Rowen receives a message, delivered by a page. It comes in the form of a handsome envelope, sealed with silver wax in the device of a rose and unicorn.
The page, Max, tells her that it's the seal of King Corwin of Paris, and explains Corwin's former position in the royal family, as Prince Corwin, elder brother of King Random, and full brother to Princess Deirdre, who's now dead, and King Eric, who is also now dead. Now he's the King of Paris, and Max's grandmother Princess Florimel is living in Paris as well.
(Max is of the age and personality where he doesn't wait to know whether Rowen needs this information before explaining it.)
The letter remains delicately pinched between Rowen's fingers while she listens attentively to the explanation. Nodding along with each detail, she matches it with her knowledge, finding no discrepancies, and adds the new Info that the page reveals.
"You are a long way from home, then," she supposes out loud. "Are you serving the family here or were you sent from Paris?"
When she opens the letter, it says, in elegant handwriting:
Dear niece,
I am writing to invite you to join me for a time in Paris and then for a visit to Rebma. I am sure you have many questions about my brother Eric, whom we believe to be your father, and as one of his closest surviving siblings, I am well suited to answer them. You may also wish to visit your sister Cambina's final resting place.
I believe you will also find much to learn in Rebma and from your cousins, my daughter Celina, Queen of Rebma, and my son Merlin, who is at court with her presently. I am assured that you have no duties in Xanadu that cannot wait.
I look forward to hearing from you, and hope to see you soon.
Your uncle
Corwin
Rex Paris
Upon finishing the letter, she refolds it along its original creases and looks to Max. "How do I respond to this? Is it as simple as writing a letter? How does it get from here to Paris?" She is full of questions but limits them to what she can get out in a single breath. "Would you like a drink?"
Max opens his mouth to answer each of her questions, but stops when the next one comes out. "I've never been to Paris, but the family is supposed to have secret ways to get around via magic. I will learn it, when I'm older." He looks at the sideboard. "I know how to make drinks, would you like me to make you one? Being a page means I learn a lot but I need to be made a squire, so I can learn how to fight." He pauses. "Fight better."
He doesn't look old enough to be a knight, even in training.
Rowen experiences a moment of unexpected silence, caught off guard by the hospitality. "Um... sure," she accepts. "Whiskey, please." She shifts her weight back into her heels to watch the young page go to work.
"Where I'm from, you'd already be training to fight. Still too early to be minding any of that knighthood business, but at least training."
Max pours two whiskeys, one neat and one over ice. "I can already fight. I need to be able to learn all the knightly arts. Armory, Heraldry, Horsery, Woodcraft, Warfare, Diplomacy, Languages, Dance, Music, Logistics, and a raft of other knightly virtues. Basically, everything required to be a representative of his majesty and to dispose of the enemies of my family."
He offers her her choice of drinks.
Rowen accepts the one without ice with a curl of her long fingers. "Thank you." Hiding a sly smile in a sip, she watches to see what he does with the other glass. "That's a lot to study, but you are young, yet. What is your favourite so far?"
Max takes a small sip and Rowen suspects it's not his first, but that he's not a serious drinker yet. He's taking advantage of the situation to sneak a drink. "The fighting, really. It helps that I'm already good at it. But I need to be. My father was murdered and I intend to achieve justice."
He's very casual about that admission. Rowen may well wonder who else he's confided that goal to.
She lets the statement pass like he just admitted that he likes finding sticks while he's out walking in the woods. "Who was your father?" she asks, rolling her own whiskey around her tongue between sentences. "Is his mother Florimel or are you related through your mother?"
"My mother was one of my father's spies in the city. She runs the king's favorite tavern in town now. I don't know much about her family. She's from Rebma. So is my uncle, Victorious. My sister is from Amber, though. Like me.
"My father was Lucas Saint-Cyr." He says the last as if it was all anyone would ever need to explain.
"A tavern, hm? That sounds like a fine place. What is the name of it so that I may find it?" she asks, idly taking a seat and lounging in it. She reacts not a bit to the boy sneaking a sip of whiskey, permission by silence, in effect. "Is your sister working at the castle, too?"
Max shakes his head. "No, he's old. He ran away to sea when he was a boy, and came back as a girl. Before I was born, I guess they did things like that. His name is Raven. He and Ma don't get on.
"Ma's place is called Scarlett's. She's Scarlett." Max's hair, short cropped though it is, is also decidedly reddish.
He drinks a bit more of the whiskey, then puts it down. It's good stuff, but perhaps there's not really any bad whiskey in the castle.
"She's always happy to have my cousins as guests," he hints, perhaps over stressing the relationship to him that his mother prizes.
