Liranë’s PoV - Limbo - Monastery of Will’s Hand
The door whisked shut with the infirmary’s usual muted noise, but still, the Healer on evening duty snapped his gaze about from a psi-crystal hovering above his desk. With no one else in sight, Arith stood up and started my way but relaxed when I motioned towards Novice Sarith’s cot. The privacy screen was closed about it, but the bluish-purple glow made it clear the psi-skin still enfolded her.
“How is her recovery progressing?”
“Know only in the last two days of lucid dreaming have I seen the required stability, likely another week at least, if she can make a full recovery,” replied Arith.
The prognosis drew a wince from me. “The damage was that severe?”
“Know it was worse than we initially believe when Master Tenzin brought her in. Know we had to rebuild her capacity to feel any emotion but anger from scratch,” replied Arith.
The impression of ashen calm that Amdirlain had shared makes more sense now. “Know that Master Jarithä has allowed my request to speak to her when she awakens.”
Arith nodded and returned to his desk to resume checking the psi-crystal that had commanded his attention.
Aegina - Paláti of Apollo
Charilaos glared at Artificer Soranus, and the balding ancient didn’t even blink at his ire. “I told you to be prepared to begin four days ago.”
“I have already begun, your Highness.”
A deep, slow breath stopped the sudden urge that Charilaos had to yell at the old man in his scruffy garb. “Then why do I find you in your chambers? I worked tirelessly for days now to complete the dedication. I had expected you to attend me to begin the engraving this morning.”
Carefully wiping the tip of his quill free from ink, Soranus took his time to return it to its holder and tuck his white beard properly behind his apron. The man’s broad stained-tooth smile and unhurried motions, making Charilaos itch to set his assistant on him. “You asked for a grand summoning chamber fit to rival the greatest construction of the Dwarves, did you not?”
“I know what I asked for,” snapped Charilaos.
“Such work takes planning unless you want a highly ineffective mess for whatever summoning you have planned. The question to ask yourself is simple: do you want this chamber constructed properly, or do you want it rushed?”
Charilaos’ glare was unabated, but his fingers stopped twitching to motion his assistant forward. “It needs to be perfect.”
“Then leave me to my calculation and design work. Perhaps start figuring out how to pay for what it will need.”
“We have plenty of Alchemical Silver in the treasury,” growled Charilaos.
“I know exactly how much your father has to the last ounce since it’s leftover from his last request,” retorted Soranus dismissively. “It wouldn’t be enough, even if this chamber could use it.”
“What do you need?”
“Since I’ve barely started my calculations, I will not give you even a rough figure. The chamber will probably need Adamantine, or at a minimum, Mithral. Unless you plan to bankrupt the kingdom, you won’t be purchasing the amount required overnight.”
“Why-”
The amusement left Soranus’ agate gaze as his smile disappeared with the snap of a bear trap. “The Church Elders told me what you would not, Prince Charilaos. Amdirlain, that is the one you seek to snare, is it not? Her followers are not mere cultists, they have blessings at their command. Yet that dead summoner learnt one thing for you. The name her worshippers use formed a summoning link. The lowest beings that are summonable yet able to grant real blessings are Arch-Devils, powerful Celestials, along with the various Demon Lord or Ladies.
“I know that-”
The thump from Soranus’s fist hitting the desk cut Charilaos off in surprise. “Then don’t leave out such details when you are making a request. My advice is simple: First, contact the High Priestess of Hecate about this summoning you wish to attempt, and second, let me do this commission properly.”
“If I do not deem to take your advice?”
Soranus dipped his hand into a flat apron pocket and set a dagger on the desk’s edge. “Then cut your own throat now and save yourself all the wasted effort on the road to becoming a corpse.”
“How long will this take?” demanded Charilaos.
“The calculations… likely months, but the work will take years even if all goes smoothly.”
The growl of frustration brought only raised eyebrows from Soranus, and Charilaos grumbled through gritted teeth. “I just need to summon her.”
