The Darkest Hour | TheDarkestHour / EmergingPatterns browse

Time passed.

When Gillian awoke from her dark slumber, she found herself in an unfamiliar room. Apart from numerous books, the undersized chamber appeared spartan, almost bare. A table, chair, a dark window, and little else. A few candles and a crackling fire offered the only touch of warmth.

Someone cooled her skin with a wet cloth, gingerly dotting it over her forehead and neck. Her body felt foreign and unresponsive. Clots of coppery foulness poisoned her tongue, her throat and nose burning. After a moment, Gillian’s muddy vision began to clear.

Molly smiled down at her, much relieved. “Mistress?” she whispered; but it sounded like a shout.

Gillian moaned and shut her eyes again. What had happened? She couldn't quite remember all the details... Her mental faculties felt like cotton candy, all sticky fluff and little substance. Fear washed over, quickening her breath. She reopened her eyes and focused on the young girl.

"Molly...bring Seabhac," she croaked. "Ginger will know."

The girl flinched as if slapped, her flitting away eyes as if seeking refuge. She hung her head, wetting her lips to speak. “Forgive me, Mistress. But your familiar. . . She. . . When you. . .”

She dared to meet Gillian’s gaze, a pained expression marring her gentle features. “We thought her dead at the start. There was so much blood. But Pythia realized she was still breathing. We believe that she is now trapped in a dark sleep of some kind.

“She took the brunt of the mental damage you would have suffered. The brave little creature. She saved your life, Mistress.”

"Oh, God," Gillian gasped. She reached out instinctively for their shared link.

She felt nothing. An emptiness. A black hole that swallowed the light.

"Oh, God," Gillian repeated, tears welling up in her eyes. <Ginger!>

Molly patted her head again, trying to soothe the creases on her brow. “She is being well cared for, Mistress. You may see her when you are feeling better.

“Until then, may I find this White Hawk for you?”

"No, I must see her now!" Gillian implored, feeling panic rise in her belly. She brushed Molly's hand aside and tried to sit up.

Boiling lead flooded through Gillian’s veins. Nausea closed her throat and the world spun around in a kaleidoscope of color. When she could breathe again, she realized she must have passed out.

Molly smiled sadly, “You’re very weak, mistress. Please, for your sake, don’t try to stand up again.”

She crumpled the rag in her hands, biting her lip. “We could bring her to you, if you wish.”

Gillian nodded carefully. "Please."

Molly gave a solemn nod and left the room.

<Exactly when will you begin to learn what is beyond you, girl?> chided Cybelle. <Who has to die?>

<Why did that hurt me?> Gillian demanded to Cybelle. <Our Joining was supposed to protect me against the Pattern. You said so yourself! So why did I almost die here? Did you lie to me?>

Cybelle gave an insulted snort. <I have lied to you, but not about this. Our attunement extends to Amber’s Pattern, yes. But that was a broken Pattern sketch. One of the Primal Pattern. I doubt I could even protect you during the Dark Hour. Next time I tell you to stop, Gillian, stop!>

A flood of disappointment washed over Gillian like a tide. When it drew back out, she felt drained. Cybelle’s thoughts had moved on. <Whoever drew it had ill intentions. They were attempting to redefine what is immutable. The very structure of Pattern.>

<I'm guessing Suhuy is the artist, or at least involved,> Gillian's replied stonily. Cybelle was not her mother—she had no right to be disappointed in something Gillian did or did not do. Angry, happy, scared, sure. But not disappointed.

Annoyingly, Gillian also acknowledged that she needed the manipulative witch, especially right now.

