’s game.
    But his heart felt as if it would break in his ribs with pounding, and his whole body was cold.
    “All right,” he said into the silence. “You win. What do you want?”
        Once on a time, staring into the fire, Jenny could have seen them.
    Seen Ian sleeping—in the room he shared with Adric? In the great bed she’d shared with John? Did Aversin sit beside his son, awake or asleep?
    Jenny closed her eyes, the ardent changefulness of the flame a color visible yet. But the images she saw in the dark of her mind were only those created by her thoughts.
    Ian sleeping, as she’d seen him sleep a thousand times.
    Low red firelight playing over the strings of her harp in its corner. Her hands were too stiff with scars now to coax music from its strings.
    John…
    Where would he be? And what would he be doing, in the wake of his son’s attempt to take his own life?
    She shivered, remembering him clinging to the spikes and horns and hammering wings of two dragons as theyfought hundreds of feet above the ground, trying to reach his son with the talismans he’d bartered his soul to get. She remembered herself riding the black dragon Morkeleb down into the sea in pursuit of Caradoc as he fled, and she saw again the distorted demon fish circling and attacking in the blue-black water as she and the