Explorations in Necromantic Trump

Havelock, son of Bleys, explores a new talent

Havelock wakes up with Constance, Margrath, William, Hector and DeLambre in the company of half-a-dozen red ravens led by Tror. William is called back to the army to deal with the aftermath of yesterday’s battle. After breakfast, the ravens lead the rest through shadow, reaching Ygg about mid-afternoon – and there is a light/dark cycle now, though you’ve yet to see a discernible sun.

Ygg proves to be an oak tree, the upper branches of which vanish into low-lying cloud at an altitude of around 500ft.

Of course, this means the tree itself spans a diameter of between 750-1000 feet, depending on which way you measure. Close to the main trunk is a wattle & daub hovel out of which emerge 3 women, all sharing a single eyeball, which they pass between themselves.

The tallest introduces herself as Urdr, saying...

“There were seven in the bed

And the Arachnid said

‘Roll over! Roll over!’

So they all rolled over

And the Serpent fell out…”

Then the middle woman names herself as Verdandi, saying...

“Well done all for / coming thus far.

‘Neath shady Ygg / thou’rt half way home.

Better the sweat / of hopeful stride

Than the kenning / of arrival.”

Finally, the smallest and youngest, calling herself Skuld, says...

“A new king is crown’d

But does he have a kingdom?

Forever Amber…?”

Then the 3 women vanish inside their hovel.

Margrath seems pretty awed by Ygg, muttering something about the ‘Great Tree’ and ‘mother must see this’.

There’s some other toing and froing with wounded being trumped to Ygg so Fiona can use Pattern to fry nasty sorcery causing gangrene and Rachael and Tajal deploy healing spells. Some centaurs provide more mundane nursing but you settle down to sleep after setting watches. Havelock will be on last watch...

Havelock dreams...

Would you care to say what he dreams of?

Havelock dreams of sitting alone under Yggdrasil. He rests his back against the trunk. It is night, his small fire produces a little light but it dwarfed by a large moon in the clear sky that bathes the ground with silvery light.

Three women wait for him. The eldest is Lucy, his scarred nanny, whilst the youngest appears to be his foster sister Athaliah, as he remembers her from his youth. The third woman hangs back behind the other two, in the dim light – although his mind struggles, he cannot initially recognise her.

The three women are seated in a group: Lucy is spinning wool into yarn, which passes straight to Athaliah, who uses the yarn to knit a garment in red and white.

The third woman sits behind Lucy. Further away from the firelight and partially eclipsed by the slave, Havelock cannot make out her face, but he thinks her hair is dark red, possibly auburn. Her hand rests in her lap, holding a pair of scissors.

None of the women say anything but Athaliah throws Havelock an impish grin before a cautionary cluck from Lucy returns her attention to her work.

Havelock becomes aware that Poliziano is standing beside him, also watching the women.

“Good evening Poliziano,” he says without his eyes leaving the women. “This could almost be a scene from our yard back in the Boondocks. These women are...” he pauses, “...were important to me.” His correction he feels is true given the years that have passed, but he is still discomforted at the thought.

“Yes, lord, so I surmise.” Poliziano crouches to bring himself to Havelock’s level, dropping his voice at the same time. “May I ask who they are?”

“These three? The youngest appears to be my sister... my stepsister, Athaliah Sterling. She had a great imagination, was a good painter. That she is with the darker-skinned woman, my old nurse, Lucy, is no surprise. Athaliah would drink up the tales both I and Lucy told and then, her imagination fired, write or paint or sketch, but then keep most of the result hidden.

“Lucy was a house slave. She scarred herself with her own fingernails when her own children died, after which she was bought by Nathaniel and Martha. She cared for all us Sterling youngsters as we grew up. We were all she had, well us and the Loa, particularly Erzulie. Lucy told fantastic tales.”

Havelock slowly stands, trying to make out more detail of the third woman before he continues.

Standing, Havelock becomes certain that’s it’s not just the light and her position that’s hiding the third woman’s identity. The way she’s holding her head causes her tumbling red hair to hide her face from the Moon.

Poliziano straightens again; Havelock can feel him following his gaze toward the third woman.

“Um… you do realise you’re dreaming, lord?”

Glancing at his companion, Havelock nods. “Yes, dreaming. Must be the thoughts of heading home. Although never again to the people I once knew.”

As he then turns more squarely on to Poliziano, the scene shifts somewhat as though the dream is fighting to stay in his mind’s eye.

“I am at Ygg and Benedict is not far behind, therefore our company has business. Let’s be about it then and stop my imagination dwelling on heartache.”