<I want to pursue this, but first things first. Ginger is I-don't-know-where and I can't even sit up,> Gillian continued wearily. <Ginger needs healed. And so do I. Any bright ideas for contacting Seabhac? I don't really want to send Molly through to Amber.>

<Agreed. The less the people of this realm know of the outside world, the better. Have the girl bring some charcoal and paper. As exhausted as I am, I believe I can guide you through a Trump sketch. It will be dangerous, but I would rather have your Chaosian here than some milksop of a nursemaid tending to our wounds. Now try to sit up right, girl.>

The girl clenched her jaw at Cybelle's moderately cavalier attitude and tried to sit up again—more slowly this time.

Gillian managed to right herself in the bed by the time Molly returned to the room with Ginger - who she carried in a wicker basket. She gave her ‘Mistress’ a worried frown, but said nothing. As if she were handling crystal, she set the basket down on the bed.

The feline appeared deflated - as if much of her muscle mass has simply dissolved away beneath her tangled fur. She appeared to be making jerky breathes - but only through close observation. Otherwise, she possessed the pale of death.

Gillian forced herself to look away and turn her attention to Molly. "I need paper and a stick of drawing charcoal. And please hurry—Ginger may not have much more time."

Molly disappeared again, eager to help.

She reached out and laid her hand lightly on her familiar's chest.

Ginger’s body felt feverish beneath her hand. The breathing remained very shallow and jerky. However, the Three Cords of their Binding remained intact. Indeed, they strengthened slightly from the contact. But the feline’s thoughts remained clouded in darkness.

Molly appeared a moment later, a sketchpad and plenty of charcoal in hand. “Here you go, Mistress. Is she doing any better?”

Gillian accepted the items. "A little, maybe. Thank you."

With some effort she positioned the sketchpad on her lap, then picked up a stick of charcoal and stared blankly at it. <Now what?>

Molly sat down and remained quietly attentive. She appeared concerned by Gillian’s activities, but knew well enough not to question her goddess. Instead, she gently stroked Ginger, lending the crippled feline some of her strength.

<I want you to bring Seabhac into your head> Cybelle said. <Not just his face - although that certainly helps - but his very essence.>

Gillian exhaled wearily. <His essence? How do you draw that?>

<OH! Now you have doubts and hesitation. Stop your whining. You birthed a world. You can sketch a Trump>

Gillian felt a surge of tingles run down her arm, as if she'd been sleeping on it too long. <Begin>

She sighed and closed her eyes.

Seabhac. White Hawk.

His face came to her mind. His grey eyes behind his dark-framed glasses. His smile.

She remembered the way he ducked his head when he was embarrassed. How it felt when he touched her cheek with the back of his hand. The way he said her name. "Gilly."

She remembered the first time she'd met him, standing on the narrow rooftop outside her window with his eyes closed and his arms spread wide as if embracing the wind.

Gillian put charcoal to paper and started to sketch.

Gillian’s hand responded to her thoughts, drifting over the page with surprising ease. Sweat beaded on her brow as the exercise continued, her arm protesting in a few moments. But the pain felt good. It felt right.

Despite the trauma and exhaustion of the last hour, Gillian was utterly fascinated by this process. She tried not to analyze it too much, afraid she would disrupt the flow somehow, but focused instead on remembering every little detail. She would analyze things later—assuming there was a later.

Cybelle remained silent, but [Gillian] sensed the woman’s loaned strength, helping her push herself and fight off the heaviness in her mind and body. The university’s rooftop came into existence on the paper, soon followed by the lone figure of Seabhac. The picture possessed an intense three-dimensionality, the very simple lines of charcoal reflecting a startling realism. It was if she’d captured the view from her window; a fragment of time trapped on paper.

Gillian put down the charcoal. <Amazing. Just...amazing>

<Now. Focus on the Trump and call to him>

She tilted the drawing and gazed at it, taking in every line and shadow and meshing it into a live image in her mind. "Seabhac," she whispered compellingly, as if his name was an incantation.

Nothing. The page remained unaffected by her thoughts. Molly tilted her head, staring with a bewildered look.

