be a gold diadem impressed with arcane symbols. I could not see the eyes hidden in shadow.
“I see you!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I see you! At long last! Oh, thank the Goddess Almighty, I see you! Oh…!”
Then the link was cut, abruptly and without warning.
“Where are you?” I asked. “Are you there?”
Very faintly I heard: “I’m here. But the sun begins to wane. Try again soon….”
And that was all.
I closed down the orbs.
“You see,” I said to my companion. “She’s real. She’s actually out there.”
“I have no doubt of her reality, Master,” Scooter said. “I have no doubt either of her desperation. I only doubt her history and her sincerity.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“YOU WANT TO DO WHAT?”
I needed help and advice, and I knew it. What I was contemplating could not be undertaken lightly or without consequence. I would begin with my immediate superior, Magister Geraklíd, the Minister of Magical Affairs in Kórynthia.
I asked for an audience, and when I received permission, transited on the next day to his home in Bizerte, leaving Scooter behind.
“You want to do what?” he said, when I told him of my plans.
“I wish to resign my position as Scanner Prime, Sir,” I said, “Or at least take a leave of absence.”
“Then the rumors are true.”
“What rumors?”
“That you’ve predicted the fall of the Kingdom within the next year.”
“That’s not what I said, Sir.” Since he already knew something of the Council’s proceedings, I gave him a summary of my reading. “I was surprised that you weren’t present, Magister.”
“I was out of town, and failed to receive the notice in time.”
“Really?” I found his answer puzzling. As a government official, he would have had to maintain contact at all times.
“We’re here to discuss your business, not mine.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said. I didn’t want to antagonize the man, since I needed his formal permission to proceed with minimal consequences to my purse, position, and person.
“So you want to abandon us at a time of crisis…if your prognostications are correct.”
“They’re true, Sir. I…uh….” The truth was, I didn’t want to tell him the truth. “I need to go on a pilgrimage of reconstitution.” Well, that was at least part of the truth!
“You want to go on a pilgrimage of reconstitution? Are you mad? The Queen won’t let you leave, not when you’re needed here, now more than ever.”
“But truly, Magister, she has nothing to say about the matter. She maintains temporal authority over the Kingdom, to be sure, but wields no direct power over the magely class. If I wish to go, why, certainly I can.”
Geraklíd began pacing on the rug in front of me, his hands clasped behind his back, his gray head and beard bobbing up and down like a hungry bird. Suddenly he stopped and turned to me:
“Morpheús…sometimes I wonder about you, boy, I really do. Yes, in theory Queen Evetéria has no authority over such as us. But the reality is far different. She can banish you from the kingdom forever—or at least until her own death. She can request that I set the dogs of war on you and bring you to account before the Court of Mages—and if I refuse, she can ask the Covenant to find a new Magister of Mages for Kórynthia. They may or may not agree, but the petition will have to be considered in any case. She can use the Lords Spiritual against us in the eternal three-way battle for power and influence in the State, and allied with the power of the Lords Temporal…well, the Lords Magical could not possibly maintain their position under such circumstances. She can withhold certain monies for the support of the Magical Estate. In sum, she can cause us unending trouble—and moreover, she is exactly the kind of ruler who will cause us difficulties, if we cross her in this matter.
“She likes you. That’s both a curse and a blessing. It gives you a certain influence over the Lady, but nothing ever comes without its price. She has you by the short hairs, Master Morpheús, and you’d best acknowledge the fact. You can’t leave, whatever the reason, and you specifically do not have my blessing.
“I have to admit, I’m disappointed in you. You were the first mage to be acknowledged as Scrutor Primoris since Doctor Scarabbaios. You’re also a Dream Weaver, although you’ve never used that talent, to the best of my knowledge. We couldn’t even measure your aptitude, because it was so high off the scale.
“Oh, you’ve done well, no question. You’ve risen very quickly in the hierarchy, and seem destined one day to take my place. But always I’ve had the sense that what you’ve accomplished has primarily and firstly been to promote the career of Master Morpheús. Everything that you’ve done has been carefully calculated to benefit you first. You’ve established no long-term personal connections with anyone, because (I think) you regard them as a potential impediment. And now that you see the inevitable collapse of the state, you’re ready to run away at the first opportunity.”
“Uh, that’s not actually true, Sir.” Although it was, of course. Who was I fooling save myself?
“Then tell me what’s really happening.”
I’d made a fundamental error, I could see that now. I’d asked a question for which I didn’t know the answer—and I should have known the answer, if I’d just taken the time to think the thing through. Now I’d compromised one of my oldest supporters, someone who was bound to be hurt, both personally and professionally, if I followed my heart. Still, I was not swayed by his arguments.
“It’s more than just my Council reading, Magister,” I said. “It’s…my life. I’ve been feeling for some time that I’ve failed, somehow, to find an appropriate purpose for what I do. Most folks just don’t want to be told the reality of their futures—and so I have to lie to them. I didn’t mind that, at least at first, but of late I’ve grown impatient with having to spew a rainbow-enshrouded version of things to come, when all I can see in most cases is old age, sickness, decrepitude, and death, sometimes interleafed with equal measures of poverty and loss of property, position, and posture. No one wants to hear that.”
“Not all futures are bad,” my superior said.
“But most contain bad elements, Sir. I’m tired of lying. I’m tired of having to be nice to everyone while misusing my craft.”
“It’s not a misuse of your abilities to reassure people,” Geraklíd said. “You simply have to be tactful in what you say.”
“No, Sir, you have to lie! All the time! I don’t feel like I’m accomplishing anything worthwhile. There has to be some better use of my talents, whatever that is. Maybe this captive woman….”
“What woman?”
Oh, now I’d done it! I hadn’t intended to reveal the connection I’d made in the æthersphere. Hellfire and damnation!
So I told him about my several adventures probing for links to the Otherworlds, one of them involuntary.
“You’re not a neomage, Morpheús. I don’t have to tell you that what you’re doing is foolish and risky beyond belief. This being that you’ve encountered may not be human—or a woman—or even flesh and blood. You know nothing about it beyond the barest of suppositions. You have to stop this right away.”
“That’s what my familiar said.”
“Well, your familiar is right,” he said. “You said you actually Dreamed a connection. Has this ever happened to you before?”
“Well,