Poliziano’s attention remains on the third woman – though the scene ripples, as if seen through water, and the colours fade to grey, yet the moon remains bright. He gestures, “But who is the third woman, lord? You seemed to squint when you gazed upon her and I cannot make her out.”

“I cannot recognise her either; it is as if this shade wishes to remain obfuscated. With such red hair she could be Athaliah’s sister, Jael... but... but then again I cannot remember my mother’s hair...”

He takes an involuntary step towards the three women.

“I regret it won’t help to get closer, lord.” Poliziano murmurs gently, like someone breaking bad news. “The content of our dreams come largely from within. It is your memories that have given identity to these three: maid… mother… crone… If her face is obscured it is because you cannot give her a face; moving closer cannot help, and you may find the lack unsettling.”

Havelock stops abruptly, almost recoiling, his mind draws on a past encounter with a mujina [a Japanese badger, but in some tales they can manifest as Noppera-bo, or Faceless Ghosts]. Instinctively his hand seeks the comfort of his trump deck.

“So Poliziano, if that is the case I do not know who she is. Let us not dally with the possibilities of nightmares.”

Poliziano gestures to the tree – now he comes to look at it, Havelock sees this tree isn’t anywhere near big enough to be Ygg and Ygg does not have a door in it. “After you, lord.”

With a small nod to his companion Havelock opens the door and looks inside.

As his hand falls on the bark of the door, just ajar, a feminine shriek of terror makes Poliziano jump and return his gaze to the women. Havelock follows his turn.

The obscured woman cowers back, face averted, one hand raised in defence. Lucy lies fallen, but she’s fatter, and no longer scarred – no longer Lucy, in fact. She lies dead from a sword thrust left of the breast bone.

Havelock has a memory for images and realises the scene paints itself as the one he viewed hanging in the Hall of Memories. Whilst drawing his own sword he looks to the shadows quite expecting to see his father’s silhouette.

[I can’t recall if Havelock had managed to replace the sword he broke previously – I shall assume he has, but if not we can always retcon]

[I thought he received another courtesy of Lanfranc, but then this is a dream.]

[Now you mention it I think you’re right – in his dream Havelock is definitely holding the blade Lanfranc gave him, but it doesn’t feel quite right – not exactly wrong, just not right for him. It’ll do for now.]

For a few seconds the scene returns to full clarity. Havelock brandishes his blade but sees nothing else – including no sign of Athaliah; the scene is just mother and crone now.

Then the scene starts to shimmer again and the colour leaches to grey. Havelock notices Poliziano seems very shaken – well Cyril is hardly a martial house.

“Lord… I thought I saw something…” His hand presses the side of his head, as if he has a headache, his fingertips settling into the arcs of the fragment of Pattern showing through the stubble above his right ear.

“Be careful with that,” Havelock cautions pushing down his own Pattern itch, “I am not sure in this dream on which side of Ygg we stand.” Carefully scanning around he adds, “So what do you think you saw?”

“I… thought I glimpsed something… familiar? A strange scribble in the air, just before the woman fell. It’s very odd… I’m sure I’ve never seen it before but somehow I recognised it.”

Havelock does not take his eyes from the bleached scene but absently murmurs, “I think certain blades might leave such brief marks in the air, particularly if they cut wards or other sorcerous castings.”

Gently guiding Poliziano with his off-hand back the few steps to the tree and its door he ponders, “I wonder why my mind called forth this murderous vision before we go reconcile that ancient kinslaying that is tonight’s action?”

Poliziano seems to be recovering from his brief malaise as the now frozen scene shimmers, greys and dissolves. By the time Havelock senses the tree at his back there is nothing to see.

“Dream sequences can seem obscure but they are usually messages from our inconscient mind to our conscient selves,” smiles Poliziano, earnestly. “I suspect something in your recent waking experience triggered a resonance that then echoed with other memories of a parallel nature. It is more than likely unconnected with our coming travails.” He gestures to the door again.

Turning away from the blank canvas Havelock eagerly grasps the ajar door and opens it wide. Even though he is keen to be on with the night’s work, he still takes time to look through the opened portal before stepping through.

The door opens inward, away from Havelock. Havelock pushes it wide to reveal the Order’s workroom, the one adjacent to their chapter house. Within he can see Despil, Zubenelgenubi and the disembodied eyes and teeth of Sigrid.

Sheathing his sword, he steps through the portal. Addressing the assembled order with a grin, “We are now such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep. Why then tonight let us assay our plot.”

“Ah! Our Ultimo Praeceps,” observes Sigrid. Havelock hears Poliziano close the door to the tree behind him with an audible ‘snick’. Sigrid nods, apparently to Poliziano, before glancing at Zubenelgenubi. Then Despil turns to Havelock, wearing a very serious expression somewhat alien to his normally genial features.

