We camped at the bottom of the tree under sheets of rock that Bors raised for us. The plan for Dreamweaving was hashed out. Lance couldn't push her way into anyone's dream. willing or otherwise. Even creating a ‘tapestry’ within the weave to host her own dream conversations was at the very edge of her capabilities. That though came down to interference, as normally because the weave was incredibly busy. When she was more powerful it would be possible, but right now it required a two-way effort from another dream weaver.

That was unless you were in a fae realm where the weave was empowered by glamour while also being stripped of much of the noise that would normally cloud the process. There was still a problem though. Even with this boost invading the dream of someone at her level would've been hard, trying to gain access to the dreams of an Iron Rank actively in defensive mode would've been impossible.

So we had to make Sephy come to us.

Lance was going to build a world to intrigue them. A dream invite they'd want to explore. Gawain had of course insisted he create a space for Arthur, they apparently had protocols for such things. The level of smugness that I felt when Lance explained she couldn't deal with the baffling dreamscape he’d devised, nor sustain both his and Arthur's higher rank of cultivation. That left me reaching out to Sephy as the only option, and it made me smile like a split pumpkin.

I got to see Sephy—or at least, I got to try. Plenty could go wrong, from the functional, such as her being awake, to the unthinkable, in that there was no one to contact. I focused on the hope, though.

Initially, I feared I'd struggle to sleep but the second my head hit the bedroll I slipped into a deep slumber.

In no time at all, I found myself in a ballroom. My mind had built this space, and had formed a rough tapestry by blending the many I'd been dragged to in Albion into a single space. Ballrooms were impressive when you first started seeing them, but after your fifteenth ball, you realised there were only so many ways you could set up a big box of a room with enough space for tables, dancing and some kind of drama.

A sweeping staircase was a must of course.

This room had a single central staircase that dominated the north side of the room and led up to a gallery that lined the ballroom, a very popular design. It gave people more angles from which to criticise each other. Supporting it all was a mishmash of the same marble-coated arches with too much gold leaf stuck to them.

The edges of the room weren't defined by anything as simple as walls. Between the columns at the edge were expensive drapes pinned with gilded ropes, murals stretching across the parts that couldn't be glass. Those were blurry though as the glamour weaving it all together was worn thin by the other details.

On the floor was a dizzying mix of inlaid marble patterns that seemed to be at war with the more artistic and natural designs on the ceiling to see which could be more intricate. They also ended up blurry whenever I wasn’t looking at them, Against the walls bland art was tucked away in alcoves, their purpose not to entertain but to give people places to hide and discuss private things.

I stood alone in the middle of the room. For a moment I just took in the sight and aligned my senses with the dream. Dreams in the weave did odd things to cultivators' natural skills, most prevalent of which was that outside of sight and sound all the other senses only really worked when you paid attention to them. There was no sense of smell, no heat, no flow of glamour, not until your brain noticed such an issue, and it then tried to fill in a blank.

A master Dreamweaver could create spaces so real that one could be tricked by them, but even Elaine’s work wasn’t at that level. I called out in the strange space, acutely aware of the lack of echo, “Lance, are you there?”

“Of course, now stop paying attention to things. I'm not trying to fool you so this place is nothing but a cheap tapestry. Stop poking holes in it.” Lance grumbled at me from her seat in the middle of the stairs, dressed just as she had been before I went to sleep. The knight looked out of place in her armour surrounded by such finery.

“This is such a finicky damn working. Why do people have to be so fucking complicated with their designs.” She slapped the steps which were trying to become a ramp.

“I'm already impressed.”

“You shouldn't be, this is a hack job, this isn't something I'd call myself particularly skilled at.” She muttered, then her breathing changed and the room came into sharper focus. It was astounding what she was able to achieve despite being Bronze.

“Is that compared to a normal person, or is this the same as when you said you had ‘reasonable skill in the blade’? That same skill that our two Knights, servants of the royal family of Albion are in envy of?” I prodded back at her.

“I don't think I'm that good.” She did settle in her seat more at the compliment, “Look this is your memory I'm working with here, focus on imagining things, fill it with people and stuff. It'd be easier if you weren't so damned amped up.”

“So I just imagine things right?” I asked with an impish grin.

“Well yes, but…” An imitation of Gawain appeared before me. He frowned and went to speak. I promptly gave him an open-handed slap, and the image dissolved.

“That's better,” I said as a wave of relaxation washed over me. I took a deep imaginary breath and the world around me shifted, the columns and walls coming into focus.

“Don't do that again,” then her brows knit and she gave a resigned sigh, “Even if it did help. Look, I can't banter right now. You need to bring forth every detail of a memory. What I'm doing is basically relying on you to create the dream, then I'm trying to bottle it and then wave that bottle around. If she’s sleeping her mind will naturally connect with things it recognizes in the weave. It will still be on her to join us though. We’re relying on her curiosity here. Think strongly on the memory of this place.”

