The Darkest Hour | TheDarkestHour / DeathIsOnlyTheBeginningGiillian browse

[continued from Bad Things Come in Threes]

Gillian woke on hard, damp ground. Wisps of fog obscured her vision, leaving a slick layer of condensation on her skin. A faint luminescence radiated from the floor, strands of light dimly pulsing like the veins of some great beast. The walls and roof were beyond his scope of vision, hidden in an impenetrable gloom. A dull thrum made the air shiver, penetrating into her skull; the vibration resonating from some distant, unknowable source.

Her body ached, every muscle protesting, bones feeling bruised. Her flesh felt hot, swollen. But she appeared to be alive. However, the reassuring presence of her Other felt… absent.

"Crap."

Gillian curled up on the floor and stared out into the mists. She'd failed.

Jonathan!

Cybele was gone, Ginger was gone, Seabhac was gone... Probably most of the University was gone as well. Shadow burning, bubbling, all the pain etched permanently in her mind.

Along with the screaming...

She closed her eyes.

What new hell was this place? She didn't care anymore. Let Bob find some other dupe. She was done.

She lay there, listening to the warm beat of her heart – the sound profoundly loud – until it began ti beat in time with the distant thrum of stone.

Time passed.

Nothing.

Whatever horrors might be lurking in the fog, they possessed a sinister patience.

They would allow her to just lie there forever, rotting within the corrupting shell of her body... a blessed escape, indeed.

Just lie there in the fog and shadow until nothing remained.

Just lie there.

And escape.

Escape...

A part of her mind starting counting the beats, methodically noting their monotonous arrival. One thrum of stone, muted behind the sharp double-staccato of her heart. One and two. One and two. They were the first two numbers counting, the first two numbers primed (though some schools of thought didn't see one as a prime number), the first two numbers of the Fibonocci series...

She lost count at 3, 739.

And yet still nothing around her had changed.

Gillian sat up blearily, narrowing her eyes as she strained to see into the flat, featureless gray fog for a glimpse of _something_. Anything. But Nothing grinned and waved.

So this was how things ended? This was death? But hadn't she already been dead? What state was she in now?

"I HATE EXISTENTIALISM!" she yelled at the fog.

Nothing leered back at her in silence.

Gillian sobbed and rubbed at her eyes, then drew her knees up to her chest. "I hate being alone," she added softly.

The darkness did not answer. Only the cold and damp kept her company. And the dull, pulsing thrum.

Pulsing. Pulsing. Clicking.

Clicking.

Ticking.

Like some vast, clock eternally marking off them seconds.

Gillian became aware of the movement of gears and springs and metal, as if she’d been lost within the dusty interior of some vast machine.

In the distance, a flickering light struck a cyclopean stack of books, and then was gone again. Some lonely pilgrim passing through unknown halls of moldering paper and leather.

Books! Hope raised her to her feet as she squinted at the place where she'd seen the flicker.

Books were the answer, would save her, would tell her who she was now. All the knowledge, all the secrets, preserved down to the last jot and tittle.

Brushes of black ink on white paper. No shades of gray.

Longing for her Atheneum kindled her agitation into action. Gillian stumbled into the fog, chasing her ignus fatuus.

As she stumbled, Gillian became dreadfully aware of gaping holes in the floor – the fog dropping off into unknowable abysses. She had to walk between them, feeling the seductive pull of gravity tugging at her limbs. All they required of her was to step off the edge and let them swallow her in cold oblivion. And all her worries would end.

But other temptations were far stronger.

After several steps, she could see the high-ceilinged rows of bookshelves, creating aisles that stretched onward into the stygian night. Pedestals of polished marble bookended each one. And perched upon each pedestal were tall, angelic figures – so still at first they appeared part of the stone itself.

But, in the dim light, she could see dark blood pulsing beneath their translucent grey skin. They hid their faces behind the fine netting of their bat-like wings. Perhaps, in rest. Perhaps, in shame. As she approached, they trembled in silent anticipation.

A book title caught Gillian's eye. She started to reach for it, then thought better of her bold action and dropped her hand.

She looked up at her closest angel.

"Are you alive?" she asked. "Do you guard the books?"

Its wings rustled like dried leaves, the translucent hands falling away to reveal a ruined face. Someone has carved an endless stream of words onto every square inch of grey skin. Words intersected words, creating a lattice of letters and symbols in a variety of languages. Some still oozed with black blood. A tapestry of pain, yet absolutely hypnotic to her. There were secrets in those words.

She stared, her mind committing to memory and cross-referencing every symbol she could make out.

Gillian’s stomach began to twist as she studied the symbols. Even the slightest movement caused the creature’s flesh to slightly alter the words – letters and symbols offering new and provocative meanings depending on the angle. It was a dictionary of lacerations, which would take decades to decipher. They were bindings, in a fashion. The words contained magicks, waiting to get out.

Hidden knowledge...

Gillian closed her eyes briefly to break her concentration.

Blue, angelic – and very human – eyes opened to regard her. Even here, a blade had etched two words into its irises. Science and Faith.

“In a manner, yes,” it said – a voice spoken through sackcloth.

"Two concepts often at cross-purposes with one another," Gillian commented, indicating the angel's eyes. "Can you tell me your name?"

It gave her a sad smile. “Wordsworth,” it answered.

Its spindly claws twitched – and a hungry look passed over its ruined features. “That is three,” it said in a cautioning tone.

Gillian's face darkened and she put her hands on her hips. "Knowledge should be free. I know it's often not, but...it damn well should be."

As quickly as it had bloomed, her idealism faded from want of light, smothered by the oppressive weight of her dark surroundings. This was not a place to be speaking of freedom.

"You certainly know how to kill a conversation, Wordsworth," she continued, her tone more subdued. "I'm going to stop asking questions now, as much as that pains me. If there's any knowledge about this place you can impart to me, I will be grateful to hear it."

She swallowed.

"I think."

Wordsworth stood up, flexing its wings. “All Knowledge requires Sacrifice. Deny it as you will. But you should know this better than most. One can only discover the Truth through effort. It must be earned. Otherwise, it is hollow.” It began curling its wings around itself like a hideous flower closing.

"You will be nothing but a footnote," it whispered, hiding its face.

"We'll see," Gillian replied, her tone arctic in quality and proportion.

She turned on her heel and stomped down between the stacks, leaving Wordsworth and his whiny sophistry behind her. As she marched Gillian upturned her palm and whispered the words to her memorized fire cantrip, defiantly wanting to create some light to press back against the oppressive darkness.

Sparks flared in her hand, coalescing into an azure flame. The heatless torch pushed back some of the shadows, better revealing the long shelves stretching into the darkness. Books were stacked neatly in perfect rows. Their titles glistened darkly in the blue light, as if the ink was still fresh. The tanned bindings were silken, smooth, and smelled of crushed roses and dried skin.

She itched to look at the titles, but after Wordsworth's warning regarding questions she was wary that there was a price on books, too. Knowledge wasn't free.

Wordsworth remained still, but she could feel its doubting gaze cutting into her. The dead air whispered, Only a footnote.

It rankled, because part of her believed him.

Gillian uttered the words to Sylph's Blessing, weaving the air around her to raise her above the height of the bookshelves so she could look for a way out.

As Gillian left the comforts of terra firma, she found the darkness closing in around her like a thick fog. The farther she ascended – passing countless balconeys ringed by wrought-iron rails – the darker it became. Each level contained bookshelves, flanked by mosaics, paints, statues, the culmination of centuries of art and knowledge.

After five minutes, she still could not see the ceiling.

But suddenly, she came into a vast space – the wide top of the bookshelves now level with her. They stretched onward, forming into a complex labyrinth. Even seeing it from above, its intricacy hurt the mind.

Strips of dried skin, bloodied rags, and broken bones lay scattered here and there; the leavings of a hundred meals.

In the immense darkness above her, leathery wings rustled restlessly.

A voice trickled through her mind, so soft it could have been one of her own thoughts. <Kitten. Turn back.>

Gillian caught her breath and looked up. Nothing there she could see, but... Her eyes trailed back to the empty bones strewn about her.

She closed her palm, extinguishing her flame, and silently dropped back down below the level of the bookshelves.

Gillian stopped at a random balcony and curled up into a tight ball against the railing. She reached out desperately in her mind, searching for some sign of her familiar's presence. <Ginger, was that you?>

The darkness closed its murky arms around her, nuzzling against her neck. Without the smooth, hard railing, she might have thought herself dead in this utter blackness. A low rustling above her grew faint, still.

Ginger’s voice did not return. Not immediately. As the stillness crept into Gillian’s flesh, another whisper came. <Come back to me, Kitten. Please.>

Suddenly, the metallic floor shivered, as something landed on it. Perhaps distant… perhaps not.

"Such sights, such sights, all for you," a voice cooed in the darkness. "So much to see. So much to know."

The voice was her own.

The skin on the back of Gillian's neck prickled and she almost laughed at the irony. Why should she be afraid, really? She was already dead.

Though she supposed there were worse things than death, and she was likely close to one right now.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Spidery footsteps crept closer – barely masking the snicker-snack of long fingernails.

