“Things seem to be coming along well.”
“Mm.” Alarion grunted in response to Valentina’s lighthearted words. For once he was taciturn not out of rudeness or frustration, but out of sheer focus. He couldn’t speak. Not without losing his edge. And the moment that happened…
The young man frowned suddenly, then wrenched in his seat to dislodge one hand from the crystal orb that held him locked in place. The magical siphon broke with an audible pop of air, and Alarion slumped in the chair, glaring up at the ceiling.
“Or… not. Nine minutes left is still an achievement.” Valentina said sympathetically.
“A meaningless one.” Alarion grumbled, gesturing up to the clock which was ticking up rapidly, second by second. “You said that it would go back up slowly.”
“It does!” She protested insincerely. “At first. The last twenty minutes are a bit more… brisk.”
Alarion’s scowl was positively scathing.
“It is to keep you from brute forcing it.” She explained, her own mood souring somewhat under his glare. “But it will still be here tomorrow. It is late, you should eat and rest.”
He looked back to the chair, frown still on his lips. He’d intended for this to be his successful attempt, or to try at least one more time if he’d failed. But it was hard to argue with her words. Especially as the scent of spices wafted in through the opened door. “Fine.”
“Wonderful.” Valentina grinned, ushering him back into the main chamber.
It had once again changed. Gone was the large oak desk that once dominated the far side of the room, replaced by an L-shaped bar of similar construction. A trio of bar stools stood in for the original two chairs, and a small wood burning stove sizzled behind the bar. The smell of leather and parchment still lingered in the air, but it was dominated by the tang of onions, pepper and popping grease that caused a growl in the pit of Alarion’s stomach.
“Hungry, are we?” The incarnate smirked as she circled the bar and took up an apron.
“A little.” He answered absently. He should have been used to it, but the constant changes in location and layout were still getting to him. “Do you even need an apron? Can you not just snap your fingers and make new clothes?”
“I could.” She admitted. “I also don’t need the stove, or to prep the ingredients. But what is the point of anything if you simply skip to the end?”
The once goddess busied herself behind the bar, a knife in hand as she carved up small chunks of meat to add to the stir-fry. The recipe was local, one whose smell could be found permeating any large Ashadi market. It made Alarion think of his time in the Old City, of the smells that trailed down from Ashad-Vitri while he struggled to survive.
“Do you cook for everyone who challenges your dungeon?”
There was a slight pause in the movement of Valentina’s knife, a tenseness to her body before she shook her head. “No. Some of them, especially those who’ve spent months or years within the dungeon. But usually my interactions with guests are more perfunctory. And you wouldn’t believe the number of people who fail out very quickly.”
The boy went silent after her answer. Quiet enough that Valentina eventually glanced over one shoulder to see him staring down at the bar top, lost in his own thoughts. With a sigh, the woman turned back to her own work, filling the room with a sudden cloud of steam and smoke as she mixed in the remaining ingredients and a new helping of oil.
It took a few more minutes for everything to sear to Valentina’s satisfaction. She plated the dish, two big heaping messes of food that lacked any sense of artistic grace, but smelled as though they were more divine than she ever was. Satisfied, she scooped them up, moved the meals to the bar top and joined Alarion on its far side.
“You’re upset.”
Alarion took up a utensil and picked at the food, somewhat dubious despite the familiar recipe. “No.”
“I thought your people, or rather, I thought Vitrians didn’t lie.” Valentina started in on her own meal at a decidedly more ravenous pace before she added, “You’re eclectic. I like that.”
“I am not weird. And I am not-” Alarion’s voice caught in his throat as he considered how Sierra might have taken such an obviously false protestation. “I should be happy. My life turned around because of that number.”
“I wasn’t talking about your Status this time,” rebutted Valentina. “That is Her interest in you, yes. But I’m not Her, not any longer. I have no stake in the great games, no need for allies. Everything I have is here, and I’ll tell you, I’d much rather have a strange young man bumbling about my challenges than the six-hundredth stuck up scion of a noble house with no sense of humor. Did you know that one of them told me I was courting death. Me. An Incarnate. I’m literally dead and he-”
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“You are actually dead?” Alarion interrupted with some surprise. “I thought…”
What had he thought? She was an ‘incarnation’ of one of the Mothers, a former host. Did they retire? He’d been told that they grew old, so they had to die eventually. Right? Had Valentina died young, or was that something she could change?
