Harding had ended up bunked on a cot in the antechamber of the Garnet's large tent. When he returned from a long cycle, everything was quiet in the camp. With the Garnet's within, he napped. He had still been physically exhausted, yet his sleep was light and disrupted. His brain kept trying to wake him while his body rejected anything but restorative sleep. In the throes of this schism between brain and body, he was roused by Vestok's quiet entry. The leader of the blades passed Harding by and announced himself at the inner door flap in a hushed tone. He looked back then to the stirring Harding and gave him a nod and sympathetic smile.

Harding rubbed his eyes and frowned. He had already lost track of time under the mountain. Outside the tent, magical lamps pushed back the perpetual darkness of the cavern. Their efforts leaked in as a dim wash of light in the tent entry. A muted call from the other side of the inner flap summoned Vestok inward, leaving Harding awake and alone again. He could hear voices through the tent walls, but they were no more than muffled muttering.

Harding grumbled to himself and cycled again.

While away from Life he noted it was still only midafternoon. When he returned to Life, Harding rolled out of bed and pulled his robes over his head. He was still bent over and lacing his boots when Jarred came into the chamber and began rummaging through one of the crates.

"Man, I gotta piss. Where do I go," Harding asked in need as he finished the lacings.

Jarred laughed at him, shaking his head in mirth, "The chamber pot, where were you raised?"

Harding looked about and discovered what he hoped was the correct pot. Turning his back to Jarred, he manufactured his relief.

Over his shoulder, "How's the ankle?"

"A bit stiff, but I'll manage. Are you feeling any better? You looked like you were going to die."

"My compliments to the necromancer then."

Jarred chortled, then announced, "We are going to go check out the next challenge in a moment."

Harding sighed. He had asked for this, wanted it in fact. The adventure and challenge, combat and glory; he wanted it. He just hadn't realized it felt like this. No one had warned him. Despite the tingling buzz inside his metaphysical body urging him to quit back to bed, he knew he would continue. Harding was about to ask what he should bring when the duke swept through the inner flap followed by Vestok. As they passed through, Jarred motioned for him to follow before doing it himself. Harding left his pack and chased after the group which had paused at the next tent over. There, Instructor Stocke and Maid Jasika were waiting outside.

After pleasantries, notably terse even for Jasika, the group continued on to the edge of the camp. Waiting for them was Jones, Bitterman, and a guy Harding had seen around but did not know by name. He was tall, blond, and mustached.

"Your Grace," acknowledged Jones. The duke didn't stop, instead he inclined his head and motioned forward with two extended fingers. The three merged into the group as they continued on to the rear gate near the fissure they had first crawled through.

Harding had developed a basic understanding of the layout. The whole thing was built like a fortress guarding the gate they now approached. When they reached the heavy portcullis, Harding saw there was a pair of solid gates standing just behind it. Their dark surface looked more like shadows than anything in the dim light, obscuring their presence until close inspection. Duke Garnet apprised the situation and then spoke to Jones, "Osmundus, where are we at with this?"

"I can't phase through the portcullis, whatever it is made from is solid to spirit. However, spirit is able to flow through the gaps. The gate beyond is an entirely different story," explained Jones.

Harding peered through the portcullis at the gate's dark surface, but couldn't see anything notable beyond the material's odd appearance. It appeared as a mottled gray metal, but seemed to drink in the light making it darker near the surface. The gate itself was remarkable in its plainness, lacking any artistry or hardware.

Jones commented, "Visually, I would swear it's the same stuff as artifact armor, but… it doesn't exist."

"Doesn't exist," the duke questioned, "as in being an illusion?"

"Well…"

While Jones tried to figure out how to explain the substance, Harding reached out with his spirit. He threaded that self through the lattice of the portcullis and touched at the door. He could see it with his eyes but his spirit passed through as if nothing was there. Not only was there no collision, there wasn’t even an awareness that he had passed through something.

"Well, it's quite solid physically. It just doesn't exist magically. No one can sense it and powers act like it's not there," Jones explained.

Harding was able to push spirit through for some distance down the hallway beyond as there was barely more than a foot between the two barriers. The passage felt plain and extremely utilitarian, fitting with the design of the rest of the place. Whoever had built this place didn't care about aesthetics at all.

Weird, for a game.

Jones continued, "Will here can pass through, so whatever it was designed for must be a very specific threat?"

The duke turned, "You've been through?"

"Easily, Sir." Will went on, "As Os said, it's a peculiar setup. There's a lever on the other side, presumably to open the gates. After a short hallway though there is a platform made of wood. There are no visible controls for the platform, unless the lever works it and not the gate? We didn't want to pull the lever in case it initiated an attack."

"Hmm," the duke muttered in thought. "When the camp is ready then, Vestok."

The knight-commander, instead of responding directly, turned to Bitterman and gave a light jerk of his head upwards. Bitterman jogged off. Harding watched the exchange and the displayed familiarity between the men. Perhaps not with all the blades, but this small group at least acted with an ease that spoke of long experience together. They upheld the expected deference to rank, just barely.

It was at least fifteen minutes before Bitterman came back, but Harding had to try not to chuckle at times while they waited. Bitterman's acerbic verbal coaching of the camp could be heard over the quiet chatter of the waiting group. Sound carried very well in the straight-walled stone chamber.

She returned with all the healthy blades, grimacing as she informed Vestok quietly, "As good as we're getting, sir. We are... hurting on numbers."

Vestok just nodded, lost in his own calculations. After a moment he looked up, "Open it up, Payne."

Will saluted, a seemingly out of place action given that Harding rarely saw any of them use physical signals of rank. Will then walked up to the portcullis while pulling out a thin strip of ceramic material which was about as long as his forearm. He crouched down and placed it on the floor so that it spanned the width under the portcullis. Putting his finger to the strip, Will vanished.

A few moments later he popped back into existence on the other end of the strip. The maneuver left him sandwiched tightly in the foot gap between the gates.

