After a fitful night's sleep, the crew continues their descent in the cave. The walk seems interminable, but eventually the path stops descending and levels out. After a brief uphill stint, Signy and company come to the first signs of human occupancy. A circular globe of glowing light and a series of benches. There are shelves behind the benches and the cave opens out ahead.
"I'll look out there, see what's to see," says Red Fox Claws, who is in the lead.
"We're here," he says from the cave exit. "You can see the city. It's a plains, but underwater."
Brother Tomat laughs. "We've been breathing water for two days and now it's notable?"
There's a path to the city from the cave entrance, or at least a trail others have walked before. There are also at least a half-dozen spots someone could be watching this exit from. The city is indeed visible in the distance. On land, it would be an hour or two to walk there.
Signy gazes at the city. "I wonder," she quietly notes in a conversational voice, "how many sets of eyes are tracking us now."
She catches Red Fox Claws' eyes, and nods her head in acknowledgement of the surroundings.
RFC nods and gives the handsign for 3 enemies.
Signy flashes the sign for acknowledgement.
"With the Band, we could have made life fairly unpleasant for a much larger force."
She offers Tomat a sly gaze. "Bet your Abbot can't match breathing underwater, can he?"
Tomat grins. "Perhaps not, but the Order is rumored to have a medical facility on a space station in a far distant place, where they do advanced research. Men there wear special suits that let them breathe beyond the heavens."
Signy gives him a dubious look. "Special suits? I shudder to think that there's a tailor somewhere that's the equivalent of my father."
She pauses, before taking him slightly seriously. "Unless he made these suits for your Abbott....."
She puts her foot on the path downward.
"All the same, keep an eye out. We were either a band of fighters at war with the Black Road and my father, or a band of cutthroat mercenaries and brigands, depending on which end of the sword you were on."
Evidently the three person party is not interesting to the close in watchers, but does provoke a party to leave a small watch-house in the valley below. A man climbs the trail. Beside him swims a man with a twenty-foot long fish-tail. It looks like some sort of parade costume flowing behind him. Both have tridents in their arms and carry themselves as if they know how to use them.
Signy doesn't bother to call them to Red Fox Claws' attention.
She continues to move her group forward, until they get closer to the two coming to meet them. She takes one step forward to put herself clearly in the front, then lets the two approach at their own pace.
She keeps her hands away from her weapons and trusts in the other two to follow suit.
As the pair swim closer to the descending trio, it becomes clear that the fish-man is not in a costume, but some sort of chimerical creature. Red Fox Claws comments that it would take most of the band to defeat him, not counting the soldier.
The other man is clearly a soldier, although Rebma does not seem to believe in uniforms. Or clothes, much.
"Good day, travelers," the human says, "you are within the royal sands of Rebma. How are you called and what brings you to our realm?" The man is young, but well-spoken. He looks competent in a fight, but is not the combat veteran the Red Fox Claws is.
Signy draws herself up slightly, trying to look somehow like a member of the Family.
"I am Signy, daughter of Dierdre and Weyland. My men and I are here to visit Rebma."
She winces inwardly at the inelegant start.
"She's not expecting us, but I was hoping to visit with my cousin, Celina."
Both man and fish-man bow, although the man's is smooth and courtly. "Lady Signy, your mother was an honored guest here some years ago, and I had the pleasure of meeting her at the time. You are welcome to Rebma and I will escort you to the palace." He's young, but has the look of an officer of a noble family, serving as part of the family duty.
"I am Servius Maccius Pacilus of the Coldstream Guards. The Peregrinus will go ahead and allow the city to prepare to receive you. Do you have special needs or is there anyone you wish to send a message to?"
[Regardless of the answer (unless someone gets stabby and starts a fight), in which case we can roll back...]
The fish-man turns, which takes some time, and begins to swim away, eschewing the road. He is very fast.
"Are you come from Paris, Lady Signy? What news is there from that city?"
Signy hesitates, before managing a passable inclination of her head in acknowledgement of his greeting.
"If you could let ... Lady Celina know that I am here, that would be appreciated."
Signy wonders if she got the title right. She has a sneaking suspicion that somewhere her Father is laughing at her attempts at acting like a royal.
He nods. "He will inform my officers in the Palace, and the majordomo will tell her majesty, Queen Celina." If he has any reaction to her title choice, he is too polished to let it slip.
Signy inclines her head in thanks.
"I [only passed through Paris without stopping for news, unfortunately.] I was briefly in Paris some time ago, but spent little time there."
She hesitates, before giving Servius a frank look. "You have the advantage over me -- my mother left when I was very little, and I never saw her again before she died."
"I am sorry for your loss, Lady Signy. I was a friend of her household while she was here, and personally attended her on her trip to the Seaward." He seems quite proud of that, as if he expects Signy to understand some significance in the story.
Signy gives him an encouraging smile.
"That sounds like it was a great honor."
He nods. "I considered it so. It also introduced me to Lady Khela long before she was Queen Khela. My family was amongst the first to rally to her banner."
Signy nods sympathetically. "Lady Khela's loss must have been tough. How has the realm taken to Queen Celina?"
His smile is bland and Signy's assumption is that he is engaging in well-trained court smalltalk. "Oh, they are amazed and enthralled, Lady Signy. A young Queen in a revitalized court, both the chosen of Queen Khela and the daughter of Queen Moire. Her reign is off to an auspicious start, and it will be long and glorious."
Signy offers a similar smile.
"Since this is my first time to your realm, is there anything particular I should know to avoid looking like a complete newcomer?"
She tries to offer an encouraging smile.
He matches her smile. "It often takes guests some time to acclimate. The key is observation. Note, for example, the difference between my gait and that of your scholar. My feet are much more frequently on the ground."
Red Fox Claws interrupts. "So you can move quicker?"
Servius Maccius nods. "Your fighting man sees it, naturally. It's important not to swim by accident."
"The second most important thing is to eat in private until you get the hang of it. Beyond that, Rebma is no different than any other new city. Watch and Listen and you'll have it down in no time."
Signy can tell he does not really think that she will have it down in no time, but he is a professional (if junior) diplomat...
Signy nods. "Wise advice, and our thanks."
She makes a mental note to find Servius in a couple of days, after having mastered some of the skills needed to blend into Rebma, as a useful gauge of how she's doing.
"How do you run forges under the sea? It seems that the water would make things difficult for the smiths."
Severius seems genuinely interested in the subject, as are Red Fox Claws and Brother Tomat.
"When we craft in metal, it's either with hot spring vents or magic, my Lady. We are also, like your Amber, the center of a vast trading empire. Some things are better made Above. We also use coral and shells when it's convenient. They're easier to provide than metal.
"Wet Smithies down here are more about shaping by ablation than about melting and re-forming. Some of our best work with metal ores the way wood-carvers in Amber work with the grain of the wood. It's an esoteric trade, but the metal objects made thusly are amazing. I hope one day to own a sword of shaped metal."
Signy eyes blink slowly, thinking through the process for several minutes.
"Water can certainly wear down stone over enough time. It might be possible to speed the process up some, make the water move faster or with more force to speed up the process," she muses. "Otherwise, it seems like a difficult process, to grind the metal down that way."
She pauses, thinking through the process a bit more.
"How hot are those vents? They'd have to be pretty hot to extract the metals from the ore, unless that's what the magic is for."
Severius smiles. "A good question. They are quite hot, Lady, and under a significant amount of pressure. Working at the edge of the breathable water boundary is difficult, but where it can be done, it is quite rewarding. The magic is beyond a simple soldier like myself, but they can bring the vents up where they are not naturally found. The ones nearest the Great Forest produce superior metals, because of the composition of the water there. It gives the steel a natural green tint."
Brother Tomat speaks up. "The Brotherhood knows the secret of this technique, Lady Signy, but considers it suitable only for water-breathing peoples."
