Proto smiled knowingly. “No, you didn’t mention Uberta. Very observant. But at this point, you’ve likely sensed that I’m not just any dreamer, yes?”

  At this, Uberta gaped—then tried to hide it. “I’m . . . not sure what you mean by ‘dreamer,’” she responded cautiously.

  “Oh, yes you are, Uberta,” he countered calmly. “How’s Somnus doing? Everyone well at the palace?”

  Now they both gaped, and neither tried to hide it.

  Then, Uberta smoothed her face again. “By Somnus, do you mean the Roman personification of sleep?”

  “Yes, the one who likes armagnac and long robes,” confirmed Proto.

  Wentsworth glanced at Uberta, excited, then back at Proto. “Clearly, there’s more to you than we understood. Allow us to apologize for our misapprehension.”

  “No need for apologies,” assured Proto evenly. “But I would like to know how things are going at the palace.”

  Wentsworth narrowed his marveling gaze. “You’re working for someone, aren’t you? Whose bidding do you do? Is it . . . Him?” He waved toward the ambiguous shadows ahead.

  Proto wasn’t sure what he was being asked. “Oh, I’ll leave that unanswered, I think,” he replied enigmatically.

  “Yes. Yes, as it should be!” Wentsworth looked eagerly at Uberta again.

  Uberta shrugged helplessly. “I guess you were right.”

  “I told you!” exclaimed the mustachioed man. “Never mistake Lady Luck for mere chance!”

  “I still don’t know what that means,” grumbled the sweatered woman.

  “So, tell me. How has Astrid been?” asked Proto.

  “Our oldest visitor, you mean—that Astrid?” asked Uberta.

  “I’m not surprised your Master would be interested in her,” nodded Wentsworth. “She’s Somnus’ right hand, more or less. Likely involved in some important matters, yes?”

  Proto nodded sagely in reply. But in truth, he just missed her.

  “Astrid’s all business, as usual. Except when she’s playing cards and winning Breath Tokens, and complaining that no one plays wild rummy anymore,” said Uberta. “Actually, she was one of my evaluators. Astrid the Horrid. Somnus almost made me an oddjob assistant!” She shuddered. “But I pulled through.”

  “Astrid has a soft spot though,” the woman continued. “I saw it when we were visiting a dream together. A woman who couldn’t have children was dreaming about taking her daughter to Mother-Daughter Day at the office. The look on her face when she realized her daughter didn’t exist . . . ! I cried too, but Astrid—well, she had to buy a week off with Breath Tokens.”

  “Mm.” Proto tried to look suitably reflective and dispassionate, rather than overcome by sympathetic nostalgia. “And what about Dahlia? How has she been?”

  “Ahh, yes, I’m not surprised your Master is interested in her,” nodded Wentsworth. “Our finest shadowseer. The things she can do with the Shadowcaster! Probably involved in many matters lofty and strange.”

  “I always marvel, though, how different Dahlia once was,” the man went on. “A loopy, dreamy romantic! A girl of the 1800s, through and through—believe you me, I remember them well! Then, there was the whole Reginald affair. And now she buries her old self beneath humorous dalliance. Which is sad but fine, because now she’s the funniest person I’ve ever met.”

  “Except Somnus, perhaps,” added Wentsworth. “But then, ‘person’ doesn’t quite do him justice, does it?”

  “Mm,” answered Proto noncommittally, doing his best to look calmly analytical. “And what about Lilac? How has she been?”

  Wentsworth blinked. “Your Master . . . wants to know about the bartendress?”

  Proto glanced down, half-expecting to see mist swirling up. Somehow, it felt like he was the visitor in his own dream, and he was struggling not to jar them awake. Why did it always end up this way?

  “Uh, yes. Indeed,” Proto managed, as he searched for a response. “You must know about Lilac’s trips to the Sea of Dreams, yes?”

  “Ahh, that makes sense then, doesn’t it?” nodded Wentsworth knowingly, pointing at him.

  Proto was glad this made sense to Wentsworth, because he had no idea what he’d been getting at.

  “Yes, Lilac,” the suited man went on. “She’s the same as always, I suppose. Introduced me to grappa the other day. Fine stuff. Grabbed it from the Sea of Dreams on her last trip. I wonder what else she grabbed?” He gave Proto a look of mysterious intrigue.

  Proto tilted his head, shrugged and nodded, with a look that said, “I neither confirm nor deny your suspicions.”

  Wentsworth shuddered with fascination.

  “She’s so sweet! Like she was born for a gentler world,” declared Uberta. “I remember once, Jet and Jag and some others were playing cards, laughing, eating their caviar and mozzarella sticks. Lilac was pretending to polish glasses, but she was watching them. And three times, she started toward them, like she was going to join them. And then she’d sort of sigh and grab another glass, and smooth her hair . . . ” Uberta shook her head.

