But Conley knew something we didn’t. He knew we’d be compelled to return to the Triadverse soon, that we’d break the truce no matter what.
He knew what was about to happen to Theo.
3
“YOU TRICKED US,” I SAY TO CONLEY AS THE THREE OF US stand together in this stone room, in an Italian castle a world away. Paul looks from Wyatt Conley to me in confusion. “Saying you’d let us ‘think it over’—”
“I did, didn’t I? You had weeks.” Conley straightens the red robes he wears as if he’s proud of them. “Then Paul Markov came to my dimension, even though you were warned it would be dangerous. He’s paying the price. It’s as simple as that.”
My dimension, he said. That means this is the Triadverse Conley I’m dealing with. Not that it makes much difference; the two Conleys work together, forming a conspiracy of one.
“Cardinal Conley—I don’t understand.” This world’s Paul looks hopelessly bewildered, and no wonder. “What law have I broken?”
Conley smiles, all grace and benevolence. “This is between me and your lady fair, Father Paul. You can speak with her later. At the moment, she and I need to have a private conversation.”
Paul steps between us. It’s more obvious than ever how much taller he is than Conley, how much stronger. “You can’t blame her for my weakness. I alone am responsible.”
Is he amazing in every universe? I place one hand on Paul’s back, a small touch meant to say thank you.
However, Conley remains in faux-kindly mode. “She won’t be punished. More than that, I hear her parents have been condemned for their studies by some of the local priests. Tonight I shall tell Her Holiness to officially declare them under her protection. You see? All will be well. Now go.”
When Paul hesitates anyway, I murmur, “It’s all right. I’ll talk to you soon. Con . . . the cardinal and I don’t have much to say to each other.”
At last Paul turns to go, with one last look at me filled with such longing that my heart turns over. No sooner has he walked out, however, than Conley starts to laugh. “Oh, Marguerite. You and I have so much to say.”
“What did you do to him?” I demand. “I tracked Paul here from your universe. I gave him a reminder, and the Firebird seems like it worked—”
“Inconvenient, isn’t it? The way most people forget themselves between dimensions. You don’t appreciate your gift.”
That’s how it is for virtually everyone who travels through the multiverse. Without constant reminders, they quickly become silent, passive witnesses as those dimensions’ selves take over again. For Mom and Dad’s purposes, this doesn’t matter; the travelers remember everything they experienced through their “other selves” in each world. As long as you have your Firebird to remind you, you can still get back home and analyze what you learned.
But as I discovered on my first voyage, there are serious flaws in this procedure. For instance, you can lose a Firebird. It can be broken or stolen. And if you haven’t got your Firebird to remind you of yourself, then you’ll remain in that alternate dimension, within that other self—unconscious, paralyzed, and trapped—forever.
That’s why it would help to have a “perfect traveler,” someone who always remembered who she was, who remained in control no matter what.
So Triad turned me into one.
I still don’t exactly understand what it was that was done to me. The device Triad loaned us seemed like any other piece of scientific equipment, and all I felt when the conversion happened was a moment of dizziness. Paul and my parents have explained it to me a dozen times, but it’s the kind of explanation you need a graduate degree in physics to fully understand.
All I know is that I can go to any dimension and remain in total control. Where to go, who to see, what to do: It’s entirely up to me. I also know that you can create only one traveler like me in any given universe. (Apparently, creating more than one exception to the laws of physics can seriously destabilize reality.)
But I still don’t understand why Wyatt Conley makes such a big deal out of it. “Other people can travel through dimensions! Okay, so, it’s more of a hassle. It doesn’t matter. You’ll use Nightthief on anyone—you proved that much. And you can travel as well as I can, so you can run your own creepy errands! So why do you keep after me?”
“Important work is coming.” Conley’s smile fades. “Tricky work, some of it in universes I can’t reach. Triad needs you on our side, and soon. Be fair—I tried gentler persuasion, didn’t I? If you work with me, you’ll be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. But it looks as though more extreme measures are necessary to get you on board.”
“Like kidnapping Paul into this dimension, just like you did my dad?”
To my surprise, Conley shakes his head. The flickering orange light of the torches casts eerie shadows on his face. “Not exactly. This time, I’ve given you a challenge.”
“You mean, because the reminder didn’t work.” How was Conley able to prevent my Paul from waking up? The Firebird seems to be functioning normally, except for this strange, unique reading I don’t understand.
Conley walks to the arched window and looks out, though in a world without electricity the view isn’t much to speak of. Moonlight paints the city dimly, a sprawl of buildings beneath the high hill of the castle. He says, “I told you already, but I suspect you were too upset to listen.”
“Told me what?”
He turns back to me, once again cocky as he leans against the stone wall, arms folded across his chest. “Haven’t your parents discovered the danger yet? The possibility of splintering?”
My parents have never said word one about “splintering,” unless they were talking about literal splinters to be removed with tweezers. I open my mouth to tell Conley to stop playing games—
—before realizing my parents did talk about this. They didn’t have a name for it yet, but they’d glimpsed the danger. But we’d had no idea how close that danger really was.
Did that conversation happen only five nights ago? It feels like long, hard years have passed since then.
“We ought to have recognized the potential before,” my mother said, talking about what I now know is called splintering. “Consciousness is energy. Energy consists of packets of quanta. It stands to reason that those packets could become . . . disassociated.”
“Fragmented,” Paul said, his mood black. “The danger—”
“Is remote,” my father cut in. The three of them were seated around the rainbow table, piles of paper and a glowing laptop evidence that they were hard at work, even after dinner on a weekend.
Normally, Theo would have been working alongside them, but it was my turn to do the dishes, and he’d volunteered to help. Still, he couldn’t resist weighing in. “Are you sure of that, Henry?”
“Incredibly sure. The odds against it are staggering. You’d almost have to do it on purpose, not that anyone’s likely to try such a damn fool thing.” Dad began typing on the laptop with such gusto that I knew he was trying to find something similarly unlikely to compare it to.
“Great,” Theo muttered as he dried the salad spoons. “Like the Firebirds needed to get any more dangerous.”