“Go ahead without me if that is what you think. You need to do far more than summon her if you want to keep her contained for longer than you take to die in agony. Centuries ago, the Church had a circle crafted to trap one of Kupala’s Solars; that circle took five years, and it was flawed.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I have the Artificer’s workbook with the complete design along with all his working notes. It was obviously flawed since the Temple at Crete required rebuilding shortly after they completed its construction,” replied Soranus, before he put the dagger away. “Do you want this done correctly, or do you want to find another Artificer?”
Charilaos stalked out of the chamber, but his snarled reply was audible enough. “I want regular reports.”
Isa’s PoV - South Eyrarháls
The song of Eyrarháls is fading the further south we go to avoid anyone seeing the Gate we’re opening next. The tended fields have changed into grasslands to the west and woodlands to the east.
“Do you think they’ll stick to the agreement?”
Ilya’s question breaks the silence between us since we left the inn.
My huff gets a sceptical look from Ilya. “They’d better since it took them a week instead of the three days I’d allowed to reach it.”
The sceptical look turns curious, and Ilya isn’t long in voicing her question. “You weren’t in a rush to get anywhere until this morning?”
“It was never a good idea to let Sarah stew, and we’ve taken far too long already,” I offer, which is part of the truth.
“That’s if she’s still the Sarah you remember,” cautions Ilya warily.
“I doubt she will be the same, but Amdirlain’s account and Klipyl’s new name shows her sense of humour has changed little. Plus, I had a feeling this morning we’d overstayed, but the augury made little sense.”
“You could have waited until I returned from arranging breakfast. What did it show?”
The memory of flipping the cards sends a shiver up my back. “Every card I turned was a King, Queen or Prince. I’d turned over the royalty in every suit by the time I stopped. I feel we need to move on and let it play out—or lots of people will get mauled.”
“Town’s well out of sight,” Ilya observes and motions to a pathway among the trees.
It’s only an animal trail, but it leads us to a suitable clearing. The Gate focused on Sidero’s name opens to show a rolling metallic blue grassland under the white-yellow sunlight with its music so different from the surrounding woods. Despite the Gate being focused on her, Sidero blurs past on a red metal disc and I hope Amdirlain’s permission works. The threshold provides no resistance and the grass crunches almost crystal-like underfoot but looking in the direction Sidero had been travelling shows her nowhere in sight.
The malicious song is clear under the strange ringing chimes of these lands, though within it is a strange soft whisper of music. I realise the music is moving above me in time to catch Sidero hovering high overhead glaring at Ilya stepping through the gate.
“Well, if it isn’t tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb fuck; I was wondering if I’d ever meet you,” sneers Sidero, her words in English jarring and she holds still her gaze assessing us both.
The stillness between us disappears in a jolt at the sudden appearance of a Succubus—Klipyl, I assume, from Sidero’s lack of reaction—on a nearby rise. Her outfit looks like she’s been running through a blender wearing it; it once would have been a full-body outfit, now it’s just scraps of leather held together by the result of a wet dream. She looks like any of the demonic sluts I’ve seen, but her music is different. It’s wild and impetuous, possessing a hunger that’s almost playful instead of the pure spitefulness I’ve heard from her ilk in both the Abyss and Hell.
“That’s milder than I was expecting,” I admit. “Would you do me a favour and remove your chains for a moment?”
“Why should I do you a favour after the way you treated her?” asks Sidero, switching to Infernal’s familiar vicious words and her lips twist in a cruel smile. “Especially since last time you exploded a mound of demons over me?”
“You were clear of the explosion, but I’ll admit I didn’t care if Sidero, the Kyton Princess, got caught in it or not. Your music sounds cold and malicious, but Sage suggested I hear your chain’s song. I couldn’t hear Amdirlain’s song, and I screwed things up, so I don’t want to make more mistakes from assumptions.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Sidero doesn’t reply but drops to the ground nearby and the chains disappear along with the malicious song, leaving mostly silence from her. The scars she wears like a bodysuit aren’t a surprise, but Amdirlain’s account didn’t do the living sense of them justice. I don’t know how to break the subject of the whispered notes. Without the chains in place, the cause is clear: it’s not her song, but another’s lingering music—a life—having grown inside her.
“The music was from them.”
Rage flickers across Sidero’s face and muscles bunch before they relax again, but her song remains silent and I get a brisk nod. “I’ll assume your songs contribute to your decision making as much as scents do for me now.”