  “That said, I think she thinks I’m a little thick. And not in a good way.” The sweatered woman tapped her temple sadly. “But she’s too sweet to say it out loud.”

  “Thick or not, I wouldn’t change a thing,” remarked Wentsworth.

  Uberta blinked at him and blushed. “I . . . confess I’m not sure what you mean, Wentsworth!” She smoothed her own hair now.

  “All things are as ordained, Uberta,” the man mused smoothly, curling his mustache around a finger. “And I wouldn’t have them any other way.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t quite clear things up!” she observed.

  “Some mysteries are intended to stay mysteries,” he philosophized.

  “But maybe we can solve this one together!” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Perhaps, side by side, we can . . . uncover these things?”

  Wentsworth’s gaze rose from her hand up her sweater to her batting eyes. “Time will tell! Fate will lay bare all that’s meant to be bared.” And on he marched into the ominous mirk.

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  Eying Proto, Uberta sighed away her smile, as though to say, “You see the things I suffer?”

  “Well, anyway,” said Proto, “I’m glad Astrid, Dahlia and Lilac are doing well.”

  “Yes, they’re well,” affirmed Uberta. “Although it’s funny you’d pick those three to ask about. They’ve always struck me as a little . . . sad? Not about anything specific. Just like life hasn’t quite measured up to their high hopes. Then again, whose life has, right?” She glanced at Wentsworth.

  “Mm.” Proto suddenly felt a little sad too. But he shook it off as best he could. “And how about Jet and Jag? And Mayger? How are they?”

  Uberta blinked. “You really do know a lot about Somnus’ Palace, don’t you?”

  “That Jet—a fellow man who knows how to dress! He’s like a 21st-century version of me,” admired Wentsworth, smoothing his three-piece suit. “Mayger does nicely too, in his eccentric way. As for Jag? I have no words.”

  “He’s so modest, you can’t be mean to him!” admonished Uberta.

  “That thing he wears . . . !” Wentsworth shuddered. “Mind you, note the singular!”

  “It’s called a sweatshirt!” Uberta flicked his boutonnière. “It looks cozy.”

  Wentsworth shivered and adjusted his bowtie. “Enough of that. Some things are too horrid for even me to dwell on.”

  “Anyway, as long as we’re on the topic,” said Uberta, turning back to Proto, “is there anyone else you’re wondering about?”

  “Um.” Proto thought a moment. “How about Anima?

  “Anima?” frowned Uberta. “My, you do get around!”

  “In one word, I’d call her a madwoman,” replied Wentsworth. “But I’m not sure about the woman part.”

  “Wentsworth! You can’t talk about a Daemon that way,” chided Uberta.

  “Speaking of which,” mused the mustachioed man, peering at Proto, “you’re not working for her, are you?”

  “Not that I know of,” Proto replied.

  “Mm. Yes, well said, well said.” Wentsworth rubbed his chin. “Who really knows the master of his master?”

  “Speaking of which,” noted Uberta, “we’ve arrived.”

  The passage had widened over the last few dozen yards, and now it opened mouthlike into a vast chamber. There, the flowstone ended and was replaced by grey rock, thick with dust. The ground within sloped upward toward grey obscurity.

  “We have, haven’t we?” agreed Wentsworth. He turned to Proto. “Well, you’re a mysterious man, I won’t deny it. But you’ve come to the right place. Nothing is mysterious to the Father of Mystery.” He held his arm grandly toward the cavern ahead, strolling inside.

  “The Father of Mystery?” Proto followed him, squinting at the ambiguity ahead. “I just see nothingness and mist.”

  Wentsworth beamed with trepid zeal. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly right, isn’t it?”

  Proto frowned sidelong at the mustachioed man who kept affirming him in weird ways.

  Then, he regarded the mist again—and blinked. It was forming into a large humanoid shape. A torso coalesced. Legs and arms swirled into being. And then . . . huh. Humanoid? Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.

  It did look manlike from its feet to its shoulders. But above that was . . . what? Proto scrunched his eyes at this impossibility, but it only showed clearer in his gaze.

  He turned to Wentsworth and Uberta to ask a question—but he saw they’d fallen grovelingly to their hands and knees. They were frenetically urging him to the ground with waving hands.

  But before Proto could oblige, a silent voice echoed through his head, charged with both pathos and toneless power: Ah, Visitor Proto. Or should I say Seer Proto? He who has lived to serve Somnus, Flua-Sahng, even Anima—and now one more. How long have I awaited you!

  The mirk had cleared. The cavern’s grey wastes ended in an abyss. And hovering over its depths, in a sublimity of mist-swathed menace, was . . . what? He had no words for it.

  It was wearing a robe. It was wielding a giant trident in one hand. And its head was a squid, with tentacles wobbling across its chest.

  Proto gaped. The thing looked like Calamity Calamari, but more like an interplanetary villain than a local-crime-thwarting hero. It also was twice as tall and wielded a trident instead of a cane.

