Something was wrong.

Benno had told Mara that he would contact her before five hours had passed after he and Onus departed. It had been seven. And when she tried to reach him via her Gemstoke, she was met only with silence. She considered trying to contact Onus, but Benno had warned her not to reveal her activities to the Lonely Son. He does not share our goals, Benno had said. Mara leaned down and checked, again, the glass triangle on Electorate’s collar as the enormous Dream Prowler slept on the floor of Edda’s bedroom. In it, the back of Benno’s head, tightly nestled into his hair—a new, third pyramid protruding from the crown of his skull—and before him, barely visible, an interminable darkness.

Something was wrong.

Mara drummed her fingers on the cover of Ann-Copse Fenix’s book. It was a short book, and clearly written, and having read through it now from cover to cover Mara had an idea of what had to happen next. But she couldn’t do it without Benno. This world—the Ensemble of disparate Realms—was unaccommodating, to say the least, even to people and beings far more robust than her. She was a human being, soft flesh and warm blood, and fallible even relative to dangers from her own Realm. She could not face the obstacles that lay ahead—and even if she could face them, she could not move them. Which was not to say that she wasn’t strong; she was the strongest person she knew, and had been her whole life. Especially now, after everything she’d been through. She was stronger than ever. But she was strong in mind and spirit. In body she was weak. That’s where Benno came in. And without Benno, everything was hopeless.

She left Edda’s bedroom and entered the study across the hall. Ann-Copse Fenix’s book had suggested that the Dream Prowler’s reticles—which was the word she used to refer, as far as Mara could tell, to their view into other people’s dreams—could only be aligned if the cat had made direct eye contact with its subject beforehand. This would seem to imply that Electorate—who Benno hypothesized was looking into the dreams of Sul—had thus made eye contact with Sul at some point in the past. Such a circumstance, given everything Mara knew about the impenetrability of the Gray Wastes, seemed impossible. And since Ann-Copse Fenix put the average lifespan of a Dream Prowler at around three-hundred years, it would not seem that the cat in Edda’s bedroom could have encountered Sul before the War. So somehow, Edda had found another way.

That other way, Mara could only assume, had to have something to do with what Ann-Copse Fenix described as applied transmission. This was a method that Ann-Copse herself had never seen in practice, but believed was possible. The Dream Prowlers could, in theory, travel from one person’s dreams into another person’s dreams—transmit their reticles—so long as the subjects made eye contact with one another. It would work something like a secret being passed along a line of people, like a game of telephone, and could, theoretically, go on for as long as the Dream Prowler pleased. Still, this wouldn’t explain how Edda had managed to end up at Sul, since the same problems of access, or lack of access, to the Gray Wastes applied. Mara pulled a book—one of hundreds of identical books—off the shelf in Edda’s study and peered at the indecipherable code within. Then she looked up through the window at the pristine beach. Benno had described to her the Coil, the immense bleeding Heart of Horus, that had floated outside the Inn until, it seemed, at Edda’s death, when it had vanished. Returned to Horus, perhaps, who resided in the Gray Wastes with his master. Would the same happen with his other body parts, strewn to his other children? When Onus died, would Horus’ genital return to him? Or when the Twins perished—if they perished—would Horus’ eyes return to…

Mara’s breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her mouth.

Horus’ eyes…

And just like that, she understood how Edda had done it. It was so obvious, so clever and so simple. She pictured Electorate, as big as a small car but yet a shadow in the relentless Luridian rain, staring up at the pared eyes at the pinnacle of the tallest tower in the city. The cat’s reticle had entered those eyes, entered Horus’ dreams, and thus entered the Gray Wastes of Chavanuck. Once there, it was only a matter of waiting until Horus took audience with Sul—or whatever he did in that place—and Electorate could make the transmission.

Mara grinned. She would have liked to have met Edda.

Recipient slunk into the room and sat just inside the doorway. Mara replaced the book on the shelf. Understanding how Edda had hacked access into Sul’s dreams did not necessarily make the next step obvious. But it proved a profoundly important point:

The Gray Wastes were not as totally inaccessible as it seemed. Something had gotten through. It was possible.

Now if only she could talk it over with Benno…

#

—dlorsulbormitdlorsulestalotdlorsulthrackdlorsulnestip—

Benno thought about his first sleepover. After the other boys had gone to sleep—at the directive of little Benno’s panic and homesickness—he had laid awake in the strange, dark room for hours. The shadows had been so alien, so impossible to tell what cast them, and by what light. And the smell, of different things, different laundry detergent, different foods, different bodies, had frightened Benno. It frightened him because, in that dark room, beyond exhausted, he realized for the first time just how different things could be from what he knew. He realized that the spectrum of qualities the world provided was vast, and his life—his home with its familiar shadows and smells and people—was just a small point along that spectrum, a small, cowering point, crowded by so many others, at risk, always, of being swallowed up and disappearing.

