Torm waited until the glow left it before hefting the latest hand axe. “You'll soon be producing a journeyman’s quality at this rate.”

The notification appeared as Amdirlain gathered some to stack them in the crate she’d been filling this session.

[Crafting Summary (Category: simple weapon) - experience by item grade:

Apprentice: 20 each (x480)

Total experience gained: 9,600

Ostimë +4,800

Ontãlin +4,800

True Song [Ad] (36->37)

Multi-voice [Ap] (20->21)

Multi-voice can now support seven separate songs.]

“I think it's hitting the limit of improvement these can provide. I need to push my capabilities with different songs,” observed Amdirlain after considering the notification. “Still, the combination of improvements to True Song and Multi-voice has it under three minutes to create a hand axe.”

[Achievement: Axe me if I care!

Details: For having created over 16,000 hand axes with True Song

Reward: Boredom?]

Amdirlain coughed at the notification, and Torm looked up from gathering her creations. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t know if Gideon is hinting that I’m right or teasing, but I got an achievement,” replied Amdirlain, and she repeated the message’s details.

“The announcement of Raivo’s death implied Farhad ran away by accepting the Immortal transformation after decapitating him,” Torm said.

“I heard you got stuck with Artemis’ Mantle for three days after that fight,” teased Amdirlain.

“I’m not talking about that experience,” Torm grumbled playfully, stacking the collected axes into the overflowing crate, and stepping away. “This seems a waste.”

“Either I give them away, or I charge for them. Either way, I don’t need money, and I’d ruin it for apprentices trying to sell their wares,” said Amdirlain. She disintegrated the lot when the last axe had joined the overloaded crate.

“Erwarth was going to help me with some spells. Will you join that session, or do you have something else in mind?” asked Torm.

“I’m going to consider some new songs to work on for pushing my singing capabilities,” replied Amdirlain, after a moment’s thought.

Once Torm had disappeared, Amdirlain set the bundled kopis and the True Song needle she’d been studying on the bench. Checking the blades’ hilts set a restless itch across her arms—not an actual physical pain but rather an odd restlessness. The sensation prompted Amdirlain to snatch her hands away, and she examined the craftsmanship of the weapons’ harness carefully. She drew the bundle back into Inventory when the itch started to heat across her skin, and without the blades in view, the irritation vanished.

“Yeah, not sure what that was about,” murmured Amdirlain.

Unsettled by her reaction to the weapons, it took some time for Amdirlain to restrict her focus to just the needle’s song. The entwined melodies' complexity made it hard to isolate the four songs she knew should be present. Having already listened to it for scores of hours, the memory that surged up took her by surprise.

***

Soft grass tickled Orhêthurin’s feet, but she paid little heed circling the crystalline pillar. Sunlight passing through sent rainbows spilling across the grass, tinting its pale blue into vivid hues. Other conductors arrived and joined her examination of the material.

“What were you doing?” asked Orhêthurin, taking in the crystal’s continually changing yet stable song.

“Playing a game to mirror each other’s music.”

The reply came from someone among the group, and an echo of their memory bubbled forth. Orhêthurin's tracing of the memory’s music allowed Amdirlain in turn to follow along. Each melody’s essence, flipping from one choir to the next, was exchanged at the Anar’s lowest register into the care of a Lómë choir.

While their melody passed into their partner’s control, the process grew more complex as more choirs joined in; each pair sang the same song two beats after the choruses before them. When the glowing pillar had grown between them, none dared stop singing until the motes ceased glowing.

Puzzled by the stability of the song, Orhêthurin stepped closer and slid the tip of a mithril kopis across the pillar's surface. She stepped away when the only stress came in the blade’s song rather than the crystal. The memory faded away and left Orhêthurin’s puzzlement blazing in Amdirlain’s mind.

***

“Serendipity,” Amdirlain murmured, focusing on the music again. Though it was tempting to try, the complexity of each melody was daunting, and Amdirlain tucked the needle away to seek a more straightforward song. Examining the objects about the hide-out, she quickly found a material song that felt on the edge of her capability.

Torm returned after his training session to find the bench cluttered with mithril. Progressing along the bench, the samples started as mere flecks but grew into rough nuggets before becoming regularly shaped. Towards the end, they changed into tiny thumb-sized ingots, but the latest glowing sample was a pencil-thick cylinder the length of Amdirlain’s forearm.