Severius nods. "Exactly."
The eager gleam in her eyes gives the lie to the bland tone of voice.
"Perhaps you could help arrange for a tour of these places for Brother Tomat and I while we are in Rebma?"
"I would be pleased to. My sister's cousin owns a smithy, I can take you there to observe."
Celina unlocks the Pattern Chamber and pushes open the door easily despite the oversized scale of the ancient barrier and the deep water. She steps inside and gestures to Silhouette, indicating the energetic scrawl of energy eating the shadows of the room.
It is hard to see the far end, but the Design must be a hundred meters wide and even longer retreating to the darkest lengths of the room.
"The Pattern," Celina says simply. She notes the room is as she left it last night with a quick look around. The larger mirror is set up for her use, but still covered. She puts a hand on her hip, wearing only the green tanga and her knife belt, with the scepter pushed through the belt at her hip. She almost seems a swashbuckling corsair.
Silhouette drifts to a halt beside Celina, silent and thoughtful. Translucent silks shimmer around her body, as if she is some beautiful jellyfish -- exquisite and deadly. It is difficult to tell where the dress ends and she begins; the sensual shape of her curves hinted at behind waves of color. She carries no weapon, no accoutrements. Such things are meaningless on the path she shall soon walk.
She stares out at the Pattern, deliberating between disappointment and veneration. She's come expecting the Divine Language, only to discover something more akin to God's graffiti. Creation's living manifestation is one she does not recognize, cannot decipher. But, perhaps, it could never have met her expectations, for they were based on false dreams, selfish hopes. "When God saw this He did not permit them, but smote them with blindness and confusion of speech," she mutters with a wry laugh.
Truthfully, it is fear souring her exuberance. The fear of death -- not physical, but spiritual.
She breathes in, touching her chest -- the rhythmic beat of her heart mirroring the pulse of energies out there. Blood calling to blood. She may be a stranger here, but she has come home.
"Family has been invited. Don't feel any different if they do not come, because there is a lot of pain in this room that has nothing to do with you, Dolphin." Celina looks into Silhouette's eyes at that last. Then she smiles.
Silhouette returns the smile, "I doubt they shall come. What point is there to watching a phantom meet its destiny?" She shrugs, "Besides, you are all the Family I require at this moment."
She takes another breath, turning her back to Celina. "I have completed your request, my Queen. When you are ready, you may unveil me."
Slow, deliberate footsteps herald Conner's arrival before he appears in the frame of the doorway. He pauses there waiting to see if he is interrupting before coming forward fully into the chamber.
Celina nods in Conner's direction, making a small TaKhi hand-dance gesture that is obviously invitation to enter.
"Dolphin?" Celina says, "Unveil? Did you write the poem on your skin?" Celina sounds as if this idea has surprising appeal.
Silhouette nods, a shy smile -- so unexpected upon cruel lips. She bends her head forward, dark hair cloaking her face as she exposes her neck to Celina. A simple tie holds the dress to her, so delicate a breath could undo its binding.
Brita comes in the door. She is draped in her signature red but in a style befitting the underwater environment albeit with more coverage than most. She nods to Celina and smiles at Silhouette before moving to the side near her brother. She is silent as she squints out at the pattern - inspecting its state to make sure it is not as she last saw it.
Ambrose arrives shortly after Brita. "If I may be permitted, I have not observed a walk other than my own." He walks over to stand close to Brita.
Celina nods to Ambrose, restraining herself from adding anything right now. Silhouette remains poised. This reminder of Royal Obligation is so sweet and so terrible. Celina shivers.
The Queen of Rebma reaches and plucks the tie at Silhouette's back in a counter-clockwise twist of the wrist. The dress begins to fall with the same mirror current as the Rebma Pattern.
The translucent dress shimmers as it slides down, exposing Silhouette's olive flesh. Totally, completely. But no shame, no fear. Such trivial concepts are for others, lessers. Elegant text adorns her naked back, as if she is a living scroll. Five lines written in squid ink; temporary, but then again weren't all things of beauty transitory?
Crimson lips mark me
Inflame forgotten yearnings
Veil shark smile perils
Behind waves of crimson beauty
This treacherous tide I swim
Silhouette waits, as motionless as any tapestry. For that is her Purpose.
[Conner]
One of the advantages of underwater living is that a sharply drawn intake
of water is much less noticeable than a sharp inhalation of air.
Celina sings the inkwork out loud while tapping the scepter at her side to meter. The she speaks, "We are pleased by this tribute, child of Rebma. Go take your Destiny, Dolphin. Begin and do not stop. Let nothing stay your Path. You have my Blessing, by Mirror, Art, and Blood." So help me, Lir.
Brita says nothing, but stands up straighter as Celina finishes her blessing.
"There are three Veils. Each one is harder to push through than the last. Keep walking and let nothing stop you." Conner advises. "When you reach the center, you may will the Pattern to send you where you wish. Choose somewhere safe."
Silhouette bows her head to this, silent, attentive. Finally, she nods, "Thank you, Conner. Your words of Enlightenment shall be heeded, and are most welcome."
She turns her gaze to Ambrose, "Do you have Wisdom for me, cousin?"
Ambrose considers the advice his cousins have given for a few moments before finding a few words of his own for Silhouette. "Until you have mastered it, the Pattern is your enemy. Believe nothing you see, hear, or sense. You forget this at your peril, kinswoman." When he nods to Silhouette, his red locks waver in the current momentarily. "I won't wish you luck, but will and determination."
Silhouette smiles at Ambrose, as he reaffirms her strongest belief. "My thanks. Luck is a fool's tonic. And I do not imbibe of it. Your Wisdom shall be my armor." She dips her head to him, forest-cool eyes lingering on him for a moment. Then she turns away, steadfast in her Purpose.
Conner draws his Pattern blade and holds it point down in front of him settling into a position of watchful attention.
Celina looks Dolphin in the eye, softly saying. "Come back for the kiss. You shall have it then."
"So be it," Silhouette replies, bow her head one last time.
Celina steps away pointing to the beginning of the Pattern. At her back the shrouded frame of a great planar object waits. It is not part of the normal accessories of the room for those who have been here before.
Without words or looking back, Silhouette steps onto the scintillating construct... leaving her doubts behind her. Or so she believes.
As Silhouette steps into the Infinite, Celina's scent still curls around her, currents of sensual distraction. Like oaxaca chocolate from Vanderyahr's Tecuani markets, all sweet fire and pleasure. She worries that she will fail Celina and extinguish what light remains in too-fragile heart. But emotions have no place here. Indeed, they could be deadly. Perhaps more so in this Place Between Places. She dismisses them, pushing back the traitorous feelings they invoke.
Another step forward and the world recedes behind her.
Rebma.
Celina.
Her Family.
The woman she'd been.
All fade away.
There is only the Pattern now. An oppressive darkness closes in, threatening and all-encompassing, blocking out all beyond the scintillating pathway stretching out before her. Vertigo crawls in her gut, sensing a vastness beneath her -- eager, hungry, waiting for one misstep to swallow her whole.
Another step. And another. Carefully following the thin ribbon of divine light through the stygian dark. Sparks flutter up around her bare feet like angry fireflies. They wheel madly about before lighting upon her flesh. But, for their intense glow, they lack any heat. Indeed, they burn with cold; sharp, bitter bites. Pain as deep as any she's known before.
And with every step, more take flight, swirling in the air, buoyant and bright and pitiless.
No, not fireflies, she soon realizes. Snow flakes. They fill the darkness, as if she is lost within a midnight blizzard. The savage cold settles into her body, stealing her warmth and strength. Gooseflesh creeps over her exposed skin, teeth chatter, muscles scream in protest. With every step, the storm intensifies, the chill deepens. A soundless wind scours her face, pinking her cheeks and nose.
