The Maid Is Not Dead

I awoke to the sustained symphony of steel. The tune was only interrupted at times by the bark of the forge opening and the vicious sizzle of quenching, when the artisan stuck the beaten product into a basin of ice-cold brine by his station. And then the hammering resumed, tireless. In my feverish sleep, I here and there fell under the illusion it was my own body and soul being alternately heated and chilled and pummeled into an inhuman hardness. But no mortal could endure such treatment alive and I could convince myself I was dreaming.

When I came to, my fever had left me and my spirit burned with a modest but willful flame. My heart beat at the rhythm of the hammer, I was still among the living, and the world seemed a great deal less evil a place to be. I flexed and stretched my stiffened limbs, folded and packed away the blanket, and cast Sanatio once more. My injuries no longer bothered me. I was quite as fine as a prestigious maid could be after sleeping on a barren stone floor surrounded by steelware, a ghoul, and a furnace of livid drake fire.

"Blimey," Elrig remarked, his hands abruptly stilling. "Was that a flicker of magic I sensed just now? Was it yer doing?"

"It was, yes," I admitted.

I wondered if the dwarf took offense, but no. On the contrary, Elrig seemed much impressed by my modest ability.

"Whaddya know. I lost what little talent I had long ago. Suppose living spirit is a must-have, for a wizard. A right pity, as magic has its uses in crafting too."

"So I've been told."

"Say. Provided ya do find that ivorite for me, I might have another task suited for a maid as crafty as ya seem to be. Interested?"

"I have yet to even complete the first assignment and you're already asking for more? Your craftsman's pride appears very flexible, if it lets you rely on strangers with no restraint."

"After two centuries at this with progress little or none, I have come to slowly recognize there are things one rotten dwarf cannot handle by himself. And since I don't exactly have a line of willing helpers outside the door, what else can I but rely on the one that steps forth? Aye, I am beginning to think our encounter may have been an act of greater fate. If ya like, why don't ya grab the book up there on the top shelf? It might help ya out. Consider it my token of good will."

Elrig nodded at the corner of the wall by the entryway, upon which were bolted steely shelves full of boxes and paraphernalia—and a slim book of sable covers slipped between the boxes.

"Is that what I think it is?" I asked, raising a brow.

"One of those man-made sorcery tomes, aye," Elrig confirmed. "There was this lad a century back, who made it as far as the bridge. That was where the goblins finally got him. I happened to be out and about, but came too late to his rescue. By then, they had robbed the poor sod down to his knickers and were sawing off his legs for dinner. I chased the little devils away; one took off with a book just like that one—but the lad had two in his effects. That there'd be the other. It looked interesting, so I brought it with me, but I can't read it for the death of me. Go ahead and take it. I reckon he'd prefer ya had it."

"..."

It couldn't be…Holding my breath, I approached the shelves and rose to tiptoe to take down the black booklet.

I steadied my agitated pulse with a silent breath before flipping the tome around. On the front cover was spelled one word. FORMA.

This was it. The last missing piece of the arcane puzzle. One mystery solved. Poor Master Ryndell. So he did meet his end in Baloria, after all. One of the most brilliant minds of the magic community, whose personality I had come to appreciate through the spirited lines of his notes, reduced to goblin food in these forsaken dwarf halls. There was no justice in the world. But through the unintended sacrifice, his life's work was now completed in me.

I opened the covers and let the concept of 'form' into my awareness.

——!

For a blink, my view was dyed deep scarlet. The magic was heralded by a stern warning from above. Interfering in the lay of the world was not in the domain of man, for this magic was not an innocent tool of a sculptor, a merest chisel, but a key to the realm of ideals, the innermost root definitions that maintained our worldly existence at large. Meddling with the blueprints of cosmos was not for beings yet in the infancy of their soul's journey, and even desiring to drink of that fountain of power was a sin by itself.

Nonetheless, surrendering this magic, even in its greatly reduced and restricted state, into fleshly hands was a sign of the Heavens' great expectations for our kind. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but someday, when a thousand times a thousand generations had arisen and passed, its full potential could be realized.

