He took out the watch and snapped open the lid. They both observed the second-hand racing its solitary course. But at the same speed as before? Susannah didn't know for sure, but she didn't think so. She looked up at Roland with her eyebrows raised.
"Most of die time it's still right," Roland said, "but no longer all of the time. I think that it's losing at least a second every sixdi or seventh revolution. Perhaps three to six minutes a day, all told."
"That's not very much."
"No," Roland admitted, putting the watch away, "but it's a start. Let Mordred do as he will. The Dark Tower lies close beyond the white lands, and I mean to reach it."
Susannah could understand his eagerness. She only hoped it wouldn't make him careless. If it did, Mordred Deschain's youth might no longer matter. If Roland made the right mistake at the wrong moment, she, he, and Oy might never see the Dark Tower at all.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a great fluttering from behind them. Not quite lost within it came a human sound that began as a howl and quickly rose to a shriek. Although distance diminished that cry, the horror and pain in it were all too clear. At last, mercifully, it faded.
"The Crimson King's Minister of State has entered the clearing," Roland said.
Susannah looked back toward the castle. She could see its blackish-red ramparts, but nothing else. She was glad she could see nothing else.
Mordred's a-hungry, she thought. Her heart was beating fast and she thought she had never been so frightened in her whole life-not lying next to Mia as she gave birth, not even in the blackness under Castle Discordia.
Mordred's a-hungry... but now he'll be fed.
SEVEN
The old man who had begun life as Austin Cornwell and who would end it as Rando Thoughtful sat at the casde end of the bridge. The rooks waited above him, perhaps sensing that the day's excitement was not yet done. Thoughtful was warm enough thanks to the pea-coat he was wearing, and he had helped himself to a mouthful of brandy before leaving to meet Roland and his blackbird ladyfriend. Well... perhaps that wasn't quite true. Perhaps it was Brass and Compson (also known as Feemalo and Fumalo) who'd had die mouthfuls of die King's best brandy, and Los's ex-Minister of State who had polished off the last third of the bottle.
Whatever the cause, the old man fell asleep, and the coming of Mordred Red-Heel didn't wake him. He sat with his chin on his chest and drool trickling from between his pursed lips, looking like a baby who has fallen asleep in his highchair. The birds on the parapets and walkways were gathered more thickly than ever. Surely they would have flown at the approach of the young Prince, but he looked up at them and made a gesture in the air: the open right hand waved brusquely across the face, then curled into a fist and pulled downward. Wait, it said.
Mordred stopped on the town side of the bridge, sniffing delicately at the decayed meat. That smell had been charming enough to bring him here even though he knew Roland and Susannah had continued along the Path of the Beam. Let them and their pet bumbler get fairly back on their way, was the boy's thinking. This wasn't the time to close the gap. Later, perhaps.
Later his White Daddy would let down his guard, if only for a moment, and then Mordred would have him.
For dinner, he hoped, but lunch or breakfast would do almost as well.
When we last saw this fellow, he was only
(baby-bunting baby-dear baby bring your berries here)
an infant. The creature standing beyond the gates of the Crimson King's castle had grown into a boy who looked about nine years old. Not a handsome boy; not the sort anyone
(except for his lunatic mother) would have called comely. This had less to do with his complicated genetic inheritance than with plain starvation. The face beneath the dry spall of black hair was haggard and far too thin. The flesh beneath Mordred's blue bombardier's eyes was a discolored, pouchy purple.
His complexion was a birdshot blast of sores and blemishes.