And then the paper grew cold in Gillian’s hand. Then icy; the chill running up her arm. The lines wavered, rippled, and then began to shimmer like quicksilver. The image began to dissolve, the charcoal falling into the paper like dust. She could see through the paper to a Parisian style study filled to the rafters with books and curios. Seabhac sat at an old roll-desk, staring at her.

“Gillian?” His face paled. “You’re hurt!”

"Oh, God, Seabhac. Please...help us." Gillian reached out desperately to him.

His surprisingly strong hand wrapped around hers. Despite that lent strength, she felt like a mosquito trapped by a pond’s surface tension, desperately pulling, pulling. Her lungs strained with the effort, drowning in agony.

A prismatic flash filled the room. Gillian’s vision began to blur into a milky fog. The trump slipped from her fingers, now blackened and dead. Distantly, she heard Molly toppling from her chair with a yelp.

But the pain disappeared and Gillian found comforting arms around her, supporting her, as she sank into the warm bed and oblivion. . .

. . . she dreamt of a vast plain of worms and cancerous flesh . . .

. . . “Gilly?” . . .

. . . Jonathan stood beside her, still, unmoving, his cold fingers entwined with hers. . .

. . . “Gilly?” . . .

. . . Jonathan slowly turned to look at her. . .

. . . “Gilly? Come back to me, please.” . . .

. . . he had no face, only an empty, wet hole. . .

. . . “Come back to me.” . . .

. . . yet something stared out of the darkness. . .

. . . “Gillian!” . . .

. . . and it knew her Name . . .

“That’s it! Open your eyes. You big faker,” Seabhac chuckled nervously, stroking her cheek.

Gillian startled awake, her hand finding and clutching the front of Seabhac's shirt like a drowning victim grabbing for a lifeline. She gulped a breath and sank back down onto the bed. Around her the room righted itself from its previous dizzying angle, the last vestiges of the nightmare melting away and leaving the hard reality of bed, basket, chair...

And the soft presence of Seabhac. Her eyes settled on his face, but she didn't release the grip on his shirt.

His hands wrapped around hers, holding them in place.

"You're here," she said, sounding almost puzzled. "I didn't think I could bring you through, that I didn't have the strength... Then pretty lights, all colors... I feel so...tired."

She started to sink back into unconsciousness, but startled awake again.

"Seabhac, I screwed up. I tried to traverse a Pattern. It was in a book. Cybelle said it was Primal. It... I couldn't stop and Ginger... There was all this blood." Tears welled up and flowed down her cheeks. "Seabhac, please help Ginger. She's gone and I can't reach her."

Seabhac listened. He nodded. He brushed the tears from her cheek and then smiled, “Sleep.” Dark tendrils flooded her mind and Gillian was gone.

She did not dream.

When she woke, night had fallen. A few candles burned on the table and the air felt cool on her skin. She could smell lemons and rosemary. Nearby, someone set some ceramics down with a clink.

“Evening,” Seabhac said, sitting down beside her. “I brought you some soup. You’ll eat it. No discussion.” He offered his hand to help her up. “Ginger’s alive. But. . .”

He sighed, “. . . she’s in good hands.”

"Is that where..." Gillian paused to yawn, "...Molly is?"

He shook his head, a guilty lookon his face. Without explanation, he focused on placing the bowl of lemon-chicken soup into her shaky hands.

She sat back against the pillows and accepted the soup, though instead of starting to eat she looked at Seabhac's face and asked another question.

"Has [Ginger] gotten worse, or just stayed the same?"

“Certainly not better,” he replied. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ginger - at her core - is a creature of the Wake. You’re her anchor in the Real. But even with that protective bond, she is still susceptible to strong emissions of the Pattern. And you touched the Primal Pattern, Gillian. I’m surprised you both weren’t killed out right. Cybelle may have something to do with that. Who knows?"

Gillian looked away, upset.

“But now, that Pattern ‘radiation,’ as it were, is slowly. . .” He grimaced, struggling to finish his explanation. “It’s slowly erasing the ‘chaos’ in her. Until the spirit you knew as Ginger is gone.”