“To show you. To show you everything,” it tittered. “You entered the Library willingly. Can’t not see. Can’t not know. Tiphareth has many, many gifts to share with Gilly.“

Fetid breath – like wood-pulp and moldy leather – warmed the back of Gillian’s neck. “Just need your eyes,” Tiphareth cooed. “Won’t hurt much.”

A part of Gillian was indignant. Tiphareth was the sixth sefira in the Tree of Life...balance, beauty, harmony....compassion....miracles. Not this....this thing . It was a travesty.

A wiser part of her pointed out that this was not the time to debate it.

Gillian turned Sylph's Blessing upon Tiphareth, gusting wind into its face (or where she thought its face was, based on the breath) before immediately running in the opposite direction.

She brought up her Palm of Flame as she ran.

Gillian felt the surge of Air Magick; the arcane energies singing in her head. An invisible blast of wind emerged from her open palm, striking Tiphareth like a hammer. She heard it shriek, falling backward in a tangle of limbs. Then she was up and running blindly.

The summoned light flared in the darkness, revealing the narrow balcony – running along a massive stack of tomes bound in dried skins. Behind her, she caught a glimpse of Tiphareth’s spidery form – a collection of arms bound to a bloated abdomen with her naked torso fused to it by scar tissue and rusted wires. It wore her ashen face, so hideously familiar except for that its eyelids had been cut away. The eternally staring eyes regarded her with loathing. Darkness erased it from view as she leapt over the railing.

Perhaps she’d overtaxed herself. Perhaps fear ruined the Weaving.

Either way, rather than flying, Gillian found herself gripped in gravity’s killing embrace. She plummeted into the darkness, spinning out of control. Death smiled up at her from the gloom.

But it was robbed of its prize.

She’d gained enough forward momentum to traverse the space between stacks. She struck the opposite railing; its metal biting deeply into her belly, knocking the wind out of her. Teeth ground as her face met the metal floor, stars blinding her.

But she was alive.

In a manner of speaking, that is.

Gillian exhaled in a sob and cut it off, afraid to make any more noise than she already had. She'd lost concentration for the Flame spell when she impacted the railing, so she was once again engulfed in Stygian darkness.

She held her breath and strained to hear any sound of Tiphareth following her.

She could hear boney scuttling far above her – as if something dragging a broken limb behind it. Her voice muttered inaudibly in the darkness, confounded by pain and hatred.

<Get off your lazy ass!> Ginger said. <Either make your stand or run. I don’t want to die like this. Not here. Not this place.>

<Ginger!>

Few things were able to spur Gillian into motion like Ginger berating her could. She grabbed ahold of the rail, pulled herself up, and started off in the direction away from Tiphareth. She kept one hand on the rail and one hand in front of her and half-walked, half-jogged down the length of the dark balcony.

<Ginger! Where are you?> Gillian reached out desperately for the familiar warmth of Ginger's presence. <Scratch that--you're presumably back in Amber. WHERE AM I?>

The connection felt broken, incomplete. Out of sync. It took an infinitely long moment for Ginger to reply.

<Do I sound like a tour guide to you?! Not like they had a brochure at the front door. But wherever this is, the decorator is going with an intestinal motif.> A wave of revulsion tickled down Gillian’s back.

Pain speared through Gillian’s hand as she ran into something very solid. It felt glassy, unyielding, cool. A wall of some kind? In the pitch black, there was no way to tell. When she felt around, she found only empty space on either side… even the railing had gone.

Gillian opened her palm and whispered her Flame spell, risking a little light.

The light pushed back the invasive darkness, revealing a grimy wall in from of her. Walls were on either of side of her as well – grey with crumbling plaster. Somehow she’d come to a dead end of an alleyway. Fetid water pooled at her feet. Nothing but shadows moved the way she’d come.

She heard a wet, brushing sound – paint on stone. Letters began to appear on the wall in front of her, written in blood.

TUO… EM… TEL… ESAELP… DOG…

Gillian cocked her head. Tel...dog...Oh! The words were backwards!

As she read them her eyes widened and she backed away a few steps toward the shadows. She turned and looked at the empty darkness, then back at the plea for freedom.

Perhaps whomever it was was simply trapped here, like she was, and would be favorably disposed toward her for helping him or her...or it... escape.

Or maybe she'd look like a tasty morsel.

"Oberon's stones, I'm dead anyway. What does it matter?"

Gillian stepped back another five feet, intoned the words to Draig-Talamh’s Fury, and stamped her foot as she gestured in the direction of the wall in front of her.

Gillian’s foot struck the stony ground with a thunderous impact – a burst of Earthen power flooding through her. She could almost feel her body shifting and changing into the draconic entity invoked in her spell.

The floor ruptured and flowed in wave that rushed forward, rising, rising until crashing against the graffiti-stained wall. The wall shattered like glass, falling away in a cloud of dust and debris. Around her the alley rumbled, cracked, and groaned until it too fell away like a collapsing sand castle. Gillian found herself blinded in the choking cloud, rocks and dirt covering her.

And when it cleared, she found herself standing in an empty plain. . . rolling sand extending in every direction. But something felt… pristine about this desert world. Safe. Serene. Pure.

She’d avoided whatever dark fate that had threatened her.

“Unicorn’s mottled wang, Kitten. Do you ever do anything subtle?” Ginger said behind her.

Gillian turned to find a panther shaped from flames and smoke – its body shimmering like a mirage. She realized she was looking upon the true Ginger. Cinder-burn eyes were level with hers, burning with annoyance. But the Cheshire smile on the daemon’s reptilian lips betrayed her elation.

"Ginger!" Gillian stumbled toward the panther and paused in the act of throwing her arms around its neck, wondering if she could--or should--hug a daemon of smoke and flame. "How many times do I have to tell you that the Unicorn is female?"

Ginger’s body felt warm and ethereal in Gillian’s arms, as if she was sinking into downy cotton. The panther nudged her with its wet nose, snickering. “Yeah, yeah. So you keep saying. But that wasn’t no lady I had riding me, long and hard… mostly loooong.” She made a lewd cluck of her tongue, rolling her eyes back in mock orgasm.

The playfulness soon faded from her feline face. “So. Just how completed %^$&ed are we, Kitten? What exactly happened when you made things go BOOM?”

Gillian sank down onto the sand, trying to puzzle it out. "I'm not sure. Temnal and I had that trump gate open inside the Greater Shadow. I was hoping it would be sucked through the gate--the other side was in vacuum--but it resisted going through. Interesting thing was, though, that the gate was physically damaging it. I thought that if we could keep the gate intact long enough, we'd eventually destroy it.

"It...the screams...what it was going through resonated through the gate and we felt it all, Temnal and I."

She covered her face and rubbed at her eyes.

"Then...I'm not exactly sure what happened--I was so intent on keeping the gate open. I think something touched the gate, something not Greater Shadow. There was an explosion, and then I woke up in this...mostly featureless place. There was a throbbing, a beat. Cybelle's presence was gone. Your presence was gone. Everyone was gone. It was just...me."

Gillian hugged her knees.

Ginger curled up around Gillian protectively, nudging her arm with a broad muzzle. Her smoky body washed over the young mage in a blanket of warmth. The connection she’d always felt with her familiar intensified – far beyond that of their normal physical contact. She could almost feel paws and tail, as if their forms were merging into one.

Interesting, Gillian thought as she put an arm over Ginger's neck. She didn't shy away from the experience. It felt...right.

"Weird stuff happened after that. I mean, well, this is all weird, the Dark Hour is weird, but this was...more dreamlike. It was like something was accessing my subconscious and using that imagery to interact with me. And not in a helpful, beneficial way. I'm unsure if what I interacted with existed before me, if that makes sense. If this makes any sense at all.

"Did...did I die again? Can you die again if you're already dead? What existential state am I in now? Where is Cybele? Where were you, and how did you find me? I assumed you'd be back in Amber. Are we in the Wake?"

“No,” Ginger said with certainty. “The Wake is my home place. I dwelt there for millennia. And this is not it. This is a. . . corruption.” Her body rumbled with a low growl. This agitation filtered into Gillian like burning ice. It took her sometime to regain control of her emotions.

“We are not dead, kitten. I was suddenly pulled into this realm through our connection. It was violent and disorienting. Something of Pattern and Logrus. Like a Shadow Storm,” she explained with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Then I ended up in a place that. . .”

She paused here, shivering with true fear. A flash of bodies woven together in a carpet - mouths screaming soundlessly.

Ginger whimpered. “We’re in that Tower, Gillian. I just know it.”

"Shhhh," Gillian crooned, burying her face in the smoky fur of Ginger's neck. "We're together now, and we'll figure this out. Please...don't ever leave me again. I don't think I could stand it."

She opened herself further to the intensified connection between herself and Ginger, wanting to feel again the silky softness of Ginger in her mind, wanting to meld with her, wanting to be one with her.

She felt herself sinking into Ginger’s warmth, the feline’s gossamer body welcoming her. After the cold loneliness and pain she’d suffered, this bond could not have been more welcome. She could feel Ginger’s heartbeat, the flames and smoke passing through her powerful frame like blood. Magick. True magick. Ginger was shaped from the stuff, after all.

“Kitten?” Ginger whispered with a hint of alarm.