When Amdirlain stopped singing, Torm quickly spoke up. “We've a prisoner situation. Did you want to come along?”

Sweeping the assorted mithril into Inventory, Amdirlain raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“Some marked prisoners are leaving the compound early via a ground route,” answered Torm. “The group that would have freed them isn’t available. I’m just keeping my promise not to go into a dangerous situation without you—Caltzan didn’t ask if you were available to assist.”

“What's your plan?” Amdirlain asked with a laugh, drawing a derisive snort from Torm.

“The plan is to perform reconnaissance first and decide our next move,” replied Torm. Already in his Cambion form with its dark green scales, his limited facial expressions gave nothing away; Amdirlain heard the amusement gurgling within his song anyway. “However, if the caravan's defences aren’t substantial, we’ll rescue the prisoners ourselves."

The crystal disappeared, and Amdirlain shifted into her Alu-Demon form and flexed her wings. “Alright, I’ll come to keep you and the other youngsters out of trouble.”

“You’re. . .” started Torm before stopping and shaking his head. “If you’re going to measure my age against your Soul’s age, I’m not a gold digger.”

“Wasn’t basing it on my Soul’s age,” refuted Amdirlain, folding her wings tight against her back. “I was weighing ages based on levels. Those give me an advantage, especially if I resort to experience points, and make me the cougar to your boy toy. You’d make a cute pool boy—sun-warmed skin, dressed only in board shorts. Lounging around sunbathing in a tiny swimsuit watching you do your chores, growl.”

“Let’s get going, shall we?” asked Torm gruffly. “Such teasing is dangerous in this place.”

Amdirlain lost the grin and regarded him reassuringly. “I know, but I can also tell if either of our songs starts to sour. Ready to go.”

Their arrival point was a gully along the edge of a massive valley, whose far side Amdirlain could barely see. Red rocks and black bracken made the landscape look like they were standing on dried and clotting blood. The mouth of the gully gave them a view of a line of bare rocks. Only the distant presence of a plodding caravan made it obvious it was a rough road, rather than some boundary marker nothing wanted to grow upon.

The caravan comprised three massive behemoths, but unlike the ones she’d first seen at the docks of Ùeqräkas, these were very much alive. A series of flat plates distributed the weight instead of rods jutting from rotting flesh, supported the same u-shaped harness. Atop the harness was a multi-layered platform loaded with assorted cargo. The offensive weaponry varied from those in Hrz’Styrn. Where those had supported multiple rows of ballista along the upper platforms, these only had a single emplacement at each layer’s corners and a central pair at the top platform's midpoint.

Amdirlain grinned during the awkward exchange of observations as Torm’s novice proficiency with BrÍn hand-sign turned his replies explicit.

Though they had hidden well, the songs of the other three cell members made them easy for Amdirlain to spot. The few times she’d met Caltzan and Oitrix had given her enough time to isolate the music of their Use Names. Watching the slow-moving caravan, most of her focus was on Ulat’s song, and the regularity of her music allowed Amdirlain to isolate the Use Name within it. The facade of the Alu-Demon sat strangely close to her inner form of a Monadic Deva, with her almost elven form, angelic wings, and flawless skin.

[Resonance [M] (46->47)]

“No one else has Protean. I’ll get close and check on their defences.” Amdirlain signalled, and before Torm could protest, she’d already vanished.

A tiny pebble appeared beneath some bracken on the roadside, the fronds of the fern hiding her appearance from anything on the caravan. The malicious boredom of the demons was unsurprising, but what was a surprise was the orderly magic that encapsulated the prisoner’s cages. The wards used the regularity of the prisoner’s cells as a touchstone to help them oppose tampering both from the prisoners and corrosion by abyssal energies.

I had assumed Torm meant the Wizard was a Demon; these wards aren’t demonic, though he could have a Mortal working in his compound.

Keeping herself clear after touching the prisoners' surface thoughts, Amdirlain checked the enchantments of the ballista, wards, and other defensive formations. Each time she checked the caravan, Precognition itched like she was coming up short until she looked beyond the caravan and mental alarms went off. Shifting to a hiding spot further away, Amdirlain cast a Spell of detection to isolate magical scrying, and a host of spots glowed in her awareness.