"Woah," awed Harding. While probably not useful in combat, the other uses of such an ability were near boundless. Furthermore, Payne could get past while Jones' phasing was blocked. Harding whispered to Jarred, "How's he doing that?"

"Rarer seed power. It allows him to be two dimensional within a surface," Jarred explained in his ear.

Trapped between the gates, Payne pressed himself up against the gate and rocked his foot forward. In doing so he dragged the strip forward and pushed it under the solid gate portion. Once satisfied with the positioning, he disappeared into it once again. Harding reached out with his spirit body and felt Payne expand from the strip on the other side.

It felt turbulent between the gates… some disruption from his passing perhaps?

Jarred's explanation was likely correct, but it left Harding with a lot of questions. How could a spirit body, let alone a physical one, be compressed like that? If he was just shrinking, he wouldn't need the strip would he? Why use the strip and not the floor? There had to be some other mechanics and considerations Jarred wasn't conveying, but the power still seemed exceedingly useful.

Harding watched on the other side with spirit. The compression of Payne as he bent over to touch the ground. He stood up and moved around the corner. Harding tracked the shape of Payne working at something his senses could not detect. A metallic, mechanical "chunk" echoed through the place. The sound repeated rhythmically, each peal reverberating throughout the hall as the portcullis slowly lifted straight up into the ceiling. Only when the portcullis stopped moving did the inner gate also retract in similar fashion. Payne stood there with a small magical torch, just a short rod with light coming out one end. Behind him the dark tunnel, barely illuminated, waited for them.

Payne cocked a crooked grin.

With the way now clear, the men pressed in. The leadership group took the front, but the blades flowed in their wake. Jones awkwardly carried in a lamp post like the ones from camp, bringing greater illumination than the glow of personal torches to the short hall. The hallway was a simple continuation of the cutout for the gate and ran fifty feet before the start of the wooden platform. The floor simply went from stone to wood with a slight crack between. The hallway ended on the other side of the ten foot square platform.

A lifting platform?

The group stopped before the wood, hesitant to tempt fate. As Harding scanned the ceiling to check for a shaft up, the duke spoke, "As far as we know, we are the first people since long before the founding of the kingdom to walk this hall. What lies beneath us is unknown to mortal man."

The crowd was quiet.

"Now, Jones… how do we get this thing to budge," asked the duke through a barely suppressed smile. The man was enjoying himself.

"Currently under investigation, sir," was his reply as he tentatively tested the platform with his boot. It didn't move. The blade gave a shrug to the duke.

"Can Payne just slip his thing through there," Jarred asked.

The knight-commander shook his head, "It's a lift of some sort, that means it goes down some ways."

Jarred remained quiet. No one else immediately ventured an idea creating a moment of silence. A moment broken by Jones stepping onto the platform and jumping a few times. Someone in the crowd chuckled.

Harding asked, "Payne, do you have more than one of those ceramic strips?”

"Sure, they break easy enough."

"Lieutenant,” Harding continued, “You have voice amplification abilities, right?"

"Yes."

"And can you hear better too?"

"No, but others can."

"What if everyone stays quiet, Payne slips a strip through the crack and then we listen for it to hit while counting. We should be able to approximate the distance from that."

"Worth a try," Vestok allowed. "Everyone go back to the gate. Payne, give me a strip."

The party backed up and watched their commander drop the strip. He paused, then said, "between two and three seconds before it shattered, another silence before a faint clatter."

"So that's like," Harding paused to do the math, "almost one hundred fifty feet, but then something else?"

"Pointless," ridiculed a small voice.

"Yes, Jasika," her father asked patiently.

"The lift floor is wood. Cut out a section, drop a man on a length of rope."

The duke slowly grew a large grin fertilized with his parental pride. "Jarred," he commanded, "come over here and cut out a section in the back corner. Make it just large enough for us to lower a man through."

Jarred hopped forward eagerly to be of use and walked out onto the lift. He knelt and pointed at the corner with a finger from which immediately shot a tight beam of red light. Smoke wafted up from the wood as the light burned through. Harding had never seen Jarred use his seed powers like this, let alone exhibit such a continuous controlled stream.

A good reminder to not assume you know a person's powers.

It took awhile, but in the end Jarred had cleanly notched out a two by two foot square in the lift platform. The first time he had cut through a block, it fell free and dropped into the darkness and bang several times on its way down. After that happened, Harding went onto the lift and knelt beside his sponsor to catch the falling lumber pieces as they were cut free.

Once Jarred was done cutting, the duke stood over Jarred, and peered down the hole. "Hmph," he sighed, before lighting a flare and dropping down the hole. They saw it hit something, bounce and then fall again.

"Damn," cursed the duke.

"What is it, sir," Vestok inquired from the hall, having not stepped onto the platform.

"Some kind of security grate half way down. So we got a hundred-plus foot drop to some kind of grate before another drop. Some very paranoid engineers built this place," grumbled the duke.

"Can someone teleport down,” asked Harding. He was looking through the hole, watching the flare weakly illuminate the bottom, just a little yellow smudge of light in the deep dark. The drop was daunting, a small dark shaft with unknown properties and security measures.

"No," Vestok responded and gave no further clarification. "Bitterman, go and get some lengths of rope from camp."

Bitterman once more did as instructed, pushing through the crowd to return with two porters a few minutes later. Each porter was laden with multiple coils of climbing rope. "We've got coils of seventy-five yards each. Also, some hammers and pitons as I didn't see anywhere to tie off in here."

They ended up tying off on the raised portcullis because the duke didn't want to leave any anchors in the rock for other groups to use. Bitterman put on a crude harness and lowered herself down the dark shaft, until she tentatively touched the horizontal grid with her feet. After a few moments of testing, she lowered herself fully and stood on it. She mimicked Jones and jumped a few times, then looked back up the shaft and shrugged.

After another series of jumping, she cupped her hands together and yelled, "They're damned beefy."

Her voice reverberated in the shaft as she stared up and waited for a response. The duke looked around at the waiting crowd, then ordered, "Tie off another line and send Jones down, see if we can get this mechanism figured out."

