As the King's personal secretary, Gilt Winter has dealt with countless introductions and requests for a royal audience. Most requests varied from the banal to the notable with the select few drifting into the truly memorable. This specific request hints at the latter.
The rabbit ears are a dead giveaway.
He's likely heard of the Family's recent addition. Witching hour calls for spicy noodles. Rooftop marathons and mock combats. Impromptu funk performances. Colourful graffiti in unattainable locales. One-sided chats with random objects. A plethora of innocuous, yet baffling behaviours. Even for a Royal. But second-hand reports did her quirky reputation little justice. In the flesh, she was so much... more.
Tricksey appears to have stepped from the pages of Alice in Wonderland, if written while Lewis Carroll was tripping on mescaline at a Bauhaus concert. The short-sleeved dress drapes down in layers of crimson and bone-white, accenting the black knee-high boots. A charcoal Gentleman's jacket rests over her ashen corset and lavender tie. But the blood-trimmed top hat truly catches the eye, thanks to the snowy rabbit ears sewn into its dark felt.
She checks the golden pocket-watch hanging from her breast pocket with a gloved hand, wrinkling her nose. "Oh my ears and whiskers," she says, flipping it closed.
Tricksey gracefully curtseys. Painted lips curl up, hopeful, pleading. "Lord Winter. Crow Girl need King Unspecific. She rested. Proper. And bushy tailed. So Tricksey walk Pattern now. Live or die. Poop or get off pot. Tick tock. Tick Tock."
"Call me Gilt. His majesty is swimming in the lake now, and has a poker game planned for late this evening. It's a bit cold for the rest of us, but the king likes to, as he says, 'go jump in a lake'."
He pauses. "Do you wish to set a formal appointment? He does not require that of his family, but the option is available. We could arrange something for next Twosday, which is his regular day for dealing with petitions."
If it's cold now, Tricksey thinks the summer will be difficult. The weather isn't even cool today.
The heat has definitely made Tricksey edgy. She misses the cold damp and urban chill. Maybe staying here wasn't in the cards. Not during summer anyway.
She thinks on Gilt's and then rolls her shoulders. "No formal. Crow Girl need thumbs up. Yes or no. Chop-chop. Interrupt swim or cards? Find tomorrow?"
Drifting across the room, she lightly touches things that catch her interest, gloved fingers drifting over their surfaces. "What protocol for Pattern? King need be there?"
"The protocol for what, My Lady?" Gilt either doesn't know what Tricksey is talking about or Gilt is acting like he doesn't know.
"There's no formal protocol for seeing the King. If you wish to see the King and can swim, he's usually near the waterfall. He says it's peaceful." Gilt definitely does not think that almost-under-a-waterfall qualifies as peaceful.
"If you need bathing attire, I can have Vent's people find some for you."
Tricksey nods, "Crow Girl dip toes. Talk to King. Not swim. Float, maybe. Look stellar, certainly." She spins in place, as if to demonstrate.
Gilt smiles a bit, in spite of his better efforts.
She cocks her head, waiting for Gilt to lead on. The ears waggle slightly. "Does King meet commoners? From city. Tricksey curious who speaks for people."
"Usually people speak for people, and the King does have open court some days, but the Lord Mayor, Lord Ash, generally represents the city and has the mayor's office below. He met the King when they were in a band in shadow. His wives were also in the band.
Gilt leads on, and shortly comes to the Steward's Pantry. It's an office with a desk and several cabinets in any case. He turns to a housekeeper. "Can we arrange bathing attire for Lady Tricksey? She wishes to speak with the King in the lake."
The woman, who might be 25 or 45, puts down the papers she was staring at and rises. "Of course. Please follow me."
She leads Tricksey to a wardrobe and picks out something that looks old fashioned to Tricksey, but it's hard to make modern swimwear if you have no elastics.
If Tricksey finds something she likes (or doesn't), she can proceed to the boathouse, from whence she can swim or row out to see the King.
Untutored in the Bikini Arts, Tricksey asks questions both numerous and awkwardly direct. Tensile strength and gravitic qualities are paramount.
In time, she settles upon a Kawaii-style, one-piece of gothic black, corset-tied with straps forming a pentagram over her chest. Emerging from the changing room, she shifts and squirms uncomfortably, trying to adjust herself. "How people endure this? Too many crow parts on display."
"If My Lady wishes, we can provide a coat and a parasol."
The coat is long, perhaps too long for Tricksey, and seems more appropriate to a western drama than a trip to a lake. It would be significantly less flamboyant.
She awkwardly follows her guide down to the boathouse, looking very distressed.
Tricksey, attired in whichever variant she has chosen, arrives at a small pier not far from the castle. One of the red-caped guards from the throne room is at the dockside. The king has finished his laps and is in his inner-tube under the falls. Tricksey is offered a kayak, a tube of her own, or directions to his normal spot if she wishes to swim.
The guard seems to Tricksey to be as awkward and unprepared for this moment as she is.
The maid curtseys and leaves.
Tricksey looks out and shivers, unnerved. That is a profound amount of water. She's used to it falling from the sky. Not being in a lake. Unless said lake was on fire from petrochemicals.
In the end, she picks the inner-tube, carefully settling into it. A cawing curse echoes, as her butt hits the cool water. Crazy people. They were all crazy people.
Using her feet as the motor and arms as oars, she paddles out toward the waterfall. It is an awkward sight, as she constantly misjudges the current and ends up spinning in place. By the time she reaches the crashing waters, she's educated anyone within earshot to an entire vocabulary of corvid swear words. She saves the pièce de résistance for ducking under the falling waters, nearly being upended in her tube.
