My eyes were clearing. Pater and I lay on a dirt floor; Sylvia sat on a bench of marble by me. Pillars stood sentry, holding the ceiling and floor apart, marching off into infinity. Since the pillars and piece of ceiling over me were off-yellow, I was probably somewhere between the Plane of Eternal Enlightenment and the Plane of Ennui. Not that that mattered too much – in Xanadu, such distinctions were the ruler’s illusion to mold.

“Emperors, eh? Plural? Last time I saw the Laurel, it only fit one head at a time.”

Lucio chuckled.

“The Laurel sits on Pliny’s bust where you left it last. We’re not that dumb. You set something about it, Martin. Even the elf stays back. It’s the reason you’re still alive.”

I looked at Sylvia, and she helped me sit up.

“Don’t ask me what I did to it – it wasn’t a conscious thing. I was out of my mind with grief, remember? You should. You saw it all.” I looked at him through the bars.

“You probably staged it, didn’t you? You always were the jealous type.”