After some exchange of messages through pages and secretaries and servants, it is arranged that Celina will host Delta for a dinner to discuss matters. The details of the matters to be discussed are not disclosed; they are royal businesss. (This is advice from Coral, who sends her love to Celina but has things of her own to do.)
The kitchens have prepared dishes according to Celina's instructions and prepared the space for the family meal.
The meal is a tribute to the double dozen seas. All of the ports of call are represented by some favorite dish of various trade factors or full ambassadors.
Halimedes escorts Delta to meet the Queen at the appointed hour. The denizens of the castle given the Triton a wide berth: some from respect, others from fear.
The venue is deep in the Palace. A spacious chamber scaled to Triton architecture.
It situates as an antechamber to an exclusive stairway spiraling down into the Catacombs beneath the palace. Today it is lit and jeweled with dancing reflections from pendant lights that hiss with eternal green fires.
Despite all this grandeur, Celina has her hair pinned up. She wears only a shoulder drape of blue sapphires and a golden beaded tanga. She looks over the food table with pleased expression.
But her smile is larger when her family arrives. Celina welcomes Delta and Halimedes. "Delta, the Court never sees this place and usually it is not furnished or lit. Welcome. Please remember how to get here in case you should ever need to."
In her short time here, Delta has not changed her attire. Celina's costume gets a grin. "You look comfortable, cousin. Suits you." She glances around the Triton-scaled rooms, cavernous as they are. "These are expansive, to not be of much use. But I'll remember." She juts out an elbow as if to nudge Halimedes, not that she actually touches the Triton. "You fit well here. No hitting your head on the door jambs, eh?"
With that, she finally sees the food, and her eyes grow wide. "How many attend this dinner? You, me, and a hungry crew?" Despite the surprised words, her laugh afterwards is filled with delight at the novelty of it all.
"I was schooled not to eat so much when I was growing up. Slender figure and all that marriage folderol. But it turns out I'm hungry all the time naturally. Many in the Family are. So... this is just for us and the tritons. I arranged before I realized Coral would be elsewhere. How goes the tour of Rebma?"
Delta grins at Celina's revelation. "Any would be lucky to wed you now. And please, don't wait on me to start digging in. You never know when the winds will turn, so do what you must when you can." The words have the sound of an aphorism, often repeated. She approaches the table, picks a bit of shrimp from a platter and eats appreciatively before saying, "Ah, fine. Fine. Your guards are a handsome lot. Halimedes is attentive. Grandmother already seems on the mend from her long sadness. Yet I still don't know what this place, you, or the family want from me. So perhaps we can chat about that." It's easily said, without challenge or rancor. "In the meantime...ahh, there's the wine. Want some?"
"Yes please," Celina finds a bulb to fill for both of them. "I have resolved not to drink alone but it is good for me in company. Let's us set no limits and chat the sun up."
Delta laughs. "No limits. My favorite kind." In short order there's a clinking - or a watery thunk - of Rebman stemware, followed by a few words of appreciation about the quality of the drink.
And then: "Do you often deny yourself? It must be a lonely pillar, yours." It's said with a sympathetic half-smile as accompaniment.
Halimedes is not partaking. He is on duty, and keeps a respectful distance. Apparently he doesn't think Celina is going to do anything untoward to Delta.
Celina finds the question acute but unexpected even so. She hmms and then, "Not so much but in some cases very much. I get to smile, laugh, and look after my duties without too many restrictions. I do not get to drink to forget, feel sorry for myself, or eat my enemies. Not that I would answer that question to anyone else I currently know." She laughs a little.
Delta laughs aloud at 'eat my enemies' before saying, "I carry the secret to my ending in the depths below. Where's your brother, by the way? Has he left the deep for elsewhere?"
Celina suddenly has more energy and intense directed gaze at Delta. "I appreciate you may like him. He's different. Raised in Chaos by a mother that radically changed her mind about her child after the War. Dara is dangerous. I'm very protective of him. He's accommodated me a lot and he did not have to. Our culture is bizarre to him, but he's really Gifted and he wants to know us better. He comes and goes to his own currents. He should still be here, but don't be surprised if he Trumps away to Paris without notice."