But it was already too late. And Ginger – having been lost for so long – needed that connection as well. Desperately so. Gillian could feel the creature’s love for her in every fiber of her body – which simultaneously diminished and increased with every passing moment. She could feel her tail and claws and muzzle, the way the desert sands tickled her nose and paw-pads. She sensed old memories, flashes of places and worlds witnessed through different eyes.

And this was nothing like the intrusive bonding with Cybele. This was. . . peace. This was right. The silver and gold and bronze soul-threads they’d forged a lifetime ago tightened, knitting them together. In a moment, Gillian and Ginger ceased to be.

And when ‘she’ returned, ‘they’ were One.

Something struck Gillian in the face – buoyant and soft, but whip-like and annoying.

It was her tail.

She had a tail? She had a tail! Unicorn's mottled wang, she had a tail! Delight filled Gillian's heart--or was it Ginger's heart? Their heart?

She really had become Potnia Theron...

<Ginger...I didn't realize the Bronze Cord could be taken to this extreme. Are...are you angry? I just wanted to re-establish our Bond. I...I think I kinda like it, though.>

Ginger purred – the sound all around Gillian, and within her. <No, Kitten. This is quite acceptable. I wanted this as well. And yes, it can be taken to this degree. Even further with time. We’ll need to deal with the consequences of this, if and when we get out, though. Speaking of which. . .>

Gillian felt the ‘urge’ to walk forward, but this body belonged to her and remained put. <Now that we’re together, I think we can use our Cords to find our bodies. Sound like a plan?>

<Sounds like a plan.> Gillian hadn't felt this happy since before she'd decided to pull out the Baroness's trump and contact her. That whole scene in her bedroom seemed so long ago.

Her tail swished around and hit in the face again.

<Let’s give it a go then> Ginger said.

Gillian felt her body tingle with pleasure, as its spectral flesh and began to reshape itself. She found her legs readjusting for bipedal movement, but retraining their thick, padded paws. The smoky fur solidified into a black mane, sleek and alluring. The tail remained, as did the muzzle and triangular ears. Her chest filled out, with extra rows of breasts emerging from beneath the fur. Her hand flexed, revealing the wicked claws – shining like polished obsidian. Power and passion burned within her heart, flooding her head with emotions.

She’d become Bast – goddess of magic, pleasure, and protection.

<And you didn’t believe me> Ginger muttered, mentally sticking out her tongue.

<You can be prone to...embellishment,> Gillian countered distractedly. She retracted and re-extended the claws on her right hand...paw?... and smiled.

<We need to focus on the Bronze Cord. That’s the one binding us together with our flesh and blood. Best way to do that is to spill a little of the old crimson. You’re getting good at blood magick, so what’s the worry, huh?> Ginger chuckled.

The mirth faded quickly though. <May want to do it fast though. Not liking that at all.>

She turned their head south. There in the distance, Gillian could see a flight of birds filling the sky.

No. Not birds. The Gargoyles she’d escaped not long ago.

<Pitiful creatures,> Gillian thought as she slashed her arm with an obsidian claw to draw blood. The metallic smell of it tickled her nose. <We're a goddess. We don't run from such as them, do we? We destroy those who would seek to harm us.>

Blood and exquisite pain welled up beneath her claws. The sensations flooded her mind, mixing with pent-up rage. Red drops stained the white sands, spreading out in dark circles. A low vibration rippled up through her feet, as if the ground itself was recoiling from her blood, her rage.

Ginger had retreated – or perhaps melded so deeply with her thoughts as to be indistinguishable.

But one thing rang true. She’d run all her life. Run, even in the face of lesser creatures. Her body burned with magick. She was magick.

What were these shadows in comparison to that?

Her blood flared as it continued to drip, turning the sand to glass.

Gillian brought her flaming arm up in front of her face and stared at it in wonder. "I am Magick...and I am Pattern." Her gaze drifted past her arm to the dark creatures sullying the bright sky with their slashing wings. Her tail lashed and she growled.

When they were within range, Gillian swept her bleeding arm in front of her. She knew that the right number of droplets would fan out in the air between her and them, one for each creature. As they hung there, burning, she imbued them with flying magic. She whispered lovingly to them, her children, to fly true and once within, to spread and burn.

A fraction of a second later, she released them to fly. They would hit their targets. She was certain of it.

The flock of crimson droplets streaked into the air – leaving a rich scent of copper and spice. Gillian could feel each one, as if the heady sensation of wind and flight were upon her own skin. They began to solidify and grow, swelling with lent power, shaping wings and beaks and killing talons. But it was not feathers they wore, but flames – brilliant even against the desert sun.

The murder of burning ravens cut into the flock of gargoyles like a hot knife. The ashen creatures screamed and howled, writhing and plummeting as talons and beaks tore at their flesh. Gillian felt every death, tasted the sweet lives consumed in fire and shadowy wings. Charred remained scattered across the desert like black rain. . . only blistered and broken bones left behind.

Gillian’s head sung with the power of it, the heady nectar of slaughter. Dozens of lives extinguished in her honor.

<This is your future, Opener> her inner voice whispered. <A life without fear or doubt.>

Without fear...

Gillian saw her father in her mind, shouting at her for something she didn't do. Lord Feldane, troubled and distant. Prince Caine, smirking. Coteaz, glowering. Mandor eyeing her like a praying mantis.

Those people...they seemed so far away, and her fear of them so small and insubstantial compared to all she'd seen, all she'd felt...

She saw Solataire's violet eyes flashing. "We forge the chains that bind us, Gillian. Only we can cast them off."

Gillian's tail lashed again as she surveyed the scattered char and ash in front of her. Damn right she would cast them off. Had cast them off.

She was no longer that little servant girl, afraid of her own shadow. She was Bast, and this place would burn. This place and everything and everyone in it, even if she had to shed every last drop of her blood.

She would destroy this place, avenge her friends, and finally...finally...she would be free.

She felt something stir in her head, clouding the bloodlust. <Kitten. Before you open up another vein, maybe we should get out of this place and. . . oh, I don’t know. . . make a plan? Get some tuna, some tea, and think for a second?> Ginger's warm, sisterly calm wrapped around Gillian like a blanket, stilling the fire in her heart.

The imagined, stirring celestial music in Gillian's head cut off abruptly.

"I thought that was a good speech I just made," she replied. "It had the right holier-than-thou goddess inflection, don't you think? What's wrong with my plan?"

Ginger snorted. <Have you ever read any of Greek revenge tragedies? They always end bad. Besides, we need to find our bodies before going all Nemesis on this place. That and the others. . . why let a good meat shield go to waste?>

She chuckled softly. <Damn good speech though. You’re growing into your kiss-assedness more and more each day, Kitten. Now we just need to get you laid, good and proper.>

<'Get you laid' is your solution to every problem I have.> Gillian smacked her forehead and passed her paw across her face, ignoring for the moment how strange it felt.

<Ginger, how do you know our bodies survived what we did? If the explosion we caused in the Dark Hour was mirrored in Amber, then our bodies should be ash. We have nothing to lose anymore.

<And how would we survive the transition back, anyhow? We've...melded.> Her tail flicked herself in the face again.

Ginger sighed faintly. <The Bronze cords are intact. I can sense them. Here…> Gillian felt the urge to lift her paw and touch her eyes. Ginger guided her fingertip, drawing a rudimentary symbol on each eye. When she opened them again, she could see two ghostly cords of glowing bronze, entwined, leading from her belly and into… nothingness.

<Yes, I remember something like this now,> Gillian thought. <Cybele had me recite the Fourth Incantation of Thamar...> She trailed off when she saw the disappearing cords. <What does that mean, exactly?>

An image came to mind of herself in Ginger's body, wearing her glasses while sitting on a pillow and studying an old tome, a plate of fish heads and catnip next to her.

Ginger grumped. <Why do you think I have all the answers to this? Do I look like an expert on the metaphysical laws of Pattern-empowered prisons? And do you think I want to end up in your frumpy body? At least you’d finally look presentable in mine.>

Gillian smiled. <Frumpy? That's not what you said when I came back from my, um, encounter with Shiva. It was more like: I want to try that body out.>

[Ginger] sighed. <The Silver and Gold cords are binding us together now, > thanks to you.>

<So, yeah. There’s a big risk we’ll cross the streams on the way back. But what’s the alternative? Stay here while our bodies rot away and we become pure spirit? Remember Azghoul?>

Gillian laid back her ears. She shivered.

Gillian broke her reverie and spread her claws over the Bronze cord. <I concede, however, that my decision is not your decision, and you apparently want to go back to Amber.

<And if I am here in spirit after what happened, then it's probable the others are here too, somewhere. I find I don't care so much for myself, but if we destroy this place then we run the risk of destroying them as well.

A memory blossomed in Gillian's mind: Seabhac's kiss on her cheek, soft as rose petals, his breath warm on her neck, followed by a certain warmness spreading in her belly....

Ginger groaned and gagged. <Pleeeeese!>

"Hookay then. So how do we do this?" Gillian asked out loud. "Let's try this..." She brought up a Pattern Lens and sent it into the cord, wondering if she could guide the Lens through it and back to Amber.

