Silhouette is drawn from her sleep by a persistent scratching at her door. As she approaches the door, she can hear Brita saying, "She might Not Respond given her Walk. She appeared Utterly Exhausted at the End."
"I don't believe I've seen anyone end a Pattern Walk any other way." Conner observes. "I just hope this is indeed where she sent herself. I don't need to tell you about the temptation of unlimited travel."
The door opens tentatively; Silhouette tired face appearing, outlined by faint light. She smiles in welcome. "Cousins. How good of you to come. Please. Enter."
She opens the door fully, stepping back into the room. She wears a thin shawl, wrapped around her loosely. It obscures much of the dark 'wings' on her back.
She drifts over to the room's main table; its coral and driftwood top cluttered with several wax-tablets -- formulaic notes and engineering schema. There is a large plate of food and drink, as well. She sits and pours herself a restorative tea.
"Please, feel free to help yourselves."
Brita walks over to the table and sets down a closed basket she was carrying. She opens it to draw out various fruits and containers of fruits of the sea. "You Must be Hungry as well," she notes as she sits. "How Are You Now?" Brita cocks her head to the side as she examines Silhouette and awaits her response.
Silhouette dips her head, "Thank you, cousin. My Hunger is great." But Brita can sense she isn't speaking solely of food. She smiles as she assembles a large plate from Brita's gifts. "You are very kind."
She peels an oblong fruit, "I feel like a child again, seeing the world for the first time. Yet, I understand it as an adult." She sighs faintly, "I've been a fool." Her eyes meet Brita's gaze, humbled.
Brita glances at Conner, "Not a Fool - I Too was Separate, Raised in a Shadow of Reality with Shadowed Beliefs. Those Beliefs are Not Gone so much as Shifted. I Am an Asgard Goddess - My Abilities can Purify Water. But, I am Also More." She smiles slightly. "I Knew My Mother was More and therefore I Must be More, but it did Not Mean Anything Until I reached the Heart of The Pattern. By then, it was Engraved on My Heart with Each Step I had Taken."
"Brita has the right of it." Conner nods. "It is humbling to realize how little you understood but how exciting to learn that so much lies before you." Conner places a crystal decanter beside all of the gifts Brita as brought. "Something a little stronger than tea should the conversation warrant it." He explains.
Silhouette smiles, almost shy. Such a strange expression on steely lips. "Thank you, Conner. And, indeed, she does. I feel both More and Less. My life has been in service to false gods. But now, I am akin to one. A liberating and terrifying concept." She dips her head to Brita, "'Shifted' is an excellent analogy. I now recognize the Grand Design's limitations and failings. Yet, those teachings remain a part of me. And shall guide me still, even as I view it with new eyes."
A tilt of the head, "What did you both do afterwards? I remain here, as I promised Celina I would. But the temptation..." She hides the next words behind her tea cup, savoring its contents greedily.
"I Meant to go to Shadow Jutenheim - Home," Brita clarifies. "I Ended Up with Grandda Dworkin in His Pattern." She cocks her head - thinking. "I Suppose I was Thinking of Going Home as Visiting Family." She shrugs.
"Then the Pattern 'interpreted' your Desire?" Silhouette asks, intrigued. "Or do you believe your unconscious mind guided you? If we have achieved Apotheosis, does not our Will become Manifest?"
"We try to avoid referring to the Pattern in anthropomorphic terms." Conner replies. "However, it is true that the Creation of a Pattern is an act of will and a setting down of vision and instruction. It is possible therefore that an influence could be brought to bear." Conner shrugs. "I favor the unconscious desire explanation myself but it is just possible that our Great-Grandfather was responsible for Brita ending up in his domain. I am still envious that you have been there and I not, sister." Conner adds.
Silhouette sips her tea, attentive but silent.
Brita grins mischievously at Conner. "Younger Sibling Privilege," she says. She turns back to Silhouette, "I Tend to Think of The Pattern as having Some Will of Its Own - although I Allow that That Will or Personality Could come from Its Creator. It is Also Possible, that My Thought was just Not Specific Enough. 'Going Home' could have Registered as the Home Pattern - the Closest place that The Pattern Categorized as 'Home'."
She turns back to Conner, "What did You Think at The Center, Brother? Straight to Bed?"
"Yes as it happens." Conner replies. "Oh I had grand plans both times I walked but at the end of the day to travel into the unknown so drained and powerless is not wise." Conner wanders over to the food that was brought and arranges bits of this and that on a plate. "So cousin, has your walk brought clarity or more questions?"
"Enlightenment is an eternal journey, and every step illuminates new pathways," Silhouette says. "The Walk stripped away preconceptions, certainly. And broke my chains. Ones I did not know were there. Now, I wish to learn more of the Pattern and its interconnections with Creation. And how to utilize it to Forge."
She smiles over at Brita, "You are a Goddess of Water. I am of Earth. Has the Pattern empowered your magicks? Broadened your understanding of the Arcane?"
