TheRoyalDebriefing(continued from Everythings All Better Now) Cybele directed Gillian to one of the many guest wings in Amber castle. Gillian scouted it out with another Pattern Lens to assure herself no one was present before teleporting in. She collapsed onto the bed in front of her without bothering to take off her shoes and fell soundly asleep curled around the Jewel, clutching it protectively to her chest. Lips slightly parted like the perfect rosebud, Gillian slept the dreamless sleep of the dead. The sun was bright enough when she awoke to impart a warm suffused light to her room through the closed shutters. Looking down, Gillian saw the glowing Jewel peeking between her fingers pulsing gently with her own heart beat. She smiled. There was not a lot of preparation she could do before requesting an audience with the king. She stood, smoothed her wrinkled skirts, and tucked in her blouse. Her hair had a talent for tangling with itself, so she used that to her best advantage by rolling her brown tresses and slipping them into an overhand knot at the nape of her neck. It wouldn't stay in place all day, but would be good for a few hours. She slipped the Jewel into her side pocket. Gillian took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway. She started walking in a random direction, looking for the first servant she could find to relay a message from her to the king. The Castle, being under a State of Conflict, bustled with activity. It didn’t take long before one of the servants took notice of her. After a brief exchange—and the revelation of her identity—Gillian found herself being escorted to the Grand Library by two guards; a human woman and a male Weir. They treated her with a thinly veiled mix of reverence and suspicion. Much of the Castle exhibited minor changes—several advanced amenities catching her eye. Magical lighting, hearth witches amongst the staff, and clockwork birds carrying messages through the halls to nname a few. However, no one appeared out of sorts about these changes, accepting them as rote. When she arrived at the Library, it appeared to be empty. A large table had been moved in the room; its surface layered with stacks of papers and tomes. The guards jerked a nervous nod to her and locked the door behind them. “So, I’m told you’re mix of Brand and Magical Girl,” Random called down to her from the second floor. He leaned over the balcony. “True?” Gillian thought about it briefly. "Partly. Temnal is the one joined with Prince Brand." She smiled ironically and curtsied. "Gillian Talbot, at your service, sire." Random flinched, “Oh really? So, Brand is back. Well, that’s a lovely turd in my corn flakes.” Gillian blinked. The king was more informal than she expected. Not that that was bad, just ... unexpected. "Temnal is in control," she assured him. "We're all in the process of ... merging, but personal experience indicates that the conduit personality should still be dominant." “Merging?” Random replied. “That sounds ominous. I’ll pretend it isn’t. I’m a master of denial.” He disappeared for a moment, only to reappear, sliding down the second floor ladder. He dusted himself off and walked over to her, extending his hand warmly. “First, and foremost, my deepest gratitude for helping keep Amber safe from … well, whatever evil it was. Still not clear on that part. “Second, any particular reason you thought you’d spruce up Creation while you were being heroic?” Gillian paused while extending her hand. "Um … well, to be quite honest, some changes were intentional, but other changes, I don't know. Perhaps they're a result of the intentional changes, or perhaps something reflected from my subconscious." She shook his hand, then stepped back and took a deep breath. "I did intentionally increase the respectability of those in the field of library science. I apologize profoundly if the results of my actions are displeasing to you. But, really, isn't the magical lighting pretty?" She smiled hopefully. Random nodded, gesturing for him to join her at the table. Some refreshments were there: tea, liquor, and crackers & cheese. Gillian eyed the liquor bottle and then eyed Random. She made no comment, but quickly fixed herself tea and piled cheese and crackers onto a plate. “’Displeased’? That’s not a word I’d use. As wonderful as the new plumbing is, I’ve got troubles popping up everywhere. Yes, I had intended on slowly increasing the technological paradigms of the Golden Circle and surrounding Shadows. But emphasis on the ‘slowly.’ “Unfortunately, your little boost to worldly education has made that a moot point. I’ve got several nations on my borders that have undergone industrial revolutions overnight. And not all of them are friendly. I’ve got ‘wisdom’ religions popping up, trying to liberate the Masses. Brushfire wars using blood-magic rather than spears, artillery rather than ballistae. Trade routes are completely different. Forests and farmland have disappeared. I have an iron dreadnaught from some Trading Company sitting in my harbor.” He sighed faintly, “Education doesn’t necessary make people smarter, Ms. Talbot. But it sure gives them the tools to do stupid things.” Gillian sat down across from the king. She was silent for a moment, considering things. "I believe that education plays a key role in providing individuals with the knowledge, skills, and competences needed to participate effectively in society," she finally said. "It can help improve their lives in such areas as health, civic participation, political interest, and even happiness. I've also seen studies that show educated individuals live longer, participate more actively in politics and in their community, commit fewer crimes, and rely less on social assistance. "Those were the things that were running through my mind at the time. I was hoping to improve … Not to imply that things needed improving! But … I suppose it shouldn't be so surprising that a cosmic balance needed to be maintained between positive and negative results from such a sweeping action, now that I have the luxury of hindsight." She took her tea in hand. "Um … well, if 'displeased' is not a word you'd use, may I ask what is a word you'd use?" Random sipped his drink – whiskey neat. “Uneasy? Maybe that’s the best word for it. I’m not overly upset, granted. Your intentions certainly make sense. From a certain perspective, anyhow. And I share them, certainly. I want my people to have access to the best schools and opportunities. I’ve seen the worlds where ignorance rules. And I’m not my father. I prefer diplomacy, discourse. Not tyrannical rule. “But, I‘ve also a flip-side to that coin. If people live longer, there will be more of them. If people realize they can have more, they’ll desire more. If they think they have a say in the world, they most certainly will speak up. And that creates conflict, of a completely different sort.” He leaned forward, “I’m not here to lecture or condemn or whatever. But, as wonderful as your gift to Creation was, it’s thrown a wrench in the works. The Golden Circle was hanging together by a thread. Now, each country has the Will and the Means to rewrite their Destiny. Read up on Shadow Earth history—the end of the 19th century, specifically. And you’ll get a good idea of what’s likely to come.” He took another long swig, “And don’t even get me started with Rebma.” A long pause, his body deflating in the couch—as if a hundred years were weighing upon him. “What I need to know is this. Will you take responsibility for your Gift? And all that will require of you?” Gillian almost dropped her cup, the king's words reminding her eerily of others spoken to her not so very long ago. You will live to fulfill your full Potential. Swear it, Gillian Talbot ... Destroyer. Hands shaking, she replaced her tea on the table in front of her. "Of course I will," she replied, raising her eyes to look into Random's. "I will swear an oath to you here and now, if you would like." Random raised a brow, “Really? An oath of fealty or something deeper, perhaps?” Cybele cringed, barely suppressing her anger at agreeing to such an indignity. As if sensing this, the King leaned forward, “Are you certain, Ms. Talbot? The Family rarely submits to such oaths. After all, we’re long-lived. Very long-lived.” Gillian's gaze didn't falter. "Sire, I've looked at the Primal Pattern since I've been back. It's beautiful and perfect, except for a strange line of energy coming off of it and shooting far out into shadow, something I certainly did not include in my edits. Cybele thinks it's maybe a trump gate, or a conjuration channel. I don't know where the beam is going, but I have a suspicion that when it reaches its destination we're not going to like it. The boy at the Primal Pattern, an aspect of your brother Eric, said the Nyx was coming, the Fall was inevitable, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. Annihilation." She reached into her pocket, drew out the Jewel, and set it pulsing on the table in front of her. "I am not part of your long-lived Family. I am a human girl, plucked from death and joined to a Pattern ghost by your grandfather, under contract to him to do whatever it takes to save Amber from the Dark Hour. In the last twelve hours I've sworn to your Pattern's Griffin, I've sworn to Temperance at the center of the Primal Pattern, and I sacrificed my Familiar and my deepest love to clean