GoodToSeeYouAgainIndex SB: Good to See You Again [Meriel] follows Martin's offered escort, looking behind as the door closes to judge when the currents will no longer carry sound to the pair within. "Should we see the Queen now?" she asks Martin quietly, when she judges it safe. "Or should we flow with a different tide?" Martin nods in response. "This is the time to do it, if we're going to see her. Later we'll be too busy, and after that, probably too tired." Meriel nods. "And I'd certainly like to find out how she does that," she says thoughtfully. "Using mirrors without being able to see them - that would be a very useful trick, don't you think? I wonder how she feels about Rebma now ... and if she'd tell me." She looks expectantly at Martin, doubtless trusting he'll know where the Queen is to be found at this time. Martin knows that after Court, her Majesty usually can be found in her studio, or having a luncheon in the Royal Quarters, or (weather permitting), the Gardens. Since its still a chilly early spring, the last choice is unlikely. Although Martin can likely think of other possibilities, too. "Godfrey, why don't you head back to my rooms and get us packed up for a short trip?" Martin asks his construct. "You might be a little intimidating to Vialle, and I don't think I can pass you off as sculpture. We'll be along shortly." "Yes, Martin." Godfrey inclines his head with a whirr of gears, and heads in the direction of the staircase. Once Godfrey leaves, he says, "Let's try the studio. I didn't get anything through your contact- how well do you know the Queen?" Meriel shakes her head. "Not well. I heard about her, of course, but our paths never crossed before she was married off to Random. And I'd had no idea that she had any skill with the mirrors - they kept very quiet about that." She frowns, considering this. "In fact ... I wonder if ... " She hesitates, and then shakes her head. "Martin - what will I need for the trip?" "Not a whole lot. We can get most everything we need on the way. Just what you expect to wear, and maybe a few things that would fit in saddlebags. Make sure they can survive being underwater. I generally carry a few tools and knicknacks, and Godfrey should be getting them prepped for a saltwater swim." He glances sideways at Meriel. "Wonder if... what?" She glances at him, and then looks around the room before giving a little shake of her head. Clearly, however belatedly, she has decided that the castle is not a safe place to talk in. "Let's find the Queen," she says, with another glance - suggesting that a fruitful discussion may be on the way at some point in the future. "Sure," Martin says in response, and leads on to Vialle's studio. He knocks smartly on the door when they arrive. At the door, Martin and Meriel, having good hearing, can hear the whirring sound that Martin can identify easily as a potter's wheel, but perhaps is much less familiar to Meriel. At the sound of the knock, the wheel whirrs to a halt. "Come in." comes the voice of Vialle, cheerfully and brightly. Inside, the studio has a number of works, almost all of them of human figures or portions of people. In the center of a group of statues, at the potter's wheel, sits the blind Queen of Amber. She looks up at the door. "Meriel and Martin." she says. "Meriel still smells of the sea, and I recognize your breathing, Martin." Vialle says kindly, smiling. "What can I do for the two of you that my husband cannot? Or are you truly here on a purely social call?" "I was under the impression," says Meriel, "that you wanted us to visit you. But I may be mistaken. My over-active imagination - it comes from my training, I expect. So if that's the case, please accept my apologies." She may be apologising for more than just turning up unexpectedly. Her tone though, is very bland, allowing Vialle to read more into it if she wishes. "Your impression was correct." Vialle says with a smile. "I just wished to be certain. Please do sit down." "Your Majesty," Martin responds after Vialle speaks, but he busies himself with a cursory inspection of the room and the statuary for the first few moments. "Hello Martin." Vialle says. "You seem a little anxious." she says mildly. "Or are you just seeing what I've created lately?" Martin has stumbled across a a couple of new pieces in progress, a bust of what appears to be a young woman, and one of an older man. Both are unformed enough as to not quite suggest who they are going to be as yet. "There is a tea pot steeping in the corner if you would like to help yourselves." Vialle says. "Otherwise, I did want to talk to the two of you before you left on your trip." Vialle folds her hands. "Sure," Martin says, certain that between the alcohol and the caffeine he'll be exercising bladder control from which all other attempts are but shadows. "I was just appreciating your work. I don't give myself enough time to enjoy truly fine art." "Thank you." Vialle says "I will take that as a compliment. Although, I must ask, you don't enjoy your own creative endeavors? There are those who consider them fine art." Meriel glances at Martin and gives a faint nod to indicate that she would like tea, please. Then she looks at Vialle with interest, and some trepidation. "Yes and no," Martin says after a moment. "I do like my toys, but art always ends up being second to function. I appreciate how they work before I think about how they look. Or did you mean music?" "I meant both of course. You will