Brita laughs and notes "It is Interesting that a Water Goddess Walked a Land Pattern and an Earth Goddess Walked a Water Pattern. Walking Helped me Realize that my Goddess 'Magicks' were only Part of the Power I Could Reach." She waves a hand through the water around them. "The Asgardian Pantheon Allows for Only One Manifestation of Power per Individual. Our Reality is that I Could just as Easily Be a Goddess of Earth and You a Goddess of Water."
"Water tempers Steel," Silhouette says, smiling at Brita. "Perhaps, it was destined I walk the Rebman Path. It has cooled my Fire and opened my eyes to Falsehoods." She finishes her tea, refilling it almost as quickly.
"May I ask, if you are Divine, why do you still Serve? Why do any of us? Are we merely pawns in a pantheon of Gods now? Or are we allowed self-determination?"
"Why do we serve?" Conner echoes. "Tradition, necessity, obligation, honest desire to not bear the burden of ruling. Take your pick." Conner smiles. "At the end of the day, Family and those places that are Real are the only things that will endure as long as we will. So if you want to be a part of all that, then you navigate through the social constructs and centuries of personal history that reside there. By and large, Family is left to their own devices with the understanding that when needed, you will answer the call. After all, even King Oberon felt the need to disappear into shadow for months at a time to pursue his own interests."
Brita nods at her brother's points, "Family Service is Different than Just Service. It is a Tie Within Us. Besides," a definite twinkle in her eye although her face is serious, "If We do not Serve Our Uncles, We Cannot Keep an Eye on Them. They Tend to Get in A Lot of Trouble when On Their Own."
Silhouette laughs at this, immediately regretting it -- a dozen torn muscles flaring. The pain only makes her laugh the more. "Yes. I recognize their propensity for inspiring Discord. And general mulishness. I doubt I will be able to alter that trend." She peels another fruit, sampling its meaty interior.
"Speaking of Uncles," she says, a frown darkening her lips. "Your presence in Rebma suggests that your recent Service was a success. Huon has returned for punishment? And did so without too much incident?"
"Uncle Huon has Returned. There wasn't Incident on This End." Brita looks to Conner, "The Start - Collecting Our Uncle, well...." she grimaces and says, "I Hate Politics."
Silhouette offers a gentle smile, "It is said, 'No matter where Men travel, they carry with them their worst traditions, including Politics. Indeed, especially Politics.' Regrettably, they cannot be escaped, only endured. Or fashioned to our own Design." She takes another tentative bite of food. "Will there be Consequence for his return?"
"Undoubtedly, though I would be hard pressed to predict what it will be." Conner replies. "So far his submission to Rebman justice seems to be following the precedent of Random's time here. Which means that of powerful matriarchy half the population wants to smother him in his sleep and the other half wants to sleep with him. It remains to be seen if he ends up married to a Lady of the Royal Bedchamber or attempts to kill the King with a crossbow."
Silhouette raises a brow, "Such leniency? Our Queen is most generous. I hope it will not reflect poorly against her. She already faces challenges, without his presence. The Second Law, while useful, can be a dangerous sword's edge to walk."
Brita cocks her head in question, "Second Law?"
"I remember you speaking of that law during negotiations." Conner replies. "You emphasized how former enemies can become the greatest of allies though I never did press you to state the law in its entirety. So I'll trade you. The Second Law for the First Principle of dealing with family."
Silhouette nods lightly to Conner, "The trade of Enlightenment is always welcome."
She takes another draught of tea before continuing. "The Second Law, simply put, states 'One must never place too much trust in friends, and learn how to utilize enemies.' Friends can destroy you with ingratitude, whilst enemies can be a treasure trove of Enlightenment. In Huon's case, his gratitude to Celina will likely transform him into a loyal vassal. After all, he has more to prove to her and the people of Rebma. Sins to wash away through his deeds, as it were.
"However, if she remains too lenient, Huon could become a friendly shark. She could also inspire jealousy amongst those close to her." A faint shrug. "That said, it is prudent that one always has enemies."
During Rebma/s night-cycle, a Triton delivers an elegantly wrapped seaweed package to Huon's new chambers. A wax-tablet, bound - some private missive for him. It is accompanied by a new set of men's formal wear - adhering to the current Rebman trends.
The wax-table reads:
Prince Huon,
Allow me to be the first to welcome you to your new home. It pleases me that your journey concluded satisfactorily. Thank you for allowing me to be a small part of that effort.
With your allowance, I would visit you for breakfast on the morrow. I wish to conclude our Pact, as the Way between us is now at a formal close. I still have something of yours in my possession, which I suspect you would prefer returned. An item best delivered in private.
I await your summons.
Blood & Honor,
Silhouette
The same tablet is returned, with the wax smoothed and re-engraved.
Kinswoman,
I await your arrival. I understand congratulations are in order.
Yours,
H
In the morning, Silhouette prepares for her meeting -- well-ahead of the scheduled time. Her body remains taxed by her recent transfiguration, and not even purposeful stubbornness can fully overcome that diminishment. She selects one of her designer dress -- a breezy construction of shadow green; its seaweed fabrics like gentle chiffon. The smocked, laced bodice offers a more-than flattering fit and drape. Sleeveless, it reveals the burgundy tattoo latticing her arm -- and hinting at the dark wings upon her back.