up the mess Eric made with his death curse. “Why should I fear or despise an oath made to you?" Random laughed, warm and empathic. “Well, yes. I suppose that’d influence your way of thinking, somewhat.” He flexed his fingers and the Jewel leapt to his hand, as eager as a faithful dog. It flared for an instant, then resumed its nondescript existence. Gillian relaxed her shoulders and let out a small breath. "It becomes mutually beneficial," she continued. "You get a 'Magical Girl' in your pocket who in certain key areas is more powerful than Princess Fiona, and I get a buffer between me and certain other royals. You'll recall that Cybele was murdered, right? And that you're all very long-lived, with very long memories." <Cybele, do you really disapprove?> Cybele returned a mental shrug. It felt distant. Muted. The weaving of emotions and thoughts quickened by the moment. <He seems a foolish King. But the true Fool is the wisest one.> Across from her, Random nodded lightly, “Yeah, I think I’ve had enough of the Red-heads running the magick shop in the castle. Would be nice if that monopoly got broken up.” A gentle smile, “Ms. Talbot. Do you swear to place Amber’s concerns before your own? To not blow up large portions of my city?—“ She winced. “—Or parts of Creation unless they really deserve it? To return books to the library in acceptable timeframes? Treat those under you with due respect? And not break into my liquor cabinet? Lest the Unicorn eat your heart and generally do harm to your person?” Gillian laughed and covered her face with her hands. This was all so … surreal. She lowered her hands and raised her chin, the smile on her face weary. "I do so solemnly swear. So … now what? Do we spit in our palm and shake hands?" Random snorted, “Never been one for bodily fluids. Share a strong drink with me.” He poured her an amber glass of something that smelled of sharp edges. “And we’ll go from there.” Gillian could feel her nasal passages opening from where she sat. The alcohol content had to be … what? … over 100 proof? She smiled gamely and picked up her tumbler. "Sire, have you been in contact with your grandfather since the … repair?" Random downed his drink—immediately wincing, as if he’d be stabbed. A raspy breathed escaped him. “Yeah. That’s the stuff.” He gave her a mild shrug, “Dworkin remains ever reclusive. Half the time I do trip over the old bugger, it’s when I’m staggering to the loo at some ridiculous hour. And he’s usually talking to the drapes or turning one of my guards into an apothecary chest. “So, no. Haven’t seen him for awhile now.” Gillian took a healthy swig of her whiskey and ended up coughing on her sleeve. It burned on the way down, but it filled her belly with a lovely warmth and gave her a faint fuzziness at the edges of her mind. She set her glass down. "As the physical manifestation of the Pattern, it would seem to me that his mental state should directly reflect the efficacy—or not—of my repair. Do you know how to contact him?" “Generally, I bait a trap with a plate of cookies and some malt scotch,” Random said, straight-faced. A pregnant pause. Gillian raised her eyebrows. Then a shrug. “Truthfully, I’ve never dared try use his Trump. I know where his room is. But I’ll need a few more swigs of this before going down there.” "I'm content to wait," Gillian said. She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “For a mousy thing you certainly have a tigress in you,” he replied, getting up—bottle in hand. "I've been practicing." “Follow me, then. And if you end up a hat-rack, don’t say I didn't warn you.” He exited the library and headed to the Grand Hall. As if retracing the steps she’d taken only a few hours before, Random led her down into the dungeons. They turned away from the spiraling stairwell and into the Political wing—dank and hideous in its design. The flagstones were worn, as if from the passage of a thousand pilgrims. Random stopped at a cell door, pausing to light the lamp beside it. “Not our finest hour, this one,” he said, opening it. Gillian just looked at him dubiously. Dworkin was in the dungeons? Really? The cell, hardly large enough to lie down in, had been cleaned in recent years. To a point, anyway. Blackened straw and ash lay piled up near the latrine—as if someone had set a fire here long ago. A very intricate carving decorated the far wall. In the lantern’s glow, it began to shimmer slightly—as if moonlight was reflecting on the stones. On the right wall, another skilled carving had been drawn. This one featured a personal den or library. Bookshelves lined the walls; a desk rested in the foreground, flanked by an expensive globe. A skull sat on the desk, a candle melting on it. The flame … the flame almost flickered in the darkness. Gillian sensed an immediate change in the room as she gazed into it. It shifted somehow. Energies began to build. Not Pattern, but Trump. The carvings were Trumps of incredible complexity and power. <Oberon's Balls, look at the craftsmanship! Aren't these trumps glorious?