When his son had attended his first sleep over—only months before the accident—Benno had tried to prepare him for these feeling he might experience. He tried to articulate that just because something was different, didn’t mean it was bad. He tried to explain that his son’s life, the one he shared with Benno and his mom, would always be there, in some form or another, and couldn’t possibly get swallowed up by other alien lives. He assured his son that it was going to be okay, and then reminded him that if at any point he wanted to come home, he could call home, and Benno would drive over and pick him up. No questions asked. But the night had rolled by without a phone call, and in the morning, when Benno picked his son up from the sleepover and asked him how it went, prepared to discuss with his son the discomfort, the existential anxiety of spending a night at someone else’s house for the first time, his son instead had smiled, and said that it was great, that he’d had a lot of fun, and that he couldn’t wait to do it again. Benno remembered the rest of the drive, his son talking excitedly in the backseat about everything he and his friends had done the night before, and Benno himself nodding, gripping the wheel, a suffocating concatenation of relief and shame rising and falling in the long tract of his lungs.

What could have been a moment in which he’d risen to the occasion—in which he’d been there for his son—was instead just another moment in which he’d failed. Only that time, it wasn’t his son he’d failed, but himself.

He tried the Shenandoah’s console a few more times with the same results. Then he stood at the transparent wall and looked out into the deepest interminable darkness that existed, as far as he knew, in the entire sprawling Ensemble.

“Gotta tell you, creep,” Jason said, leaning against the hallway’s door. “This is about exactly where you belong. Better for everyone this way.”

“Bertat erga set,” agreed the headless Forrorian.

“Erga, erga set,” the other Forrorian emphasized.

—dlorsulrungdlorsulapatoldlorsuldestradlorsulcast—

“Are we supposed to be here?”

Benno startled, so deep in his thoughts that he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone.

Holes scurried to the edge of the table. “Are we waiting for something?”

Benno sat down at the table and looked at the flower. “At the moment,” he said. “It would appear that we’re stuck.”

“Oh.” Holes frowned. “Did Onus leave us here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated, but… Mostly because he misses his family.”

Holes thought about this for a moment. “Wasn’t his family really mean to him?”

“They were.”

“And he still misses them?”

Benno nodded.

“Is that normal?”

Benno considered this. “Yeah,” he said. “It is normal. It’s hard to hate your family. Even when they do terrible things to you. My own father, he was… difficult. He made it hard to love him, but I think it was even harder not to, despite everything. And my mom, she left us. She just disappeared, with no explanation. I thought I hated her for a long time. But then I realized I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was mad, but I was mad at the circumstances in her life that made something like that plausible to her. It wasn’t her fault. I’m not sure anything is anybody’s fault.”

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“Even Onus?”

“Even Onus.”

“Even Sul?”

Benno exhaled through his nose. “Probably even Sul.”

Holes’ petals furled, then unfurled. “So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Benno, then he tsked and rapped on the table. “Holes, I could really use a whiskey right about now.”

“Okay!” Holes chirped.

Benno smiled sadly. If nothing else, at least Holes’ cheery optimism was intact. He didn’t know how long the little flower would last without water, but he hoped it was a long time. Then Benno’s chest tightened with a crushing wave of guilt at having dragged the poor little creature to its death. Another needless death. Another innocent life cut short because of Benno’s choices. And following it, whenever it came, Benno would then drift through the infinite reaches of his guilt, forever, and ever.

He lowered his face into his hands.

“Uh, Benno?”

“Yes, Holes,” Benno said without looking up.

“You better grab it before it falls.”

“Grab what, Holes.”

“The glass!”

Benno frowned up out of his hand.

There, at his eye level, just starting to tip in the empty air, its golden liquid rising toward its edge, was a glass of whiskey.

Benno blenched. “What…”

The glass started to fall. Benno shot out his hand and grabbed it just in time. Droplets of whiskey sloshed onto his knuckles.

“Good catch!” Holes said.

Benno stared at the glass. “Where did this…” He looked at Holes. “Did you make this?”

Holes’ petals frowned. “That’s what you asked for, right? I remember whiskey because that’s what Jack drank in the movie.”

Benno blinked from the flower to the glass.

“Did I get it wrong?” Holes asked.

“No…” Benno set the glass down on the table. “Holes. How did you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where did this come from?”

