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man, and saw an exceedingly strange thing: the thick black line of scar across the bearded man’s cheek and nose was gone. Where it had been was the pinkish red mark of a healing wound … a cut, or perhaps a slash.
    I imagined it.
    No, gunslinger, Cort’s voice returned. Such as you was not made to imagine. As you well know.
    The little bit of movement had tired him out again … or perhaps it was the thinking which had really tired him out. The singing bugs and chiming bells combined and made something too much like a lullaby to resist. This time when Roland closed his eyes, he slept.
    III. Five Sisters. Jenna. The Doctors of Eluria. The Medallion. A Promise of Silence.
    When Roland awoke again, he was at first sure that he was still sleeping. Dreaming. Having a nightmare.
    Once, at the time he had met and fallen in love with Susan Delgado, he had known a witch named Rhea—the first real witch of Mid-World he had ever met. It was she who had caused Susan’s death, although
Roland had played his own part. Now, opening his eyes and seeing Rhea not just once but five times over, he thought: This is what comes of remembering those old times. By conjuring Susan, I’ve conjured Rhea of the Coos, as well. Rhea and her sisters.
    The five were dressed in billowing habits as white as the walls and the panels of the ceiling. Their antique crones’ faces were framed in wimples just as white, their skin as gray and runneled as droughted earth by comparison. Hanging like phylacteries from the bands of silk imprisoning their hair (if they indeed had hair) were lines of tiny bells which chimed as they moved or spoke. Upon the snowy breasts of their habits was embroidered a blood red rose … the sigul of the Dark Tower. Seeing this, Roland thought: I am not dreaming. These harridans are real.
    “He wakes!” one of them cried in a gruesomely coquettish voice.
    “Oooo!”
    “Ooooh!”
    “Ah!”
    They fluttered like birds. The one in the center stepped forward, and as she did, their faces seemed to shimmer like the silk walls of the ward. They weren’t old after all, he saw—middle-aged, perhaps, but not old.
    Yes. They are old. They changed.
    The one who now took charge was taller than the others, and with a broad, slightly bulging brow. She bent toward Roland, and the bells that fringed her forehead tinkled. The sound made him feel sick, somehow, and weaker than he had felt a moment before. Her hazel eyes were intent. Greedy, mayhap. She touched his cheek for a moment, and a numbness seemed to spread there. Then she glanced down, and a look which could have been disquiet cramped her face. She took her hand back.
    “Ye wake, pretty man. So ye do. ’Tis well.”
    “Who are you? Where am I?”
    “We are the Little Sisters of Eluria,” she said. “I am Sister Mary. Here is Sister Louise, and Sister Michela, and Sister Coquina—”
    “And Sister Tamra,” said the last. “A lovely lass of one-and-twenty.” She giggled. Her face shimmered, and for a moment she was again as old as the world. Hooked of nose, gray of skin. Roland thought once more of Rhea.

    They moved closer, encircling the complication of harness in which he lay suspended, and when Roland shrank back, the pain roared up his back and injured leg again. He groaned. The straps holding him creaked.
    “Ooooo!”
    “It hurts!”
    “Hurts him!”
    “Hurts so fierce!”
    They pressed even closer, as if his pain fascinated them. And now he could smell them, a dry and earthy smell. The one named Sister Michela reached out—
    “Go away! Leave him! Have I not told ye before?”
    They jumped back from this voice, startled. Sister Mary looked particularly annoyed. But she stepped back, with one final glare (Roland would have sworn it) at the medallion lying on his chest. He had tucked it back under the bed-dress at his last waking, but it was out again now.
    A sixth sister appeared, pushing rudely in between Mary and Tamra. This one perhaps was only one-and-twenty,