Teleport placed her back near Torm, and she warned him before reforming into her Alu-Demon shape.

“Trap.” Amdirlain signalled.

“Damn, are the prisoners even on that caravan?” whispered Torm.

Giving him a nod, Amdirlain replied, “They’re present, miserable, and terrified. Either tell Munais to leave before we spring the trap, or we need to make a mess that he won’t associate with her.”

“Who says we’re springing this trap?” asked Torm. “We track the prisoners, find other locations they use, and then retrieve them. He doesn’t need evidence to act against Munais; if he suspected something, he’d have moved to kill her already.”

“There are wards on the cells that are orderly. If I knew I had a spy screwing with me, I’d want to take out all their support,” cautioned Amdirlain. “The song of the magic feels Mortal, not demonic. Is the Wizard she’s entertaining Mortal?”

“No, and she hasn’t mentioned other wizards,” replied Torm.

“I’d say get her out of there, but it's Caltzan’s call.”

Torm nodded, and a Message Spell flitted away. Amdirlain heard the angelic songs vanish, and Caltzan’s strange spider form reappeared in the gully near them. “What is the nature of the trap?”

“Multiple scrying spells overhead are focused on the caravan; their energies blend into the sky. I didn’t spot them at first, and my psionics kept giving me an off sensation. The prisoners’ cells all have Order-based wards threaded through them,” explained Amdirlain. “It’s not just a security precaution, my Precognition tells me it's an intentional trap.”

Caltzan’s eye stalks focused on the caravan, and his mantis scythed forearms twitched briefly. “We let the next few caravans reach their destinations and get Munais to keep a lower profile. I end up with bad news each time you meet with us.”

With that observation, Caltzan vanished.

“Great, your cell leader thinks I’m a bad luck charm.”

Torm shrugged. “It would have been worse if instead I got surprised. Let’s get going. I hope someone else can rescue them safely.”

“Same.”

Amdirlain didn’t wait for Torm to shift them but teleported them back to the sparring room.

“I’ve got a few hours, but I’m going to try Sírdhem’s exercises with the kopis.”

“I thought you’d have tried them earlier,” admitted Torm.

“They gave me a strange phantom itch—made me wary about drawing them.”

“Then why are you going ahead?”

“I’ve been avoiding any contact with Orhêthurin’s memories, but I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to do. I’ve said she was afraid of power, and feeling those prisoners' fear made me wonder If I’m letting my fear of her memories trap me,” admitted Amdirlain. “She left me a message in my Soulscape.”

“You hadn’t mentioned it. Did she have some Precognition that let her see ahead?”

“No, it was an open message for any incarnation that got close enough. It was weird to hear her speak that way. One line she said stuck with me. She said 'I don’t know who you are or who you’ll become',” explained Amdirlain. “It felt like she’d already given up, just tossing a message in a bottle out into time’s ocean, not knowing who, if anyone, would ever read it. But the message helped, and I’ve avoided her, not wanting to risk being overwritten.”

***

After she’d shifted into her Anar form, Amdirlain settled the belt around her waist. Rigid leather pieces set the sheaths at an angle on opposite hips. The formation of the sheaths kept the 65 cm blades angled for easy drawing. Amdirlain found the blade in her hand when she shifted her balance to draw. Though drawing the blade had taken only intention, it still felt awkward in her hand, too light, and slightly off balance compared to what something within her expected. A sensation like someone had provided her with a balsa sword yet weighed down her limbs.

[Kopis Unlocked!

Partial memory synergy achieved < 0.001%

Kopis (1) -> [B] (15)

Another ‘sword’ type weapon skill is present in your profile.

Merging Sabre and Kopis into general skill Sword.

Sword [B] (16)]

And that rounding is as accurate as you want to provide Gideon?

“Fuck,” breathed Amdirlain, aware that the blade didn’t feel as natural to her as it had been in Orhêthurin’s memory.

“Problem?”

Restoring the kopis carefully to its sheathe, Amdirlain hesitantly explained. “I recovered a memory that included her absently drawing a kopis earlier. Trying to emulate it jumped my Skill with it from nothing to Beginner 15. Drawing and sheathing daggers for hours netted me a Skill level of 4.”

Torm gave her a puzzled frown. “That is quite the difference. I find it strange that Orhêthurin never used or trained in daggers.”