"She does, does she?" Rowen muses with a chuckle. "I think I would like to see your ma's. It sounds like it would be fun." Fun, in the sense that it sounds like the kind of place where trouble isn't a stranger and the patrons are fascinatingly colorful.
Max smiles. "What are you going to do as a royal? Do you know yet?"
Rowen rolls her drink around in her tumbler as she considers the question. "I was so happy just being on an adventure away from home that I hadn't really given it much thought. I would like to keep exploring. I've heard about so many fascinating things and places already. It would be grand to begin seeing them with my own eyes."
Max listens. "I've only ever been to Xanadu and Amber. Sailors talk about other places but Ma says 'All sailors are liars', so I don't really know. There's plenty of strange things as come into port any how. I once saw a basilisk."
"And you didn't turn to stone?" Rowen asks. "I've only heard of them in books and sometimes it's hard to tell what's fact, fiction, or merely embellished. Sailors can be very imaginative."
"I didn't say the basilisk saw me. It was old and blind, and they had it fighting in a ring. The Ashers took it out and arrested the ringleaders." He looks cross.
"Good thing, too. They were gonna screw up Ma's plans."
"Who are the Ashers?" Rowen asks over another sip of whiskey. "What was your mother planning?"
"Lord Mayor Ash's Constabulary Guard. Captain Viper and that lot. People call them Ashers because they work for the Lord Mayor. They don't have a sense of humor when it comes to people smuggling basilisks into the city. And Ma wanted what she got. The biggest, most popular tavern in the city where all the people wanted to be. Her own 'Red Mill'. Basilisks would've been bad for business." He frowns. "They threatened to hurt me, and that's why the royals wanted me to come work at the castle."
"It's a good thing they brought you here where you could be safe," she says. "Now, about your message.
"I suppose I could start by accepting Corwin's invitation, hm? What is the expected protocol here? Write a letter back and give it to you to deliver to him?" she asks as she rises to go over to a nearby desk to find some parchment and a pen.
He nods, back on work footing. "Yes, Ma'am. Or you can send a message and I'll deliver it verbatim. The steward doesn't care much for writing if the other party is present. He says it wastes paper." He pauses. "If you have trumps, you can use those."
"If they don't want to waste paper, then we don't have to," Rowen says, pleased with the reduction in formality. She rereads Corwin's missive once again before giving her reply. "Please let my dear uncle know that I accept his invitation and look forward to the meeting." She pauses. "Now, how do I get some trumps?"
"There's a room where they keep a bunch of 'em and only the royal family are allowed in. You can also ask the King, or one of the painters. Lady Folly makes them, sometimes. And Lady Paige does, too, but she's out in the forests with her army."
Rowen makes a note of the choices and settles on Folly as the easier person to ask about such things. "That sounds wonderful. Could you tell me where I could find Lady Folly?"
"If she's returned to the castle, she'd be in the studio, but she went to the city this morning. I don't know her agenda, but she's frequently at either Scarlett's, the Lord Mayor's house, at the clinic she's the patron of, or running errands. Would you like to send someone to the city to try to find her?"
So new to this place, there's no way she would know for certain, but "That sounds like it would take too long," Rowen considers, using her outer monologue voice. "Can you take me to the room with the Trumps? Or do I need to talk to Uncle Random first?"
He goes to the door. "Of course, Lady. It's part of the job." He opens it. "If you would come with me, please."
He leads her down the stairs and into an unfamiliar part of the castle. The room has a guard outside it, but she's sitting and reading. She looks as Max and Rowen approach.
"The King's niece, the Lady Rowen," announces Max. The guard looks more alert and hands Max a key. Max smirks and opens the door. Inside are a large number of bound folios, chained to the back wall. There's also a display case, currently empty, and open shelves with paper and drawing materials. There's a window with frosted glass that lets in light but is probably hard to see through.
"I've never been in here before," confesses Max.
"A first for both of us, then," Rowen says, giving the guard a nod as she passes into the room. Her eyes pore over the room interpreting each feature.
A display case. Empty. What could go there? Is there something special enough worth presenting while keeping idle hands from touching it? What would make it different from the other things in the room?
Drawing materials. That makes sense if the Trumps are created by hand. Clearly there is some magic or power behind them to make them more than mere illustrations.
And then there are the folios. Martin had cards, but these look larger and far less portable. Then again, if this is a central place from which the family could reach any family member, then it behooves them to protect them so as not to lose any of them. She takes one of the folios and flips through it, considering each of the images, careful not to mar the images as she glides her fingers along each Trump.
Max waits by the door. "Shall I help you find Uncle Corwin?," he asks.
Rowen nods and waves him over.
The first volume is made of actual playing cards, one to a page, each held down by ribbons. They could certainly be removed, or had come here from somewhere else. They are mostly of people, but a few are of places. The second half of the folio is comprised of less-well-finished cards. Rowen sees Random in the first half, and Gerard, standing tall, from before his accident. Martin has one, done by a different hand. There are also several of her cousins that she has met. Not the newest ones, of course. And no trump of herself.