I focused hard on the image of that first ball where our ‘relationship’ began in earnest. Long before Sephy had disappeared from my life, to secretly go gallivanting around with Arthur, we'd met at events like this often. It was an intense memory, a day of triumph but also great risk. As the details flooded back the room started to fill out.

I was good at remembering social stuff. I knew the fashions at the time was for everyone to be wearing darker colours. The ball had been in a neutral location, House Greywall, who refused to take sides and expected their guests to avoid the topic as well. Usual displays of allegiance were muted, flashes of white and gold ‘the Divine regalia’ duelled with hints while blue and silver, the traditional colours of the Lady.

The room began to fill with dancers, not individuals but more a whirling twisting illusion of swirling dresses and stiff suits. Looking too closely was disturbing, I saw half-formed faces that I thought I recognized, people who didn't belong there. Sometimes eyes would meet mine before a blink and I'd find it was no more than a fan being fluttered, or a pair of mirror-like eyes staring at me. Lance shouted at me.

“Don't focus on any detail too much. This isn't real, your mind is trying to make sense of it as if it is. It’s distracting you from the actual memory. Focus on things in general rather than any specific detail.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Easier said than done,” but I did pull my thoughts back. It was late September, the night of the Harvest moon and the night was cool outside, I remembered that the columns had autumnal colours wrapped around them. This was the Harvest Ball after all.

“Right, close your eyes. Tell me about her. Even if this doesn't work, the better I understand her the more I can do. I can try asking the weave about her if this doesn’t work but that’ll work better if I know more about her.” Lance was now just a disembodied voice somewhere, I’d lost track of her but didn’t try and seek her lest I disrupt the delicate balance.

How to begin? Sephy had given me the chance. We'd been lumped together, the Harkleys were keen to find an excuse to secure her for the family, her blood gift intrigued and threatened them. She and her family made it clear that they had no interest in the advances of my many ‘cousins’. The Harkleys took this poorly. Orders from the patriarch's minions were that all of us were to do our utmost best to court her if the opportunity arose, and they'd even overlook minor indiscretions if they resulted in positive traction.

“Our first meeting was at a ball, much like this. We met in the library, having both slinked off. Both she and I doing our best to avoid my ‘cousins’.” I spoke aloud.

“Don't think about places, think about her.” I heard Lance grumble.

“It was the first time I'd talked openly about my disdain for my family. If anyone reported my words I'd merely say it was in attempt to open up a potential courtship. We'd ended up talking long enough that I managed to tease out some information and get a sense of who she was. She was funny, and had this confidence about her, like she was daring me to actually try and fool her. Absolutely confident that she'd win even if I tried.” The memory of that first meeting was foggy, I was an emotional mess, taking a gamble on sticking out my neck and daring to get involved in family politics. Daring to dream of striking back.

“I had hope for the first time. This passion for keeping notes, of spying was all going nowhere, just being stored for an impossible future. Now though there was a chance. I took a risk. Both in trusting her intelligence and disdain for my ‘family’. After the ball, I sent a note, along with some perfume. They worked together as a code and concealed within was a little tidbit that would allow her to embarrass one of my relatives in an upcoming tournament.” I'd sent that off certain that someone would spot my treachery, I rehearsed all manner of excuses, expecting my ‘uncles’ to come find me any moment. But they never did.

“Think ballroom thoughts. Sephy and ballrooms alright.”

“I'm getting to it. She came to meet me at this ball. Publicly she needled me about my cousin's embarrassing attempt at cheating in his latest tournament. A foolish attempt to use potions to boost his potency exposed by some 'anonymous tip'. To anyone else, it would've looked like she trying to antagonise me, but I honestly could've wept at that moment. I still remember what she said.”

“Only a fool would've tried such brazen treachery. Still, for every exposed fool, there is one hidden, honing their craft till foolishness shifts into genius.” I opened my eyes with a start. A facsimile of Sephy stood before me. My heart almost exploded out of my chest, but It wasn't really her.

It was her as she'd been that day. She was gorgeous, not ‘cute’ or ‘pretty’, those words were too dainty to encompass her. Female cultivators who followed the path of the Knight tended towards two extremes; delicate women with skin like cream, hair like spun gold, slender arms, and gentle curves, who dressed in silk dresses and could still punch you through the nearest wall. Or they were serious women, with muscles to rival any of their male peers, piercing eyes, and donned military uniforms in line with the men of their Order. They could punch you and the nearest wall, clean through another larger wall.

Sephy had always stood out to me. She was as delicate as a battleship and as serious as a jester. She was never afraid to show off her toned muscles, or her other assets. Such as her beautiful legs. I had once seen her kick a particularly loathsome suitor clean over a garden maze while in three-inch heels. She was truly a marvel.