But I had no ambitions for godhood and mayhap the magic understood this, but after delivering its cautionary message, its oppressive hold on my spirit lifted and the Sigil engraved itself upon me. And, without warmth or noise, the grimoire melted into nothing in my hands.

Not speaking, I turned on my heels and moved. I left the furnace and the ring of swords and ventured deeper down the grand hall, so as to not trouble the craftsman and be free of distractions myself. I couldn't wait another second. I had to put the magic to the test immediately.

Coming to stand in the middle of the clear floor, I closed my eyes and concentrated, concentrated in earnest, focused more viciously and with greater seriousness than I had ever before in my life. And then began to trace the steps that Master Ryndell had described in his journal.

Elemental Gate: Spatium.

"—Mind Plane."

First, to conjure the subspace, my invisible blob of metaphysical clay. A seed of space originating from nowhere but my own head. This step was still simple enough to perform, since the created space lacked any distinguishing physical features. No diameter, no mass, no density, only malleable potential. It was quite possibly the simplest, easiest magic in existence to cast, easier even than light. As a space, all it had was raw math, every numeral a subject to change.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Then came the hard part. Imposing a shape onto the invisible, intangible space.

I had never attempted to invoke two Sigils at once before. I didn't think it was doable at all. No one had ever taught me so; anyone who knew even one Sigil could instinctively feel it. The limitation was implicit in the act. Like drinking water and trying to breathe at the same time. Not only was it technically difficult, instinct said you shouldn't even try.

However, among the many Sigils, there were viable combinations, as the journal had presented. So I disregarded the innate resistance and forced myself to continue, operating my hand and mind with a steeled will.

Elemental Gate: Forma.

"—Soul Image."

How to best assemble the magical storeroom?

Naturally, I had spared it some thought beforehand.

Fantasized, you could say, with no guarantee I'd have the opportunity to put the idea into practice.

But my mind was long made and the opportunity was at hand.

What was needed was a clearly defined, easily organized space suited for storing things. Master Ryndell had recommended using structures familiar to the caster, a house you had lived in, or an associated building, since memory images with emotional context were firmer than pure fabrications made on the spot. The wizard had used his grandparents' shed as the base for his memory bank. But I wanted to be ambitious.

Among all the buildings that had left an impression on me, one stood above the rest.

I was determined to recreate the imperial arcade. It did perhaps consume a stupid amount of Power with its scale and had more square feet than any maid could need just for storing her belongings, but I had reasons for this choice beyond its utility—I personally missed the sight of it.

To this day and for ever, I would remember the first time I set foot in the central marketplace in Valengrad. It was not a dusty old town square where the capital's famous vendors traded their wares. The new arcade had finished construction three years prior to my arrival in the city, and had by then become a major landmark, tourist hotspot, and busily pulsating heart of continental commerce.

"If it's not sold in the imperial arcade, then it does not exist," the locals said and it was not an exaggeration. It was a downright cathedral of capitalism, a wonderland of merchandise. A long, tall house of white marble with an arced, copper-plated roof, crowned by a high central dome. Smooth walls decorated with grand windows and series of pillars, among which the carven images of the saints of past ages watched over shoppers.

Every free day I had, I would visit the arcade without fail, its charm never losing their luster in my eyes. It was from the arcade that I bought my very first sewing kit, the tatarian twine, and my personal kitchen knife. I could never afford the best products, but merely being able to look at all those wonderful things up close, free of charge, whenever I pleased—even that privilege was too much for my modest country soul to believe as real.

What would I have done with clocks, or jewels, or statues, or party gowns, or makeup powders, or musical instruments, or whatnot, even if I had the money to buy them? Only the luxury of being able to behold such fine creations was enough for me and the next best thing to owning them—if not better, since it spared me the trouble of maintenance.