“Lord Havelock, we have heard some very serious allegations about you.”

Havelock takes a relaxed posture, even as his Pattern itch returns again. “It is well not to lend too easy an ear to accusations. I have been oft under suspicion, even for some my red hair lends me guilt. But shoot away.”

Despil’s expression shifts to a more familiar wry grin. “The allegations are that you’re a cool dude.”

“Despil, are you trying to be funny?” Sigrid does not sound amused – but not quite annoyed, either.

“In that case we can only make a fine pair together,” laughs Havelock, reaching out to grasp his friend’s hand before clasping him in a brief comradely embrace.

Despil returns the embrace equally warmly.

Once they break he sweeps his vision around the chamber and flashes his most winning smile, “It seems, brothers and sisters, we are well met by moonlight. Umbra’s cloak draws around us and the games afoot, so let us be about this night’s working.”

Zubenelgenubi’s eyes revolve a little faster, “Moonlight…?” He sounds a little confused. Sigrid does not sound confused – it occurs to Havelock that she might not have the facility for confusion.

“Lord Despil has outlined your utterly hare-brained scheme; he seems to think you will need my help and advice. But, pray, tell me in your own words what you wish to accomplish with this working?”

“Grand Mistress, I seek simply to heal my Uncle Benedict of a self-inflicted wound of the mind.” He pauses momentarily but, realising that more is needed, continues, “It all begins back in the early years of Amber with the three sons of Queen Cymnea.

“Some of these events were recounted in the recent opera. After Osric’s provocation and murder of three members of House Karm, Cymnea was divorced and banished by King Oberon. I understand that two of her sons, Osric and Finndo, took this badly and argued with their father. However, these events had set in motion a recommencement of hostilities with Chaos and all three brothers rode to war under the Unicorn banner.”

He closes his eyes briefly as his mind paints a scene of thundering warriors under the swirl of the Royal Standard of Amber, ahead he can see the dark mob of Chaos. Distantly the imagined sounds of hooves and howls reach his ears.

He opens his eyes to continue. Sigrid is attentive; Despil nods sagely.

As he continues to tell his tale Havelock shuffles through his Trump Deck, “Finally it came to a decisive battle which broke the will of the Courts to further war. However, like our last great engagement it was mixed with tragedy.”

His heart quickens as he recalls the almost electric air of the Abyssal Plains and seeing Deirdre fall.

“Benedict laid a trap for the Houses, weakening one battaile to draw the enemy in before crushing them with a counter charge. That the refused guard played its part well, sucking the opposition in but then holding together until the hammer of horsemen could fall. In this vital command position Benedict placed his brother Osric, both a capable commander and whose banner would draw the wrath of several Houses, such as Karm.”

He crouches and lays Osric’s cold card on the floor.

Looking up, he sighs, “Although, even then, Benedict was a superb tactician he misjudged something – the balance of warriors, the ire of Chaos, his brother’s own battle lust. The dancemaster missed a single step and, although his adversaries were broken, Osric was slain. Since then he has studied the dance with almost every waking hour, in part his guilt over this fatal error has driven him to become the greatest general.”

He flips over Osric’s card and then carefully slips the Dworkin original Benedict out of his deck to lie next to it.

“It was a terrible miscalculation, but not everybody saw it that way.” Finndo’s card joins his brothers on the tiled ground.

“Their third brother saw a deliberate delay. That the final charge was held back until Osric was dead. In arguments over their mother’s departure Osric had challenged their father over the marriage annulment. Behind their brother’s death Finndo saw the hand of Oberon and believed Benedict had been his agent. As Chaos routed and victory horns blew he faced his surviving sibling and challenged him to a duel. Finndo was a great warrior, iron-thewed and battle born. He was a challenge even for Benedict whose sword flew in instinctive response.”

Havelock, still low to the floor, pronates Finndo’s card. He recalls one time seeing a painting entitled ‘The Death of Finndo’, one of those scenes surrounded by conflict where a dying hero lies cradled in another’s arms. The grief on Benedict’s face was vivid but, try as he might, Havelock cannot recall at this moment the artist or where it was hanging, except it was out of the way. “This kinslaying brought Benedict yet more anguish.”

Sitting back and crossing his legs he asks, “Do you understand the Eidolon Initiate’s Blood Curse?”

“I know it exists and I know people who have been harmed by it, and others it has helped,” replies Sigrid. “But I cannot truly say I understand its nature. Gentlemen, can any of you say otherwise…?” A series of shaken heads answer their Grand Mistress.