Silhouette pushes onward, struggling into this invisible wall of cold. Her limbs numb, icy pain flares through her feet. But she understands pain all too well, and has long since learned to ignore it. To use it to her advantage. She allows the cold's torturous embrace to sharpen her focus. To strengthen her will. It is a loyal companion, not her enemy.
Forward.
Ever forward.
Step after step into the snowy darkness. One foot after the other. Curves. Straight-aways. Angles. The Pattern's ever-changing complexity hindering her advance, taxing her physically and mentally. Time bleeds away into an unintelligible concept, measured only by the rise and fall of her feet.
But, in time, she senses the oppressive gloom surrendering to slate grey light. Scents of brine and damp embers drift on the dank breeze. And beneath this, the heady stink of decayed olives and jasmine. The light intensifies, hurting her eyes, but calling to her. She emerges from a sea cave, greeted by another blast of frigid wind. On her left, an angry ocean churned by winter weather. To her right, a lazy slope rising toward an orchard of burned olive trees. Beyond the beach, a charred ruin stands neglected, forgotten. Ash and snow muddy the landscape, but she recognizes this place all too well.
Home.
She's come home.
Lowering her head against the wind, Silhouette presses down the frozen beach. The Pattern glitters like hoarfrost on the sand, beckoning, mocking. Shells splinter beneath her every step, rising up like hidden knives. She ignores them cutting into flesh. Ignores the salt air stinging her wounds. Ignores the biting wind upon her skin. Only the collapsed domus ahead matters -- its blackened timbers thrusting from the ground like the bones of some great beast. Even crumbling, she knows its every feature, its every stone; all aspects seared into her soul.
And it is there she must return.
The path from the beach is no less torturous, the snow hiding jagged rocks and splintered wood. Feet flayed, skin frostbit, every step a fresh and terrible agony. But Purpose drives her, and she will not be denied.
She passes beneath the seaward archway -- once majestic stone, now crumbling and broken. Its mosaic tiles, chronicling her Family's history, are scattered and stolen. Her chest squeezes tightly. How many times had Father told her the story behind each tile? Sung of their family's noble past, of the celebrated lives that have come before her. The pride he'd spoken with and instilled into her, filling her like a vessel. Now, naught but dust and chipped porcelain, as broken as her heart.
Shadows creep out of the ruin to greet Silhouette with murky kisses. Even here she can't escape the wind and snow; gaping holes in the roof stealing any hope for relief. Little remains of the domus she remembers; its innards gutted by flames and avarice. But enough remains to cut her iron will. The Pattern's glow illuminates each horror, each insult, in perfect relief. She treads through the darkened halls, following it inward. The kitchens. The gynaeceum. The andron. Room after room, connected in an impossible order, larger than possible. A maze of memories and nightmares.
Voices call to her from gloomy corners. Her sisters laughing, playing. Her mother singing. Her father's voice echoing, calling her to her studies. She wants to go to them. To step off the Pattern and be lost in their presence. To forget this pain, and deny what lies before her. It would be so simple. Just step off the path and be no more.
The sharp stink of burned flesh and corruption waft down the hall. The house groans, threatening, angry. The Pattern continues through an abyssal-dark archway, shaped like a mouth of broken teeth. The First Veil. She knows pain waits beyond it. True suffering. Death. Yes, she would die there. A death of body and soul.
But she'd died before. She will die again. And true Power requires sacrifice.
She swallows the fear and pain, and pushes through the membranous shroud of night.
And emerges into the peristylium; the open air bitter cold, moonlight playing over the ash and snow. Rich gardens once grew here, flowers and herbs of Elysium vibrancy and splendor. Now, only corruption and embers remained. The portico's etched columns, with their elaborate friezes of landscapes and gods, were with marred by fire or obscured by tapestries of glistening spider webs. Worst of all, oily soot clung to the domus's Heart Tree like a disease, its limbs twisted in eternal agony.
Her home's Protector, impotent in the face of Man's Desires.
This had been a place of life and love. Now, it was a frozen grave.
Around the Heart Tree's burnt roots, four figures huddle together; their bodies so malformed by fire that they seem a part of it. Silhouette's heart leaps into her throat, choking her, strangling her, threatening to overcome her Will. She wants to look away, needs to deny this image.
Her sisters. Her father.
And her.
Unbidden, tears streak her cheeks in a hot, wet flood. She's forgotten the sensation of her tears. They are born of emotion, of weakness. But her heart's treachery cannot be contained. They fall and fall, wracking her chest with sobs.
"Father," she whispers. "I'm sorry."
Her voice startles the grisly shapes that had once been her sisters. Macabre limbs twitch and unfurl; long, bony masses of sinew and greasy skin, which had once been human arms and legs. A mockery of Janus, their torsos are indivisible, fused together by flame and shadow into a single, abortive mass. A death-bloated abdomen resembles an arachnid's thorax; a silvery thread trailing from it as they scuttle forward to block her path.
Four glassy eyes stare down at her, alien, hideous. A wet hiss escapes their leathery mouth, "Ssssister. Welcome home."
Silhouette cringes, fighting inner revulsion. She instinctively knows this thing isn't her sisters. But this knowledge does not quell her terror.
Yet, fear or not, she does not stop. Does not tarry. She will not be weak. Never again.
She must go on. The Pattern stretches before her; the ruined portico extending into an impossible distance. She pushes forward, only to find her feet heavy, pinned to the floor. Webs cover the ground, sticking to her flesh. She tries to lift her foot, agony flaring as the gossamer strands tear skin.
"Your struggle is pointless, sister," they purr. "You belong here. With us."
"No," Silhouette hisses through the pain. "My journey does not end here."
"But you live here every day, Kabeiro." The words bite into her worse than any cold.
She snarls, "I died. I was reborn. This place is nothing more than a memory." Another step forward, ignoring the monster blocking her path.
Her sisters laugh; a wet, hateful sound. "If only that were true."
They scuttle out of her way, abandoning their position on the Pattern's bright carpet. For an instant, Silhouette hopes they will depart. But they only move behind her; so close she can feel the heat of their breath upon her back. The clicking, chattering murmur of their ever-moving pedipalps drifts far too close to her ears. But she can do nothing, except continue. One step after another.
"You've lived in this place all your life, Kabeiro," they whisper. "It defines your every action. Shapes your very being. You crave its dark comforts."
A kiss of gossamer touches Silhouette's hand -- then raw, tugging anguish. She glances down, finding a stand of spider silk pulling at her flesh. Before she can react, another touches her other hand. She cries out, her next step deliver exquisite agony.
"Stay with us," they plead, almost kind now.
"No. This place is nothing to me."
"Lie to yourself. But we know better. Look at all you've done. You've never let go of this place. This is your home, sister. Why deny it?"
"The Grand Desig..."
"Another lie! And you know it. A salve against the pain. You needed it to explain away your loss. Your pain."
More threads touch her; elbows, neck, legs, feet. Pinning her. Enwrapping her. Pulling her back, slowing her down.
"Kabeiro. When will you admit that this place is all you've had? All you ever will have. You can't give it up. To abandon it is to renounce everything you are. Even now, your every step is driven by us, by this place. It is your true Purpose."
They twitch their spidery limbs, pulling at their silken webs. Silhouette screams as her arms and legs are tugged and stretched to near breaking. They play with her as if she is some living marionette, every subtle movement of strings making her dance to their cruel desire. She bleeds and howls, the suffering too great, too brutal.
And she knows this is her role. Puppet. Plaything. They are right. As much as she protests, they are right. She has lived in this place all her life, forged by its remembrance. Her body may have resurrected, but not her soul. She's allowed her hatred and fears guide her. To shape her mind and Purpose. A clockwork toy empowered by a memory. For everything she's done, for everything she built herself into, she remains the frightened, little girl, comforted by her father's dead arms.
