Ernst tapped the manuscript again. “He dreamed this?”

“That’s what he said.” Kushner gave an elaborate shrug. “What can I tell you beyond that?”

“Well, if that’s true,” Slootjes said, his tone vehement, “then his dreams are being generated by the Enemy! Consider the takeaway from his story: That our Order—the ‘Octogon’ in his story—has been lied to for millennia, that they’ve been fooled into believing they will be put in charge when the Change comes. But they wind up as just another set of victims because the Changed world is viciously hostile to all human life. The Enemy’s minions have been selling that line forever. We cannot allow this book to be published!”

“Let’s not get too worked up here,” Ernst said. “It’s not as if this was written by some bestselling author like…like…” He snapped his fingers, blanking on the name.

“Stephen King?” Kushner offered.

“Yes, fine, Stephen King. It sounds like this Winslow has no readership worth mentioning.”

“But his novel,” Slootjes said, “it presents a sequence of events not unlike what we’re expecting: a radical Change in the world, but with an outcome just the opposite of what we’ve been promised.”

Clearly Slootjes was not worried about Winslow’s readership. He was concerned about his own hide.

The novel’s scenario had awakened one of Ernst’s unspoken and long-suppressed fears: That the One and the Otherness he served had been lying to the Order all along, using its members to further its cause here in this corner of reality with no intention of delivering on the rewards so long promised.

A little late for second thoughts now, especially with the Change so close at hand.

At least according to the signals.

Their frequencies were moving toward synchronization. Not for the first time, however. They’d started progressing that way in the past only to grind to a halt.

Just then an acolyte stuck his head into the room. “There’s a Mister Winslow here who says he has an appointment?”

“Show him in,” Ernst said.

Slootjes’s head bobbed as he muttered, “Now we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Ernst sensed Slootjes’s anger, but realized he was deeply afraid, and angry because of that fear.

P. Frank Winslow entered a moment later and was hardly a prepossessing figure: a slightly built man pushing forty with unruly blond hair and hazel eyes.

He came to a sudden stop when he saw the three of them.

“What’s this? Feels like an ambush.”

Kushner jumped up and led him to the third chair before Ernst’s desk.

“No way, Frankie. Just want to hash out some potential legal problems with your novel.”

“Legal?” he said, sitting.

“Yes,” Slootjes said. “The ‘Octogon’ in your book bears a close resemblance to us—the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order.”

Winslow shrugged. “Never heard of you guys.” He seemed to have a chip on his shoulder.

“Never heard of us?” Ernst said, fighting a surge of anger. Insolent pup! The Order had been born in the First Age…

“That’s understandable,” Slootjes said soothingly. “We do our good works in private and don’t seek the limelight. It’s just that the resemblance between our factual brotherhood and your fictional one is uncanny. Which brings us to these dreams Mister Kushner says form the basis for your writing. Did everything apocalyptic in this novel come from the same dream?”