Even without knowing how they come to be, Rowen doesn't seem surprised. To a degree, these folios resemble a bit of a family tree and the newest details may not be filled out for a while.
Max points at one when she turns back towards the front. "That's him! King Corwin." The man in the trump reminds her of the Count, her stepfather, physically. He has the look of a man of action. He has a full head of black hair, combed back and only just venturing to escape his control. His clothes are all black, accented with silver in too many places. His cloak is clasped with a silver rose and there is a subtle rose motif to his gloves and Rowen would later swear she could smell him and he smelled like he looked. She drinks in the details and imagines how he must be as a real person and then the image on the card moves.
"Corwin here, who calls?", She hears him say, although it seems to be in her head. He sounds like she expects him to sound.
Unconsciously, Rowen straightens her posture and smoothes out her brilliantly red dress, cut in a style appropriate for "court casual" in Xanadu. "Good day, Uncle Corwin. I am your niece, Rowen," she greets him, immediately second-guessing her level of formality.
A smile breaks out over Corwin's face at the sight of her. "Rowen: Eric's daughter, Cambina's sister. Hello. Would you like to come through to Paris?" He offers Rowen his hand.
Corwin was sitting, but has risen to bring her through. He's in a richly decorated room with delicate furniture that includes seating for company and what looks like a secretary-desk. Also a lot of shelves with leather-bound books.
Rowen turns her attention slightly to Max and instructs, "Please let whoever needs to know that I have gone to see Uncle Corwin." Squaring up again to the Trump, she extends her hand to take his. "I'd love to!"
Max nods, and then blinks at the rainbow of shimmering light that fades with the disappearing Rowen.
Once she steps through, Rowen can tell she's in a new place. Paris is just as real as Xanadu. It's clear that Paris has different technology from the scent on the wind. Also that the nearest body of water is not an ocean, but a body of fresh water, or perhaps a river. There's also more noise, although part of that is the height of Xanadu protects it from the sounds of the city. Here, some of the sound is muted, suggesting distance from whatever is making it.
There are glass windows. They're closed but they overlook a wide lawn.
"Welcome to Paris. Would you like a drink, or for me to send for something to eat?" Corwin asks. "And how can I help you?"
Rowen emerges from the shimmer or light, holding his hand firmly. It's no dainty lady's grip, even though the woman on the other end has the build of one. Her dress is recognizably suitable for Xanadu and appropriately modest, however, it is a brilliant and attention-grabbing red, dark enough not to clash with the red of her loose, flowing hair, with a long, flowing skirt. The length of the fabric nearly brushes the floor, largely concealing footwear on the slightly heavier and industrial side than might be expected for court wear.
"Thank you for the invitation," she says, considering dropping into a more formal curtsey or bow, though her uncle seems to carry himself in casual enough of a fashion to stave it off. "It's a pleasure to meet the brother or my father. I've heard and read much about you. I wonder how closely you resemble the stories," she adds, with a light twinkle in her eye and a wry smile.
She glances about, taking in details, and in particular getting a quick read to see if either drink or food is something that perhaps her host is also hoping to have at the moment. "Where to start? I heard of Random's realm. What is yours like?"
Rowen has the sense that offering food and drink is the norm here, indeed among Amberites in general, probably because they have significant appetites compared to the men and women of Shadow, even the Weir, who eat well.
"Please, have a seat." There are horsehair sofas, decorated with gilded and carved wood, with rich patterned fabrics. They look significantly older than anything in Xanadu; there's something lived-in about them, though they don't look that comfortable compared to the cushions on the seating in the suites of Xanadu. He's clearly waiting on Rowen to sit before seating himself. "I can answer all your questions, but we'll be at this for a while.
Rowen strides over to the next nearest sofa, her fingertips brushing over the material of the nearest to get a sense of its construction. Her movements aren't inelegant, edging more toward precision and function.
"Paris isn't exactly like the place it's named after, where I spent a few centuries before the war. But it's built itself after the memories of the best times I had in that Paris. And with me as King, though the Paris I lived in had none."
"This Paris must be very special then, if it is made of only your fondest memories of the other place. I've heard little of either, outside of this being your realm and it being one of the poles of reality. There was mention of Doctor Chew's operations working in and out of Paris, but I suppose that might have been the other one?" she says.
With an enthusiastic flop, she drops into the second sofa, her legs crossing as part of the descent. Back straight and attentive, she weaves her fingers together over a knee. "Jerod mentioned finding some monk outpost under Paris. Was that here or the other one?"