While the group rigged Jones for his descent, Harding reached out with his senses and felt around the lift and shaft, looking for mechanisms, materials, or anything that felt different. He felt the hard stone of the construction, cut smooth and clean. The thick dead wood was dull to spirit whereas the steel frame was vibrant. Tucked against the walls were metal tracks of some sort where boxes under the lift sat against. Thin rods that readily took in spirit ran on both sides of the drive tracks.

This is just a gear-driven elevator.

Harding looked over at Jared who stood next to him watching Jones begin to lower himself. He leaned in and whispered, "I think I found something."

"Don't tell me, tell father," Jarred redirected.

Harding nodded and spoke louder, "Excuse me, sir. I think I found a way to operate some of this?"

The duke turned from watching Jones descend, "Explain it."

Harding paused. It would do him no good to stumble in his explanation. He wasn't even sure how much mechanical knowledge the duke would have. "The lift is wood sitting on a metal lattice frame. There are four boxes, presumably engines as each one sits in a type of toothed track in the wall that they drive the platform along. Probably."

"Continue," the duke urged, though he returned to watching Jones’ descent. Harding realized that the others might have already figured this out just by lowering below the platform with a light.

"Each track has two solid rods, one on each side. My thought is that spirit or some other energy is flooded into the rods to make the lift go up or down," Harding concluded.

"But what type of energy and how is the direction of the lift controlled," pondered the duke, no longer watching Jones. The rope intermittently creaked as the blade worked to lower himself.

"It's just a theory, sir, but we haven't seen any energy type used in this place so far. Hard to tell what they used, but they obviously built the defenses with spirit in mind," Harding pointed out. He really didn't know, but it did seem like if the builders had an electric elevator they would have at least installed a few lights for convenience.

Harding tried to gauge the leadership group's position but everyone seemed to be focused on the duke while he worked through it slowly. Finally, he seemed to accept Harding's ideas but pushed for more information, "And the grates below?"

"I'm not close enough to sense those mechanics."

Vestok nodded to the duke when he looked at him. Vestok seemed to be an aware and forward guy, but Harding understood that no one could be well versed in everything. It was to Vestok's credit in Harding's view that the man seemed to be able to alternate between leading and following seamlessly.

"Ok. Pull them up, then we give it a try," decided the Duke.

The group collectively pulled Bitterman and Jones up, two lines of blades heaving the ropes. Harding felt conscious about not helping, but it was quite clear that leather gloves were standard equipment for a house blade for a multitude of reasons. He decided to take advantage of the momentary downtime and pulled out his journal.

He started a new page:

> Things to Buy

>

> 1 pair of leather gloves (work?)

With the two blades up, the leadership turned to discussion on how to proceed. Some concerns of theoretical operation were raised, such as the potential of needing to equalize the power to each drive engine. As they planned a solution to the challenge, Harding spoke up again. "May I try?"

The duke frowned indifference, "No harm in letting you try…"

Harding walked into the center of the lift. Despite having no expectation of success, he still felt the weight of the attention of the gathered blades. With measured pace he created a pair of tendrils in his spirit body similar to this manipulation practice with the seedcrypt. It took a bit of effort but he extended them further until they reached the sides of the lift. Creating a second pair of tendrils while maintaining the first was more difficult and the existing ones shrunk a bit as he changed his focus. Once the four formed, Harding once again worked to extend them. He observed that the other portions of his spirit body were drawn in to fuel his reach.

The sensation of manipulating his self into such a seemingly unnatural state was disturbing. It was like stretching a muscle slowly until it began to tear. The belief that it was impossible to damage the spirit body by manipulating it did little to assuage the strangeness of sensation. Beliefs can be wrong. The tendrils fought him, continually twisting and trying to retract. Harding persisted, the burden of the crowd's attention all the more present as he struggled.

It was a challenge getting each spirit appendage to contact a singular rail. The fact he was unsure which rails were the correct ones was secondary to that battle. Eventually he stopped fighting their nature and instead let them twist and thrash, focusing solely on putting their endpoints to the rails instead of forming his imagined shape. The tendrils warped and writhed, but ultimately connected.

Through this process Harding made two important discoveries. The first was that focusing on the end goal and letting the form be irregular required much less effort. Geometric perfection apparently being anathema to the nature of the spirit body. The second was that as unsettling as it felt, the spirit body twisting both straightened and hardened the formed appendage. Similar in effect to rolling paper into a narrow cone.

After his battle to connect to all four rods, he pressed spirit out into them and the lift jolted hard as it slammed against the top of the track. Harding switched his rod contact selection to the other side of the drives and the lift lowered, bucking slightly on occasion. It may have looked easy to the blades watching, but keeping the same energy to each rod was mentally taxing. Too much variance in power caused the drives to buck and bind.

The four drives were more energy efficient than Harding expected. Small mercies and all that, the way down was still a long distance. Maintaining the required shape and providing steady power for any length of time would be taxing regardless. Harding drove the lift down several feet and then shifted the set of contacts and returned it to the top. "It would be very hard to regulate with different sources, sir," he speculated. Harding couldn't imagine trying to control four different people’s spirit output to ensure smooth operations. He had yet to hear of any way to measure, let alone regulate, spirit expenditure.

There has to be an item or machine to simplify this somewhere…

The duke eyed him, paused, then raised his eyebrows and smiled seemingly having come to a verdict. He asked, "How many times could you do a round trip?"

Harding realized he should have anticipated the question, but he honestly had no educated estimate. Instead, he guessed, "One way will be challenging but should be doable, I might need a breather or two though."

The duke turned to his command group, "Bitterman, let's get four lines tied off and coiled on the lift. I want the monk, Jones, and Jasika to go down with you and figure out the security grate."

Harding had nearly forgotten Jasika was there. When she wasn't creating mass destruction, she became invisible. Her instructor even more so, that woman was just the stoic shadow of Jasika. And she made it clear she was enduring the perpetual disappointment of dealing with everyone else. Harding assumed that's what it was at least, the woman's affect was as flat as the floor.

