The next three days pass by Silhouette without incident or complaint. She spends them briefing Ettorio on the current situation and booking him passage to Xanadu. She provides the young man with a written introduction to the King, as well as a sealed missive outlining her progress and plans to travel to Rebma. Once he is away, she spends the remainder of her time in the library, duteously studying every book she can find on Rebman politics and culture.
It is neither surprising that her mother does not appear, nor terribly upsetting. Silhouette simply acknowledges the dismissal and then resumes her current course of action. Her part in this is done and she has little time or inclination to pursue a familial reunion further.
On the evening of the third day, Silhouette dresses in a fine gown of gold and crimson that drapes over her like liquid flame. The flowing sleeves cover the ruddy tattoo lingering on her wrist - a source of unexpected comfort. She selects an ebony-handled kaiken from her small collection of blades; all personally crafted as gifts for her political and trading partners. Satisfied, she boldly seeks out Prince Caine - finding him in his study, poring over paperwork of some sort.
"Milord, might I have a moment?" she says, bowing her head.
"Yes," he replies. "Unless you wish to meet the representatives of the weapons merchants from Bellum, you may have up to half a glass, if you need that much time." He looks up. "What is it you wished to speak about?"
Silhouette raises an elegant brow, smiling. "Don't tease, uncle. You know perfectly well I would most enjoy meeting my peers. And, perhaps, lending you some of my insight into what is a fair price." She brushes the hair back from her slender throat. "Although, I suspect I can learn more from you on that subject."
She drifts over to a chair, settling there like an elegant raptor. "I require an escort to the city of Rebma. Or transport via Trump. Whichever would be the most convenient for you. Also, I would ask you what particular protocols I should adhere to while meeting with the Queen."
Caine scowls. "We're not buying. They're complaining. That's longstanding." He shrugs. "We might be buying soon, so I get to hear them complain. That's new. I'll dangle outfitting a military expedition in front of them and that will quiet them."
He pauses. "They're very simple, really. Their nature is to be quite readable, if somewhat tedious."
A sigh of disapproval passes over her teeth. "Their complaints demonstrate ignorance of the Eleventh Law. An ill sign, indeed. And makes one contemplate their skill; for what concessions will they allow in their craft, if they reveal desperation in their trade? I am surprised you tolerate their advances at all."
Caine raises his hand in a gesture that could have a dozen meanings, or none. He changes the subject.
He looks over at her as she perches. "As for Rebma, It is linked to Paris. I can send you to Corwin via trump, and he can direct you to the stair." Caine pulls a pouch from his waist. "I wouldn't ask him for an escort. He already has a low enough opinion of women that it won't help to play to it."
Silhouette sets her hands upon her lap, "An agreeable solution; if he will allow me entrance into his realm at all, considering my mother's antipathy. I will take your advice, of course. Thank you."
"Only one way to find out if he'll grant you leave." Caine pulls out a card and places it on a table beside her, face up. It is Corwin.
Silhouette takes the card, brushing her fingers over its cool surface. Such a remarkable device, the Trump; so elegant in its apparent simplicity. She would never tire of its wonders.
She concentrates on the image and reaches out to her uncle. Uncle, I hold your card and have need of you, once more
Caine's hand slaps down on the card, interrupting her communication and flattening the card to the table. "Leave it here, please. I can't spare it." He removes his hand and nods at her.
Silhouette narrows her eyes slightly. Something dark passes behind them, but fades with a capitulating smile. "But of course. That was understood from the beginning, uncle," she says pleasantly.
Her hand returns to the card and she repeats the mental request to the aether.
"Who's there?" Corwin's response has some sense of urgency, perhaps because of the interrupted first attempt.
"It is your niece; Silhouette," she replies, quashing her resentment toward Caine's interference. "I require permission to travel through your realm to Remba. May I join you, if such a thing is agreeable?"
"You may pass through Paris to Rebma," Corwin says, his image forming completely, and reaches for her. "Pass your baggage through first." If he senses her annoyance at Caine, Corwin is polite enough not to say anything.
She does as he requests - passing though her economically-inclined baggage. "My thanks, uncle," she says, nodding to Caine.
And with that, she takes Corwin's hand and steps through into yet another world. Almost the moment she arrives, she smiles at her host. "I do hope this will not cause you tension with my mother. If you might point the way, I shall make haste through your realm to avoid unwanted complications."
Corwin is in a hallway in his palace, which is very different to the castles in Amber and Xanadu. The hallway is long and one side is filled with windows, from which she can see that it's late afternoon and the windows are south facing, assuming that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The King is dressed in black chased with silver, in a different and less elaborate style of clothes than the Amber fashion but more dignified and formal than the style Random has set in Xanadu.
Silhouette feels a twinge of self-hatred for being improperly attired for this meeting. She makes a mental note of the architectural stylings and fashion for future encounters in Paris.
"Welcome to Paris, at least for the little while you'll be here. Don't bother my sister and I'm sure she won't be bothered by you. Do you know anything about the way to Rebma, or were you just told you have to come to Paris first?"
"Nothing, milord," Silhouette admits with a dip of her head. "I was simply told that Paris is linked to Rebma and you might point the way. I am certain I can procure some form of transportation, so an escort will not be necessary." She picks up her baggage, offering him a grateful smile.
Corwin smiles as he reaches to take the baggage from her. "I see Caine neglected to mention that part of the route effectively runs through the sewer." He raises one hand to ward off an expected protest. "It wasn't intended that way. It just happened. I'll arrange for a guide to see you there. Do you have anything to present at court or do you need a letter to Khela or Llewella?"
Silhouette's perfect lips curl ever-so slightly at the mention of the sewers, "Bearing in mind its continued troubles, perhaps Rebma's new location is some metaphysical commentary on excremental fluid dynamics?"