"Then we'll just have to figure out a way to reverse it," she declared. "We have a whole huge library at our disposal. The answer is there, I'm sure of it."

Gillian put down her soup spoon and started to get out of bed.

"Seabhac, so just where is Molly, and why the guilty expression earlier?"

Seabhac signed again, “Gillian. You have to understand. I was terrified I would lose you and Ginger. Your Pattern wounds I could handle. But Ginger’s? No. And she would drag you down with her. I needed outside help. So. . .

“Ginger is with my uncle now. He’s a specialist in these sorts of things. I sent Molly to spend the night with one of her Sisters. No sense in frightening the poor girl with a Chaos Lord in Daemon form weaving the Logrus.”

"Logrus?" Gillian repeated in a small voice. She paused as something else registered. "Daemon form?"

“Best not to ask.”

He laid his hand over hers, his voice dropped to a fearful whisper. “Mandor wants to talk with you though. Alone.”

"Alone?"

Gillian gulped and squeezed Seabhac's hand.

"Is he the uncle that Ginger's with?"

Yes,” he said. “He is father’s stepbrother. And he’s taken on the role of my mentor. My watcher, really. Yo-Yo apparently told him about you and the others. I could strangle the little shit for that, but. . .”

“He was simply looking out for your best interests, Nephew,” came an oily voice from the doorway.

A tall man stepped into view - blonde and dangerously handsome. He wore a suit so black it was if he’d been dipped in ink. “Now, if you would, I shall speak to your Chosen in private.”

When he rose to leave, Seabhac met Gillian’s gaze - smiling as if things would be alright. He wasn’t a very good liar.

Gillian caught her breath as Seabhac left the room and her eyes flitted down to her lap. She tried not to look at Mandor--she really tried!--but she couldn't help it. Slowly, her eyes climbed back up that black, black suit to his handsome face, to be lost in the bottomless, ageless depths of his eyes.

She gulped again.

Cybelle didn’t reply. Indeed, she felt very distant. Muted.

Hiding.

A very unladylike word flitted through Gillian's mind.

Mandor chuckled lightly and sat down at the table. He possessed a mirthless smile, but she sensed a private joke hover at the corners of his dark eyes.

“Please, continue eating,” he said. “This is an informal meeting, so please do not fear. I simply wished to see the extraordinary woman that has stolen my nephew’s heart.”

He gave Gillian an appraising look; ghostlike fingers trailing up her spine. The pregnant silence grew. And grew. Until he sighed deeply.

“What am I to do with you?”

Gillian tried to raise her head to look Mandor in the eye, but she only made it as far as his chest.

"With all due respect, was that question...rhetorical?" she ventured. "I...thought I would ask since you said this was an informal meeting and I couldn't tell from your inflection.

"If it wasn't, perhaps if milord would elaborate, I could offer a suggestion. Or two."

Mandor ran a sharp fingertip along his throat, “My nephew is the next Emperor of the Courts. Great Houses have sent their daughters to me. Hellmaidens of the purest blood. His choice of bride could shake the foundations of the Courts themselves. And the first woman he even shows the remotest interest in? A servant girl. From Amber, no less.

“So no. My question was not rhetorical.”

He leaned forward, smiling with shark’s teeth. “I could have killed you tonight. A spell sympathetically cast through your dying familiar. And that would have solved this issue with some expedience. But I did not.

“Can you tell me why, Ms. Talbot?”

Her blood felt like ice flowing through her veins, but Gillian did raise her eyes to meet his. "Logic would suggest that--for some reason--I'm more valuable to you alive than dead?"

She wrestled briefly with her next statement, but as her mother often said: in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Prince Caine finds me valuable, too."

“Ah-yes,” Mandor chuckled. “Why am I not surprised that my counterpart is equally intrigued by you? For you are correct. You intrigue me. A great deal.