"That was here. Lance, the head of my Royal Guard, is still working his way through the catacombs under the city with hopes of--" he stops there. "Bide," he says to Rowen. "Someone is contacting me by Trump."
After a moment he says, "Hello, Celina. Is that Merlin with you? Your cousin Rowen is here with me. May she join us in the Trump?"
Rowen comes crisply to her feet and takes the offered hand, coalescing into the conversation. She is a young and slender woman with long, angular features in a vaguely foxy appearance, in the literal sense. Her bright and fiery red hair is worn long and loose, falling straight, over her shoulders. She wears a dress styled in a fashion suitable for Xanadu. Modestly cut, it is a rather eye-catching red that flows into a long skirt that nearly brushes the floor. Glimpses of dark footwear can be seen, appearing more industrial than delicate.
Behind the pair, it appears to be an office or sitting room in Paris, with furniture decorated with gilded wood and patterned fabrics. They look somewhat lived-in. Glass windows are prominent, though they remain shut.
"Celina, Merlin, this is your cousin Rowen. We believe she is Eric's daughter, so she's your full cousin. Rowen, Celina is my daughter by Moire of Rebma, and Queen in her own right of that city. And Merlin there is my son by Dara of the House of Borel in Chaos.
Rowen defers to the woman of higher rank to speak first.
"A pleasure to meet You, Rowen, sister-cousin," Celina uses the Seaward expression for a woman of similar age and closest blood ties. "I hope that you find Paris interesting and that we can meet in the future. I extend to you a passage to Rebma at your leisure. You are quite ...stunning. Paris will love you."
The redhead beams brightly, perhaps a little naively compared to the usual wariness of the family. "A pleasure to meet you as well, Your Majesty, and thank you," she replies. If she hadn't been holding Corwin's hand, a curtsey or a bow or both seemed on the verge of happening. "I very much hope to see your realm soon. A pleasure, too, cousin Merlin."
Merlin is the strongest presence in the call, even stronger than Corwin, which isn't a surprise to Celina but may be to Rowen. "Welcome, cousin," he says, and Rowen can feel a little of his shyness leaking through. "I am pleased to meet you."
Corwin waits a moment to see that everyone is satisfied with the introductions and greetings before asking, "So, Celina, what news from Rebma?"
"I think you will be pleased to learn that Delta of the line of Mera has assayed the Design here. She has accepted position in our Court and brought her grandmother, Coral, back to Rebma for an extended stay. We thought it wise to pass on this joyous news." Celina waits.
"I'm afraid I don't know Coral, but that's excellent news about Delta," Corwin says, sounding pleased. "Rowen has just arrived, but I thought to offer her the chance to walk the Pattern under Notre Dame."
Remembering Corwin's terse advice for her about Paris' Pattern, Celina feels for Merlin's reaction to that in the Trump texture. Her expression does not change. Celina again regards her sister-cousin through the Trump and nods. "Then Rowen's had a full tour of Paris? How nice. What part did you like best, Rowen?"
The response begins with a quick shake of the head. "I arrived only moments before this," she reveals, avoiding vocabulary around telecommunications, either out of precision or ignorance. "I've been told about this 'Thing' but it has all been very vague except for its importance and its fatality."
"All three of us have walked the Pattern in different locations," Corwin explains, "and each of us had a very different experience."
Merlin makes a noise that Celina and Rowen can both interpret as agreement.
"But the gist of it is that the Pattern is a two-dimensional representation of a three-dimensional manifestation of Order. It's in our nature, is I guess the best thing to say. It's part of what we are and makes us different to everyone else in the universe. Assaying the Pattern successfully gives us mastery over the powers that are inherent in us. The downside is that once you set foot on the Pattern, you either complete it or die. Anyone who is not of the Royal blood, as we used to say, of Amber, will perish. And the bloodline alone isn't enough. It's still possible to fail and perish."
Next to Celina, Merlin tightens his hand on hers.
Celina squeezes back calm.
"I think you can succeed, Rowen, or I wouldn't offer you the chance."
So there it is. Father does not feel I align with Paris at all. Yet even without Moire understanding the Pattern or what troubles would come between us, I succeeded in Rebma. I can feel Father's hope here. Will the Blood and Lightning always haunt me this way? Celina deliberately pushes away the disquiet of a sister-cousin of such fine aspect taking on a man's Pattern.
Celina adds to the contact, "This will be the fiercest contest of your life, Rowen. Visit the Eiffel. Rest if you have only arrived. Paris is subtle."
And I am not, Celina thinks.
"What no one has ever described is what this contest is like," Rowen says softly. "It sounds dreadful."
"It is," Merlin opines. "It touches all your memories and desires, and forces you to confront all the things about yourself you would never tell another soul."
Celina appears very still for a beat.