She can almost sense them smile at her weakness, "It is okay, sister. Let go. Let us hold you. Let us take your pain from you. You belong here with us. We love you. And it is for the best."
So tempting, she thinks. To let go. To deny the Truth. That she's a hollow reflection. That the Grand Design was nothing more than excuse to go on. That everything she's endured and done for was to ease the pain of a frightened girl. She can finally have peace. Oblivion.
All she needs to do is stop... moving... forwa...
"No," she mutters, yanking her strings -- pain flaring up her arm.
"No..." her sisters repeat, shocked.
"No more." Her fury boils up in her. At herself. At her weakness. Steam rises from her skin in silvered wisps.
Her sisters yank again, reeling in the strands of silk. "You belong here, sister. With us. To us. You know this to be true, Kabeiro."
"I am not Kabeiro!" Silhouette growls. She throws herself forward with every last once of strength. Wet rips fill the air, as her skin splits like that of a ripe fruit -- peeling off in bloody strips.
Flames erupt from the scarlet wounds, bright and pure. Not of rage. Not of fear. But of Purpose. For the first time, Silhouette knows she is more than this place, this memory. She is more than some philosophy.
She is Silhouette -- a Child of Amber.
A Child of the Pattern.
And nothing can control her.
Nothing could inhibit her.
Not even herself.
Her sisters howl in agony as flames pour from Silhouette's wounds. The strands snap, one by one, releasing her. The fire spreads, igniting the peristylium, transforming it into a conflagration. Her sisters ignite, crinkle, writhe. And scream. Even after their throats are nothing more than ash.
Silhouette finds herself laughing, running, filled with true jubilation. She burns like a torch on the Pattern, shedding the last vestiges of the girl she'd been.
The First Veil falls and her heart soars for the liberty of it...
Ambrose waits until Silhouette is well and truly on her way, and therefore cannot be distracted, to turn to the others. "Is there a formal ritual here that we should observe? I'm not familiar with the rules."
Celina speaks once talk of rules fills the hush, it is her place to voice them. "We have given our advice. Each of us for different reasons... expects her success. Now we can talk and try to keep calm." Celina reaches back and pulls the heavy drape from the mirror forged of Paris glass. Crisp echoes of Dolphin and Pattern life crawl within the Glass. The Pattern seen through water and glass is like Tir and Amber, it moves counter to the reality of Rebma. Celina places her hand on the glass and steps so that she may watch the Pattern's leaping energy and the Ordered Mirror. She sets her mind to Guard.
But when the screaming starts on the Pattern, Celina's heart jams in her throat and she stares straight at the sparking cloud that is Dolphin. The scream becomes twisted into laughter and Celina sees Dolphin push through the first Veil.
Brita's attention is solely on the Pattern and the sparks that mark Silhouette's walk, but she says "What does The Mirror Do, Cousin? I am Not as Familiar with Mirror Magic." It is obviously a distraction topic.
The distraction brings relief and Celina eases back, her body pulling towards the mirror. Celina's pupils are dilated and her right hand trembles in the direction of the Pattern. She realizes that for a moment, she considered chasing after that scream. She's shaken.
Celina puts her left hand flat on the Mirror and she palms the Pattern lines there like a dancer's invitation to link and move. She looks to Brita. Her tongue tip traces her lips. "Order. Focus. Meditation. Reflection is a Reality Echo. Whales speak to each other knowing that the water compresses and reflects their song. Knowing and hearing how the reflection can actually allow the song to travel further and sorting the echoes can add emotion to the message. Trumps may be like that --echoes--I do not know. But Mirrors are twined with the substance of this Realm. So I have brought this Glass here to study this priceless moment and if I add to my understanding of Order, then I add to Rebma's safety and Grace."
"Do you think that's safe?" Ambrose asks. "For the mirror, or for you?" he clarifies after a moment. He has, the others can see, turned his gaze from Silhouette's struggle on the Pattern to what Celina is doing.
Celina nods at the reasonable question. "I'm the Queen and my City is in peril. I must seek avenues to know the Strengths better and a safe route to this would be unlikely to match the urgency of my City's need. This Mirror is safer than many things I've considered. Mirrors are compatible with Our Rebma currents and this one for a long time. Danger in this case would be someone connecting to the Mirror to do me harm. With the living fire of the Pattern reflected in its surface right now, such a person would be at a disadvantage, I do think." Celina breathes and relaxes, feeling and listening to the room, the volume, and the strange sounds that Silhouette makes moving forward. This walk is like nothing Celina imagined, neither the methodical surface of her cousin nor the passionate violence of the deep currents in Dolphin. It looks like other walks but sounds like an arena contest.
She looks at her Family. "Ignorance kept me safe. Needed Learning is dangerous. I accept it."
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I would think that the danger is power and power, and the interlinking of the two. But I am not familiar with mirrors enough to say," which is a relatively graceful withdrawal from Ambrose. He glances at Conner and Brita and shrugs, as if to say, I tried.
Brita's return glance says 'Be On Guard'. She focuses back on the pattern, but she has moved to keep Celina and the mirror in her peripheral vision. "It is Interesting how the Rebman Pattern Allows Mirror Magic and Small Sorceries while its Former Reality Amber Kin Did Not. Why do you Think that is?"
Celina chews her lip and defers to Conner as he has spent more time in Rebma and working Sorcery.
Conner shrugs eloquently. "His Majesty King Random once pointed out that only magicians smoke in Rebma but every house has a chimney. Patterns are idiosyncratic as their creators are. So the not terribly helpful answer is that they work because whoever drew the Rebman Pattern wanted them to work. Mirror working appears to be an Ordered discipline compared to Sorcery so no doubt that is why it is compatible with Pattern realms. As for the magicians of Rebma I cannot say. I have never felt their works to be Sorcerous in nature though Sorcery is marginally easier in Rebma than other Pattern realms. The things Brennan and I pulled off during the war with Huon was part of our theory that something was seriously wrong with Rebma's Pattern." Conner looks out at the spark cloud that is Silhouette. "This is a theory that I am not convinced has been disproved by the way."
Conner turns his gaze to the mirror. "We cloak and cover mirrors to prevent others from spying upon us in our daily dealings in Rebma. To have an open window to gaze upon the Pattern seems most unwise indeed." He comments.
Celina keeps her palm flat to the mirror, warming it and monitoring the image of Silhouette's walk being layered into the Glass. She is alert to the Mirror opening under her hand, indicating someone trying to access it. "So I think what Brita may be asking is....do we sense there is Chaos in Rebma from the Origin? Can sorcery work here because Moins was not nearly as Ordered as Oberon? Or as Conner supposes is the magic here not really Sorcery but some other principle of Order we should know? I agree that Mirrors seem to be Ordered. Everything I've learned so far suggests Mirrors reflect, record, reinforce the structure of things. There is a quality of layered space to Mirrors. Mirrors detonate if the 'container' is used badly. You break the rules at Peril. The light lives on in a Mirror and can be brought back to show what has passed. Sometimes a Mirror can show what has not happened yet, but I think that is an aberration, perhaps even a practitioner losing perspective or control. In short, I trust that Moins bound Mirrors to the Realm for a reason, I want to know more, but I'll stop if you think I endanger myself. Rebma needs the Queen." She looks to all of them. "Do I have two 'no votes' from you three? Other thoughts?"
Brita, eyes still locked on the sparks of the Pattern, muses "You can Sense All Other Presences in the Mirror? And Shut It Down Before Harm is done to Yourself? If that is True, I Agree that More Insight into Your Pattern would be Useful to The Rebman Queen. If I can Assist in Protecting You, I Will, but my Mirror Knowledge is more limited than My Brother's."