She surrenders her baggage, albeit reluctantly, and falls in beside him. "King Random provided me with a formal introduction, but I would not refuse another letter of introduction. I suspect it will ease matters greatly." She tilts her head, "Have you met the new Queen? Might I have your advice for approaching her with this rather delicate issue?"
"I've met her. You can have a letter of introduction, but since you don't know the family dynamics--" which Corwin says very matter-of-factly "--you're not aware that I have a daughter by the rival she recently displaced, who is is also her aunt. The displaced rival, that is. My daughter is her girlfriend. Welcome to As the World Turns." He smirks wryly, and continues, as if he doesn't expect her to get the reference. "I'll give you a letter to Llewella. That will probably serve you better, and will give you someone besides Khela to speak with in case Khela feels the same way about Random as Moire did."
"Delicious," Silhouette purrs.
A youth who must be a page of some sort appears, as if Corwin has summoned him, and Corwin sends him off to find someone called Madam Roth, to arrange for chambers for Silhouette.
Once he has departed, Silhouette turns to regard Corwin. "How fares the political situation in Rebma? Will Khela likely maintain her control? Or is there more support for the displaced rival? And will blood ties determine which leader you endorse should your lover seek her former position? For that matter, will your daughter choose lover over mother?" She enumerates his reactions - her dark, calculating eyes attentive to every detail. "I ask this, as I may be introducing further discord into their midst. And, although the Grand Design invariably benefits from administrable conflict, it is always best to view the board prior to setting one's pieces into play."
Something about Silhouette's approach seems to amuse Corwin more than it ought to. "I'll do as I always do, which is 'whatever seems best at the time'. As, I imagine, will my daughter, if her blood runs true to both her parents. But what's this Grand Design? And why does it benefit from administrative conflict?"
Silhouette raises a brow at Corwin's comments and questions, perhaps weighing whether or not she's being tested or mocked. An expression becoming increasingly common when dealing with this Family. "Fundamentally, the Grand Design is the pursuit of Perfection," Silhouette explains after a momentary silence. "Administrable conflicts can reveal flaws inherent to a system - political or otherwise - that could potentially create Discord and slow - or even halt - Progress. However, once revealed, these flaws can be overcome. This process can also reveal hidden inner strengths; the unessential is honed away, such as one smelts metals into a more refined form.
"With regards to Rebma, this current transition of power will help expose flaws naturally inherent to their current political structure. Queen Khela's actions in the coming weeks and months will reveal whether or not she is an agent of Progress or Discord."
She cuts the air with her hand, "Huon's introduction into this current flux will expedite the process. Will the new Queen possess the understanding and wherewithal to recognize the Second Law and my Lord Prince's benefits to her kingdom? Will she hear the call of the Grand Design? Or will she succumb to baser concepts, such as vengeance, and toss away great opportunity?"
Silhouette shrugs, glancing up at Corwin, "Or would your former lover better understand the potential Huon offers, I wonder?"
Corwin listens, nodding in a few places where the explanation seems to call for him to do so. "I don't think you have the context of family politics or Rebman politics for me to give an answer that makes sense, and I don't think I can offer you that context in the short time you're likely to be in Rebma. Have you dined? I don't know what the relative time-flow is in Amber these days. I should like to be a good host. And over dinner, you can explain to me how the Grand Design deals with the problem of perfection and stasis."
Silhouette offers a surprised smile, dipping her head. "Efharist," she says, a lilt of her former accent sneaking through. "If my continued presence here will not trouble you, I would most enjoy sampling your Parisian fare. And I never refuse the opportunity for good company and conversation."
She laces her fingers behind her, straightening her back. "In turn, perhaps, you might answer a question I have about the Ghost City? I encountered a dark prophecy regarding Tir and am told you are the Family's authority on the subject."
"I am, but that doesn't mean I know all the answers," Corwin says agreeably.
They come to the end of the hall, where a footman waits by the door. "Take this to Madam Roth, and tell her the bags need to be waterproofed for a voyage to Rebma." The footman nods and takes the bags from Corwin.
The room is a salon of some sort, richly appointed in fine fabrics and handsome woods. Corwin gestures to Silhouette to sit down as he moves to a handsome sideboard. "Let me get you something to drink, and you can tell me all about this prophecy of Tir."
Silhouette sits down, smoothing her dress. "If you do not have ouzo, whatever sherry or bitters you have will be acceptable, thank you."
She waits until he has finished preparing the drinks; smiling upon his return. "Forgive my disjointedness, but this information was provided to me in pieces and utterances. I can recite the passages verbatim, if you so desire. The Prophesy revolves around the Third Doom of Tir-Na N'ogth. The First focused on the rise of the Ghost Queen and her inevitable separation from the Youth - the Riders, I believe. The Second Doom involved the Riders warring with Amber. But the Third is lesser known.
"It shall come after the Dooms of Amber, Ur, and Rebma. I believe it shall involve the Queen's bastard son, Prince Medrawt - who sleeps until the end-times." She sighs faintly, "A Broken Road connecting the cities will also be involved. But, thanks to the aggravating nature of prophets, its association with the third Doom remains unknown."
She tilts her head, "Does any of this possess meaning to you, uncle?"
Corwin seems to have sherry, which he has poured for Silhouette, and whisky for himself. He nods his way through the prophecy once he's settled in his chair. "I'm not sure I even know what Ur is, or where. And the road between Amber and Rebma and Tir isn't broken, although obviously it's been redirected. I've been up there on the stair from Xanadu, so I know that's not broken. I think there's something stirring up there, and it killed Cambina, but this particular prophecy isn't one I know. Who told you it?"
Silhouette weighs her next words, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. To reveal her source is to expose her home, her sanctuary. But serving the Grand Design outweighs the need for self-preservation. Knowledge demands sacrifice; risk trivial to its acquisition.
