Author's note: I'm using the gender neutral pronouns zie/zir/zirs in this chapter to refer to agender characters. For those of you who aren't familiar with them, zie corresponds to she or they, zir corresponds with her or their, and zirs corresponds to hers or theirs. Hopefully that makes sense!  

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"Attention. Thy presence is requested at the tower of the farsighted ones. Please attend them at thy earliest convenience."

The huntsman lifts his head off of the down pillow. "Um... what?" he mumbles, rubbing sleep away from his eyes.

The elf standing in the doorway narrows zir eyes. "Must I repeat myself?" Zir tone, while nominally polite, is bordering on snippy; zie clearly has little patience for the foibles of mortals, especially sleepy ones.

Thankfully, the huntsman wakes up fast. "Of course, um..." He hesitates. "Sir? Ma'am?" A slight frown wrinkles his brow as he tries to decide which is the proper honorific. In this case, I'm actually fairly sure that 'siare,' the gender-neutral elven equivalent of 'my lord,' would be best, but I'm not sure how to surreptitiously inform him of that.

The elf sniffs. "Your guide will be waiting for you when you descend the stairs." With that, zie turns and leaves; the door glides shut behind zir.

The huntsman gaped in shock the first time the door did that, but he must be used to it now, for he doesn't bat an eye. Instead, he glances over at my mirror, which is currently resting on a low table next to the bed. "Mary, is that what ya wanted?"

I hesitate for a second, searching to see what's behind his guileless brown eyes. Is he truly as kind as he seems? Or will he change unpredictably, like the huntsman in the darkened world that just lost its princess? There's no indication of that, but then, I would have said the same about the other huntsman, until the unthinkable happened.

"Mary?"

I summon my mask into the mirror and give him a reassuring smile. "I think it is," I tell him. "I wasn't expecting a response so quickly, but I guess the farseers are pretty curious about the princess. They probably want to know what you know about her, so they can unravel her story." I refuse to believe that Ben will turn evil; he's too compassionate and gentle for that. I'll keep a close eye on him, to make sure of it, but I think the darkened kingdom must be some sort of anomaly.

Ben nods. "Alright then." He rises from the bed and slips his battered leather jerkin over his shoulders. "Let's go."

The elf who brought us Underhill in the first place is waiting for us at the base of the stairs. He sketches a shallow bow when the huntsman descends, face cold and smooth as obsidian. "Follow me." Without another word, he turns and stalks off without bothering to make sure that the huntsman is following. Impatience radiates from his stiff back and quick, graceful strides – he's clearly unhappy for some reason.

I've got a feeling that the huntsman's presence plays a large part in that unhappiness. Our guide can't disobey Lily's command, but it must rankle to play nursemaid to a human. The huntsman seems to sense this too, for the corners of his mouth twitch as he fights back a smile.

He doesn't say anything, though, and neither do I, so silence reigns on the long walk to the farseer's tower. It's not actually part of the main castle; it's a separate building offset a little ways. A stunning flower garden surrounds it, full of plants only found Underhill – many are deadly, and all are powerfully magical. Our guide strolls nonchalantly among them, but the huntsman picks his way between them, careful to avoid even the slightest brush of a leaf. The flowers rustle as he passes.

The elf pauses at the base of the tower. "The farsighted ones will see thee shortly. Wait here until thou art summoned." His tone holds the slightest trace of malicious amusement, probably at the thought of leaving us here for hours.

The huntsman bows his head. "Thank ya, sir."

I wait until our guide vanishes into the palace before reappearing in the mirror. "Settle in for a long wait," I advise. "In elven terms, 'shortly' is anything from a few minutes to a few hours, or even longer." Some Sidhe lords enjoy keeping supplicants waiting for weeks in uncomfortable antechambers; others find more amusement in handling business swiftly. I hope the farseers are in the latter court, but there's no guarantee of that.

Ben sighs and spreads his feet into a relaxed at-ease stance. "Can't be worse than waiting on her majesty, I guess." He tucks my mirror back into his belt, folding his hands in front of him. "At least I've got ya for company."

