The Darkest Hour | TheDarkestHour / GrabbingTheDragonsTail browse

[continued from A Gathering Storm II]

A guard greeted Gillian as she exited the Library. Handsome yet rugged, the young man - Clements - announced his service to her, offering to escort her as per the King’s request. He wasn’t surprised when she requested to venture down to the dungeons. He bowed and led her through the castle to a spiral stair. After lighting a torch, he nodded and descended into the darkness.

The stair went on and on; a true challenge for Gillian’s exhausted frame.

At least she wasn't going up, she thought. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

Clements explained that the eons ago these stairs had been built around a central shaft, which cut deep into Kolvir’s heart. The architect, however, remained a mystery – as did the initial purpose of the stairs. The ancient chambers left behind now served as the dungeons. “Bones atop of bones,” he said quietly.

"I wonder if the king has thought of renovating," Gillian mused, trying to sound upbeat. "A restaurant, hotel, nightclub.... It could become a popular destination with the right marketing."

Whimpers and howls of pain drifted up from the darkness, growing louder as they passed cavernous hallways. Then faded as they descended farther and farther.

"Or not," she amended in a small voice.

Clements smirked back at her, “Aye, this part is the highlight of Lady Flora’s tour. She does love making an impression.”

Clements grew more pensive the deeper they went. They had to pause as a woman emerged from the depths, laden with buckets of offal. Her blind eyes glimmered in the torchlight as she silently passed by them. The next floor had a solid, iron gate – the passage beyond it echoing with inhuman howls and ethereal songs – an animal stink clogging the air. Clements shivered and hurried downward.

<Oberon's balls,> Gillian swore, comfortable with being so bold within the (relative) privacy of her own thoughts, as she covered her mouth and nose. <This is barbaric. Why does the king allow this state of affairs down here? It's not ignorance--according to the histories he spent time here himself during Eric's brief reign.>

Cybele interjected. <My father collected a great many things from Shadow and kept them down here. Things that are best left forgotten by time and sane men.

Finally, they reached a cyclopean chamber – unfinished and rough stone stretching onward. It was as if some ancient force had scoop the very heart out of the mountain, leaving behind a void of shadows and silence.

Clements to the singular torch from the wall sconce and lit it. “This is as far as I go, young miss,” he announced. He wet his lips, smiling nervously, eager to return to the world above. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Gillian wiped her palms on her skirts and took the torch. "Th-thank you, sir. I'm grateful for your assistance."

As Clements retreated back up the steps, Gillian turned to regard the empty darkness before her and squelched thoughts of the simile silent like a tomb. She felt very small, and rather out of her depth.

<Let the bitch watch. Maybe she’ll learn something about true magick.> Cybele snorted. Gillian felt a warm stirring in her chest, as if something furred and fanged had curled up there. <Yes. It’s as I remember. I can almost smell his musk on the air.>

A sensual purr rumbled up from Gillian’s throat.

<Okay, kid. I want you to use your Earth Magicks. Get a lay of the land down here. With the Pattern training I’ve given you, I’ll bet you can feel the emanations through the stone. The strongest source of Earth energies should be who we’re looking for.>

Gillian wondered with a bit of trepidation about a "who" down here.

Regardless, she set the torch back in its sconce, wiped her hands again on her skirts, and closed her eyes. She didn't really like closing her eyes down here, but it was necessary in order to achieve enough inward focus to bring up the Pattern. After a few moment she knelt and spread her hands upon the rough rock, golden twists and turns spinning behind her eyelids.

Gaia's Voice was a Knowing Spell, giving her the composition of whatever rock or metal she touched. She'd often used it in service to Syd and Mury, to verify the composition of coin paid to Syd. Now she combined it with Pattern, making her also sensitive to earth energies.

She whispered the incantation and focused her attention on the strongest source of earth energies in the area.

Gillian could feel the ground vibrate beneath her feet, as if the back of some great beast rousing from slumber. Her body hummed with power, feeling the vastness of earth and stone around her. The weight of strata above her, the great depths below her feet. All came to her, flooding her mind and soul with their essence. It was euphoric and wondrous. So much so, it took a moment for her to focus.

And there, in the dark, she sensed something large and power crouched, waiting, patient. She could see it glowing in the dark like foxfire. Far-away, but well within walking distance.

<There,> Gillian noted, squinting her eyes at the glowing earth creature. <It sees me, too. What is it?>

<The Guardian of the Primal Pattern. The creature all guardians to the Underworld are modeled from. So that should give you some vague idea of its temperament.> Cybele warned.