forgive me for having a stronger appreciation for your musical endeavors than your technological ones." Vialle says, with the slightest trace of regret in her voice. "Your creations in that sphere are not as interesting. To me." "Why I asked you here." Vialle smoothly continues, turning to regard Meriel "is to begin with inquire after your health and well being. After all, we three have things in common, you most newly, Meriel. We are Rebmans, living away from the City Under the Sea. We all have a relationship and history with her Queen, Moire." "And that relationship with Moire might not be construed as completely harmonious. Or even friendly." "Is it?" She pitches her voice so as to clearly include Martin as well in the question. Martin makes a huffing sound that isn't quite a snort. "She's Family," he says, as if that explains it all. "Nothing's changed, and you know the history. I was a trophy of one type or another until I left." Vialle sightlessly turns in Martin's direction and gives a slight nod. "And I was a tool," says Meriel. "To be used without thought of concern. In fact, now I know how I came to be born in the first place, it was rather worse than that. I was a punishment - to punish my mother's brother for what happened to the Queen's daughter. I must say, she is rather arcane in her vengeance isn't she?" She looks speculatively at Vialle - as another instance of Moire's intended vengeance. "Tools and Trophies, yes." Vialle says. "And as Martin says, she's family to him. And Queen Moire has never quite known how to do things simply. Wheels within wheels. But as a contemporary of Martin's other important grandparent, Oberon, one begins to understand my concern." "Moire is really Oberon's counterpart, not my husband's." Vialle says. "I would rather even the odds a little bit for his benefit, and all of ours, don't you agree?" She pauses a beat. "Martin, would you pour a cup for me?" Vialle smiles. "Thank you." " 'Course," Martin says, getting busy. "So, what did you have in mind?" "A cup of the tea." Vialle says. "With lemon And unless I misjudge, Meriel here would like some as well." Vialle pauses a beat and smiles sightless to Meriel before continuing to speak. "This is the sort of tea that goes best with lemon rather than milk, but there is a small pewter pitcher of milk all the same." Meriel accepts the tea and looks at it a little dubiously before taking a small sip. "But what I had in mind, to answer Martin's question" Vialle continues. "is to enlist you in a campaign of disinformation. While I have no doubt of Princess Fiona's skills, I would rather confuse Moire rather than completely block her attempts at scrying. Especially the three of us." "Meriel" Vialle says. "There should be a pair of compact mirrors on the dresser behind you. I would like you and Martin to carry them with you on your trip into shadow." Meriel rises and moves towards the dresser, saying as she does so, "This is very kind, but I do have my own mirror you know. Sharp-edged. Do these have a special virtue?" Martin raises an eyebrow while she does so. "And... won't you be causing yourself all kinds of grief, drawing her attention to you like that?" "I think, Martin, that the days when Queen Moire considered me a harmless datinoid to push into marriage at her whim are long over. While it would be foolish to label Queen Moire as an irredeemably wicked Queen from one of those fairytales in the books that Shannon collects, her decision to unmoor Rebma from Amber does mean that I don't trust her. Rebma's interests are no longer Amber's interests." Meriel gives a sound like a very soft snort. One might take that to mean, "Where they ever?" "The two mirrors." Vialle continues "*do* have a rather special virtue on them, Meriel. While simply avoiding mirrors that Moire might use is useful in keeping information from them, these mirrors, judiciously used, will provide some false information to anyone trying to use them to scry on the bearer." "Martin may not be aware of the intricacies of Mirror Scrying, but Meriel, of course, you understand that to spy on someone, you search for a mirror closest to them. By judicious employment of these mirrors, someone trying to scry you from Rebma will find those mirrors, and the false information they will convey." "You might try it yourself." Vialle adds brightly. Martin, still with a bemused expression, sits back to let Meriel do her thing without any interference from him. "All right," says Meriel, and then, "Thank you." She takes up one mirror and starts to gaze into it. Her colour rises a little as she gazes onto its depth and, almost absently, her smallest left-hand finger starts to trace a pattern at the edge of the mirror she is studying. The tracing seems to be in the shape of a shrimp. Vialle sits patiently and faces Martin's general direction as Meriel takes up the mirror and starts to work her enchantment on it. After a few moments of scrying, Meriel does finally find her quarry. The blond haired son of Flora does appear as she desired. Meriel does have a good view of his backside, unclothed, in what looks to be his bed, or some bed. A similarly unclad woman is writhing beneath him, in flagrante delicto. The woman, Meriel quickly realizes and recognizes, is herself. "Oh!" says Meriel in surprise, starting back a little from the glass. She blinks. "Ohhhh," she says, with less surprise and rather more appreciation, her attention drawn to the mirror once more. "Ohhhhhh," she