“One of the most powerful abilities we possess; during the height of physical suffering, usually before death, a son or daughter of Amber can lay their curse on any being; the force of their dying rewriting reality to the other’s detriment. Although the effect is usually indirect it is practically impossible to overcome. It has killed kings and paved the way for invasions. In this case Finndo laid his death curse on his surviving brother; over three millennia it has hung over Benedict’s head.”

At this point he covers the Dworkin Benedict with his own rendering. “Fortunately – in some ways – Finndo misunderstood and thus misdirected his curse. He thought the last son of Cymnea would reach for the throne and venom-poisoned that chalice. Benedict, I believe, has protected himself from the worst effects by removing himself from such dynastic struggles.

“After that battle was done, though, he was wounded to the soul by guilt for the deaths of both his brothers, and pressed by Finndo’s curse bearing down on him. He threw himself into his martial pursuits and slowly those psychic injuries scarred over.

“Recent events over the last few years have reopened these...” He places out William’s trump on top of Finndo’s face down card. His pause is uncomfortably long, as he stares at the small pile of cards and weighs what to say next.

“Coming to the Courts reopened many old wounds. Benedict met William – Finndo’s son – who had escorted his grandmother home and then remained in Chaos for 3000 years.” William is turned sideways on in the spread.

“Two feelings come on him, delight that his nephew is still alive after that time, but also caution on how William now feels about the deaths of his father and mother. Benedict’s fear, that powers in Chaos may have influenced William’s thoughts during his long separation, are exacerbated when his own mother, Queen Cymnea, forces him to explain to Finndo’s son how his father died. The fear is not a fear for his own safety, but that he may yet be forced to defend himself or Amber and slay his nephew.

“His kinslaying crime has painted broad brush strokes of damage across his psyche. On top of feelings of guilt and Finndo’s death curse, there is the loss of his own arm. He feels the loss of prowess, demonstrated by his protégé Darig’s ability to eliminate the High King, something Benedict could not do. Deeper, the severance reminds him that it is not necessary to always slaughter an opponent, and that he could have possibly maimed Finndo and thus saved his life.”

Havelock waves his hands over the stack of cards in front of him, “All this damage needs resolution, and I believe we have been commissioned to do the work of healing.” Then he looks up at his fellow knights expectantly.

“As I said, Sigrid,” chimes in Despil, “we’re looking at psychic healing.”

“Of course,” replies Sigrid, “a dream within a dream that resolves one or more of these issues afflicting Prince Benedict, I understand. But this narrative will not do. For what you suggest to work we must distil it down into a few simple objectives. Can you do that for me?”

Havelock gently shakes his head, “We cannot overcome the Blood curse.” Then, looking up, he brightens. “So we aim to assuage some of the ancient guilt, replaying the death of Osric and Finndo to a brighter conclusion.”

While he talks he fishes in his satchel, “Then hold it solid with an artefact that helps restore his confidence. You are aware we have been granted Nuada’s Hand to help with this working?” he adds and pulls out a sketch of finely crafted silver gauntlet.

“No, I wasn’t!” Sigrid seems momentarily startled, but quickly subsides as she recognises its provenance. “So, we have at least the tacit support of High King Melvyn. We will need a script. Do you understand what will be required from it? We will need specific points of reference.”

“Well this will be my first time,” responds Havelock, a might defensively, “So I will require to lean on your experience somewhat.”

“That’s why I brought in Sigrid,” comments Despil, “she really is the clearest thinker when it comes to these things… choosing personnel and strategy.”

Havelock continues, “I propose to draw upon our experience of the Battle of the Abyssal Plain, but towards the close have either a messenger, or Finndo direct, bring news of the fatal delay and Osric’s death. Then Finndo will bluster at Benedict about how this was Oberon’s plan all along.

“The difficult part is when they come to blows, and I feel they must, for whoever wears Finndo’s mask must convince that they are angry, fight with a style similar to that fallen prince, but importantly not be overcome by Benedict. Shortly an apparition of Osric will interrupt the duel and make peace with Benedict.

“Well that is my planned script in the raw, in this first instance. So who can hold their own against Benedict?”

There is a pregnant pause – Havelock becomes aware that no-one is looking anyone else in the eye.

Just a nanosecond before the silence becomes uncomfortable, Sigrid licks her teeth (because she seems to lack lips) and enjoins, “Yes, well that is one of the several questions we will need to address regarding personnel; however, if we keep it simple, we will need the following… an architect (who can only be you, Havelock, I think); a Summoner; someone to play Osric and someone to play Finndo. And Despil must, of course, be our Envisioner. It may be necessary for some of us to take on more than one role.

“Regarding the script itself: I imagine that Osric’s words will be pure fiction but, if I understand your intent rightly, you will need to get as close to the actual words Finndo used at the time as possible – the closer the match, the better the chance of drawing Prince Benedict in.”