Thoroughly drenched, colored hair clinging to her face, bathing outfit billowing, she looks like a modestly-drowned Ophelia. Her arms waggle loosely, as if in introduction. "King! Tis I. Tricksey Crow Girl. Daughter of Daeon. She who is resplendent. Memory and Speaker. Protector of the Downtrodden and Noodles. Requesting audience with his Grand Poobahness!"
She grumbles, vainly trying to adjust her bathing suit without upending herself.
"Well, since you paddled all the way out here, you might as well have your audience. But you'll have to tell me what the noodles are in danger from, unless that's also you."
His eyes are still shut as he turns lazy circles around the a current. He's not wearing a shirt, and it's possible that he's not wearing anything but a rubber inner tube.
He paddles nearer to her. "Anyway, welcome to my sanctuary behind the falls. It's peaceful here."
It is not peaceful here.
"Faux Noodles," Tricksey says. "Evil Foxes make. Taint majesty of true Noodles. Crow Girl protect master chefs. Maybe not benevolent. But still protector."
She kicks her feet and paddles with her hands, trying to stay in one place. Fails repeatedly. "Loud and wet Sanctuary. Like kappa's ben. Respect choice. Should have brought cucumbers."
Bottomless or no, Tricksey remains unfazed. She's used enough public bathhouses to have lost such inhibitions. "Oh Mighty One of Water and Stochasticity, I, Tricksey, She of Amazing Gams and Feathered Friends, most humbly do request to walk the Pattern." Another current spins her, nearly knocking her over. The subsequent string of curses dispels her attempt at nobility.
Bottomless or no, Tricksey remains unfazed. She's used enough public bathhouses to have lost such inhibitions. "Oh Mighty One of Water and Stochasticity, I, Tricksey, She of Amazing Gams and Feathered Friends, most humbly do request to walk the Pattern." Another current spins her, nearly knocking her over. The subsequent string of curses dispels her attempt at nobility.
Random holds up a finger. "You can't have phở without phở noodles, so that sounds like a zen koan, which I decline to meditate upon. But OK, the pattern. How are you feeling? Rested, energetic, ready to race up a mountain? Are you so full of drive that nothing can stop you?"
He opens his eyes, and stares right at her, as if he's looking through her, with eyes that look like the sea. "Because the only rule is that you must either finish it or die, so I want to know that you're ready. If you think you're not, you can wait."
Tricksey steadies herself long enough to hold his gaze. "Crow Girl training. Most of life. Not know why. Maybe Papa whispered words. Tricksey heard without hearing. Rested here enough. Time she takes next leap."
Her voice dips slightly, an uncommon severity lurking in her tone. "Tricksey walk the High Road. Every day. Where gravity and rain threaten. One misstep ready to claim her. Hungry darkness snatch life away. Tricksey lose family to the High Road. She knows cost Pattern reflects."
A faint smile, "Live or die. All or nothing. Is Crow Girl way."
"And also my Grandfather's way. Your Great-great-Grandad. He made the pattern, with, he tells us, 'lightning, blood, and lyre.' I thought he was a pretty big lyre himself for saying that, then I decided it was probably a metaphor, and lately I've been suspecting that if I looked hard enough I'd find a plectrum that'd he'd somehow used to inscribe it in stone."
Random paddles towards Tricksey. "So, here's the way this works. I take you down to a room deep under the castle, and we reach a huge glowing tracery on the floor of a huger chamber. You walk it. It resists. And it's not just physically resistant. It's a mental challenge as well, or it usually is. You'll be tempted to stop, or to step off. Don't.
"I can't tell you more because it's different for everyone. It will be the toughest thing you've ever done, or the last thing you ever tried.
"If you're not tired, hurt, thirsty, or hungry, we can go now."
Tricksey lazily drifts in circles as he speaks, listening quietly - an indication that she's actually listening for once. At the end, she nods again. "Crow Girl is ready."
She tilts her head, "How many Patterns? Need walk all or one? They different? Give Tricksey new gifts?"
"Ok, let's go." He starts paddling towards the dock. Straight through the falls, but still straight. For a guy who looks like he could be blown over in a strong wind, he's plenty strong, and just effortlessly pulls towards the current with just his hands. He's about to get a very cold shower to go with his very cold bath.
"There's only one pattern, and it's not where you think it is. Om mani padme hum, and all that. There's one under this castle, one under Corwin's Paris, one in Rebma that Celina controls, one your Grandfather has in Avalon, and one that our cousins and sometimes enemies have in Tir-na nOgth. But they're all the same.
"I know people who've taken more than one. There's no special grace from walking a second copy. It's like reading a different copy of the same book.
"Also, it's bloody stupid to walk it if you don't need to. Things that try to kill you shouldn't be used unless you've got a good reason. I'm not gonna stop you, but it's not gonna help you."
Random disappears for a moment under the cascade of water, and his voice is drowned out by the roar. He doesn't stop talking, but Tricksey can't hear what he says next.
Tricksey tries to wrap her head around this One Pattern thing. In the end, it seems like too much handwavium to her, and she simply shrugs it off. At least the impending death thingie felt right.
She dives under the falling water, trying to catch up. "Crow Girl not hear last part. Repeat?"
"I couldn't hear myself either, there was water in my ears!", he shouts back. He reaches the dock and pulls himself up in one smooth motion. He is wearing trunks, or something anyway. It's not coving him well, but it is covering him. It might've once been charitably described as boxer shorts.
A servant hands him a towel and he hands the man his inner tube. "Thanks, Pike, " He looks back to see Tricksey. Once she joins him, he takes of at a brisk walk towards the castle.