Gillian felt the ground tremble… but had little time to reflect upon the sensation or its source. The vast chamber shifted and she felt the terrifying sensation of falling – only forward, rather than down. She could see the strata racing above and below her, a blur. She came to a sudden halt, feeling her brain and stomach lurch.

Standing in front of her was a wall. A wall of blue feathers. It was breathing.

A vast beak, black and shiny lowered into vision. “Why?” the griffon asked – breath stinking of raw meat.

Gillian resisted the urge to cover her nose and curtsied instead.

"Um...if you please, Sir Griffon, my name is Gillian Talbot, and I carry in me Princess Cybele of the Royal House of Amber, descendent of Dworkin. She's dead, but Dworkin put a pattern ghost of her in my head to aid and counsel me. You see, Sir Griffon, there are evil forces afoot that would destroy Amber, born from the utterance of a curse from King Eric of Amber, and I, along with a small number of others, are Dworkin's weapon to defeat them.

"The present hypothesis is that normally the Pattern could absorb the negative consequences of such a curse, but the Pattern is not in perfect working order. This is apparent by the continued presence of Chaos in the Scar, located in the Valley of Garnath. It is thought that there may be damage to the Primal Pattern that was not fixed by King Oberon after one of the blood of Amber bled on it, and I was sent to investigate.

"Would you be so kind, Sir Griffon, to guide Princess Cybele and me to the Primal Pattern, that I may confirm or deny this hypothesis? The continued existence of Amber depends upon it."

She curtsied again and bowed her head.

The griffon lowered its head, folding its massive paws in front of it to rest its chin. Its dark bird-eyes flicked with interest through her announcement; the only sound coming from restless wings. In the end, he snorted. “I see. Yes, I have sensed some disruption emanating from the Undershadow. And it does not surprise me that the Destroyer would be the first to travel here since it began.”

"Destroyer?" Gillian asked, annoyed at the seemingly uncontrollable urge of immortal beings to refer to people or things with vague and mysterious-sounding nomenclature. Why couldn't they just speak plainly?

He cocked his avian head, “But you are not her, morsel. You speak as she does. But you are not her.”

The beak grew closer, “So, again. Why? Why do I not eat you?”

"Because I'm trying to save Amber!" Gillian exclaimed. "Haven't you been listening?"

Frustration and a sense of urgency overrode her previous feelings of self-preservation. She put her hands on her hips. "Your job is to protect the Pattern, is it not? And I would venture to guess it is actually more of a geas rather than a vocation. So if the Primal Pattern is damaged, why wouldn't you want help sanctioned by Dworkin himself? To not accept assistance would go against your geas. Ergo, you will lead me to the Primal Pattern."

She donned her most fierce expression and gave the gryphon her best stink eye, perfected through much practice on her two brothers.

The Griffin sighed faintly, flexing his wings with irritation. “Oh? And what do I care about Amber and its line of arrogant brats? They waste the power they’re blessed with. Squabble and whine. You should know that better than most. Their age is over. Who am I to say otherwise?

“The Pattern has been destroyed before. It shall be reborn again. And I with it.”

He rapped his talons, eyeing her. “You are a passionate, little one though. Arrogant. But passionate.

“Tell me why I should care whether Amber persists? And maybe I'll let you pass. Let me remind you, the last to pass by me gave his life for Amber. Are you willing to suffer eternally as well?”

Gillian swallowed. No, she was not particularly willing to suffer eternally as well--who would be? "If you don't care whether or not the Pattern is destroyed, then what is your purpose here?"

“To prevent it from being altered or destroyed through arrogance or incompetence,” the Griffin replied, narrowing its eyes. “Simply because a thing can be destroyed does not mean it should be destroyed.”

He paused, then smirked – impressive accomplishment with a beak. “Plus the 401K is amazing.”

He gave a barking laugh, “Why so serious, Gillian Talbot? It is only your soul at stake here. Surely that is worth the salvation of Creation?”

Gillian frowned. "Obviously, the needs of one person is outweighed by the needs of an entire universe. That doesn't mean I'm eager to sacrifice myself. Besides, I don't want to 'fix' the Primal Pattern--I only want to look at it and ascertain the damage, if any."

The Griffin raised a feathery brow, “OH! So, you’re a tourist. Well, why didn’t you say so? I would have let you stroll on by ages ago. How stupid of me.“ He extended his pony-sized paw, flexing the rows of obsidian claws, “Your ticket please. Surely they gave you one at the front booth.”

