Korzenowski glanced up toward the center of the maze and saw a man standing there, a hundred meters distant. The man began to work his way outward; Korzenowski, as if challenged, began to work inward. The sport was diverting, relaxing; he did not look at the man directly, choosing instead to remember his own design, and riddle what he had forgotten or lost.

They were still some meters apart, on separate concentrics of the easier central maze, when Korzenowski looked up and stared the man full in the face. For a moment, it seemed as if no time at all had passed since the Sundering, forty years gone and the early hours of his reincarnation fresh in memory…

The man was Ry Oyu, chief gate-opener for the Infinite Hexamon. His presence was as impossible as Mirsky’s; both had gone with the Geshel precincts down the Way.

“Hello,” the gate-opener greeted him, lifting a hand. He nodded at a point behind Korzenowski, alerting him that they were not alone. Korzenowski reluctantly turned away from Ry Oyu and saw Olmy on the maze’s periphery.

Abruptly, the Engineer laughed. “Is this a conspiracy?” he asked the gate-opener. “Are you in league with Olmy?”

“No conspiracy. He isn’t expecting me. This seemed like an opportune moment to talk to you both. Shall we meet Ser Olmy on the outside?” the man asked. “This is a wonderful maze, but no place for comfortable conversation. Too many distractions and problems to solve.”

“All right,” Korzenowski said, his tone deliberate and measured.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Ry Oyu said.

“Nothing surprises me now.” Korzenowski waited for the gate-opener to join him. As they moved together through the maze, following the pathway, he asked, “Are you also an avatar, prophesying doom?”

“No prophecy. I’m afraid I’m here to be a hard taskmaster,” Ry Oyu said. “Would you like to question me, to confirm my reality?”

“No.” Korzenowski waved his hands, brushing the suggestion away. “You’re the Ghost of Christmas Past. Clearly, the gods themselves take a great interest in all our affairs.” He laughed again, this time a small, exhausted laugh.

“You’re convinced I am what I appear to be?”

“No, not that,” Korzenowski demurred. “But I’ll accept that you are whatever Ry Oyu has become.”

The former gate-opener picted approval of that judgment. Korzenowski noted that Ser Oyu did not appear to wear a torc or any other kind of projector; the picts emanated out of nothing, a talent interesting in itself.

“I have a difficult request to make of both you and Olmy,” the gate-opener said.

“More a command, I suspect,” Korzenowski said.

“I’d like the opportunity to convince both of you of a certain necessity.”

“I agreed with Mirsky,” Korzenowski said, feeling vaguely guilty. At least part of me did. “I supported his efforts.”