"Last chance to ask questions before we get there," he says, walking up towards the kitchen door.
Tricksey catches up to him, her sandaled feet still squelching with water. "If Pattern different for each, questions hard. Tricksey not see what King saw, yes? Just accept and always move forward. Seem simple as Euclidean Geometry. Crow Girl always had an angle on that class. Even when it got obtuse."
She skips around Random, twirling her swimming dress. "If Tricksey die, tell momma, yes? And apologize to Lark. Crow Girl promise teach lockpicking. And charter accounting. Give comic collection to Brita. And pull stick from Harsh's butt. Project in progress. Very sad if not finish due to death."
"I'll make a list, but I don't expect to use it. Harsh is like you, and like a lot of you; too old to be considered a baby and not old enough to know as much as you think you know. He'll be fine, but he's likely to be in for some more surprises in the next few years. We'll see how he reacts to them."
The King takes Tricksey down a corridor and then down a stairs. At first it's simply going through castle basements and corridors but eventually, the way down seems to be singularly focused on this one journey. The lights are further apart and the stairs look only infrequently travelled.
Random stops at the bottom and listens. "Jerod and Edan came this way. I think they'll be back, but not immediately."
Tricksey skips at the names, grinning. "Edan of the Chin. Jerod of the Frown. Crow Girl likes them. Hope see again. Especially Jerod's daughter. She beautiful dish with side of danger. Tricksey like danger."
The room at the bottom of the stairs exits into a cave, jarringly natural after the carved stone of the upper levels. There are no lights here, just the torch Random takes from the wall, along with a giant iron key, labeled "Key".
"If you ever come down here, don't. It's not safe, but if you do, follow the lefthand passage and take the 7th opening. I'm pretty sure it's still the 7th, it's not like it's ... Ok it is set in stone, but that's beside the point."
"Why dangle shiny in front of Crow Girl?Is just mean," she pouts. "But Tricksey get hint. Even if no like it."
They walk and Random counts openings.
"Seven! Good thing." There's a door, and it looks like it was old when the Universe was new. Random pulls out the key and puts it in the lock and turns it. He pushes open the door, large enough to ride a very fat horse through, and Tricksey sees it.
It's huge, and it glows, and it's an intricate tracery of red light, and it appears to be a single line crossing itself across the room that it fills.
It seems to sizzle and burn its way into her being, and also to be trying to burn its way out. Tricksey feels as if she is part of it and it of her.
"Yeah, hits me like that, and I made this one. You start over there. I stand here, silently cheering for you to succeed.
"Go ahead when you're ready."
Tricksey has witnessed many miracles in her days. An urban ocean of petroleum flames and neon rain. A six-day winning streak in Heaven's golden and velvet wonderland. The exquisite geography of pale skin and crimson smiles in the shadows of Skeleton Row. But they're all humbled by this display. They'd been right. Words couldn't do this justice.
Eerily sIlent, she walks toward this display of power, hypnotized. Yearning. A deeper thirst than she's thought possible.
She kneels down before the Pattern's sanguine line, touching the floor and drinking in its memories, letting them in. A fearful sip, at first. Then a greedy gulp.
It feels like a mistake, like trying to drink from a fire hose, or a live wire. It's like trying to interpret the memory of a mountain; vast and old and slow and trying to force her to sync clocks with its stone heartbeat. It's not fast, but it's overwhelming and Tricksey is left trying to catch a tempest in a teacup.
Things flash before her. Memories, maybe, or thoughts, or ghosts of people who've died here. If there are any.
She sees two men fighting with swords across the pattern, carefully stepping only between the tracery, one attacking a man walking the line and the other trying to protect him. She sees a different man stab out into space and come away with a bloody knife while a river of blood burns the pattern from the living stone under a moonlit sky. She sees a creature walk the pattern, changing forms as they go. She sees two women, one chasing the other along the pattern, until one falters and the other cannot save her. She sees a man, stopped before a gap in the pattern, and two angels pulling him free so that he does not die like the woman did. She sees a beautiful woman, her hair floating as if it were weightless, walking a pattern with a bloody crossbow bolt in her side, and dying.
And she knows that none of it is real and none of it happened here. It's not true psychometry. She has no idea what it is, but it's not her gift, or not just her gift. It's like she reached into someone's memory and saw the pain the pattern had caused them.
Tricksey falls to her knees with the overwhelming power of it all, but doesn't quite pass out. She hears Random running up.
"Hey, what did you do? Are you alright?"
Tricksey flips the errant strands of crimson and midnight hair from her face, steadying herself. She should have known this thing would have memories. It was true history, after all. What she hadn't expected was the after images of so much death. But the experiment has proven something to her. This Pattern isn't a place. Not in the truest sense. And it's not simply a construct of power. It is infinitely more. It is indifferent to suffering. It is dangerous.
That terrifies her. And exhilarates her. Perhaps for the first time in her life.
She slowly rises to her feet, smiling wistfully at the King. A simple roll of the shoulders. She neither seeks his help nor refuses it, if given. "Crow Girl see past. Pattern has many ghosts. Angels and demons walked here. Murdered here. Escaped here. Family all, Tricksey think. And blood burns in this place. Holds dangerous power, yes?"
Random looks at her like she's just said. "Water is wet, yes?" He offers her his hand, and he's deceptively strong and reassuringly steady.
"Yes," he says, drawing out the syllable for emphasis. "There's a sign I once saw on a high-voltage panel. You know what those are, or else you can figure it out, right?" He doesn't wait for confirmation. "It said 'Not only will this kill you if you touch it, you will die in excruciating pain.' You can master using it to your ends, but it's never going to be tame, or easy. There's no such thing as 'a casual Patternwalk', kid.
