Garrett Dovanack hobbled towards the fluted columns that framed the double doors to his suite. A clerk passing through the hallway saw him, turned, and fled.

There was a time when such a fearful reaction would have made him feel sad and ashamed. But that had been a different chapter of his life, before the death of his wife. Now? He told himself that he was glad to avoid dealing with people. He would rather be left alone.

He wondered if Ariock was growing as sour and disenchanted with people as he was.

Eh. Did it matter? Garrett reminded himself that he wasn’t concerned with Ariock’s happiness, or with anyone’s happiness, for that matter. Emotional health was not his prerogative or his field of expertise.

Survival was.

The Will was the first and the last hero mentioned in the prophecies of Ah Jun. His role was as an instigator, an ignition key, and an accelerator. Garrett figured that his role was arguably the most important one. His sacred duty was to shepherd the present into the future. He had to guide the heroes, and funnel events in a certain order, to ensure that the prophecies would continue to unfold the way the ancient oracle had intended.

If he failed? Then everyone failed.

Garrett extended his awareness. He normally posted zombies outside his sleeping quarters, but the local supply of zombie minions had dwindled to just a handful of dying shambles. He needed to acquire more prisoners.

The heroes desperately needed to get back to winning battles.

Only a Yeresunsa could access the heavy lock bar hidden inside the specially hollowed doors. Garrett used his powers to lift the bar. He levered the enormously heavy doors open.

It was a paltry trick, to make his suite inaccessible to anyone who lacked powers. Garrett knew that chambermaids gossiped about his paranoia. They didn’t like any part of the palace being off-limits to their vacuum dusters. But, well, so what?

Garrett swung the doors shut once he was inside. He used his powers to lower the lock bar back into its iron cradle. He felt a tiny bit safer, knowing that no one could walk in and disturb him.

He sank into his study chair and lit a pipe. An observer might guess that he was simply relaxing. In actuality, Garrett was scanning his suite for life sparks. He was especially wary about the ghostly presence of Evenjos’s disembodied mind.

Satisfied that no one was spying on him, he used his powers to open the secret vault in his floor. He used to store his valuables in a titanium-shielded vacuum chamber on an asteroid, but these days, he went into battle too often for galactic teleportation-on-a-whim. He needed to preserve his strength for battles. So he used a local cache.

Garrett pulled out the ancient Book of Prophecies and placed it on his huge desk.

He lit the hanging lamps and used his powers to delicately turn pages that had become all too familiar to him. He paused on the two-page spread that depicted Evenjos carrying Ariock to safety.

“The Transformation of Strength,” Garrett muttered. He supposed this one made sense in hindsight, like all the other prophecies that had come to pass. Ariock was transformed.

But was it for the better?

It seemed to Garrett that the Strength needed to be visible and heroic, not mopey and self-hating. When would Ariock transform back into being a heroic messiah? Surely that must happen soon? How could they win this war, otherwise?

Garrett gently turned the page.

There were lesser prophecies sandwiched between the two-page spreads. Garrett had learned that those were more like suggestions than guidelines. So he tried not to focus overmuch on what looked like a truce between Evenjos and Ariock, or various depictions of ummins in meditative trances, eying each other meaningfully. He kept turning pages.

The boy (the Conqueror) (the Wisdom) showed up in several minor prophetic images, looking pissed off or commanding zombies.

There were random panels that contained no one he recognized. Nussian freedom fighters. Penitent Torth hard at work. One penitent directing others. Who knew what that meant? Three lone streamships, two together and one passing them, going the other way. What a puzzle.

But those small panels didn’t matter. The crucial, vital prophecies were the two-page spreads. Garrett stopped turning pages when he arrived at the next one.

“The Return of Wisdom,” he read, translating the ancient glyphs emblazoned along the outer frame of the painting.

This was the prophetic vision that gave him stomach ulcers from stress.

The picture showed the boy standing—standing!—on the far side of a chasm, apart from the other heroes and friends. Why? The boy looked like he was giving the rest of them some sort of ultimatum. And why was his side dotted with planets? The boy seemed to have the entire galaxy behind him, backing him up.

The future version of Garrett looked furious. The future version of Ariock was kneeling, as if in supplication to the Wisdom.

Garrett didn’t like the implications.

Apparently, the Wisdom was going to return from somewhere. Where? How long would he be absent? Why would he leave in the first place? And why did his return look so smugly one-sided?