The four stepped onto the platform and secured ropes brought to them. Instructor Stocke started to follow when the duke raised his hand. "No, just Jasika." He smiled at his daughter, the unspoken message clear. He was eager for her to excel on her own. In reaction, Jasika showed no emotion.

Each of them fed the ropes through their harness in case of an accident before Harding began to lower the lift. He went slowly at first and then faster as he got used to it. The faster the rate he expended spirit the faster the lift descended, though he suspected it was cutting into the efficiency of the drives. The difficulty wasn't the steady trickle of energy at first but rather being consistent in holding the points of contact. Even with the higher ambient energy of the domain, the slow drain became a growing issue as it outpaced his passive recovery. His stored spirit dwindled. It felt like the shaft would never end when Bitterman interrupted his concerted effort. "Stop on my mark," she told him. "Three… Two… One… Mark."

Harding stopped the lift and tentatively relaxed his spirit body from the contacts. Much to his relief the lift drives held in place when not actively fed energy. After a few cautious moments he returned his spirit body all the way to its normal resting form under his skin. Its return was sluggish. His whole body ached.

Why can my spirit body get sore?

"Let's figure this thing out," Bitterman grumbled and, double-checking her harness, stepped into the corner cutout and dropped out of sight. Jones and then Jasika followed, leaving Harding alone on the lift. He crept to the ledge and peered down. It was barely six feet down to the grid, each rod a square beam at least four inches wide. The three of them stood on the beams while they examined the situation. Harding worried about dropping six feet to a narrow beam. While it didn't look like you could fall through, slipping and taking a hit to the head could be serious.

Either head.

Harding leaned against the wall and watched them explore while he tried to recover. Jones knelt down and began inspecting the sockets where the beams exited the lift shaft wall. As he was doing so, Bitterman looked up at the resting Harding and smirked. Spurred on, Harding braced himself and dropped. His feet made contact on the beam and his knees bent with the force of the impact. A foot slipped and he dropped into a crouch with one leg dangling before he came to a stop. He glanced down at his knee, inches from his chin and was thankful for the near miss. He couldn't believe he'd been so easily goaded.

"Damn, why didn't you use the rope," grumbled Bitterman.

"The rope?"

Bitterman wiggled the rope in her harness, then pantomimed holding it beneath her. Harding glanced at the rope dangling from his own harness and smiled slightly. Thankfully Bitterman didn't spend further effort on his embarrassment, having already returned her focus to the problem of the grate. Harding followed suit. Examining them revealed that it was not a singular mesh but two perpendicular sets of beams. They appeared to be made of the same material as the portcullis above. Each set extended out of metal trimmed sockets along the walls.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Harding inspected the tracks of the lift drive. While the drive tracks and rods were continuous, there was a contact strip running along the rods a few feet below where they had parked the lift. Borrowing Jones’ light, the contacts looked unique to the barred area. Besides them were indentations in the wall away from the drive.

"What would happen if we just drove the lift into it," proposed Bitterman.

"I'm not sure it would be strong enough to do anything, but I’m guessing it wouldn't work anyways. These extra contact patches on the wall look to be some kind of security cutout to the drives. At least that's my guess, something to keep you from making them collide. It looks like they slide away, probably when the gate opens."

"Can they be spirited out of the way," inquired Jasika. She seemed to be invested in solving the problem, a noticeable change from her hallmark perpetual disinterest in all things not training.

"They appear to be completely mechanical, Maid Jasika," stated Jones before Harding could respond. He was pushing firmly on a different contract strip with his hand.

"What about a magnetic seed," she continued.

"They appear to be heavily geared," determined Jones after pushing hard on them.

Harding added, "Cooper isn't magnetic." The effort earned him a brief scowl from the tiny noble.

She would not be drawn from the task. "Might a bound teleport through the bars get us past them," Jasika puzzled.

Bound?

Jones shook his head, "We are only half way down, it is further than any teleport range and they wouldn't be able to port while tied off. It would be unlikely someone could catch, and hold onto, a rope coming out of the port and falling."

Jasika smiled suddenly, bringing a remarkable change to her features. She had a somewhat cute face when she forgot to hate the world. "We make a platform and tie it to the bars. Fasten the bind onto the platform and lower it. Then drop a separate rope for them to climb down themselves the rest of the way while leaving their bind on the platform."

"That… should be doable, my Lady," declared Bitterman. "Everyone back to the platform so the monk can drive us back up." The group followed the plan without further comment. The trip up was hell. He wasn't sure if going up was any more difficult or if it was just the accumulated exhaustion, but he was sure he was going to collapse. Only fearful pride powered him on. He was utterly exhausted by the time he could see the lip of the upper tunnel.

On their arrival, Jasika explained her plan to her father and Vestok while Harding slumped to the floor and tried to be subtle in his gasping breaths. He caught Jarred grinning at his state and Harding, in a brief pause of his misery, returned a playful sneer.

Bitterman already had the materials for Jasika's plan being collected and soon they had a platform with four equal lengths of rope attached. A separate, long rope was coiled while the individual ropes from the previous attempt were taken away.

Jones was swapped out for Instructor Stocke. Bitterman explained the plan further to Stocke, telling her they needed a Duplicate.

There was some risk still of losing balance on the platform when exiting the teleport but she seemed unconcerned. Fear, it seemed, was also beneath her. Harding fulfilled his purpose by driving the lift down. As he did, Stocke held a small stone out and touched it with her powers. Whatever she had used tasted of the same blue as Rent’s powers, which he found interesting. They didn’t seem to need to give any worship to the god of their powers, but Stocke’s personality seemed entirely opposite of the Okkor approach. She then lashed the stone carefully to the platform with some leather straps.

After coming to a stop, they dropped down to the security grid as before. Bitterman slipped the platform through the space between the bars and held it there while Jasika tied the ends to the grid.