I proceeded to conjure the interior of the arcade, slate by slate, door by door, half to test the magic and half out of the pure longing to see a familiar place. I could not convert the subspace into stone or metal; the imaginary space arose around me as a luminescent outline assembled of fine, faintly twinkling threads of light, overlapping seamlessly with the physical world. But clear enough to be identified.

The tall main hall with its distant vaulted ceiling, whereupon the vendors and customers' joined voices rose and merged in a pleasantly bubbling, lofty hum. I watched shops spring into being along the outer walls, forming a clean ellipse around the majestic hall, stacked on two floors, a decoratively guarded balcony in between. Through the middle of the wide wall ran a separating wall, around which circled yet another long double line of shops.

Conjuring the buyers, sellers, or products, was not part of the magic. The businesses stood in silence, the floors empty, the displays barren as after a goblin wave. But the architecture itself, even in its spectral state, brought warm, giddish joy to my heart.

Elemental Gate: Agore.

"—Hand of Selection."

Employing the third Sigil, I could manipulate the conjured space with only the faintest gesture. I didn't need to take a step from where I stood; each location would fly over to me quickly and quietly.

Even without spells, I knew the name of every shop and their managers by heart. Straining my imagination just a little, I could vividly picture all the elements that were missing, put into their correct places.

There, in the left-hand corner, behind the panoramic display window, lay the barber salon of a certain Messier Lucas, the only person in the world I allowed to bring scissors close to my head. From there, the next door: the bookshop of Ser Rodwyn, a retired old knight, who had made it his mission to import literature from across the seas for the sophistication of the imperial readers. From there on: the butcher, Michel Brighton's shop. It was not a dirty, dim, smelly den like the butcher's shop in Faulsen. Oh no. The meat at Brighton's was sold in clean, exquisite cuts under a display glass kept magically cool, fresh and smell-less, as though voluntarily handed out by the beast itself. Spicy sausages, ham dry-aged or smoked, and more was always available, to add a touch of class to your sandwich.

From there on, the Millside Baker's shop. The bakery itself lay outside the city, the goods delivered to the arcade early every morning. Shelves loaded with breads and pasties of many kinds, in tall, gold-brown piles, still oven-warm and faintly steaming…The smell alone sufficed to make the most cultured cosmopolitan's gut howl in monstrous yearning. My favorite was the herb-butter baguettes—but you had to be quick. By two o'clock in afternoon, the selection was sold out down to the last crumb. But not to worry: if only you could hold out until three o'clock, refills would arrive and the shop stayed open until eight at night.

From there, I moved on to the door of Springsteen trailor shop, the maker of the finest men's suits in the country, approved by the Imperial House. The imperial family had their own tailor too, but his majesty still secretly dressed in Springsteen when he thought he could get away with it. Through that window, I had caught many times in passing a glimpse at Master Fargo, his white beard always cleanly trimmed, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, winding measuring tape. Sadly, the store had nothing for maids, but whenever I saw the garments on the display mannequins, I couldn't help but wonder what it would've been like to put on trousers and a tie for a change. In the neighbor was an accessory shop by the same owners, its wares aimed also for men.

On we go, to Fiola's florist store. Mrs Fiola Evergoode didn't grow herbs, but solely plants cultivated to please noble eyes, and it was a phenomenally rich business. Then came up the alchemy store, which, I am sorry to report, still outclassed Master Vivian's budding business in not only scale and inventory and decor, but also trustworthiness of the service. It wouldn't have hurt for our hauflin brewer to intern under Master Yangshi for a few seasons, if she ever wound up south of the mountains. Then the jeweler, Godwyn, a metallic signboard imitating the style of a modest village blacksmith hanging in chains by the door. How ironic. Nothing sold here was modest by any metric, or for the poor, or below Unique grade. And then Old Franklin's bookshop, and Fitzgerald's exquisite cafe, and Tom's toys, and Belle's Candy, and Hammond's green-framed pawn shop, and Oakland's pub, and Isobel's fabric. All of it. I made it. I made it! All of it. Having come full circle around the hall, I pirouetted and danced. Danced.

THE END OF PART TWO