The sentiment sends a frisson of pleasure through me. It's rare that someone values me as a sapient being, rather than a talking encyclopedia. Only a handful of mortals over the past few centuries have done so, and their lives tend to be as brief as a snowflake in an inferno – too many dark mages want to possess my power, and those soft-hearted enough to befriend me are rarely capable of standing against them. Their reward for kindness is an unmarked grave, nothing more.

I steal a glance at the huntsman from the reflection in my mirror. Will he tread the same path, in the end? Or will he be allowed to live to the end of his mayfly mortal life? And does it matter? I'll lose him either way.

The ethereal winds dancing around the tower change direction, distracting me from my musings, and I frown. Why am I suddenly so morbid? The briefness of mortal life comes as no surprise to me, so why has it suddenly invaded my thoughts?

I sigh and dismiss the matter from my mind. Time's flow is immutable – there is no point in worrying over it, and the wonders of the multiverse are too great to allow such melancholy. I will enjoy the huntsman's company while it lasts, and remember him once he's passed beyond the veil, as I've done for all the others who have befriended me. It's the only way to live, for a being like me.

The huntsman's voice snaps me out of my reverie. "Uh, Mary? How long will we be waiting? I think the flowers are..." Ben pauses. "...getting curious."

I rematerialize in the mirror. "Hopefully not long, but we'll wait as long as it takes."

"Smart, cousin." The voice comes from beside us as a seer steps out of the seamless marble ringing the tower's base. The huntsman is too controlled to jump, but his muscles tense and his hand immediately drops to the knife sheathed at his hip. The seer laughs with a sound reminiscent of a babbling brook. "Relax, mortal." Her voice is melodic and ever-so-slightly inhuman, with a hint of ringing bells beneath the musical tones.

The huntsman quickly removes his hand from the hilt of his knife. "My apologies, my lady."

She waves his apology away, gold-tinted nails sparkling in the sunlight. "No matter." As the huntsman bows his head, she turns her attention to my mirror. "We were informed that thou desired an audience. This is fortuitous, as we have questions for thee as well." Though her eyes are milky white from edge to edge, lacking both pupil and iris, I get the sense that she's studying me intently.

I take that as tacit permission to scrutinize her in return. Like most elves, her ears rise to sharp points above her head, while her snow-white hair flows past her waist. She wears a long, flowing gown in a hue identical to that of her hair; it's hard to see where one ends and the other begins. Even the embroidery on the gown is pure white, at least to mortal eyes. To mine, pastel energies swirl around her, tinting the colorless expanses with lavender and mauve. Such pale shades would normally indicate lack of power, but I don't think that's the case here; I think she's hiding her strength somehow.

Then a second seer steps out of thin air, and I revise my assumptions. His personal power – lavender and mauve like hers – is difficult to see against his ebon tunic and leggings, but wherever their powers collide, they ignite. It's as if they share two halves of a single talent... or maybe less than that? Even with two of them here, they don't feel complete.

The newcomer presses his hands together and bows slightly to the white-gowned seer. She bows back. "Is everything prepared?" He nods, blank white eyes fixed on hers, and she smiles, then turns to the huntsman and holds out a hand. "Come with me."

He takes her hand, and she leads us into the tower.

The first thing I notice is how thin the walls between the worlds are. Ordinarily, the barriers are as solid and thick as castle walls, rigid and impenetrable. But here, in this tower, they resemble cell membranes – porous and flexible, designed to allow certain elements to pass easily. The worlds lie on top of each other like pages of a book, with barely more than a millimeter between them. That space, the space where I make my home, is almost claustrophobic; I can't say I enjoy it very much.

However, I can tolerate it. This isn't the only place in the multiverse where the worlds cluster together like chilly ducklings; natural weak spots abound throughout the multiverse. The fae realms hold more than their fair share, but mortals can also stumble across them on occasion. It's such occurrences that give rise to stories about prophets and oracles bound to a single spot, reading the future in vapors from the rocks or something similar – they're somehow catching glimpses of the nearby universes. Although the worlds can never touch, as far as I'm aware, echoes from one world can sometimes ripple into another.