“I must ask myself how a human girl can survive an encounter with the Pattern. Or draw such an effective Trump sketch. Not to mention, leave her resonance throughout an entire Shadow.” He waves his hand to indicate the room.

“I don’t smell a drop of Pattern or Logrus in you. So what are you, exactly?”

Gillian had no answer for him, other than replies that would only get her into more trouble. It was time to follow Cybelle's example and disappear.

"Can you actually smell Pattern and Logrus?" she asked, both deflecting and stalling. To be fair, she was curious about the answer, though she was pretty sure he was only using a metaphor.

In her mind she yelled <Cybelle!> and hurriedly brought to mind another of Cybelle's tarots--not the World, for she'd had enough of Shiva, but the second one from her reading that she'd picked up and studied: The Tower, reversed. Hopefully she'd be able to activate it, with or without Cybelle's help.

Gillian never heard Mandor’s answer - his lips moving, but no sound ever reaching her. Indeed, she sensed all sound, smell, touch, and taste drain away from her into a muted grayness. Her vision remained crystalline, however; allowing her to see how the room and everything in it had begun to slow to a snail’s pace.

Oddly, the image of The Tower did not come to her mind. If anything she found herself unable to picture the Trump - dissolution erasing its solidity every time she focused on it.

And yet she knew she had summoned it, as surely as if she now held it in her hands.

“You have Called me forth, Opener,” a sexless voice whispered in her ear, icy lips trailing across her earlobe. “Will you hear the Terms of my Pact?”

Gillian felt a chill run down into her belly. Could things get any worse? <Pact? Oh no...no....nonono! Sorry to disturb you, but NOT INTERESTED.>

“You Called me Opener,” the Tower whispered, beside Gillian; not in her head. “And the spilling of blood is effortless. But very well. I can wait. You will return to me. Soon enough.”

The presence faded and time began to speed up once again. Gillian could feel. . . life. It rushed back in on her like a storm, flooding her senses with sublime intensity.

Mandor scratched his chin, a dark look in his eyes. “Intriguing,” he said. “For a moment, I could have sworn you were attempting to use a Trump.”

Ironically enough, Mandor seemed somehow less scary now. Perspective was everything, Gillian decided. She sighed and deflected again.

"I'm just what you think I am--a servant girl from Amber, trying to make a better life for herself and her family by getting an education. Why do you need to do anything with me? I'm not a threat to you or Seabhac."

Unless you know anything about Suhuy and the Dark Hour afflicting Amber.

"I'm...I'm very grateful for any assistance you can provide for my familiar," she ended faintly.

Mandor’s eyebrow twitched, dispelling his predatory calm.

“Truly?” he replied with a gentle tone. “Well then, Ms. Talbot. We shall discuss what sort of threat you are in a moment. But first, might you show your gratitude by illuminating me on Suhuy’s current whereabouts. And how he is involved in this ‘Dark Hour’ of yours? Whatever that might be.”

Gillian startled, upsetting her soup all over the blanket. She scrambled back against the corner of the bed and stared at Mandor, appalled. "How...did...?"

Sudden realization set in, a leaden weight in her belly. "Ginger."

Fear and anger washed over her. She felt trapped and exposed and helpless and she hated feeling that way. HATED IT.

Mandor gave a pleasant shudder, drinking in her emotions like a fine wine. For a moment, one might think he’d lick his lips like a satisfied tiger. But he settled on propriety instead.

"I do not know where he is," she replied between clenched teeth, having problems looking Mandor in the eye. "And that's the truth. I've never met the man."

Chaos Lord waved his hand, long fingers renting the air as if disturbing a pond. Oily blackness hovered there momentarily, coiling and writhing. As she watched, the bowl, soup, and ruined linens simply ceased to exist. An instant later, a new blanket, neatly folded and fresh smelling, appeared at the foot of the bed. In slow motion, the dark coils returned to Mandor’s hand and oozed beneath his skin.