The prophecies did not explicitly state that the Wisdom would betray them, but everyone knew that the boy had Torth sympathies. He had forgiven his own monstrous birth mother. He considered himself to be one of the penitents!

This was precisely why Garrett needed to keep a close eye on the so-called Wisdom.

Garrett also knew a few extra things which were not common knowledge. He was aware, for instance, that more than half of the penitent population hero-worshiped the Conqueror. The enslaved mind readers seemed meek and cooperative … but they would follow the boy over a cliff, or into space, or anywhere he led them.

All those planets in the painting seemed ominous. They looked like the galactic Torth Empire. They implied a Megacosm.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

And if anyone could shove the ancient prophecies aside, it would be that boy.

Super-geniuses were unlike anyone else. “Thomas” was too monstrous to have such an innocuous human name. He was a bloated colossus of enmeshed personalities, less predictable than the weather. If the Conqueror did decide to split away and start his own breakaway empire … well, he could easily found his own new empire with half a billion mind readers.

He could probably figure out a way to lure Servants and Rosies to his side, too. He could surely invent an anti-inhibitor and who knew what else.

The danger zone was coming up.

All Garrett could do was hope that The Return of Wisdom was just a metaphorical event. Perhaps the heroes would simply have a heart-to-heart chat and regain some good old-fashioned common sense?

“One could argue that we are somewhat lacking in wisdom right now,” Garrett muttered to himself.

He turned more pages, looking for clues further ahead in the future. The remainder of the prophecies each added their own weight to his burden of misgivings. After The Return of Wisdom, the next two-page spread was The Pact of Strength. Ariock was at the center of that one. But it was just as murky and ominous as any painting that depicted a future that had not yet happened. The future version of Ariock appeared to be giving the rest of them an ultimatum. And the future version of Garrett looked like he was arguing against it.

The small panels after that one were provocative. Vy featured prominently. Cherise showed up, too. And Kessa. Even the Twins. These little paintings were why Garrett could not easily dismiss the importance of those particular individuals. Ah Jun had clearly seen them in her visions. They must be instrumental to the final defeat of the Torth Empire.

Garrett turned the final pages of the huge book. How many times had he pored over these final panels? The imagery was so disturbing.

The final one of the Will was enough to make his innards turn over with fear. Decapitation. What a horrible, violent way to die. Was that really how his life would end?

And the final two-page spread made him—

His wristwatch buzzed. Someone was calling him.

Garrett closed the book, surprised. The incoming call was from Kessa, of all people. She had never contacted him like this.

He used to get regular calls from Jinishta. Poor Jinishta. She never appeared in the the Book of Prophecies after a certain point. Garrett had simply not seen any possible benefit to warning her. The prophecies needed to happen in the correct way, in the correct order, or else the Torth Empire would thrive.

“Kessa? How are you?” Garrett took care to always be polite to Kessa. Her role in the prophecies seemed increasingly important, especially towards the end. He doubted that anyone, least of all Kessa herself, would guess her future fate.

“I am outside your door,” Kessa said in a pleasant tone, her beak large in the camera feed. “There is a matter I wish to discuss. Will you please let me in?”

Garrett supposed that Kessa’s informant network had let her know where to find him. She had loyalists all over the place.

“Of course.” Garrett ended the call.

He used his powers to send the book back to its airtight vault. He sank the vault into its secret cradle and slid the floor tile over it, hiding it from sight. At the same time, he telekinetically opened the doors of his suite.

Kessa trotted inside.

She looked quite small, since every room of the war palace was built to Ariock’s scale. Doorways and ceilings were towering. Furthermore, Kessa was alone. That was brave of her. It seemed she had left her assistants and clerks and bodyguards elsewhere.

“Peace, elder.” Kessa used a respectful greeting in the slave tongue.

Garrett realized that he probably should have greeted her first. “Peace, elder.” He wondered if he should offer refreshments. Probably.

He gestured to an armchair that was within his range of telepathy. “Have a seat, if you’d like. I have flavored waters. Or would you like a hot tea?”

“I’ll have a water, thank you.” Kessa leaned against the far wall, arms folded. She wasn’t going to sit within his telepathy range.

Ah well.

