WhatHappensInAmberStaysInAmber[continued from Witches Wizards and Wolves] Gillian had been certain she’d visited every bookstore in Amber. She’d been woefully incorrect in this assumption. After leaving the library, Solataire had tugged her through the crowded city streets to Crow Station. Deep within the hustle and bustle and steam and noise of the iron structure, they’d turned a corner by a toy shop and come to a small wood door with the simple painted words ‘Truepenny’s Book Emporium and Gallery.’ As they opened the door, a tin bell announced their arrival. A man with white hair glanced up from his current book – his kindly face somewhere in the mysterious range between sixty and ninety. Rows of books lined the cramped counter, while rows and rows stretched off in every direction. No elegant sorting system here – stacks of books had grown hither and yon, creating a maze of bindings and paper. They were a chaotic collection of new and used, written in a variety of languages with titles Gillian had never heard of. Solataire smiled up at the man and went to pet the scraggly, white cat lounging by the entrance. “Hello Sophie,” she cooed. The feline purred happily. “Baroness,” the old man said. “It has been too long.” “That it has, Mr. Truepenny. May I introduce my friend, Gillian?” Gillian gazed around, itching to go through every single volume in the shop to see what was there. And then put them all in reference order. "Hmmm?" she said when she heard her name, bringing her attention back to Solataire and the proprietor. "Oh! Yes, I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Truepenny. "I thought I knew every bookstore in Amber, but I've never heard of this place. And yet it appears you've been here for some time..." Mr. Truepenny gave a sagely smile. “Thank you and welcome. The Emporium has been in Amber for some time, my dear.” “Longer than you might believe,” Solataire added. She smiled at the proprietor. “Would it be too imperious to request a cup of tea, Mr. Truepenny.” Gillian raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Not only was there a bookstore here that she hadn't known about, but Solataire had been here often enough that she was chummy with the proprietor, even though she was the holy unicorn AVATAR OF THE LOGRUS. On the other hand, her son was in attendance at the university. The multiverse was suddenly a much bigger place and a much smaller place both at the same time. She was starting to feel a bit woozy. The old man shook his head and slowly rose to his feet. “Absolutely not, Baroness. I’m always happy to serve customers that appreciate my store. Now, please, peruse and I shall fetch you both a nice cup of lemon tea.” Cane in hand, he hobbled into the back room. Solataire watched him go, then turned her gaze on Gillian. “So, tell me. Why is it that you’ve never found this place, Gillian?” she asked, obviously already knowing the answer. "Some metaphysical reason I suppose, for I've explored this part of Amber before." Gillian crossed her arms and frowned, thinking. "Because you're linked somehow to the place and I'm with you, tagging on your petticoats? Or perhaps because we have questions and our desire drew us here because herein lie the answers? Can you give me a hint?" Solataire frowned. “Hints? The world does not give you ‘hints,’ Gillian. Not without a price. You must earn your answers.” She picked up a copy of The Mysterious Island and leafed through it. After a moment, she snapped it shut. “But, I am in a generous mood, and you are certainly smarter than you look." Gillian blinked. What was that supposed to mean? "Yes, there is a metaphysical reason for your ignorance of this place. Even this close to the Pattern, Shadows and Reflections still exist. Like Mr. Truepenny’s. They can be as large or as small as any other world. Some call them freeholds or faerie mounds. Some call them regios or demesnes. They can be formed on purpose, randomly, or by complete accident. They are complete worlds, even if they are incredibly small. And only those with true awareness can detect them.” Gillian thought of her Athenaeum, inside the cleaning closet in the Library. Her binding with Cybele had allowed her to create it. Had that binding also bestowed upon her "true awareness" so that she could now detect this bookstore? Would she have now seen this bookstore without Solataire's help? [Solataire] tilted her head, smiling faintly. “Now why, considering our previous conversation, would I show you this place?” "Besides that it's your 'favorite bookstore'?" Gillian replied, flipping her hand. She sobered and lowered her chin. "Perhaps because I'm soul-bound to an elder and you wanted to show me some of what...opportunities...that relationship bestows. Or perhaps more importantly you yourself are curious