"Elder Vidya of the Yahren people," she says, glancing up. "I inquired about the Ghost City after Prince Huon mentioned it, in passing."
Her voice takes a mechanical tone to it as she recites from memory, "Ur is the ideal of a city, the unattainable image of the perfect city. It is the aggregation of the thought and image of 'city' in the mind of the God of the Nemiatic Heretics of the land of Glond. Because it is ideal, it does not exist and thus embodies Utopia."
She blinks, her voice cutting off as if someone has lifted the needle from a phonograph. And then she resumes once more, obviously at another segment of the memory. "A Doom for the city of Amber, which was the anchor of the sky-bound city, a Doom for the city of Ur, first-home, which many say is not just a myth but a heresy, and a Doom for the city of Rebma, mirror of Ghosts and People alike. Entire religions have grown, warred, and been eliminated by men fighting over the proper interpretation of the Three Dooms. The Broken Road runs into it, and out as well, and those who walk that path come out again, but it not where they expect to be..."
Silhouette takes a sip of her sherry, but not tasting it. "Xanadu. This may be the Ur of which she spoke. For its existence is more of an ideal than a city formed from history and stone. And its Queen is of interest to the Riders."
"Elder Vidya of the Yahren," Corwin repeats, clearly committing the name to memory. "I'll have to find out more about him." He sets that concern aside. "There's some connection between Vialle and the Moonriders, now, or so it seems. I'm not convinced that there was before. As for Ur--I don't know how you can reconcile 'first-home' with a place so new as Xanadu. But I suppose 'first' could always have a meaning other than the obvious. I suppose I should just be grateful that Paris isn't on the list of doomed cities." There's a quirk at the corner of his mouth at that statement.
Silhouette raises her glass and smiles vaguely, "And may the Moirae continue to bless Paris propitiously."
She sets her glass down, "Did the Queen attend your father's funeral? And, if so, did the Riders express their interest in her then? I find it odd that creatures of illusion and glamor would be intrigued by a woman immune to them. Unless, of course, that is entirely why she interests them."
Corwin drinks the toast as well.
"There was a Moonrider delegation. The Marshall led it. And Vialle was in Amber." It takes Corwin a moment to remember that Silhouette doesn't know the story; he adds, "Dad's funeral, such as it was, took place in the Courts of Chaos, after the battle at the end of the war. When I met Vialle for the first time, just before she married Random, she'd never left Rebma. I don't know that she'd ever encountered any Moonriders, real or reflected, until she went missing."
Silhouette's brow rises, a cloudy expression darkening her features. Her voice is controlled, burning revulsion hidden beneath icy tones. "In the Courts of Chaos? Why would the Family bury their Patriarch in that Tainted realm? I was led to believe only Prince Huon ventured there."
Corwin shakes his head. "Oh, no, we chased them down to their end of the Black Road to teach them a lesson. But Dad was doing--other necessary things, let us say--to keep the universe running in something like its current configuration. That was what killed him, not the battle. He asked to be brought back for burial, or really, if you're being technical, something more like allowing his body to be dissolved in the realms beyond the black citadel. It was, after all, where Dad originally came from."
Silhouette hides her disgust well; the idea of descending from Discord abhorrent to her. But having that taint in their veins certainly explains the erratic behavior of her many peers. They are Fallen Angels, struggling in the muck and mire without truly understanding their Purpose. She takes a deep breath, silently taking comfort in the unalterable precepts of the Grand Design. And the unquestionable knowledge that she shall help guide this Family out of darkness.
She manages a nod, a smile. "The Marshall. Does he lead the Moodriders now that they are separated from their Queen? Might he be the father of Prince Medrawt? His title could correspond with the Queen's lover - the realm's 'chief knight.' And whatever happened to the husband she betrayed?"
"Bleys is better informed about the genealogies involved, but the only child I know of, of the Marshall's, anyway, is his daughter. But the Moonriders don't have personal names, only situational sobriquets. If Medrawt is the son of the Queen of the Moonriders, he predates their break with the Altamareans." Corwin sounds certain on this last point. He frowns for a moment, thinking. "I'm not sure I knew who her consort was, if there was one, formally. Legend makes a virgin queen, if not in the technical sense."
Silhouette shrugs, "There are many queens that remained 'virginal' despite their abundance of lovers. And legends are universally rife with embellishment." She taps her chin with her fingertip, thoughtful. Then with a flourish of her hand, she asks, "Were one to walk the Pattern, would they then possess the power to seek out this Prince's resting place, if not the Prince himself? And would the Ghost Pattern be more... attuned to him, perhaps? Should such a creature exist, that is."
There's a swift shake of Corwin's head. "No, and I can tell you that from personal experience, both ways. You can't find people that way. You'd do better to attempt it with the cards, and even that's uncertain. Or you could try with Sorcery, but that's not my thing. By family tradition, the redheads are better with it."
Silhouette tilts her head, listening with some interest. As she'd hoped, her uncle has answered an unspoken question -- if he is telling the truth about the Pattern, of course. She files this away for later, offering him a grateful smile. "Although I am trained in magick, the correspondences of Draig Talamh will be of little use to me in such ethereal matters. More's the pity, as I am told you cannot trust a redhead farther than you can comfortably spit a rat."
"Draig Talamh?" Corwin asks, sounding intrigued.
"The sacred Earth Dragon personifies the Grand Design," Silhouette states with some confidence. "She is a symbol of my faith, in truth. An avatar of Science and Magick. A Manifestation of Order." She thoughtfully touches her chin for a moment, and then smiles. "Not unlike the Unicorn is a symbol to the Family, I suspect. Draig Talamh provides me with Purpose and Focus. And it is to her that I pray for guidance."