says again. Or, perhaps, a sound very like it - something between a contented sigh and a purr. She continues to study what she sees in the mirror, rapt. Martin sits and slides the palms of his hands over his eyes. "Meriel?" Vialle enquires, taking a sip of the tea provided by Martin after she does so. There is the slightest of smiles on her face. "Mmmm?" responds Meriel. It is clear she is preoccupied. In the mirror, the connection still active, the imaginary tryst continues to play and spool out, with all of the stamina and strength that both participants are apparently capable of. After a few more minutes, Meriel lifts her eyes from the mirror with what is clearly an effort. "Oh I *understand*!" she says. "What a most excellent device, your Majesty! Thank you so very much! We shall make very good use of *this*!" "Very good." Vialle says. It is clear that [Meriel] is making a noble effort not to become engrossed in the looking glass again. "I can only imagine," Martin says, and turns to Vialle. "I take it, that you'd like to know what's going on? Would a Trump be safer than using a mirror?" "I would like to know what is going on." Vialle takes a sip of her tea before continuing. "And yes, I would recommend that both of you rely on Trumps, rather than mirrors." She pauses a moment. "Queen Moire's resources as far as Trumps go are more limited than her resources in using Mirrors." "I'm sure, Martin." Vialle continues "that you can think of and utilize other methods, should they become needful." "Martin," says Meriel, with quiet confidence, "is *very* resourceful." "I'm definitely very... something," Martin agrees readily. "Your Majesty, if you'll turn your head this way, I'd like to take a picture." Vialle turns to face Martin. First her head, and then a subtle shift of her body. Although she might be sightless, her arrangement, to Martin's eyes, and Meriel's as well, is poised, perfect and well suited. "I am surprised." Vialle says with a slightly amused tone "that you haven't done this already. Or do you always ask permission, Martin, before creating a trump of someone?" "Have you sat for him yet, dear?" Vialle says, keeping her profile perfect but pitching her voice in the direction of Meriel. "Yet?" says Meriel slowly. "No. At least ... " She turns toward Martin. frowning slightly. Vialle's expression remains neutral and composed. Martin grins and holds up his PDA, where a perfect picture of Vialle fills the screen. "I took your picture after the crash. My Trumpifier makes Trumps out of them. It's similar to how Merlin does his thing, but kind of opposite." "Merlin has much to learn about some of the finer points of the Art." Vialle says, with a hint of a smile breaking her poise at last. She moves at last, taking a long sip of tea, and then recomposes herself and sightlessly turns in the direction of Martin. "As do you, Martin. Someday, not today, but perhaps soon, we'll have to see about that. If another doesn't claim that privilege before I." "hmmmm," says Meriel, her tone carefully neutral. "If you have a trump of me now, will you return the favour? It could be useful - and you're awfully hard to catch in mirrors, you know." She gives her wickedest smile suddenly. "Anyone would think you didn't care about your appearance!" Martin rolls his eyes. "Thanks. It's that whole grunge look I have going, you know. But I'll have to draw one- this gadget can't print them out. Yet." Vialle takes a sip of tea and smiles ambiguously. "I of course cannot comment on my nephew's appearance. Directly, in any event. Although I do hope the phase with metal facial piercings is past for good. I recall your father's consternation over that." Martin absently rubs the back of his neck, where there still is a metal plug peeking over his collar. "Er, mostly..." She then turns to Meriel and begins to raise her hands from her lap. "Come here, Meriel. I would like to see you. In my way." Meriel shoots a slightly worried look at Martin and then advances on Vialle, her face carefully schooled into an expression of polite interest. (OOC - rather like a Second Life Avatar ... ) "Certainly, your Majesty," she says, so that her voice will let Vialle know exactly where she is standing. Vialle rises, and reaches forward. Homing in on her voice, or some other sense, her hands find Meriel's face. Fingertips gently and carefully explore her face from her forehead, down along her ears, and back to her cheeks and chin. "Moire was foolish just to lock you in a room staring at mirrors passively." Vialle says, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "You have the cheekbones of the Royal Family, and more than a small measure of beauty. Much more than a small measure. You should have been employed in more socially engaged work. I'm sure that Martin agrees with me." "I'll have to remind my husband of this." Vialle adds, withdrawing her hands and sitting down again, taking one final sip of tea. Meriel preens. "Sure," Martin says. "After some practice, anyway. Correct me if I'm wrong, Meriel, but other than all the time observing, your experience with the social niceties are exclusively Rebman." Vialle tilts her head, conceding Martin's point. "In practical terms," says Meriel. "But I've observed a lot of other customs. Although they definitely seem strange when you're doing it yourself. Like that bar in that grubby harbour town when I first made land. I still don't think that men should be allowed to ... oh never mind. The blood washed