After tucking away the cards, except those of Osric and Finndo which he continues to grasp, Havelock stands. “Yes, Osric’s address would be novel, but matching any turn of phrase would improve the fit of the mask. I would like Finndo’s words to match, or be what Benedict recalls. Unfortunately only Benedict remains as witness. Since being tasked with this I have wondered how we can view the original scene. My consideration has included whether cartomancy with Trumps could pick up a residual signal? Can Benedict be prompted to recollect in dream? Or is there some further divinatory magic that would allow telesthesia of those events? Any ideas?”

Somehow Havelock gets the impression that Sigrid has raised an admonitory hand unseen. “I strongly recommend that we make no attempt to contact the subject until our operation is about to commence. If Prince Benedict has any intimation of our intentions the chances of success will fall to vanishing. In fact he should have no conception of the true nature of his experience on waking. For this reason, he can only be given Nuada’s arm once we are done and our operation dismantled.

“But with all the faculties at our disposal surely we must be able to divine the information needed…” She turns her eyes toward Poliziano and Zubenelgenubi, but it’s Despil who chips in first, gesturing toward the trumps in Havelock’s hand.

“Can’t you just do your talking-through-pictures thing with them, old man? It’s all over the Courts what you did when the late King Oberon’s coffin was stolen.”

Havelock turns the cards in his hands, feeling their unresponsiveness. Defensively he starts, “That was different, Oberon really wanted to talk and he was only nearly dead. These trumps have been dead for three millennia... I could try, but think I would need to boost the signal from someplace suitable...” Then there is a noticeable dawning thought, “but then of course why would Ygg, the World Tree not be eminently suitable as the Axis Mundi to contact one’s ancient kin?

“When I rode with the nomads of the vast expanse of the Dzung steppes they shared a vision of the universe and the world of human experience that was characterized by religious concepts, rituals and magical practices. Their spirit dancers acted as a conduit between the human world and the otherworld, they were messengers to the spirits of their ancestors. I was there to study riding and their way of war, but saw similarities with the Obeah stories my nurse shared with us when we were children. I am no shaman but one of my family is practiced in this art. Would it be possible to approach and recruit my cousin Margrath? If not, then he spoke of some such amongst the Houses...”

“Lord Margrath practices Necromantic Iconography?” exclaims Poliziano, genuinely astonished. “I thought Cyril were its only practitioners these days, and only one or two of us at that.” He blinks twice, “I had no idea he knew anything about what your family call Trump – we would have discussed his art with him had we but known.”

Havelock looks up at him, slowly reassessing his scarred companion. “Necromantic Iconography?” he slowly exhales, “No Poliziano, he is not, as far as I am aware, an artist of any calibre. Lord Margrath is a spirit magician, like House Raven, and I know he has spoken to the dead before, but maybe not over so great a distance.”

Poliziano’s brow furrows in consternation. “Oh, well I cannot imagine he would be of much use in this matter, then.” He’s clearly wondering why Havelock mentioned Margrath at all.

Havelock slowly stalks around Poliziano then, coming up close, he softly asks, “So can you tell me a little more of this lost necromantic style?”

“I’m not sure I… Oh, you mean Necromantic Iconography? Well it’s not exactly a style, my lord, and not quite ‘lost’ – two or three in our house can do it, including Patriarch Diablo, and possibly in Hierophus, too. Basically some of us can make contact with the spirits of the dead. It’s the reason many houses have portrait galleries that let you talk to long-dead monarchs – there’s a famous one in the Alhambra, you know.

“It’s essentially a matter of personal flare – you can either do it or not, though if you can the talent can be developed. It’s never quite worked for me but since you contacted the late King Oberon it suggests you might have the facility.”

As Poliziano’s speaking, Havelock remembers Osric’s card felt cold earlier when he laid it down…

Havelock glances down at his hands as they shuffle the two pictures in his grasp. Sitting on a bench he settles Osric into his right palm, laying the other card down beside himself, “Well Osric was dead by our key point, but his Trump seems to ask for contact...”

Handling both cards, they feel the same as each other. While they feel a little cool to the touch, they don’t feel quite the same as a typically ‘live’ card, which is why he didn’t register their state until now. Havelock has handled them many times before and he’s never noticed this quality – they’ve always felt ‘dead’. He wonders what may have changed? Is it something within him? Or is it the remaking of the World after Oberon redrew the Pattern? Havelock recalls how the Trumps were not working for some time after the battle.

With that he reaches out for contact, his mind probing for connection to the dead prince. That the card responds confirms that there may be a person of some sort on the other end but he gets no sense that a reply is in any way imminent. It feels a little like when a recipient is trying to block contact, but not exactly as he doesn’t feel the blocking is deliberate. Since he never thought this would be easy he redoubles his effort.