what sorts of interesting things that relationship bestows and you're testing me." Solataire frowned, disappointed. “I swear, Amberites and their tree-for-the-forest thinking. How did your lot ever win the War?” She shrugged and began browsing in the rear stacks. Gillian frowned as well, not used to being wrong. She plucked a volume of Elcor love poems from the shelf, flipping through it. “What I am failing to express to you is that several levels of ‘Reality’ exist side-by-side. Shadows bleeding into Shadows. Patterns reflecting upon Patterns. Even in Amber. Such as this place and others like it.” She paused to read in a monotone voice, “With Raspy Excitement: The sensual geography of your skin flaps ignites the fire within my loins.” She cringed and gingerly set the book aside. Gillian raised an eyebrow and waited. Ginger had made her immune to tangents. “I am not speaking of opportunities, Gillian. My reference is to something much larger,” Solataire sighed. “Truepenny’s existed before I brought you here. It served and ~still~ serves a Purpose. In this case, the Desire of a Royal reflected through the Pattern. Now, you’ve stated that the Dark Hour exists, but have you asked ‘why?’ What is its Purpose?” "To destroy Amber and the Pattern so that the Logrus and the Courts reign supreme again. That's the current hypothesis, anyway, and it--well, at least the first part--is supported by things Bob has said. "Which Royal?" Solataire looked down her tiny nose at Gillian, annoyance crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Fiona, I believe. A sanctuary she created during her childhood, where she’d escape when her father wasn’t treating her like a princess.” She gave a faint snort. Fiona? Gillian's mouth drew into a thin line. Her attitude toward the princess had changed dramatically once she'd learned Fiona had murdered Cybele. Granted, there were likely two sides to that story, but still...sororicide was unforgivable. [Solataire] turned away, weaving her way deeper into the store’s interior. The shelves and aisles stretched into the distance, while stairwells promised access to other floors. Gillian stared as she followed the Baroness. Just how far back did this shop go? “Once again, I believe you are viewing this with limited vision. The possible - indeed, probable - destruction of Amber is a ‘consequence’ of the Dark Hour’s existence, not a ‘purpose.’ From your description, the Dark Hour does not appear to be focused, as a weapon would be. Could it be utilized as such? Most certainly. But I rather doubt that was its original purpose. Otherwise, I suspect it would have destroyed Amber long ago.” She smiled softly, hopefully. “You’re very close to the answer, Gillian. Now think again. What does the Dark Hour do? Ignore the coincidental factors and ask yourself, ‘What is its basic nature?’” She stepped forward, placing her hand on Gillian’s chest, staring deeply into her eyes. “Remember what Azghoul asked – begged – of you.” Gillian recalled the conversation with the Baroness. She’d never spoken of anything beyond Azghoul’s name. It was one thing to be in Solataire's presence: petite, yet utterly self-possessed, she drew attention effortlessly like a glowing jewel among Amber's dull grey stones. It was another thing entirely to have this small creature invade one's personal space: Gillian's skin prickled where the older woman touched her and she noticed for the first time Solataire's eyes were violet, reminding her of certain flower-painted fields under a certain blue sky, with a certain sultry voice singing in the distance... Gillian gulped a distracting breath and self-consciously stepped backward out of reach. Solataire gave a slight pout, but did not close the distance. "It--she--begged us to give her freedom. The Nyx. Annihilation. Oblivion. So what does the Dark Hour do?" Gillian thought of her brother Jonathan, of Azghoul, of the oozing shadows chasing her, their hands clutching sharp, shiny knives... "It consumes. It assimilates. It wants our warmth...our essence." Solataire smiled faintly, and then gave a sad shake of her head. “You are so close to the Truth, Gillian. But again, you focus on the trees and not the forest. The Dark Hour is a Realm, my sweet. Just like Truepenny’s. Realms do not eat or sleep or want . They simply are. Yes, those who reside within a Realm are defined by it, but their actions do not define the Realm.” Her lips curled up at the corners. “You must understand this distinction or the Power you wield shall destroy you.” She walked up a flight of stairs, talking as she went. “In Hekate, an endless ruined city, the Lin Sidhe stalk the underground tunnels. They subsist on dreams and nightmares, stealing them for they have none of their own. And, if you ventured to that Shadow, they