“Ever meet someone in Hell you could take at face value?”
“Point, we have that understanding in common. I was livid with you when Amdirlain came to me; the scent of pain from her was horrendous. I can taste your regret, but the same applies to the amount of sex you two have had lately.”
“Lucky them,” pouts Klipyl and giggles when Sidero glares at her. “Oh, do it, baby.”
Sidero’s sigh of exasperation has me giggling in sympathy for Klipyl.
“We had a lot of time while waiting in Eyrarháls,” offers Ilya.
Sidero snorts at Ilya’s off-hand explanation but then glances between us curiously. “What were you two doing in Eyrarháls? Let alone, how did you get there?”
The explanation of tracking down Viper doesn’t take long, and when I get to the part of her summoner, Sidero’s swearing up a storm. “Bloody Yngvarr, yeah, he helped Amdirlain over the years, but I’d say she provided far more from her side of their arrangement. He gets all butt hurt about Amdirlain grinding monsters apart and then goes off and trusts a traitor more than he does her. Bastard!”
“I don’t think that trusting his cousin was Yngvarr’s fault. His song was cunning and sneaky,” I offer, and motion to her chains. “Amdirlain said you’re talented for a Kyton but talk about an understatement; I’ve only seen them directly control four chains at once.”
“Some of us didn’t have your good fortune. We had to earn all our progress not have an escort from nearly day dot,” Sidero’s reply is almost an accusation.
“We’re here now. Can we give you some help?”
Sidero’s glare returns and her upper lips curls momentarily, letting me see her serpent-like tongue tasting the air. “Isa, I’ve no interest in your help. I have my way of doing things, and I’m certain it won’t be anything remotely like a Priest of Luck’s approach.”
“Amdirlain wanted the-”
“That’s nice, but I still need my achievement for Tier 7, and you two along could block me from getting it. The experience here is nice. They make up in numbers for their individual lack of experience granted. Why don’t you go help the local Elves out? They’re all scared and hiding in distant lands, Torm’s at the Castle helping train Archons. He’s been to their closest port, so you can bother him for the details.”
One spike blurs and changes into an almost photorealistic embossed mural of a mountain pass with a strange-looking castle blocking it.
“Alright, Sidero, but can I ask something?”
“What, Isa?” Sidero sighs, her tone making me feel like I’m wanting to borrow her car for a drunken night out.
“When did you give birth?”
Her hands twitch to her stomach before they fist around loops of chains.
“Technically, I didn’t give birth—too much dragon heritage—they had to cut the egg out after the shell hardened. She’s in the Mother’s care now, if she has not placed her among the Kyton’s creches.”
“You laid an egg?”
“Whatever, at least I didn’t kick up a stink on Amdirlain—twice,” growls Sidero, and Klipyl’s gaze darts between us uncertainly.
The shift in her emotions is a razor’s edge, but I can’t leave what I hear unsaid. “You’ve still a song of motherhood about you.”
“Well then, your music appreciation has got rocks in its head,” huffs Sidero.
“No, you still care about her, so her song hasn’t faded from you.”
The muscles in her jaw flex, and her teeth make unpleasant noises with how hard she grinds them, all the while glaring at me. “She made me aware of how much of a hypocrite I am, and it’s not a lesson I intend to forget,”
“That’s not what it says to me. Your daughter is a Kyton, but you still care about her, Sarah. Even if she might never understand that emotion, it says you still do.”
“Don’t call me Sarah. You said you weren’t Rachel.”
“I’m not, but I wanted to say you’re still my friend, and that song tells me you’re not what I thought as much as the silence without your chains. I’m sorry for the hurt I caused Amdirlain and for the suspicion I had of you.”
“I can taste the regret from you, and that’s the only reason we’re talking at all. When I smelt the amount of pain Amdirlain was in—then learnt you’d contributed—I wanted to hurt you so much. Whatever account she provided to Sage wouldn’t have told you about the heartbroken message she sent to me when she tried to open a Gate to you initially.”
Sidero’s words contain an angry hiss at the memory, and Ilya edges between us before I rest a hand on her arm. I opened my mouth, unsure if I wanted to ask, and she gut punches me with the information.