"Yes, I'll feel Others in the Mirror." Celina shrugs. "Any of you can shut it down with the drape, especially if you approach it from out of sight. Defense here is easier than pushing through the Glass from unknown there. I cannot warrant that I can shut it down without harm against all comers. Surprise is part of experience." Celina adds some purely practical tips about the geometry of mirrors and how force coming through the mirror is limited to the frame geometry (ie 'narrow') but a mirror breaking from stress is a wider geometry (ie 'wide' glass shrapnel).
Ambrose is listening to all of this with fascination. "I'm not sure you could scry on this with Sorcery. You might burn out your Third Eye."
Celina nods, "Burned. That notion of 'unwise' works in three directions as this is Rebma. This side. That side---" Celina taps a finger lightly on the glass she is keeping warm with a palm. She looks at Conner and Ambrose. "And Family fallout. Gentleman, I want your advice. I know there is reason to be cautious. Shall I not bring the mirror into this? I promise to keep it passive and just try to learn."
Ambrose hesitates. "Mirrors aren't my forte. But I am told it is safe to use Trumps in the Pattern chamber. If the connections are similar--" he trails off there. After a moment, there's a slight shrug. "I cannot say. It is all Art, and dependent as much on the artist as the powers invoked: the strength and finesse with which they are wielded."
"Ambrose has the right of it." Conner nods in approval. "Ask yourself this question Celina: Are you confident that Moire or another mirror worker of great skill could not turn this mirror in the Pattern Chamber to their own advantage either while you absent or while you actively use it? Then act accordingly."
Celina half smiles at Conner. She nods once.
Beyond the First Veil, Silhouette finds herself within an ossuary's entrance chamber. Domed, the vestibule's heavy air smothers her jubilation. Tallow candles provide ruddy light, fouling the air with sickly perfumes. The rounded walls are smoothed sandstone; featureless, dull. The room tapers to an archway; a stairwell descending into darkness.
A cursory glance back over her shoulder reveals only stone. She's neither surprised nor relieved. The Walk continues. She crosses the chamber, weary but determined as she descends into the unlit, cramped tunnel.
Silhouette's fiery wounds illuminate the crudely quarried passageway in eerie relief. The stairwell subtly curves and narrows ever-inward like the whorls of some vast conch shell. A track is worn into the uneven stairs; the echo of the pilgrims who trod this path before her. Its inconspicuous shimmer reminds her of its true identity -- the Pattern.
Soon, more tangible signs of previous travelers draw her attention. Childish graffiti and unintelligible runes decorate the walls. Prayers. Blessings. Pleas. All in a hundred languages, some little more than indecipherable scrawls of oil or soot; their meanings known only to the writer. They tell a thousand stories of a thousand lives, pleading to be remembered.
Sporadically, grave goods are stuffed into cracks and fissures. Rusty tools and utensils. Moldering scraps of food. Fetishes of pigeon feathers and rat skulls. Pieces of slag and shaved copper. Cogwork amulets on strings of dried sinew. Countless offerings abandoned, sacrificed to unknown gods and goddesses. Signs of supplication and surrender. Last entreaties from those interned below. Futile appeasements to Death. Indulgences to postpone the inevitable.
But Death cannot be denied. And its desire for companionship insatiable.
She tries to ignore these pagan trinkets, these desperate scrawlings. Labors to stifle the memories they stir. But she remembers them too well. They once decorated the charnel house of Babilu, where the slave children's defleshed bones were stacked like precious ivory. Waiting to be used in the Iron Dragons, fueling their furance hearts.
For nothing went to waste in Babilu. Nothing.
She presses forward into the darkness, round and round, deeper and deeper into the earth. The weight of strata presses down, oppressive, smothering. Worsened as the passage tightens farther, forcing her to hunch over. Try as she might, the tunnel scourges her as she descends into the unknowable depths. She strikes her head -- blood trickling into her eyes. A shoulder catches a jagged outcropping. An elbow tears on sharp rock. More and more, her flesh is battered and bruised. Her feet slickened with scarlet, causing her to slip and inflict further injury to herself.
With every pained stepped, Silhouette's wounds burn brighter, revealing the passage's secrets in angry light.
The writings and grave goods begin to change. No longer the juvenile offerings of slaves, but far more opulent possessions. That of nobles and craftsmen. Painted dishes. Bronzed censers. Porcelains dolls. Jade sigils. Rolls of blue silk. Golden jewelry. Symbols of prosperity and status, one after the other. Most are broken. Others burned. Some flecked with dried blood. Signs of violence marking each and every one.
Another circle, deeper. The ceiling lowers father still, forcing Silhouette to kneel and crawl. Abrasions open on her hands and knees, hot and blazing. Like Ankhiale, the Titan goddess of flame, her blood soon ignites the trinkets around her. She feels unfamiliar remorse as they burn; her passage erasing the last remnants of incalculable lives. Her eyes water from the acrid smoke, her lungs and throat blister. But the fires offer no warmth to her skin, leaving her cold and hollow. The only heat comes from the next and newest injury, rocks digging into her flesh, again and again.
She blindly crawls forward, until the ground becomes littered with jiggling metal and crumpled paper. coins and currency. A dragon's horde, the wealth of a hundred worlds beneath her burning hands. She blindly crawls through it. A fiery rain of blood falls, touching colorful paper notes and reducing them to ash. Coins glitter and shine. Silver. Copper. Gold. A brilliant carpet, blazing.
And with every agonizing move forward, she feels the coins softening. Melting. The heat of her blood soon causing them to puddle and flow between her fingers. Mixing with blood. Soaking into her pores. With every movement through this shimmering pool, her body absorbs more of the precious metals, growing heavier with them. Her flesh tightens, expanding like a water skin. The increased girth forces her to shimmy against the harsh rocks, hoisting each limb. . . inch by inch. Sluglike, Silhouette pushes through the tunnel. A distant roar resonates from ahead. The first sound she's heard beyond her own suffering. It draws her, lends her strength; helping her forget her metal-engorged body. Water, she realizes. An underground river? No. As she circles the next bend, her glowing skin reveals a sheet of flowing water. The waterfall blocks the entire passage.
She knows what it will do to her. The suffering it will inflict upon her smoldering body. But what choice does she have? Like a smelted blade, she plunges headfirst into the frigid cascade.
Steam flashes up from her body, filling the tunnel. Crust forms over her like a shell, hardened slag weighing down on her swollen body. Her glow extinguished, she drags herself ever onward, blind. Limbs leaden, threatening to fuse together like tempered steel. The metallic carapace tightens around her, each impact on the tunnel walls jarring, resonating to her core. But she fights the rigidity, casts off the oppressive burden, clawing headlong into the unknown. She will not become some forgotten trinket in the dark.
Fresh air strikes Silhouette's hardened face; the steam and claustrophobic tightness surrendering to blessed freedom. She stumbles to her feet, every pained movement cracking her armored skin. Her eyes adjust to the unsullied light, blinking away the smoke and ashes. She stands before a vast plain, vibrant flowers and fresh grasses stretching outward like a lush blanket. Rich soil curls between her harden toes. Bird song fills her ears with music. So much beauty floods her senses she cannot take it all in, the bright allure of Paradise overwhelming her.
The Elysian Fields.
Land of the Peaceful Dead.
The final reward for the Righteous.
"Let me strip you of your burden, my love," a voice whispers in her ear.
Celina. Or, rather, whatever thing that now wore her face.
Of course, Silhouette chuckles wryly. Only she would dwell in this sacred place.
A verdant hand slithers over her entombed body, gripping tight. As Silhouette steps forward, Celina tears off sections of her hardened skin. The sensation is exquisite, sensual. The metal falls away like scales, revealing smooth flesh. Transformed, renewed. Ripened. Gone is Silhouette's slender figure; her body now zaftig and bountiful. Like some a fertile goddess, her belly rounded, breasts heavy. It is feels luxurious and wonderful.