“I am, yes! Deadish, anyway. Part of our pact with Mother is that we’re given an afterlife of sorts. A pocket dimension all our own.” The woman brought a fork to her lips with one hand while the other waved toward the far wall. It spread out in a kaleidoscope of fractals, expanding into a cascading infinity, then snapped back as quickly as it started. “A near infinite ability to create and explore higher realms of being, but very few interesting gues-”
Alarion didn’t know what to say, in large part because his mind ached at the dimensions he had been shown. He felt nausea rise within him and a deep empathic dread from which there would be no respite. How could he have never known, never understood until now? A thousand layers of glorious and gibbering reality, forged one atop another until-
Quickly as it had come, the thoughts and memories fled his mind. It was as though they had been plucked straight from his head. Which they probably were, judging by Valentina’s sheepish expression.
“Apologies. I sometimes forget the impact that can have on mortal minds. Like an ant walking across a spell book, only to suddenly learn and comprehend the concepts of books, words and magic. To try to go back to life as an ant with that in your head? It would be maddening, so I snipped them out for you.” She laughed somewhat awkwardly and gestured to Alarion’s plate. “You should eat.”
“Uh…huh.” Alarion brought another bite to his mouth, prodding at the empty space in his memory as one might the gap from a missing tooth. Something had been there, but what an ant had to do with it, he hadn’t the slightest idea. “So do you just stay here forever?”
“Until I’m well and truly bored.” She nodded. “The same door that brings you in will let me out. At that point I’ll die like any mortal, and I’ll find out what is next, if anything. For now… this is nice. Peaceful.”
“Lonely.” Alarion said, thinking back to Alex and the others like him. “I am glad you have a way out.”
“You see why I’m not eager for you to leave, or to fail.” Valentina grinned in the face of his morose words. “There are restrictions on me in this part of the space, imposed by Mother to make the challenge fair, but they’re really more like guidelines. I can’t give you answers, give undue rewards or alter the challenges themselves. But I can give you pointers. Even encouragement, if it helps!”
He tilted his head as he looked her way, as though examining her for honesty. Then he nodded, the grimness in his expression lessening until he took his next bite. “You use too much pepper.”
“You simply have a bland palate.” She shot back. “Tell me about this strategy of yours. For the challenge.”
Alarion flicked the largest bits of pepper off a bite sized chunk of meat as he considered how best to answer her question. “It is very basic. You will not make fun?”
“Not at all.”
He nodded again. “I am sure there are technical terms for all of this, ZEKE could tell you, but I do not know them. It is all done by feeling and-”
“Alarion, I am not going to judge you.” She insisted.
“Mm. When I visualize my mana through my mana sense, it feels like a tangle of string throughout my body, as though each point of my MP is an individual string. When the siphon starts, it pulls these strings out one by one. I have some control over the mana in my body, enough to resist the pull, but the problem is that each strand is very brittle. They tear or fragment. I thought of a way to stop it but…”
“Go on.”
Alarion’s face took on a dour expression once more as the memory struck him. He took a bite of the food, chewing slowly to let the discomfort pass before he continued.
“When I was young, I used to help my little sisters with straps and bracelets they would make for market. We used a clay ring with divots in it, you’d braid south to north, north to south, and turn. South to north, north to south, and turn. The strings we used to make the bracelets were so weak that you could tear them by hand, but when it was done it was strong enough to carry your whole-body weight.”
Valentina looked at him strangely. She started to speak, then clearly thought better of it. A wine glass appeared in her outstretched fingers, and she took a long sip. “You braided your internal mana? And that worked?”
“You said you would not-”
“I’m not making light!” The woman protested. “I’m just… surprised. I had to improvise a test to deal with your flaw, but I still use a version of the siphon challenge elsewhere. I’ve never heard of… never even considered something like that. But it would have to work, wouldn’t it? Making the individual strands much more difficult to tear.”
“Not difficult enough. I am still failing.”
“How? Be precise.”
“It is exhausting.” Alarion answered readily. “I was able to whittle down the time in ten minute intervals until the end, but trying to battle that pull slowly depletes my stamina. Eventually it inflicts a condition, and-”
“That makes sense.” Valentina spoke over him, as though she did not even realize she was doing it. “You’d have to be profoundly stubborn to play tug-of-war with a siphon for that long, but eventually it would exhaust anyone. What you need is-”
She stopped mid-sentence, glaring up at the roof.
“I’m not. No, this is entirely within-” She scowled. “Just because… fine, I won’t say a thing. Alarion, you’re making a mess. You need a napkin.”
The young man gave her a concerned look. “No I am not.”
“No, I’m quite serious. Take mine.”
She pushed a small slip of violet linen toward him. Then, as he reached for it, she slammed her knife down into the far corner, piercing the cloth and the bar top beneath. Alarion flinched away, grabbing his own knife for protection in the face of Valentina’s stern expression.
“Alarion. Take it.”
Her words brooked no disobedience. Despite himself, Alarion reached for the corner of the napkin and pulled. Predictably, it didn’t move. Not with a knife pinning its far corner firmly in place.
Alarion was about to protest, to explain that he couldn’t do as she asked. Then it hit him.
“Oh.”