Satisfied, she travels to Huon's "quarters", escorted by Orseas. She is grateful for his company. As much as it pains her, she must pause in her walk more than once -- leaning against his strong, alien body for support. "Forgive me, my friend," she whispers each time.
The triton does not reply.
By the time they reach their destination, her legs feel like she stands upon quicksand. It takes everything not to slip to the ground and never rise again. She nods to the guards and awaits permission to enter Huon's private chambers.
The suite seems quite extensive, and appointed with the decorations and trapping of Rebma's finest. It shows the centuries of prosperity and riches that the kingdom has accumulated. The outer chamber has no guards, just a single young woman, not even fully grown. "Lady Silhouette, his highness is expecting you." She stands, in the fluid Rebman fashion that keeps her from shooting into the water and walks to open an inner door. There is a short hallway and a porch that overlooks the city.
Huon stands, as do the two people with him. He seems to know how to stand in Rebma as well. He is dressed as a Prince of Amber, in a slashed doublet and hose. He looks as if he would be at ease leading an army or writing court poetry. He's been growing his beard out.
He smiles. "Ah, welcome. I hope your little adventure on my behalf was a suitable introduction to our family." He turns to the side. "Crispinus, can you fetch our guest some breakfast?"
The young man nods and heads back inside by a different door, leaving Silhouette on the balcony with her uncle and the two young women.
Silhouette raises a brow, smiling. "Incarceration suits you well, it seems." She floats over to him, lightly touching his arm. Her other hand seeks the balcony rail, steadying herself. She hates being weak, let alone allowing him to see it.
"Everything is to your satisfaction?" she gazes up at him, almost shy. She's not certain about the beard. Makes him look old. Even so, the urge to kiss him remains.
However he feels, he only takes and kisses her hand.
"Indeed. One could hardly ask for more pleasant accomodations. Crispinus is teaching me triton-and-net fighting and I intend to teach him some of my skills with the sword. I may even offer classes in airbreather martial arts to his unit.
"And how have you found the wider world you were thrust into?"
"It is much like the one I knew; although, the discoveries and disillusionments are far grander in scope," she says. A light shrug. "I lack Purpose for the moment, but one must expect such considering the transformation I've undergone."
Crispinus, who is both clearly a soldier and clearly at ease with the Prince, returns with a tray of covered foods. He puts it on the table and opens the covers. There are a variety of Rebman fruits and fishes, and several drink pods.
Silhouette thanks him with a gentle smile. She selects a restorative, seaweed tea for herself. "The Queen has been most generous with you. More so than I suspected," she says. "How do you intend to repay that generosity?"
Huon smiles. "You are so young. Between each other, we only keep score over the most trifling matters. This, you will eventually find, is a defensive reaction that allows us to protect what is really important to us from each other. It doesn't work, but it leads to a certain laxity of concern which allows us to live with each other." He drops the smile. "Or not, sometimes."
Silhouette shrugs faintly, "Employing the Kress First Principle might serve the Family well -- view each exchange from the other's perspective." She sips her tea, "But, as you say, I am young."
He picks up his drink pod and expertly extracts a large sip. "But enough of the past. You said something I'm curious about. Why do you think you need a purpose?"
She raises her eyebrow, "Purpose defines our place in Creation, my Lord. From demigod to ditch-digger. Without it, we are Hollow. And worse, superfluous." She gazes up at him, forest-shadows in her eyes. "Was it not Purpose driving you when you brought war to this place? Or was it merely an act of malice?"
Huon snorts. "Tools have purposes. We are forces of nature. We are much more unique than Gods, who are sometimes stacked 5000 at a time in the broom-closets of infinite shadow. You can fit everyone who ever has or could achieve your feat from yesterday in one of this castle's smaller ballrooms. We few are who and what we are and we have nothing so limiting as a purpose. I had an objective and a goal that the objective served, but purposes are for pawns.
"You will one day learn the difference and, I hope, resolve to live on the side of being a full member of this family. Anything else is beneath you."
Silhouette offers a bemused smile, "Forgive me, but that sounds not unlike the justification of a spoiled adolescent. I want what I want; therefore, I deserve it and damned the consequences. I've heard this time and again." She sets the drinking-bulb aside, shrugging.
"And yet, this 'pawn' has used the Kings and Queens to achieve her Purpose, whilst the 'rook' has been removed from the board." She folds her hands together, "Unless, your game is not yet complete. My lord."
Huon looks at her for a long moment. It's unclear if he is amused or annoyed. Depending on which it is, his smile is either kind or condescending. "You'll learn, or you'll die, or you'll never grow up. Each option is available to you." He turns to the young ladies sitting at the side table. "Archivist, do you know of an example of a King or Queen in Rebma's trading circle who has a purpose? If so, tell us."
The girl adjusts her harness, perhaps to gather her thoughts. "My Lord, I do. In the Neapward Principalities they tell of The King of Kumari Kandam, whose kingdom was a sunken continent situated on the back of a giant sea serpent. The King's purpose was to keep the serpent from deciding to surface and destroying the city."