Bitterman and Jasika worked together to lower the platform, not trusting to just drop it in case the stone came loose. Stocke bowed to Jasika, then vanished in an invisible flash of invisible cyan, appearing instantly on the platform below. As Harding expected, it didn’t so much as sway. You could fault the woman for her personal skills, but never was her precision in question. She then jumped deftly to the long rope and slid down, her personal torch shrinking further as she lowered the last fifty feet with grace and speed. The light swayed and then disappeared into an unseen tunnel.

Harding sat back and rested, there was no point for him to watch. The minutes passed and he lost focus until he heard the long rope creaking as it wiggled. Stocke's arm appeared through the hole as she placed her stone onto the lift. She must have climbed that distance, but that didn't seem realistic to him.

Just more mysteries.

Stocke appeared standing over her stone. She turned her head to Jasika and simply started, “Not going to work."

Then without looking at him she commanded, “Up.”

Harding looked to Bitterman for confirmation and the lieutenant shrugged and pointed up with a casual rotation of the wrist. Harding complied and wound them to the top again. When they came to a stop, all Harding wanted to do was sit down and rest, but curiosity drove him to walk with the group. The duke had wandered back to the edge of the tent city.

“You get the lift fully operational,” asked the duke, eyebrow cocked in wary hope.

“No,” Stocke simply stated. She looked around in caution. “May we continue this in my Lord’s tent?”

The duke acquiesced and led them through the temporary camp to the Garnet tents. Jones and the other’s stopped outside. Harding stood with Jones, but Jarred pulled him in with him. Inside the tent was the Duke, the Captain, Jasika, Jarred, Harding and Stocke. Stocke glared at Harding’s presence but didn’t actually say anything about it.

“My Lord. I lowered myself to the bottom of the lift run, which consequently is not quite the bottom of the shaft. There at the landing, a pace in from the lip, is another spirit eliminating portcullis. I would have proceeded past that, but standing guard a ways further were two beings of a type I have never seen. They were humanoid but easily twice the height of a man. They wore suits of full metal which lacked necessary features for a living being. What’s more, each had wings of metal as long as they were tall. I did not believe I could pass and look for controls without their detection, and I wouldn't be surprised if each was beyond what a squad of blades could handle. If they are not lords, I cannot fathom what lies inside.”

“Troubling,” murmured the duke. “Excellent scouting work, Dame Stocke.”

With a frown he addressed the knight-commander, “Vostek, I have serious doubts that we have adequate manpower to make any meaningful headway here. Other than getting that lift operational, do you see any advantage to be gained here?”

“Nothing beyond furthering your claim, my Lord,” Vestok sourly admitted. “Perhaps we could slowly increase recruitment? But without defending our presence here, we are vulnerable to others discovering it.”

“Only three seeds from this expedition- isn’t enough,” lamented the Duke with a sigh.

Harding thought he understood the issue. If anyone else discovered it, they could push past or possibly cause a political conflict. He had questions about how likely that was, but it was conceivable someone could say something back in town. How many groups even had the numbers to do something like this? Surely the kingdom’s forces, other dukes, and maybe the already established guilds. But most of the players were still trying to get basic powers and skills sorted.

Harding interrupted the duke’s rumination with the product of his own, “Excuse me, Lord, but may I offer a suggestion?”

Everyone turned doubtful looks towards him. He pushed ahead despite the visible skepticism, “I, ah, have no direct connection to them but- what about partnering with a guild?”

“Not a chance,” Vestok terminated the idea with prejudice.

The duke, however, was less hasty, “Hold on Vostek, now let us worry this idea some as we’re at somewhat of an impasse. A bit of unconventional is exactly what is needed. Keep talking monk.”

Harding started off by framing the situation as he understood it, “The House needs a large influx of seeded combatants whose potential deaths won't leave the guardforce suddenly weak, correct?”

The duke just nodded.

“And you can’t just hire that size force from the Guard association without notice and a substantial amount of coin. You can’t bring in the rangers, who aren’t really situated for it. Also, they would involve the Crown whom I am guessing would take over all rights?”

“That’s accurate enough for the conversation, yes,” he confirmed with a humored smirk.

“So you need a large group of seeded and trained combatants itching for a fight who don’t have societal power over the claim and whose absence wouldn’t be noticed by other powers. As far as I am aware, the only groups that fit those requirements are one of the big three guilds.”

Harding noticed Vestok was listening intently now, perhaps he was onto something.

“They fit that, true, but dealing with them and managing the secret would be all but impossible.” The duke shook his head sadly, “They have neither the reputation for secrecy nor reasonability. Their asking price would be astronomical, their security laughable. Any offer made would require divulgence of details that would cost us our claim, they then could decline us and move in to take it.”

Harding considered this. Would his fellow gamers be reasonable to an NPC or would they see it as simply a quest? He had to admit that his experience supported the duke’s assessment. However, perhaps he could span that gap between the two groups.

“I don’t know their leadership, but I have an acquaintance who is very visible in the Eights,” ventured Harding. “I might be able to manage a meeting with a set of circumstances that would accommodate both sides, if I had your permission.”

Duke Garnet pursed his lips and looked off as he thought things through. Harding realized how much he was extending himself into this, perhaps too invested for his own good. “Let us take a break, then I want Jarred, Jasika and Captain Vostek back here. Monk, you’ll wait outside and be ready to be called in.”

And with that everyone filled out but the duke.

An hour later it had been decided that Harding would approach the Eights and offer a clandestine meeting to develop an opportunity with an established power. Severe restrictions were placed on what Harding could divulge to the Eights to the point he felt they were potentially sabotaging the approach. If Randal didn't currently know that he was with the Garnets, he certainly could find out from the temple. However, Harding did understand their desire for secrecy and he appreciated their show of trust in letting him try his solution. He'd earned trust since his incarceration.

The duke’s entourage, Harding included, returned to their Green Hills estate, after packing, via portal. Harding immediately set out to find Randal and, as it was early evening, he headed directly to the arena. Randal was easy enough to find in the stands, he had his favorite seats and was armed that night with a pretzel and beer. Harding sat down next to his friend, unnoticed during a fight, and offhandedly asked, "Hey there, how's things?"