out of my skirts easily enough." Vialle opens her mouth in a brief look of surprise, and then shakes her head slightly. "Never let it be said that the Children of Rebma do not know how to defend themselves." "And now, unless you have any more questions..." Vialle says with a smile "I have a piece to finish before my afternoon chat with one of your cousins. It was good to talk to the both of you, and if you have any questions, I am sure you can reach me, or Randy." "We serve at the pleasure of the King and Queen," Martin says, and glances over to Meriel to see if there's any other subjects she wants to bring up. The Queen smiles at Martin's remark. "Oh yes," says Meriel, her agreement perhaps a little too ready. But nothing could fault the demureness of her tone. "And thank you so much for the gift ... " She glances down again at the mirror and smiles. "You're both quite welcome." Vialle smiles. "Use them well. Do remember to keep them at hand. And, may your currents be smooth. Safe journeys." Martin almost bows, decides to do it anyway, then says, "Thank you, Vialle. We will. I'll keep in touch." Meriel drops a curstey, setting the silks of her skirts to rustle. "Your Majesty," she murmurs, and then turns to follow Martin out. Once they leave, he turns to Meriel. "So. The Pattern. Do you want to eat first? Or would walking it on a full stomach be a bad idea?" "I don't know," says Meriel. "You're the one who's walked it. I just know I feel sick already at the thought. What do you suggest? I suppose drinking wine first is a bad idea?" "It's all a matter of moderation," Martin says. "The Pattern is gonna mess with your head, whether you've had anything to drink or not- but I wouldn't risk it while drunk, no. Same with food- a little food wouldn't hurt, but if you eat too much you might not get to keep it." Meriel pulls a face. "I ate earlier, with William," she says, and gives a little sigh. "I wonder if he's left already? He didn't say goodbye ... " She turns away, looking out of a window, and for a few moments is silent. "I think dealing with real people again is going to be strange," she remarks eventually. "When they were through the looking glass and you didn't like what they did, you could shout and pummel your fists on the glass. Even if it didn't change things. But you can't do that here. You have to be ... restrained ... " She sighs deeply, and then turns to face Martin. "How do you manage?" "Sometimes I feel like pummeling anyway," he says. "Some people deserve it, believe me. Hmm... guess we should forego the eating. But we can pick up a bottle on the way down." "All right," says Meriel, with clear relief. She lets Martin, with his superior knowledge of the catering arrangements, acquire the bottle, and then follows him down the steps to the Pattern. As she descends, she is uncharacrtericatically silent, and her face acquires a very pale green hue - slightly less alarming in a Rebman than in a person of unmingled blood, but not a healthy shade at all ... It's a long, long walk down the circular staircase to the Pattern. Meriel gets the occasional quizzical glance from the guards at the top of the staircase, the guards at the bottom of the staircase, the guards in the room which Meriel and Martin pass through. Once they are into the long and oppressive corridors that make up the dungeons, there is no one else to be seen. Until, that is, Martin and Meriel follow the seventh passage to an ironbound, locked door. Standing next to the door, illuminated by a lemon yellow light centered on a point above her head, is Fiona. She looks at Martin and Meriel as they approach. She raises her hand as if, in Martin's eyes anyway, to check an imaginary watch. "A little slower than I anticipated." Fiona says with a slight air of disappointment. She produces a key, which she turns in the lock of the door and opens it, remaining at its threshold. "Welcome to the Pattern Room, Meriel." she adds. "Couldn't find any of Bayle's Best," Martin says, holding up the bottle. "We both thought we'd need something to steady the nerves." If he was suprised by Fiona's presence, he didn't show it. "Understandable." Fiona says dryly. She remains at the door, and waits for Meriel and Martin to enter. The room is lit mostly by the arcane design in the center, glowing with its characteristic light. Something within Meriel's very blood calls out to her as she sees it. Meriel stretches out a hand for the Bayles, not looking at Martin or, for that matter, Fiona; her eyes are fixed on the Pattern. She swallows, her eyes huge and dark. After a long swig of wine, she draws a deep, if somewhat ragged breath. "Now?" she asks. "Yes." Fiona points. "That is where you start the walk. Once you start walking, Meriel, do not stop. To stop is deadly." "Don't stop," says Meriel obediently. "All right." She raises the wine bottle to her lips and takes another swig. "Give Martin and I a moment to prepare *ourselves* before you begin." Fiona adds, and she looks at Martin speculatively. "You've never actually given an assist to someone on a Patternwalk, have you?" Martin shakes his head. "Wish there had been someone like that in Rebma," he says. "Hadn't occurred to me, to be honest. I was just expecting to think good thoughts in Meriel's direction. What would I need to do?" Fiona produces a piece of parchment. On it is drawn a line drawing of Meriel, as she stood in the Throne Room only a few hours before, taking her Oath. A Trump sketch. "I will