"Did it work?"
The second archivist, the one whose skin is darker green, replies instead of the first. "Some of the stories say it did, but others say that the King became a dictator and was deposed and the serpent continued beneath the waves despite the lack of the King. Those tales are only told in the Principalities that are no longer monarchies."
Huon turns back to Silhouette. "A city on the back of a sea serpent. I may have to visit it some day."
Silhouette smiles faintly, unfazed. "Individual Power frequently creates despots. It is a common story, almost to the point of banality. Tyrants disguise their desires as Purpose; hide self-interest behind Moral Duty. All are invariably disappointed, and they leave ruin in their wake."
She picks up her tea, "The Pattern displayed my follies. But, finally, I know enough to regret them."
A dismissive wave. "No matter. My current purpose is simple." She extends her crimson-stained arm. "To sever our current connection."
He nods. "Hold still," he says, taking hold of her wrist. He strokes four fingers of his opposite hand over the mark, and it is gone. Nor are his fingers stained.
"Very interesting," asks the first archivist. "Sorcery?"
"Yes, minor," replies Huon. He lets her wrist go and looks up at her. "Are you now purposeless, or is there aught else?"
Silhouette examines her olive-skin closely, searching for traces of magic beneath. Finally, she gives a contented nod. Being free of the marks feels surprisingly liberating. "Thank you, my Lord."
She cocks her head slightly, "My Purpose remains, albeit viewed from a fresh perspective." She refills the bulbs. "Tell me of my grandfather? You are a true Elder in the Family, so your perception of him holds more value. I wish to understand his motivations better, and if I would have fallen under his gaze."
Huon laughs, dismissively. "I am young, although not as young as our liege, and I am less experienced than many. I have only seen Oberon's displeasure, at myself and my sister. I assure you that you have never been significant enough to fall under his gaze. He did, however, delegate his dirty work, so perhaps one of his agents came across your path. What makes you think he had an interest in you?"
Huon relaxes back into his chair. He takes another bulb of chilled fruit juice and begins to drink from it.
Silhouette swirls her drink, silently contemplating the thermoclines. She finally looks up, forest-green eyes ablaze. "My incarceration and torture were not random fate. It has been suggested that grand-father may have had a hand in it. More likely to harm Mother than myself." She swirls the liquids again, "It has also been suggested that you were to blame. And that remains a distinct possibility, considering our interactions.
"I care not for vengeance. But the Past has an ugly tendency of repeating itself. Self-preservation is my goal. You were the first to discover me, so your insights are more valuable than most."
"Your mother is a conservative creature, as most of us are. We've never needed to be anything else. Eventually, she will come around."
He sits back. "Oberon, who I hated, was soft in many ways. I was exiled for life because he was convinced that I had committed fratricide. We would've eventually reconciled. In the most part, because I had changed.
"If you're asking me if he would've killed your father and your family, but not you, possibly. It sounds more like his ancient history than his later days, though. If you're asking me if he would've knowingly left you a foundling in another place, I do not believe it. He was more of a master manipulator than that. And what would he have gotten from your mother that way? Even if your shadow-people were of no concern to him, you would have been.
"I'd guess it was Eric, and he wasn't skilled enough to recognize who you were and that you would inevitably survive. He had a hold over your mother that I never understood. I do know, that, at least according to ... my sources, she was very quick to offer to help betray Eric when she thought it might work.
"But my idle analysis is just that. What do you know that you will share that I can use to improve upon it?"
As he speaks, Silhouette remains perfectly still -- like a watchful stonefish. At his question, she stirs, nodding. "Llewella suggested that Oberon may have been tempering me as a weapon. To what end, I do not know. She also mentioned a shape-shifter cousin named 'Dara,' but did not expand upon her motivations. She briefly suggested your involvement, but vacillated; if you had such free reign, why not devote your efforts toward Bleys.
"Indeed, while she pressed me to discover who might be to blame, she remained decidedly vague -- more so than Family tradition dictates. It made me consider her motivations. Altruism is not one of our strongest traits. What if she was testing me to see if I'd discovered her involvement?"
She touches her chin, "Also, my mother's denial of my existence persists. Why? What is it that convinces her otherwise? And what - or who - prevented her from finding me in Shadow?" She frowns, "She's even suggested you created me. Which begs the question, 'Why would you even care about Flora?'"
Huon looks puzzled. "Why would you think that I do? It's true, though, that I want to know about her. Imagine that the world is a giant card game, and that the best players are good enough to hide their intentions from you. They also are more worried about the other players in their league, so unless it's tactically advantageous, they won't engage you.
"You can, in that case, learn quite a bit by watching the less-skilled players who the top players are allied with. Remember, it was Brand's intellectual curiosity about Flora's location and behavior that led him to find where Eric imprisoned Corwin."
Silhouette chuckles, "You forget, I know virtually nothing of Eric and Corwin's past, other than they hated one another. Brand is a complete unknown to me. Most of the Family's history remains hidden to me. And most of them make for poor historians. Still..." She pauses, considering something. "If you can't spot the fool in the room, then you are the fool."
