She extended them, sullenly, but without argument. Having Zaveta beat you up and sit on you could have a chilling effect on discourse, I imagined. I bound her wrists as best I could, and Zaveta rose. She pushed the toe of one high-tech boot into the cultist’s side, nudging her more than kicking her, and the cultist rolled onto her back. Zaveta grabbed her ankle and wrist bindings, pulled them close, and looped them together with a bit of her own rope, so the cultist was tied into a curled-up position. “Put something soft under her head?” Zaveta said.

  I cut down a piece of yellow sail – I was afraid they’d turn out to be some kind of horrible fleshy leather, but they seemed to be just canvas – and folded it over a few times, then shoved it under the cultist’s head. “It’s nice of you to concern yourself with her comfort.”

  Zaveta snorted. “I just don’t want her banging her head until she loses consciousness and escapes.”

  “Oh. Right.” I didn’t want to sit down on a coil of rope, or lean on a bone mast, so I just stood there, reducing physical contact with this anatomical ship as much as possible. “Zaveta, when you transitioned, didn’t you see… the void, the worms, the endless time?”

  “I did not.” Zaveta had no qualms about sitting on a coil of giant’s hair, and settled herself down. “I will tell you why.”

  As I mentioned, Zaveta isn’t a fan of writing things down and draining them of their majesty and all that, so what I’m about to do wouldn’t thrill her… but here’s what she told me, as best I can remember.

  In the special regiments (Zaveta said), they trained us to withstand torture. Our enemies were known to use horrid techniques on their prisoners, and it was expected that we might face such an ordeal. Now, you must understand, there is ultimately no way to resist the effects of torture – everyone breaks eventually, and since there are so many ways to torment someone bodily and mentally, it is impossible to steel yourself against all the dreadful options.

  But we had a teacher from one of those remote, swampy regions that had long resisted annexation. Her people were known to be as close to impossible to break as anyone could be, and she taught us their technique. It was a trick of the mind. I say a trick – she considered it more of a spiritual practice. She was adept at meditation, at stilling the mind and focusing on the body and the breath, but she explained that there was a way to invert that technique: to dwell within the mind, and separate your consciousness from the body.

  To do this, you construct for yourself a mind fortress, built meticulously over months and years. In your mind, in the theater of your imagination, you choose the terrain. You place every stone of your fortress. You hammer every nail into every board. You lay the foundation, and sand and finish the floors, and build all the furniture in a workshop of your mind. Over time, the fortress becomes so real to you that it is almost indistinguishable from the real world, and when the fortress begins to make frequent appearances in your dreams, you know the practice is taking root.

  When you are seated in a muddy trench awaiting the order to attack, or crouched in a sniper’s nest with your bow and arrow at hand awaiting your target, you can go to your mind fortress and enjoy a meal there, or listen to a music box, or peruse artwork, or watch moving pictures drawn from your own memories or stories you’ve heard. There is a single window in the fortress that looks out upon the real world, and you keep a small part of your attention on that window, so if something happens in the physical realm, you’ll know, and can return in an instant to the fullness of yourself.

  She explained that when you are held captive, the mind fortress is an obvious comfort, but when you are being tortured, it becomes more than a comfort – it becomes a true fortress. That open window on the world, you see, has a heavy steel shutter, and you can close it. When you do that, you are sealed wholly within the confines of your mind, and the outside world becomes the imaginary place, and the fortress real.

  That is the theory. In practice, some people make better fortresses than others. Mine is quite robust. I had a difficult upbringing, and imagining better worlds was already something I did, before my training. Even the most powerful fortress will fall eventually – when your body is hurt, those messages reach your mind, and all the mental walls in the world can only dull or delay those messages. The walls tremble, the torches gutter, and eventually, the construct breaks down and you are returned to a world of pain. This is inevitable.

  Of course, being able to resist torture for even a moment is valuable, because you never know when rescue might come, so we all learned to build our own fortresses. I built mine very well.

  The moment I struck this little worm-sister here, I realized she might lose consciousness. Worrying about such things is not yet automatic for me – the rules of engagement for the cult are so different from those I am accustomed to. When I recognized my mistake, and the danger, we were still rushing toward impact with the wall. At that moment, I retreated into my mind fortress, and slammed the shutters down. If she did not lose consciousness and travel, I knew she would struggle, or you would speak to me – I would hear that, like a voice beyond the door – and I would know it was safe to emerge from my fortress. If not…

  “If not” is what came to pass. All was silence and stillness, so I settled down to a long wait. You told me the Lector said it seemed to take centuries for the time to pass in that void. I decided to fill them as best I could.

  I worked on the tale of my life, my trials and triumphs, composing it like a song – this is arrogant, I know, but I had to entertain myself somehow. I reviewed my memories, first projecting them as images on a wall, and then refining my technique until they became scenes I could enter. Sometimes I made different choices and imagined how things might have changed. I experimented more with imaginary scenarios. Fighting, feasting, other things that to tell them would make you blush. I killed that cultist who stole my village away a thousand different ways. That was a favorite.