"Father, you are a composer. Do you have a song or stretch of music that aligns with the Pattern of Paris. I'm sure Rowen would enjoy that."
"I appreciate the offer, but how would music prepare me for this?" Rowen asks, with the tone of one more accustomed to preparation and planning over artistic representations. "How exactly does one prepare for it? Is there a plan? Are there expectations? Can you walk me through it?" She pauses, dark eyes darting around yet seeing things more in her head than in the room itself.
"I can tell you about the curves and the veils. The veils, and there are four of them, are the points where the resistance to your forward walk will be the hardest," Corwin says. "Mentally, and physically. The curves are the longer parts of the Pattern where the resistance increases slowly until you reach a veil.
"Music," he adds, "isn't usually how we prepare, but it certainly couldn't hurt." Corwin smiles through the connection at Celina. "The best help is a good night's sleep, having eaten well, and preparing as if for an athletic contest. It's not that long of a walk in some ways, but it's also the longest journey you'll take in your life."
Celina looks from Corwin to Rowen. "Yes. Assume it is arduous. Prepare for the testing of your right to exist...and you absolutely have that right. Do not let Paris tell you who you are. There will be voices, or things from your past, that try to get to your doubts. Argue them. Demolish them. Never stop on the journey, even if you think you are stuck between ticks of the clock. If you want the longer version, come see me sister-cousin. Father. I wish you well. Rebma is glorious. Anything else I should know?"
"How would I find you? I am at the pleasure of your father while I am here in Paris," Rowen admits, considering her situation. "If it's as personal as you say, I don't know if it's something you'd wish to share, but I would appreciate going into it with my eyes wide open," she says, the phrase somewhat playful on the actual wide-eyed appearance of her eyes.
"If you would like," Merlin says, "and my sister the Queen approves, we could bring you through to Rebma, and I could return you to Paris on Father's card when you are finished here."
"I am still not entirely familiar with all the family's customs, but I just arrived here and it feels like such a sudden shift to depart so soon." As much as one can glance at someone else on the same side of a Trump, she looks to Corwin. "I do not wish to offend, yet I would like to do both."
"Father also has a card of me," Merlin answers, "and I could bring you through when you are free. If that is all right with you, Father."
Corwin says, "That might work, but if Celina prefers to see Rowen now, I can wait."
Celina smiles a bit, "Well I can hardly say this is less important than my current schedule. You are once again generous, Father. I shall use it to advantage. Who can say when will be a better moment."
Celina holds out her hand to Rowen. "Make your goodbyes, sister-cousin, and join us. You do not need to hold your breath. We are in air here."
"I'll be back soon, Uncle Corwin," Rowen says, with the certainty of foregone conclusion. The wisps of confusion drift across her eyes as she reaches for Celina's hand, not quite grasping the "warning."
She steps through into the airy chamber in Rebma.
The trump works as expected, and soon Jerod is looking at a very real-seeming image of the hallway outside the trump room. It is real enough to step into.
Jerod, Edan, and what passes for their entourage arrive in the hallway in a shimmer of coruscating light. There is a guard there. He's covering his eyes and fumbling for his sword. "Who goes there?"
Jerod looks at the guard as he balances the picnic basket on his wrist while carrying the firelilly filled thermos in one hand, trump in the other, preceded by Edan with Kyauta in a fireman's carry.
He sees the guard as he's struggling to get his sword out to confront the Rainbow Menagerie and chuckles. "You haven't seen much on this duty posting, have you son?" he says. "Princes Jerod and Edan...and passengers. We need some pages and we need them now. The first one to tell the King we have arrived."
The guard relaxes at the well-known voice of a former regency council member and Prince. He was in Gerard's guard in Amber during the crisis, so Jerod is a known quantity.
"Sorry, My Lord, I was looking the wrong way when you came in and was dazzled."
"Of course. Carry on."
[Jerod] looks at Edan. "You want a cart or something for him? I'm really not seeing you lugging him all the way wherever we're going."
Regardless of the answer, pages will still be acquired for messaging and such.
Edan shifts the weight of his affine. "It has grown," he says. "Used to be small enough to perch on my shoulder, like Robin's fire lizard fair. Maybe someday I'll have a flying mount. Yes, I think a cart is in order." He adds that request in with the other page-related requests.
Pages come to the guard's bell pull. First on the scene is Max.
"Uncle," he says with a smile. "I am following your advice." Shortly after he arrives, two young women arrive, they can be dispatched to fetch carts. Max suggests you want a baby carriage for the dragon, not a cart, but otherwise doesn't give the two junior pages orders. Once that is done, Max is off to fetch the King (unless orders change).
"And what advice amongst many nuggets you've been offered are you following today Max?" Jerod asks.
"Making myself useful to the family, Uncle," he says with a smile. "You learn an entirely different set of things serving in a castle than serving in a tavern."
