CHAPTER FIVE

  Exaltiture

  V

  Wilburn didn’t exist. Only She existed. Only Her Majesty—All-Seer—Hive Mother—the Queen. For a beat which might have lasted an eternity, there was no such person as Wilburn Fark. Then She began to recreate him. She conjured Wilburn’s naked soul from nothingness, stripped of all memory and identity. He was a formless, nameless pinprick of awareness, unthinking, unknowing—terrified. And then…

  He was a boy… in red pajamas... falling down a corridor of light… his name was Wilburn... Wilburn tried to turn his head. He couldn’t move. In Real Life, he was lying in the root cellar. Despite the darkness, he could see himself quite clearly through the little window in the back of his mind. He was pinned between two heavy sacks of flour. His body spasmed with the violent force of Her Majesty’s possession. Until...

  She released him. The paralysis lifted from Wilburn’s dream body at the same moment his Real Life body stilled. It all came back to him. His physical, mental, and magical facilities returned. He was... fine?

  He was fine. And suddenly, he understood. A ray of gratitude broke through the blackness of his terror, transmuting his terror into awe. The message couldn’t have been clearer. He was Hers. Utterly. Irrevocably. It was by Her mercy alone that he existed, for no power truly belonged to him, no attribute, apart from that which She deigned to bestow. Unbelievably, this greatest of all beings cared about him, loved him in fact. She had erased him, then restored him, so that he would understand—he had been chosen. Wilburn’s heart pounded. He discovered he wasn’t falling anymore. He was flying. He was ascending into golden light.

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  We have a purpose for you. Her Majesty spoke without language, in a voice of pure meaning that entered Wilburn’s mind like an epiphany. This was it. This was the reason. This was why he had been born.

  Serve.

  YES! Wilburn responded with his whole soul, pouring forth affirmation. YES! YES! He was weeping in passion. It was the realest, most beautiful moment of his life. All around him spiraled a tantalizing pattern, redolent of music and plants and mathematics. It seemed to express an essential harmony of nature, a dance of opposites and balancing extremes. He felt himself aligning with the pattern, as if some internal string were being tuned. Her Power reverberated through him—it was his power—his to wield, so long as he served. He didn’t need to grasp the full significance to know what he must do. There was a rhythm to the pattern. The next step in the dance was obvious. The Path was illuminated. It was preordained.

  The ritual, which had been set in motion long before his birth, must be completed. Oh, he had a choice, of course; this was essential to the ritual. The options were service or slavery. Not much of a choice, some might say, but Wilburn knew otherwise. It was the difference between doing it, or having it happen to him. His choice was made. He would not cower from his destiny. Besides, he wasn’t frightened anymore. He understood, and he agreed. In fact, he wanted to do it… more than he had ever wanted anything. He wanted to touch the center.

  Somehow, it was directly above him and directly in front of him at the same time, a point of absolute, perfect light, the point where every part of the pattern converged. It crackled with energy, dangerous, so, so dangerous, yet irresistibly attractive. Wilburn flew toward it. Down in the root cellar, his body arose. It was the least effort to throw the trapdoor open. Magic surged between the worlds, bridging the two versions of him. He paid just enough attention to the little window in the back of his mind to keep from bonking his head as he floated himself up through the trapdoor. The greater part of his awareness remained fixed upon the center, the very center of the center—the heart of the Great Mystery.

  In one world, he glided to meet the waiting hornet. In the other world, he soared into the golden light of exaltiture. In both worlds, he reached out his hand.