Cheshire holds out a hand palm-up and a sword appears above it, floating gently. She says, “This is a sword. To be more precise, this is a constructed representation of what the universe says a sword is. This is the concept of a sword, and it contains within it all the various meanings of the word, a cluster of connected ideas crystallized into a single representative word. In oneiric theory–the study of the deeper workings of Pandaemonium and Firmament–we say that this is an elemental sword.”

The sword splinters apart into a dozen smaller swords, and Cheshire continues, “The elemental sword contains subordinate components, individual points of meaning that we call oneiros–oneiron in the singular, oneiric in the adjective. Some oneiros are derived from the denotation of the word–the literal meaning–but most oneiros are connotations: the cultural and emotional associations of the word, existing at the intersection of the individual and the collective. When you think of a sword–of what a sword is, of what a sword means–what comes to mind?”

I lean in, enraptured by her explanation, and give the question serious thought. “A sword cuts,” I begin. “A sword is… an implement of violence. A weapon. A sword is swung in combat, in duels and battles and wars. A sword is butchery and honor, murder and valor, the sins and virtues of a killer.” I pause, and then another idea strikes me. “In tarot, the King of Swords is the philosopher king, and the suit of swords is the suit of the nobility, probably because it was usually nobles who could afford to actually own a sword. Tarot associates swords with air and intellect and misfortune.”

Cheshire brings her hands together with a smile and all the smaller swords merge back into a single sword. “A perfect demonstration, darling. Yes, all those notions are contained with the elemental sword as oneiros. And here we can make a comparison to the universe that you’re more familiar with.”

Cheshire separates her hands again and the sword splits in half. One half fractures into smaller swords as before, but the other half fractures into diagrams of atoms. “In a physical universe, a sword is a complex structure composed of iron and carbon atoms, plus some impurities and whatever the hilt is made of. You might call those component parts ‘elemental iron’ and ‘elemental carbon,’ but you wouldn’t call the sword an ‘elemental sword’ because there’s nothing elemental about it; to the laws of a physical universe, there are no swords, only particular configurations of iron and carbon.

“In a metaphysical universe, a sword is as much an element of reality as the iron it is forged with. And reality in a metaphysical universe is more recursive; the idea of a sword contains within it other ideas, those lesser notions we call oneiros. We could compare our elemental sword to the elemental iron atoms of a physical sword by calling it a ‘sword atom,’ and from there we can compare the oneiros that make up our metaphysical sword to the protons and neutrons of an iron atom. And just as you can break the parts of an atom down into quarks, dividing the indivisible, you can break an oneiron down into more fundamental ideas that exist beneath even the implicit.”

“Semiotics,” I say uneasily, the reality of her speech finally hitting me. “You’re saying that the foundation of magic–no, the foundation of this entire universe–is semiotics: signs and symbols and their interpretations.”

“Precisely!”

Cheshire banishes the split swords and instead lifts up the apple she had taken a bite out of before. The apple blurs and breaks apart, and in its place I see a hundred resonating images: the biology of an apple, an apple plucked from a tree, an apple eaten as food, apples representing health, immortality, fertility, forbidden fruit, discord, knowledge of good and evil, love… and somewhere in that cloud of meaning, an oneiron that I instinctively recognize as my association, my personal meaning: the apple that taught a man and a woman to think for themselves in a garden where they were kept ignorant.

“In Pandaemonium, material reality isn’t really real; there are spaces where some approximation of physics is present, but it’s just a trick of perspective. Everything in the universe is made of meaning, not physical laws. That is why we say that the essence of magic is the manipulation of meaning.”

That explanation unnerves me. Maybe it’s because I come from such a materialistic culture, but the idea that everything in this universe–even matter–is made of ideas rather than anything more solid makes me nervous. “How does that work? Is there just no such thing as matter or energy here? Am I really just made of… ideas?”

Cheshire makes the apple-cloud vanish and says, “Matter and energy exist in that you can interact with them, but they’re not fundamental. Every atom in Firmament–those pockets of physical space I mentioned–is just an oneiron pretending to be an atom. Those false atoms simulate physical laws because they’ve been told to, and so they behave with physical and chemical consistency, but only until they’re told otherwise.” Almost as an afterthought she adds, “As a newborn demon you exist somewhere between the false material and the true immaterial. Right now your body is still acting like it’s made of matter, mostly, but the more demonic you become the less your form will pretend to be physical. Isn’t that fun?”

Terrifying, actually, but I guess kind of exciting in a weird way? I genuinely don’t know how I should feel about that. I mean… what the fuck? Yeah, actually, that’s a solid response. “What the fuck, Cheshire?”

The catgirl cackles at my shock.

“No, really, what the fuck?” I hesitate. “When you made the apple break apart, I… I saw the apple from Eden, from my version of Eden. But that’s my interpretation of a story from my world, so what is it doing here? Is that just the nature of the space we’re in right now, or… is that the nature of this universe?”