She dips her head, "She inspired me when I needed it most. Had she not removed the scales from my eyes, I would have surely perished."
"A dragon is your idea of a manifestation of Order?" Corwin says, his eyes narrowing in some combination of confusion and something that might be dawning horror. "Have you actually dealt, personally, with this dragon? Met it, been in the same place as it was?"
What a curious reaction, Silhouette thinks. She has witnessed something significant here, but - as of yet - knows not what that may be. She sips her drink, letting him stew a little while observing his reaction to her silence.
She sets the glass down, a wistful smiling gracing her lips. "Yes, but not as you might understand." A pause. "She first manifested to me through the Iron Dragons of Babilu. They are intricate collections of steam and clockwork and gears, but are physically no different from a locomotive or pocket watch. And yet they live. Their coal-fueled hearts burn with passions and desires, just as yours or mine. The Unenlightened would simply say this can be attributed to the random fluctuation of machinery and elemental forces. But I do not agree. When I first witnessed an Iron Dragon being born, when I saw life given to inert metal and glass, I knew it was Her influence at work. From that day, I understood I was in Draig Talamh's presence and that I was not alone."
She gestures about the room, "She is with us even now; aspects of her Physicalism undeniable. Her Influence - direct and indirect - can be observed, even though her physicality cannot. So, to answer your question; yes, I have existed in the same realm as She.
"But have I had personal relations with Draig Talamh? Then, no. One cannot have tea and biscuits with God."
Corwin shakes his head, his expression having darkened somewhat during this recital. "You can do more than have tea and biscuits with a dragon. Ask anyone in the family about Finndo's daughters. You'll get an earful. Dragons are not Ordered beings, as my son Merlin would say. They're powerful, but their power comes from Chaos. The dragon of Arden burned when I struck it with Grayswandir, just as the Chaosians I destroyed in the last war did."
Corwin gestures in the direction of a sword that hangs from a peg on the wall; it's a beautiful weapon, and from what Silhouette can see, one of great quality, even with the plain sheath concealing its blade.
As if drawn by siren song, Silhouette stands and drifts over to the weapon. She possesses enough restraint not to examine it in hand, but barely. Even her cursory examination reveals wonders that steal her breath. This crafting goes far beyond what she has learned or could duplicate - for now. She licks her lips with a burgeoning hunger, vaguely hearing Corwin continue.
"Dragon worship isn't welcome here, and it won't be welcome in Rebma, either. I don't know about your living clockworks, one way or another, but if a dragon made that happen, it's Chaotic, not even sorcerous."
An amused snort escapes her. "Draig Talamh is the metaphysical construct of Structure, uncorrupted by flesh and blood, and shaped solely by my observations and experiences. Had Babilu constructed Iron Tapirs instead, I suspect my faith would undoubtedly be more porcine oriented."
Silhouette finds herself reaching for Grayswandir, yearning, wanting. She resists and turns back to her uncle with eyes of cold glass. Her tone's sharpness matches the blade beside her. "If, as you say, corpra draco are creatures of Chaos, then they must be extinguished wherever they are found. Indeed, their allegiance to Discord is an unforgivable insult to Draig Talamh. And I will gladly provide the weapons needed to slay the Arden Dragon. Or others."
With a cock of her head, she adds, "But may I ask, if such vehemence for these creatures exists, then why has Cousin Robin been allowed to raise three of the beasts as her own? Unless they are of a different genus, perhaps?"
"I haven't seen the creatures that Robin has, but if they're what I think they are, they're the result of, or a side effect of, some manipulated breeding brother Julian did in Shadow a few score years back." Corwin waves his hand dismissively. "He's been working on a mount for a few centuries now. I don't know why he bothered with the dragon form unless he was convinced he needed to fly. Morgenstern is a better mount than any of the dragons--excuse me, dragon-forms--ever were. And to use their extra abilities effectively, you have to bond with them, and that never works out well.
"But all of that is beside the point. In Paris, you will not destroy any creatures of Chaos unless they attack you first, under pain of banishment and my heavy displeasure." He looks into Silhouette's eyes to be sure she understands his meaning. "And in particular if you lay hands or weapon on any of your cousins whom you feel are insufficiently Ordered, you will feel my full wrath. Do you understand?"
Silhouette meets his eyes with a wounded expression, "Do I strike you as an assassin or murderous zealot? A recreant cutthroat, perhaps? And whilst I understand such sentimentalities are rare amongst our kin, I do not engage in parricide. So, I understand full well, uncle. Perhaps better than most.
"Murder is the dominion of kings and I leave such business to them."
"If a king decrees it, it's not murder," Corwin corrects her. "And what I take you for is a religious woman with a very incorrect idea of how the universe works and the deeper origins of Order, who just threatened to kill a dragon because its existence offends her god without any idea of the meaning or consequences of doing so." He says this frankly, but not unkindly, as if Silhouette were young and in need of correction. Perhaps to him, she seems to be one.
"Ah yes, the apologia of kings that cleanses their bloodied hands," Silhouette smiles gently. "It rings as hollow now, as it did the last I heard it."
She bows her head. "You misunderstand me, Uncle. I choose my enemies wisely. And I do not act without first considering the consequences. Personal feelings are irrelevant to the Grand Design. It is why Cousin Brennan's attempt to turn me against Prince Huon failed, even though my patron has trucked with Chaos. But if you consider the Arden Dragon an enemy, uncle, then should I not defer to your better judgment? Or did you simply seek to destroy it for your own amusement?" Her finger rubs around the rim of her glass, making it faintly sing.
Silhouette's eyes rise to meet Corwin's, "If, as you say, my views of Order are skewed, then blame my lack of insight into its true essence. I suspect I shall find Enlightenment once I traverse the Pattern. But until then, I remain a blind woman amongst the Sighted."