Holes seemed to think about this. “I don’t really know,” it said. “The same place everything else comes from.”

“Everything else…” Benno poked the glass. “You mean, everything that Gemma makes?”

“Yeah.”

Benno blinked twice, astonished, as something clicked into place. Seven years ago, Benno had asked Gemma to make him a plant. Holes grew from that plant. By some transitive properties that Benno couldn’t wrap his head around—but which made immediate intuitive sense to him in that moment—Holes must have inherited some of Gemma’s capabilities. Gemma was, in essence…

“Son of a bitch,” Benno marveled. “Gemma’s your mother.”

Holes looked up at him. “What?”

“I mean, of course she is. She made you. You’re part of her. Extraordinary. Amazing.”

“I thought you made me,” Holes said.

“I only suggested it,” Benno said. “Gemma did all the work.”

“Does that mean you’re my father?”

Benno swallowed, and nodded, and then, inexplicably, his eyes filled with tears.

“Did I say something wrong?” Holes asked.

“No.” Benno scooped up the little flower and stood from the table. “Holes, what else can you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can make whiskey. Can you make anything else?”

“Sure!”

“Can you get us out of here?”

Holes shrugged. “I don’t know,” it said. “I’ve never tried that.”

Benno nodded, and then, overcome with the impulse, kissed Holes, and held it to his cheek. “Well now is the time to try,” he said. “And no matter what, I’m proud of you.”

#

“We are sick,” said Tig, her voice like wind over dead leaves.

“We are dying,” said Phos, her voice indistinguishable from her sister's.

Onus sat at the far end of the long table in his father’s boardroom, the same room Horus had held palavers with him—and Edda—a thousand years ago. It was, largely, unchanged, save for the layer of dust that had gathered at the corners like fine snow. Even the smell was the same, though faded, like everything else.

“When did this start?” Onus asked.

The Twins sat side by side at the table’s opposite end, their enormous, gangly bodies propped on the tabletop like spilled furniture.

“Fourteen years ago,” said Tig.

“All at once,” said Phos.

“And it is worsening. Faster and faster.”

“Like an avalanche.”

“Like a fire.”

“We can no longer keep it secret,” said Phos.

“The people know,” said Tig.

Onus chewed his lip. Fourteen years ago… A very specific number.

“Sul has abandoned us.” Tig raked her long nails along the tabletop. “Sul has looked away.”

Phos exhaled, raspy.

“Why?” Onus asked. “Do you know?”

Tig and Phos shook their heads slowly in unison. “We do not know Sul’s thinking. We never have. It is the only true mystery in all of the Ensemble.”

“Fourteen years ago,” Onus said. “The Warden Killer received his Permanence.”

The Twins nodded. “We know that now,” said Tig.

“It is not by chance,” said Phos.

“Do you think…” Onus considered his words carefully. “Do you think Sul designed it this way? Do you think Sul desires for the Warden Killer to come for you?”

The Twins looked at one another from their rusty, unfocused eyes, but said nothing.

Onus shrugged at his own question. “Sul would not need someone else to do that work. Sul could simply kill you both with a thought.”

Again the Twins were silent.

Onus sighed. “It seems I have returned just in time,” he said.

A furious sound rattled from Tig’s throat. “We retain enough strength to crush you, traitor.”

“Tefached or not,” growled Phos.

“We are not yielding power.”

“We do not plan to go quietly.”

Onus nodded. “That was not my intention,” he said. “Rather, I can help you.”

A gust of wind carried a sheet of clouds against the window’s glass, where beyond the city’s spires reached up into the cold, starry sky.

“Without absolute strength, one must project absolute control,” Onus said. “As you weaken, it will be harder to fake your strength. Others will take notice. And Luridia has more enemies—and more dangerous enemies—than the one who sits across from you.”

The Twins sneered at him, but did not speak.

“So you cannot appear to be losing your control. Form the outside, it must seem that your Permanence is intact.”

“But how do we conceal pestilence?” Tig asked.

“Already there are whispers of our demise,” Phos said.

“Permanence can manifest in various ways. Our father, and his, and his, for thousands of generations, held power in Luridia without the aid of Sul. They used force, yes, the Tefached and the might of their armies. But they relied on something far more compelling.”

The Twins listened.

Onus stood and leaned forward on the table. “They relied on the perception of their sagacity. They could never be wrong. Horus’ greatest strength was his unwavering arrogance. Even if you knew he was wrong—even if his decisions were so obviously rash and reckless—his comportment gave you pause. He made you question your own convictions. And eventually, whatever it was he had decided, however it played, seemed like the only choice he could have made. It seemed like he had been right all along.”

