Antiphon

The man sighed. “You are disoriented still. The stone has that impact. We’re still new to it and haven’t learned the more subtle nuances of using it.”

Nothing this man said made sense. Petronus leaned forward. “Stone?”

His companion nodded. “I’ll show you.” Then, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow, he groaned and Petronus felt the vertigo seizing him. His study fell away, as did the city of Windwir, and a chill took him. He stood on the shore of an underground lake of quicksilver, and at the center of the lake, set into the silver water as if it were a setting in a ring, rose a large, smooth black stone. A man lay sprawled over it, facedown, and in the distance, Petronus could see the man’s lips working in a whisper.

But the voice was clear in his ear. “We do not know exactly what it is, and we are only now discerning exactly what it can do. Some artifact of the Younger Gods buried and forgotten in the Beneath Places.”

Petronus looked around the cavern, trying to memorize it, but before he finished, he was once again in his study, sitting across from the man. “I will not remember this when I. ” He could not find the right word and finally settled for the closest. “. return?”

“You’ll remember more than the times we’ve spoken when you were awake,” the man said. “It seems to work better when the receiver is asleep. We think the Younger Gods intended it to affect dreaming.”

Petronus nodded though it made no sense to him at all. An island that let a man speak into the dreams of another? “And this boy you speak of, he somehow is using it, too?”

“No. Neb isn’t using it. The stone is under constant guard, and the boy is here.” The man lowered his finger to the chart, and Petronus saw it was a map of the Churning Wastes. “The runners are here, here and here.” More pointing. “And to the best of our knowledge they are under blood magicks.”

A question found Petronus. “How are you tracking them?”

The man looked as if he wanted to say more but then thought better of it. “It is best not to share too much with you. Regardless of how Neb has accessed the aether, all of the blood-affected are vulnerable when he does.”

Blood-affected. A distant memory of an earlier conversation pried at him behind his eyes. “You said the blood magicks made me sensitive to the dream, like Neb.”

The man nodded, his face tightening with worry. “But we will not discuss the dream here now, Father. Circumstances have changed, and the dream is in jeopardy until Neb is safe.”

“And who exactly is hunting him?” Petronus was certain that any answer provided would slip away from him, but he asked anyway.

“Enemies of the dream,” the man said. “Enemies of the light.”

Petronus willed his eyes to harden along with the line of his jaw. “That is no answer.”

The man regarded him and sighed. “We are still uncertain beyond that, Father. But they are behind the fall of Windwir, ultimately, and behind the Y’Zirite gospel that called for your execution and resurrection. We know the Tams were involved, but not to what extent.”

Execution and resurrection. Fall of Windwir. These sounded familiar to him, just as the boy’s name did, but he could not place any of them within proper context. But he did know the name Tam, though he could not fathom why Vlad’s family would be involved in something like this.

But how could Windwir be fallen if he sat within that great city now?

As if to reassure himself, he looked around his study and took in another lungful of the summer scents that drifted in from the open windows. He looked back to the map and to the chart on the table. “Nothing you say makes sense to me.”

The man nodded. “I know it seems that way. I’m still unsure of the casting. Finding Neb is far simpler. At least it was before the dream tamp. But he’s different. He-” But the man cut himself off now, looking away. “When you go farther into the Wastes, I won’t be able to reach you, either. But it seems Neb can reach me. Don’t let him try until the threat is dealt with, Father. Too much is at stake.”

A hundred questions swam his mind, each looking for access to his tongue. Finally, one broke through. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Enlist the aid of the Gypsy King. Find Neb. Do not fail, Father, or the light is gone forever.”

Petronus opened his mouth to speak again, but the vertigo gripped him and that roaring took him yet again, pulling him into a brightness that burned as it penetrated him. He forced his eyes to stay open, and though it took every bit of effort, he kept them upon the map, memorizing the geography nearest to the man’s pointing finger. He opened his mouth again and pulled in a great lungful of the white, hot soup he now swam in. “Who are you?”

He could no longer see the man. He could no longer see the chart. But a distant voice reached him even as the roar died out and the light faded into the quiet midnight he suddenly found himself in.

“I am Arch-Behaviorist Hebda,” the man whispered, “of the Office for the Preservation of Light.”

That voice still whispered in his ear when he leaped from his cot, pulled on his robes and went out into the moonlight to find Grymlis and ready a bird for Rudolfo.

Yes, Petronus thought. I remember.

Charles

Charles cocked his head and bent the light from his reflector deeper into the mechoservitor’s chest cavity. He stretched nimble fingers up and in, reaching for the slipped memory scroll.

“He should be fine now,” he said, withdrawing his hand and firing the metal man’s boiler as he did.

“Thank you, Father,” Isaak said.

Charles chuckled. “You don’t have to thank me, Isaak. It’s my responsibility.”

Isaak’s eye shutters opened and closed. Gears inside whirred and clacked. “I suppose it is a part of parenthood.”

Now it was Charles’s turn to blink. Yes, it was. “And you provided this care before I turned up, didn’t you?”

They’d been discussing the various aspects of love for the better part of an hour. Isaak had brought it up, and lately it was less and less surprising to Charles. The mechoservitor was full of questions, and it seemed that the more Charles answered, the more Isaak asked. Now, Isaak hissed steam as if surprised by his answer. “I did provide that care. But I was instructed to do so. By Lord Rudolfo, of course.”

Charles’s fingers found the sequence of hidden buttons and switches and pushed them. The mechoservitor he’d been repairing shuddered to life. “Be still,” he murmured, and it did. He looked up to Isaak. “Yes, he did instruct you to. But if he hadn’t instructed you to do so, would you have done it anyway?”

Isaak shrugged, and Charles chuckled. He even learns our gestures from us.

Isaak’s voice lowered. “I do not know.”

“You would have.”

Isaak’s amber eyes glowed brighter. “How can you know this?”

“Because,” Charles said, “I am your father and I made you to be logical. It is logical to preserve your kind.”

Isaak nodded. “It is.” Then, the metal man did something surprising. He hesitated. “Father?”

Charles looked up. “Yes?”

“You made us. I want to ask you a question about how we were made.” His tone betrayed how serious his question must be.

“I built you from Rufello’s Specifications and from scraps dug out of the Wastes,” Charles said.

“No,” Isaak said. “Not how we were made.”

Charles leaned in to the mechoservitor on his worktable and whispered into its ear. “Return to task, Mechoservitor Twelve.”

“Returning to task,” the mechoservitor said as it stood and left the room.

Charles turned back to Isaak and wiped his hands clean on a nearby rag. “What do you want to know, Isaak?”

Isaak paused, and a wisp of steam leaked out from the exhaust grate in his back. “I want to know why we don’t dream.”