"Now, get back in there and prove you belong on it. That's all the pep talk you get."
Tricksey nods lightly, "Not Crow Girl's question. But she accepts the answer." She steps forward, walking backwards toward the Pattern's edge. "Tricksey see you soon. Or she don't."
She blows Random a raspberry, twirls and steps out onto the waiting Pattern.
It eagerly accepts her, surrounds her, binds her to her Purpose. The once still chamber becomes an impossible tempest, winds of fate battering the Crow Girl's body as she takes each step. Even two paces in, she knows there is no turning back. No retreat. Even though safety is seductively close. She glanced down, seeing the wet, rusted metal beneath her feet - outlined in electric sparks and blistering light. Far belore, a nightmarish landscape stretches out, all petroleum flame and neon blood. It reminds her of the first time she ran the High Road, where gravity ruled. She can hear the mocking voices, gangers hooting and hollering, trying to make her plunge to her death. It's both familiar and foreign, exhilarating and terrifying.
She presses forward, defying this force, this torment, denying the urge to surrender.
She is the Crow Girl. She is Tricksey. The Pattern is her destiny. It holds no power over her.
That remains to be seen, and Tricksey finds that the Pattern is a complex, even tricksey thing itself. It takes a lot of concentration to move forward and stay on the line, especially when she could leap forward to a much later portion of the line with ease. Pushing forward meets surprising resistance, as if she is wading in water, and it's becoming thicker with each step.
It's not difficult to move through, yet, but it requires vexatious concentration to do so. Tricksey pushes forward along the line, step by deliberate step.
This could take hours, or seem like it.
For all that she has to concentratrate, the sheer repetitiveness of the effort lets her mind wander. She thinks about Tyrell, and the smell of the water and the ozone in the atmosphere, and the chemicals that were everywhere, or at least everywhere cheap. It's hard to think on that in a place like this, that smells only of raw rock and mineral water and the ever-present sea, beating the city relentlessly with its briny scent. Not like the smell of the sea at home.
Was that woman, Kimiko, her mama? After so long, it was hard to remember clearly. And she had not wanted her. Was that why she'd been abandoned to grow up, as Mama said, feral in Tyrell?
"Do you really want to know, child?" The voice came from behind her, at a moment when Tricksey couldn't spare the concentration to turn around and look, not without stopping. It was the same voice, as if she were here. The next bit was a grand curve, perhaps she could spare a glance backwards. Perhaps if she stopped, she could push on again after.
Tricksey bristles at the voice. Foxy Pattern, trying to confound her. Trying to lure her away. King Nonspecific warned her about this. Nisty-nasty Pattern using things against her. To make her stop. No going back. Not now. Not here.
She leans forward, forcing the next step, as if pushing through the surf. Pulling away from Mother. It hurts. More than the pain in her body. A primal emptiness, gnawing at her guts. She'd wanted Momma to hug her. Cradle her like she'd done before. Swaddle her in silks and jasmine. But were those snippets of memory even real? Had Momma ever truly cared? Maybe. Maybe not. She recalls the chemical rains, the stink of garbage and humanity. The chilling damp and raucous noises. The streets. Where she'd been dropped. Disposed of.
Then arms pulling her from the trash. Cooing voices. Painted lips heavy with synth-ale. Her true parents. The Forgotten. The Ignored. The people with nothing and no one. Taking in a defenseless child and caring for it as their own. Selfless in the face of despair. Generous in the grips of squalor. Tricksey almost sees them ahead of her. Ghosts waving and beckoning from the sparking shadows.
Kimiko's answers were illusions. Twisted perceptions without meaning or purpose. The false promises fade. Cast off like cherry blossoms. The Crow Girl remains.
And she pushes headlong into the Grand Curve, eager to confront the next secret pain ahead.
The pressure against her legs gets stronger, and the red line is putting off sparks with every step she takes. One after another after another. They reach up to her ankles, her knees, her waist. It's difficult to see the glowing line on the floor, but it's also somehow impossible for her not to know exactly where it is. The pressure builds and when she decisively rejects the false promises of facile answers, the pressure eases. She nearly stumbles. And yes, the Crow Girl remains, pressing forward.
The respite is only temporary. The sparks start again towards the middle of the curve, a huge outer loop that runs for over a hundred meters. The cadence is the same, step-step-step, never stopping, always looking down and not very far ahead.
The Sparks grow faster in this portion, and are up above her waist as she presses forward. Walking forward is like free climbing with ankle weights on. Tricksey is not skipping leg day today.
"So, it's true. You got through the first challenge, so you're one of them," Bailey says. Not one of us, is implied. "Secrets, slumming with the desperate when you were basically a God. Were the damned monks there for any other reason than to get you? Were we all just collateral damage? Feels like you should've told somebody, babe." She's not behind Tricksey, not like Kimiko.
Tricksey can see Bailey. Standing athwart the pattern, rebuking her. Tricksey feels like this isn't the kind of trouble she can get out of with an offer of noodles and cuddles.
Nisty-nasty Pattern. Clever Pattern. Foxy Pattern. This nearly undoes the Crow Girl. She knows Bailey's 'Angry Voice.' Knows it all too well. Usually after doing some 'foolish' or 'silly' or 'crowcentric.' The words cut like a blade, drawing blood, nearly causing her to misstep. Her foot wavers, if only for an instant. Then she forces it down again. Moving forward. Always forward.
"No. Love you. Love you all. Crow Girl not special," she says, fighting the forces internal and external. "Not know. Pappa not say. Momma not say. Leave me in gutter."