  I took to meditating, too. That practice of losing oneself, of disconnecting from time, and inhabiting breath – it never appealed to me much, but it was a valuable tool there, in my fortress. Meditating within another sort of meditation! The old swamp witch would have been impressed, I think.

  I was often tempted to lift the shutter over the window and look out. Worms, you say, and holes in the world – well, I am not afraid of worms or holes. I suspected it was the time that led to the madness, not the glimpse of the things in that place between places, but I could not be sure, and it hardly seemed worth experimenting, no matter how bored I became.

  Was my time there difficult? Yes, of course, but it was easier in some ways than being tortured. No one was hitting me or burning me or cutting me, and I didn’t get hungry or thirsty or have to piss or shit. The only way it was harder was because of the depth of the time. I am sure that place would have broken me, eventually, Zaxony. I can pass months in a small cell; I have done it, when I was captured. I can pass years in isolation; I have done it, when the conglomeration fell and I had to go into hiding. But centuries? I am Zaveta of the Broken Wheel, yes, but I am still just a person.

  My madness was prevented by a knock at the door. Not the pounding that is analogous to some physical trauma. This was as if a figment of my mindscape, one of the phantoms I conjured to pass the time with, was on the other side of the door, knocking. I didn’t know what to do. So I just said, “Who is it?”

  A voice beyond said, “Most call me the Prisoner. May I come in?”

  “I cannot open the door,” I said. “There is madness beyond.”

  “True enough,” the voice said. “But give me permission to enter, and turn and face away, and I will come in, and shut the door behind me.”

  “You could be an enemy,” I said.

  “I think I am,” the Prisoner replied. “But only because you have chosen to set yourself against me. I would relish the opportunity to explain myself, and, perhaps, find common ground. You have no reason to trust me, but let me assure you, I cannot harm you within this fascinating stronghold you’ve made. I will only send a little projection of myself in with you, and it will be subject to your rules.” It paused, and then said, “Or you can be alone forever and go mad.”

  Something about the voice was familiar, and by then I was so very tired of loneliness and boredom, Zax, that I relished the idea of company, or even a fight. I said, “You may come in, but only if you abide by the guest rules of my world.”

  “I will,” the Prisoner said.

  I believed it. I don’t know why. “Then enter.” I turned, and heard the door open, and then close again.

  “It is safe.”

  I turned back, and reached instinctively for the club at my waist – the imaginary club at my imaginary waist. The man before me was the leader of the Army of the Downfall, who renounced his born name to become known only as the Undoing – bulky, bald, dressed in multicolored rags that covered a coat of mail and gauntlets and greaves and sabatons. The voice that emerged, though, was that of my old teacher, the swamp witch. “I appear to you in a guise built from your own mind,” the Prisoner said. “People often see me in the form of someone they hate or fear, speaking in the voice of someone they admire or love. I can only speculate about why. Perhaps because I am fearsome, in many of my attributes, but I wish only to bring peace and an end to suffering for all people, and your mind does what it can to combine those seeming contradictions.”

  I grunted. I find that grunting is often a good response. The Undoing just smiled at me with dirty stump teeth. I realized I would never be able to match the patience of a being that dwelled in the space between worlds, so I sighed, and said, “What do you want?”

  “You travel with Zaxony Dyad Euphony Delatree,” it said.

  “Zax has so many names?” I said. “That is more names than anyone requires.”

  “It is the way of his world, the Realm of Spheres and Harmonies,” the Prisoner said. “Zaxony is the name his parents gave him, in honor of an illustrious relative who died a generation before. Dyad is the name shared by members of his blood-and-choice family – the origins are a bit obscure, but essentially the founding members of his family are distantly related to a ruling duumvirate from deep in his world’s history. Their rulership was known as the Two, or the Dyad. Euphony is his earned name – he only received it a short time before he left his homeworld. The earned name indicates one’s, hmm, ‘job’ isn’t emphatic enough… it’s more like one’s purpose and role in society. His world is very concerned with society. Those who earn the name ‘Euphony’ are harmonizers, dedicated to helping those who struggle to find their place within the context of the whole. Finally, Delatree is his sphere name – it just indicates the particular… hmm… territory, you might say? Where he was born. See? Not so different, really, from your blood-name Zaveta and your renown title, of the Broken Wheel.”

  “How do you know so much about Zax and his world?”

  “Oh, it’s a relatively new development. For a long time, I only saw the emptiness you would see if you opened that shutter.” It nodded toward my blocked window. “But these days I have… peepholes. Cracks that I can peer through. One of those cracks opens onto Zaxony’s world. I don’t have much else to do but watch, so, I watch a lot. They declared him dead, a while after he vanished, and I observed his memorial service. There was a lovely speech where they talked about his name and how he lives on through his family and his sphere and other such things.”

  “You watch us. And you tell your people what you see.”

  “When it’s helpful. Most of what I see isn’t, particularly. Most of what I see is just… ugliness.”

  Ha. As if this place between places wasn’t full of ugliness. “You live in this space between worlds?”

  “I do indeed. I’ve been here, for… well, we didn’t used to have time, and I don’t entirely approve of the stuff, but let’s say, billions of years.”