“I do so hate unnecessary clutter,” he explained. A simple utterance, but Gillian could sense far deeper meaning to it.

She swallowed and remained in her corner.

His eyes crawled over her and she could feel her head lifting to meet his gaze - as pulled by invisible strings. “If you are to be my nephew's consort, you must learn certain rules. The first is to never allow a Lord of Chaos fall into possession of an arcane connection to you. Were I not a benevolent sort, this would have ended far more gruesomely. And if you are not completely truthful with me, that possibility still remains. But back to the point. . .”

With effort she refrained from pointing out that—to be completely correct—it was Seabhac who gave Ginger over to him, not her. She squelched the thought as soon as it surfaced.

He sighed and tugged his beard, “I say this now in confidence. Suhuy disappeared from the Courts some eleven years ago in Amber chronology. One year before the Night of Long Knives. That you believe he is even alive both puzzles and troubles me greatly.”

He tilts his head, his lips stretching back in an unsettling grin, “Do you know what he represents to those of Chaos?”

"He was brother to Dworkin and Avatar of the Logrus," she whispered. "It's believed in Amber that he died during the Patterfall War, just as Dworkin perished, for what happens on one side of the mirror, in turn, happens to the other.

"I don't know what he represents to those of Chaos. A hero?"

“Demigod would be more appropriate terminology,” Mandor replied. “A thing to be worshipped and feared. Mostly, the latter. Suhuy constrained the Logrus into its current manifestation; not an easy task, as you well might imagine. The process warped him into something. . . else. He became more of an elemental force than a man. Intemperate. Irrational. Insane. And extremely dangerous, politically and otherwise. His intimate connection to the Logrus also made him the perfect demagogue. He preached endlessly of the ills suffered at the hands of these invading ‘Pattern-spawn.’ So, my brother and I breathed a sigh of relief when he disappeared; apparently consumed by the Logrus. We perpetuated this story to lull the Great Houses back into submission.”

He tilted his head, “So, can you imagine what might happen should his existence come to light once more?”

Political and social unrest. Upheaval.

"What do you think of Amber?" Gillian asked quietly, tilting her head as well. "Is she a necessary counterbalance on the cosmic scale, or is she a revolting excrescence?"

Mandor laughed darkly, “Must I choose between the two options?” He stared at her for a moment, the shrugged. “Simply put: Amber is a necessary evil. I do not adhere to my mother’s view that the Ordered are pariah. Nor do I believe they are the exemplars the Cult of Amberites might have us believe. What I do know is that the Courts have prospered since my brother’s succession. I aim to protect that prosperity. That requires our continued peace with Amber.”

Gillian gazed back at him, silent.

He tugged his beard, “And what are your feelings on the Courts, Gillian?”

"I wonder why we can't just all get along. That goes for the Golden Circle, too. But I'm just a young girl with idealistic notions. What do I know?"

“Indeed,” Mandor said flatly.

She shrugged marginally.

"What would you do to ensure peace continues between Amber and the Courts?"

“If Suhuy does, indeed, still live and is in Amber, then he must be eliminated,” Mandor said in a calm tone. “However, this must be accomplished covertly. Otherwise, my more fanatical brethren will utilize his death as an excuse to move against Amber. And Amber has enough enemies without the involvement of the Courts.”

He crosses his legs and rests his folded hands upon his knee. “Before we continue, tell me your feelings for my nephew. What are your intentions?”

"Intentions?" she repeated faintly.

Anger flared in Gillian's mind at the intrusiveness of the question, then was immediately quelled. She exhaled and composed herself.

"Seabhac approached me and made his interests quite clear despite our...differences...in rank and status. He is...gentle, and kind, and very good to me. I hope he gets as much pleasure from my company as I do from his. Relationships shouldn't be one-sided."