> she asked her Other. <They’re Grandfather’s. Sketches, really.> A vague memory of the study comes to her. Leaning over the old man’s shoulder; watching him etch a World into existence with little more than a quill and parchment. "Fascinating," Gillian commented to Random as she stepped into the cell to get a better look. "I look forward to one day hearing how these came to be here. I assume the study is your grandfather's? What lighthouse is that?" “Cabra,” Random said, standing outside the room. “That’s the Trump Corwin used to escape his imprisonment. This is his cell.” "Oh." Several things that the histories in the University library had left out regarding Prince Corwin and his interment clicked into place. Random kept his eyes averted, “It’s a one-way trip, Ms. Talbot. Fair warning.” "Warning accepted, sire. If he wants, I suppose Dworkin will have the power to send me back. If he doesn't want, then I suppose it doesn't much matter. My life is his when all is said and done." She boldly reached out and squeezed Random's arm in farewell, flashing him a grin, then turned back to the carving of the den and concentrated on it. “Do come back. And in one human piece, if at all possible,” he replied. “I’m growing to like you. And we have enough coat-racks.” Almost immediately, the Trump began to shimmer—as if it needed to be utilized. Gillian sensed its power; immense and forbidding. It seemed to suck in the cell’s dank air, tugging at her skirt. The candle flickered, casting strange shadows and splashes of light over every surface. She found herself leaning forward, as if the ground was tilting. And then, she was in another place. Lightning flashed beyond a complicated lattice of bronze—like the bars of an elaborate cage. Blue carpeting lined the floor; its darkened weave hinting at arcane symbols when stared at too long. A round table dominated the room. A single, armless chair sat in front of it. And, behind it, a broad-backed loveseat of blue velvet. Like a predatory bird, Dworkin sat in the love seat—his round, bloodshot eyes staring through Gillian. “Ah. She who holds the Universe in her hands has returned,” he chuckled to himself. “Couldn’t stay away could you?” Gillian curtsied. Overly formal seemed safer than common familiarity, at least until she discovered the lay of the land. "You know me too well, sir," she replied. "I would address you by your proper title, but I'm not sure what it is. The genealogies all begin with King Oberon, and you only told us to call you 'Bob.' “Oh, I have so many names,” Dworkin said. “But you can call me … Tim.” She looked at him sharply: Mad or sane? How to tell? "But to come to the point: I believe we have succeeded in abolishing the Dark Hour, and I have sought you out to either confirm or deny it, and to ask you what the beam of light emanating from the Primal Pattern means." Dworkin chuckled, folding his hand in front of his pick-axe nose. “The moment man devoured the fruit of knowledge, he sealed his fate. Beyond the beaten path lies the absolute End. It matter not who we are … Death awaits us all. To live is to die. “Alas, that time has come. Again.” Gillian stared at him for a moment. She felt a tic start in her left eye. "Mirelle. Is she here?" Dworkin looked at her for a moment, blinking. He appeared to notice her again. “Eh what? My assistant? No. One of you lot stole her. Not very polite. No loyalty, eh what?!” He tugged on his ear-hair. “Had to rent the banshee in her place. And all that one does is flit around pining for her brother. Bloody nuisance, if you ask me.” He shrugged, absently shuffling his deck of cards. “All over soon enough. Blessed relief that’ll be.” "The Nyx? How do we stop her?" “Stop her?” Dworkin blinked. “Stopping the Nyx is impossible, eh what! It has nothing to do with strength, ability, or power. Just as all living things die ... and the flow of time is continuous ... the Nyx cannot be defeated. Damned nuisance, damned nuisance. “She ate the First Amber, did you know that? Left a big bloody hole in the middle of Chaos she did. Unsightly thing too. Still, made for an excellent place to chuck unruly grandchild, eh what. Hahahaha!” He glanced over her shoulder, staring at something, disgruntled. “Yes, yes. You didn’t mean to fall in there. Shouldn’t have been a handy prisoner, eh? Serves you right, stupid girl.” His crazed, glass eyes returned to Gillian. “Sorry. Where were we?” <Cybele, what do you know about the Nyx?