She tames her unruly dress, "Tell me of Pinnabello?"
"No. Now you will take offense at this, but I consider that an advantage to your education. First, as a Prince of Amber, the story of my brother is mine to tell and mine to refuse to tell, as I see fit. Second, your response to the gift I gave you a moment ago was to brag of your ignorance, which I can assure you we are all well aware of. Third, family etiquette determines who may ask questions and when, and you are violating it." His eyes dart to the women surrounding him. It can only have been intentional. "And Lastly, I am done with my breakfast, so this interview is at an end."
He stands. "Thank you for coming, Silhouette. It was enlightening."
She floats to her feet, and then drifts over to him. The turbulent waters around are warm, not unlike those surrounding the hydrothermal vents of forgotten deeps. "And thank you, my Prince. I am forever grateful for your lessons. And your company. I am sure the currents will bring us together again. Until then..."
A light kick lifts her from the floor, allowing her to grace his cheek with a kiss. The whisper is intimate, furtive. And tainted with yearning. "They know, my love."
With that, she drifts away, as if carried by the receding tide.
The two women rise as well,
He waves at her, halfway between a salute and a benediction. Then slips an arm around the waist of each of his assigned minders and walks back into the villa. Silhouette hears feminine laughter as the Prince and his escorts depart.
Within a mirror workshop, where shards of beautiful glass no longer litter the floor in dagger patterns. Another session of careful meditation, and the moment of pushing her will into the glass. Not unlike a slow dive into silver water.
Not too tired. Not discouraged yet. Never that. Her conversations with family sprung surprises and she was better now with the internal jolts that grew from her youthful bias and recent doom of accepting more and more responsibility for things she did not create or understand.
And that was the path---- For better or worse--- Until death do us part.
Celina knew the jewel. She knew the razor pain of it from her dreams. She'd seen it with Moire. She knew Moins' face from the Royal Gallery and the Archives and the poetry and the many surviving tribute works. Most of that did not involve much color, however. Stone and metal and poems that hinted and described without adding significant solid color for her to call personal history.
How like Rebma to hide legends in such beautiful incomplete puzzles.
The ocean overlays everything so colors change, and must shift spectrum. Dominated by the waters. Then on the surface you see colors overlaid by air, and so you think you shall see colors without overlay. But you are fooled. Air changes things too. True colors without overlay exist, but they are inside us.
Red rage.
Blue sleep.
Green fear.
Silver dreams.
This was session seventy-something. She wasn't keeping track but part of her counted anyhow, even if she didn't want to make it that important. Celina would succeed or not, regardless if she had to press the glass a thousand times. She runs her hands lightly over the beautiful mirror, so pure that even Rebma had nothing like it.
This mirror she'd dared to face to the Pattern. This glass had seen a successful initiation. Silhouette had a future again.
Celina steadied the quiver of image that came off the edge of the glass and began to collection in the silver liquid core. She sharpened her quest. 'The jewel I shall know better. The queen who first commanded it. Moins my mother's mother, let me see you sweetly embrace Rebma's jewel. Let me have that possible past.'
Celina pushes her will into the mirror, seeking Order in the threads of image forming.
Celina embraces the image with a slow steady dive into the colors.
As Celina lets the image respond to her will, there are flashes and swirls of color, starting at the edges of her vision. The colors are dark, and perhaps they are merely artifacts of the staring, but Celina does not believe that.
The colors pile up, more and more of them. Layer upon layer, each a thin veneer over the previous layers. Each blocking out some little fraction of the light, until Celina cannot tell if her eyes are even open. When there is light, if there is light, it is as the flashes of color inside closed eyes.
Eventually even this stops and the darkness is complete. The depths of the sea on a moonless night, an octopus' ink spray, deep caves far from the surface, The darkness so without form and substance that the mind starts to see things in it, for want of anything else to do.
Whatever it is that was asked of the stone by the reflective arts, it is not an answer that is easily given.
Celina exists in the dark, sometimes feeling there are currents moving through her eyes, deeper into her mind. It is terrifying to think she could be going mad or that there is nothing there at all. But she holds to her will and the ideas that brought her here. She engages the dark. Revisits the phantom colors. Time is slow.
This is more than she's ever found before in these sessions.
Eventually she knows she is tiring. The Dark has endless strength. She swims back out of the media. She surfaces.
Celina finds that she is on her knees still gripping the mirror, her face cold with the same temperature as the gazing glass. She pulls away. Part of her face is numb.
Celina blinks. "I don't think she's dead." But Moins may be mad or trapped in half death. Stasis. Like a dragon.
Color returns to her face and she gets to her feet. Why does this remind me of the Arden Dragon in trapped sleep? Celina does some soft and slow warm up exercises. Then she seals the room and returns to more mundane responsibilities.