She remembers the stink of garbage and old sweat. Her Godfathers and Godmothers. Wrapped in rags and news script. Cardboard boxes and moldering matresses. The warmth of subway grates, breathing the undercity's fetid air.
And Bailey's smooth skin. Her callused fingers. Her painted lips. So tempting. Even in their accusations.
No, no! Step. Forward. Move Forward. Lies. Nisty-nasty lies. Close to truth. Enough to wound. Enough to hurt. But not stop Tricksey.
Tricksey has to walk through Bailey to continue on the pattern, and she does. It is not a pleasant experience.
"Will always be Crow Girl," she says, more to the Pattern than Bailey. "You not change her."
As she heads along the curve, she almost believes it too.
Bailey's bitter laugh follows her. "Yeah, don't I know it, but I'm not worried about me, but this. Gonna be real interesting to see if your ten thousand year old god-kings manage to mold you into one of them."
The pattern doesn't express any kind of opinion. Tricksey suspects it's not so much a thing that plans as a mirror that reflects her own concerns, real or imagined.
"I'm not the final challenge, but I am part of the puzzle," says the King's voice. He's sitting on the pattern, cross-legged and wearing his swimming trunks. "Do you know why your father died? What if joining us, being a full part of the family, costs you so much that it's not worth it to you to continue?
"Do you know the price you're paying to do this? We told you it was important, but that's what we would tell you. Only a fool has no doubts. Should you be doubting us?"
He pulls out a pair of drumsticks and starts hitting the Pattern with them, in a difficult pattern that makes the sparks jump higher. It's really hard to see, much less to push forward. It's like wading in packed ice.
Before now, Tricksey has remained respectful, calm and collected, even in the stressful struggle with the Pattern's tests. But this? This is just mean. And, in an uncharacteristic manner, she gets angry. Bordering on miffed. Perhaps for the first time in ages. Disrupting her calm was bad. Ruffled her feathers. Gave her strength, rather than robbed it from her. While Bailey's words cut deep, the King's only give her Purpose.
"Papa died being Papa," she says sharply, the bitterness lurking under her labored breath. "He true to self. If cost him life, then it Good Death."
For some, the sparks obscuring her feet would cause trepidation. Doubt. Fear. These are the trap. Barbed hooks ready to sink into her flesh and pull her down. She knows a misstep could kill her. A true death. Or worse. The Pattern ghosts have shown her agonies aplenty. Any rational person should be terrified. Hesitant. Weighing their next step. Their every move. Embracing caution. Doubting each decision. As the King said, Only a fool had no doubts.
But Tricksey was the Fool. She of Many Names. The Crow Girl. Puck. The Madwoman. Coyote. The Beggar Princess. Morgan Le Fay. Bake-danuki. Lilith. On and on.
Anger becomes defiance. Defiance becomes amusement. Amusement becomes proclamation.
"We are Tricksey!" she announces. "Nose Tweaker. Razor Walker. Sparkly Stealer."
"And we have Faith. What have you got?!"
She pushes forward, blindly, finding her footing, not because she can, but because she must. Pain sings in her blood. Muscles tear and strain. Step after agonizing step. And she's laughing all the way.
Death may claim the Fool, but she's never felt more certain and alive than right now.
Random laughs. "What have I got? Everything." He beats on the ground with his drumsticks and he grows larger and larger and less distinct in the sparks flying upwards. The King is lit by the glow of the patterns and as Tricksey pushes herself through the veil she thinks the king has become the pattern. Or perhaps he always was.
The effort is now beyond the point of complex thoughts. It is a battle of Tricksey's will against the uncaring universe. Step, step, step. Pushing forward in a dance that is written in her cells and blood and in the sweat that the effort is putting her through. Turn step, turn.
Tricksey is near the end. Had they told her what happened when she was done? It was coming, whatever 'it' was.
She turns through a particularly difficult set of short arcs; she sees it.
Sitting on the pattern, right at the end.
"Crow girl. Hurry, up. I've been waiting. I'm not going to eat you. I'm here to help you become me. Do you know what I am?"
A fox. A literal fox. Vulpes vulpes. It's smiling, which is the most disturbing thing a fox can do.
Muscles and soul strain. Every step now an agony. Pain upon pain. Exhaustion leeching thought and purpose from her. This isn't running the High Road. This feels like sprinting on her hands with weights tied to every limb in a gale. How gravity hasn't claimed her is more stubbornness than will. And Crow Girls are the reflection of obstinacy. And so she progresses. Step after step. Arc after arc. Heading toward... something. A destination she doesn't even really understand.
Tricksey snorts. After what she's witnessed, this revelation shouldn't be a surprise. Of course, it is a fox. Kitsune. Be it zenko or yako, she knows not. She only fears it. Knowing it stands between her and the end. Whatever that was.
She wants to pause. To have time to think. To keep her distance from this thing. The spirit behind the smile. Beneath the fur. She remembers the songs. The paintings. The writings. Stories of Kitsunetsuki. People lost to the fox. Madness. Possession. Stripped of their will and lost forever. To greed. To malice. To anger.
Another step. Closer to those teeth. Closer to those eyes. Looking through her. Tricksey knows...
Knows that if she stops, she dies. And if she advances, she dies. Fear blooms in her heart, spreading like fire. For the question lingers. Do You Know What I am?
Death. It was Death in all its glory.
But wasn't she the self-proclaimed Fool? And what was Death to the Fool? Death was change. Death was transformation. Death shredded one's preconceptions. In Death, one abandoned old truths for new ones.
Its words resonate with her, inside her. Again and again. Do You Know Who I Am?