“She blamed herself for scaring you when she wanted to help you. She even said she spoke to you in English and you didn’t give her a second of trust.”
“I thought someone had gotten inside my head and pried secrets loose. I could hear the Outlands, but nothing from her at all—I freaked out that it was a trap. Ebusuku was furious with us for good reason, especially if she knew about the first time. I didn’t know she’d blamed herself for that mess, she never said.”
“Oh, Ebusuku was more than furious. You are so lucky she feels so much debt to Amdirlain and figures that hurting you would hurt her more. I suggest you tread lightly around Torm. I spoke to him yesterday, and he wasn’t happy with either of you,” warns Sidero, and I can’t hold the wince back. “Not happy in the same way that Amdirlain uses the word fun to deflect discussing pain—in case you missed that.”
“Yeah, thanks,” the words come out in a low drawl instead of with the calm I’d tried for. “I think I figured that without the sarcasm for dummies highlights.”
“Well, try to figure out what to say to a Norse warrior who helped bring down a Greek God after you stuck an emotional knife in the woman he loves.”
“Oh, fuck!”
“Yeah, best of luck.”
Greater Teleport puts me at the pass’s base and the Erakkö’s castle is a tiny shape in the distance. The bluish-grey stone shows countless scratches from the hordes that have used it over the centuries since the Thri-Kreen changed. Beneath the damage, the stone’s song is still solid, and though I’m tempted to meddle with it, the pass’s presence might be what ensures the hordes funnel into this death trap approach.
Ilya appears beside me with a pleased smile, the music of her Power sounding like a coming home.
“It’s a nice day for a walk at least,” Ilya says, and strokes her hand down my back. “For someone in a hurry, you landed quite a distance away.”
“No point startling the guards and having them waste ammunition.”
The day is long in the tooth by the time we make it to the wall, having paced our approach so the guards have plenty of warning. There, within a stone’s throw of the wall, I can hear the music of repeated carnage and desperation from the defenders. The music speaks of near mindless hunting beasts dying without a thought for their own safety. Yet those that have died have barely left an impression in the surroundings other than the flow of blood.
The castle’s wall is a sturdy, imposing thing sheathed in steel, blocking the wall from one side to another. While the music barely hints that a gate once existed, they blocked it some time ago the intention of their song having changed its pitch. Still in our Elven form Flight lifts us to the top of the walls after an exchange of name-gifts with the watch commander.
In the area beyond the wall, a man looms over a company or more of soldiers. Both his true form and music are pressed into a shape that seems insignificant compared to the power he contains. He’s so far the closest I’d seen when I’d imagined a Viking, with ash-blond hair, and dark blue eyes showing in his exterior form. The square jaw and broad features make him particularly superhero cliche. Complex music runs beneath his calm expression, a song of strength, dedication, and duty, with an undercurrent of love and worry.
When we make the ground inside the wall, he strides towards us in a way that makes me want to grab air fast. He doesn’t move in a predatory fashion but consumes the ground like a force of nature, an avalanche sweeping across the land before it.
“You’re Isa?”
His voice and his song are a deep bass that rumbles around in the pit of my stomach, and I give a jerky nod before I speak. “Yes, and this is Ilya. Sidero didn’t want interference in getting her achievement to evolve and suggested I come talk to you.”
My gesture to Ilya doesn’t deflect his steel-eyed gaze from me, and his song hardens in cold assessment, weighing us both up and not liking what he sees.
“I had expected Sidero to cut strips off you, but you don’t look injured.”
“She has a thing about detecting scents. Said she could smell my regrets over the complete screw up I made misjudging Amdirlain. I’m just trying to make things right—pay my weregild—is that a Norse justice concept from your time?”
“It is. She risked much for you, gave you what’s denied to her, and you hurt her, even while she gifted everything she could to you and your lover. Then you trod on her heart, turned your back on her and walked away. Laughed in your lover’s arms while she was in a world of pain.”
Every word is a statement of fact, not even an accusation, but a recital of truth. “I know what I did.”
