Around its base, the field of Can'-Ka No Rey was no longer filled with red roses. They had turned white, then translucent, then disappeared entirely. In their place grew teeth. Thousands of them, pushing up through the soil like jagged grave markers.
In the high, thin air of the Borderlands, the sky had turned the color of a bruised plum. The sun was a pale, flickering candle, guttering in a draft that blew from the gaps between universes. Roland knelt by a stream that ran with silver liquid—not water, but the liquefied memories of a city that had never existed. He didn't drink. He knew the price of drinking "Used Time." "He’s coming, Roland," a voice rasped.
"The Man in Black?" Roland asked, his voice like grinding stones.
"Go then," Roland whispered, though whether he spoke to Jake, the Tower, or himself, he did not know. "There are other worlds than these."
Roland stood, his ancient revolvers heavy against his hips. The sandalwood grips felt warm, almost humming. He looked toward the horizon, where the Dark Tower stood—a needle of impossible black stone stitching the sky to the earth.
Roland didn't turn. He knew the voice of the boy, Jake, though the boy had been dead and reborn more times than Roland had fingers. Jake sat on a stump of petrified wood, tossing a gold coin that vanished every time it hit his palm.
At the top of the Tower, the ringing stopped. A door, carved from the heart of a dying star, creaked open an inch.
As he reached the foot of the Tower, the first toll of the bell shook the ground. The sound wasn't metal on metal; it was the sound of a billion voices screaming "Goodbye" at once.