Copied by Brother Niccolo from the private conversations of Cosimo Foscari with the man later designated Micaloz. Marginal observations preserved where legible.

The chamber had been darkened intentionally. Cosimo maintained that bright rooms encouraged certainty, while dim ones allowed the mind to wander where daylight refused to follow. Only a single oil lantern burned between them. Whenever the wind found the gaps beneath the ancient door, its flame bent low, throwing the shadows of both men across the walls until they appeared to exchange places.

Cosimo waited several minutes before speaking.

"When one lantern is extinguished," he finally asked, "and another lit elsewhere... do you observe darkness between them?"

Micaloz studied the flame.

"I observe only that I have forgotten the darkness."

Cosimo did not answer immediately.

A curious distinction, he noted.

Observation: Subject distinguishes absence of memory from absence of experience.

"When death arrives," Cosimo continued, "what sensation announces its approach?"

"There is none."

"No pain?"

"Pain belongs to the body."

"And afterwards?"

"I fade."

"You lose consciousness?"

"No."

Micaloz frowned.

"I have described it poorly."

He remained silent for some time.

"I become inaccessible to myself."

Cosimo's quill stopped.

"When you awaken..."

"...another lantern has been lit."

"And you know immediately that you inhabit another body?"

"No."

"What then?"

"I know only that something is wrong."

"In what manner?"

"It is like entering a familiar house after someone has quietly rearranged every room."

Cosimo smiled faintly.

"And the owner?"

"There is always another owner."

"You mean another soul?"

"I do not know."

"A spirit?"

"I do not know."

"A memory?"

"I do not know."

Long silence.

"It is... a presence."

Observation: Subject repeatedly refuses theological terminology.

"You are aware of it?"

"I feel it."

"Can you converse with it?"

"No."

"Does it resist you?"

"No."

"Does it disappear?"

"No."

"Then what becomes of it?"

"It waits."

Cosimo looked up.

"For what?"

"I have spent centuries asking the same question."

"And the memories?"

"They are present."

"You can recall them?"

"No."

Cosimo looked puzzled.

"They can recall me."

The scratching of the quill ceased once again.

"Explain."

"I cannot."

"You must try."

Micaloz sighed.

"They exist behind something."

"A wall?"

"No."

"A veil?"

"No."

"A locked door?"

"No."

He closed his eyes.

"A room without light."

Cosimo nodded encouragingly.

"And occasionally?"

"The lantern is lit."

"Describe this illumination."

"It cannot be described."

"Attempt it."

Again the long pause.

"It is as though every life I have lived ceases to be separate."

"They combine?"

"No."

"They become one?"

"No."

"I have explained it incorrectly."

Another silence.

"They stop requiring separation."

Cosimo stared at him.

"Would you describe this as omniscience?"

"No."

"The Beatific Vision?"

"No."

"Theosis?"

"No."

"Union with God?"

"No."

"What then?"

Micaloz looked toward the lantern.

"Recognition."

Observation: Subject rejects every known mystical classification.

"What do you recognize?"

"A pattern."

"What pattern?"

"The one beneath everything."

"You perceive God?"

"No."

"You perceive destiny?"

"No."

"You perceive causality?"

Micaloz hesitated.

"Closer."

Cosimo leaned forward.

"Continue."

"It resembles..."

Again he struggled.

"...a spider's web."

"You see every thread?"

"No."

"I see why every thread touches every other."

Cosimo nodded.

"So you see causes."

"No."

"I see that causes are merely places where the web appears thicker."

Time passed.

Only the lantern crackled.

"You see the future?"

"Yes."

Cosimo immediately leaned forward.

"You do?"

"No."

"I remember it."

The room fell silent.

Outside, somewhere beyond the compound walls, a bell rang once.

Cosimo did not write for nearly a minute.

Observation: Subject appears incapable of distinguishing prophecy from recollection.

"And these states..."

"They never remain."

"What ends them?"

"I do not know."

"What begins them?"

"I do not know."

"You have searched?"

"My entire life."

"You mean this life."

Micaloz smiled sadly.

"I no longer make that distinction."

"How many lives do you remember?"

"All of them."

Cosimo raised an eyebrow.

"In detail?"

"No."

"The oldest become..."

He searched for the word.

"...weather."

Cosimo paused.

"Weather?"

"They remain present."

"But impossible to grasp."

"I no longer remember events."

"I remember climates."

Observation: Memory appears to decay into emotional topology rather than narrative sequence.

Cosimo set aside his quill.

"I believe we must begin a series of experiments."

"I expected as much."

"I wish to induce this illuminated condition."

"You will fail."

Cosimo smiled.

"I often do."

"And yet you continue."

"I have found failure to be among the more generous instructors."

For the first time that evening, Micaloz laughed.

"There will be interviews."

"I understand."

"There will be scribes."

"I understand."

"There will be physicians, mystics, astronomers, mathematicians..."

Micaloz interrupted softly.

"You will require poets."

Cosimo blinked.

"Poets?"

"They are the only ones accustomed to speaking accurately about things that cannot be said."

Cosimo quietly added another line to the page.

Observation: Add poets to future sessions.

As the meeting drew to a close, Cosimo reached beneath the table and withdrew a small silver bell covered in impossibly fine engravings.

He placed it gently before Micaloz.

"If you require anything, ring."

Micaloz turned the bell over in his hands.

After some time he asked,

"Does it summon your servants?"

Cosimo smiled.

"Usually."

"Usually?"

"Occasionally..."

he glanced toward the lantern,

"...it summons someone who remembers hearing it long before it was ever cast."

Neither man laughed.

The bell remained between them.

The flame bent once more beneath the draft.

Outside, somewhere beyond the compound, another bell answered.