She looked down at her hands in her lap. "I have no illusion that I will be allowed to have any 'intentions' at all, and after University he will move on to to accept the responsibilities that come with his rank. There is no place for a servant girl there. I understand this....and accept it."

Mandor nodded again, “I see.” He laced his fingers together and smiled. “Very well. From what I have observed, you have inspired my nephew in ways a dozen mentors and paramours have not. This benefits the Courts and thus, you are useful to him. If this romance continues after the conclusion of your university educations, I will find a solution to your current lack of station. That is you provide me with two oaths. . .

“One, you will continue to provide me with information regarding Suhuy, as well as Prince Caine’s involvement in this ‘dark hour.’

“And two, no matter what occurs between you and my nephew, it will not produce an heir. Should that occur, you and the bastard will disappear.”

His smile broadened like a shark’s, “Are we agreed?” Somehow, the question sounded rhetorical.

It felt to her like a "frying pan into the fire" sort of decision, but what choice did she have? "We're agreed."

“Then, as an act of faith, I provide you with this,” Mandor said. He pulled a silver sphere from his cuff and dexterously rolled it over the back of his hand. With a quick flex, it spun across the room and into Gillian’s hands. She could see her reflection in the mirrored surface, but the metal felt warm to the touch. It grew slightly heavier and began to flow and twist like quicksilver, spill over her hands and lap. The silver became orange fur – the chubby, comforting weight of Ginger soon taking shape. The feline snored contentedly; apparently, still locked in slumber, but on the mend."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and smiled for the first time since seeing Mandor.

“She will require constant attention for the next few days, but from what I gather, that doesn’t stray far from the norm,” he added.

Gillian wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Thank you."

Outwardly, Mandor appeared unmoved by her emotion. He simply dipped his head and offered her a fatherly smile. “You are most welcome.”

From the other cuff, he removed four thin cards - their onyx backs framed with gold leafing and an ouroboros coiled in the center. As he placed them face down on the bed, Gillian could see the serpent shifting almost imperceptible - or perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“As it appears you can utilize these, I took the liberty of drafting ones that shall be of use to you,” Mandor explained.

She looked at them rather suspiciously, her eyes flitting from the cards to Mandor and back, before curiosity finally got the upper hand. "May...May I look at them?"

“Of course,” Mandor replied.

As she picked them up, Gillian immediately recognized the marble-cool touch of a Trump. And yet, they felt ‘off’ somehow, as if they were exquisite facsimiles. Somehow she knew they were connected to the Logrus, rather than the Pattern.

The first three illustrations were easily identified, Seabhac , Mandor, and herself. Seabhac stood against the wall of an arched hallway that disappeared into the infinite. He appeared lost in thought, a deep sadness radiating from him. Mandor sat in a chair, a lavish, Victorian study behind him. He stared out at the holder knowingly. Finally, she’d been depicted in her school uniform standing on a dirt road, which led into a dark, twisted forest. When she looked close enough, she could see wolves staring out from the brambles.

That's not a metaphor for my current situation at all, Gillian thought wryly. She put the card down with the first two.

The fourth showed a dark-haired, middle-aged woman with olive skin. She appeared to be dancing on the back of a vast snake - its scales vibrant purples, grays, and gold. She possessed a wildness to her like some fey spirit lost in rapture. Gillian felt a flush of passion fill her, not her own.

[No. It can’t be.] Cybele whispered longingly.

“Baroness Solataire Helgram,” Mandor said. “Great-granddaughter of Suhuy. He raised her as a child after her parents were killed. If anyone knows of his secrets, it is her. I believe she also has a son attending your school. Casnodyn.”

Gillian studied the last trump for another moment before also putting it down. "I take it that you and she don't get along very well?"

Mandor guffawed, “In a manner of speaking. We were peers at the Imperial University. Competitors, if I am honest. She had the superior mind, but no heart for politics. It cost her in the end. We have been enemies ever since.