  Indeed, the being was raising its polearm to hail him even now.

  Wentsworth and Uberta, too, were gawking at the greeting he’d just received.

  Proto searched for words. “I’m . . . afraid you have the advantage over me. You know me but I don’t know you.”

  The being’s tentacles wobbled with amusement. In that regard, you’re like most mortals. I’m more interested in how you’re different, it replied. My name is Aitvaras. I suppose Somnus never mentioned me, his elder brother?

  Proto shook his head slowly. He started pondering how that would even work, and whether Flua-Sahng was his mother too. And if so . . .

  Then, he decided not to dwell on it.

  No, why would Somnus mention me? Aitvaras went on. He wouldn’t have foreseen my role in your future. He scarcely sees further into the future than tomorrow’s after-dinner drinks. As for our mother, she sees much and she sees far. But even she doesn’t know what must be done. Or my role in it.

  No, only I know that. For I’ve been planning that impending moment since history began. Aitvaras’ tentacles wobbled with his telepathic words. I have been buried here for epochs untold. And in that time, I have foreseen how I might be unearthed. I’ve worked to make that moment real. And I have watched that moment coalesce like mists above the abyss.

  Proto, of course, hadn’t a clue what this thing was talking about. He almost gave up on following its speech, but he decided he’d try a little longer.

  Here from the mirk of the depths will arise a new race, Aitvaras continued. Here will they burgeon and strengthen, as oblivious life goes on above them in a wasted world.

  Here will the seven wanderers find my Fossil and bear it out into the unready world. They will bear me across Boundaries and Fragments using the Passagestone, steeped with my mother’s power over centuries’ time.

  And you will be the one to make this happen, Chaos Progeny, concluded Aitvaras. Today, we are on the wrong road of Fate. Your mishap with the Daughter of the Morning Star has put us awry. But soon, you will steer us back onto the right road. Then, you will visit the dream of the Daughter of Life. And, steered by you, she will become the seer whom she was meant to be.

  Most of this blew right over Proto’s head. But he caught enough familiar and important references that he felt it couldn’t just be nonsense. There must be some profundity behind the puzzle.

  And all will pass as it was meant to pass, Aitvaras went on. Yea, a millennium will pass. And as it passes, here will I make a race in my own image, to mourn and tear, and revel and glee: a race like me. And I will rise, and in time, all will know me.

  Thanks to you! Aitvaras extended his trident toward Proto.

  Wentsworth and Uberta now were goggling at him.

  Proto never had been one to quail at the unfamiliar. Even so, he’d likely be dumbstricken right now, if he’d not just spent months being barraged by the unfathomable.

  “I think you give me too much credit,” he managed.

  I don’t. But modesty befits a mortal man. Aitvaras’ tentacles wobbled. Now, hearken closely. In moments, you’ll be thrust back into the breathing world. You’ll only hear this once.

  Proto nodded and focused. He was good at listening. But he’d lately had some trouble with remembering.

  You will have a chance to entrust something to my two servants here. The squid-faced Daemon gestured with his trident toward Wentsworth and Uberta. You will not want to do so. You will have good reason not to do so.

  Nevertheless, do it. Seek a way to avoid the consequences, if you wish. But in any event, do it.

  That is all I can share. I can’t divulge this possible future in full without making it impossible. Aitvaras’ tentacles wriggled apologetically. But you understand that. My mother would have taught you that.

  Proto stared at the face-tentacled Daemon. He found himself wondering about the thing’s motives. Was Aitvaras really out to save the future? Or was he just using Proto to advance his own interests?

  It’s not an “or.” It’s an “and.” Aitvaras’ tentacles wobbled with amusement—or sinister malevolence? Or both? Yes, with the aid of my servants, you will take the road that leads to my dominion. And a future for this world.

  Proto was not quite sure what to think of this.

  But before he could try to sort that out further, a siren-like blare erupted all about him. At once, Proto’s lucid thoughts were jarred into a muddle, like a jar of separating water and dirt shaken back into mud.

  “What the—?” Proto began. But he knew what this was. He remembered it well. “What sounds ‘sort of like an alarm clock’ and wakes up dreamers?” Mayger had asked him once, voice dripping with irony.

  Mirk began to rush inward from all sides. The world contracted to a dim and shrinking sphere around him, and he was beckoned back to the waking world by his alarm clock.

  “We’ll be ready, Proto!” Wentsworth called to him over the cacophony, his fist clenched. “When the time comes, you can count on us! You can trust us. And your secret will be ours.”

  My “secret”? What?

  But even now, his two former colleagues from Somnus’ Palace were rushing away, together with their tentacled master, and Proto was accelerating into grey obscurity. There, for some time unknowable, he tumbled alone, shooting amid the far and whirling stars. And in their midst snaked purple tendrils of mist, reaching toward objects unseen and ungraspable.