Delta refills their bulbs of wine. "Chaos. I've heard you all mention it, but what the blazes is it?" She snorts. "Tell me it's just the opposite of Order, and I'll throw a shrimp at you." She makes a mock threatening gesture with her chosen prawn. "It's a place? A court? I understand about every fifth word you all say."
Celina grins and nods at the weapon, "Sure. But fair warning, throwing shrimp here requires practice."
Delta laughs and disarms herself by consuming the weapon in two neat bites.
"Chaos is also meant as a fuzzy term, I think. Those people may even call it something else. They are distantly related, but many despise our ways. The place is huge but full of small domains that are fiercely held by single Chaosii. No one has told me there is a Court, but there was a War with Amber so they do have alliances and politics. Shapers. Suited to the ever changing conditions.
"Chaos is something like the Deep; large predators, amazing landscapes, and an environment that may try to kill you." Celina looks pleased with the comparison.
"Our ways...but the Family seems to have multiple ways in itself, at least from what I've seen. Pirates and sorcerers and artists and queens." She indicates Celina with a wave of her hand. "What ways do they despise?" She's building up to something, obviously, but asks these broader questions to begin.
Celina hmmms. "I infer from things Merlin has said and others in the Family have glossed over in my hearing that it is strongly a culture divide as to what kind of rules predators live by. They find us lame for we don't each rule a domain but band together. They find us disgusting for we exchange fluids and procreate in a sloppy mess. Politically, they are unsatisfied they lost the Great War. My father's Grandfather could be more specific, or Benedict, the Eldest. It is enough for me to respect Merlin's views and help him thrive in the universe."
"Ahhh," says Delta, clearly realizing something as Celina speaks. "Well, then." She holds on a beat longer before letting out a strangled laugh. "Sloppy mess. What a way to put it. But as you say, aye. Best to let your brother be your brother as he is.
"Celina," she says after another beat of silence. "I need to walk the maze. And I need to talk to the realm's spymasters. Should probably do the second first, but--" she looks up to meet the other woman's gaze. "I am swimming in deep waters, and I'm thinking they go deeper still. I need to be stronger."
Celina's heart speeds up and the ocean around her sizzles with the memory of consuming sparks.
She nods. "Well, I think the maze comes before everything else. But believe me you are stronger than you realize. If you discard the idea that there is anything you could not accomplish for your loved ones if not for yourself alone."
Celina smiles, "Otherwise I cannot allow it. Take my hand, dear Delta. Let me test you."
Without another word, Delta extends her hand. It's long-fingered, scarred across the palm, with fingernails cut short and noticeable calluses. Working hands.
Celina wipes food from her hand. She steps to Delta. With a smile and nod at the noble appearance of Delta's hand Celina slides her palm into Delta's grip. "The Labyrinth is demanding and unforgiving. It will try to turn you inside out. You must keep moving. You must be adamant. The whole of it is exhausting but when you reach the center you can send yourself fully to a safe location."
Celina sees they both have centered. "Squeeze my hand tight as you can. Be focused. Be determined. Crush my grip. Go!"
Delta doesn't need to be told twice. Her hands have tended to sails and rigging, killed and loved, hauled and dug. She bears down with all her strength, as requested.
Celina believes the tale told by Delta's hands. Family is stronger and more determined than even the Pattern. Sometimes.
Celina uses the moment to weld to Delta's intent. She uses all Takhi to become part of Delta's physicality and focus. Celina wants to feel Delta's intangible self as well as the pain she can bring to bear on Celina's smaller hand.
(And she will give back what mighty grip she can to see if any distraction alters Delta's focus.)
Usually, this sort of thing would be as casual as arm wrestling to decide who buys the next round of pints. This is different, though. This is Delta wanting something. Badly. And so she bears down without issuing quips, without winking or jesting or anything except fierce concentration. The pain from Celina's return grip is almost reassuring -- it means Delta isn't hurting her cousin, and so she grips all the more tightly.