  “Why are you called the Prisoner?”

  “Because I am trapped, Zaveta of the Broken Wheel. Have you ever been trapped? A warrior like you must have fallen into enemy hands at some point.”

  I grunted.

  “I looked into your world. There wasn’t much to see. No one is throwing any memorials for you, I’m afraid.”

  I would not let myself be distracted. “What do you want, Prisoner? Why are you even talking to me, instead of spying on the lives of strangers or presenting your boots for your cultists to lick?”

  “I don’t wear boots, I’m afraid, but you do correctly judge the depth of their devotion.” He smiled foully. “I’d like you to pass a message on to Zax.”

  “We were separated.”

  “Oh, you’ll see him again.”

  “You have the gift of prophecy, Prisoner?”

  “Alas, no. I don’t approve of time, but I’m as bound by it as you are. That’s part of what makes my captivity so intolerable. I can’t see the future, but I can make educated guesses. Zax will pursue you, even though he thinks your mind will be broken, and even though it means abandoning the trail he’s been following. It’s just the sort of thing he does.”

  “That… is probably true.”

  “Fine. When you see him, tell him I want him to meet up with his friend Minna, and bring her to the home of my chosen people – the ones you rather inelegantly call the Cult of the Worm. I need Minna and Zax to teach my people to make their wonderful serum, the one that allows people to travel between worlds without the benefit of my sacrament. I would like Minna to pass on the other gifts she gave Zax, too – the ability to stay awake as long as you like, and to sleep at will. The linguistic virus would also be helpful. I’ve tried to teach my followers other useful languages, but it’s too tiresome.”

  “If you can see into the worlds, haven’t you watched Minna make her potions?” I said. “Why can’t you do it yourself?”

  The visage of my enemy frowned. “You could watch someone perform brain surgery, Zaveta, without being able to do the same thing yourself. I watched the Lector mix a bunch of chemicals from unmarked containers, and peer into microscopes; even seeing what he saw doesn’t mean it makes sense to me. Moreover, Minna does things inside the biotechnology lab of her own body that are totally mysterious to me. I have no idea how she changed Zaxony’s brain so he could stay awake forever. Could you do brain surgery on an ant? Or talk someone else through how to do it, from inside a cage?”

  I grunted. The Prisoner was clearly powerful, but just as clearly limited. “It sounds like you need Minna, then, and not Zax at all.”

  “True, but my attempt to have an agent recruit Minna… did not go well. She adores Zax, though, and will listen to whatever he says. So. Convince him to bring her to me, would you?”

  “You are our enemy,” I said. “You stole my friends away. Your cultists are killers. Your people damage reality. I will not help you.”

  “Everyone misunderstands me,” the Prisoner said. “Listen. Tell Zax that he and I have the same goal. We both want to spare people suffering. He’ll see what I mean, in the world after the next world – there are people in that place who need his help, and I want him to help them.”

  “Oh, I will tell Zax what you said. We will both laugh at the idea that we could ever join your cause.”

  “We’ll see.” Another stump-toothed smile. “I am grateful for your cooperation. Would you like me to ease your passage?”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I, myself, never sleep,” the Prisoner said. “But I can, sometimes, be a cause of sleep in others.” The Prisoner reached out a hand, faster than I would have believed possible, and covered my eyes.

  The next thing I knew, I was here, and this cultist was blinking up at me, so I beat her up and stole her boots and sat on her, and waited for you.

  That was a lot to take in. While I was processing everything, the cultist spoke up: “I recognized some of those words. Zaxony. You’re Zaxony?”

  I stared at her. “You’ve heard of me?”

  She snorted. “Of course. You’re famous. You received the sacrament from someone who received the sacrament from someone else. You went deeper into the cage than anyone else ever has, and the Prisoner has been watching you. We were supposed to capture you ages ago, but, you were always hundreds of worlds away, and we don’t have all your fancy tricks, just closing your eyes, and off you go – we have to sleep our way to a new world and survive until we’re tired again, or find a drug to put us to sleep. You were always worlds and worlds ahead. Then you came back, to that bubble on that rock where you ungrateful figments congregate to plot against our people, and we were supposed to capture you and your friend – Minnow, isn’t it? – when we attacked. I didn’t go on that mission, but apparently the capture part didn’t work out. Listen. Untie me, and I’ll help you reach the First World. I can’t follow my own backtrail because I don’t have one of your fancy chariots, but I can take you to one of our outposts–”

  “OK,” I said.

  Zaveta groaned. “Zax. She only offers aid because the Prisoner wants you to come to their world. Where I am from, we call that walking into a trap.”

  I nodded. “It’s true. I don’t like the idea that the leader, or – or god, or whatever, of this cult, is watching us. But it sounds like they really want Minna, and…” I turned back to the cultist. “Do you know where Minna is?”

  “I know some places she’s been,” the cultist said. “The Trypophile tried to recruit her. I can definitely take you to a world where you can pick up her trail.”

  Zaveta scoffed. “The path of worlds is a twisting maze. How can you claim to navigate it?”