Corwin shakes his head, amusement tinging his expression. "Walking a Pattern doesn't give you that kind of insight. You wouldn't be the first religious to keep their faith through a walk, although you might be the last. And the number one reason why you shouldn't go up against the dragon in Arden is that you don't have what it takes to kill one." He tilts his head toward Grayswandir again.
"The number one reason why I didn't kill it while I was Warden was Dad asked me not to. Take some advice from someone who's been through it all: there are things you can't kill or charm into submission, even with the substantial charms you possess. We've had a brother who tried to force the universe to conform with his vision. Brand ended up in the Abyss for his trouble. Don't go that way, because we're not Dad in our generation. We'll nip that in the bud much earlier."
The smile forms the rest of the way. "And the reason it's not murder if a king orders it is that murder is a term of law. If I say it's for the good of Paris, it's no less a killing, but it stops being murder."
Silhouette meets his smile with one of her own, tacitly pleased. "Thank you. You're far more insightful than the others give you credit for, uncle," she says.
She downs the last of her drink and sets the now-empty glass aside. "Tell me. Grayswandir. Does it possess the same qualities as the blade Prince Huon sought in Rebma?"
"Yes and no. Each of those blades is so intimately bound to their wielders and the bindings involved in taking up the blades that other than the general sorts of properties, it's impossible to say what they can do. Huon has," Corwin says, "a very wrongheaded idea of what the blades do."
Silhouette nods, "Prince Huon's desire for revenge clouds his judgment on a great many things."
Her gaze returns to Grayswandir, "Did Oberon forge the weapons? I know of the three. Are there more?"
"As far as I know there are only the three. Dad didn't make them; a man who goes by Weyland Smith did. Each of them has its own doom and its own binding. I don't know what the other two are for and I can't talk about mine. It's the nature of the binding. There's always a price for Weyland's forging, but the price for one of these isn't paid by the wielder. I pay for Grayswandir in other ways." He glances back at the sword, looking at it fondly. "He makes other things, but these are the blades he's best known for."
Weyland is, of course, legendary. His fame has spread throughout Shadow. He is said to be the greatest smith who ever lived, and if what Silhouette can see of Grayswandir is any indication of its quality, he is.
"Weyland," Silhouette purrs the name. "Yes. I know of him. Any artificer worth their salt knows of the Smith. Indeed, many of the formulae I utilize in my mechanika are based on his work. I?ve long desired to study with him."
She pauses for a moment, something Corwin said ringing in her mind. "Doom. You said each of the blades carries its own 'doom.' Could they be what the Prophesy speaks of, rather than the Patterns themselves? Or could they be foci for these Dooms?"
Corwin shakes his head. "Their dooms--their fates--are their own. Werewindle isn't tied to the Moonriders at all, even if you're sure Amber's doom refers to that and not to the late war. We didn't even fight the Moonriders then. The Rebman blade has nothing direct to do with its current troubles. And while I wouldn't be surprised if I crossed blades with Medrawt after he'd slept until the end of time, that's not what Grayswandir is for. That's not why it was given to me."
Silhouette nods, "May I ask why you were given the sword, my Prince?"
"I was given it because Weyland thought I was best fitted of those who might have taken it at the time to wield it. Understanding why came much later. And then I had to find it out all over again, coming to some different conclusions." Corwin's smile is rueful. "The universe is like an onion; just when you think you've peeled it, you find another layer inside."
Silhouette returns his smile, "It's tortoises all the way down, then?" A warm, playful chuckle. "Of course, like any Gordian Knot, an onion might be sliced. With a sword, perhaps? Although I doubt dissecting Creation is as straightforward as preparing a nice kremidopita."
She brushes her fingers through her dark hair, "You please me, uncle. I shall learn much from you I believe."
Silhouette has taken a few days to explore the city of Paris and its many interesting industrial manufactories, as seen in the outer arrondissements. Most of the factors are pleased to see her, as they would be for anyone from the palace. Being shown around is no difficulty at all; perhaps they are seeking a royal warrant, or an investment from a wealthy royal-cum-noble.
(Let us know if Sil mentions her mother's name to any of the factors.)
Silhouette mentions her mother's name freely - neither with pride nor disdain, but with an ambivalent politeness. She pays special attention to manufactories that could produce naval stores with suitable paradigm compatibility to Xanadu.
There is nothing specific in the manufactories that tells her the paradigms are different, but some of the subtleties of the chemistry and the processes suggest that they are, and in some very specific ways. It's as if certain technologies were desired and others not so much, and the universe was bent to accommodate those whims.
During her various tours of the manufacturing concerns, one of the factors suggests that Slhouette visit the Church of St. Ninian at the Crossroads of the Elm in the 4th arrondissment. It has a fine organ built by one of the masters of the craft, and since the order that now occupies it has taken over the building, they have obtained the scientific and technical papers of one of the great masters. Apparently they are considered worthwhile and perhaps interesting to a member of the royal family of Paris.
After sampling some of the local street cuisine, Silhouette finds her way to the aforementioned church. Having studied temple automata design, she is well aware of the intricate arts of engineering that have been produced by the superstitiously minded. Quite ironic when one considers the religion's typical control over and suppression of technological knowledge. Hydraulis, in particular, had always fascinated her - so this is a rare treat she is unwilling to pass up. With any luck, the Parisian paradigms allow for steam or gasoline engines for the bellows; otherwise, the probable lack an available calcant will rob her of the full experience.
The church is not as old as some of the others in the city, but it is interestingly built. Three major orders of architectural columns can be found in its facade.
Silhouette sees both what appear to be members of Paris' working class (mostly but not entirely women and children) entering and leaving the building; it appears the poor and disabled receive charity there. If she stops to watch briefly, she sees robed men entering and leaving as well.