Gillan felt – rather than saw – the Cords, and followed them into the ether before her. Almost immediately, her spirit jerked forward like fish on the end of a hook. She realized that the Pattern’s presence in this realm served to loosen its stagnant embrace over her. Like a dreamer rousing from the Wake, she ascended through the planes of existence, picking up speed. . . motion and sensation and light becoming one blurry haze.

But Tartarus did not give up its prey so easily. Something roared and screeched in protest. Threads of energy came tearing out of her flesh like half-healed sutures, leaving gaping rents in her psychic body. Only then did she realize that ~something~ had been creeping into her soul, feeding on her hatred and lust for power.

Tiphareth hissed, “You belong to me.”

"Like hell I do!" Gillian retorted.

The Bronze Cords bucked and thrashed, creating a tug-of-war that tore at her ethereal body. . . wet, raw pain erupting in her chest and back. She could see her skin and fur stretching and twisting, opening up and threatening to rip away in bloody sheets. Ginger yowled in her skull, equally tormented by this psychic pain.

The entity yanked again, trying to reel her back into its embrace… but in one excruciating second, the Bronze Cords pulled her forward… fragments of flesh and muscle peeling off, freeing Gillian and Ginger and leaving Tiphareth with nothing.

Gillian screamed.

They tumbled into blackness, all pain and confusion, and muddled thoughts.

As the pain ebbed like a dark tide, Gillian realized she was breathing again. She could feel her body again. Pain and hunger gnawing at every fiber of her being. Straw dug into her stomach and breasts. Her nose flooded with the stink of mildew and sweat. Something was. . . wrong with her. But she had little time to realize what.

Her eyes blanched as someone lit a match, and put it to a candle.

A short red-haired woman with a cruel smile.

“Ah. And you awake,” Fiona smiled. “Welcome back. Sister.”

A chill ran down Gillian's spine. She scanned the room hurriedly and brought her attention back to the Princess, avoiding looking her directly in the eye.

The room appeared old and ill-treated. Not a prison cell, exactly – too many amenities, such as table, chairs, and bookshelves. The simple bed stunk of old straw. But the narrow windows were far above and barred. Purple lightning flickered outside. Dust coated every surface, as the room had been left undisturbed for many years. A large, heavy door loomed on the other side of the round chamber; bronze locks on the inside.

"Cybele doesn't live here anymore." Whether that was true or not was immaterial at the moment. "I'm just Gillian."

<Ginger?>

A mental swallow.

<Cybele?>

<Shhh…> Ginger whispered – the taint of fear lingering. <Will explain. Later.>

Gillian took Ginger's advice and put thoughts of them both out of her mind--she was going to have to face Fiona on her own. Fabulous.

Fiona came closer, holding Ginger in her arms. She absently pet the boneless cat; focusing her attention on Gillian. “Oh, I doubt that very much. You. . . radiate with power. Something I have not seen for many, many years.”

She sat down and smiled, “Forgive the surroundings, but I had to improvise with little notice. This tower served my brother well, as it will serve you. I thought we should talk on. . . neutral ground.”

Gillian shifted her position so her back was against the wall. "Which means we're not in Amber? I don't remember home having purple lightning."

Fiona shrugged and continued to pet Ginger, rubbing her neck as if preparing to snap it.

Gillian squeezed handfuls of her skirt and looked away.

“No. I would not have your Dark Hour arrive and you slip through my fingers. Your companions have begun to awaken as well. They would interfere, no doubt. Fear not. Your needs will be served during your internment. But there is no escape beyond these walls.”

She set the feline at the end of the bed, and then sat down in one of the dusty chairs. “So. Please tell me of my sister. What does she recall?”

Gillian smoothed her skirts and took a deep breath. She let it out slowly.

"You are aware that I am involved with Seabhac, and he will not take kindly to my disappearance. I am also under Mandor's protection."

The last part was a stretch, but maybe kinda true.

Fiona smiled. Amused. It was not a pleasant expression. “Oh, with the mother of his child returned to his life, I suspect his attentions are elsewhere, my dear.”

Gillian narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Fiona chuckled, “Why, the Baroness Solataire, of course. My poor, foolish nephew. The apple does not fall to far from the tree. Not when it comes to Chaosian women, anyway. I'm certain it just slipped his mind.”

Gillian blinked. "Solataire's son is also Seabhac's!?!" she squeaked. She ran a hand over her face. This explained several things, like Seabhac's odd behavior, and Solataire's enigmatic comments.

"Why didn't he tell me?" she muttered.

Fiona snorted, “Oh do try to focus on the task at hand, my darling. I have little time for matters of the heart.”

"What is it you want exactly, Princess?" [Gillian] asked.

While Fiona answered, Gillian reached for her memory of the trump of The World, recalling the smells of musk and sage, deep blue skies and wind-swept grass...

Dimly, the image came to her mind. But something was. . . suppressing it. It was not an malevolent force, but a protective one. And then she realized, either Cybele or Ginger were cloaking Gillian’s abilities. Making her. . . harmless.

Gillian felt her face flush. She didn't want to be harmless.

Fiona’s voice intruded. “The True Trumps. I want them. Where did my sister hide them?”

Denying knowledge of them was so predictable, but what else was she to do? Sell it, sister.

"The True Trumps? I don't know." Gillian spread her hands and let her already present anger surface. "I assume they're something valuable, for why else would you kidnap me and risk repercussions? For there will be repercussions...

"Now let me ask you this, Princess: Do you really think your tight-assed sister would trust me with that sort of valuable information? I mean, I don't know what she was like in real life, but having her in my head has been a royal pain in MY ass. Some of my friends have nice, cooperative relations with their Others. MY Other has been annoying, enigmatic, condescending, secretive, and power-hungry. Did I mention enigmatic and secretive?

"You can kidnap me to some god-forsaken shadow and sit there and have this creepy conversation with me while you pet my still unconscious familiar, but the bottom line is I DON'T KNOW and I'm TIRED OF BEING A PAWN."

Fiona gave a harsh laugh, “Oh darling girl. You should be honored to be a pawn. It implies that you’re actually important enough to be a piece on the board."

Gillian glared at her.

She leaned forward, smiling darkly. “And I assure you, if you were not important, I would have dismissed with the pleasantries long ago.” She leaned back, letting Ginger alone. . . gesturing for Gillian to pick up the prone cat.

It hurt to move--her joints were stiff and uncooperative, her muscles weak--but Gillian scrambled over to the end of the bed as best she could. Trying not to cry, she gathered Ginger's limp body to her breast and retreated back to the wall.

<Ow, ow, ow> Ginger moaned inside her head. Oddly, at the contact… Gillian felt a momentary sense of vertigo. It felt like she was being held, her vision obscured by cloth.

Weird. Gillian noted the odd contact automatically and stored the memory to ponder later. If there was a later.

“What you say may be true, but I do know my sister. And one thing she is above all else is vain. And with an accomplished will-worker as her host, I am certain she has shared some of her secrets with you. If not all. Simply to demonstrate her erudition. So, I will ask you once more. What did she tell you about the True Trumps? Otherwise, I will provide you with an intimate education on true sorcery.”

Gillian was pretty sure she was going to get an intimate education on true sorcery regardless; it was only a matter of time. She took a slow breath.

"All right, yes, she told me of their existence. Nothing more, really. Just little hints of their power every once in awhile as reward for doing what she wanted, and vague promises to expand upon my knowledge at some distant point in the future. You see, even though she was my Other, I was still the one in control and she hated that." Gillian shrugged offhandedly. "Instead of trumps, we concentrated on Pattern skills, some sorcery, and on combining the two. WIth some pretty spectacular results, as you've probably seen."

Fiona nodded to this, grudgingly. “Indeed.”

Gillian hugged Ginger a little tighter and continued.

"I've spent some time thinking about this, and personally, I think she was wary of my perfect memory. I don't know a lot about trumps--strangely enough, there's not a section devoted to their creation and use in the university library--but I know you hold their image in your mind to activate them. I think she was afraid that once I saw them, I would be able to bring their image to mind any time I liked. Then she would have no carrot-on-a-stick to entice me. She was never going to tell me anything critical about them, just string me along as long as she could.

"Now she's gone from me and I say good riddance. Your grandfather can find another dupe. I'm done."

Fiona laced her fingers together, setting them on her stomach. “Yes, my sister would act in such a manner. She guarded her secrets well. To the detriment of Amber, in many cases. But, after all, her heart always did belong to Chaos.”

"Edamiel," Gillian commented, her tone thoughtful. "It was she who provided you the opportunity to kill Cybele. You slipped a knife between her ribs during a trump contact, or so I was told. Is that where your brother got the idea?"

Fiona smiled faintly, “One tends to stick with the tried and true methods.”

[Fiona] sighed. “As for my grandfather, while completely mad, he is very much the barometer of Amber. If he believes there is a storm coming, I take heed. He chose you – and your companions – for some reason. As the expression goes, there is method to his madness.”

Fiona’s lips curled at the edges, “I had intended on simply transforming you into something porcine and leaving you in Shadow. I am sure being bred and rooting in the mud for several decades would inspire you to be more forthcoming. And I might still do so, if you grow tiresome. But I am not one to waste potential resources so quickly, particularly ones of interest to my grandfather. So, I offer you this. . .”