open up a trump contact to Meriel and use it as a springboard to a purely psychic contact." Fiona says. "You will join with me, and we will keep the psychic contact with her throughout the walk, supplying mental energy to fortify her strength of will for what is needed." "I would normally use other means than a Trump, which is not ideal for this procedure." Fiona looks at Meriel speculatively. "However, I suspect that Meriel would appreciate a trump contact to an alternative of light hypnosis." She pauses and smiles. "Or another of my more effective methods." Fiona starts staring at the image, and Meriel feels the tingle of the trump contact. She starts, and casts a slightly worried look at Martin. Martin opens his mouth, closes it, then nods once; he extends his hand, not sure if Fiona wants him to contact her or the Trump sketch directly. Fiona gestures for Martin to use the trump directly, as she does. "I don't want to be rude," says Meriel, in a tone that suggests that she knows that she is going to be and has decided that now is not the moment to giveadamn, "but having you inside my head at the moment of greatest personal psychological struggle is supposed to help me how?" "We won't precisely be inside of your head." Fiona says, stopping the concentration for the moment and looking at Meriel. The contact ends for the moment. Her voice, though is loud enough that Meriel can hear. "If we were, then we should have the unpleasant experience of experiencing that psychological struggle along with you. I may have curiosity as to what you will see, but even that curiosity does not extend to any desire to share in it." "No." Fiona says. "By establishing this link, Martin and I will be at a remove from you and your struggle. However, you will find the weight of the experience lessened." Fiona pauses in thought for a moment."Think of it similar to the support that someone running a race obtains from the cheering of people watching the racer. Those people do not actually race alongside, but their presence can be the difference between success and failure. The racer knows they are there and draws strength from their presence." "Unless, of course, Meriel." she adds "now that you are faced with the prospect, you do not wish our aid, now that you are faced with the Pattern. I will not force it upon you without your consent." Martin, who has almost touched the card, holds his hand back at the last moment while he turns his head. He nods solemnly at Meriel. Meriel hesitates, looking from one to the other. "I ... welcome your support," she says at last. "But ... I am afraid what you might learn of me." Fiona looks at Meriel intently but says nothing. She shakes her head suddenly, not in negation, but a long liquid gesture that sets her hair flowing back, away from her face - a sign of readiness. "Very well," she says, with determination. "Enough of the looking glass. Let's do this now." "Yes" Fiona says. Her eyes gleam like twin emeralds. Fiona holds up a finger to Martin and waits until Meriel has reached the start of the Pattern. It is then that she holds up a finger to Meriel, and then lowes the one to Martin. Fiona concentrates on the card. She shifts her body slightly so that Martin can concentrate on the card as well. And so the trump contact, strong, almost undeniable, wells up in Meriel's mind again as the glowing lines of the Pattern gleam before her. Martin concentrates, willing the connection of the Trump, but for the moment hangs back to observe. Meriel takes a deep breath and steps away from the others, standing alone. She reaches out, touching the trump connection almost delicately, like the fronds of an anemone touching, testing what might be nourishment, what might be danger. A swift withdrawal, almost as though she will break the connection, shocked at the penetration of her vital being. Then a second touch, as light and delicate as the first. Martin and Fiona might see her give a little nod, as though she has established now what the contact is, and where they are. ~Yes.~ Another deep breath. Then she lifts the long flowing skirts of the elegant gown William created for her. She gazes down for a second at the silken folds, unfastens the belt and lets it fall with a faint sound like a frozen wave breaking, and then lifts her hands and gives a shrug. The silk sinks, whispering, to the floor, and Meriel stands naked before them, her skin a luminous green-blue in the light of the Pattern, her purple hair darkened almost to black. She gives a faint smile ... and her unspoken thought needs no trump connection to be understood. ~That's better.~ Then she steps out onto the Pattern, a smooth, flowing movement as though she is moving through some solution denser than air that supports her and buoys her up. The flames flicker fitfully around her feet, and she gives a little gurgle of laughter that echoes strangely in the chamber. ~Like the foam on the ocean's edge.~ She almost hesitates, stretching on long leg out towards the flames, as though she would bathe in it ... "You have to keep on walking. If you don't, if you stop, you die. That simple." "But Martin - what about the others? Did that happen to them? Is that why they died?" No answer. A set face, half-turned away. "Martin - I promised I'd help. But if you die ... " She has to walk ... she remembers ... withdrawing her foot, almost stumbling as she takes another step forward. But ... he didn't die. She has proof of that in this very room with her. He walked the Pattern and lived ... as they all believe she can do ... ~Can I? Can I glide and slide like an eel through this maze, never touching the fronds of fire? Is this truly what I was made for?