This version of her was a copy of that night, in dark red, the colour of wine that only ever came from dusty bottles. Her hair, much brighter red than her dress, was braided with silver wire. She offered her hand, wearing gloves of white trimmed with green, I pressed it to my lips.

“Dance or something, help the dream come together.” I jumped as the disembodied voice whispered in my ear. Recovering I bowed, as I had those three years ago. I remembered our opening banter clearly. Every word had dripped with double meaning, and as sharp as I'd sounded at the time my paranoia that it was all some trap from the Harkleys had me looking over it for days. It marked the real beginning of our trades.

“Lady Persephone, you bless me with your presence yet I must disagree. I believe what you describe would make them merely a lucky fool. I think genius requires more.” Taking the memory by the hand I led her to the dance floor.

“What makes a genius then, my aspiring Parfumiere?” her voice was husky and close.

“I have only met a few,” my eyes met hers with a wink, “but it seems to be a mixture of confidence to push forward, knowledge of the risks they take, and a plan to conquer the monumental task before them.”

“Risks such as sending an unwed maiden such as I a bottle of perfume?”

“There was no risk there, my perfume is rather exceptional.” She laughed, and it was a genuine laugh. Not the pathetic acting of the others in court, those desperate enough to try and curry favour with someone as weak as I.

“That would be the confidence you spoke of. Though I do confess that the perfume was excellent, I wear it now.” The memory of the scent washed over me. I'd created it specifically for her. It was a nuanced concoction that harnessed the scent of Crimson Dot flowers, which carried the tang of lightning, backed by a more traditional floral mix. It gave an electric edge that didn’t overwhelm.

“I had noticed, but going around commenting on a lady’s scent is rather gauche don't you think? That sort of habit should be properly confined to poetry.” We danced through swishing dresses, and between sleek suits, our words lost in the mix of noise on the dance floor.

“You mean to tell me you did not pick up the talent so you could have an excuse to sniff around all the eligible maidens.” The banter seemed flirty, but the hidden meaning was clear to me. She wanted to know if I was sharing this with others.

“There's only one I'm interested in speaking to. Besides I am told sending perfumes out to unwed maidens is a risky business.” I replied.

“So, instead you turn your attention to conquering a single monumental task.”

“I always have the tasks my family puts before me as my key concern.” I painted my target clearly, my family was what I wished to conquer. “But, as long as it's not insurmountable I'll climb any peak.”

I grimaced as I remembered what happened next, One of my cousins danced close to us, eyes glaring at me. Sephy moved between us, despite me being the lead she subtly shifted our dance. She blew a kiss at the man, one of her rejected suitors, as we slid away. He challenged her to a duel a few weeks later and was roundly trounced.

“To brave that mountain you'll need to keep a good grip, too easy for a passing storm to blow you away.” She moved close to me as she spoke. The dream wasn't complete, there was no rush of warmth from her touch, nor did the heady scent of the perfume crash into me as it had done then.

“It's worth the risk,” I replied, twice as sure now as I was then. I wish I could tell my past self that it would work out, that it had all been worth it. Mouthing the lines I was proud to know my commitment had been so consistent. I knew I had to try and share the information I'd gathered, but I couldn’t have even dreamed of escape at that point.

“Why?” The question was abrupt. Her dark eyes locked onto mine, a demand for the truth of the matter that cut through all the wit and made me stumble in our verbal dance. It’d taken me a whole minute back then to find the words but the reply was on my lips in an instant this time.

“Perfume like all alchemy is made from all sorts of nasty bits that are brought together to become something that is far beyond the sum of its parts. Some say using such crafts on perfume is a waste of time, arguing it's almost a background effect, a frivolous olfactory fashion statement, adding nought but a little edge to the wearer.”

My tone shifted, a seriousness to it that hadn't been there in the mask of playful banter, “I am a man given a pile of ingredients most foul, and I am not content. So even if I accept that my perfume does nothing but add a hint of something to another, even if I never get to see what they accomplish. I would still rather aim to be more, to go beyond what I started with.”

“Well, I think your perfume has far more potential than that.” She stepped close, her smile wide on her lips, and then slid away just as smoothly as the music ended. We lined up opposite our partners, I bowed first as the song ended, my memory of it was wanting, leaving it as faint echoes of music. I looked up to see her smile again and bow to me.

A flash of steel and the smile was gone. A blade carved through her, and the Sephy of the past was but whisps of dream stuff. There in her place was a different Sephy, a Sephy I’d only seen at the occasional tournament. A woman clad in armour with her hair wild behind her. My soul sang at the sight, stepping forward to greet her I sensed something was wrong. Her eyes were on fire as she levelled the blade at me, halting my advance.

“Now, who are you supposed to be?” Her husky voice was the same, with the added purr of a cat who’d caught a rogue mouse.

I looked down and found I was very much Taliesin. This could get interesting. “Ah yes, fuck.”