“Same, but maybe she never kept up her practice with them or didn’t enjoy the combat style.”

“From what you’ve told me, she wasn’t the type to let preference stop her from doing something.”

“Not sure we’ll ever really know. Maybe the blades were simply something she was continually looking to improve, so provided more impact,” replied Amdirlain, and she drew the kopi again. Though the blade flowed into her hand, there was no notification of improvement, and she hefted it thoughtfully. “This blade feels balanced like an axe with most of its weight towards the tip. I know she was strong, but just a chopping blow will have some force behind it.”

“Going to practise with it before the next session with Sírdhem?”

“No, I’m going to do something I’ve been avoiding,” replied Amdirlain, putting the blades away before kneeling. “Time to see if I can talk to Orhêthurin in the Soulscape now.”

When Amdirlain opened herself to the Soulscape, the scene was far from what she’d expected. It wasn’t the platform in darkness or any version of the fields she’d seen. Instead, she stood on a tiled floor. Close to her was a vaguely familiar cashier, but the glass display where she used to order sandwiches stretched onwards forever until it disappeared into a shimmering mirage in the distance.

The door’s chime rang again as the door slipped from her hand. The motionless scene came alive, and servers started moving between tables, taking orders from all manners of species. Plates appeared and disappeared on tables, shifting through a kaleidoscope of foods she didn’t recognise. At a table just in front of her, a motionless Orhêthurin appeared dressed in the sheer silk livery she had worn, pretending to be a servant. Instead of the vine tattoos, partially healed scars oozed the clear liquid one would find from a popped blister.

When Amdirlain put a hand on the back of a nearby chair, Orhêthurin blinked and looked up at her.

“Why a cafe?” asked Amdirlain.

Orhêthurin merely shrugged. “Whatever scene you see is not my doing.”

“But you’re responding to me.”

“Who do you believe is responding to you?”

“Orhêthurin.”

Two cups of black coffee appeared on the table. The drinks' surface spun about as if someone had vigorously stirred them. Even before they settled, Orhêthurin raised a cup as if to drink but set it down untouched. “You see her because you were expecting her. Orhêthurin is dead and will never be again. The collective lives, including your own, are all you can interact with here, that we know from the knowledge she left.”

“She left a message,” protested Amdirlain.

“The Soul responds to the active life, using the living's perceptions to decipher experiences or memories. Only what is in harmony with the current life should be available,” Orhêthurin said. “We know the message wasn’t to you directly. Think of it as a login notification once you were determined suitable to access the memory.”

“Still doesn’t explain why this place now looks like a cafe from the twilight zone.”

Orhêthurin shrugged and motioned around them. “Don’t overcomplicate it. Why did you normally meet someone in a cafe?”

“If I wasn’t having lunch with a friend, it was a safe zone to meet someone new,” admitted Amdirlain. “Alright, maybe this makes sense since I wanted to reach out to Orhêthurin to learn what I could. Bridge the distance between us, so to speak. Her emotions were in a memory of Hirindo, and they were so real, it shocked me.”

Orhêthurin nodded and traced a fingertip back and forth along the table’s edge. “Have you never found recalling the face of a former love painful? Do you think Orhêthurin didn’t dwell on that memory ‌and not feel pain about it? When you touched that memory, you likely experienced her regret as well, and even more regrets from other lives with lost loves involved.”

“The Anar and Lómë don’t recover the emotions from their memories,” said Amdirlain.

“You are neither, and we didn’t give them everything that was ours,” advised Orhêthurin.

Touching the coffee cup provided warmth through her fingertips so real, it seemed impossible for this to just be a vision. The aroma of the coffee tickled at her nostrils and had her licking her lips in anticipation of the taste.

“It will only taste as good as the memories you added in life, or perhaps as good as the strongest dreams,” informed Orhêthurin. “Depending on your mood, it might be a wonderful coffee or taste as bad as the cheapest instant you’ve tried.”

“Or it might not taste like coffee?” asked Amdirlain, shuddering at the possibilities.

“True, but now you’ve put that thought into this place, I’m sure you don’t want to risk drinking it,” stated Orhêthurin, and she set her cup aside as a cloud of gagging copper-sulphate burned at her nose and eyes.