Gillian ran a hand over her face. She took a deep breath and tried again.

"Dworkin cannot see beyond a year in the future," she said grimly. "He senses nothing, only silence. His belief is that the Dark Hour will result in some unfortunate and permanent event.

"If we are to stop this from happening, then as a vital part of the plan we will need to fix any damage that has already been done to the Primal Pattern.

"But the damage cannot be fixed if you will not let us pass.

"So...what can I do or say to convince you that we need to pass?"

The Griffin blinked at this. “The Architect cannot see beyond a certain point in time? Hrm. No. As crazed as the old bastard is, if what you say is true, then this cannot be ignored.”

He rose from the ground, shaking off dust and dander in a choking haze. “Come, Gillian Talbot. I shall lead you to the Primal Pattern. But I ask again. Are you willing to accept the cost?”

Oberon's Ball's, just let me see the Primal Pattern! Gillian wanted to scream. "Yes."

“Finally. The right answer,” the Griffin purred. And lunged. Gillian had enough time to scream before the creature’s wings slammed shut around her like a bear trap – crushing her in musky heat and choking stink. The air was crushed from her lungs as the beast squeezed, and squeezed and squeezed.

Maybe she blacked out. It was hard to tell. Her vision slowly leeched back in. But everything, even the hand in front of her face, appeared black and white. Contrast little more than a few shades of grey. The room around her was round, smooth, featureless. No doors, windows, of any kind.

And, at the center of the room, a twisting pattern of pure black lines. It took her a moment to realize the pattern had three dimensions, hovering above the indistinct floor. It shifted, moved, changing constantly as she stared at it. Her head began to hurt, trying to process the information.

<Cybele, is this where we're suppose to be? I thought The Pattern was supposed to be...static.>

<This is the Primal Pattern, kiddo. And it is static. Your monkey brain just can’t accurately perceive a geographical structure that simultaneously exists in multiple dimensions.> Cybele paused. A shiver passed through Gillian’s skin. <But something’s wrong. There’s a fracture in the matrix. And I think we may be in the Dark Hour.>

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” a child’s voice said behind her.

She found a boy, about ten years old, dark hair, dark eyed, watching her.

Gillian watched him right back. "I don't think you are, either...Eric?"

"Pharos,” the boy said, obstinate. “My name is Pharos. And, of course, I belong here. I am an affirmation of the Fall.

“But you? You’re nothing more than a reflection in someone else’s mirror.”

Pharos...

A recent scene replayed in Gillian's perfect memory:

Seabhac nodding to Temnal as he sat, tired and pale, in the overstuffed chair: "I'll bet you anything that version of Eric is what your Lady was referring to. An avatar of the Curse itself."

Temnal's gold eyes thoughtful as he stood nearby. "The Boy. She called him Pharos."

Seabhac shifting in the chair. His fingers tightening on the arm. "And now it has consumed Eric's pure pattern Ghost. Ripped it right out of Rook when he died. Considering the weaker version probably killed off your predecessors and caused the Night of Long Knives, there's no telling what it can do now."

He sighs and lowers his glass to the side table. "That tingling sensation you just felt in your sphincters is the realization of how royally diddled we are."

Gillian swallowed an expletive as she brought herself back to the present and instead gave Pharos a careful, wry smile. "It's hurtful for you to be so dismissive. Even reflections have feelings too, you know.

"May we sit and talk? Or is there some other place you need to be, some other thing you need to do?"

Pharos glanced back at the Primal Pattern, as blasé as any small child. “We can talk here. This is where I belong for now. Time will deliver us to the End. To the Nyx. And I shall serve my Purpose. But not yet. Not yet.

“Talk.”

Gillian gathered her skirts and sat with the Pattern in her peripheral vision, hoping the twisting thing wouldn't be quite so distracting there.

"Your Purpose... What exactly is your Purpose, Pharos?"

"I'm The Appriser... The Appriser of Death... My existence is the affirmation of the Fall."

"Hmmm, mysterious nomenclature--you must be an immortal being."

Gillian smoothed her skirts.

"What you told me are titles...descriptions.... Please, what is your Purpose? You must have one, for you sound as if you pronounce the word with a capital 'P'."

Pharos wrinkled his nose, “I have said my Purpose. It is one with my existence.” He shrugged tiny shoulders, “But since it is so unclear, my Purpose to bring about the Fall. To call the Nyx to cleanse the corruption of this realm and free those souls trapped here.”