would gladly feed upon you. But would you blame the Lin Sidhe or the Shadow of Hekate? Your ‘Azghoul’ was no different. It hungered for life because it no longer truly lived. It desired annihilation because could not die. It was trapped. By the Dark Hour.” She turned to smile softly, “And that is the Dark Hour’s Purpose, Gillian. It is a prison.” Gillian blinked, slightly taken aback. This was certainly a different perspective on the issue--she'd been viewing the Dark Hour as having been created with the sole purpose of destroying Amber. "You said earlier you thought that the Dark Hour was the Wake bleeding into this world. And you believe that this...occurrence...is a result of Prince Corwin's curse? Do you think the 'prison' aspect of the bleedover was intentional or inadvertent?" When they reached the top of the stairs and made a quick turn, Gillian found herself back at the front of the store. The stomach-churning vertigo of this spatial impossibility could not be dismissed easily. At least by most. Solataire accepted it without comment, and focused her attentions on the tea and butter tarts Mr. Truepenny had set out for them. She nibbled on a tart and purred happily. Crumbs flew everywhere as she spoke through a mouthful of tart, “Firstly, I used Corwin’s Blood Curse as an analogy, not the specific cause for this phenomena. Corwin hatred was directed at his brother, King Eric. No, I believe this is the work of another Royal. One with a great hatred of my people. Secondly, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. . . or spiteful ones. So, I suspect most strongly this bleedover is completely unintentional. But no less dangerous. Third, I believe the Dark Hour is a less friendly version of the Wake. Sort of like Bangkok.” She paused, tart in hand, retracing her words in her mind. Stabbing the air with the half-eaten tart, she asked, “What happened to your former King, anyway?" Gillian sat and busied herself with pouring tea for everyone. "King Eric? He died in the Battle of Garnath. Prince Corwin managed things during the interregnum, and then the Unicorn chose Prince Random to be the next king." Solataire nodded and brushed some crumbs away. She gave Gillian a sagely look, as if she’d just answered some vital question. [Gillian] paused again, wondering if she should be discussing all of this in front of Mr. Truepenny, but then again, Solataire was. She mentally shrugged and reached for a tart. "So...if being a prison is the main objective, then a prison for whom or what? You mentioned that you thought a royal with 'a great hatred for your people' was behind it all. Is the enslaving of Azghoul and others like her from your end of things the purpose of this less-friendly version of the Wake?" “Punishment is the more appropriate term, rather than enslavement,” she replied. “King Eric died at the foot of Kolvir. And, rather than curse his brother, he laid his Blood Curse upon the Chaosian army that dared sully the mighty Amber. That they have no peace in life or death.” She quirked a brow slightly, frowning. “And when he did so, he carried the Jewel of Judgment - the very essence of the Pattern. Soaked in his blood.” She stepped forward, pointing at Gillian. “Imagine. With his final breaths, King Eric called upon the power of the Pattern to curse an entire army. Tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands of souls. Trapped in perpetual torment. But by damning them, he damned himself. And Amber.” Gillian stared back at Solataire, enraptured with the story, her half-eaten tart suspended in mid-air. "That fits," she finally said, lowering the tart. "I remember reading in Reynaud's Genealogy that the Royals can utter death curses. I certainly have no way of knowing what curse King Eric uttered, but Seabhac might be able to find out to corroborate what you're saying. "Azghoul did say she served House Minobee. She also said that duty brought her to where she was in the Dark Hour. And Azghoul's desiccated body, once she'd been freed from the Dark Hour...Cybele thought it looked around half a century old. Which would fit with the Battle of Garnath." Gillian bit her lower lip, wishing suddenly for Ginger's purring, sarcastic comfort. "So where does that leave us?" she continued softly. "Fixing the Primal Pattern? King Oberon died doing that, and apparently was still unsuccessful. Having another Royal utter a death curse to cancel the current one out? Not even sure that would work. Not that we'd have any volunteers, anyway." Seabhac suddenly came to her mind--he would be selfless enough to try such a crazy thing if there were no other options. Gillian clenched her fist, squeezing jam onto her fingers. She must make sure there were other options. "And meanwhile, we have the added problem of certain others from