The card gets colder, and then colder still. He can’t help thinking of the coldness of a morgue – the coldness of death? The terrible sensation of icy coldness seeps from the card into his hand and arm, bringing pain that steadily grows in intensity as it spreads – he won’t be able to keep this up for long.

Sweat pours off Havelock’s face as he focuses his will on driving through the barrier. The spreading freeze threatens to numb his hand and he has to bring his left to support it at the wrist, whereupon the freeze spreads to that hand as well.

He’s within a second of giving up when he feels something stirring at the far end – the contact opens slightly and he suddenly realises that a lot of the numbing agony actually belongs to someone else, at which point it becomes fractionally more bearable, but he doesn’t know how long he can hold out under these conditions.

Someone, somewhere, is screaming… Havelock realises it’s him but when he shuts his mouth he can hear someone else is screaming too…

“Aaaargh!… What? Is not this enough pain for you?” There are no visuals, the field is black. Havelock does not recognise the voice, which is speaking slightly archaic Thari through gritted teeth. “Wait… thou art no devil… Who?”

“Havelock, Son of Prince Bleys and Grandson of King Oberon, who himself has so recently passed into death. Havelock, who with Dyrnwyn slew Chairman Oggil of Karm.”

“Father is dead?” Havelock senses a wave of ambivalent emotion regarding this news, but he can tell that the names Bleys, Havelock and even Oggil mean nothing to his correspondent. “Thou calls Osric the Traitor just to tell me this?” Havelock can feel he’s weeping. “It hath been so long…”

Havelock cannot feel his right hand and his left is quickly succumbing, he probably has no more than 20-30 seconds left before he must break the call.

“I seek to find peace for my family, both you, Prince Osric, and for your living brother, Prince Benedict. Where are you and can you be helped?”

“Those who fall fighting the Neverborn go to but one place, forsooth – mine punishment, while harsh, is not unjust. Seek for me in the Ninth Circle, for traitors against kin.”

Unable to hold the card anymore Havelock mumbles, “‘Cocytus, named of lamentation loud / Heard on the rueful stream...’ I pray you are not sunk too deep in Caina,” before it slips from his tormented grip.

He tries to move his arms, to get the blood flowing back to his fingers. Glancing at his own watchers he asks, “Could someone fetch me a blanket and a warm drink?”

Havelock was concentrating so intensely he hadn’t realised that the others had closed about him. Despil is already rubbing his back and Poliziano now chafes Havelock’s right hand between his own.

“Here!” murmurs Zubenelgenubi, throwing one of the Order’s cloaks over Havelock’s shoulders. Poliziano starts rubbing his other hand.

By the time Sigrid passes him her idea of a ‘warm drink’ – a goblet of something that smells like rum, flickering with a dim blue flame – Havelock has the use of his hands once more and can grasp the goblet.

Sigrid takes Osric’s card from the floor, though with what isn’t clear, and peruses the image. “You were screaming – talk to me!”

Sipping the drink he says “Was I? It was hard work getting through, I am not surprised I vocalised such an order.

“Well I now know where in the hell Osric is,” he adds grimly. “He fell to the Neverborn and floats now condemned in torment. Something definitely to keep from Benedict, at least for now. He will be of no assistance to us, I could not hold the contact for long enough for more than a few words. Let me recover and then I will try to reach out to Finndo’s shade.”

He crouches on the floor, the order cloak about him, and finds his own trump to meditate upon.

“I thought you wanted a grasp of his turn of phrase, to help with formulating the script; did you get enough to do that?” Sigrid is still studying Osric’s trump.

Havelock, focused on his card, does not glance up, “I can recall his pitch, tone, and timbre, but as for turn of phrase... well only if he complains about the weather.”

Sigrid exudes an aura of mild disappointment. “I would have thought you might gain something of his choice of words, even from a short conversation.”

After a few more moments of recovery he looks directly at the maw of the Grand Mistress. “What do you get from the image?”

“I see intelligence, and temper – when alive he did not suffer fools gladly, and I suspect he would class anyone who disagreed with him as a fool.”

“What did Osric actually say?” asks Despil.

Havelock stares directly at him, “Well there was some screaming and crying. Then he spoke in antiquated tongue – all thous and haths – principally of how he was suffering in the Ninth Circle of Hell. He named himself Osric the Traitor and declared his punishment just as his sin was that of treachery against kin. Whether this was against his father, mother, brothers, or possibly the Courts, he did not say.”

