Bug pressed the knife down until blood spilled. The gray crystal drank it up greedily. It vibrated softly and emanated a red light. A shudder went down his spine as he lay down on the sleeping mat. Bark stood over him, reassuringly.

  They had commandeered the storage room as an officer's quarter. Still, technically, this was treason, and they were surrounded by presidential guards and mages of uncertain loyalties. And then there was the Slave.

  Bark grunted. “Yes, I know that I’m stalling.” Bug sat down and lay flat on his back.

  “You don’t like putting an arcane bomb at the base of your skull either.” The crystal nestled against the back of his head. Bug tensed, dreading the inevitable. Several hard fingernails dug into the base of his neck—not drawing blood, but pressing hard, threatening to break the skin.

  Just as bad as the first time. His muscles seized, back arching. Every instinct screamed to jerk away, to claw at the pressure building at his neck. He locked his arms down to stop himself.

  An epically stupid idea. A last nod from Bark. "Let’s hope the kid doesn’t try to summon another Watcher while I’m gone." He closed his eyes and exhaled.

  He sank into the rhythm of his meditation, felt the waters of the oblivion road, and sank through them. The light of his tall crystal spire soared, guiding him downward. It stood over a shimmering whirlpool of saltwater. Seaweed and mangroves grew in rings, empowering his dreamgarden.

  Bug landed in the water at the edge of the core. With two steps, he was ready. He stretched out his hands to the tide. The water felt soothing against his feet. He fell forward into the core. Down the whirlpool. Far deeper than the pool had any right to be.

  An instant took an eternity to pass. Then the spell gripped him, redirecting his ever-compassing whirlpool into the dreaming abyss. Towards the Goddess.

  Her eye lay below—fiery around the infinite black of its center.

  A ragged island came into sight as Bug readied his mind. The center will attract me. The center will attract me. The center will attack me. Over and over, he recited the mantra. Then he crashed into the island at a sedate pace. A stark reminder that this place didn’t care about physics.

  His footfalls splashed with no water in sight—like stone soaked in memory. It used to claw at my nerves. Now it wraps around me like an old scar—ugly, but mine. Familiar in a way that should worry me more.

  He entered a small chamber, its ceiling reaching far beyond the dimensions of the rock. A pedestal of black stone was surrounded by a dozen black-robed figures wearing masks. A reflection summoned by his will into the air before him showed his own snarling wolf mask.

  The Chapter of Beasts. The eagle mask of an unknown Pellarian cell leader nodded to him.

  “To preserve civilization, Eagle,” Bug intoned the greeting.

  “To preserve civilization, Wolf,” replied the figure.

  The only entrance suddenly admitted five people, each coming from a path on opposite sides of the chamber.

  I will not question it. The laws of the waking world do not apply here. A skill learned through long meditation under the Masters’ guidance asserted itself. So close to the Goddess, curiosity was dangerous. He had seen what happened if one stared too long, questioning how the body here worked. It hadn’t been appetizing.

  The Pellarian Master approached. The mask of an ursine was followed by the boar mask of Grandfather, as the kid had christened him. Bug would have smirked if he had such a thing as lips here. Murmured greetings were exchanged. As the platform turned snow-white at the proper time, four Masters stepped onto it.

  “We must destroy,” they chanted.

  “To preserve civilization,” intoned the triplets behind each Master.

  In the real world, Bug would have stood behind the Grandmaster and would not have seen much. Here, a straight line was not necessary to see. Only attention was. Masks and robes stared at each other across the circle. One, with a face twisted in shock, spoke up.

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  “As the next in line, I claim the censorship of this meeting in Silver’s absence,” the Syranian Master said.

  Silence.

  The Master nodded after an uncomfortably long moment. Slowly, the others affirmed the claim.

  Shock turned to the only Trebassian in the room—Gold. “Why are you the only one present from your chapter?”

  The golden-masked figure shuddered. His image broke apart and twisted into shards. Emotions. Dangerous.

