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Hayholt?” Simon was unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “How long ago was it built?”
    “Simon, Simon ...” The doctor scratched his ear and returned to his perch on the table. The sunset was completely gone from the windows, and the torch light divided his face into a mummer’s mask, half illumined, half dark. “There may, for all I or any mortal can know, have been a castle here when the Sithi first came ... when Osten Ard was as new and unsullied as a snow-melt brook. Sithi-folk certainly dwelled here countless years before man arrived. This was the first place in Osten Ard to feel the work of crafting hands. It is the stronghold of the country commanding the water ways, riding herd on the finest croplands. The Hayholt and its predecessors—the older citadels that lie buried beneath us—have stood here since before the memories of mankind. It was very, very old when the Rimmersmen came.”
    Simon’s mind whirled as the enormity of Morgenes’ statement seeped in. The old castle seemed suddenly oppressive, its rock walls a cage. He shuddered and looked quickly around, as though some ancient, jealous thing might even at this moment be reaching out for him with dusty hands.
    Morgenes laughed merrily—a very young laugh from so old a man—and hopped down from the table. The torches seemed to glow a little brighter. “Fear not, Simon. I think—and I, of all people, should know—that there is not much for you to fear from Sithi magic. Not today. The castle has been much changed, stone laid over stone, and every ell has been rigorously blessed by a hundred priests. Oh, Judith and the cooking staff may turn around from time to time and find a plate of cakes missing, but I think that can be as logically ascribed to young men as to goblins ...”
    The doctor was interrupted by a short series of raps upon the chamber door. “Who is it?” he cried.
    “It’s me,” said a doleful voice. There was a long pause. “Me, Inch,” it finished.
    “Bones of Anaxos!” swore the doctor, who favored exotic expressions. “Open the door, then ... I am too old run about waiting on fools.”
    The door swung inward. The man framed against the glow of inner hallway was probably tall, but hung his head and hunched his body forward in such a way that it was difficult to make sure. A round, vacant face floated like a moon just above his breastbone, thatched by spiky black hair that had been cut with a dull and clumsy knife.
    “I’m sorry I ... I bothered you, Doctor, but ... but you said come early, now didn’t you?” The voice was thick and slow as dripping lard.
    Morgenes gave a whistle of exasperation, and tugged on a coil of his own white hair. “Yes, I did, but I said early after the dinner hour, which has not yet arrived. Still, no sense in sending you away. Simon, have you met Inch, my assistant?”
    Simon nodded politely. He had seen the man once or twice; Morgenes had him come in some evenings to help, apparently with heavy lifting. It certainly wouldn’t be for anything else, since Inch did not look as though he could be trusted to piss on the fire before going to bed.
    “Well, young Simon, I’m afraid that will have to put an end to my windiness for the day,” the old man said. “Since Inch is here, I must use him. Come back soon, and I will tell you more—if you like.”
    “Certainly.” Simon nodded once more to Inch, who rolled a cowlike gaze after him. He had reached the door, almost touched it, when a sudden vision blazed into life in his head: a clear picture of Rachel’s broom, lying where he had left it, on the grass beside the moat like the corpse of a strange water bird.
    Mooncalf!
    He would say nothing. He could collect the broom on his way back, and tell the Dragon that the chore was finished. She had so much to think about, and, although she and the doctor were two of the castle’s oldest residents, they seldom spoke. It was obviously the best plan.
    Without understanding why, Simon