Randal glanced over and started. "Holy shit, you're alive! You just kinda disappeared."

Ignoring Randal's shocked stare, Harding admitted, "Yeah, stuff came up and I didn't have a choice. Alexci fight yet?"

"No, she's in the single seed bracket now," Randal replied immediately. His pride in his sister as obvious as always.

His admiration was shared.

Alexci was excelling beyond reasonable expectation. Randal eyed him a bit longer before giving up on hope that Harding would explain himself further. Returning to watching the arena floor, Randal opined, "Honestly, thought she might stay unseeded to keep the combat form pure, but I know her goal was always to earn seeds through guild contribution."

Harding nodded in agreement. He remembered Alexci talking about both routes during the parties. She would talk at length about how unseeded combat was crucial to proving any combat style, often pointing out that some of the other emerging styles were only being proven with seeds. But, she also often shared her excitement to earn seeds.

He watched the current fight in silence.

Having now seen raw combat on a large scale the arena fights seemed unrealistically clean. Outside of duels, there didn’t seem to be much organic application for their styles. Harding could understand why the Big Three were trying to develop more chaotic events, that would be much more realistic and better training for their members. And yet, as he watched, he also found new appreciation for the art and skill of the display. Watching the combatants engage and push their arts had an admirable beauty.

One is not the other.

When the fight ended and the pages were dragging away body parts, Harding leaned in and quietly requested, "Can I get you to get me a minute with an Eights officer?"

"Really, like recruitment? Good choice."

"Maybe later, but right now I need someone who is a really high officer."

Randal side-eyed him suspiciously, ignoring the new fighters entering the sands. "What's going on," he asked with a somber tone.

"Can't say," Harding refused. Not telling Randal caused some internal friction, but he had promised and was committed to this course of action. Still, he gave a little more, "I'm trying to steer them to something big. But I'm sworn to confidentiality and I need someone who can make big decisions quietly."

Randal thought for a moment. "Gonna stay for the afterparty?"

"If I'm invited…"

Randal laughed and offered Harding some of his pretzel as an answer.

Good to see things haven't changed.

They watched the fights. Alexci made a good showing to get to the quarterfinals before being defeated. Harding could see her disappointment from the stands, but it was a big change for her to start dealing with the wide variety of seed powers. Expecting to continue to dominate was unrealistic. He and Randal chatted through the remaining fights and only were silent for the last few. No one really spoke during Archon matches, the crowd was too loud.

After the fights, Randal took Harding down into the fighters area. The party had, as always, started well before the last fights and was in full swing when the last combatants were still coming back from the field. Randal and Harding hovered around Alexci who was in regular form. She socialized like she fought, with energetic and decisive engagement. They drank, ate and listened to various tales of debauchery and feats of skill from Alexci's little social group.

They were nearly an hour in when Randal tapped Harding on the shoulder and led him away from the group. Alexci had a certain social gravity and Harding could almost feel the change in the air as they escaped her orbit. Randal led Harding over to a smallish, unassuming man in his mid-thirties. He was dressed in loose manilla slacks and a brown shirt, like he rejected the style of the times. They were made enough to be recognizably different than a day laborer, but nowhere near as garnish as the performers and socialites. He sat alone at the edge of the room.

Harding would have thought him unimportant.

"Excuse me, Aliester,” ventured Randal, "could we get a moment?" Randal being tentative and uncomfortable talking to this unremarkable man sharpened Harding's attention. While not as gregarious as his sister, he was hardly one to be so deferential.

"As long as you don't ask for anything, you can sit here as long as you want. You're Alexci's brother, right," he confirmed while rubbing the back of his neck absently. The man looked like he regretted every further moment he was awake.

"Yeah."

"I can see why you'd want a breather."

Randal was speechless.

Harding tagged in, "Hello, sir. My name is Harding. I study at the temple with Randal." He felt like an unctuous salesman, conscious he was trying to sell himself before selling the deal.

"When are you going to join?"

"Me?"

"We are trying to get as many naturalists as possible right now."

"I'm not sure I follow what a naturalist is in this context."

"Monks. Wrong word for it, but it's what Life gave us. People studying skill sets that are neither physical nor seed-based. The Subtle Arts. We want monks and we are the best, therefore you should join."

Harding blinked at the blatant sell job. Beneath that though, Aliester had easily put to words the distinguishing feature of a monk. A feat even the monks themselves hadn't accomplished. And all while bulldozing his own attempt to sell Aliester.

Subtle arts.

Harding admitted to him, "I am unable to disagree with any of that. Recent experiences I've had in a domain suggest you are indeed right to incorporate the subtle." Harding paused. He liked that word. Before Aliester could respond, he pressed on, "However, I was sent as a messenger to request a clandestine meeting of mutual opportunity."

Aliester shifted in his seat, serious now, "Who sent you?"

"Clandestine."

"Ah, Randal, could I have a moment alone with your classmate?"

Randal seemed slightly annoyed at being cut out of it, but maybe it was just discomfort from being around Aleister. Harding hoped that's what it was, he didn't want to damage their friendship. Randal got up. "I'll be over with Alexci when you're done."

Once Randal had retreated, Harding continued, "I've been asked to set up a meeting by a, ah- benefactor of mine. They wish to discuss a unique opportunity. I can't say too much about it, since I have no authority and am sworn to secrecy. My only role here is to offer you a chance to meet with them. A meeting away from any notice, as public awareness could rob both sides of substantial opportunity. They'd like for you to pick a time and place if you're interested."

Aliester immediately asked, "How many people?"

“Huh,” came Harding’s clever reply. A moment later he realized the man meant the size of the meeting and not how many benefactors Harding might have. "Uhm, smaller is better? To avoid prying eyes and all of that."

He watched Harding with uncomfortably intense eyes. When he spoke it was slow and clear, "Why do I want this? Nothing you’ve said is selling me on doing it."

Harding frowned with worry that he was losing the chance.