She nearly stumbles as Celina's hand drifts over the taut belly, igniting ripples of pleasure. After ceaseless agonies, the gentle touch is devastating. But she refuses to yield to it. She steadies her awkward body and continues into the swaying high grass. "Thank you, my Queen, but I must go on."
Celina frowns with concern, "Dolphin. You do not know what that will cost you." She keeps pace with Silhouette. A soft hand slips into hers, fingers lacing with a familiar intimacy.
"Any cost is worth serving the Grand Design," Silhouette replies.
"Truly" Is that what've you told yourself all these years? Did you learn nothing from your trials in the cave just now?"
"I saw nothing to dissuade me from my Purpose, my Queen," she lies. The smoke lingers in her throat and nose, choking her words.
Celina smiles, sad. But her words lack judgment. "So, all those lives you?ve consumed in flames... they are meaningless to you?"
"They are the mortar and stones upon which the Grand Design is built. The mason does not weep for the bricks she cuts."
"Is that what you tell yourself, my love? Does that belief soothe your soul? Or is it their coins?"
Silhouette stiffens, "Death is my Art, Celina. I take no pleasure in it. Nor do I feel guilt. Only Pride."
"Oh, I think you do, Dolphin. More than a little of both, truth be told," Celina replies, squeezing her fingers. "You wished to share your pain with the world. It is understandable. A child abandoned. Alone. Tortured. Enslaved. So, you regained your Power where you could.
"'Forge your soul's Discord into a weapon, child, and you will never know fear again,'" she quotes, monotone.
Silhouette flinches, recalling the words. Charcoal scrawls above her straw bed in Babilu's slave-pit. Written after Draig Talmah revealed herself. Words she recited each night before fading into the false escape of exhausted sleep. Taking nourishment and comfort from them, when no was to be had elsewhere.
The first verse of the Grand Design.
"They serve me well," she says, hardly a whisper. "And I've served Grand Design faithfully."
"True. But it was a false faith, my love. You know this to be true, now. It can no longer be denied. You stand upon the very Truth of that, as we speak."
"Creation requires..."
"But you've never served Creation, Dolphin," Celina chides. "You've been nothing but a fragment. A reflection. A shadow. All you've done. All you've accomplished. All those lives you've ended. Have been all for nothing. They were not of the Pattern. They were never Real. Nor are you. All those ripples you created in the Grand Design's name? Where will they go? They are nothing in the Infinite Ocean that is the Pattern.
"The Grand Design was a child's lie. A dream that could never be fulfilled. A bastion against reality. A foundation of sand."
Silhouette shakes her head, trying to deny Celina's words. Grasping to the last threads of her philosophy, now unraveling in the face of logic. What had she done, truly? What had she achieved? She remained forever outside Reality. Her actions hollow echoes, swallowed in a soundless void. The weight of her insignificance presses down on her, growing heavier by the moment. Every step is arduous; gravity tugging, straining on her.
"I did it for the Greater Good," she whispers, no conviction in her voice. The faces of the dead and dying return to her in crystalline relief. So many. So many. Extinguished for a child's selfishness.
"Yes, my love," Celina coos. Her hand drifts over Silhouette's body, exploring its geography with expert touch. "And now it is time to rest. To lay down your burdens. Your Purpose is nothing but reverie. Why go on? Even if you persist, it shall be for naught. You know this.
"Be with me in this paradise. And be forgiven. Give in. For all your sins, you've earned this respite, my love."
She tongue remains dead in her mouth. She cannot refute Celina's falls silent, trudging ever forward through the drifting grasses. The sun warms her skin, the breeze drifting over her like silk. This transformed body tingles, everything sensual and sumptuous. She could lie upon the green carpet and close her eyes forever. And forget.
So tired. So infinitely tired.
Celina's hands continue their exploration, quickening her pulse. This fertile body yearns to sink into the loam. To give Life back to Creation rather than the sword. She feels her feet taking root, her body swell. The urge, the need for the pleasures of nature and beauty dragging her down, down. To savor Draig Talamh's other secrets, rewards. To know the comforts of earthen slumber; forever connected to the Green. She will become wood and leaf, rather than steel and flame.
So tired. So tempted. So lost.
So... wrong. No. This is all wrong.
With inherent resolve, she uproots her feet from the ground. Celina gasps, stumbling backwards. "Dolphin, you..."
"Do not belong here," Silhouette hisses. She frees herself from the woman's alluring embrace, forcing her heavy body onward.
"But you know the Truth now," Celina counters. "How can you go on?"
"Because I must." And, perhaps for the first time, she knows this in her heart.
Silhouette pushes through the thick grass and flowers. A black line bisects the horizon -- a hideous wound marring the unspoiled plain. As they draw closer, she can see it is a river of inky water. But there is more to the river -- dark secrets writhing. Something terrifying. Hungry.
As they crest the rise above the shore, Silhouette realizes she was wrong. It is not water, but a river of lampreys and eels, writhing and flowing like an organic torrent. They rustle and murmur; insane voices rising from their squirming tide. Thick bodies, malformed, display vestigial limbs and eyes -- dreadfully human in their fevered design.
"Nemo est supra legis," Celina says, fretful. No one is above the law.
"To reach the Far Shore, you must be judged. If the weight of yours sin is too great, you will drown." She touches Silhouette's shoulder. "Your sins are heavy, my love. And all your silver will not buy you passage across."
Silhouette nods, swallowing her fear. Celina follows, desperately holding onto her wrist. Tears streak her exquisite face; her sad frown, devastating. "Do not go, Dolphin. Stay with me. Let me bath you in the waters of Lethe. Soothe your brow. Erase your troubles. Please, you have wronged so many."
"Then they shall have their pound of flesh," Silhouette replies.
She steps into the living river. Teeth sink into her ankle, tearing a coin-sized chunk of meat out. She bites back the pain, taking the next step -- offering more of her body to the ravenous current. More lamprey -- their blunt faces hideously human -- latch on and impose their tithe. Another step. Another. Her legs sinking deeper into the hellish 'waters'.
Vaguely, she feels Celina's hand slide from her shoulder -- a final blessing of pleasure left behind. She doesn't look back. Dares not. She will not make Orpheus' mistake. She will not look back and have everything slip from her fingers, forever lost. And she knows all too well, if she looks back at Celina's beautiful face -- phantom or no -- she will be undone.
She concentrates on her old friend and protector -- Pain. Welcomes its empowering presence, gladly.
And Pain she has endless supply. Teeth tear, gnash, rip -- her blood inciting the vile creatures to frenzy. They consume her, one agonizing piece at a time. She sinks farther and farther into their squirming mass, offering up more and more of her body to them. Instinctually, she knows she should have already collapsed, succumbed to the massive loss of tissue and blood. But this savaged frame regenerates continuously -- like bound Prometheus and his ever-hungry eagles. And yet, through the scarlet froth and churning, wriggling bodies, the Pattern still shines, revealing her path to the Far Shore.
She sinks farther, deeper -- her head hardly above the bloody, torturous surface. Voices flood her senses, deafen with their shared pains, their exquisite losses. So many possibilities, extinguished. So many fragments of Creation cast into the void. Unused, unrealized. They bemoan their fates, their suffering. They plea for forgiveness, redemption. For one more chance to have mattered.
So many voices, all so much like her. So confused, even in their certainty.
She listens to their cries, but does not stop. Does not pause. She pushes onward. Through the pain. The anguish. The guilt. The doubt. Casting off the weight of her sins. Piece by piece. Inch by inch. She may have lost her way, but now she sees it before her. Forward. At any cost. Her misdeeds are hers to carry. Hers alone to embrace. As well as the sacrifice of body and soul that comes with them. She will not hide behind philosophies or words or childish concepts. She will collect her brittle pieces and reforge herself into something better.
And with that realization, Silhouette regains her footing again. The Pattern. The one Constant. The one Truth. It guides her way through the torment. Lifts her up from the pain and suffering. She feels solid ground beneath her, rather than mud and sand.