Garrett used his powers to pull a hover-tray out of his kitchenette. He never received guests in his suite except for Evenjos, so he had to pull beverages out of his mini-fridge. On Earth, when he’d been a wealthy gambler, he had learned that tycoons, high rollers, and mafia bosses expected to be greeted with certain flair. It had been a long time since he’d needed to call upon his etiquette.

“I have an important favor to ask,” Kessa said.

Garrett did not quite dare to walk over and pluck it out of her mind. He wasn’t going to be that rude. “Yes?”

“The labs are able to recreate telepathy gas,” Kessa said. “Varktezo and others have reverse-engineered the gas emitters, to the point where they can create the stuff. In a closed room, they are able to make it linger in the air. It spreads brain wave patterns, so that even an ummin can read minds.”

“Hmm.” Garrett hid his disdain. He hoped the boy was devoting attention to more serious projects. Telepathy gas might be a fun party trick for ummins, but it would not win battles.

They needed to inoculate Ariock against the insanity rage gas. Maybe that would be enough for Ariock to feel comfortable going into battle again? The scientists really needed to focus on what was important. Such as immunity to the inhibitor! All of the warriors, including Garrett, ought to become invincible in battle.

Garrett snagged a pomegranate water. He parked the tray near Kessa, and she picked up a water with alien cactus fruit flavoring.

“So ummins can read minds now,” Kessa said.

Garrett nodded and sipped his water. He hoped she would make a point soon.

“But to us,” Kessa said, “telepathy is a confusing jumble of perceptions and thoughts. It has come to my attention that deciphering that jumble is a skill that can be learned.” She cocked her head at him. “I think you are the teacher we need.”

Garrett swallowed. “Whoa.” The conversation had taken an unexpected turn. “What about the penitents?”

Kessa shook her head. “I would be a fool to get within range of a penitent. I know too much.”

Garrett should have thought of that, himself. Kessa hung out with the boy on a regular basis. She must know some of his dearest secrets as well as his science projects. Her friendships extended to Varktezo, Weptolyso, Vy, Cherise, and others. She knew all kinds of military secrets.

“Besides,” Kessa said, “the penitents are serving penance. That is their purpose. I don’t want them in positions of authority over former slaves.”

Garrett bowed his head in acceptance of her logic. “Fair.”

He stroked his beard, and thought about teaching Kessa to effectively read minds. How long would it take for a non-telepath’s brain to adjust to a whole different paradigm? Years?

A lifetime?

His imagination wanted to rebel at the concept. Ummins couldn’t do that. It seemed absurd, like teaching a pig to fly. Surely his time and energy could be better spent elsewhere?

The Wisdom could probably explain, with eloquent apologies, why it was a bad idea. “Have you asked the boy?” That way, Garrett wouldn’t have to tell Kessa “No.”

“I did.” Kessa’s tone held a note of aspersion. “And he refused. He said he was too busy, and he suggested that I ask you.”

Garrett bit back his urge to swear.

Kessa placed her drink back on the floating tray. She looked earnest. “If we are to face Torth with telepathy gas again, it will be a major benefit if we can surprise them and navigate their traps. And overhear their secrets.”

Garrett sat back. “But how long will it take for you to get to that point?”

Kessa spread her hands. “I cannot know. But I may have a guess, once I’ve had a few lessons.”

“I’m sorry,” Garrett said. “But I’m quite busy.”

Kessa gave him a stern look. “I am not asking for much. How about twenty minutes, every third day? Would that be a burden?”

Garrett hesitated.

His schedule could accommodate some harmless lessons. Plus, friendly time spent with Kessa might deliver benefits, if not quite what she was expecting. He would get to read her mind. Perhaps he would delve into her inner secrets, with a reciprocal expectation. She was friends with the boy. If anyone could understand why the Wisdom might leave and then return with some sort of ultimatum … well, she might contain some buried clues.

“Twenty minutes,” Garrett agreed. “I think I can manage that every day, if that works for you.”

Kessa beamed.

“We’ll just see how it works out,” Garrett warned. He would terminate the sessions, if they proved arduous or worthless.

“Thank you.” Kessa tapped her data pad, sending him her calendar in order to schedule the first lesson. “If a few of us can learn, we will teach others.”

Garrett hid his doubts.

“It will help.” Kessa bowed in a gesture of gratitude. “I am sorry, but I cannot stay long. I look forward to our first lesson.” She moved to leave. “We may learn faster than you think.”