Celina is surprised the pain feels so right and hot. She feels the wall of differences between Delta and herself. A veil Celina cannot cross. But the focus is more the same than not. Delta adds to it. Celina notes the warnings as her bones grind in ways they are not meant to. Celina envies the clarity of the focus and bitterly regrets the veil between blood.
But the more important truth is Delta is determined and so... Celina says, "Enough."
And releases Delta.
Delta immediately lets out a pained, "Gods, but you have a grip on you, cousin!" It's admiring, rather than admonishing. "Did I pass your test?"
Celina splays her fingers and shakes away the throbbing into the caress of water.
"Yes. I give you my blessing to walk the Pattern of Rebma. The Pattern is dangerous and you know it kills. Ask now if you have questions beyond never stop once begun and push through any distraction. If you allow, I'll be with you in the chamber." Celina adds quietly, "Tonight might be good, as no one should think on you being elsewhere than secluded with me."
Celina impulsively hugs her and kisses her cheek. "For luck."
Delta gladly accepts the embrace. "Tonight! Such boldness! This is why you're my favorite." The anticipatory gleam in her eye fades slightly as she asks, "Do you truly wish to be there in the chamber? After such loss as you've suffered before?"
Celina lightly runs a hand over Delta's shoulder. "You are kind."
Celina gestures then with the same hand at the floor in the direction of the Pattern chamber. "My Pattern is a violent killer, yes. My grandmother was fierce to a degree that is hard to emulate, but if I am to save the city, I must not live in the shadow of my love's death or my feelings about it. I can try to make a difference. I cannot live in despair of what happened to us down there."
"What's gone is gone," says Delta, nodding. "And -- I will not fall, cousin. But -- if I do, will you see Coral comfortable for the rest of her days?"
"Yes I will," Celina pledges, "and your mother and step-father as well if they also come here."
Celina describes the descent route to the Pattern to Delta. "I don't mind if Tritons see this walk, your choice. The doors and passages accommodate them."
Delta glances in Halimedes' direction. "I don't mind if you don't, friend," she says to him before stepping toward the amazing banquet Celina prepared. She pops another couple of tidbits in her mouth, and when those are gone, takes a mighty swig of wine straight from the bottle. When she turns back to Celina, her eyes are gleaming with an explorers' fervor. "Tell me what I owe you for this, cousin. Before I go, I have to know that."
Debt. Yes, she grew up with everything a fair trade, agreed to. So interesting.
Celina looks at Delta, memorizes her. "You must be faithful to Rebma's throne and those assigned to protect the Pattern. You must honor the throne's agreements or bring them back to honor if they stray. And be faithful to Family, as you certainly are. If these oaths meet your approval then we are well met."
Delta tilts her head as she listens, then repeats it back in her own manner. The words are seriously said; a vow is no light matter. "I will keep faith with the Rebma you bring back to itself. I will keep faith with the family..." She holds up a finger, as if to alert Celina to the change she then makes. "...that also keeps faith with Rebma. In case there is strife again. Aye?"
Celina nods once.
And as she waits for Celina's agreement or disagreement, she suddenly pats her pocket and says, "Damnation. What do I do with this as I walk the maze? Does it come with me, or would it be endangered?" She briefly shows Celina the regalia tucked deep within the pocket she indicated.
"Oh, by Lir's pointed ears!" Celina takes a deep breath. Untried friend on a very bloody Pattern with that very package? No. That is too much to chance. Celina recovers.
"I think you would be endangered, dear cousin. That thing has already kissed the Pattern I'm sure. I could hold it while you make the trial. Leaving it even in my rooms would not be wise at all. It has deeper properties and would stress you the more."
Delta nods. She unfastens her jerkin, with the regalia still in its discreet pocket. She walks over to Celina and carefully drapes the jerkin over her shoulders, should Celina allow it. "There. Warmth and a terrifying bit of jewelry all in one."
Celina bears the jerkin gift and the whisper of fate that thunders down upon her. Celina straightens and adjusts.
With that, Delta takes a deep breath. "Soonest started, soonest done, eh? Thank you, cousin. We'll see each other as soon as I'm done."
Unless Celina has more to say, Delta then strides off in the directions Celina offered, toward the Pattern of Rebma.