Didn't the ky&umacron;bi no kitsune represent omniscience? Seeing and hearing everything? Was that not what the Pattern was? All memory? All places? All times?
Of course it would wear the fox's face.
Do You Know Who I Am?
"Me," she whispers. For once, the word's bitterness has gone. Only sweetness remains, so foreign, so strange.
Tricksey takes the final step, picking the fox up, burying it into her chest. Letting it tear into her heart. Into who she was. Accepting her Death.
"You're me," she repeats, and takes her final steps. Toward damnation or salvation. Perhaps both.
"That's some metaphorical bullshit," says the fox, disappearing softly into her chest and using her voice and Bailey's words.
"Lick pouch," Tricksey retorts. "Crow Girl know things."
The final push is so hard, so much effort, that Tricksey almost stumbles when she passes the final veil. It's a triumph that she doesn't fall on her face when she reaches the end.
Tricksey's mind is open now to the pattern, to the paths, and the ways of walking in shadow, and the ability to go anywhere she can picture in her mind. The pattern will take her there. Hopefully to somewhere she can sleep, eat all the noodles, and sleep again.
Tricksey realizes the universe is her playground. It's an oddly liberating sensation. She can go to Earth. To Tyrell. To Other Places. To Other People. She's tempted to go find Bailey. See what she's found. See what kinda of life she has discovered. But that'd be rude. Selfish. If the Pattern showed her anything, it was the Old Ways were to be left behind. Only move forward.
And the Crow Girl has responsibilities now. Family. Somewhere to maybe call home. For once. Time to move forward.
So she envisions her bed in the castle. The fluffy quilts. The obnoxiously huge pillows. The teddy she found in a stall near the harbour. How the rays of sunlight play across the headboard. Perfumed air and blessed silence.
And then she's there. Collapses into warmth and softness. The comforting bed swallows her whole. Every muscle relaxes. Her mind shuts down.
On the Seventh Day, the Crow Girl rests.
Tricksey finds herself face down on an obnoxiously huge, fluffy pillow, the teddy bear tucked under her arm. She might've drooled on it in her sleep. She's fully dressed and didn't even remove her boots. Sleeping in boots is annoying, but she managed it just fine. The rays of sunlight have been replaced by rays of moonlight. But in all other respects, she's where she expected to be, given what she just did. The knowledge of how to manipulate the pattern is still with her, and she also knows she can't do it here.
There's an apple, a beverage, a note and a knife on the table under the window. The knife is probably for the apple. It's that kind of knife.
The castle is -- castles are never silent, they're working buildings with a lot of people doing jobs at all hours. But it's quieter than usual.
After pained stretches and generalized moans, Tricksey slips from her bed and goes about the laborious process of getting showered and new clothes. She slips into the Nightmare Princess outfit she's been saving for her After Walk; an elegant Lolita dress of black-purple and gothic-black tux blazer. The black and white kitty sneaker boots serve as a reminder Crow Girl gonna Crow Girl, godling or no.
She grabs the apple and letter, settling into her pilfered COMFY CHAIR(tm) by the window. Sipping her cooling coffee, she reads the letter... realizing it's possibly the first she's ever gotten. They're so much cooler than email, and sees the appeal. Mental note made to get quills and papers and that fancy wax stuff.
Niece(-ish),
If you're reading this, good job. If you don't know what to do now that you can do anything, you can come talk to me. Your father's father wants to meet you. He's in the middle of fighting a war, of sorts, but we can send you to him if you're interested.
—R rex
Tricksey reads, eating the apple off her knife. Fruit is weird, but yummy. Crow Girl approves. If this was the reward for being a Godling, she is down with it.
The offer compels her. She wants to meet Grandpa Julian. But war? That's the nisty-nasty stuff. Killing is all well and good, but wars are usually waged by the Foxes, not the people.
Then she pauses, remembering the Fox on the Pattern. The one living inside her now. Was this the cost of being a Godling? Papa died in war, after all. Maybe Grandpa would have answers to why that was needed. Or, at least, help the Crow Girl find some of his memories. She can do anything. Which means she could say 'no,' if needed. And wars always meant the Forgotten suffered. Caught between the flames and swords. Yes, this seems to be her best course of action.
Tricksey rings the bell for her new maid servant - Wilhelmina - to clean up, apologizing profusely for the poor condition of the bed. She knows the girl is here as punishment; forced to serve the crazy Crow Girl. Which is why she always has sweets and other surprises waiting - assuring their secret promise to watch out for each other.
After prompt goodbyes, the Crow Girl heads off in search of the King.
Tricksey enters the main hall of the residence wing, and soon sees another resident. Prince Huon is here, talking to his two archivist/guards. Down the stairs nearby are the kitchens and the dining room, and further along are the public chambers. There's no telling where the King is.
One of the guards nods over towards Tricksey, and Huon turns towards her. "Ah, Tricksey. I understand congratulations are in order."
Tricksey crow-girl hops over to Houn, pouncy-pouncy like, before sashaying into a flourished curtsey. She smiles up at him, all toothy and proud. "If mean Pattern, then yes. Tricksey walk. Have all important bits still. Very happy."
A swirling spin turns into an exaggerated expression of contemplation; snoot held regally, thumb upon chin. "If no, Crow Girl not sure. Yes? Possibly? Is sparkly prize? Then definitely mayhaps."
She cocks her head, "Kingly but not King. Huon also look for His Non-Specificness?"
Huon looks at his two librarian/guards. They nod, turn in unison and walk a distance up the corridor to discuss a painting. It's hard to tell if they actually have any interest in the painting, but if they are supposed to be Huon's gaolers, they're pretty casual about that task.