  “I represent the colonies.” He paused and looked around. “Over the last two cycles, all contact with the Heartland Chapter was lost.”

  “You heard nothing?” A mask, half lion, half ant, spoke up. The Master of the Xeonians.

  “We… We received two message spells. But they were garbled by jammers.” The lone cell leader wobbled, distorting in unnatural ways.

  No one moved. Neither did Bug. Even blinking felt like dragging nails across a frozen lake. Stillness is survival. Thought cuts the surface. Thought sinks you.

  The harpy mask spoke up—the Master of the Kyrapolians. “We shall investigate.” He gestured to one of his underlings. The figure floated out into the hall.

  The longer we are here, the more we lose the human connection. Bug kept his mind steady with all his will. The flow. It was safe. The water that would lead him back.

  “Ursine, how does the Champion fare?” inquired Shock. His voice had grown flatter. More like pure meaning, stripped of everything else.

  The Master gazed over the assembled figures. He inclined his head. “It has been my honor to interact with the Champion. His mind is secure. His allies are acceptable.”

  The censor raised an appendage. Bug could not say more about it. I guess I would shudder now, were I still capable of that.

  “Which faction do they belong to?”

  “Radical Conservationists. They can be handled. The Weaver approved of my plans through an intervention. We—”

  All the figures in the room grew. Some in volume, others in height. That must have been on purpose. Why am I working with the biggest comedians in the cabal?

  “There will be silence!” thundered the Censor.

  All sound disappeared from the room. The figures returned to their original shapes. For the most part. Subtle distortions remained.

  The Censor motioned for the Master to continue. “Explain, Ursine.”

  “When my magic touched his mind, the Weaver attacked my mind in turn.” He paused and spread whatever was left of his arms to the sides. “It told me to moderate my plans but to proceed.”

  The figures across the room became indistinct, their boundaries dissolving.

  Emotion bled out of him. Drained. Emptied. Only the Convent remained—cold, vast, and waiting. There’s no me here. Just function. Just masks.

  “How do you assess the character of the Champion?” inquired Ant-Lion after the Censor called him to speak.

  Bug considered alongside the Master. Clever. Fragile. Under extreme pressure. He has potential. But his mind could break.

  The Master’s answer nearly echoed his thoughts. There should be happiness. But there is just emptiness. Is that bad?

  The Kyrapolian Harpy was called up next. “How does security look?”

  “Wolf?” The Master had called him up.

  I don’t care.

  “Wolf!” Annoying. An answer might stop it.

  “We secured him with two agents…” The darkness opened like a mouth. Gentle. Inviting. Hungry. I could sleep here. I could forget everything. Maybe I already have.

  “Wolf, continue!” Stop bothering me.

  But Fine. “Presidential guards are with us. Two other mages of uncertain allegiance. A Kyrapolian agent is among the Bonded. The Champion’s personal slave was crippled in a wagon accident. She was assigned to him. Faction is uncertain. Though very unlikely to be a Purist asset.”

  Something scraped at the edge of his awareness. He tilted his head. It’ll come back. It always does.

  The Censor nodded. “I adjourn the Convent. Leave.”

  The dreamscape trembled. Lines peeled from the ceiling like ash, forming into the threads that marked each member’s path back. He had broken apart and moved several steps downward. Next, a white rope shot toward him and froze.

  No. Not a rope. A swirling tornado of water. Bug grabbed onto the cool, refusing lifeline.

  My name is Bug.

  A short moment passed.

  I should follow it. Back to myself.

  He stepped toward the swirling line. Shot up like a rocket. Into the infinite, well-lit blackness.

  We need to be vigilant about the agent. She might try something soon.

  Something approached above him. Something that was him.

  He fell upward through a swirling pool.

  His body jolted as spirit crashed home. Limbs shook against cold stone. Breathe. Right. This body breathes. I hate these damn convents.

  He floated up, toward consciousness. Towards his charge. Towards his Champion.

  +++ Shout-Out Time +++

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