A momentary focus had the cups vanish, but Amdirlain didn’t stop pushing her will outwards, treating it like the Mind Palace she’d once believed it to be. The cafe disappeared in a flare of light. When it dimmed again, Amdirlain stood alone on a platform orbiting the golden sun she hadn’t seen in years. Rather than the black or opaque disc from those times, Amdirlain stood upon the grassed disc she created outside the monastery.

In the surrounding void, images ignited, hinting at memories of strange places. While some seemed almost within arm's reach, others kept a teasing distance beyond the platform’s edge. Focusing on the kopis’ balance caused fresh memories to swirl closer, and Amdirlain reached for what she believed was the oldest.

Touching it, she stood no longer in the darkness, but within a grassy clearing surrounded by pine trees that soared far overhead. On one side of the clearing, her father’s forge shoved the turf aside, where its stonework and benches had impressed themselves into the fabric of this new place.

***

Bent over, shoulders heaving to catch her breath, she lifted her gaze from her gangly knees. Before her, Nicholaus extended a kopis to her, hilt first, the blade seemingly a dagger when held in his grasp. The leather-wrapped hilt was sweat-stained, and she visibly trembled when she reached to take it.

Instead of the blade, Nicholaus thrust a water skin into her hand. “Here, drink up.”

The heavily diluted red wine the goat-skin bag contained didn’t surprise her past self. When she tossed the skin away and reached for the sword again, Nicholaus lifted the hilt out of reach. He waited patiently for her breathing to calm before he let her claim it.

“Though you like to dance with the blade, remember the kopis’ tip is still sharp enough to kill. Do what is necessary to survive, not what looks pretty. Now, return to the position when you ignored the chance to stab him.”

Nicholaus stepped away, and the warrior reappeared, his position mimicking the opening she’d ignored before being disarmed. Despite muscles burning with fatigue, she practised the same stab against countless images of foes that appeared before her. The realism of the blood, and sound of rendered flesh, was but an illusion she had long ago grown used to experiencing. With every strike, the blade grew heavier, and when she finally set it down, the forge’s solid bench groaned with the strain and sank further into the ground.

Even though he’d continued to manifest the warriors throughout her practice, Nicholaus had continued working at his forge. A piece at a time, the foundation for their next refuge was created from the essence of the elements, shadows, and the forest’s fresh air. At the bench’s protest, he quenched the latest piece of forged darkness and added it to a waist-high stack.

“Tomorrow, you’ll do that again, and every day from now on,” stated Nicholaus.

“For how long?”

“Until, when sparring with the warriors of my memories, you ‌take advantage of any genuine opening, no matter how plain. The moment you draw a blade, fight to kill. It is too late to quibble once weapons are out.”

***

The memory vanished, and Amdirlain stood on the platform’s edge. A stepping stone that showed the glade scene circled the platform a distance away.

“Why do I keep banishing myself from others?” murmured Amdirlain. “Or are the ancient memories of those refuges so attractive? A space to sit out in a void while Nicholaus worked on the next step in the plan.”

Unlike the ease of banishing the cafe, changing it again took a surprising amount effort. When the light dimmed, this time the scene before her swam momentarily in protest. Though she’d only seen a fragment, she knew it was complete. Standing atop a ridgeline, she looked down a gentle slope and saw the rows of Anar and Lómë laid out fast asleep. The orchard’s canopy blocked the warm golden sun, spreading shadows across those sleeping still in stasis.

It wasn’t a valley, as she’d initially thought, before Hirindo’s presence—or rather her pain—had shunted her from the memory, but a large crater-like depression. Unlike that fleeting memory, within the Soulscape’s presentation, she could hear every song. The tree’s theme snagged teasingly at other memories that refused to come forth completely. Nevertheless, Amdirlain caught glimpses of glowing trees and the beauty of the Summer Court with Titania upon her throne.

It was fey fruit that grew in a thousand forms from every tree in the crater. Outside the fey’s realm, the fruit provided only sustenance and didn’t cause a Mortal’s perception of time to drift away. With the tree roots reaching deep into disruptive chaos, it seemed a paradox that their fruit provided everything any living being needed to survive. The trees twisted chaotic energy into twinned strands of Order and Life, and its music was an incredibly complex melody.

Amdirlain sat next to the closest tree and focused on it alone. The song was so familiar that it was soon obvious these were the original version of the trees Orhêthurin had added to the Maze.