Huon speaks softly, but clearly enough for a crow-girl to hear. "Technically, The Pattern is a state secret, and even the guard at the bottom of the stairs doesn't know what the King keeps in the basement. In practice, we all just pretend that people don't know what we're talking about, and to some degree they can't. But they know there's a magic thing that gives us power and kills people. The rumors are often astounding."
Tricksey blinks at this, confused and mortified. She leans in closer to Huon, whispering. "We need to...?" She mock-stabs her neck with her thumb, making a rude dying noise. "Maintain mystery? Great good n' what not?"
She begins playing with her new white streak of hair, having finally picked up on Huon's Prisoner of Zenda vibe. "This family complicated," she says, more to herself.
That garners a full-bodied laugh from Huon. "I think you've found the new family motto."
He returns to his normal speaking voice. "If you mean Random, I expect he'll either be at dinner or has already absconded to his favorite drinking hole in town. My watchers and I were discussing the Moonrider Princess. They can't decide if they want to kill her or have her join the archivists."
"I have no opinion in the matter, but I told them she would be exceedingly hard to kill."
Tricksey wrinkles her nose, "Why kill? She bad? Dangerous still?" A finger tugs at the pale lock. "If future danger assured, kill. If no danger, live. Mercy is gift. Some refuse. Strike again. Some accept. See for what gift is. Accept new life."
She sighs, "Crow Girl walk mercy's razor. Seen both edges. Cut many times. Actions beget consequences. Determine which is best. That the trick."
She cocks her head, "What she like?"
"Hmm. Young, headstrong, convinced that she can fix all the problems of the world. She's not unlike a lot of the family. Who knows? If she's right, she can end a very long feud."
As Houn issues these descriptors, Tricksey nods and strikes a regal pose for each. And abruptly realises he isn't talking about her, so quickly puts on her Serious Face With Finger to Chin(tm). "Quite right, eh-what," she says. "Sounds like Crow Girl kinda girl."
"My friends down the hall," he adds and gestures towards the two women he was talking to earlier, "are concerned that peace might be more of a risk than a stalemated Cold War, which is why they're considering their options."
"Crow Girl not get," she says, cocking her head. "Why peace not good? Both sides benefit. Even if uneasy. In Corpo War, trade bad. Markets flux. In peace, trade good. Market steady. Stalemate only cause stagnation. Distrust. Disharmony on both sides."
She pauses, rubbing her chin. "Unless not want both sides to share?"
Huon shrugs. "They represent the interests of Rebma, as they see it. The current state of things is one of benign neglect. Amber and Tir are dealing with each other first. If they stop, then either might turn their attention to Rebma. That might be a concern, especially when Rebma is in a fragile state with a new Queen and trade having been disrupted by Patternfall. Random was personally a prisoner in Rebma for some time and could not go there for centuries because he was convicted in absentia of the death of the Queen's daughter. He gets on well with Celina, but that might change.
"So, yes, they'd prefer to keep Amber and Tir were engaged in their own affairs and not the affairs of Rebma."
He smiles. "They would deny it, even to the Queen. Possibly to themselves. They don't consider contingency planning to be an actual threat. They probably have plans to kill a lot of us. Sort of theoretical sociopaths."
Tricksey frowns, tugging on the snowy strand of hair. "Crow Girl wonder why easier to inflict pain than peace. She done with doublespeak. Clouds memories. Twists tales. Inflicts harm on harmless. For what? Nothing. How be greedy when have universe?" A defeated shrug. "Monks all the way down."
She pauses, smiling coyly. "'Course, Uncle may be blowing smoke up Tricksey's butt."
"It's always a possibility," he agrees.
Tricksey's head bonelessly arches back, eyes trained on Huon's, as she pirouettes around him. "Why Uncle Onion in gilded cage? Terrible things? Mild misdeeds? Pernicious peccadillos?"
There's no mocking judgment in her voice, only corvid curiosity.
"Well, terrible enough. There are still those amongst your cousins who might decide to risk Random's wrath and try to kill me for things I've done or that they think I've done. And then I'd be right back in front of Random explaining myself."
He waves down the hall at his gaolers. "This little excercise is making it clear that I could resume my old ways, but have chosen not to. They are giving me enough rope to hang myself and I am stubbornly not doing so."
Tricksey grins. All mirth and mayhem. "So Uncle Onion is neko. Kept cat. Shown table of pretty things. Eager to bat off. Gravity do rest. Who to blame but nature? Not Crow Girl."
Huon smiles and disagrees. "The scorpion and the frog? No, I am not eager to bat things off the table unless there is a reason and something to be gained."
She slips her arm through his, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Why do terrible things? Greed? Envy?" A low purr. "Lust?"
Corvid eyes regard him, glassy, inscrutable. "Layers upon layers. Tricksey wants hear more."
Huon puts a hand on her arm and begins walking. His chaperones discreetly follow.
"Oh, you're looking for one of the classical sins? Pride, most likely. It's really our kind's biggest, and we're full of it, every one of us. With infinite shadow to entertain ourself, so many of them are trivial to satiate. What good is greed when you can take an afternoon beach combing in a nearby shadow and get untraceable diamonds worth more than a lifetime's riches? What of Lust? In infinite shadow, a prince of Amber can have whatever they lust for. We are the post-scarcity society that philosophers dream of. Just us, not our cities or any other people. There are poor people in Amber and Xanadu just as there are in Tyrell and Upstate. No, the items worth having are the throne and your pride.
"Pride led me to believe I had to kill your Uncle Bleys, and that any subterfuge or action was justified, so long as I killed the regicide. Had I cooperated with Caine instead of striking out on my own, I might well have been at the last battle and the amnesty might've applied to me."