Even knowing very well that the Trial is something Delta does alone, Celina walks along with her. It isn't duty or fear.
It feels like love. That is a surprise.
Halimedes accompanies them.
With Celina and Halimedes walking and swimming alongside, Delta has no trouble making her way down the well to the Pattern chamber of Rebma.
When they arrive at the correct chamber, Celina uses the key to open the door. The expanse of the room is huge to Delta's eyes. In the palace she can forget a little that everything sits on flat ground, if underwater. This is sheer rock with the tracery of the Pattern carved into the floor, as if by some divine hand. It's lit in green, little flames that spark along the lines: a flame that Celina knows well and Delta feels in her bones and blood.
The place where she should step onto it is clear. Halimedes places a hand on Delta's forehead for a moment, as if to bless her, then retreats to let her begin.
Delta takes in the scene: the hugeness of the chamber, the flickering green flames. When the Triton touches her, she starts, but quickly smiles. "Thank you, friend," she says to Halimedes, then turns to Celina and gives her a wink. "No weeping today, cousin. Promise." From the wry twist to her lips, she knows this is a promise she can't entirely control -- but make it she does.
With that - and a pause for any last words of Celina's - she whistles a few bars of a sea shanty on her way to the Pattern's beginning.
Celina matches tone to the music, "Take no whale crap."
The pattern seems to pulse along with her heartbeat as Delta moves along the glowing lines. It would be easy to step off, but Delta finds her feet seem to know how to do this. The delicate filigree across the vast floor start to spark as she steps, when her foot comes up and when her foot comes down, like an iron rubbed against a flint, faster and faster.
It becomes a challenge just to move, a physical test as well as one of dexterity. Her legs will feel this in the morning. Assuming she makes it until morning. It's like getting on a horse after a year at sea. Things she didn't know she had are complaining, and she hasn't even gotten to the tricky parts.
This wouldn't work for her mother. It's too hard, and she'd stop, or misstep. She's not really strong enough for this.
"Are we really so different, then? It's not like you not to take the easy way." It's her mother's voice, but it sounds like her at her worst, when Delta was a teenager and still knew everything. "Can't you tell? It shouldn't be this hard, this fast. It's going to be too hard, girl and it's almost too late to turn back. This? It's not for the likes of you or me. Just swim up and away and live to profit. This is going to kill you.
"You won't be the first of us to die athwart it."
Delta's legs ache with effort; her feet feel like they're encased in stone. One foot, then another. One foot, then another. Gaze on the lines, steady as she goes. It's not so different than working the rigging high above deck while a storm rages and the sails snap like whip-cracks. "We're nothing alike," she says to her mother's words, whether in her head or aloud, she cannot tell. Too hard? What was too hard? "Lots of things are hard," she says, again to her distant mother's voice. "This is just walking." Bravado, to be sure -- nothing has felt this physically strenuous in all of Delta's years. Then again, bravado has always given her wings.
Terrible images flicker through her thoughts. Celina's lost Khela, crumpled in the maze. Coral's dead sister. Miscreants and radicals tumbling from the safety of the high stairs into horrible death. Her breath aches in her chest. "The sea is never safe," she says, and this time she's certain she's said it aloud. "It takes. The sea takes." In the end, the sea and its deep, deep gods always win -- but not her, not today. She will not leave Celina weeping and Coral bereft. This is just walking. Just walking. One foot, then another. The sizzling green lines are the entire world.
The pressure lets up as she presses her way along the grand curve. The sparks don't, however, and start to rise again. The resistance quickly builds back up, as she walks. Has it been ten minutes or four hours? There is no bell to change watches here, she just has to keep pressing on.
Delta thinks on the difference between this land beneath the waves. Waves are a thing above her. There are no storms, no winds, no snow or sunlight. Calm, below, regardless of the weather above.
"The sea is peace. I am peace. You will have my peace, at some point, my child. Why fight for the shallowness of the surface when you can have the whole of the sea to explore?"
Floating in front of her is the Sea Witch herself, Mother Carey, the threat and promise that all sailors eventually go to the watery afterlife below the waves. Some sooner than later. She looks like Celina and Halimedes together.