Silhouette drifts into the building, examining everything with an appreciative eye. The architectural choices are intriguing, but acceptable. She generally ignores the meek and the superstitious as she enters the main chapel. Her eyes adjust to the light change, settling on the impressive organ. She strides confidently toward it, searching for anyone of obvious status or authority.
The building is filled with candles--in stands, on tables, in the air on great chandeliers--to the point that Silhouette can easily imagine it being a full-time job to keep them lit. The interior of the church is sparsely furnished; screens divide the floor of the church, and there are doors at the back. The floor of the church is covered in rushes.
As she walks toward the organ, Silhouette is intercepted by what appears to be a monk. "How may the monks of St. Ninian assist you, madam?"
With a polite smile, Silhouette performs the Sign of the Four Vedas - as suitable a spiritual greeting, as any. "Blessings, Gheronda. I am the Lady Silhouette and have been told of your church's magnificent pipe organ. One of my passions is the engineering of such musical instruments, and I would be grateful if you may allow me a closer look at this beautiful creation. Is such a thing possible?"
"Of course. The blessed saint commands us to assist all seekers of knowledge. It is the fourth duty of our rule. I am Brother Vigil, and it would be my pleasure to show you the organ." Now that she's speaking with him up-close and in-person, Silhouette can tell that he is some kind of exotic, perhaps a cross between the inhabitants of Paris and some nonhuman creature of Shadow. He is tall and very thin, with light hair and eyes, and narrow bones. "We did not build the organ; it was here when we arrived in Paris. But we have studied it and consulted with both the organmakers of Paris and the Institut des Luminaires to be sure that we maintain it properly." He guides her through a screen toward the organ as he chatters away.
Silhouette follows, listening to Vigil's words with ken interest. She finds his looks strangely pleasing - as it has been rare for her to meet beings of mixed blood. Vanderyahr rarely traveled through such realms, so her experiences were limited. She idly wonders what injuries it would take to kill such a person. Are the vital organs located in the same regions of the torso? Does the skeletal system possess any additional protective qualities or vulnerabilities? Are there any redundant circulatory systems to prevent death from blood loss? She would love to get this exotic creature in her lab and peel away its mysteries. Indeed, he intrigues her more than the organ in many ways.
There are other men and women, citizens of Paris, present in the church. Some are praying in the chapels, but others seem to be seeking assistance from the monks. These are ushered off by other monks, all of whom seem to be of the same heritage as Brother Vigil.
Silhouette's smile blooms as she sees more of these exotics, nodding to each respectfully. "Brother Vigil," she says. "May I assume your people are not native to Paris then? Form where do you hail?"
"Most of the monks here came from St. Willibrord's in Beveland, but St. Ninian, the blessed abbot after whom our abbey in Paris is named, came originally from Clervaux. He was the last abbot to have been born there. Of course, ancestrally, the monks of Clervaux came from ancient Paris. In a sense, we can be said to have come home when we returned here. Some of our brethren think it is because of the restoration of the strict rule, but I understand that the nuns from St. Pletctrudis did not return to the strict rule, and yet they also have come here."
They stop in front of the organ, which is tucked into a corner and lit from behind by the sun through stained glass.
Brother Vigil looks at her expectantly. His forehead is glistening slightly, as if he were overheated; perhaps he is sweating.
Silhouette steps forward, dark eyes glimmering like polished stones. After a moment, she gives a slight nod. She lightly strokes the wood and savoring the grain beneath her fingertips. "This is excellent work. I can see the touch of many hands here. The facade has been altered from its original incarnation, but it does not detract from the pipe composition or outward beauty. The positif case is a perfect reflection of the main case. Very impressive."
She turns her gaze back toward the church and nods. "With the acoustics provided by the architecture, I suspect the music must be breathtaking. You serve the Grand Design here, truly."
"Your ladyship is gracious. I do not know your Grand Design, but we serve all knowledge and honor those who seek it as well." He makes a circular motion with his hand that Silhouette has no trouble telling is some kind of a blessing gesture. "You are not the first from the palace to come here, although your kinsman who visited us was more interested in our history than the instrument of which we have been given custody. May I hope that you, like him, can tell us something of Clervaux?"
Silhouette tilts her head and smiles ruefully. "Forgive me, but my travels have only recently brought me to this realm. As such, I do not recognize the name which you speak. However, as a Preceptor of the Grand Design, it is my duty to provide Enlightenment. Let us share in Purpose and Understanding. For I may know the name of which you speak, but under another guise. Do you refer to Amber, perhaps?"
Brother Vigil shakes his head in the negative. "No, Clervaux is not Amber. We knew Amber of old, before the ban. Clervaux was where many of our brethren went when they left Amber many years ago, when Cymnea fell from favor as Oberon's queen. At the time of the ban, when all the religious left Amber, the last members of our order to dwell there departed the city. Others have visited since, but none have remained. The head of our order lived here in Paris in those days, but then Paris was lost. We have only recently found the way back; we hope it is a sign we will soon discover Clervaux again as well."
Silhouette nods faintly, her voice mechanical as she speaks. "Cymena. First wife of Oberon. Marriage annulled. Bore three children; Benedict, Finndo, Osric. Familial ties to mercantile interests." She blinks, the midnight eyes refocusing. "Yes. I know of her. However, the trade routes to her realm apparently faded and not much is known of her after that. Considering my grandfather's demeanor, I suspect he made certain she would be difficult to relocate."
She sets her hands behind her, straightening her back. "Tell me of the 'other' you mentioned. What Enlightenment did they impart upon you?"