> Cybele's reply—if it was one—sounded very much like Gillian's own voice. Indeed, it was as if she had drawn upon one of her own memories. The Nyx. Also known as She Who Waits Below. Lady of the Inner Labyrinth. The Shining Eye. Bringer of True Annihilation. Existed millennia before the Serpent and the Unicorn. She dwells in Achlys, where Time, Space, and Matter no longer exist. Even Eternity holds no meaning there. Those who are touched by her through Dream are drawn into her, uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the desire for dissolution. The Abyss, it is believed, resulted from her Manifestation in Creation. All subterranean races worship her, offering sacrifices to appease her, lest she open the gateway to Achlys and annihilate the whole world. Gillian returned her attention to Dworkin and said, "Well, that's a fatalistic attitude. So you brought us back from death and joined us to a pattern ghost so we can save Amber and all her shadows only to be annihilated by the Nyx, and your response is 'All over soon enough' and 'Blessed relief that’ll be'?" Dworkin snorted, offended. "Well, I wasn't exactly expecting for her to be called, eh what? Wasn't in the Grand Scheme. Or the small print. But there it is. May as well enjoy it while you can, indeed. I might go to Vegas. I here they have a bunny ranch. Only the bunnies aren't really bunnies, eh what, woop-woop!" He shrugged, shuffling his cards again. "Blasted! Thought I took that card out. But it keeps popping back in. Damned nuisance." He tossed a Trump across the table—the image spinning, spinning until settling in front of Gillian. The Hanged Man, but the sacrificed figure kept ... shifting. Androgynous. Faceless. As if its identity remained undecided. Gillian rifled through her memory of Cybele's True Trumps for the Hanged Man card. Who was depicted? Did it look the same as Cybele's? Oddly, whenever she attempted to recall the True Trump, it mimicked the one in front of her. But hadn't it once looked like her father—Oberon? Wait! Her father? The whole melding thing was in some ways ... unsettling. Then, Gillian remembered—the True Trumps were intimately tied to the Primal Pattern, as they were Representations of Creation itself. Change one and the other must also be changed. Could Gillian change the trump and fix it? Unlikely. She had the feeling the Trump reflected the future. Someone would need to fulfill this Role once again. Just as her fath— Oberon had. Had? Why wasn't he still there? Was it something she did when she made her edits? Then another thought occurred to her. So who had fulfilled that role before Oberon? Or was it somehow tied up with Eric's curse so there had been previously no need? Dworkin made a whistling noise like a tea-pot. "Or maybe no one did, eh what? Maybe why the First Amber went the way of stretchy pants." If the Nyx had destroyed the first Amber—apparently with ease—maybe it had been unprotected. The shadows—greater and lesser—had all seemed quite intent on destroying that Great Seal she'd seen. All to summon the Nyx and achieve their blessed dissolution. Or maybe not summon at all. But open the Way for the Nyx to manifest. Maybe that was why Pharos/Eric needed to wait to fulfill his Purpose. And just why had Oberon died fixing the Pattern and she hadn't? Surely, he'd have had the skills to survive—more so than her anyway. Unless he'd known what horror his son had unleashed … and sacrificed himself to prevent the Second Fall of Amber. Gillian covered her mouth with her hand. She looked up at Dworkin. "How long? How long do we have? Dworkin tweaked his blade-nose, "Oh, seventy-two hours give or take. She's moving at a nice little clip, eh what!" Although she'd started this conversation with all her politeness filters intact, the more Dworkin talked, the more Gillian felt the last vestiges of good upbringing and manners draining away. She conveniently blamed it on her merging with Cybele. "So essentially we need someone to become the new and improved Hanged Man in the next 72 hours or we're all obliterated? Did I miss anything?" Dworkin thought for a moment; or he may have just been testing the length of his ear-hair. Then a faint shrug. “Nope. That sums it up nicely.” Gillian thought about it herself, then shook her head slowly. "No, I don't buy it. There is a way to seal the Nyx up again. Etrosk did it, after you and Tiamat released her the first time and she destroyed the First City." She crossed her arms. "So how did they do it? Etrosk said that you sought to learn the mysteries of the Nyx, at Tiamat's urgings. So it's time to spill." Dworkin