"Death is easy, and striving only puts it off. You only add to your suffering by prolonging it."
Celina watches the sparks rising and swallowing Delta. Her hands clench into fists.
She has my blessing.
She has my blessing.
She has my blessing.
So this is what it's like to be lightning -- to be the storm, but inverted, all of it under-sea. Harsh green reflects in her dark eyes and flickers at the ends of her hair. Muscles ache almost to the edge of her endurance, but not over, not yet. Within that pain beats another one, a smaller discomfort -- heat flares along her hip, where the pocket rests that held the Rebman regalia. Its absence sears. Delta cannot dwell on it, no more than she can dwell on the way her legs quiver with each step. This is deep magic, all of it. Deep and cruel.
One foot ahead of the other. Again, again, though she's striding through tar, through quicksand, through treacle. She recognizes the spirit that floats just ahead of her like a dour mirage, this chimera of cousin and protector. Delta somehow forces her face into a grin, though it might look like a rictus instead.
She only speaks in her head now; speaking aloud is too much energy diverted from sheer will and the motion of her feet. "You want me dead, kill me. The Sea-Mother doesn't ask. She just does, swift as a storm. Swift as a blade." This is no Mother Carey, to gently urge her to her doom. "Away, phantom," she snaps. "Away with your nonsense peace."
One foot ahead of the other. The voice of her mother's husband breaking through, a memory of lessons when Delta was a spindly child and weapons sat oddly in her soft hands. "What's a warlord, tadpole? A warlord takes what he wants, knowing the cost will come. Want to be a warlord someday?" Delta didn't, though she wisely chose not to declare it that day. "Then learn loss. Learn failure. Learn stepping from wreckage and starting again. Learn scars."
Learn scars. Take no whale crap. One foot ahead of the other.
The pressure falls, the pressure rises, it beats with her steps and her heart. The whole pattern is a circulatory system and the blood of it flows when she moves it. She is small and there is so much to push.
And that has to be done while dancing an exact path that she can't see as the pulses of sparks crawl up her legs. She's been at this for a while, perhaps a long while. Delta isn't sure if she's reached the halfway point or not. Is it supposed to take forever or just seem that way?
"He's not wrong. He wouldn't last a week down here, but he'd go down fighting. He'd enjoy that." Coral never did have a high opinion of warlordism. "I wasn't brave enough to do what you're doing. I think it would've killed me. Still might I suppose. But it was an obvious danger in a city of hidden dangers.
"I'm worried about you, child. Celina put you on this path, like Moire put Celina's sisters on it and Moins put Moire's. Don't forget she's a warlord herself. You should try to keep enough of yourself in reserve for safety. You need to hold something back to protect yourself. This place eats people."
Celina stares at the growing cloud of sparks and can make little of Delta's form out of it.
Delta doesn't stop, or even pause -- but if any voice could make her do so, it's this one. Instead, she lifts one leg and places it down. Does it again. "What reserve?" she answers the phantom of her grandmother. "When do I hold anything back?" The words even draw a laugh from her, a true and full one, despite the pain that accompanies every move. "Protect myself? Since when?"
Memories spin past: storms and love affairs, battles, month-long revels and a few memorable stints in the brig. Hunger and wounds and privation. The weeks she nearly starved after a mutiny left her and her fellows marooned on an island bare of anything except rocks and bones. Leaping out of a third floor window after a long night with a warlord's wife. Stupid decisions -- yes, sometimes. But hesitation? Protection? Reserve? No.
"No!" she barks into the crackling green energy that surrounds her. "Forward! Always forward!" And so it is, one foot after the other, dragging herself along the path she can barely see. The words become a mantra for her heavy, plodding steps. Always forward. Always forward. And on she goes.
And on she goes. The pattern, the line on the ground that she knows where is but cannot see, the sparks rising towards her, reaching her waist, her ribs, her chest. She forces her way along the line with legs that feel like they're shackled and she'd dragging the entire castle above her along.