"Our previous guest was Reid, son of Osric, who studied in the halls of learning at Clervaux for a time in his youth. He said it was aflame when last he fled that place." Brother Vigil makes this sound sad, but it is a distant sadness to him rather than a personal one. "Have you seen him at the palace? His company was pleasant and he was a learned man." Silhouette imagines that the latter carries more weight with the monk than the former.
Silhouette shakes her head, "The name is not familiar to me. However, with the current plethora of cousins, I am certain at least one of them has encountered the son of Osric. I shall inquire about him, as well as the current status of Clervaux. Whatever I discover shall be delivered to the church before my approaching departure. It is the least I might do for you and your Order." She smiles gently.
Brother Vigil makes the blessing gesture again. "You have our gratitude, especially for any information you can bring us about Clervaux. Now, if you would like, you can examine the organ more closely."
"Absolutely," Silhouette says, following him.
When she returns to palace, Silhouette no longer appears very 'regal'. She has spent the last few hours assisting Brother Vigil and the other custodians with the Ninian pipe organ. Grime and dust from the ancient windchests coat her face and arms; cling to her disheveled, sweaty hair. Her polished nails are chipped and broken from the strenuous labour of refurbishing flue and reed pipes, decades-old dirt now caked beneath them all. The oil-stained and torn dress is undoubtedly a write-off. And yet, after working with the beautiful crafting of water hydraulics and phosphor-bronze, she could not be happier. Not for the first time in the last few weeks, she misses the heat and soot of her forges.
After changing and cleaning up, she heads to the palace's library; a renewed vitality driving her onward. Genealogy is her main focus, specifically Cymnea and Reid. Although her primary interest is in their biographical information, she is also interested in the sociological and religious aspects of their upbringing. As such, she also ventures into the historical and geographic sections in search of all information pertaining to Clervaux. Brother Vigil and his Order could be potential converts to the Grand Design, if 'guided' properly. Considering their obvious importance, it should not be terribly difficult to sanctify Cymnea and Reid and weave them into an ordo salutis narrative.
The library, perhaps surprisingly, has little to nothing about the genealogy of Amber. Instead there is history of Paris, but no real genealogy of her kings other than Carol, the legendary founder of Paris, and his daughter Clothilde. It appears there was an interregnum after Clothilde's death, in which the commune withered away and fell into ruin. There doesn't seem to be a recent history that explains how Corwin ended up in charge, but he clearly is and everyone accepts it.
The only mention of Amber in the genealogy is a note that Clothilde's daughter Basina married a merchant of Amber named Vital. But as women frequently do, she passes out of the narrative at that point.
No one named Reid or Cymnea is mentioned in the genealogy of Paris.
Undeterred, Silhouette notes what she has down in her journal. She will follow these threads at a later time. However, for now, perhaps it was best to speak with someone that might have had personal experience with either Reid, Osric, or Cymnea.
As such, she seeks out Corwin.
Corwin is available and she is shown to his study. It is similar to, but not the same as, the room where he spoke with her after her arrival. This room, in addition to the sideboard, has a heavy secretary desk that has, Silhouette may guess, seen a great deal of use.
"I understand," Corwin says, as he fixes her a drink, "that you've been exploring my city. And my library."
Silhouette sets her journal down and gladly accepts the drink. "That I have. The city holds many splendors. And many questions.
"Unfortunately, the library's resources provided little relief to my current burden. I seek information regarding Queen Cymnea and Prince Reid, as well as the Shadow Clervaux. My inquiry would be better done in the library of Amber, but as returning there in the foreseeable future is unlikely, I'd hoped you might possess personal knowledge of use."
Of the three questions, one concerns Corwin most. "What about Reid? Reid's gone missing. He left Paris planning to go to Xanadu and never made it. He might have been delayed by something interesting in Shadow, but he's not answering his Trump, which is a bit odd." He says this as if it could be normal for Reid to be delayed, but he very much suspects that it's not.
Silhouette sighs; the Family habit of answering questions with question wearing on her. "I encountered a religious order earlier. Very hospitable. They originate from Clervaux, where Prince Reid once studied. They wished to learn their Shadow's Fate, as Reid informed them it had been 'aflame' when he left. I promised I would speak with him further, if that were possible."
She regards Corwin with mild interest, "Reid sounds the curious type. Could his time in Paris have inspired him to investigate something in Shadow?"
"Anything is possible, particularly if it has to do with his father or Finndo. But the last few relatives we've had go missing like that have all turned out badly. It warrants a certain concern." Corwin may or may not have the family authority that Random seems to enjoy, but he certainly wields the authority he has as though he expects it to be respected. "I know Merlin has a Trump of Reid, but he's the only one I can be certain has one. Trumps of the younger generation aren't that easy to come by."
"Ah, yes. Merlin," Silhouette says. "I've not met him. But, if you wish, I shall speak with your son after I conclude my dealings in Rebma."
Her lips twist into a dark frown. "I know what it is to be abandoned to the wylds of Shadow. If Reid is truly lost, I shall find him for you."
"I worry less about Reid being lost than about Reid having been found." Corwin really doesn't like that idea. He frowns. "Someone else easier to reach may have a Trump of Reid. Merlin is travelling with one of his cousins and may be out of contact for a while. When you've settled matters with Huon, come back to Paris. By then I should have a Trump of Reid for you to try."
"This is acceptable," Silhouette says. "I shall endeavor to expedite Huon's surrender, as I detect your genuine concern for the young man. May I ask, however, what or whom do you fear has found him?"
"Any number of things or people. Moonriders, angry Chaosian relatives, or the sort of people who were working with Huon in Rebma." Corwin gives Silhouette an inscrutable look there, but doesn't seem to be inclined to elaborate further at the moment. "The family has a lot of enemies, internal and external. Any one of them could find Reid useful--to his detriment."
She remains unaffected by his look, blinking mechanically.