~ A beat like a pulse in her head. No, louder, a drum. She slaps her foot down in time, naked on the stone between the low-leaping flames that warm the flesh around her ankles, her calves, her shins. Drying her ... "No ... " A moan escapes. Is this what the Pattern will do? Will it strip away the water? Will it take her from water to fire? "No ... " A whisper - as she sees Moire's face, infinitely sad, gazing down at her from an immense height, a tremendous distance - yet so close that a breath would send ripples of warmth all around Meriel. ~This isn't right. It wasn't like this. Moire never pitied me. If I was meant to be a replacement for Morganthe, that was a failure. She hated me ... she always hated me ...~ The memory of that hatred, that anger, that resentment takes her a good four paces forward, her feet slapping like flippers on the Pattern. And then again ... ~Moire. Watching me. Studying me. How can she? The belt ... no. No, she couldn't. Even Moire.~ Her lifted foots hesitates, the toes curling in. Then it lowers, slowly. ~What if I were wrong?~ The words echo in her head as though suddenly that space was the size of the deepest, broadest chasm in the ocean. ~What if I were wrong?~ And it is as though there is a wall across the way in front of her. The wall is not an unyielding barrier, but it is a palpable one. It is as if it were composed of gelatinous material, the same sort of material that a man o'war, a jellyfish might be composed of. It seems infinitely thick, and the temptation for Meriel is to give into it, to stop here, to let the wall enfold Meriel into its embrace, and stop...
Martin is suddenly there, behind her, with her, though the memory that sticks out strongest in his mind is that walk on Rebma's Pattern; still, the memory of the Veil is as strong as ever, and he pushes with Meriel to force their way through. For one moment it seems as though Meriel is leaning back, but she seems to draw strength from Martin's pressure behind her. She almost springs forward, as swimmer into cleanness leaping ... as though the Veil was an icy current ... forcing it to part before her ... And as she breaks through the veil to the other side, she gives her body a little shakes, as though she had risen to dry land and was shaking water droplets from her freezing skin. All around, the flames seem suddenly to leap higher, as though she has fed them with fuel, not water. But Meriel moves on, her lips slightly parted, her eyes a little wider. Once she reaches out, her arm lifting like a swimmer's, battling through the water. But her way is easier here ... for her body at least. ~All my life, I have resisted. I fought those Rebmans that wanted to reject me ... that was easy. And I fought those who wanted to contain me ... that was harder. I fought the water ... demanding it sustained me. Always battling ... always against the tide ... ~Is that what I must do here? Fight the Pattern to the centre? Conquer it? She moves forward, her head tilting a little, as though listening. ~I must fight ... to move forward. But ... I cannot defeat the Pattern. And now, I cannot escape it. If it is my destiny ... what must I do? The face appears again ... watching her. More than a face now. A figure ... a woman ... Moire? Suddenly she is not sure. The face is too young ... too sad. "Morganthe?" The word escapes her - a low cry. She moves swifter now, as though pursuing the vision. ~No! You chose to leave in your way ... I choose to leave in mine! But her steps are slowing. Unlike the first veil, which seemed to be a full body experience of a barrier, this second one, as her legs slow, is concentrated on Meriel's lower torso. Her legs feel leaden, contained. If only she could swim off of the surface, maybe she could escape. If only she could swim. Now, in the corner of her waking mind, Meriel can hear Fiona's voice, speaking to Martin.
And so it is. Meriel, and Martin for that matter as side effect, feels a surge of energy from Fiona, power that threatens to nearly sweep Meriel off her feet. But in receiving that power, perhaps by accident, perhaps by design, both Meriel and Martin see a vision. Of a young woman, younger than Meriel is now, with red hair. At the exact point in the Pattern Meriel is now. The angle allows for them to see a looming, brooding, kingly figure, watching with expectation. And ten words from that young woman's thoughts leak across with that surge of life giving energy.
Martin builds his strength up, but Fiona's memory of Oberon watching surprises him. *He didn't help,* he thinks. *Then again, he was a total rat b@stard when I met him.* Under the force of Fiona's energy, Meriel staggers forward, almost losing her footing as she breaks through the veil ... And stands on the other side. The blue flames are so high now that she can barely see over them. They seem like waves ... she half closes her eyes. Fire and water ... both will kill you. Both, in a way, can smother you. She is walking towards her Amberite heritage - and it is resisting her. Just as her mother ... No, her mother believed her dead. Her mother was forced into a marriage to bear Meriel ... and then told she had borne a worthless son who died. Meriel's heart quails at the thought of it. ~Would it be easier for her if I died here? Another royal lost on the Pattern - people would forget. So easy to step aside. The sound of the waves is almost like a lulling tide ... so simple to step aside. To rest. To end the constant questing But Mirelle has acknowledged her before all the Court; she could easily have denied her. If Meriel died now ... If Meriel died now, Mirelle would always wonder if her story was true. Whether she was her daughter ... or an imposter. Meriel's chin lifts and her eyes glint with a steely determination. This ... is ... for her mother. And for any doubters in the Court ... And for herself. And then she hits the Third Veil.