"Well, sir,” he started before pausing again to try to calculate what would appeal to a man like Aleister. To be in such a position wasn’t something he understood through experience and he gave up trying to sell it. Instead, he just explained the situation. “I can't tell you what it is about, but I had to sell the idea of bringing in the Eights to them. If you pass I don't know if they'll go to another guild or if they'll change plans completely. I can't tell you that you'll make lots of cash or gear, I don't know what the outcome will be. I do think, though, that you should do it. Both the experience and politics is something that money can't buy you. I hope that is a clear enough framing as I'm already pressed hard against the strict constraints of my oath."

Aliester sat quietly, took a sip of his wine and glanced up at the ceiling. He then looked across the room at someone in the crowd, staring at them with intent. Harding watched a tall man in black doublet turn and look back as if conscious of the weight of the stare.

Telepathy?

After nearly a minute of torturous silence, Aliester came to a decision. "Two people, one hour, William and Williams Haberdashery in Charney's Landing. Tell them to bring coin enough to buy a hat. If that's too soon, then they're not committed enough to this for it to be worth our time."

"Yes, sir," Harding agreed as he rose to his feet.

Aliester grumbled, "Subtle artists…”

It didn't feel all that friendly, but it made Harding smile.

And with that, he walked back to the crowd around Alexci. Harding touched Randal’s shoulder and quietly excused himself. Even though she was recounting a story to the rapt crowd, he was aware that Alexci watched him leave. Harding wasn't sure what that was about, but he didn't have time to think about it. He briskly walked to the bridge, then ran its length wanting to report as soon as possible. An hour wasn’t much time with the speed of the available transportation.

When Harding got to the Garnet's estate, he immediately reported to the duke the conditions and locations. The duke in turn yelled for a carriage to be made ready and for Vostek to be summoned. He then smiled at Harding. "I like this man, this Aleister. Decisive. Describe him."

Harding described him. His slightly shorter than medium stature, thin physique and thinner hair. His eyes and the way he held himself, as if he was just hovering above exhaustion by the force of will alone. And warned the Duke of his skeptical and direct nature.

The Duke didn't bother changing dress to look nicer or more powerful. Instead he just led Harding out to the gateyard. Vostek was walking up to the manor, wiping his hands on a towel and looking as though he had just been wrestling weeds in the garden. "Sir, I was on my way to you."

"Good Vostek, it is time to buy you a hat."

Vostek's hand involuntarily checked the top of his head, "A hat, sir?"

"A garrish one at that, my dutiful knight, one fitting for you to strut with for the attention of a certain lady."

A confused Vostek foundered, "A certain lady?"

"Yes Vostek, how else will you get the eye of Dame Stocke?"

"Stocke," gasped Vostek in horror.

"I know you shine on her…"

The carriage pulled up behind them as Vostek looked sick.

"My Lord, please…"

"Get in the carriage Vostek. We need to work on your acting skills."

Harding chuckled watching the knight-commander stumbling.

Vostek turned, pants seat covered in dirt, and held the door open for the duke. He looked to Harding for help, but Harding just held up his hands and shook his head. He had nothing to do with it now. Vostek climbed into the carriage, the warrior grim and ready to make his last stand for his Lord. Or, at least, wear an outrageous hat for him. Harding wasn’t sure which was harder for the man to face. The duke flashed Harding a smile from the carriage, delighted in his opportunity to be mischievous.

Harding shook his head at the scene, watching the carriage take off in unusual haste. Imagining Vestok at such an important meeting, unaware of his dirty seat, made him laugh. He looked around and found that no one had witnessed him laughing to himself. Having not been instructed to do anything further, he then sought out the chamberlain's assistant. No one had said where he could sleep that night.

Harding ended up back in his previous room but instead of staying in he went back to the gate yard with the crypt in hand. He sat upon the low garden wall while allowing his spirit to seep into the crypt's locks. He was not trying to resolve the lock, neither by logic nor force. Instead, he wished to feel its spirit, to fill it with his spirit. He wished to understand it.

He thought on the nature of all spirit as he drowned the crypt in his spirit body. Spirit flowed yet was firm. It could not be forced, yet it obeyed. At least, somewhat. It certainly followed its own rules. Spirit had a tendency to be less interested in the details. It was not of the material world and yet existed within the material of the world. It could not be touched and yet it exerted force. It was subtle.

That's when it clicked.

Harding's epiphany was that the spirit body followed visualization of the result with little care for the how. The more clearly he visualized the result, the higher degree of success it had achieved. When he visualized the action then that had become the focus over his desired effect. Tell spirit what to do and it attempted it, tell it how to do it and it struggled. From what he had observed of seed magic, which was really just applied and amplified spirit, it behaved the same. There were some sets of mechanical laws but they were not strictly adhered to. There seemed to always be some variance between people and even, occasionally, between casts by the same person. In reading Powerball Matrix, Volume II, GWz Jass had documented that some people had drastically different outcomes with the same seed and most had some minor differences. This was supported by Hardings own smaller set of observations. Spirit body and seed mechanics were, presumably, different. But both were also interconnected through spirit itself. Something within that overall system trended towards a default theme but varied almost organically. It bent to the user's will or expectation but resisted the user at the same time.

Harding had no seed to experiment with and separating spirit body from spirit in testing would be exceedingly difficult. For now it would have to stay a pretty theory, but it tickled his brain.

What if spirit is actually Spirit?

Harding studied the crypt awhile, just turning its metal shell in his hands. He extracted the voidseed he had in his chest and held it in his left hand. I'm his right he held the crypt. Expanding and holding his spirit body around both himself and them, he submerged himself in his awareness into his own spirit and made clear his will.

Open, that I might fill you.

The crypt opened without fanfare, both locks engaging and the top pivoting by unseen force to lay open, two hinged halves awaiting their fill like a hungry maw.

It felt natural.

Harding looked for a second at the internals of the device. It was an incredibly smooth spherical cutout, though the surface of the locks and the necks of the inlaid poles passed through the thickness of the crypt to be flush with the inside. Harding looked at his left hand. He had promised to fill the crypt. He placed the voidseed into the crypt and closed the crypt again over it. The crypt lurched ever so slightly in his hand, the movement so subtle he wondered if he had imagined it. Harding reasoned that it was the locks engaging, but he had to admit that he hadn't noticed any movement when they had disengaged.