Looking back down at his hands he flexes his fingers experimentally. A phantom chill still lingers in his right hand, which bore the brunt of the icy onslaught, but Havelock can feel things returning to normal surprisingly quickly – after all, he did not suffer the pain and the cold directly, these symptoms were merely conveyed through the trump contact from Osric.

“So where does this leave us now?”

“Actually even that little could be very useful,” replies Despil. “It will help getting the style of the dialogue right for Osric, which may be crucial if it’s to ring true to Benedict.”

Sigrid offers Osric’s trump to Havelock.

“Thanks!” He takes the card and puts it away.

“You seem a little down, Ultimo Praeceps; did your brief conversation unsettle you that much?” Despite her visage, she genuinely seems to care about his wellbeing. “I would guess Prince Osric’s situation has caused you some distress.”

“I was just pondering the afterlife as I hadn’t really considered the prospect of thousands of years of torment. Makes one re-evaluate having a god, a good solid faith in a deity you can rely on to take care of you ad extremum.”

“Don’t your family all worship the Unicorn? I regret I know nothing about your dogma regarding continuity of existence post mortem.”

Havelock senses Despil and Poliziano turn toward him, waiting on his answer to Sigrid – it seems they are also keenly interested in this question. Havelock cannot see Zubenelgenubi, who is doubtless still behind him.

“All worship the Unicorn?” he echoes her words, “Well we do all generally go to Church when duty requires it. Some take the faith more seriously than others; Constance by constant chatter, and Caine in his quiet moments of devotion. I understand some go because the congregation expects to see royalty, a family member turning up bolsters the peoples’ faith, and the peoples’ faith is important.”

He fishes a card from the deck and holds it so the Unicorn design on the reverse is visible.

“Each worshipper is an extra ounce of numinous power, yet each worshipper is another link in the chain of dogma that binds you.”

He turns over the card to find himself staring at Athaliah’s face again.

“My other family, my foster family, the Sterlings, they had faith in the Unicorn. Nathaniel was a quietly religious man who relied on the local Unicorn Church’s abiding view of predestination to justify the holding of slaves. He held that personal action by the elect should be in keeping with their granted position, to demonstrate what it was to be righteous to these people without celestial grace. This led to him being highly intolerant of abuse or cruelty; amongst his overseers he would only allow the use of reasonable chastisement. For him the Unicorn provided morality and law. I don’t think Martha believed as strongly as her husband, his faith did give her leverage.”

He rolls the card back over, again showing the Unicorn rampant white on green.

“Of course then there was what Lucy told me... the Unicorn as a great spirit...”

He pauses and looks up. “I should apologise, sisters and brothers, I have digressed. You wanted to know about the views of those of the Blood about what comes after death?”

His four companions wait patiently for Havelock to continue.

“The Church of the Unicorn is not very big on detail here. I recall some homily; ‘Faithful frolic in Elysian Fields, whilst disaffection destruction yields.’ However, I never paid much attention and may have missed the important parts.

“My father and aunt are both spiritual people, and I have a good education in many different shadow views on death. Dad used to be King Oberon’s go-to-guy for Far Realm diplomacy, I even tagged along to Asgard a few times. He never went to Heaven or Hell, those are heavy with dogmatic theurgy with a truly fundamental ideology.

“For all this, in the family view, death has always been for other people. Despite at least nine close family deaths, they seem to happily continue with a perception – almost like that of a child – that they themselves will continue immortal. Fear of death grips us all at times I am sure, it is a great motivator, but also life would be so boring without an occasional brush with quietus. Then our abiding confidence in ourselves eternal returns and tramples all over thoughts of the hereafter.

“In moments before when I have briefly considered the possibility of mortis... In most, I guess I thought of Lucy’s beliefs as she spoke a lot about death; that I might be visited by Guédé Nibo and guided to an afterlife as a persistent spirit. However, when in battle my mind travels to my time in Asgard and I think of Odin’s golden hall in Glaðsheimr, with its spear-shafts for rafters, a roof thatched with shields, coats of mail strewn over its benches.

“I had, however, never considered eternal damnation...”

“Interesting,” comments Sigrid. “At this pole we have a plethora of beliefs, nowhere near as many as there are houses, but still upward of a couple of dozen. Mine house of Zephyra has no particular dogma, partly due to our various places of origin. I don’t think any of us would make it to Heaven but Hell might be a possibility.”

“Actually I think Sawall are somewhat like Amber, which seems a little odd now I come to think how many of us have died recently.” Despil smiles that wry grin again. “I think Mandor hopes he will come back as one of you if he’s especially worthy.”

“We seek immortality through our works,” observes Poliziano, to which Havelock gives an understanding nod.