At Max's suggestion of the baby carriage, Jerod leans over to Edan. "That's entirely your call." he says, though he is slightly amused at the idea of Edan pushing a sleeping dragon around in a baby carriage. For sure there would be less talk of Jerod and a vampyre, vs Edan and....well, the broadsheets can fill in the blanks.
For Max heading to the King, Jerod advises him that they have already been in touch with the King. He is to tell them that they have arrived and will be taking care of the problem that was discussed, with Edan having an idea or two. Max is to ensure that the King has received the message and if he has a reply to return with it. They will be collecting some short term travel supplies prior to departing the castle so they should be around for a bit.
A page is also sent to notify the castle stables for the need for mounts, and the kitchen for a travel "basket" (aka Prince Crate).
Edan just shakes his head. "A cart will be fine. Maybe some cushions. A baby carriage is... too much."
Pages depart on assorted errands, returning with a cart, a portable Prince Larder, word from the stables, and other sundry news and goods.
Arriving from the direction of the lake, the King comes into view. He is wearing swimming attire and looking bemused. Arriving from the direction of the stream of servitors is Tricksey.
"Uncle." Jerod says, followed by "Tricksey.
"You want to see Lilith, your unwanted subterranean guest?" he asks. Assuming so, he passes over the thermos for inspection.
"Edan's got an idea on some isolation for it. We can see what we might learn. Kyauta is..." and he looks over at the dragon. "Apparently bigger than expected and tuckered out. He'll need to wake up first before he can try talking to it again. He has more on that."
Upon hearing her name, Tricksey pauses mid crow-hop, glancing up. She smiles broadly and performs an exaggerated curtsey; a noble mixture of ballet and weather vane. "Cousin Serious! Cousin Chin!"
She completes her crow-hop over to them and stands statue-still, grinning, eyes bright. "You say Lilith in basement? The real one? Lilit? Lilitu? She of the First Clay? Dark Lady of the Wink-Wink-Nudge-Nudge? Hellooooooo Nurse?"
Edan looks like he's furiously trying to process all the names. "Qarinah?" he finally asks. "I don't think so."
A woeful sigh escapes the Crow Girl. "Boring Lilith? No fun." She begins shuffling her feet, half-listening to the conversation.
Random looks at her. "This is a thing I've had to learn. Everything is probably true somewhere, but not everything is true here."
Random takes the thermos and opens it, looking at the flower. "You could sell a zillion of these in shadow. What do you want to do with it?"
"If is an affine as Kyauta has indicated, then logically we should be able to communicate with it." Jerod says. "Edan mentioned about a local location to perform some sorcery to isolate it. If we can do that maybe we can communicate with it without outside interference, learn some more...especially how it got here. The technical details will be his.
"Once that avenue has been pursued, we'll see what it provides. If further options exist I'm inclined to leave that to Edan and others. Got a few other things I want to handle here before getting too distracted. Otherwise, if nothing comes of the effort, I'd assume we destroy it."
"Once we get to a place where I can jail an affine and revive my own, we should have a chance to ask some important questions," Edan agrees. "But I am relieved. The hard part is done."
Tricksey glances between the men, lips pursed, hands on her hips. Serious. So serious. She nods. Resolute in her agreement with Edan. Granted, she hasn't a flippin' clue what they're talking about, but Crow Girls don't trouble themselves with such particularities.
Random blinks into the bottle and hands it back to Edan. "Don't stare into it too long. Nothing magic, just a bit bright."
"One thing I'm a bit concerned about, though. We've mostly encountered these in or near Amber and Arden, with reports of them troubling Pen's home on the far side of the forest. Those places should naturally suppress chaos powers. If this is somehow related to Finndo's dragon (which would make it a cousin of several of your cousins), then it wouldn't be great to give it a conduit to vast chaotic maelstroms of power.
"Try not to do that," he says.
Jerod smiles but says nothing, noting the important safety tip of not using it as a focus point for Chaos Sorcery.
He makes a mental note to remind Edan, in case he hasn't thought of it first, to NOT show it to Clarissa.
Ever.
Tricksey glances between the men, crow eyes sparkling with renewed interest. "Like Dragon of Arden? Who kill Papa?" She tugs at her snowy lock of hair - something new since she and Edan practiced. Still no sadness. No mourning. Only curiosity.
The gaze eventually finds Random, shifting. Becoming something serious, intent. "Need King help. Trump Grandfather. Time Crow Girl meet. And see Arden Forest. Think Tricksey truly Papa's Daughter." Something remains unspoken. An odd wonder. A fearful realization. Or the ghost of some bad noodles. Crow Girls are hard to read.
"Well, you've come to the right place. Have you ever used a trump? Hold on a moment." The king turns to Jerod and Edan.