He skipped around the Primal Pattern, spinning with arms out wide. “Immortality? Ha! Death waits for no one. Every man comes to their End. Sometimes that End must simply be guided.”

"This realm? Do you mean this place, specifically? The Primal Pattern is corrupted and needs to be cleansed?"

Pharos laughed, “You’re such a small thinker. No. The Realm of Oberon. The City of the Unicorn. It must be purged. Its sins must be cleansed.

“My sins must be cleansed.” His voice deepened at this, an adult’s voice.

“The Fallen call for freedom. They call for the Nyx. And I shall give them to her.”

"With his death curse Eric created a prison for the forces of Chaos that were attacking Amber, and I think he got sucked into that prison himself when he died. Are these the sins you're referring to, the creation of this prison?" Gillian asked.

Pharos nodded lightly, “Yes. The wretched call for release. They have suffered enough. And those of the forsaken and forgotten also call for the Nyx. All call to her and blessed Oblivion. To truly be free. I shall give it to them. Nothing can change that. My presence here is the Sign of her coming.”

He smiled gently, “I can help you lay down your burden if you like. No sense in delaying the inevitable.” He flexed his tiny hands.

Gillian held up her hands. "I have a question first. Wanting to release the prisoners sounds like a humane course of action. But why does Amber need to be destroyed in the process?"

“It is tainted. Corrupt. It calls out for Judgment. So many people begging for release. For atonement. For rest. Just as the First City before it,” Pharos said. “Amber’s time is at an end. It must fade so another Cycle can begin. The seeds of the future growing in its ashes.”

Gillian shook her head in disbelief. "In your glee to destroy the Pattern you doom not only Amber, but all its shadows as well. And in dooming Order, you also doom Chaos. Do you understand the scope of what you so blithely desire? So many lives you would destroy, more than all the grains of sand on the beach, a million times over. WHO are YOU to pass judgement on them?

She pointed her finger at Pharos's face. "Eric is the one whose sins must be cleansed. The Pattern must be fixed, not destroyed."

Pharos cocked his head, confused. “Glee? I have no feelings of joy for fulfilling this Duty. I do not pass Judgment. I am. Nothing more. Nothing less. The path is set. My presence signifies that. All will come to their End. You cannot stop this.”

He walked closer to her, offering his hand. “I can take your pain, your doubt. Your fear. Ask yourself if you can face Oblivion knowing there is nothing you can do to stop it? Is not ignorance a better path. A gentle, merciful freedom?”

Gillian ignored Pharos's hand and looked into his eyes. "Were this another place or time, were I another person, then perhaps I would choose ignorance. But in this place and time I am bound to try and stop the Nyx from coming. Whether you believe I can succeed or not is irrelevant--I must continue to try, until either I die--again--or the End comes.

"Will you try to stop me?"

“And why would I do that?” Pharos replied, confused. He covered his mouth, hiding his sad frown. “Oh. Oh you poor thing. You believe you can win against what is coming. No. My presence here reveals the Fall. It shall come. The Nyx shall come. Nothing will change that.

“So, try. If that will ease your transition. But understand the suffering that awaits you. All of you. Hope is an illusion. I am proof of this.”

Gillian passed a hand over her face, suddenly weary of the conversation. She rose to her feet and turned to face the Primal Pattern.

As she approached the Primal Pattern, Gillian could feel her hair rise up – static sparking over her flesh like ants. The scintillating lines and swirls began to move as she drew closer, revealing shadows, tremors. Viewing them hurt the eyes, the mind. Between them lurked stars and void and the impossible. They shifted again, rearranging, reforming. This continued. Again. And again. Until finally, the angle altered enough that she caught a glimpse of emptiness… a hole in the pattern. Very subtle. But she could see how it drew the light from the other side, as if she was on the wrong side of a drain.

<There it is.> Cybele said. <As to ‘what’ it is, I haven’t a clue. Probably looks completely different in the Real. But whatever it is, that thing is siphoning energy over here.>

Gillian slowly walked around the periphery of the Pattern, looking for anything of interest both outside and inside. She marked the position of the emptiness several times on her walk for triangulation purposes.

With access to Cybele’s understanding of the Pattern, Gillian began to memorize the irregularity’s position within the four-dimensional construct. By the end of the process, a dull throb curled up behind her eyes – spiking with each heartbeat. But her keen mind had captured a small glimpse into the Dark Hour’s secret. The ‘fracture’ existed ~outside~ the temporal matrix of the Primal Pattern. At regular intervals, however, it touched the Pattern – drawing off energy.