"But," he adds after a moment, "it's equally likely that he's just ignoring Trumps or in a slow-time pocket or otherwise unavailable to answer."
Silhouette nods, "We shall know soon enough." She rises to refill her glass. "I foresee a possible obstacle to my involvement in this matter, however. I lack both Trumps and the ability to negotiate Shadow. Should Reid be unable to return under his own power, I will be of little use to him."
She gestures to the cabinet, offering to pour Corwin another drink. "To assure Reid's return, I shall require your Trump or the assistance of a Pattern initiate." A half-joking smile. "Unless you are willing to provide me access to your Pattern, of course."
Corwin nods to the suggestion that she refresh his drink. His is the unflappability of which all others are but shadows. "A Trump can be arranged, but the Pattern is closed to you for now. You have to take the oath to walk the Pattern, and you're not free to take it until you clear matters with Huon. He who breaks one oath can't be relied on for the next, and we've had enough forsworn relatives these last few decades."
Silhouette provides a pleased smile, as if Corwin has been elevated in her eyes. "Indeed," she lifts her glass. "One more reason to move ever forward in this task."
She returns to her seat, "May I ask which -- if any -- Pattern holds sway over Creation? There are four, yes? Do they have fundamental interactions like non-contact forces? Or are they in a bound state? And do they have opposites in Chaos?"
Corwin takes his drink and wets his whistle. "We'll start with the easy question: Chaos preceded Order, to the extent that anything can be said to exist 'before' temporal order was imposed. So to the extent that Chaos is the absence of Order, there's no corresponding icon or source of power, if you will. It makes you wonder what else could be out there. The universe is big, but undefined spacetime could be bigger than anything we, with limited, ordered minds, could imagine."
"...Verily at the first Chaos came to be, but next wide-bosomed Earth, the ever-sure foundations of all," Silhouette whispers, her voice trailing off. A low, sad laugh burbles up. "Every day, I pity Laplace's daemon a little more."
She sets her glass down, "Query. Does the Pattern empower the blood or does the blood empower the Pattern? From my Observations, it is unlikely that Prince Huon has walked one of the four remaining Patterns, due to inaccessibility or circumstance. The Amber Pattern -- which he walked -- is now destroyed. And yet, he continues to freely manipulate Shadow. So, where does his power stem from? Does the Amber Pattern live on in him?"
"The power is in that which is of Substance. The Pattern formalizes it in those who have it." Corwin pauses there for a sip of his drink, watching Silhouette over the edge of his glass as she considers that option. "In theory you could do most of what a Patternwalker could do without walking it, if you had the knowledge and will. In practice that's rarely so. You can exercise the muscles in an informal way, but you'll lack control.
"I assume Huon didn't tell you what happens if you try the Pattern and fail. It's fatal."
"No, but I surmised as much," Silhouette replies. "The Maiden of Gears demands sacrifice for her final knowledge. Fail her final Trial and you are consumed in her forge. Considering the Power it provides, why would the Pattern be any different?" A knowing smile. "And yet, for some, Death is only the beginning."
She tilts her head, "As with the Elementals, does each Pattern instill certain abilities upon the Walker? Certain advantages? I would think the Ghost Pattern would be far different from the Rebman Pattern, for example. Air as opposed to Water. One is Spirit and Inspiration, the other Emotion and Intuition."
"If you die walking the Pattern, it's only an end," Corwin says. "And no, that's not how they work. It's an understandable misconception, but a misconception nonetheless. If there were variances of that sort, they wouldn't be based on the classical elements."
Silhouette nods, smiling. "And have you walked one or more of the Patterns, uncle? Have you noticed any subtle differences in your perceptions afterwards? Or are they unremarkable from one another? If there are several, I wonder which should be my first walk. Once the opportunity arises, of course."
Corwin laughs. "They're not a collector's set; doing it once is enough. You don't want to walk again unless you need to. The risk of death isn't limited to the first time you walk it. This isn't a game, Silhouette. With the Pattern, you're coming as close to something that looks like your Grand Design as you'll ever see in objective reality. If you take it lightly, you won't live to regret it."
Silhouette sets her empty glass aside, casting a dubious look across the table. "Do I strike you as being a particularly insouciant woman, uncle?" An annoyed pause. "I assure you, I do not view this as a game of cosmic pick-up sticks. This inquiry is nothing more than a risk-benefit analysis."
She tilts her head, shrugging. "And perhaps to better understand which king - or queen - controls the greatest Power."
Silhouette's visible annoyance doesn't faze Corwin, because he replies without missing a beat, "You strike me as ignorant, untrained, and full of preconceived notions about power that have nothing to do with its reality. The truth is, the power is in you or not. Walking the Pattern will unlock it, or kill you. Which Pattern you walk is immaterial other than as a matter of politics."
Silhouette appears to cool at Corwin's words, as if taking from them what she requires and discarding the remainder like scrap metal. Yet, inwardly, she smiles at her minor victory; William Clayton's famous quote ever so appropriate with these Elders. "Enlightenment or Death suits me well. I've never been one for grey areas."
She folds her hand in her lap, "But before I expand my lacking education, there are duties to attend to, yes?"
"I understand so," Corwin says. "I'll wish you good luck in finding out more about Reid, as well." His look is penetrating, although he says nothing further on that score.
Brother Vigil,
Thank you once more for the opportunity to view the beauty of your cathedral. I shall cherish the memory and eagerly await my next visit.
Spoke to the King of Prince Reid on your behalf. It is my regretful duty to inform you that he has gone missing in Shadow and cannot be contacted at this time. However, once my duties elsewhere are concluded, I intend to seek out my cousin and return him. I shall endeavor to inform of the success of this mission.
May the Grand Design guide you and Draig Alfar watch over you.
Silhouette
Last modified: 4 September 2011