She follows it forward, step by step, letting it fill her with its divinity.
The pain ebbs and drains from her reborn body.
When she opens her eyes, she has reached the Far Shores -- and the Second Veil is behind her.
Still dripping with gore, Silhouette ascends a marble stairwell -- following the Pattern upward. In time, the passage opens onto a ruined balcony. After the previous phantasmagorias, she finds the next cavern is almost... banal. Rounded and smooth as the interior of some vast chimney, the chamber rises toward blessed daylight. Its bottom cannot be seen, offering only the vague impression of hellflame below.
Like the thread of a nut, a narrow stairwell corkscrews upward along the wall. Every rotation, the stairwell lands at one of five pillared terraces formed from a Blessed Material. Silhouette recognizes them as the Five Pillars of Society: Nobility (bronze), Religion (ivory), Economics (jade), War (steel), and Tradition (teak), respectively. Despite their opulent substance, the pillars themselves are of plain constriction -- no carvings or markings, little more than a solid lump.
Everything here is heartbreakingly mundane. Begging for Renewal, Reconstruction, Rebirth. Only the Pattern's ghostly radiance along the stairwell offers any majesty to the stagnant chamber.
Sunlight frames a solitary figure several floors above -- looking down from their lofty perch. Their features are obscured, but it is obvious a woman. They remain motionless, as if formed from the terrace itself. A bronze gargoyle. But she senses the woman's watchful, discerning gaze. A cold shudder passes down her spine like slush.
The sensation is... familiar.
Shaking off the initial disquiet, Silhouette chooses to ignore the watcher for now; continuing her steep climb. Exhausted from her previous two trials, the ascent rapidly drains her last reserves. She remains cautious of traps and hidden obstacles, but nothing materializes. Only the mundane stairs, one after the other. Her knees and ankles burn from the strain, every leaden motion an agony. Her hand brushes against the featureless wall, steadying herself.
Round and round, upward toward the light of day. Step after step. Each of the terraces offers her a brief respite, but little relief -- her endurance waning with every moment. Only the promise of escape drives her forward. She keeps her gaze focused upward to the light. Ever to the light.
Unlike the previous trials, this one soon becomes a war of attrition -- fighting the misery of tedium. With little distraction but her heartbeat and footfalls, she becomes drowsy, worn. She almost yearns for the diversion of true suffering.
After ascending past five terraces, Silhouette finally reaches the terrace where the figure stands. She welcomes this fresh distraction, but her joy is short-lived. The woman turns, revealing her identity. Her Mother. As she'd been on the day before abandoning her family; the identical high-girdled chiton, the glimmering diadem, the faint hint of ocean and perfume. A dozen sense memories assail Silhouette, and even though she has expected this apparition, she is not less undone by its arrival.
"My sweet, Kaberio," Flora says, stepping forward, extending her porcelain hands. "Look how far you've come."
"That is no longer my name, phantom," Silhouette says, walking by the woman. She focuses on the next step, and the one after that. They are all that remains of her world, her resolve.
Flora joins her on the next stairwell, taking the outside edge. If she is unnerved by the yawning chasm, it never shows on her too-perfect features. Nor does she appear to mind the increasing incline of the stairs, taking each one in stride. While sweat pours down Silhouette's strained face, Flora remains frustratingly immaculate.
"I knew you would succeed, my dear," she says with uncharacteristic pride. "You always were such a ambitious child. All you required was the correct... incentives."
"Incentives?"
Flora smiles; a dark, shadow on painted lips. "Do you believe you were the victim of random fate? I recognized your greatness, and chose to encourage it."
"Is that how you excuse your sins, Mother? That you abandoned us for my benefit?" Silhouette replies. She immediately hates herself for rising to the bait. But perhaps she cannot avoid it in this place. It is a world of her own design, after all. And she has but a role to play in it.
"Of course. One must fall from grace before they can ascend to Heaven. Did I not teach you that?"
"No. That knowledge I learned on my own."
"Everything. From that day, onward. All events were shaped according to my design, Kaberio," Flora smiles. The motherly expression is grotesque; a mask Silhouette wants to tear from the woman's face. "And faced with adversity, you honed your Discord into Harmony. Not through benevolence or chance, but through conscious will. That is the underlying truth of Creation, and my gift to you."
Silhouette rankles, "You claim credit for this? I doubt your machinations could extend beyond tea time, let alone decades. My trials were my own. As were my victories. If the Pattern has shown me anything, it is that."
She continues following the luminous flagstones upward, anger reinvigorating her. Even so, she's forced to drag each leg up and over the lip of each stair.
Mother continues to keep pace, unfazed by the exertion. "Your Will flows from my Blood, Kaberio. Is it not better this way? Had I not forsaken you, what would have become of you, truly? Blossomed into some exquisite flower, undoubtedly. But nothing more. And flowers fade, no matter how great their beauty."
Silhouette's laugh is harsh, "You would know better than most, I suppose."
"My Purpose was different, and determined before I was born. I wanted more for you. More than parties and dresses and cocks crowing around you. Father would have shaped you into little more than a reflection of me. But now, you are Preceptor of the Grand Design, daughter. Worlds tremble at your passing. No man rules you. They fear you."
Veracity lurks in these words. Perhaps Mother had instigated the events that shaped her, forged her. Having dealt with the Family, Silhouette recognizes their love for the Long Game. The desire, the ability to stir ripples in the cosmos. To let them expand and spawn countless tides. She's shared the same desire for much of her life. It is ingrained in the Blood.
Was Mother's explanation truly fantastical?
But, if so, why would she deny her creation so passionately?
Mother's pride would have overruled any caution. Even as a child, Silhouette recognized that trait in Mother.
No, as tempting as this Enlightenment may be, it lacks validity.
Silhouette shakes her head and continues up the stairs, "Doubtful. I know you too well, Mother. You would cherish and exploit such a prize, not scorn it. Not deny it."
Flora smiles gently, as one might to an addled child. "And waste its true potential? No. A hidden blade is the most deadly. I lie to protect us both, little one."
Silhouette cringes, losing her the rhythm of her steps. She wishes to believe Mother's words. Needs to. Perhaps she always has. For all the suffering she's endured, she's long desired Mother's respect, her love. It's driven her forward. Even now, she fights against the Pattern's oppressive force to prove herself, to demonstrate her birthright. That she is Flora's daughter; the truth of Blood, undeniably.
Has it always been that desire guiding her? Fueling her heart? A child's need. A child's wish. So humble and pathetic in its simplistic. Silhouette feels the strength leaving her limbs. Not from exhaustion, but her vitality being stolen -- the years of maturation fading. Indeed, as she glances over at her mother, the woman appears taller, more intimidating. Older. More and more like that last day, when they parted ways.
As if she is viewing Mother through a little girl's eyes.
And, at this mental realization, the physical manifestation becomes increasingly apparent. Her legs shorten, dwindle, requiring her to fight each step up -- her child's body strained by the exertion. More and more, she is forced to lean on the wall to steady herself. And as she shrinks, the light above -- her destination -- stretches farther and farther into the distance. The journey so intimidating, so overwhelming.
Flora extends her hand, as a mother should. "Do you see now, Kaberio? You've been following in my footsteps. I am so proud of you. Of the Great Works you've created. And of the great accomplishments yet to come."
Silhouette feels the smile form on her lips -- traitorous delight at her mother's approval. That yearning flares in her heart, reshaping her further. Weakening her. Her chubby, little hand inches closer to her mother's, desperate to take it. To finally be... what? Loved? Respected? Wanted?
Forgiven?
"Take my hand, Kaberio, and we will go forward together. Let me guide you the rest of the way," Flora says.
Silhouette gazes up at Mother. The same smile she remembers from all those years ago. So angelic. So tender. In that smile, there is Enlightenment. Truth.