She made a subtle movement with her hand and a blue-white light shimmered near Gillian’s legs. A leather-bound journal emerged from the light – which she recognized as a Pattern-conjuration.

Gillian eyed the book but made no move to pick it up. She looked back at Fiona.

“My initial notes on Trump construction. Study them. Make your conclusions and draft an essay for me on the source of their power. You’ll have one week.”

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Do you understand what I am offering you, Gillian?”

Gillian pursed her lips. "The opportunity to collaborate with you and publish an arcane paper? I hope it will be in a peer-reviewed journal."

Fiona’s pug-nose wrinkled, her green eyes narrowing. “Don’t get cute with me, girl. If your life means so little to you, I can certainly rescind my overly generous offer. Maybe you need some more. . . incentive?”

She flicked her hand and the hair on Gillian’s body stood straight up, as if she’d be caught in an electrical field. Ginger gave a mental whimper. <Oh $%#&. I don’t want to be a pig. I’m too pretty.>

Gillian spread her hands in front of her. "All right, all right!" she cried out. "All right. I'll write the essay, and I thank you for your overly generous offer."

She looked down and grabbed handfuls of her skirts to keep herself from screaming.

"And if there is something regarding the Princess' offer that I do not understand or appreciate," Gillian continued, "I beg that the Princess take pity upon my reduced faculties and enlighten me."

Fiona smiled smugly, releasing the Weaving into the aether… the sensation of transformation faded from Gillian’s skin. A feeling of bloat remained in her belly, however. She didn’t notice a change, but the impression lingered.

“If I must. Consider this a free lesson, not only in magick, but human psychology,” she sighed. “One. Your essay will reveal your understanding of the Trumps, if any. Two. It will reveal your outlook on Creation, and how magick functions within it. Three. It will reveal my sister’s influence on you. Four. It will reveal your propensity for deception.”

That's a lot to glean from one essay, Gillian thought to herself. She swallowed and stared at her hands, her skirts, the dirty straw--anywhere but at Fiona's green eyes.

[Fiona] leaned forward, “And finally, and perhaps most importantly, it will show me just how valuable you are in the Game. If you are worthy of becoming my apprentice.”

Against her better judgment, Gillian's eyes slowly traveled up to meet Fiona's. She looked at the royal askance.

The unspoken assumption here was that Gillian would actually desire to be her apprentice.

Perhaps this had more instead to do with Fiona possessing something that once belonged to Cybele. Human psychology, indeed.

Game? What Game?

"I don't know what to say," Gillian managed, which was completely truthful. "I...I suppose I will need pen and paper. Princess."

Fiona stood up and gestured to the room. “That is your first challenge, Gillian.” She smiled darkly. “And, as important as pen and paper may be to this test, there are other considerations you may wish to address first.”

A dark chuckle, “Such as a week’s worth of water and food.”

She walked away, waving her hand dismissively, “You’re a resourceful one. I am certain you will quickly learn how to survive in this Shadow. And if no, well, I shall make certain your family is suitable compensated…” A shimmer of gold and flame erupted from her skin… and then she was gone.

Lightning flashed outside, soundless.

"Overly dramatic," Gillian muttered. "I wonder how she achieved the flame effect? Kinda pretty."

Ginger yawned and stretched, “Well, we’re officially *&^%ed. When do we eat?”

Gillian startled and stared down at the cat. "Welcome back. C'mere. We're going to have a private chat..."

She pulled Ginger onto her lap, stroked down her back a few times, then scratched behind her ears to help Ginger settle. It felt good to perform this little ritual--the only comforting thing around Gillian for apparently the entire shadow, if it was as full of the purple lightning as it appeared to be outside her window.

As she did so, Gillian felt an urge growing in her belly – like a string pulling her forward. . . and into Ginger. She could feel fingers on her ears, soothing, gentle. The feline noticed it as well, relaxing.

Gillian paused, surprised, then continued her behind-the-ear-scritching.

<How private do you think this conversation is?> she asked Ginger. <Mandor was able to get into my head by a link through you, and she's had access to both of us for who knows how long.>

Gillian's stomach rumbled loudly. <And it's apparently been awhile. I'm starved, too. And thirsty.>

Ginger yawned again, nuzzling against Gillian’s belly… purring. <You’ll figure something out. You’re smart. Well, relatively, anyway. I'm sure you'll avoid the traps.>

<Traps?>

Ginger said. <This whole place is a test, Kitten. And a ‘F’ here don’t stand for ‘failure.’>

Gillian sighed, wishing fervently she was back at University--even if it meant a library shift with Margarita and Surly, or double periods with Professor Advocat, or even taunting by Daphne and her Lady Florimel Society Sisters sycophants.

<Cybele? Are you here?>

<Unfortunately, yes> Cybele said, sounding exhausted. <Another fine mess you’ve gotten us into. Two months I spend locked in that wretched body of yours. And now this.>

Gillian's temper flared. <Not. My. Fault. I didn't screw up the trump gate and you are the one Fiona is jealous of.>

The anger died down quickly to ash--Gillian had no energy to sustain it. <I'm sorry about being stuck in my body for....wait, you said ''two months?'' What the--? Holy--!!>

Cybele sighed. <Two months. At least. Difficult to tell, as after awhile my mind started to wander. Being trapped in a hunk of flesh does not hold the attention after the first few days of horror and outrage.>

[Gillian] ran a hand over her face and struggled to regain control of her emotions. Deep breaths. Stuff away now, process later. Deep breaths.

Several long moment later, she said, <Unfortunately, this all presents a bit of a quandary. I need Cybele to help me through the tests, but if she helps me it will be apparent to Fiona that she's still around inside my head. Awkward.

Gillian sighed and looked around the room. <Ginger, you said you could smell the magicks. I want to meld further with you so I can sense them, too. When I was petting you a moment ago, I felt myself slipping into your point-of-view. I want to do that again so we can go look around the room in your body. I'll stay here on the bed with my eyes closed like I'm resting.

<Cybele, can you join us, using your connection to me and my connection to Ginger?>

<If I must> Cybele said, sounding exhausted.

<You don't have to> Gillian replied, concerned.

<It is the same. Worse, perhaps. I believe my strength relies on proximity to the Pattern.> Cybele yawned.

Then Gillian paused, wondering if Cybele knowing how to do that would really be such a good idea.

Ginger sighed. “Okay, let’s do this thing.” She gazed up at Gillian and then placed her paw upon the woman’s chest. They could feel the shared sensations almost immediately, a warmth growing between them. It was calming, soothing, almost erotic. Then Ginger’s paw pressed forward. . . into Gillian’s chest.

The penetrative sensation washed over Gillian in a flood; her perceptions spinning dizzily. She felt herself shrinking, compacting.

 Her bones and flesh melted and flowing like tallow.  Her clothing

became tangled and loose around her, smothering darkness encompassing her as she fell inward. The pleasure of it overwhelmed her for a moment, closing out the world to nothing but sensation and thought. . . so alien and yet familiar.

Ginger’s voice echoed in her mind. <That’s not fair!>

Gillian’s tail twitched instinctively… but could barely move in the confines of her dress. When her head finally popped out, the room looked much larger. . . and she looked decidedly more furry. And orange.

<What's not fair? Hey! WHAT DID YOU DO?> Gillian looked around for Ginger. Were there two of them, or did Ginger somehow meld with her?

Only Gilly-cat remained. And it appeared she was in the driver’s seat, so to speak.

She laid back her ears and sneezed a little kitty sneeze.

<What did I Do? You’re the one that stole my body, meatsack!> Ginger protested.

Cybele, though exhausted, couldn’t help bursting into peals of mocking laughter, as loud as a murder of ravens. <Unicorn wept. How did you even reach this age?!> She chuckled. <You two imbeciles have melded your spiritual cords together. Which means you may wear each other’s skin, now. Useful, if utterly undignified.>

Ginger whimpered from the back of Gillian’s furry skull.

<Oh! And Cybele is here too, just like I was hoping!> Gillian's tone was annoyingly cheerful. <Don't whine, Ginger. We'll go back in a moment. Let's go look around and you can point out traps.>

Gilly-cat idly sat half-covered by Gillian's dress for a moment before Gillian remembered she was the one controlling things. <Oh! Sorry.>

She extracted them from the clothing a little clumsily, then paused on the edge of the cot and swished her tail before jumping down to the floor.

As Gillian took a step toward the edge of the bed, Cybele gave a mighty shriek of fear, <No, no! Too Late!> Then immediately devolved into fits of laughter. Ginger growled audibly, <Oh you bloody bitch, you… I think I just spiritually shit myself.>

Gillian stepped cautiously around the room, sniffing and pricking her ears and opening her senses to whatever they might tell her. <Either of you, feel free to jump in with observations of your own.>

Gillian noticed that much of the furniture radiated with magick – mostly Conjuration, but also Transmogrification spells. These magicks were woven deep into each item, as if they’d been built with it. She suspected that they had triggers – like a wand or summoning circle. When her body instinctively rubbed against the table leg, she felt a thrilling rush of energy. Yes, it was definitely a Conjuring spell woven into the table.

Then it clicked. With the right trigger words, the table, chair, and standing closet could summon food or clothing. Ginger gave a hungry mew.