"Do you lads need any more encouragement or help to get that thing far away from here? Maybe take it to Flora. She can arrange it."
"I'm sure we can handle it uncle, without incurring Auntie's wrath." Jerod jokes.
Edan seems to have developed a slight headache at the flower pun, the reality sinking in that he's signed up for centuries of Random jokes. Maybe millennia. "No plans to take it to someone else; I will find out what I can, then take it somewhere it would become harmless, considering that my knight apparently invited it. A question, though, how does the King of Xanadu see it right now? Spy? Emissary? Invader? Or maybe just civilian?"
Tricksey shuffles her feet, "Tricksey could read. She see memory."
She glances between the trio. "Not sure if help. But Crow Girl offer."
Jerod frowns slightly at Tricksey's comments, looking at Random. "Psychometry?" he asks.
"Psychopompestry," Tricksey says with some pride. She puts her hands on her hips, twisting back and forth, chin held high, to reveal her majesty. "Caw-caw."
[Random] "I try to only have unmetered psyschoses, but it might be interesting to try. What's the worst that can happen?"
Random turns to Tricksey. "I don't think it will knock you on your butt as hard as the pattern did, but it's connected to something much larger. This could be the equivalent of the proverb about hiting a snake with a rock only to find out it was really the tail of a dragon. If you want to try, we'll put off telling Edan we don't know the answer to his question yet..."
Tricksey unconsciously rubs her temple, "Pattern loud. Too many ghosts. All cry out. Even if dragon, this not Pattern. Crow Girl ready to hear. Ready to see Memory."
She offers her hand, ready to take the item. "If Tricksey start gibbering. Spouting fire. Take picture for prosperity."
Random offers a modicum of reassurance. "We'll catch you if you fall over, Psychopumpkin."
Tricksey beams at this declaration, repeating the title-of-most-awesomeness, as if tasting it, savoring it, and yearning for seconds.
Edan looks like he's rolling his eyes, but in reality he's glancing around. The palace. The ceiling. The door behind them to the Trump Booth. He shrugs. "This is a safer place than most. The only issue I have is that I can't effectively watch what's going on." He moves to hand Tricksey the bottle, unless someone stops him.
Tricksey takes the bottle. It's a double-walled glass container which allows a bit of light to escape. Inside is a single flower, shaped like a lily. It has a three long, narrow petals but they look as if they have been burned. The center is a smoldering flame, and as Tricksey stares down the bottle, she thinks it feels warm. It's got a green stem that seems to be resting on a tiny puddle of water.
It's not possible that it's burning. It shouldn't burn, it should consume the fuel, and it should be put out by the lack of air in the bottle. None of those things is true.
Tricksey reaches inside the bottle, but can't get a good angle to touch the flower without touching the flames, which seems like a way to learn a lesson crow-girl already knows about grabbing things that are on fire.
But she can get close enough to get a reading. It's almost unreadable. It's like reading an alien. It's half object and half person. It's like grabbing an electric wire, and it's hard to let go. It's exhausting.
Tricksey thinks it's like a cat's whisker. It's a part of something, but it's not a live thing. But it is. And it's part of some sort of sensory network.
If she wasn't so tired, she might be able to get more, but maybe she'd just wake something up.
Tricksey cocks her head back and forth, clucking her tongue. It's a corvid sound, curious and confused. Certainly not something belonging in a human throat. "Beautiful. Dangerous," she says to none, all ASMR and mystery. "Careful. Go careful."
Studious silence follows. A moment, drawing out. And then a wistful smile. "Neat!" she exclaims, too loud for the previous quiet.
"Flower in flux," she says, offering the bottle to whomever wishes to take it. "Piece of something bigger. Like cutting. Shed off. But connected. Maybe why still burn. Memories cloudy. Not like Crow Girl. Not of us. A thing in-between. And aware. Networked."
A pause for drama, "So maybe Thing connected to aware. Like MacReady's Petridish. Mwah-hah-hah-hah." The melodramatic laugh and hand waving devolves into a shameless yawn. "Tired now."
Jerod does not say anything though he is clearly following Tricksey's comments. He gives Random a brief look and still says nothing but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out his first leaning is tying the flower to the Dragon.
Edan takes the bottle. "Unfortunate, it's so dispersed. But I don't see anything different than what I found with Julian."
Random shrugs. "I'm not the theoretical magical theorist here. I'm thinking of it like one of those 5 mile wide underground mushrooms that push up and get picked by unsuspecting woodsmen who eat them and have strange visions and start religions. Except without most of that." Random looks at Jerod. "Let's have that happen elsewhere."
Tricksey's face goes slack, her head slumping to the side. "We Countess Cordyceps. Take us to your leader. Mwah-hah-cough-hah."