Purpose.
Love.
But could it have been that simple? Was she merely a stratagem in Mother's grand enterprise? And what about the future? Could she remain a singular piece in the puzzle? Nothing but a bit player for someone else's Desire? After all she'd suffered? After all she'd accomplished?
Could she truly continue being a servant? Be content to slip the shackles back on her wrists?
Even if the reward was a mother's love?
Silhouette's hand drops to her side, balling into a tiny fist. She turns away from Flora, renewing her ascent toward the light with vigor. Flora's surprise only last for a moment; she soon hurries to keep pace. "What are you doing?"
"Going on without you."
"You need me, Kaberio. You need what I've shaped you into. You are what I made you."
"I am what I am despite you, Mother."
"And yet you walk my Path, even now," Flora chuckles. "All you will do shall be because of me. As you serve the Grand Design, you serve me. That's all it ever was, Kaberio. The strength I provided you. My blood guiding your every step."
Silhouette gazes upward; blue skies guiding her out of the grey, ashen prison. All she needs to do is keep going upward, following the path and she will be free.
Or will she?
Is the servant truly free?
The Pattern's radiant path still underfoot for now, yes... but it soon angles out into the open air -- like flecks of gold floating, sparkling. It takes a moment, but she visually confirms that the Pattern's light does not continue along the stairwell. Its light fills the air with its splendor, its quintessence. A gossamer line spiraling upward.
While constructs of substance, the stairs -- Mother's Path -- lead only to Stagnation.
She realizes that she has reached a crossroads -- the final test of her resolve and wisdom. A test of faith.
Silhouette turns away from Mother, pulling out of the woman's strong grip. She stares down into the abyss, and it looks back at her -- hungry. She swallows her fear, taking another step toward the edge. "I'm no longer your child, Flora. I am no one's child."
"You must follow the path, Kaberio. It is your Purpose. Your Destiny. The Grand Design must be your guide."
"No. It has given me all I need to know. But it is time to put down childish trappings."
"You would throw away all your works? All that you have learned in Draig Talamh's name?" Flora grips her daughter's shoulder, tugging on her, trying to force her back from the stair's edge. "If you turn away, you shall fall. And if you fall here, Kaberio, you will be forever lost."
"No, mother. A single course leads to Stagnation. If I must go on, I must choose another way forward. I must forge a new path. And I choose the Pattern." She fights back her vertigo, approaching the edge. Darkness and gravity yawn, so eager to consume her. Sparks of golden light dance in the air, calling to her. Urging her onward.
"Conform or die, it is that simple." Flora says beside her. "Walk the path given you. Trust only the ground beneath your feet."
"No."
"Then you choose death, my daughter."
"No. I choose to live."
Flora pleads, begs, "There is no other Way forward, child." She reaches out on last time.
"There is always another Way. And I choose mine."
Predator-quick, Silhouette pulls her mother toward her, gentle, welcoming. At first, her Mother is confused by this act of affection. Smiles for a moment, as if sensing victory. She bends down to hold her child.
But the embrace is neither daughterly nor loving.
It has Purpose, dark and bloody.
Silhouette knows the Way forward shall be paved in scarlet. There is always Cost.
And she gladly pays it.
Her white-bright teeth sink into Flora's throat, ripping, tearing. Sinew shreds, skin opens. Hot, red splashes across her tongue, floods her throat in jetting heat. She feeds, drinks, gluts herself, burying herself into the open wound, eager, needing.
As if to reward her conviction, the Pattern's pathway flares brightly -- like brush-strokes of light upon a midnight canvas. And, even as it resists her, she feels the Pattern supporting her as she struggles out over the abyss. Offering her the Way the true -- the only -- way forward.
Flora convulses and writhes, her dying body growing heavy. Silhouette's child-frame is not up to the task of wrestling against her. But she refuses to relinquish her prize. As stubborn as a desert cat, she drags the carcass along the sparkling pathway. She laps at the ebbing wound, taking succor, unwilling to spill a single drop, investing herself with the power she needs. The strength to transform once more. One last time. To become her true form. To meet her true Purpose.
And open the shackles around her wounded heart.
None shall rule her again.
She answers to no King, no Queen. She serves no master but her own Desire.
She is no longer Mother's servant. She is her Own Woman.
She no longer serves the Grand Design. It shall serve her will.
She is not a child of Draig Talamh. She is Draig Talamh.
And with this epiphany, her body stretches, contorts. Tears open like wet silk, the tiny frame unable to contain the Power within. Molted flesh burns, erasing the woman she'd been, the fool she was. The Dragon inside her heart stirs, driven by a great hunger, an insatiable thirst that cannot be contained or denied. A desire for Power. For Freedom.
Renewed, Silhouette idly tosses the desiccated husk of her Mother aside, the body plummeting from sight. She continues to change with every toiling step, until she becomes an amalgamation of steel and flame and shadow. Fighting its way along the Pattern -- stretching its wings and roaring its triumph, sensing its goal. Its unfinished body claws, strains, wars against the last scintillating yards, feet, inches of the Pattern -- claiming each as its own.
Once, Silhouette desired only to serve the Pattern. To be its Avatar, its Preceptor.
But no more.
Her chains are gone, physical and mental.
She is no longer a slave.
She will not trade one master for another.
She will not be the Pattern's vassal.
She is its match.
It is part of her. And she a part of it.
Indivisible.
Silhouette unleashes herself from gravity and doubt, forces her way through the final Veil. Letting the blinders fall from her eyes and viewing Creation for the first time.
And all the dark wonders it has to offer.
A banquet of possibilities, which she would soon glut herself upon.
Her wings stretch wide, metal and gears screaming. Flesh and fear forgotten. Weakness and doubt cast away.
She laughs and howls. A smoke-thick cacophony of joy, rage, love, elation, yearning, hatred.
Her Voice is the birth cry of a Goddess.
And Worlds shall, indeed, tremble before her.
Across the room, the Pattern sparks and flares around Silhouette until finally terminating in an eye-searing flash. As the light ebbs, she remains standing there, returned to the world, intact. She has a euphoric smile, a distant gaze -- as if beholding the face of Creation.
Then, a pained gasp escapes her... the physical strain rushing over her like a tsunami.
Celina rises on her toes, as if being taller can help her see better across the seventy some meters of distance.
And her body deflates, crumples, sinking forward until she lays on the chamber floor as helpless and naked as a newborn. She remains perfectly still. And yet something dark stirs like a nest of snakes on her bare back. But only for a moment before it too falls still.
Darkness in a room so brightly lit catches Conner's attention. "The wings of a Phoenix?" He murmurs. "Or perhaps a Dragon?"
Silhouette shivers, unconscious. Upon closer inspection, the darkness is revealed to be an elegant tattoo -- of a sort. Dragon's wings of steel and gears, rods and cables, folded up along the curl of her back. At first, the intricate markings appear static. But if watched at length, one can almost see the gears and cogs turn and click. The inky wings rustle inconspicuously, as if restless.
Celina draws all will from the Glass. She bends down and takes the drape to restore the mirror to still and cloaked status. What is done is done. If there was more to learn from the mirror and Pattern actions, she would have to study it later. She turns from the mirror and on impulse moves to Brita's personal space. "Thank you for your strength." Celina slowly squeezes Brita's upper arm, giving plenty of body notice that she will touch her cousin for the moment.
Brita accepts the touch but also reaches to squeeze Celina's shoulder. Her eyes are shining bright when she notes softly, "She Made It."
Celina looks at her trio of advisors. "I think she is unconscious. I'll wait on her while she sleeps if you would like to withdraw." Celina is obviously relaxed now that the deadly ritual is over.
Brita glances once more out at the center of the pattern and the figure resting there. "She is Strong," she notes to the others before bowing slightly to Celina and slipping from the room.
Last modified: 11 September 2013