Now that I've seen the interior of their tower, I suspect that the farseers are doing something similar to those prophets, albeit with more control. When combined the universal probability patterns, information from worlds a single degree of separation away would allow them to make uncannily accurate predictions.

They won't tell anyone that's what they do, of course. It'd spoil the illusion of mystery. Plus, I doubt many – if any – would have any interest in the technical details; I'm not even sure that the farseers themselves know exactly how their powers work.

The seer gowned in icy white casts a disparaging glance in my direction without pausing her journey up the winding steps. I pause. Can she hear my thoughts? Though I seriously doubt that's possible – reading the minds of sapient beings requires mapping their cognitive electrical structures, and I have none – I still turn my thoughts to another topic. There's no reason to make things more difficult for the huntsman, after all.

After maybe ten minutes of climbing, we reach a circular room at the top of the tower. The huntsman is breathing hard, and the seer in white smiles faintly. "I trust you both know why you're here?" She gestures gracefully around the room, which is bare apart from a serene pool in the center of the floor.

The huntsman glances at me and shuffles his feet. "Ah, well... ma'am..."

I take it upon myself to answer for both of us, as I don't think she's referring to my request for a meeting. "I'm afraid we have not been graced with that knowledge, cousin." A subtle reminder that she and I are not so different, and that her superciliousness is unnecessary.

Her expression softens into something less remote. "Very well." She waves a hand, and the seer in coal black steps up and offers her a silver goblet. It holds a muted inner glow, which flares to life as she accepts it. "Drink from this and your questions will be answered." Before I can say anything, she adds, "The draught will not be necessary for you, cousin, but the mortal needs assistance to open his mind."

Her tone is not exactly reassuring. Mortal minds are not meant to bear the sight of an infinity of possibilities – there's a reason why so many oracles go insane. If this drink, whatever it is, forces the huntsman's mind open to the potentialities, he might never recover.

The huntsman must be thinking along the same lines, for he frowns. "Um, ma'am, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but... I, ah, don't know if that's such a good idea."

She arches one thin eyebrow. "Are you questioning me?" Her tone could freeze lava.

I roll my eyes. "Cousin, be sensible. Will this harm him in any way or leave permanent effects?"

"It will neither harm him nor leave permanent effects," she reassures me. "It will merely allow us to show him what we see when we scry in the Pool." The capital letter is clearly audible.

She's as fae as the rest of the court; she cannot lie. Still, I take a closer look at the substance within the goblet. To the unaided eye, it appears to be no more than crystal-clear water, but I can sense power roiling within. None of it feels inimical, but the sheer strength is worrying.

More worrying, though, is that I cannot decipher the purpose of all that energy. There are at least three distinct spells bound into the liquid, and several more woven into the metal of the goblet, yet I can only get the dimmest glimpses of their intentions.

I don't like it, but we'll have to trust the seer. I make my mask nod to the huntsman. "You'll be fine." My geas stirs at that, but it's true to the best of my knowledge.

His mouth puckers, but he takes the goblet when the seer offers it to him. "Alright then." He swallows a healthy draught, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It doesn't appear to affect him in any way, and he asks, "Is that enough?"

The seer clad in black steps forward and silently removes the goblet from his hands, while his companion nods. "Perfect." She claps her hands together, and a third seer, clothed in shades of gray, emerges from a curtained doorway. "Now we may begin."

As soon as the third seer joins hands with zir compatriots, the power of the trio flares to life. Coruscating, brilliant rainbows surround them, a million times brighter than each seer's individual power alone. The currents around them settle into place with an audible snap, like a dislocated bone being reset, and it's clear that their powers are now complete.

The androgynous seer tips zir head back, letting zirs slate hair fall off of zir face, and intones, "Gadael i'r gemau yn dechrau."

As the liquid syllables die away, the pool shivers into life.