Colored fabrics sway lazily in the bazaar's gentle current, like the fronds of an exotic kelp forest. Fish dart around the towers of silks and cottons and living cloth; few as vibrant as their surroundings. Scintillating strands of bioluminescence filter down through the cool darkness, casting the moving, living tapestry in greenish radiance. Buyers drifted through the market like shadows, the maze of textiles offering anonymity amongst a sea of people.
A perfect meeting place for dark words.
Two shadows move like predators through the delicate gloom -- beautiful and terrible in their manner. They exude their desire for privacy like a toxin, and few hawkers are foolish enough to approach them.
Silhouette pauses to examine a sheet of dying-sun red cloth. It feels warm beneath her fingers, as if recently lifted off the back of some magnificent beast.
"I believe I may have an answer to your question," she says to her aunt, Llewella. "But I cannot confirm the validity of it."
Llewella looks at it, too. "This is an excellent cover for me, since no one would ever believe it was actually me, here. As to the other matter, perseverance is often more important than immediate gratification. Are you ready to share what you've learned or do you wish to be more sure?"
Silhouette lets the fabric slip from her fingers, "Certainty may be unattainable, as the two core suspects are dead. However, of them, Eric appears to be the more likely. He wished to control my mother during the Interregnum. He also possessed the abilities and resources to conceal me in Shadow, if necessary. With his death, I would have been effectively forgotten."
She moves along, glancing over at Llewella for any signs of agreement.
Llewella frowns. "It seems ... neat, does it not? Perhaps the two events have different authors. Consider this speculation. If Eric was responsible for your father's death, he may have told someone. Say that someone knew of the possibility that Flora had children, perhaps because she had children of her own that she had hidden. When Eric returns and makes it clear that he now has a hold over Flora, she slips out of the palace and visits the shadow. Finding a child and unwilling to give it to Eric as a hostage, she moves you into shadow, fully intending to return.
"Then fate steps in, and she gets caught up in the war. She's taken prisoner, freed, and eventually dies at Brand's hand."
Silhouette drifts from stall to stall, listening intently to each word. There are threads of truth she finds most... intriguing. "Possibly. Her daughter also grew up in the forge's glow. Although, from what I surmise, Signy had her father's protection and guidance. Deirdre may have intended for me to be raised in a similar fashion." She taps her chin, thoughtful.
Llewella flips over the yards of fabric in frustration. "This is all inferior, is there nothing worth buying in this store?" she comments, loudly. "You can fit almost any of us into the second role, except Corwin, or me. That's why we all kept our children secret from each other. You may want to talk to Jerod about his father's interactions with Flora, and with Deirdre."
Silhouette nods in agreement, apparently at the poor quality of textiles. After a moment, she frowns slightly. "Jerod's attitude towards me is mildly... antagonistic. I would prefer an objective viewpoint, prior to that encounter. What interest did Brand have in my mother? Huon mentioned this in passing, as well. Brand kept tabs on her. But why?"
Llewella shrugs. "You're asking why someone who can see glimpses of the future decided to do a thing. Any number of reasons that we can't determine might be the cause. However, in gaming terms, there are only so many players to watch, and sometimes the way to find out about a stronger player is to observe his weaker allies. In the end, it led him to Corwin, so whatever his strategy, it was successful."
Silhouette pauses to examine another seaweed fabric; her touch igniting whorls of bioluminescence. They gently light her thoughtful expression. "Deirdre was Corwin's full-sister, yes? A stronger bond than most. Is it possible that she and Brand shared the common goal of monitoring his activities? Indeed, could they have been working together during the War?"
Llewella looks unconvinced. "It seems unlikely. When Brand found Corwin, he administered electroshock therapy to keep him from regaining his memory. Deirdre and Corwin were close. And Deirdre was here with Corwin. She was not a good enough actress to fool me as I watched her try to figure out where her brother's return fit into the war that we all thought was coming."
Considering her aunt's unknowable nature, Silhouette concurs with her evaluation of one's skill at deception.
The Princess shakes her head. "Given that they are both dead and beyond even Vere's power to conjure the past, we can't know, but it seems to be a theory that requires more unlikelihoods than it resolves."
"Very well," Silhouette says, moving along. "If Deirdre's imprisonment hindered or, indeed, ended her influence over me, one can only surmise that death would remove any continued threat. Best intentions turned to tragedy. Very vaudevillian, but plausible."
She pauses, cocking her head. "Did my mother ever see my body? Or, rather, a body she believed to be me? Her certainty must be based on some evidence, surely."
Llewella looks nonplussed. "I have no way of knowing one way or the other. Your mother was watching Corwin and more likely guarding her son on Earth after that. I did not visit her, as I was protecting my own daughter at the time, and no one in the family was gossiping on any secret children who were missing. We all kept ours from each other, and we thought we had good reason to do so. You will have to ask her yourself. She must have smothered Lucas once you were dead.
"You know that you must speak to her if you want to know the truth."
"Of course, But, that may prove difficult, considering her feelings towards me," Silhouette replies. She smiles at her aunt, courteous. "If you were to arrange a parley between Mother and I, it might further illuminate this matter. Perhaps even put it to rest, once and for all."