Jerod nods once. "Yes, uncle." he says simply.
Random turns to Tricksey. "Are you ready to meet Julian? You seem a bit unsteady."
Tricksey resumes her Serious Face(tm). "Crow Girl fine. Steady as rock." She extends her hand. It remains flat, unmoving. And then begin to shake and flop around.
She issues a loud snort, grinning. "Tired. But Tricksey want meet grandpapa. Slept. Ate. More than usual. And not in cardboard box. Fit as fiddle."
She looks at the others, "See soon, Stoic Cousins!"
Jerod smiles. "When you see Morgenstern, be sure to ask for permission before trying to ride him." he says.
Tricksey rubs her chin thoughtfully, "Crow Girl heed Serious Counsin's words. Suspect not referring to ice cream cake."
Jerod motions to Edan. "Shall we? Want to get this done before I go talk to First." he says.
Edan performs an aadab to Random and Tricksey, the bow short enough to be considered informal and friendly.
"Take care of yourself, cousin," he says to Tricksey. "I will ask after you with our cousins. You can always call on me if you need help."
He nods to Jerod, "I'm ready."
Tricksey offers one of her pretzel-awkward curtseys. "Always good see Edan. Tricksey practice. Make next meeting more interesting.
"Safe journey to both!"
Jerod nods a smile to Tricksey, then turns to Edan. "After you...teacher." and he chuckles.
Random waves as they depart.
Tricksey spins in place, slowing, slowing, until she is pointing at Random.
Random grins. "Have you used a trump yet? On your own?" He opens the door to the trump room. "This is where I keep trumps that anyone who I want to use trumps can find them, so that nobody has to wake me up in the middle of the day when they want to contact their uncle."
The room is like a library for five or six books, which are either closed or open to a page with a single trump card on it.
"If not, touch the surface, and stare at it as if you expect it to become real, and it will." He waits by the door.
Tricksey bird-hops over to the door, poking her head inside. "Used Trump once. Same room. Brita and Conner. Was neat."
She enters, curious, but resisting the urge to touch everything. Even though she wants to touch, touch, touch. Then pauses.
Pensive, she turns her head, staring back at Random. "What he look like? Grandpa." Her attention returns to the various volumes, "Is named?"
"Your father had many names. Your grandfather has been Julian as long as I've known him. He certainly had local names in shadow, but we all do."
Random turns to a book, and opens it, leafing quickly to a drawing of man, dark haired and blue eyed, wearing a suit of armor that looks like it's made of gleaming white enamel.
"He looks like that."
Tricksey regards the Trump image with reverence, tracing its edges with her fingertip. "Julian," she says, all ASMR and impressed.
As Brita taught her, the Crow Girl begins focusing on the image. She resists the urge to read the Trump; instead, letting the familiar sensations connect her to its recipient, fill her thoughts
As she waits, she starts to hum. Hum and wiggle her butt. Swishing back and forth like a leather-bound metronome. The humming persists, growing louder. Random - more than likely - recognizes the tune.
The Girl from Ipanema.
If - and when - Julian answers the call, the music will be full blast. Like being trapped inside a cruiseship's elevator at 2AM, after a long bout of Mai Tais.
The connection slams shut so fast Tricksey's head spins.
Tricksey blinks. Shocked. Mortified. She snorts, "Rude!"
She glances over at Random, frowning. "Wrong number."
And, thus, the Crow Girl tries again. Minus the head-muzak. As much as this is a strain. A quiet place Tricksey's head is not.
Summoning the Trump's image to her mind, she tries the more subtle approach, thinking happy thoughts. If the connection begins, she softly - says, "Grandpa?"
The contact is held at something of a distance. A cool male voice says, "Who calls?"
Tricksey breathes a sigh of nervous relief. "Tricksey. Daughter of Daeon. Crow Girl. Julian's grand-daughter."
Another breath, "Wish speak about papa. Learn family."
The image forms this time, properly, and it's the man in the card. Through the connection, Tricksey can feel that Julian has lived a long life; there are legends of him across Shadow. He has lived through a great deal of sorrow, the deaths of his children and friends in a long fight that he struggles to win against a powerful foe, and with insufficient aid on his part.
Julian says, "I cannot bring you through unless you have taken the Pattern."
Tricksey snickers, over-bashfully covering her mouth. "Grandpa say, 'Taken.' Wink-wink-nudge-nudge. Eh what?"
She straightens up, very serious. Regal. Resplendent Crow Girl. Flexing her toned arm, triumphant. "Tricksey tough. She walk Pattern. See Pattern's memories. Put fox in heart. Weird, but fuzzy."
With a dip of her head, "Crow Girl ready."
Julian extends his hand. "Come through."
Last modified: 15 June 2025