And allowing dark energies to slip back in.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Like ichor running through a vein.

<Unicorn’s tears. The bastard created the perfect prison, by accident or design. A realm completely outside Creation. At least, until something came along and knocked them back together again. They’re connected now, in a fashion not unlike your Trump conduits.> Cybele sighed. <But see? It’s become almost parasitic. Damage one and you damage the other.>

Cybele mentally shrugged. <That’s one approach, I suppose. But the simple fix – even state facetiously – is usually the one that fails in the end. This happened once. It will happen again. No. And lest we forget the thousands of souls trapped? Shall we condemn them like my brother? I may have been a mass murderer, but even this horror offends me.>

<You're right. We need a permanent fix and not a temporary one.>

Gillian turned away from the Primal Pattern. <It's time to bring the others here. If I bring up a Pattern Lens, can you help me find Amber's Pattern? That's where we agreed they'd be.>

<Of course> Cybele said, almost bored. <I could also draft a Trump of that precious pet of yours – the Emperor’s son. That may be the more direct approach.>

<Indeed> Cybele replied. <Far easier to reproduce.> The images of Seabhac began to take shape in Gillian’s head – the sketch reassembling itself and gaining power.

Pharos touched her hand, suddenly beside her. The little boy looked up at her, sad. "I'm afraid he is coming. I'm sorry."

"Who is 'he'?" Gillian demanded, her eyes darting around.

“The Crawling Chaos,” Pharos said.

A smell of rot invaded Gillian’s nostrils. Spoiled meat and hot sickness. Cybele became alert and nervous. <Something of the Logrus. Shifting in. Soon.>

Gillian felt her stomach flop. She refocused her mental energy on contacting Seabhac.

His Trump image appeared in her mind. Its calming influence helped black out the invasive – and intensifying – sense of corruption. A flicker of light caught her attention to the left. She caught the after-image of Pharos winking out of existence.

<Hello? Gilly?> Seabhac’s voice awoke in her head. The contact faint.

"Yes, it's Gillian. I'm here at the Primal Pattern," she shouted. "There's something shifting in. Something from the Logrus. Are you some place safe?"

Seabhac paused, “Uh. I’m going to say… No. Then again, luv, not sure if anywhere here is safe. Do you need to come to us?”

Gillian took a few steps backwards. "I don't particularly want to face whatever-this-is alone, so yes, unless you want to come through to me."

Fear spiked down the contact from Seabhac. “Okay. We’re leaving.” She couldn’t be sure if he was talking to her. “Gilly. Open the gate! We need to come to you. Now. All of us are here.”

As the connection strengthened, she could see through Ginger’s eyes. What she saw wasn’t good. . . her four friends surrounded by a growing legion of living shadows.

"Opening!" Gillian shouted. Drawing on Cybele's mental strength, she brought to mind the Pattern and combined its power with the established trump contact to create a physical conduit between the two places.

A moment Later, Cynwyd came flashing through… causing the Pattern to flicker slightly. If his minor Logrus energy caused such an effect, she could only imagine what was pressing down on them – and how much power it must possess to resist the Pattern’s Orderly energy. Ginger came flying through a second later – shrieking bloody murder.

Gillian could feel Seabhac’s resolve draining. He was fighting to hold the Gate open on his side, but only barely.

Temnal followed Cynwyd throught the Gate. Once safely through, he turned around to watch that his companions got through safely ... and to help deal with anything inimical that might try to follow them through it.

Through the Gate, he noticed saw the spell he’d cast coming undone. Tartarus’ paradigms reestablished themselves, dissolving the rocky barriers he’d created. And as they crumbled, the dark masses of eyes and grey limbs squirmed through.

Opening his eyes, Cynwyd took in the rest of the room. Seeing that Temnal was facing the other way, and hearing Ginger's screech, he knew that he'd be amply warned if the situation behind him changed. He looked from the Pattern to Gillian, then satisfied that there was nothing else in the room, looked back towards the gate.

Joao stepped through at this point, his eyes bright with the endorphic rush of combat and battle. He, too, looked backwards, as much as at the opponents he had stopped fighting as the remaining Seabhac.

"Seabhac!" Gillian shouted, reaching her hand out to him. "Is that everyone? Come through!"

Seabhac smiled at her through the contact. “On my. . .” He flinched, looking beyond her – at something on his side. “Well, bollocks. . .” He sighed.

Red, raw pain flared through the mental contact.

And then it was gone.

The Gate flickered and died.

[continued in In the Dragons Belly]