"There you go," he whispered to the crypt, "it's the only seed I have. I hope you like it."

Harding sat still while he held the crypt in both hands in wonder, lost in his thinking about what his discovery meant. Was this proof that spirit was alive and sentient and that he had communicated with it or was it just that the interface was completed via his conceptualization of intent? Then again maybe spirit animated objects and the crypt was alive because it was in his spirit body at the time. Did the minor variations and adjustments in magic come from the user’s mind or the whim of some disembodied intellect?

He examined the crypt, not its details of design but its continuity of self. He wondered if it was satisfied that he had kept his word. If so, that meant he couldn't or shouldn’t just open it again and take it out. Was it staying locked an indication of happiness?

I’m losing my mind.

He heard the rimmed wheels on the stones announcing the return of the carriage. Curious to find out what happened at the meeting, he ended the mediation. He patted the top of the crypt and hoped, if it was sentient, that it was fulfilled by being filled. As he started to stand, he thought at the crypt.

“Do as you were intended.”

The world rolled. Blackness crashed into Harding, crushing his vision into a dot before he lost sight completely. Overwhelming vertigo washed upon him like storm waves and he fell backwards over the wall and into the flowerbed.

He laid there with all sensation distant. Harding's perception was all wrong. He was disembodied, like the lens of self had been knocked loose and was floating somewhere deep within his body. His vision started to return but It was similar to sitting in a dark room and looking across it and out a small window. He could see green leaves of the estate trees, but there was so much blackness around the edges.

The world dimmed further until it all receded again and he lost consciousness.

Harding woke up laying face up in the bushes. The carriage driver hovered bent over him with a look of concern. "Ya alright son," he drawled.

"Uh, yeah, I think I just tried to stand too quickly or something," offered Harding falsely. The coachman didn't press despite this obvious skepticism. It had most definitely not been that, though he was unsure what exactly had caused the bout. His suspicion was that the crypt or whatever intellect that was governing or governed by spirit had somehow intervened in his control of the digital body.

He’d been hijacked.

Harding made a show of dusting himself off, then wandered towards the manor where he caught up with the duke and Vostek.

"There you are, good lad," greeted the duke with jubilation. From that mood Harding already knew it was successful.

"A deal has been struck," the noble informed him. “Three days' time, no word to anyone though, not even to theirs. They won't know where we are going, not until we are there at least."

"Yes, my Lord," intoned Harding. It earned him a snort from the duke.

"At the very least, you'll be an operator of the lift. Be ready and rested. I have a feeling you'll have to do a couple trips in combat conditions," the duke predicted as Vestok silently waited behind him. The Duke turned away from him, wordlessly dismissed. "Vestok, please fetch Marshal Dillon for me. Lieutenants Bitterman and Green as well. We have a mountain of provisions to purchase and move." The duke seemed proud of his little joke.

Vestok wisely didn’t comment.

Harding peeled off and went to his room. As exciting as the news about the alliance between house and guild was, his experiences on the garden wall demanded investigation. And possibly recovery. In his room, he pulled the crypt out of his robes. He looked at the surface of it, the inlaid crystals faintly glowed with clear light beneath what he had once thought was paint.

It felt like maybe it was alive, but Harding was quite aware of the tendency for people to anthropomorphize things. Maybe it was just that treating it as if it were intelligent had helped him focus. Either way, it couldn't be that he was the first to sense something about them.

Probably another one of those things they don't talk about.

Having wondered once again at Rent’s true intention of leaving such a device with him. As a living force or as a mirror of his mind, the crypt had done something profound to him from which he still had not recovered. With the faint glow coming from the crystal windows he assumed it was powered off the spirit transferred by inserting the full voidseed. He had no idea why a lockbox would consume the thing it protected though he suspected the function of the crypt was very different from what people believed.

Do as you are intended. I have no clue its true purpose!

He sat down and relaxed his thoughts. His perception drifted undirected over his spirit body. It was still there, but completely depleted. It was like the crypt had drained the spirit energy from his spirit body. Everything felt like a sunken and squishy morass except the gates. Even the physical body felt slightly weaker around the gates.

Harding focused his attention to his flesh around the gates. He found that just his concentration felt like he had bumped a fresh bruise. There was weakness in his stomach, but he was unsure of the cause as it wasn't as noticeable as the sore gates. Still, he would have to watch, perhaps there was some connection between the spirit and flesh besides the gates.

That night Harding read through the rest of the Szaktaa. It covered manipulating the spirit body as theory, filling in on theory what he had discovered in a more rudimentary fashion through experimentation.

The next section was the relationship between the flow of spirit energy and its relation to the spirit body. Harding had to read it twice as it maundered on about the already extremely abstract topic. It seemed to suggest you could manipulate spirit energy which was not part of you with your spirit body. He realized he'd been doing this to a small degree by pulling spirit into himself as his body collapsed back to its base form, essentially using it as a spirit scoop. Szaktaa suggested though that it would be possible to control the flow of the ambient spirit and even, potentially, shape it into manifested form via an act the book translated as "channeling".

The final chapter was the one Brother Rent said he did not expect Harding to learn without him. This was the topic of Spirit Domination. Again, while matters like godseed manipulation had been very detailed and practical, this part of the book was barely hints and vague theories. Szaktaa was suggesting that the spirit body could be fortified with the soul and used to directly manipulate weaker spirit bodies.

Harding went back and read the three chapters again and then meditated on them. Not just on their content, but on the question of the fundamental nature of spirit and what function did it serve in the broader scope of creation. Sometime afterwards, he focused again on the crypt. He enveloped it with his spirit body which had still only partially recovered.

Open, that I may see inside.

Nothing happened.

"Ok little guy," he whispered to the crypt, "Keep your secrets for now, but we both know you'll show me eventually."