A hollow laugh escapes her, "At the very least, if our summation is incorrect and our adversary remains, it would certainly offer them a tempting opportunity. But that may simply be the Anderssen in me, speaking."
Llewella shrugs. "She won't listen to me. Corwin, Benedict, perhaps Caine. Gerard might be stubborn enough. If you wish to talk to a woman about it then Vialle, perhaps, or your brother's widow. She might have some insight. Celina can probably get Corwin to accept you to his court, which should at least put you in the seat of the horse you need to ride."
She pauses. "I'm surprised you're not already there, trying to resolve the matter. If you wait too long to batter the gates, some might consider it troubling."
Silhouette returns the shrug, "I stayed in Paris briefly, and spoke with King Corwin. In that time, Flora made no attempt to contact me -- for good or ill. Then, Duty required I return here.
"My uncle appears a reasonable man. He may speak to my Mother on this matter, further. At the very least, he might pose the question to her, if she refuses my request once more."
They reach the row's end, nothing of import appearing amongst the stalls. The young woman sighs, "Thank you, Aunt. Your wisdom, as always is precious to me."
Llewella's laugh is like a bell. "May it be worth more to you than you paid for it, at least."
Silhouette smiles at the sound, "I could not pay enough, I think." She dips her head, "When you are free again, please come to my shop. I would be honored to fashion a wonder for you."
Signy leaves her audience with the Queen and makes a direct line for her seneschal's office. She obtains the location of her new workshop, and while there also gets the names of recommended suppliers for the metals and gemstones that she'll need for her project for her cousin (and how far her Family connection will allow her to order supplies). As she leaves, she makes unobtrusive note of the seneschal's office, filing the details away for use later.
She makes her way straight to the shop (only getting lost twice on the way), getting there in enough time to meet the existing smiths and assistants. While introducing herself, she starts to sketch out some rough ideas for the first big commission, looking to see how the rest of the smiths react. She mentions the suppliers at various points, looking to see which ones elicit negative responses from the other smiths and if any of them suggest alternatives.
She is mostly absent from Tomat and Red Fox Claws for the next two or three days, while she immerses herself in the new environment. While there she finds the time to craft a steel sword for the guard that escorted them into the City, working with one or two of the more promising young apprentices to see which ones she might be able to teach and work with.
The smiths seem to think gems are for jewelers, but royal patronage is a thing not to be squandered. The main thing Signy learns is that the process is slower than smithing above water, perhaps twice or four times as slow. In addition, she finds her first work, while technically excellent and better than any normal smith of Rebma could produce, is not her absolute best. Re-doing the work will stretch the time to a full ten-day, but will produce a work that she can be very happy with.
Also, she's convinced that she'll learn better if she takes more time.
The extra time is...unfortunate, but he novelty of smithing on the ocean floor is its own reward, and Signy works long into the night after most of the smiths have gone home doing and redoing, slowly moving the finished product closer and closer to something better than just acceptable.
She finds a pair of apprentices, a boy and girl who are twins. They are recently arrived from the Seaward and have only made practical farmgoods before apprenticing to the master smilths here. She has the knowledge and he has the steady hands that put the hammer where it needs to be every time. They are named Hanno and Metucosa. They seem almost as tireless and Signy herself, and totally dedicated to the smithing trade.
She spends as much time as she can with the twins, pushing them as much as she pushes herself late into the night. In those late night sessions she starts to work some of her father's initial lessons in, to see if either of them is capable of...more. Being smack in the middle of Reality means that they won't be able to show any drastic talents, but the intuitions and feel are still there regardless. She also has Tomat come by the smithy, ostensibly to gauge their education but also to provide a second opinion on their ability to See deeper into their work.
Tomat thinks they're lazy, too old, don't follow directions well, aren't strong-willed enough and need six months on horseback to toughen them up, but that they're probably the best to be found here. They're not hopeless.
Signy sighs inwardly, afraid that "not hopeless" may be the best she'll get for now. Still, you make use of the tools you have at hand. Even flawed tools can turn out good work.
Towards the end of the first week, when she feels that she has a good handle on the twins' ability and hers, she sets the two of them a task. She provides the two of them a rough sketch of a trinket box, shaped like a shell, crafted of silver and gold and inlaid with diamonds. The whorls and patterns of the box are one of two things that she insists on, so that it will look as if it was part of the furnishings in the office. The other is on a cunning mechanism for opening the box -- it can still be pried open with a dagger, but at the cost of the mechanism never working again.
Once they have the rough outline, she turns her attention to other projects, and lets the two of them work for a week to see what they come up with while she starts to gather the materials for the finished product to be handed to the Queen.
They seem to have some sort of a debate amongst themselves, then go off to see what they can do.
The other smiths seem somewhat scandalized. The guilds, Signy is told, will not permit them to work in gems or precious metals. How does she propose to protect their best apprentices from the gemologers and gem-cutters?
They come back with a work that matches the plan, but is not artistically inspired. The lock is impressive, at least.
Signy nods at what the other smiths say, but doesn't offer any other comment.