She's supposed to learn something from this, but all she's learning is to walk. Her will propels her and it's down to nothing but her will and the forces she's pushing against. She doesn't even have the luxury of thinking the opposition is personal. It's just forces.
She thinks about the cards, the people who she made up stories of. The laughing prince, the dancing beauty, the sailor. Each of them has done this, or so they say. And all the places are real places, all the places she dreamed of. The pattern she's walking represented on the back of the cards, wasn't it? She tries to picture it in her mind.
"Oh, yes, yes. Absolutely that way on purpose," says the voice. "They don't have to be like that, but it was sort of like my signature. I wanted people to know they were mine." The booming voice of Dworkin comes across the sparks. "Just a moment, let me get where I can see you." His head emerges over the sparks, and he seems to be about eight feet tall, looking down at her.
"Now, they're not exactly the same, but they are related, as it were. I said as much to Borel, a few millennia ago, but he didn't believe me. Still doesn't, now that he's dead, or mostly so."
"Do you know that there's a secret here? You've already passed the final test, and you can just float off the pattern now. No one will try it, but it will work. Frightfully easier, it is. You have my word as a Lord of Order. You've done enough."
Delta shakes her head with great effort, and green almost seems to whirl in her inner vision. "Still going. Still green." The light hasn't dimmed, the path hasn't ended. One foot, then the other. "I met you. You aren't that tall. Phantom." And again, she pushes through. The pattern from the back of the cards, was it this undersea path or the Xanadu one? How many are there? Is the Rebman one the same? Fancies spring up, places she can explore that might have powers to offer. Though it isn't power, is it? It's knowledge, pure knowledge. Seeing something no one else has seen. Taking the first steps into an unknown world. "You can't get somewhere without going there," she recites internally - another of her step-father's aphorisms. "Do the work. Learn scars. Go away, phantom." That again, is aimed at the looming Dworkin.
While looking up at him through bleary eyes, she almost trips. Almost. Her weary foot catches as she drags it forward, and she lurches suddenly to one side. She raises her arms to steady herself, though it's a near thing. It would have been so easy to step to her other foot to balance. It would have been so easy to fall.
Delta realizes the danger, and knows what tripped her. The resistance is gone, the sparks fade, the line is finished. She's done. There's nothing left to press against, and Delta does fall to her knees, but doesn't quite pass out.
There are new things in her mind now. She knows how to travel places, she knows how to add and subtract things from the path she's traveling. She knows how to insist to the universe that it will be the way she expects it to be.
But not until she's rested. The pattern is now like a giant, blank card, ready for her to temporarily write a place to take her to. Anywhere she can imagine.
Ideally someplace she can sleep it off.
Slam. Down to her knees, with an impact that jarred her straight to her teeth. If Dworkin's image still remains, she shoots it an apologetic look -- or she hopes she does. She's too tired to truly know what her face is doing. Whatever brain-space is left is overflowing with all that is new, with certainty and magic and reality's swift shifting. And ...it is all far too much. She hopes Celina sees her hale, though not especially hearty. She should get up. She should return to her cousin's side. She should reclaim the regalia. She should -- Perhaps Halimedes will recognize that Delta has returned to the room with all the food Celina prepared. Delta remembers a divan there, and in seconds she sleeps atop it. She'll show imagination when she can think again.
In the dream that follows her Pattern walk, Delta swims in a sea of memories, more remote now than they were before she joined Celina for dinner. Remote and different, like seeing backstage behind a mummers' show.
In thinking it, she makes it so: she sits cross-legged on warm sand watching a performance. Painted backdrops place the actors in some undersea land. No, the painted backdrops are of the Pattern, gleaming green in suddenly shifting waters. A staircase rises from the floorboards; the actors climb it while in the middle of their play-acting, then fall off one by one and rise no more. She stands and moves toward the makeshift stage as if to help. She can help now, she thinks. She can do everything now.
But first, she wakes. Her face is pressed to cool marble. She clears her throat.
Celina snaps awake from a nice dream of kisses and a warm embrace. She shifts on the lounge sponge. No. Khela isn't going to be here. Delta?
Celina sits up and swings her legs to the marble floor. "Delta?" she softly asks.