“I doubt it. I doubt it very much because I don’t know if any of us understand what she’s enduring right now. She has never taken, truly taken, the time she needed for herself when there are others to help despite what she’d lived through herself. Yet in two short meetings, you attacked her twice, and broke her enough she had no choice but to take time away to heal. Your situation may have helped her reach a tipping point regardless, knowing that you were finally free, and the path was there for Sidero. Yet you didn’t just tip her over the edge, you kicked her over and walked away.”
“We don’t need the lecture,” warns Ilya.
His song didn’t change. There was no warning. One moment he was there, the next Ilya was on the ground with his sword at her throat. The blade’s sheer cold mists the air, so many blessings interwoven through the material contained by an Artificer’s craft that its power is an orchestra of its own. A sharp striking note sets a Dimensional Anchor in place around Ilya and her eyes widen when she fails to Teleport away. Though his anger bubbles about, it’s reined in with firm control, and I can tell he’s no intention of escalating beyond a humiliating lesson.
The soldiers hiss in surprise but don’t act at the violence and I hear Ilya’s song thrumming in my bones.
“Don’t”
I push the warning into Ilya’s mind and hope I can calm things down.
“And she didn’t need your attitude, Ilya. Your contemptuous mistrust and baited words even when she wasn’t near,” states Torm, his foot pinning Ilya’s closest hand to the ground.
“We’ve just come here to help.”
“She spoke of you often Isa, feared for you, cried for you, and you treated her with contempt,” declares Torm, his words a simple flat-toned judgement. “Tell me, why should your help be enough to make up for that?”
“I’m not sure it can, but we’ve dealt with Viper, her summoner, helped some adventurers, and helped calm the situation in Eyrarháls between the Steward and the Daughters,” I reply. Hoping that the rush of information has something in it that will be enough to start us on a path back with him.
Torm tilts his head at my mention of Viper, and I wonder if Ebusuku has let him know. “She was on the Material Plane. We passed warnings to Verdandi and others. What did you do to Viper?”
“Stripped her of Julia’s memories, blew away some powers and skills she’d kept, killed those that held her bond, and gave her a stupid use name. I also heard parts of her powers shred when her Priests died before I turned her body to dust and locked her in the Abyss for a century.”
Torm steps carefully away from Ilya, and I breathe a soft sigh of relief. “You’ll have taken a weight off her shoulders with Viper. If you want to help more, there is a race of Giants from Cemna that is trapped in the Abyss. Some of Amdirlain’s Celestials are gathering materials on various planes to create an object to find them. Or go talk to the Lómë and learn more of the True Song, so you can provide help with matters others can’t.”
“Anywhere away from you?” I ask.
The grim nod I get moves in time to the sharp tempo within his music. It’s a song filled with righteous fury at the hurt we’ve inflicted, yet the same love that stirs his rage holds it from being unleashed on us now. That’s why his song didn’t change when he attacked: it was a burst of controlled violence to make it clear to Ilya how deep the waters we’d stirred against us ran. He’d acted to humiliate her for the disrespect she’d shown to Amdirlain with her sniping words and mistrust.
“I’ll be honest. I’m likely too angry at how you hurt her to judge this properly. You’ve both apparently gone through a lot, yet you treated her that way. The weregild I’d impose would be to see you both tied to your Home Plane for a century to give you plenty of time to think about your misconduct. However, that won’t aid any that Amdirlain wishes to help.”
“We’ll get in touch with O’Nai. He’s the one organising the material gathering, isn’t he?”
“Indeed, he is,” confirms Torm, his grim music still wary, and he takes two steps back from Ilya.
She rises to her feet and murmurs softly. “Never get close to a melee specialist.”
“Indeed,” I reply, and give Torm a polite nod. “We’ll head to the Outlands and send a message to Ebusuku. Torm, might I say one other thing?”
For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse to listen, but the sword vanishes and his hands lower, though he still appears ready for a fight.
“I’m listening.”
“Thank you for giving her that chance when you first met, and for persisting in loving her.”
“She’s worth my persistence, but she needs time and deserves to be treated gently and with the utmost respect.”
I don’t need the dummies highlights to get that in his eyes our gravest offence was doing neither. A moment of music shifts us both away.