There is no imagery from Fiona this time. No suggestions from her past. Instead there is the just the fire of energy, that loops into Martin and, with irrepressible and irresistable force, bolsters Meriel in the bargain. And Meriel ... absorbs it ... taking it within herself ... the power of the Amberites against the power of the Pattern that confronts her .... aborbing them both, the firs of Amber, the fire of the Pattern, drawing it in to meet the cool waters of Rebma that lie deep within, accepting the power that cannot be denied, accepting the birthright, the Pattern right so recently learned of ... and still so little known. She steps forward, no longer the smoothness of flowing through water. As she emerges from the Third Veil to the heart of the Pattern, her steps have something of the awkward, leggy grace of a new born fawn taking its hesitant first steps. And in the light of the flames that burn so high, her skin is pale, almost translucent, the sheen of a milky pearl ... as though all the Rebman colouration has been burned away ... She stands for a moment, looking around in wonder. Martin sways and stumbles a step, and in their link it's obvious that even with his reserves of willpower, he'd given a lot. "Should have gotten a little more sleep," he mumbles, then grins at Meriel. Fiona puts a hand on Martin's shoulder, even as the contact between Meriel and Martin breaks. Its not a sharp break, it feels much more like a river of power and information coming to a pond and in the still waters of that pond, the waters come to rest. Fiona continues to brace Martin with her hand as she regards Meriel. There is only the briefest look of surprise on her face that Meriel and Martin catch, before she turns all business. "Such permanent transformations are relatively undocumented."Fiona says. "Congratulations." "Now that you are at the center, even so changed as you are." Fiona says "the energy of the Pattern allows you to transport yourself anywhere you might choose to go. It is traditional to return to your quarters, to rest and sleep, after the experience." "However, others have chosen differently. Very differently. The choice is yours, Meriel." Fiona says. Meriel hesitates. Then she gives a decisive little nod. "Shopping," she says firmly, "I cannot go on borrowing or stealing the clothes of my cousins. I really, really don't have a thing to wear." "Shopping." Fiona's look of surprise is more than brief. And as she is still quite naked at the centre of the Pattern, this does appear to be true. "I'll be back very soon," she promises Martin. "I'll find you in a mirror ... Unless you want to come too?" "I'll Trump you," Martin says, and holds up his PDA. Fiona can see him delete the original Meriel picture and click as he takes a new one. ''I'm not walking the Pattern to go with you. And I'll need a few minutes. Besides, this is the best. Trump. Ever." Meriel gives him a warm and glowing smile. "Every Patternwalk is different." Fiona says. She looks from Martin to Meriel. "Don't take a decade in returning." Meriel looks shocked at the very thought. Martin waves. "Be careful. I'll meet up with you shortly." "Good!" says Meriel. Then she spreads her arms wide and back, her head tilted back. She looks like a Winged Victory as she says, "I need to do some serious shopping ... " And in a shimmer of rainbow light, she goes. Fiona waits for the last shimmers of light to disappear before she turns to regard the man who she still stands next to. Her bemused look plays across her lips. "I must say, Martin, that was a delightfully unusual coda to her Patternwalk, don't you think? Given the story of her mother, and her uncle, I suppose that it runs in Dybele's line." "I am surprised." she adds. "that you didn't have your construct here to witness the walk. Or were you afraid of the effects of the Pattern's energies on Godfrey? Surely." she adds "it wasn't the issue of the stairs?" "I didn't think about that, actually," Martin says. "We came here from visiting Vialle, and I didn't want Godfrey around throwing off her, um, feng shui?" "Feng shui." Fiona repeats, with a dubious tone in her voice. She turns from Martin and looks at the Pattern for a long single moment. Fiona returns her gaze to Martin and smiles. "I suppose now, unless you'd like a trip up to the Castle, I will leave you to reconnect with our would-be clothes horse. I do wonder what a Rebman's Mirrorwrighter's conception of shopping actually is." "It might almost be worth asking the two of you, afterwards." Fiona adds. "The less the better?" Martin asks, and grins. "I was thinking about going up to the castle before I went on... I have to decide whether to take Godfrey along. I think I should... either way, I need to give him marching orders." "I will take that as an acquiescence to my offer." Fiona says with a smile. "You are probably still