There's a pained 'ngh,' in response, though as Delta slowly curls herself into sitting, surprise crosses her face. "Why the blazes doesn't everything hurt more?" There's room beside her on the divan where she was transported to collapse. She reaches a hand toward Celina in invitation to join her there.
Celina thinks of Folly, wishing her friend were here to capture a Trump of Delta fresh from dire success and reaching for her.
Celina blushes, not obvious on her ocean skin. She rises and moves to Delta taking her hand and sitting down with her hip to hip. "Congratulations. Well done. I found you here when I walked back from the Cavern. You join a very select few. Rebma is hard on its people."
If allowed, Delta lets her head flop onto her cousin's shoulder. "So Coral says." A hint of wry humor enters her words when she adds, "By the way, I think I told our great-great-grand-whatnot Dworkin to piss sand at the end there." Snort. "Not literally, but same difference." The hint of humor turns into a full-on laugh. "I made it. I made it. I'm alive."
Celina wraps an arm about Delta's shoulder and squeezes. It is a moment that is better than the ten thousand breaths before. "It shall be noted in the Rebma Archives, the Great Grand WhatKnot Dworkin is kin to the Queen Celina and due those honors and curtesies." Celina smiles. "I don't know him so I hope he likes it. Thank you for being alive, Delta, Lady of the Sapphire Kilt."
Delta snorts again, which turns into another full-blown laugh. "That's me. Lady all around." She straightens, though she doesn't move away. "What'd you do, the day after you walked it? It all feels different, head to feet. I had no idea."
Celina swallows emotions as the question opens up closed off memory. "The sunlight of topside does not always reach Rebma in its pure forms. It depends on wind and wave above if it can reach us. But the day after, I walked the city by myself, wrapped in simple nets of common bead and weave. I found that the sun above was always a part of the city. That every emerald flame on the spires has a marriage to the gold above. That no street lies in shadow or depends on the scatter of gold through hundreds of meters of sea. I found the mosaic stones of streets were more colorful than I knew. I found that no one else saw these things. They were new to me but very old. They had always been there but my eyes now saw them. I was alone but wrote poetry on it. So I shared it with Queen Moire. She read it and said I should rest as I was overstressed from my ordeal. I did not realize Moire had never walked the Pattern. No one but you has ever asked me about it. It seems long ago."
Delta watches Celina speak, clearly enthralled. "Come on, then. Let's go see it togeth -- ah, blazes. Balls!" She half-stands, then plops back down. "I came down here last night for both excellent company and business. Damnation. Ready for a hint of business?"
"This is our time. Steer where you will."
If Celina seems amenable, Delta goes on to ask, "The throne's spymasters, the two of them. I want to talk to them, eh?"
Celina smiles wryly. "That was not expected. Are you assuming we have two or did someone give you names. And really, are you ready to do that kind of business? You just got here."
There's nothing in her emerald eyes that says no. She seems entirely relaxed.
"Coral said as much," Delta admits, "with fear for her future - and mine, I imagine. I have far less worry for myself, but you already know that for my grandmama, I will do anything." She sways a bit on her feet, and promptly sits again, heavily. "Gods. Tired."
She gives Celina an intent look. "She fears the stairs. She fears that she might be another of her line to be pushed from them."
Celina nods and holds Delta's hand, "That's how trauma works. It sets up in a shadow corner of your brain, and stimuli set it off bouncing out into your daylight mind. It can be gruesome and feel vividly rational."
Celina tries something more practical, "If ever I'm dead or pushed off the throne get her out of Rebma. While I'm here, no one is ever getting pushed off the Faiella Bionin. If the crime against Rebma is that severe, I'll execute the offender myself. I cannot ask the Sea to do it for me. You can tell her so.
"As for our intelligence officers, let me know if she mentioned names as I like to keep an eye on Moire's handpicked officers."
Celina's hand gets a squeeze at her declaration about the great Faiella Bionin. "She'll be relieved, eh? Not that she thinks badly of you, not at all. The opposite. But --"
Here she fixes her cousin with an intent look. "Why do you keep on any of Moire's people? How do you know they are loyal to you? Where I am from, a warlord's first act upon victory is to do away with the closest advisors of the ruler who came before."