When the smiths come back, she spends some time going over their work. The locking mechanism gets the lions share of the praise, and the exterior the suggestions for how they could do better next time. She immediately throws the two of them back into other projects, to see how they handle the mixed feedback and incorporate it.
It takes her a day to turn out a new box to her liking, though she does incorporate the twins' locking mechanism. The exterior is rough iron, rippled and whorled, and when done sits squat and solid on the bench. She pulls out a pouch she recently purchased, three small, perfect sapphires. One light, two dark. She looks at them for a second, admiring the flawless structures, before calmly taking the stones and pulverizing them into powder. She turns and melts a bar of a dull, silvery looking metal, and once melted mixes all of the powder in it to give it a shimmering blue cast. She quickly and deftly uses the mixture to paint the box to give it an almost delicate look. Once dried and hardened, the coating causes the water around the box to shimmer and ripple like the light on the surface of the waves. Satisfied, she hands the new box to the twins and instructs them to bring it to the seneschal and show her how the locking mechanism works.
The seneschal sends them back. She is impressed with the locking mechamism. She would also like to know how to make the coating on the box and wishes to discuss a royal charter for the production of it. It would be of value to this house.
Signy offers a tight smile at this news, and spends a couple of hours grilling the more senior smiths on how these sorts of arrangements work, especially with other people and smithies.
It's two-fold. They present themselves as "by special charter to her Ladyship Signy of ____". They'd want your full titles, of course. And they vigorously defend their rights to be the sole manufacturer of the coating. Historically, such arrangements are made as favors for friends, but Signy gets the impression that cash fees or royalty payments are not unheard of.
Once they depart, she pulls out some iron and in just a few short hours produces a sword in an older Rebman style that she picked up from one of the older smiths. Once done she eyes it critically. In the middle of Reality she isn't able to do much to it, but she is Weyland's daughter, and this blade should prove more than a match for any other ordinary blade that's out there. Once it's ready, she sends it with Red Fox Claws to its final destination in the Guards barracks.
All the while, she continues to sketch in a small, battered notebook, refining her plans for the Queen's commission. She continues to purchase supplies, more of the things she will need very shortly.
All goes as expected.
Signy gets a rundown of the arms used in the barracks, and their state of repair, from Red Fox Claws on his return. Any obvious gaps or needs, and she sets some of the junior smiths to work with the twins to work building a small stock of things to have on-hand for anyone that comes in after seeing the Guardsman's sword.
They begin production of high-quality weapons, fit for battle and court. It is a slow process, but they do seem to know both sides of the need.
In the evening, after the other smiths have left, Signy starts to collect the materials for the Queen's Commission, several bars of the same material that she used to coat the top of the box, pouches of gems, bars of other metals. She meticulously lays out her tools, slowly dropping the cares and thoughts of the smithy from her mind as she assembles and arranges them.
Reverently, almost ritualistically, she melts a couple of the bars and starts the process of crushing a couple of the gems, diamonds and sapphires.
As the other smiths come and go over the course of a week, Signy remains at her forge working. She breaks only twice a day, each time to grab a plate of food that she devours while looking at the piece taking shape on the forge, pondering her next moves in the construction. As the work takes shape and slowly forms she continues to work, feeling an electric energy coursing through her and pushing her past the need for sleep.
Coral colored links slowly come together with shimmering, electric blue ones in a design that invokes the Pattern that lives under the Queen's castle. The tracing runs across the back of the hand and down the fingers, somehow crafted so that when the fist is clenched the design on the hand morphs from the grand curves of the Pattern to the First Veil.
The fingertips have small diamonds set within the links reflecting the light like miniature stars at the ends of the fingers, but which turns into a mirror-like surface when the hand is held palm-upward and with water in the cupped palm (which should be often, in Rebma).
It looks amazing. If that is all it is supposed to do, it is complete, and wonderful.
And yet Signy thinks that it could, should be more if it is to bear the pattern. Must be more, she realizes, or less. She feels as if in her inner core, in some part of her being connected to the pattern, that the pattern can only go on this if she makes it more...
More something. Signy may have reached the limits of what she can do without returning to her father for more training. She might find another tutor, but she suspects that he is truly the only one.
The day after the gauntlet is finally completed is one that the smithy is normally closed. Signy sits by herself in the darkened workshop, the gauntlet on the bench in front of her. She sits quietly, just looking at the gauntlet. There is little expression on her face apart from a slight furrow of her brow, but the taste in her mouth at the completion of her work is bitter, the more so at the thought of needing to go back to her Father.
She goes over dozens of plans to fix this. Destroy it and recreate it. Walk the Pattern with it. The blood of a Family member. Each more outlandish than the past. Each either obviously doomed to failure, or at best a complete shot in the dark.
Weyland.
He learned this somehow. Did Oberon or Dworkin teach him? Did he learn it himself? She wonders again about the blades, where they were crafted. It may be that a talk with Corwin or Bleys might have at least that much of an answer.
Eventually, Signy throws herself down on the cot in the back of the shop, and gets a fitful sleep, before deciding on her next course of action. Really, her only course of action.
Last modified: 4 January 2014