recovering from the after-effects of lending your energy to Meriel. I'm sure the next pretty cousin that comes along, you'll be in much better shape to do it without feeling so drained." She steps back and pulls out a trump. She concentrates on it for a few moments, and a Gate forms, well away from the Pattern. In point of fact, both Martin and Fiona stand between the Gate and the Pattern itself. Through the gate, the rows of books and tables are familiar even before Fiona says it. "The Library." Fiona says with a small smile. "Thanks, Fiona," Martin says. Before stepping through, he glances back at the Pattern. "Is the Pattern affecting your Trump? I thought you could walk all the way to the center and Trump from there." Fiona holds up a finger and waits for Martin to pass through before she steps through herself. The trump gate closes behind her, depositing the two of them in the Library. As trumps into the library are not entirely unusual (even if discouraged), and given the creatrix of the gate, the librarians and staff do not pay Martin and Fiona any mind for their entry. "You can." she says quietly. "However, ever since its become clear that it has some sort of awakened and aware intelligence, I have been cautious in using such powers very close to the design." "Had I stepped out of the room entirely first." Fiona says with a smile "I would have expected you to think me completely mad. However, there is an inverse cube law applying to the Pattern's ability to detect, awaken and react to such manifestations. I deemed the anchor point of the Gate, as it was, to be of sufficient distance." "Something for you to keep in mind for future." she adds. Martin nods. "Oh, yeah, I remember the explosion in the castle. I thought, I dunno, maybe things had settled down a little for the Pattern. Especially since Corwin's Pattern has become, um, unavailable." He frowns. "I forgot to pass along what Merle said. I'll have to let Meriel know that she might have nude copies of herself running around the universe now. Not that she shouldn't have walked it anyway." "It is difficult to predict what the change in Corwin's Pattern you witnessed will do for the universe at large. A large scale dampening down of conflicts and meddling on the part of all parties would be a better result than one might hope for." She smiles slightly. "It was necessary and a good thing to initiate Meriel. I am pleased as to the surprising nature of the result. My children will be most interested to learn about her...transformation." She looks at the space where the Trump Gate stood, as if she could see through the space to the Pattern. "I would have done it differently than Father." Fiona turns back to Martin. "And now, for now, our paths diverge. You know how to reach me if you find it needful during your assignment." "I will, Fiona. Thanks for everything. We'll keep you up on our progress." With a nod and one of her smiles, Fiona leaves Martin to head into the stacks of the library. Martin heads back to his apartments forthwith, to check both on Godfrey and the preparations for leaving. He woolgathers on the way, thinking about one of the last conversations he had with Merlin, a wild story about pattern-ghosts and Undershadow and a second standoff between Ghostwheel and the Logrus. He and Meriel needed to have a long talk, yes, and sooner rather than later. When Martin returns to his room, he discovers Godfrey closing the largest of three duffel bags. He turns around in a whirr of gears and clockwork motion at his arrival. "As you requested." Godfrey says. "I have packed three full changes of clothes. In addition, my memory banks suggest that a short trip is likely to be a working one." He gestures toward the second bag. "I have packed an assortment of the tools that you might typically need on a journey of this length." He gestures toward the third bag. "The third bag contains what one of the servants helpfully identified as necessary toiletries. In addition, I selected an unread but prominently displayed volume of literature from your library on the assumption that you might wish reading material in a non electronic format. The volume is entitled The Stronghold of the Despot by the author Jeanne Wolf." "Is this sufficient, Martin?" Godfrey asks. Martin blinks. "Um, yeah," he says. "Wow. That should handle us for quite a while. We'll have to pick up Meriel from wherever she is, then head on out to the Shadow we need to study. I don't know yet how it will affect your clockworks, but I can compensate if something screwy happens." With a whirr of gears, Godfrey bows his head toward Martin. "Yes, Martin. I took the liberty of including in the tools in your second bag ones which seem likely to be useful in my upkeep as well as your devices." He bends his frame with another spin of bezels and gears and picks up all three of the packed bags, the two largest held in his right hand, and the smaller one in the left. "Are we departing now, Martin?" Martin smiles. "Now's a good a time as any," he says, and pulls up Meriel's picture in his PDA. Then he pauses and tilts his head. Placing a hand on Godfrey's metal arm, he adds, "tell me if you notice Meriel in the connection." Then he concentrates, willing the Trump image to life. "Yes, Martin" Godfrey says with a whirr of thought. For good measure, or perhaps automation curiosity, he swivels his head to gaze at the image of Meriel that has appeared on the PDA that Martin is willing to life... Backlinks |