Celina nods, "Great question. So, not that I got training for this in Nibbeak Finishing Academy, but here's the history. Those closest to Moire's court left after she did. I banished them in absentia unless they were related to the Royal line. Those Families of import swore to my throne when Khela died, for she never had time to clear house. There are Officials of Moire's court still with me, the Archivist staff. They all swore to my throne as well. If I banish them I delete Rebma's history. Thoughts on any of that?"
"I remember the archivists," Delta says. "At least those who escaped alongside Alex and I -- with Huon. They seemed...close." Her brow furrows. "I am no adviser myself. All I know is what I've seen and what I've done. But I hope you watch the scribes closely - the Archivists, I mean. But Grandmama spoke of spymasters. Moire's spymasters. Why do they still live? Are they of those families of import?"
Celina shakes her head no. "The Archivists are under watch. Plus the rescue brings back staff diversity to the role. Politics has not been kind to Rebma's historians. I've started trying to repair that aspect.
"Spymasters is an interesting term. I do not think it was ever official. But there were two who acted on the prior queen's cruel defense of Rebma. Bend. Montage. Coral would have reason to fear them and know their names if she had friends or just good sources in the city. While they are related, they were not royal and are no longer in Rebma. Montage is dead, I understand. His deeds caught up with him before Moire fled. Bend is captive in Paris. She traveled with Moire into safety but was captured while working in Paris to bolster my mother's plans there. Moire is yet alive. That's why I said if anything takes me out of the Court you need to clear Coral out of here. Moire will come back if I am not here. She is not like me. There is no mercy in her."
Delta's smile is wry. "Those two, yes. Those were the names she said. That answers that, I suppose, though I'm more fond of a body than a mystery, when it comes to an enemy." Enemy, yes. She says it casually, given her loyalty to her grandmother. Celina then gets a wink. "I'd clear Coral out, eh? First and foremost, through the drawings she goes. But then we clear Moire out. Yes?"
Celina tilts her head towards Delta, "Moire abandoned the City. She doesn't get to return. Her cruelty is done here."
"Aye," says Delta. "So it is." She yawns then, loud and luxurious. "All right. One more of these interminable questions before you show me colors and patterns anew. And then I sleep, or leap upon one of your guards, or both? Who can say? That's not the question, though." Yawn again. "Right, and I need the regalia back. Question. What am I to you, here? Kinswoman, regalia holder, friend?" The Pearl Island need to have roles and duties assigned in the proper way asserts itself again.
Celina smiles. "Oh Delta. How turned about you are. You are all things now. The Pattern is your shield and trident. The City wants you here." Celina fetches the Regalia from the lining of her robe and passes it warm to Delta.
Celina laughs lightly, "If my opinion matters so much while you think on just how large you've become, then you are welcome to approve your own title. I've named you Lady of the Sapphire Kilt. You can do anything now. You could carry Coral off into shadows of Rebma and keep her safe as a queen. As long as you come see me often enough I don't go stir crazy. Kinswoman! Friend! Keeper of Bargains Made! You have my blessing in all if you just keep Rebma's mysteries in your heart. Be Delta. Be immortal. Take no crap."
Anything. She could do anything now. Possibilities unfurl, from setting Coral up in a reef of mirrors and luxury at Rebma's edges, to captaining her own vessels to the end of the known world and then beyond into her creation. Immediate needs remain: sleep, nourishment, bedplay. But after those, forever, her desires will shape worlds.
"We are the gods undersea," she hears herself say, slowly, in a questioning tone. And then, impulsively, she darts forward to kiss Celina's cheek, if allowed. "Thank you, cousin. Thank you."
Celina allows the kiss and returns it to Delta's mirror cheek. She smiles. "Find sleep. You'll be hungry again when you wake. The Family prefers that all Pattern talk remain behind a veil of mystery. If any officials or archivists ask you probing questions let me know. Fob them off with some bland deflection."
Celina gives Delta an entangling hug and lets her go her way.
Last modified: 15 June 2025