grunted happily, "Oh yes. She had the most perfect breasts. All ten of them." He squirmed in his chair and smiled most salaciously. He enjoyed the memory for a moment, as he and the world returned to that instant—Gillian almost hearing, smelling the tryst. He gave a contented sigh, and then tweaked his nose again. “Real tiger in the sack, but a consummate liar. Pity. Did I mention she had ten breasts, eh what? Well, yes. Tricked me into the Inner Labyrinth. Made too much noise, apparently. The Nyx didn’t take to kindly to that. Woke up. Destroyed the First City. Very tragic. Made a nice landfill, though.” He tugged on some ear hair again. “The Deepwalkers sacrificed their essence to appease the Nyx. The Nyx really does love sacrifices. So, burned away their spirits, eh what? Made themselves mortal.” He tapped his ear and then chirped and burbled with excitement. “Ah yes. That does make sense now. Sexy-Tail did eat several of her brethren after that. Crunchy-munchy. Can’t do that unless you’ve got a body, eh what? And what a body it is, boop-oop. Bit petty though. Breasts notwithstanding.” "But how could she have breasts if she was spirit … ?" Gillian waved her hands in front of her. "Nevermind. Look, you said the Nyx likes sacrifices. What kind of sacrifices? Besides dooming someone to take the Hanged Man's place?" "Essence. Spirit. Souls. Shadows," Dworkin said. "And cheesecake. Everyone likes cheesecake." While Dworkin tugged on his ear hair before answering, Gillian dug around in her and Cybele's memories: Who was on the Hanged Man trump before Oberon? (Because Cybele created it way before Eric's Curse.) Cybele's trumps seemed to be a different level of power beyond the Pattern and the Logrus. Was there another trump that might help them? What about The Tower? Cybele's True Trumps were designed to Invoke the Arcana—Manifestations of Creation's passion and spirit. They were not, magically-speaking, based on a true person. Her original Hanged Man had been a middle-aged man with rope marks on his hands and feet; his overall appearance varying with each draw—though commonly a knight in old, rusty armor. Invoking the Hanged Man required the Drawer to risk their life heroically for something or someone—with the true threat of death being the cost. Gillian suspected the proximity to Dworkin—and thus the Pattern—was likely altering her perception of the card's appearance. And, of course, she'd also need to summon the card from where it was; it, along with Death, were still missing. The Tower, while exceedingly powerful, was the most terrible of all the True Trumps. Unlike the other Arcana, it possessed no 'reversed' position. It simply brought about the destruction of Reality and represented truncated destiny—evil in the root of the world. Invoking it required the Drawer to murder someone Named by the Trump. Gillian remembered that the Trump would then disappear … finding its way into the hands of another. And offering the same Pact. The victim being the previous Drawer. Also, what did she think the Great Seal in the Dark Hour represented in Amber? Was it a seal over the Primal Pattern? Maybe it was a Way for the Nyx to manifest, and all they needed to do was prevent it from being opened. The Great Seal was probably how Oberon's essence appeared in the Dark Hour. At least until things began breaking down and the Ward weakened to the point of nothing. In many ways, this made more sense … Oberon had created a Ward, whilst the Deepwalkers were forced to enact a full Dismissal. In effect, the Way had been Opened after Oberon's final dissolution. It could not be Closed until she fully Manifested. Gillian sighed and smiled weakly. "Yes, everyone I know with any sense likes cheesecake. Indeed. But will the Nyx have any sense? "Thank you for the information, sir. With any luck maybe we'll all survive this—and then you can go visit Vegas, wherever that is." Gillian curtsied again and focused on bringing the Pattern to mind. It pained her to do so, the Pattern's structure continuously unraveling in her mind before she could summon its Power. Dworkin tugged on his nose, "Though life is merely a journey to the grave, it must not be undertaken without hope. Only then will a traveler’s story live on, treasured by those who bid her farewell …" He waved his hand dismissively, "Farewell, Gillian." The floor fell out from under her, and she found herself plummeting through a void of blue lightning and shadows. The Room above shrank into a small dot against this emptiness-that-wasn't … then disappeared. And when it did, she sat bolt-upright in the moldering bed of Corwin's jail cell … the images fading like a dream. (continued in The Midnight Circus) |
