CHAPTER EIGHT
The Forgotten Memory
VI
“Now, where’s that angel?”
“Gone,” Wilburn said, “on accident, I think. They had this little window they were talking to, and then the little window thing talked back, and then the angel guy was screaming at it, and then they just, like—POOF.”
“Hnggrrnt hnggrrnt hnggrrnt. I know exactly what must’ve happened. These little window things are called wizidexes—” another glass rectangle, identical to Alfajean’s, emerged from the cascades of Iddo’s fur—“they’re extremely useful devices when they aren’t malfunctioning, but unfortunately that’s their favorite thing to do. I expect our angel will be poofing back any minute now. In fact, I’ll hazard a guess that they will reappear… right… about… nnnnnn—now.”
Wilburn glanced around expectantly. But nothing happened. There was only Buttrom, lying pathetically in the dirt.
“Ah well,” Iddo said. “You’d be surprised how often that does w—”
POOF. Alfajean reformed out of a cloud of swirling particles of color. “You’re late, Master Bungflower!” they panted, hands on knees as if they’d just been doing wind sprints.
“A wizard is never late that he’ll admit,” Iddo said cheerfully. “Your name is…?”
“Alfajean,” Alfajean panted, “Lieutenant Angel Alfajean—didn’t you get my memo?”
“Possibly,” Iddo said. “Let’s circle back to that, Lieutenant Angel. First, I feel obliged to point out that there’s a bit of a sword stuck in your helmet.”
This was indeed the case. Alfajean’s once-shiny yellow helmet was now severely scarred and dented, and impaled by a huge sword with a shard of milk-veined crystal for a blade. “Saved my life, this helmet,” Alfajean said proudly, “or it would have if I wasn’t already immortal. Those—blessed—Xiatakron goblins… but this is a perfect example of why we must always follow protocol!”
Rather, a perfect example of obstinance and blatant self-contradiction, Iddo thought to Wilburn, who had to stifle a snicker.
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Alfajean straightened their uniform and primped the tattered remnants of their high visibility vest with dignity. “I notice you’ve forgotten your safety equipment, Master Bungflower,” they said, arching several disapproving eyebrows Iddo’s way.
“Oh no, I haven’t forgotten it,” Iddo said. “I remember that equipment quite fondly, as a matter of fact, because I traded it to a tavernkeeper for a cask of remarkably fine beer. I’ve been meaning to requisition a replacement set for ages… I just hope I can find that tavern again.”
Alfajean looked mortified. “Master Bungflower, think what you are saying! You have an apprentice now!”
“Hm. Fair point. I hadn’t considered that.”
Alfajean relaxed.
“I shall need to requisition an additional set of safety equipment for young Wilburn,” Iddo continued. “That way I can get two casks of beer.”
One, two, three, four, five… Wilburn shuffled around the side and craned his neck… six, seven, eight. That was how many faces Alfajean had, and all eight of their golden mouths were hanging open.
“Now, about that memo,” Iddo said. “The copy I received was so redacted I was surprised the censor bothered to pass it on to me. From the desk of Lieutenant Angel REDACTED, Prophecy Retrocausation and Omen Validity Ensurance Department, REDACTED, REDACTED, REDACTED. Your apprentice REDACTED. The REDACTED ritual will REDACTED. Please remember to REDACTED. A set of universal coordinates. Then, Yours sincerely, Lieutenant Angel REDACTED.”
“Yes, well, we do take operational secrecy very seriously at the PROVED. It’s our third highest priority after safety and fostering a culture of collaboration, and um,” Alfajean withdrew their wizidex from a pocket of their uniform and gave it a few taps. “Let me just double check your file in case they’ve updated… ah, no. Well, unfortunately, due to our rigorous vetting process, it appears your security clearance for this operation is still pending, Master Bungflower. I’m… sorry about that.”
“No, no. No need to apologize. I just want to make sure I understand you. Are you telling me that my clearance for the operation in which I am participating as we speak is pending, and that it would therefore constitute a breach of official secrecy for you to disclose to me such details as the plan, the operational objectives, or in short, any information that could foreseeably prove vital to our success?”
“That is correct, yes.”
An absolute professional, Iddo thought to Wilburn. The wizidex leapt from Alfajean’s grasp and rocketed toward him—then slowed, as if reaching the limit of an invisible elastic tether, and sprang back.
“Soul-ID,” Alfajean said smugly, catching it. “Beta version. Only available to essential Higher Astral personnel. I’m glad to see it works on yaks as well as the goblins of Xiatakron. I’ll be sure to make a note of that in my after-action report. All right everyone, gather round. We all need to be touching when we telefract. That includes you, Buttrom.”
The prophet groaned. But he sat up, and, meeting no one’s eye, shuffled over with his bowl to join their huddle.
“Touching? Touching? Touching? Great. Oh, one moment, I’ve disabled voice commands on my wizidex…” There came the sound of a golden finger tapping glass. Wilburn, who was gripping Alfajean’s pant leg, felt a tingle crawl over his body. And then everything—the land, the sky, Iddo, Alfajean, Buttrom, and Wilburn himself—disintegrated into swirling particles of color.