He leads the way down the hall.
"I failed, and I decided that I needed to reconcile with my family, especially since it had apparently grown a third generation. I surrendered and Random spared my life. Celina has me in custody because I attacked Rebma. Almost won, too, but Khela broke up my army. I'd prepared for Moire and had her so wound up that she was going to give me what I wanted, but she fled instead.
"It was shockingly unexpected. But you can ask my keepers, who are also historians of Rebma, for their version and it might sound somewhat different."
Tricksey walks and listens, nodding faintly as she drinks in her uncle's words. In the end, she breathes out. Shrugs against his shoulder.
"Crow Girl not understand reason," she admits. "But kill enough prideful Foxes to recognize it. Sad for Uncle Onion. Sad for us all. Sound like boring family. Not earn our way."
She meets his gaze, "How fix wounds inflicted? Learn from mistake? Or words more pride? Swallowed, but waiting? Twisting inside."
He looks philosophical. "I wish we were a more boring family sometimes. Sometimes we are, for decades. This isn't one of those decades, though. I suppose we'll see if I've learned from my mistakes."
He stops at the entrance to another portrait gallery, this one composed of different women in circles. The paintings range from ancient to very old, and they are all in excellent shape. Someone is keeping them up. "One of the absolute misunderstandings about us is to think that we are unchanging, unblemished, like our pictures on the cards. That we can never learn, and that because someone looks or acts a certain way at 200 years old, they'll be like that forever.
"We're not encased in amber, just Amber."
Tricksey releases his arm, and lazily drifts around him. Circling. Circling. Shark silent. Digesting his words. Finally, she halts before one of the portraits. "Benefit of being Gods," she says, the crimson smile creeping back. "Eternity of mistakes. Eons of regrets. Yet, unbound. Timeless. Endless chances at repentance. Infinities to change."
She looks over her shoulder. Her exotic features... shiver. Crawl. An eyeblink of something other wanting to emerge. "But Crow Girl wonder. Ponder. Muse. What of those left in Family's wake?"
The Crow Girl spins. A flurry of gestures... and feathers? Or is it simply some mirage of movement.
Then she's in front of Huon, innocently smiling up at him. "We gods. We mercurial. We mischief and mayhem. Vanity and venom.
"But what of those bound by time? Our reflections. Our waking dreams. Our walking desires? What price they pay? What Family do for them?"
Her crow-dark eyes glimmer. Pools of fragile hope. As if begging Huon to save her with his next words. Or maybe - more precisely - to save himself.
"For them? Some say that they exist because our progenitor wanted to make the Pattern. You can ask him about that, if you find him. I hear he's around, sometimes. On a more practical level, we are friends to our friends, even though we know they will die and we won't. It's hard to say we do the right thing by them. It's hard to see how we could. The ones of us who seem to have the best handle on how to treat people are the ones who've lived for a long time amongst them as if we were like them. Corwin, me, Caine. We've spent more time living with people. Benedict, I hear, but I don't know him well. I'd say 'not the redheads', but I'm sure I'm biased against them."
He looks down at her, and it's not clear what he's thinking, but it's clear he's trying not to give her the wrong answer.
"As for the larger question of being Gods, ask our family philosopher-poets. Brand, Corwin. Ossian. The rest of us tend to be resolutely practical, at least after a few centuries. You're going to have to figure it out yourself."
Tricksey purses her lips and then lets out a faint pffffffft of disappointment. "But Crow Girl wants to know nooooow."
Her hands take flight, fluttering again. "Fine-fine. Tricksey God find out. Will have legends written about her. And offerings of noodles. Very judgy-judgy over noodles. Will be vengeful if nasty broth!"
She spins again. On the turn, the playfulness disappears from her face like a discarded mask. She nods to Huon, "Most wise, Uncle Onion. Thank you. Crow Girl appreciate time shared. If she leave to guards, will be fine? Content? Safe? Not stabbed?
Huon looks confused. "Will who be fine, me, you, or them?" He looks down the hall at his guards. "We're easy to stab, but hard to kill by stabbing. The whole 'nearly-immortal' thing requires it. Have you met Corwin? Our brother Eric had Corwin's eyes burned out and he grew them back in less than a decade.
"If you're asking about them, they'll be fine. They have a penchant for safe landings."
He leaves the other option hanging.
Tricksey regards his bemused expression with equal puzzlement, head rocking back and forth. A pregnant pause. She considers saying, 'yes,' but allows him to proceed.
"Hurt bum once," she says. "Tricksey fall through skylight. Land on Badge. Not soft. He die. Neck broke. But bum heal." She smacks it in confirmation. Apparently, this recovery matches Corwin's in its profundity.
She stretches with feline shamelessness. "Off to find grandpa. Need King Arbitrary. And Trump booth. Ring-ring. Hello! Son's lost chick calling."
Another pause. "Uncle Onion know where booth is? Or phone rights revoked?"
Huon looks up the hall absently. "That's an innovation. Father kept them in display cases in unused tower chambers. It's not the kind of thing you put inside your castle walls. That's an easy route to letting invaders bypass your castle walls. But any castle page can direct you."
Tricksey circles him one more time, and then hugs him from behind. "Crow Girl thank Uncle Onion. If need her, she help. We have noodles soon. No get stabbed by gaolers."
She skips away, heading in the direction he'd indicated. As she passes the two guards, she stops. Squints at them, flicking her hand from her eyes to them and back, silently saying I see you.
And with that, the Crow Girl resumes her bird-skip toward the Trump Booth.
Last modified: 15 June 2025