“You sound like your little sister,” Tig said, betraying both bitterness and a reluctant admiration.

“You must project the same confidence,” Onus went on. “Address the rumors of your illness, and maintain that they are false. Repeat it. Over and over. Make the people disbelieve their own eyes. If they balk, murder them. Make a spectacle of it. Quash any and all resistance to the perception of your unyielding power. You, the First Twins, Eyes of Horus, are the rulers of Luridia. For now, and forever.”

Tig looked at Phos.

“And then what?” Tig asked.

“That charade cannot last,” said Phos.

“It will not have to.” Onus strode around the table and stood by the window, looking out at his home. “The true permanence of Luridia is its lineage. You both believed you had found a way around it, with Sul’s… gift. But that appears to have been incorrect. So we must return now to the way it has always been. We must return to tradition.” He turned around and looked at the Twins’ misshapen visages. “I do not want to rule. But that does not mean I am free of my responsibility. It is my duty, and always has been, to conceive heirs.” He swallowed a dry lump in his throat. “If you wish to rule forever, you must pass that rule to your bloodline. I will help you extend it.”

The Twins made matching sounds of consideration.

“This way,” Onus continued. “When, or if, your illness overtakes you, it will not matter. You will have long established your daughters as successors. They will rule in your names. Meanwhile, I will continue to fulfill my obligation to the Nation of Luridia and produce a son, and raise him to understand his role, and he, in turn, will continue your lineage. A new paradigm of rulership. Forever.”

The Twins’ leaned toward one another, their turgescent neck swaying like tails, and for a long moment they conversed in dry whispers.

Onus watched on, already regretting everything.

Tig turned to him first. “We must act quickly,” she said. “Before we are too weak to carry.”

“The time for procreation is now,” said Phos.

Onus nodded, lowering his eyes. “I agree,” he said.

The Twins stood in unison, their stretched bodies bent against the ceiling, their cracked and open skin coruscating in the firelight like swarming flies.

“Undress,” they said together.

Onus nodded again. He had done it. He had dodged a bad death at the hands of the Twins, or re-incarceration. All the hours he’d spent with Edda absorbing her keen insights into the psychology of power and politics had paid off. He would survive. He would be able to live at home again. And all it would cost him was his dignity. But that, Onus knew, he could live without. Because he’d given it up a long time ago.

He removed his clothing and set it on the table, distinctly aware that the Tefached remained in its pocket, though he may never have a need for it now.

The Twins writhed around the table toward him, their jaundiced eyes groping his body.

“The Implacable Cock of Horus…” Tig wheezed.

“The conjugal seed…” Phos coughed.

“It has been a long time.” Tig reared up in front of Onus.

“A long time.” Phos slithered behind him.

Onus closed his eyes as the Twins’ rancid breath met his nostrils, his skin crawling with gooseflesh.

Tig’s dry, sharp finger scraped along Onus’ chest. “Perhaps he will give us a son.”

“We are deserving.” Phos straw-like hair trawled along Onus’ back.

“Either way,” Tig said, the sound of her own oily robes sliding to the floor behind Onus’ closed eyes. “Our lineage will be safe.”

“Either way,” said Phos, the same some of clothes rustling behind Onus, and the sudden frigid shock of desiccated flesh against his back.

Onus focused on his breathing. He was saving himself. Not to mention that this was his duty. His birthright. He was serving Luridia. And he was saving himself. It would not be worse than August’s Bathhouse. It would not be worse. It was his birthright. It was his duty…

“What…” Tig spat suddenly.

“No!” Phos snarled.

Before Onus could open his eyes, he heard the hurried scrrrch of shoes on the hard, smooth floor, and then a THUD nearby, so violent that it sent the Lonely Son off balance, and he stumbled and fell onto his back. By the time he looked up, all he saw was Tig, her crooked limbs flailing, driven backwards by a blur of yellow, and a moment later, before Onus could even process what he was seeing, she collided with the widow, which shattered, and together with the yellow shape she disappeared out into the dark sky.

“Naaarrrrrrgh!” Phos roared, charging over Onus on all four of her limbs and thrusting her long neck through the window. “Naaaarrrrrrrrrghh!” she howled out into the night, before scuttling face-first, like a mole into its burrow, out the window and after her sister.

Onus sat up slowly, his thoughts a sputtering chaos. He walked to the window and looked out, and was met with the sea of clouds below, and, in the pocket of clear sky surrounding the Cupola, three shapes falling in tandem. Then, unsure of what else to do, he walked to the table, dressed slowly—as if nothing of note were occurring—and headed for the elevator.