Gillian replied.

Cybele gave a faint hiss. <Avoid the door for now.>

Gillian’s new eyes could see the magicks there – red and festering. A dire transformation spell, waiting for the foolish.

Gillian declared.

Cybele and Ginger both chimed, <Too late>.

String of blue and silver light hung around the door handle like a cat’s cradle. <Just like my sister to have her damned puzzles on the only exit.>

Was it indeed the only exit? Gillian looked up at the windows. Too narrow to go through, even as a cat?

The one window was opened to the elements – purple lightning flickering against a boiling sky. For a person, it was too high to reach. But a clever cat could climb to the top of the cabinet, then bookshelf, and finally leap to the stony ledge.

Regardless, food and water were top priorities. Gillian sat down on her haunches, ears perked forward as she gazed intently at the table, her tail swishing intermittently in agitation.

She walked around and under the table and chair, looking for any runes or sigils. True to her Ordo Devonian background, she said, <Seeing the magicks is all well and good, but I want to more deeply analyze this conjuration spell in order to determine its components and their interrelationships, but I don't know how. Is there a spell for that? This is beyond what I've learned at university.>

Cybele groaned faintly. <You’re a Devonian? Sigh. Well, no wonder you’re the way you are. Yes. There is a way. Here. . .> Gillian’s head filled with a series of spell formulas – all perception-natured. <These are Silurian Unveiling spells. Try combining them into the natural spirit-sight that has more than likely carried over from your merging with Ginger. I‘m certain you can create something suitable to overcome your essence deficits.>

Gillian's mental squee filled their already crowded headspace. Using her current magical Sight as the foundation, she rearranged and combined various components of the formulas until she thought she had something that would suit the situation.

Gillian mused after a few moments of study. <Their way of thinking seemed too simple, too much like using the same hammer for every problem they came across. But I think I will have to reevaluate my position.

<In the meantime, if I understand the formulas correctly, what I've been able to put together here I think should show us the rune or symbol that triggers the spell, assuming there is one.

<If that doesn't work, then I think instead we may be able to bypass the lynchpin. What does the lynchpin do, anyway? It mostly just closes the loop so the magical energies can flow. If we can feed magical energy into the system at the point of the lynchpin, we may be able to trigger the spell without it. Just a thought.

<Regardless, here we go...>

Gillian spoke the spell components into being inside her mind, holding them in place with her thoughts into a filter through which she viewed the table.

She felt – rather than viewed – her perception closing in on the table and the magick contained within. The rest of the world faded into the background, as if seen through a fog. An azure light flared around the table’s centerpiece. A conjuration rune floating like a complex snowflake, spinning, twirling, forever falling. It was a rather ingenious construct – by mentally ‘folding’ each branch of the rune, it created an endless number of combinations. Once folded correctly, elemental energies would flow through the rune and create a summoning gate. For example, fold three branches of the northern portions of the rune to the western branches would summon a cup of hot tea. With a slight tweak on a southern branch, one could add honey or milk.

The more intricate the folding, the more possibilities the rune provided. She could even summon plates and utensils if she wished.

With a brief glance at other furniture, she noticed similar runes incorporated into them.

As Fiona had said, the room contained everything she required. She simply needed to unlock the combinations. But now, at least, she had the ‘key.’

If Gillian weren't already a cat, she'd have been grinning from ear to ear. Perhaps this is why the Cheshire cat grinned--because he knew all the secrets.

Ultimately she wanted to eat her meal as a girl, not a cat, so she concentrated on reversing the process that merged Ginger and her, wanting to return to her own body.

There were false starts and troubling errors – including an anthropomorphic mishmash of limbs. But after an unnervingly long moment, Gillian uncovered the trick. Like untying a tangled net, she slowly separated the Three Cords that bound them. As soon as they were free, she felt herself pulled out of the feline’s body and reconstituting into her own.

The lack of fur and clothing wasn’t pleasant in the chilly draft.

But being back in her own body was, and regardless of the chill Gillian stretched out her limbs and wiggled her fingers and toes.

Ginger gave a whoop of joy and leapt onto the table, twirling around and around, trying to inspect her body. “Yes. Yes. Yes. No human bits. Oh thank the Unicorn.”

Gillian rolled her eyes.

She stopped and looked over at Gillian. “Will you stop slacking off and get me some food? I just had a trauma here.”

"Of course, Your Royal Cattiness," she replied cattily, which seemed apropos. Gillian rolled to her feet. "Your permission to put on clothes first?"

“I suppose so,” Ginger sighed, slumping over in dramatic extremis.

Without waiting for a reply, Gillian walked back over to the bed and pulled on her dress. As she padded barefoot back over to the table, she quickly wove her long hair into a loose braid to keep it out of the way. Gillian stopped in front of the impatiently meowing Ginger and kissed the tabby's forehead. "All right. Fish heads coming up."

She spoke the spell components to bring up her Silurian Magical Sight and turned it upon the table. Folding the conjuration rune, Gillian summoned three kinds of fish and fresh cream for Ginger, and an amazing amount of food for herself that she could never possibly finish: chicken velvet soup, bread and butter and elderberry jelly, cranberry muffins with cream cheese, fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits with cinnamon apple butter, filet mignon with capers and baby asparagus, curried vegetables over saffron rice, and nine kinds of pie that Gillian liked best.

And a large pot of tea to wash it all down.

Some time later, as a very full Gillian half-heartedly nibbled at a cranberry muffin, she said, "I'm amazed that after sleeping for two months, I find myself sleepy again."

She yawned.

Ginger splayed across the tabletop like a furry anaconda with a hippo stuffed inside. She gave a weak mew, as she attempted to paw a wafer-thin mint into her mouth. Pat-bat-pat-pat-groan. “Must. . . eat. . . last. . . bite. . .” she moaned.

<Cybele, retuning to the subject of escape, I hesitate to use either Pattern or activate a True Trump for fear of demonstrating that you're still Joined with me, but on the other hand without either Pattern or Trump I don't think I stand a chance at escaping. When we do decide to try, we need to be reasonably sure of success the first time.

<If I was Fiona, I would set an obvious trap on the door--which she did--and keep the other stuff hidden, like a trap or alarm that will spring if I try to use Pattern or activate a Trump to leave this room.

Cybele considered this for a while.

While Gillian waited she slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes, pretending to fall asleep. She didn't know if Fiona was monitoring the room, but she thought it better to be safe.

<When I studied with Grandfather, he did instruct me on the method of dampening the Pattern Imprint, even as it was being manipulated. It was an excellent tool to have when traveling in the Courts. Used correctly, even the most observant Lord couldn’t detect subtle workings of High Sorcery, even when Pattern-empowered.

<Whoa. Really?>

Gillian found it hard to carry on mental conversations without letting her emotion leak to her face and hands. She covered up her surprise at Cybele's statement by shifting and scratching her nose before settling back down in her chair in apparent drowsy slumber. She folded her arms to help keep them from inadvertently moving.

Cybele snerked with amusement. <Indeed. Of course, Yomi Lords are also known for the ability to suppress their Logrus powers. It makes for interesting – if nerve-wracking – luncheons together.

<It was pretty spectacular though, wasn't it?> Gillian said proudly. There was a certain suppressed yearning from Gillian shyly bubbling to the surface of her thoughts: she desired Cybele's approval.

<Your combination of Trump and Pattern was inspired, I’ll grant you. We will need to conduct research on that Path.> Cybele allowed. <However, the explosion? That was because some fool introduced Logrus into the mix. We’ll be lucky if Kolvir is still standing when we get back.>

Gillian became quiet, musing, then roused herself out of that train of thought. To Ginger she asked, "Would you like some more pie? I was pretty sure you'd like the sugar cream."

Ginger, still struggling with the mint, looked up at her. “Always room for pie. . .” she said, in a raspy exhale. Regrettably, inertia appeared to be working against her at the moment, so she remained stationary. Indeed, it was surprising that the cutlery and plates weren’t being attracted toward her gravitational mass.

Gillian scooped Ginger up into her arms and gently deposited her on the musty cot. She laid down herself, curling around Ginger and holding her against her breast. She yawned and closed her eyes.

The feline’s weight settled into Gillian’s chest. For a moment, her body shivered. . . grew heavy. As if it was drawing Ginger into it once again. Her clothing tightened, as if it had been dried improperly.

<What...? Never mind. All right, Cybele, let's try this. How do I hide bringing up the Pattern?>

<Firstly, the Pattern is in the Blood. I do not mean this in the genealogical sense, although that most certainly plays a part in it. You must imagine it imprinted within your blood. Your soul. Like a tattoo or marking. Indeed, that isn’t far from the truth.

<Um...okkaaaaay...>

Gillian brought up the Pattern as Cybele had taught her, then applied the Second Circle Art of Veiling spell to the construct in her mind, substituting in the Pattern for the target form.>

Gillian quickly learned why Pattern Masking was not a common practice. First, the concentration required would have been taxing for any Elder – for Gillian, it felt like being lobotomized with an icepick formed of burning ice. Without Cybele and Ginger lending her strength, her eyes would be weeping blood. They might just still in a moment or two.

