The past few days were a blur. There had been a fight, Zanobius vaguely recalled. But the memory of what had happened was gone.
This wasn’t the first time he’d awakened in a new place with few clues as to how he’d gotten there or what time of day it was. He felt like a rowboat caught in a squall, tossed up and down as he fought to find the shore. He’d come to dread the blackouts.
A dark gray cloak covered his arms and legs and a hood hung low over his eyes. “A precaution,” he faintly remembered his master telling him. “It’s better if they don’t know who you are.” But whether that conversation happened a few minutes ago or a few hours ago, he couldn’t be sure.
Wool fibers scratched his neck, his back, his arms. He wanted to tear off the cloak and let his skin breathe. Who cared if people saw what he was? Was his master ashamed of him?
He was standing outside a thick wooden door. Torches stuck out of the packed-dirt walls, lighting the narrow passageway. Beams lined the ceiling for support. Between the torches hung painting after painting. The beautiful, colorful works seemed out of place in a dank tunnel that threatened to crumble any moment.
The muffled yells of two men came through the door. One of the voices belonged to his master. He shouted something about sacred tools.
The Creator’s Sacred Tools.
Of course. His master, Ugalino, had been searching across the Zizzolan Empire for the Compass, Straightedge, and Pencil, but for what purpose, Zanobius couldn’t be sure. Maybe Ugalino had never told him. But he did know why they had come here—to meet a black market art dealer who had information about the Tools’ whereabouts.
The door swung open and a squat-nosed guard with scruffy hair stepped out. Zanobius sized him up: he was equally as tall as Zanobius, broad through the shoulders, and his muscles pulled his tunic taut. A rapier hung from his belt, its point nearly touching the ground. A poor choice of sword for close-quarters combat. The art dealer’s guard was hardly a threat.
Through the open door, Zanobius glimpsed his master’s wavy black hair and short beard. A white cloak draped over his wide shoulders and he gripped an ivory staff in his right hand. He faced a man with long black hair and an unkempt beard who leaned back in a chair with his feet stacked on a thick oak table. Crowds of statues, stacks of paintings, countless colorful vases, and roll upon roll of tapestries filled the room.
“Your employer doesn’t know when to shut up.” The guard pulled the door shut.
“He’s my master,” Zanobius corrected.
The guard leaned against the wall. “Well, your master started going on about a compass and some kind of pencil, then had the nerve to tell me to leave so he could talk to my employer alone. Like that’s going to get him anywhere.” The man spat on the ground. “We get collectors like him down here from time to time. Thinks he’s doing Rocco a big favor by taking some art off his hands. But just because the high-and-mighty Supreme Creator has her art hounds sniffing around for contraband doesn’t mean Rocco’s gonna roll over and give his paintings away for a song.”
Zanobius held the guard’s gaze, watching his puffy pink lips flap, barely listening to the words coming out of his mouth. He was like most humans he’d encountered. Talked a lot, without really saying anything.
Not like his master. When Ugalino spoke, it was purposeful and direct. He didn’t waste words on complaints or small talk. Zanobius preferred it that way.
“You okay, pal?” the guard asked, peering under Zanobius’s hood. “You’re pale. You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?”
“It’s a permanent condition,” Zanobius said.
The guard took a step back, a nervous look on his face. “Not contagious, is it?”
“Not as far as I know.”
Zanobius, I need your assistance. Come in here. His master’s voice beckoned in his head.
“Excuse me, my master is calling,” Zanobius said.
The guard looked at his employer’s door, then cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t hear anything.”
Zanobius knew his ears were working fine. He just didn’t need them to hear Ugalino’s voice. He walked past the guard and pushed the door open.
The guard grasped the handle of his rapier. “Hey, don’t go in there unless Rocco gives you the go-ahead.”
Zanobius ignored the warning and marched into the room. Rocco rose to his feet and drew a small dagger, pointing it at Ugalino. “You told me our guards would stay out of this.” He called into the hall: “Bruno, get in here!”
Bruno rushed in, drawing his rapier. Its blade caught the edge of the door frame, causing him to stumble. “You want me to escort them out?”
Ugalino’s eyes stayed fixed on the art dealer. “All I require is a name,” he said calmly. “Provide it to me or I will destroy every last piece of art in here.”
Rocco flung the dagger at Ugalino, while Bruno lunged at Zanobius, his sword stabbing through the air.
Four arms shot out from under Zanobius’s cloak. His front two hands grabbed the blade, his back two wrapped around Bruno’s neck. Bruno fought for breath, eyes wide with terror.
Ugalino dodged Rocco’s flying dagger and spun his staff in one fluid motion. The fist-sized diamond on top of his staff glowed. A circle of white light shot out and hit Rocco in the chest. The force sent him crashing through a stack of canvases against the wall.
Ugalino towered over Rocco and shoved the point of his staff into his shoulder, pinning him down. Rocco winced.
“Ready to give me your collector’s name now?” Ugalino dug his staff in deeper.
Rocco let out a pained yelp. “Yes, yes, it was Duke Oberto! He has a castle north of here, in Paolini.”
Ugalino glowered. “I’m familiar with the duke.” He drew back his staff. Rocco clutched his shoulder, sweating.
Let the guard go, Ugalino’s voice commanded. Zanobius released his grip and Bruno dropped with a thud.
“What … what are you?” Bruno asked, rubbing his neck.
“He’s a Tulpa.” Rocco spat out the words like they tasted sour.
“His name is Zanobius,” Ugalino proclaimed. “And he is the greatest work of art ever created.”
* * *
They climbed a flight of rickety stairs and emerged on the outskirts of a small walled city. The nearly full moon hung between two jagged mountain peaks. Stars dotted the sky. Zanobius located the brightest of them all—the Guiding Star. Relieved to be aboveground again, he focused on the point of light and inhaled deeply. The fog cleared from his mind.
Ugalino whistled and an enormous, silver-feathered creature dove out of the sky. Zanobius jumped back before he remembered what this creature was—Ugalino’s Genius, his companion long before Zanobius. He racked his mind, trying to recall its name.
“Ciro, to me,” Ugalino hailed.
Of course. Ciro. He knew that.
The Genius flapped its wings and landed, kicking up dust. When it lowered its head, Zanobius noticed his reflection in its black, lifeless eyes. Ugalino gripped the edge of Ciro’s tarnished crown and hoisted himself onto the creature’s neck.
Zanobius climbed on after his master. “It happened again.”
“Another blackout?”
“They seem to be occurring more often.”
Ugalino twisted to face him. “But you still remember who you are?”
“Yes.”
“And who I am?”
“You’re my master. You created me.”
“And what is our mission?”
“To find the Creator’s Sacred Tools.”
Ugalino nodded and turned away, apparently satisfied that Zanobius was all right. But he didn’t feel all right.
“It’s strange,” Zanobius said. “I can remember all the important things that make me who I am, but the details of where we’ve been or who we’ve seen are completely gone.”
“It’s an unfortunate downside of being a Tulpa,” Ugalino explained.
“Can’t you fix it?”
“I’ve tried. But it’s something you’re going to have to live with. I’m sorry.”
Zanobius nodded. Had they talked about this before? He couldn’t recall.
Ugalino tapped the Genius’s side with his staff. Ciro heaved his massive wings and they rose into the air, the ground rushing away. Tensing, Zanobius grasped a handful of feathers and held on tightly. Of all the memories erased by the blackout, why couldn’t he ever forget his fear of flying?