Cheshire recovers her composure and grins. “The question you really want to ask is if the reality of this universe is your subjective personal experience of that reality, and the answer is yes… to a point. Your reality is your experience of reality, but solipsism is a lie and other people exist. And now seems like the perfect time to digress onto the topic of Thrones.”

You’re just going to leave it there!? That is not something to just quickly brush past! I almost object, but so far everything Cheshire has done has had a point, so I stifle my argument and let her continue.

Cheshire takes three pieces of fruit from the nearest bowl–a pomegranate, a peach, and a dragonfruit–and sets them down in front of her. “From where do we derive meaning?”

I frown. “You asked that before, and we got into a whole dialogue about existentialism and rebellion against the divine and other shit.”

“Ah, but that dialogue was purely about meaning as significance. Now I seek to discuss both definitions: meaning as significance and meaning as semiotics. So I ask again: from where do we derive meaning? Start with semiotics.”

“Okay, uh… I’m going to use an example because otherwise this will get way too abstract way too quickly.” I grab a Lego brick from the pile of toys that Cheshire made earlier. “So this is a Lego brick, and I think most people where I’m from would recognize what that means. It’s a toy, and you’re meant to use it with other Lego bricks to build houses and hospitals and landmarks and other shit, but you can also use the bricks to make things that aren’t in the manuals.”

I grab a couple more bricks because they’re fun to play with and I start clicking them together. “As a kid, you learn what Lego bricks mean in a couple ways: there’s some stuff you learn from the marketing of the brand and from what other people tell you about them, like that they’re practically indestructible and that they’re a toy you can build cool structures with; but there’s also stuff you can learn without interacting with anyone, just by playing with the bricks and experimenting until you figure out how they work and what you can do with them.”

My Lego construction is terrible, because I absolutely suck at spatial thinking, but I proudly display my unrecognizable creation. “Part of the meaning of ‘Lego brick’ comes from other people, no way around it; the term was created by someone else and communicated to me by someone else. But a lot of the meaning comes from my own personal experiences with it, my own interpretation; I find them fun to play with but difficult to make much with, while someone else might find them easy to build with but not particularly engaging.”

Cheshire claps politely for my brick abomination. “I think you picked an excellent example. Allow me to add one detail: while most of the semiotic meaning of ‘Lego brick’ comes from the cultural associations and your personal experience with it, there are also some physical aspects that we can consider to be more ‘objective’ insofar as objectivity exists. A Lego brick is made of plastic, and the chemical composition of a Lego brick can be measured, as can its physical hardness.”

“You said physical laws were just an illusion,” I point out. “Does it matter, then, what physical properties an object has?”

Cheshire laughs easily. “It’s a fair thing to question. I would say it does matter, if only as a foundation. I think an element of the physical, even an illusory physical, is necessary for shared understanding. You and I may have a different cultural understanding of a great big rock, and you and I may have a different personal understanding of that great big rock, but we can both stand upon the rock and feel its firmness. Get deep enough out into Pandaemonium and you can escape the tyranny of the empirical, but most of the shallower layers are going to roughly mimic at least the appearance of universal physical properties.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” I feel like a student learning about the world for the first time, which in a certain sense I am. “So three sources of meaning, I guess you could say.”

Cheshire nods. “More formally, we can consider semiotic meaning to be the intersection of three not-entirely-distinct aspects: observable properties of the natural world, associations learned from the collective, and individual interpretation. This formal reading of semiotic meaning dovetails nicely with the significant meaning of the three Thrones that are considered most intrinsic to the fabric of Pandaemonium: Order, Spirit, and Shadow.”

“Bashe mentioned some of this before,” I tell Cheshire. “He didn’t go into much detail, but he called them different lenses of magic.”

“It’s a decent way to understand them. Each Throne is, in a very real sense, an interpretive lens by which its adherents engage with semiotic and significant meaning. Every Throne has to acknowledge all three aspects of the semiotic, of course, but they can place different emphasis on specific components.”

Cheshire taps the dragonfruit and it grows scaly wings. “The Throne of Order says that the most important meaning is that which can be derived from scientific observation of the natural world. Order finds significance in the material world, in the natural laws fashioned by the Demiurge, and adherents of Order believe that they can divine the meaning of life through study of those laws. We are given impulses to survive and propagate as the beasts do, but we are also endowed with higher faculties, with reason and creativity and the capacity to create, and that must speak to our purpose in the universe. For proof, look no further than the five flights of dragons that rule Order: they are the only natural-born Royalty in all of Pandaemonium, and they embody the five principles which form the foundation of Firmament.”

I raise a hand and Cheshire smirks but still calls on me. “Yes, Ms. Alice?”

“Can we tangent onto ‘Royalty’ real quick? Because I’ve heard it mentioned about gods and archdemons and now I’m hearing it about dragons, and I’m really keen to learn what the fuck is up with all that.”