“But, as you will learn, Gillian, our enemies are more important than our friends.”

He smiled fondly. “Use caution when approaching her. She is. . . tempestuous.”

Like the Logrus, Gillian thought. She nodded and said nothing, hoping their interview was now over.

As if - or perhaps – sensing her thoughts, Mandor rose from his chair. “Well, Gillian, I shall leave you and your familiar to rest. Shall I call Seabhac in? Or would you prefer to retire for the evening?”

"Please ask Seabhac to come in."

“Of course, Ms. Talbot,” Mandor replied. After he’d exited the room, Gillian heard Cybelle sigh in relief. <I don’t know if we should kill him or ride him until the moon surrenders the night.>

Gillian sighed. <Is he ill-stay in my ead-hay?>

<Ah, yes. Subtlety. I’m sure a Chaos Lord would be completely confused by that. Of course he’s gone, Pandora. Do you think I’d risk him discovering my existence?>

Gillian smirked and said nothing.

A few moments late Seabhac entered the room and quietly closed the door. He smiled brightly as he saw the pair reunited. He came and sat at the end of the bed. “How is she doing?” He glanced back toward the door and frowned. “And for that matter - how are you doing?”

"He said Ginger would be fine in a few days. I'm...very grateful to him for that. As for me..." Gillian shrugged and forced a smile. "I survived the encounter. Not without conditions, but I survived. We have his blessing to continue seeing each other. And he gave me trumps." Her tone indicated some puzzlement as to the latter.

She passed the four cards to Saebhac face-down as Mandor had passed them to her.

He examined them; his confusion deepening when he viewed Solataire’s. He shifted it to the back and Gillian’s to the front. He could not help rubbing his thumb along the cool surface as she spoke.

"I'd like to go back to Amber soon. I don't know how much time has elapsed there and that worries me. Will you come with me?"

“Of course,” he replied. “You’re staying with me until you and Ginger are feeling better. I have plenty of room and the servants will be overjoyed that I’ve got guests in the place. So, no argument, okay?”

She opened her mouth to protest and then and closed it. "Well...all right. If it's not too much trouble. Thank you." A sly smile lifted up one corner of her mouth. "Yo-yo will be thrilled."

“Oh, most assuredly,” Seabhac chuckled. “And you’re never too much trouble. Trouble, sure. But that just makes you interesting.”

He shifted farther onto the bed and patted his lap, “Now, rest your head for awhile. We’ll Trump home at first light.” His attention returned to the Trump of her. “Will you keep this or give it to someone you trust?”

Gillian laid her head against Seabhac's thigh and cuddled Ginger against her breast. "Mmmm? You mean I can't give it to someone I don't trust?" She smiled sleepily as a bone-deep weariness settled over her. "My first thought was to give it to you."

He lightly stroked her shoulder, “Thank you. But only if you’re sure. I mean, you haven’t met Casnodyn yet. Things might change after that. I hear women like those smart, handsome types.” He gave an exaggerated sigh.

"There's only one smart, handsome chap that I want to give that trump to. You." She snuggled down deeper.

“You forgot to add devilishly charming in there,” he chuckled. “But thank you. By the way, midnight came and went. At least we didn’t have to deal with that problem.” His hand trailed down her arm to her wrist, brushing over her skin like a kiss. “Despite our scare, it was rather nice being together without. . . minus all the blood and monsters.”

Gillian exhaled softly at Seabhac's touch. "You saved me," she mumbled, almost asleep. "I would have died without your help. Died. And Ginger too. You're the best."

“Just doing what I can for the woman I love,” he said in a soft voice. As calm as his voice sounded, Gillian could hear the pained realization hiding behind those words. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her palm with a gentle fierceness. He laid her arm over Ginger and then covered them both with a blanket.

“Now get some sleep. And no nightmares,” he instructed.

"Mmmmph," she replied, then slipped into blissful slumber.

[continued in In the House of My Enemy]