Second, the Pattern’s four-dimensional complexity required her to focus her attentions not only in multidimensional space, but in time; masking where the Pattern would be and where it had been. It was the mental and physical equivalent of nailing water to the walls of two separate houses.

Failure was inevitable. The Pattern, almost mockingly, shaped itself, flaring to life through her skin. And would have consumed her, if Cybele had not quashed its influence.

<Very good> she said, breathing heavily. <You sure your mother didn’t meet one of my brothers behind the woodpile?>

Gillian opened her eyes and ran a hand over her face, clenching it into a fist when she found it shaking. She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

Ginger whimpered, curling up against Gillian’s head… lightly nuzzling to comfort her. The cat’s touch helped draw away some of the pain.

Gillian replied, though it was apparent she was pleased with Cybele's comment.

<That’s what your Familiar is for, Will-worker> Cybele said coldly.

Ginger raised her head, “Excuse me?”

Cybele sighed softly. <Familiars are meant to be the repository of one’s negative energies, as well as the source of their additional strength. You must dispose of your squeamish nature, girl. If you are to be a true Sorceress, you must learn the meaning of sacrifice.>

Ginger moaned faintly, recoiling from Gillian. “Maybe there’s some other way. . . right, Kitten?”

"Shhhh..." she cooed to Ginger, drawing her back into her arms.

Ginger bumped her head against Gillian’s head, seeking reassurance.

<No,> Gillian replied flatly to Cybele. <I'm not going to engage in a pointless philosophical argument regarding this. Know that there are some lines that I will not cross, not matter what the consequences, and sacrificing Ginger is at the top of the list. So we're going to come up with a different plan.

<Anything living. But, as we are alone here, this makes for a very difficult procedure, now doesn’t it?> Cybele said. <Familiars are meant for this role. It is why they are created. They suffer so we can progress in the Arts. They’re also far more resilient to such forces. Pain is all she will suffer. Not death. Channel your negative quintessence into an Unbound and they will die; this, I guarantee. It is also a road you do not wish to travel down. It possesses far too many temptations.>

Cybele’s voice became very cold. <Then again, you did slaughter those innocents back in Amber easily enough. Perhaps you are already on the Dark Road already.>

The corner of Gillian's mouth twitched as she mentally glared back at her Other. <Really? You really want to provoke me right now? Because it's not like we're in a LIFE THREATENING SITUATION OR ANYTHING.

<Look, you said I needed something living. How about we take a look at the conjurations around the room and see if we can bring something living to us. Will a plant work? Or an animal?>

<Summon some rats to you. I’m sure there are enough of them in this castle.> Cybele snorted. <Or maybe a pigeon. Or how about a dog? Maybe you can summon a servant of some kind. Anything with a heartbeat will do. If you’re really lucky, there’s a baby crawling about, waiting to have its life snuffed out, hrm?>

Gillian frowned and rolled her eyes.

She exhaled loudly. <Several plants should do fine, I suppose. The table’s conjuration runes are attuned to organic matter to produce food. Tweak it and you’ll have more than enough flora and fauna to fill an Ark.>

Gillian kissed Ginger on top of her head and padded back over to the table. The carnage of her previous feast lay strewn across its surface, bowls and plates stacked on the floor nearby when overflow room became necessary.

She viewed the remains and pulled absently at the hemline of her dress, now strangely more snug than she remembered it being.

Gillian tweaked the table's runes to reverse her conjurations and send the dishes away. Then she altered the conjuration that would bring her apples by expanding it to five potted dwarf apple trees instead, full of branch and fruit.

Everything faded into the aether with little more than a word. Even the stains and crumbs disappeared.

After moment, Gillian triggered the altered conjuration runes. The tabletop flickered and the smell of apples filled the air – like the orchards behind her home. Five potted trees – small and perfect – shimmered into existence in front of her.

She smiled.

Cybele sighed deeply. <If you intend to do this, so be it. But I caution you again, Gillian. This is an addictive path you are about to walk down.>

<What? I'm using trees, not people. Do you want out of here or not?>

Cybele became distant, withdrawing back into the shadowy recesses of Gillian’s head.

Outside lightning flashed again, soundless and bright.

<Fabulous.> Gillian rubbed the bridge of her nose. <Ginger, do you care to comment?>

"Considering the number of shrubberies I've killed in my day, I don't think I'm in any position to comment," Ginger said. Then gave a shrug of feline indignity. "What? When you gotta go, you gotta go!"

Without waiting for a reply, Gillian set her jaw and brought up the Pattern. Repeating the procedure of masking, she again applied the Second Circle Art of Veiling spell to the construct in her mind, substituting the Pattern in for the target form. This time, when the pain threatened to lobotomize her, she channelled the negative quintessence into the nearest apple tree.

Again, the pain hit like a freight-train wrapped in barbed wire. Gillian’s brain began to cook. But with a concerted effort, she opened her perception to the Wake – the spiritual plane where every essence resided. Vernal light surrounded the apple tree, shifting and waving in green threads. It was easy – almost ~too~ easy – to extend her essence to it and syphon off all the negative energies coursing through her mind.

The pain filtered away, allowing Gillian to better focus on the Pattern’s complex shape. And as it formed in her mind, she began to Veil it. . . cloaking it behind a wall of thought. It felt wonderful, euphoric. Powerful. The pain became ecstasy as the true power of Creation nestled deep in her heart. She could do anything. Be anywhere. Twist possibilities to her will.

She fed on the life essence of the tree… then the next… then the next… suckling down their existence like mother’s milk. And growing stronger with every exquisite gulp.

She could only imagine what a human's essence would taste like.

It would be indescribably exquisite, sweeter than Bayle's mead and exponentially more intoxicating. And that's all she would do--imagine it. It was not for her to taste. Ever.

But the apple trees were delightful enough. And she felt powerful. So. Very. Powerful. Why did anyone willingly live outside of this state? It was better than sex, even at the unearthly talented hands of Shiva.

Pattern successfully veiled, Gillian then brought Seabhac's trump to mind, focusing on the particular blue of his eyes and every dark hair that brushed his forehead. She remembered his smell, and the sound of his voice in her ear. She remembered all of these things about him, and cast the Pattern Lens out toward him wherever he was, using his trump and its link to his essence as a guide.

For a moment, Gillian felt resistance – like trying to push through a silky membrane. She adjusted the Lens until her perception extended outward, searching, escaping the confines of this Shadow. She sensed the emanations radiating from the ‘Realness’ of Seabhac – even through the infinity of Creation.

Time was all she required. And Desire.

And she had plenty of both, especially of the latter.

She could feel his essence now, locking into it. He resided in Amber, close to the Pattern itself.

Gillian closed in on the location and focused her Lens a few feet away from Seabhac. That was where she would create the trump gate.

She sensed him in a room filled with books and a massive fireplace. With little effort, she opened the Trump Gate and felt herself pulled through the shimmering portal.

Strangely, her vision. . . shifted. As if for an instant she was looking through gossamer. While the typical Trump Gate did cause some disorientation, this felt. . . different. It faded as quickly as it came. Indeed, it suddenly felt. . . right. Calming. Not worth worrying about.

Then she was in the Grand Library. Seabhac nearly spilled her brandy in shock. “Gillian? Where have you been?” He set the book and glass aside, then swept her up in his warm arms, kissing her madly.

Gillian returned his kisses with quite a bit of enthusiasm herself. "Seabhac! It's so good to be back. To be home. To be with you."

She held him at arm's length and beamed at him, drinking in every line of his appearance. Then reality hit.

"Oh, Seabhac, you won't believe it, but Princess Fiona has been keeping me prisoner! I don't know how long I've been gone. Have you seen the others? There was this explosion..."

Seabhac stroked back her hair, and leaned into kiss her softly. “It’s okay, Gillian. The others are okay. The explosion. A lot of people got hurt. But we were able to bring you back. You’ve been her - in the castle - for about two months now, healing.”

Two months...yes, that's what Cybele had told her, she thought.

He cocked his head, “Why would my aunt kidnap you? I don't understand. And how'd you get away?"

"She wants knowledge that Cybele had. I...um...escaped through a trick of Pattern and Trump," Gillian replied vaguely, not really wanting Seabhac to know that she'd used Death Magic--even if it was just from sacrificing apple trees.

He nodded silently, taking this in.

"It was all easier to do than I thought it would be," she continued, pondering that for a moment. Was she really that good? Or maybe...Anyway...

"I'm surprised you didn't even know I was gone from Amber, but then again what seemed hours for me may have only been minutes here. If I was going to kidnap someone, though, I'd put them in a shadow that was the opposite, where hours in Amber were only minutes there..."

Gillian grabbed Seabhac's hand and pulled him toward the doorway. Something was niggling at the back of her mind.

She shook her head to clear it and continued on with her monologue of questions. "What time is it? Where are the others? We need to talk to them. I need to avoid the Princess, though. What will she do when she finds out I'm gone? Surely the King will take my side. I mean...you can't just kidnap someone, right? Even if you are a Royal?"

Under her arm, Ginger gave a mild groan from the mishandling. “Mind the ribs will you? Unless you want that dinner coming out from one end or the other.”

