faintly familiar, some strange, many of them horrible. A path winding through gray meadows in a light that was neither day nor dusk, and the back view of a man striding steadily, purposefully, and far behind him a frail ghost whose robe trailed like a shroud. A river of molten lava, rippled with fire; spirits danced in the vapors above it, and something that was not a bird plunged screeching from a ledge, skimming the heat on featherless wings. Then a cauldron full of a red viscous liquid swimming with pale noodles that might have been entrails; an eye popped to the surface, and a severed hand, only to sink from view again. The cauldron was made of black metal, but presently it began to glow dull red, and the contents bubbled into steam, and shapes poured out, rising like smoke or scrambling over the rim—human shapes patched together from broken limbs and shattered skulls. One came toward Fern as if rushing out of the picture: its nose was crushed and a sword swipe had split both lip and jaw, but its eyes shone with an unholy glow. She murmured a soft word, and it vanished abruptly, the image clouding into darkness. There was a long drawn-out pause; then the scene lightened gradually into a green glimmer filtering between many leaves. They resembled oak leaves, but larger, and they rustled gently as if filled with muted whispering. The spell-scene pulled back, showing a fat yellow fruit ripening slowly out of sight of the sun. The process appeared to accelerate: irregular lumps swelled on either side, ears unfurled like petals, eyeballs bulged against sealed lids. Hair came last, sprouting from the crown and flowing down to great length. A tiny white spider began crawling up one dark-gold strand. The sallow rind warmed to pink; the eyes opened. She’s beautiful, thought Fern, and: I know her. But the woman she had known was old and withered, all greed and furtive malice; this was a witch from an enchanted island, radiant with youth. Yet the look in her eyes was the same.
Sysselore, Fern said to herself. This is the head of Sysselore.
A dark hand intruded, wielding a notched hunting knife. It cut the stem, and the head was gone.
The picture changed. In a corridor full of shadows Fern glimpsed a retreating figure moving with swift pace and lilting hips. Her white dress glittered in the dim light. Then there was a hill with three trees blackened from a lightning strike; then bare moorland and a wolf running that might have been Lougarry. These images passed very quickly; dark returned. She was back in the caves. But this time the Underworld was empty, save for the faint twittering of the ghosts and the water notes of the spring of Lethe, sweet enough to erase all pain, and memory, and love. As Fern watched a shadow crossed the picture; she caught sight of a curling horn, an eye that gleamed red under a lowering brow, the massive hunch of a shoulder. At its flank hung a pouch whose function Fern recognized: hair spilled from the top, and a white spiderlet scuttled to safety within. Fern recalled seeing such spiders during her sojourn beneath the Tree: they grew into arachnoid monsters the size of dinner plates. The spell-scene followed the creature through cavern and tunnel: it seemed to be part man, part beast, clothed in skins or its own fur, moving silently on taloned paws. “Kal!” Fern hissed, knowing he would not hear. He must be running errands for Morgus, though not willingly, she was sure. Perhaps that was why he would not stay, when she had called him to the circle. Ragginbone had told her the rune on his forehead looked like the rune of Finding; he might have feared to betray her whereabouts to his mother.
The scene shifted again, melting into a grayness of rain. Wipers swept across a windshield. Then—as on the road to Yarrowdale—she saw a vehicle rushing toward her, something huge, maybe a lorry, and headlights blinking in her eyes, and behind the oncoming wheel a brief vision of a death’s-head, its mouth fixed in a lipless grin. She felt rather than heard someone scream, and knew it was herself—
She found she had doubled over as if at a blow, shaking. She straightened cautiously, half afraid to look, but the smoke scene had moved on. Now the rain was black, streaked with lamplight and neon, and beyond it reared the glittering