the Courts taking advantage of the situation to hit Amber when and where she's weakest." Gillian grimaced and shook her head. "What was Dworkin thinking when he gave us this task to fulfill? I'm just the daughter of a servant." Solataire breathed through sharpened teeth, “I do grow so bored of people that cloak themselves in weakness.” He voice became shrill and mocking. “‘Oh dear, oh dear. I’m just a servant. Oh my. I’m just a slave. I’m nobody.’” Her eyes flared with violet light. “If you believe such things, then you shall never aspire beyond them. We forge the chains that bind us, Gillian. Only we can cast them off. If you wear them willingly, I have no time for you.” The shadows rippled around her, coiling, twitching like restless snakes. “Perhaps I should simply take the Power bestowed you, rather than let it languish in the hands of a craven girl.” Something cold and tight twisted Gillian's insides. "I birthed a world, and during the Dark Hour I can let loose such Power that the Shadows shudder," she stated softy, resting her hands wide on the table in front of her as she glared back at the small woman. "You cannot take my Power from me. I will not let you." Solataire laughed happily, “Now there’s the fire I’m looking for! But is it just a spark or a flame, I wonder?” She leaned forward, purring like a stroked cat. “I find this side of you positively delicious. I can almost see the power behind those dish-water eyes of yours. Just aching to be set free upon the Creation.” Her painted lips curled upward, “That’s why you were chosen, Gillian. That’s why you will succeed. Pity it takes mockery for you to remember it.” Gillian chewed on her words for a long moment before finally spitting them out. "I've had nineteen years as a nobody servant and only a few weeks as Savior of the Multiverse. Forgive me if old habits die hard, and if I'm not quite comfortable with the...New Me." Solataire rolled her eyes and muttered, “Bored now.” [Gillian] carefully set her teacup onto its saucer and pushed it away. "Are there more enigmatic lessons, Baroness? Or perhaps more taunting? It worked so well with Prince Rook." “Oh, a little more taunting would be good. Spiced with a hint of mockery, perhaps?” Solataire smirked. “Alas, I should attend to my uppity son, since his father has been apparently unconcerned for his safety in the face of Armageddon. Runs in the family, I suppose.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. She turned and nodded to Mr. Truepenny, “You will forget we were here, yes?” A dull expression came over the old man’s face and he gave a mechanical nod. That wasn't at all creepy, Gillian thought to herself. She blinked. In truth, the whole situation with Solataire felt odd and unsettling and she wanted to go away somewhere quiet and process it all. "Few people know of the Dark Hour outside of our group," Gillian replied levelly as she stood up from her chair. "It's probable his father just doesn't know about it." Solataire blinked at Gillian. A sad snort escaped her and she shook her head. “And now I see why Mandor gave you my Trump,” she said. “You truly are a lost, little lamb, aren’t you?” "Wh-what?" Gillian asked, confused. She stood up and brushed by Gillian, heading for the door. She jerked the door open and held it for the young student. Apparently Gillian wasn't going to get an answer. Annoyance washed over her features. "Fine. Whatever," she mumbled as she marched past Solataire. Outside, night had fallen - the train station now eerily quiet. Somewhere, the main clock chimed the quarter hour. . . followed by low tones of eleven o’clock. Solataire smiled faintly, “Time is the predator that never rests.” "I need to return to campus," Gillian stated brusquely. Standard courtesy dictated she should make sure the Baroness had proper accommodations. The current situation, however, was anything but standard. What does one do with an Avatar of the Logrus when one doesn't wish said Avatar to follow one home? "Do you wish to retire to the Chaosian Embassy?" Gillian ventured. “Thank you, but I shall find my own way,” Solataire said plainly. “Amber is not entirely unknown to me.” She chuckled mirthlessly. “I believe you soon have enough to worry about, without my needs being answered. Run along now, Little Lamb.” And with that, the tiny woman simply came apart. . . fragmenting, dissolving. A black cloud of squawking, swirling raven wings flew Gillian, enveloping her in its shadowy, frantic caress before disappearing down the tunnel and into the night. "Yeah, she gets points for presentation," Gillian muttered. Frowning, she turned away and started back toward the university. The night was dark and still and perfect for reflection--and she had plenty to reflect upon. [continued in Bad Things Come in Threes] |