Seabhac got dragged along behind Gillian, flummoxed by her behavior. “Random? I don’t know about that. Fiona has his ear. And, frankly, Gillian if she did it, she’s going to have a defense lined up. Not that she needs it, really. Royals can act pretty much carte blanche when it comes to non-Family. The others. . . well, they’re still in a coma. I didn’t even know you were awake.”

He tried to bring her to a halt, tugging on her arm. “I only went to the library to study. Maybe help you. What happened?!”

Gillian stopped and hugged Ginger to her chest. "I know what the Dark Hour is," she said. "And I think I know how to stop it."

Ginger grumped, “Her Ladyship o’the Idiot-Strings here went and ticked off Princess Ferret. I was left to die of hunger. I’m positively skeletal now.” She gave a pitiful mew.

Seabhac ignored the feline, “And how’d you come to that conclusion, Gillian? And how can we stop it? That's a pretty bold statement.” He folded his arms, cocking his head slightly.

"It's like the result of my pregnancy," she continued, not wanting to directly mention her Atheneum in the Castle. It just seemed prudent to her not to. "I should have seen the resemblance. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

Seabhac blinked. Not surprised, but as if he was trying to retrieve information long forgotten. Finally, he shook his head. “Perhaps, I’m just not making the connection. You think this has something to do with your little foray into Shadow?” He smiled quizzically.

This struck Gillian as a little strange. She'd spent a lot of time telling him what happened with Shiva and with the birth of her Atheneum. He'd even devised a glamour spell for her so her transformation into a body more...curvy...than her previous one wasn't immediately obvious. She realized she was the one with the perfect memory, not him, but it hadn't been that long ago.

Gillian frowned. "No, the result of that little foray. Remember, we talked about it at great length? There was even something you promised me, a promise that means a great deal to me. Do you remember now?"

<Does he seem off to you?> she asked Ginger.

Ginger gave a mental shrug. <How’d I know? You humans always seem off to me. Maybe all the blood is rushing to the other head with all your preggers talk.> She paused. <Still. It’s like he’s waiting for his answers. Just a gut feeling from my old casino days.>

Seabhac smiled slightly, “To forgive you for messing with Magick or that our first time together would erase everything before that?” He reached over and took her hands, squeezing them softly. “Should we need to get you to Atheneum, Gillian? Will that make you feel better?”

A half-thought flitted through Gillian's mind, an action based on Ginger's observation, but she hid it as quickly as it popped into her head.

"You do remember," she smiled back. "And our first time. Where did you promise to take me?"

Gillian concentrated on a made-up memory, one where her conversation with Seabhac continued and he promised for their first time together he would take her to see his home in Chaos. He described the non-Euclidean architecture and the way the banded sky rotated through colors and and the view from the edge of the Abyss, all like it was from a tourist's guide to the place. She "remembered" her excitement at the thought of seeing Chaos--her, a servant girl from Amber!

Seabhac remained quiet for a moment; his brow knitting ever-so-slightly. He stepped back from her, frowning. He opened his mouth to speak, only catching himself. “Are you testing me, Gillian? What’s wrong?”

Ginger squirmed in her arms. <Why is Puppy-Lover being so formal?>

"You're all wrong. You don't call me Gillian--it's Gilly," she answered him. "I don't think this is Amber and I don't think you're Seabhac. I don't think I escaped. I think this is all an illusion, a fabrication."

Seabhac blinked in shock, stepping forward, reaching for her. “Gilly, have you gone mad? What are you talking about? Escape from where? Let me help you, please.”

Alarmed, Gillian stepped back herself as her eyes darted around. She knows what I'm thinking. She heard our conversations. She knows everything.

Ginger muttered a low curse. <We’re buggered.>

No, Gillian amended to herself. Not everything.

Determined to escape, she brought to mind and focused on the True Trump she knew best: The World.

The area shimmered in front of her, opening up with a faint wisp of flowers and sunshine. Beyond the Trump portal lay the World, just as she remembered it. In every detail.

She felt Seabhac’s hand touch her shoulder, “Gilly. What are you doing?”

Gillian shrugged off his touch. Hugging Ginger to herself, she stepped through.

She felt the vertigo sensation of Trump teleportation, arriving in the verdant plains of the World. She could smell the fresh loam and wild flowers. She felt the touch of warm breezes on her skin, their whisper in her ears.

And they were all… hollow.

Not even memory could replicate the World’s majesty.

This was all illusion.

She set Ginger on the ground beside her and took several deep breaths, her shoulders shaking with suppressed rage. It would be so satisfying to just call upon insane amounts of power and just blast her way out of this shadow. It would not work, but the image of it was appealing. She ran a hand over her face.

Ginger began sniffing around, examining her surroundings. She spotted some colorful birds and headed in that direction.

<All right. Let's think about this a moment. It appears trump is blocked going out. I don't know if someone can trump in, but I'll assume not, since Seabhac has not tried to trump me--assuming he even knows I'm gone.

<When Fiona was inside her shadow with us, what powers did we see her use? She used pattern and conjuration to produce that trump journal I was suppose to study. Threatening to turn me into a pig could be accomplished with only fourth circle adept thaumaturgy. And the way she left us looked like magic to me, with the gold shimmering and the flame effects. So, magic and conjuration _appear_ to work, but I've no idea how much of that she can control the result of. She apparently is creating everything we see around us on the fly.

Cybele gave a sharp intake. <How could I have been so blind? We are inside a Trump. One of my sister’s design. It is a prison and will alter itself to trick you. I’ve disposed of many an enemy in a Trump Trap. She’s likely watching you, as we speak. Indeed, I suspect she would have to be concentrating on the Trump. . . altering it to fit your memories.

"Ginger!" Gillian called, not wanting her familiar to get too far away. <A Trump Trap? Okay, then how do we GET OUT? But before that, I want to do this, since magic seems to work...>

Ginger gave her a doubtful look and continued being. . . well, Ginger.

Gillian brought to mind the framework for the Second Circle spell Art of Veiling. <Can you help me with the Mind Form? Maybe add a little Pattern for kick? I want our private conversations to actually be private.>

Cybele began to lend what strength she could to the spell. Then gave a vague sigh of relief, as the World shimmered for an eye-blink of time. <She’s stopped actively watching us for some reason. The Contact is still there, but I suspect she is distracted. I think we can talk without her hearing everything.

<That's a lovely question.> A chill went down Gillian's spine and she shivered.

<All right, so if we're in a trump trap, does that mean Fiona has made a trump of me?> she continued. <That would explain why she could listen to my thoughts. But then why didn't I notice her presence? Is that just what it's like to be contacted by trump? I mean, I've only ever been on the contacting end, but there was definitely a sense of their presence in my mind so I assumed they felt me in theirs just as strongly. Is it not the same when you're contacted as when you're contacting?

<It is a perversion of Trump Artistry, twisting the sympathetic connection between the Trump and its subject.> Cybele said. <It creates a null-space, within which the subject remains trapped indefinitely. Trumps are Eternal, after all. More simply, the subject is transformed into the altered Trump. Their memories fill the space, create the inner world. And the Holder can manipulate their minds directly whilst holding the Trump. More than likely, we are in her pocket at the moment.>

Ginger persisted in her exploration, chasing birds and butterflies.

Cybele continued. <You also forget, girl, you were likely unconscious when she came for you. She could easily have dominated your mind, and opened it to establish the link. After all, you are only human.> She said the last with some sense of pity.

Gillian sank down onto the soft grass. <From your description it sounds like there's not really a way out. Unless we can overpower Fiona's mind through her contact to the trump--which sounds unlikely to succeed--or sever the connection between the trump and myself--which sound likely to be fatal.

Cybele chuckled darkly. <No. Not when I created the Seven, anyway. I made certain it was a one-way trip for my subjects. And for good reason. However, Traps can be infused with a ‘key,’ so to speak. And recognizing a trap is usually the first step in escaping it.>

Gillian let out a heartfelt sigh. She hated it when she had two or more divergent lines of questioning and she couldn't decide which one to pursue. Eenie, meenie, miney, mo...

<Seven? Seven what? Trump traps? Do these have anything to do with your True Trumps?>

<Yes. Trump Traps. I forged them to dispose of my rivals. They’re now mounted in my gallery in Shadow Marzana. May even still be there if it wasn’t destroyed by my sister.> Cybele mused, picturing a realm of dark beauty; primeval forests populated by Weir and Dark Fae.

Ginger gave a startled yowl, rushing back to Gillian.

A shimmering doorway had opened up, revealing the Royal Library. She could see several figures, some familiar, some not – framed in the orange firelight. She recognized her friends and Prince Benedict. They did not look. . . pleased.

Gillian scooped up Ginger and approached the portal.

Ginger oofed, crawling tighter against Gillian’s chest.

Cybele’s emotions were mixed. <I’m not sure. It appears to be a true portal. Maybe she is releasing us. Though I would question why. Unless my elder brother convinced her. Again, I would be cautious. He and I ended our relationship. . . poorly.>

<Noted.>

Gillian clutched Ginger, took a deep breath, and stepped through the portal.

Gillian felt the vertigo of a Trump shift, finding herself in the the Royal Library. People appeared distraught, cowed. Something had just transpired.

And lying on the couch, she noticed Seabhac - pale and weakened.

[continued in A Gathering Storm]