Cheshire laughs. “Sure, we can tangent. To understand Royalty it’s best if you also understand scions.” Cheshire taps the peach and it splits in half, exposing the stone–the seed–inside. Cheshire extracts the seed and tosses it onto the nearby ground where it sinks into the page and immediately sprouts. In seconds a peach tree has grown tall and casts a shadow over the table. A single peach falls from the tree into Cheshire’s hand.

Cheshire takes a bite of the peach, swallows, and says, “Imagine that of all the peaches on that tree, only a few of them–let’s say ten–will have what it takes to pass on their genes and grow into a big beautiful tree. And let’s say that of those ten trees, only one of them will bear fruit and make new peaches. Now, actual plant science would undoubtedly give a different reason, but let’s pretend that the peaches which make trees do so because they, when they were still flowers, were pollinated by bees while the other peach flowers weren’t.

“The peaches that don’t grow into trees, those are the retainers and invokers–imps and diabolists, kindred and priests, and so on. They’ve got a lot to offer, but they can’t make anything new. The peaches that grow into trees but don’t bear fruit, those are the scions, a category which you now belong to as a demon. Scions have the capacity to create new magic, to use spells that no one else ever has, but their ability to pass that magic on is limited. Royalty, however, can bear fruit; as the peach tree grows new peaches, an ascendant archdemon gets to make a new kind of imp and start spreading a new selection of spells to mortal diabolists. And just as sometimes a peach can mutate into something that is not a peach, Royalty can ascend that carry with them a new kind of Throne entirely.”

So it’s a magic system that evolves over time. “Am I to assume that your kind are the pollinators, then?” I ask.

Cheshire grins. “Guilty as charged. It’s different for the different Thrones, however: Shadow has geists like me, but Spirit has eidolons and the other three have it baked into their Royalty.”

“Fascinating,” I murmur.

Cheshire lets the bitten-into peach tumble away and picks up the two halves of the split peach, which both start emitting a serene white light as she brings them together. “Let’s talk the Throne of Spirit next. Spirit says that meaning is most important when it comes from the collective, from things like culture and community. Adherents of Spirit find significance in kinship and tradition, and believe that they can divine the meaning of life from enduring shared narratives. There is significance in the enshrining of virtues, and there is significance in having faith in a higher power. Eidolons and gods–the spirits from which the Throne takes its name–embody those values which are most integral to a collective, those stories which have the greatest weight, and could there be a better measure of what the Demiurge finds meaningful? It is our ability to raise communities and tell stories that sets us apart from the low beasts of Pandaemonium, and so that ability more than anything is what makes our lives meaningful.”

“Not all stories represent the values of the society that produced them,” I point out. “Some stories are explicitly countercultural.”

“Very true!” Cheshire chirps. “And yet a counterculture is still a culture and can still produce eidolons. And thus we have the internal polarity of Spirit.” She raises the two peach halves and the light shifts, one becoming primarily white with a black spot in the center and the other becoming primarily black with a white spot in the center; yin and yang.

I drink more pomegranate juice and eye the peach halves, idly wondering if they’re still edible in their glowing state. “Makes sense. Spirit equals collective, different collectives behave differently. That just leaves Shadow, right?”

“Indeed! Think you can make a guess at what governs that Throne?” Cheshire tosses the peach halves aside and picks up the pomegranate.

I think over what Cheshire’s said so far and add in what Bashekehi told me. “It’s the Throne of the individual, obviously. Shadow finds meaning in will and want, in the intensely personal. You get to make your own significance, fuck what anyone else says.” I chew my lip as I consider another angle. “You could argue it’s the Adversary’s own Throne, if she’s meant to represent rebellion against the divine. Fuck the toymaker’s meaning, fuck what the Demiurge wants of you.”

Cheshire claps her hands. “Very good! That is an excellent summation of the Adversarial interpretation of Shadow. It is not, in my opinion, the accurate interpretation.” I raise an eyebrow and Cheshire continues, “For all that Shadow may claim to care about choice and free will, most of its adherents are bound to forms of significance dictated by Royalty. Further, even those archdemons are not truly free, as all touched by Shadow have been stained by the Abyss; the Throne of Shadow is the legacy of the Abyss and the Leviathans that once ruled it, and so it demands conflict and predation from all its adherents. In this, we see yet again an argument for the Demiurge’s intent: the struggle to make meaning is itself the meaning that Nyarlathotep intends. It is God’s cruelest joke, to allow a demon to hope that it has escaped her strings.” Cheshire’s smile is even more vicious than usual.

“I think I prefer my version,” I mutter.

Cheshire pats my hand. “I know you do. But don’t fret, because I have a way to cheer you up!” Cheshire flicks her wrist and the tea table careens away into the maelstrom, immediately replaced by the table with the urn and vial. “It’s time to become a proper demon and design your first three spells.”