Then Zubenelgenubi comments, “We will pass into the Abyss and rejoin the Stars – we are incarnations of individual stars, you see.”

“Of course, all these faiths are just that,” finishes Sigrid. “There is rarely much evidence to support a particular belief objectively.”

“Grand Mistress,” Havelock declares, “it is in the nature of numinosity that with enough belief the fabric of reality can be forced to conform. So for faiths with wide following there yet may be answers in the Far Realms that provide support.

“But, that kind of exploration is for another time...”, and he flips another card out from the deck, it is Finndo. “Finndo,” he ponders, “so where, oh where, are you?”

The card feels just like Osric’s – not the coldness of an entirely active card, but not quite the inert quality of one entirely dead.

As if limbering for a fight Havelock rolls and stretches his neck, takes a few controlled slow, deep breaths, and then reaches out for contact.

As with Osric’s card, it demands supreme effort, but at least this time Havelock knows what to expect… Again, the card grows colder but, after an interval, as the sweat begins to form on his brow, it doesn’t intensify the way it did with Osric.

But that does not mean that there is no pain – as he focuses his will upon the image before him he feels a peculiar agony force its way into his hand and up his arm. As before, he has to use one hand to support the other, and the pain seems to grow through his hand, pass through his wrist and force its way up his arm.

It feels like a long, serrated thorn is growing up the inside of his bones – and it begins to spread into his left hand too. Havelock grinds his teeth in an effort to bear the exquisite agony.

Again there is the moment of tremulous contact, at which point the pain feels a fraction more bearable. Where before there was a scream, this time there is a groan…

“Ohhhhh! Who is it who troubles Finndo the accursed?” As he hears the words in his head, the image fades to black, denying visuals as before.

Whatever is forcing its way through his bones, it continues its agonising path – once more Havelock wonders how long he can maintain the contact in extremis.

“Prince Finndo, I am Havelock of Amber, grandson of King Oberon by his son, Prince Bleys. I wouldst aid thou, yet need thine help also.”

“Long has it been since I have heard from my kin and I know not you or your father. I am beyond all aid and can offer none to others.”

Havelock feels the horrible sensation of the things growing through his bones approaching his right elbow and his left wrist.

“Uncle I seek to ease thine own brother Benedict’s pain and hope thus through thine aid to assuage some of the weight that torments thou. I would lift a burden from thee both but need to learn of the duel that was thine death.”

He tries to lower himself to his knees so to have less distance to fall when the pain finally overcomes him. As Havelock drops to one knee, then the other, he gets the sensation that whatever is growing through the bones of his hands and arms is rendering the joints rigid – his right elbow is transfixed and he can’t move anything in his hands.

The voice coming through the card emits something between a grunt and a groan. “That duel is why I am here – I challenged my brother over the death of our elder and was accounted a suicide.” A desiccated chuckle conveys no mirth. “Do not stir the cup of bitterness I poured for myself. Whelp, how can you loose my burden? You should know I have a facility with curses so speak only truth.”

“Having met your son William, who resembles you, Benedict has been caused to recall your death in a different light. Having recently lost an arm fighting Chaos he reflects that your death, despite the judgement of the Neverborn, was not ordained.

“He fears that William, who has great facility with war, has been groomed by Chaos as an enemy within, and due to his ability, that he, Benedict, might be called to kill him also.

“I seek your aid to prevent this tragedy. Follow the bad deed with a good one to erase it. Let your light shine before men that they might praise your good deeds, then through repentance and forgiveness may your own burden be lifted.”

There is a long silence, during which Havelock can almost hear the barbed thorns growing through his bones – he feels his left elbow seize and the pain slowly but steadily grows. Then…

“William lives…?” There’s a shorter silence, which Havelock might be tempted to fill save that he can sense his correspondent’s churning emotions. “…and Benedict, despite my curse…?”

“Yes, William lives, and with a new bride, filled with martial ardour he marches with our army to Amber. He is trusted by Benedict as his Aide de Camp.

Havelock senses a sharp indrawn breath from his correspondent.

“If I can find from you what I need, maybe you and he might speak through me at a latter time. However, I know not how he would take news of thy torment, he is prone to occasional rashness. Benedict has stood by the throne as stalwart guardian for centuries, never king, but loyal to the crown.

“I desire to know what passed between you and he after Osric’s death.”

There’s another drawn out pause, during which Havelock feels his right shoulder seize and his left shoulder must succumb soon. Then… “Yes, William was always over-bold, which is why I sent him away with my mother, the Queen. Tell me why my brother and son march on Amber?”

“Armies of Amber march victorious from war with the Courts of Chaos and now we stand at Ygg. Both King Oberon and the King in Yellow have passed this mortal coil, the Pattern has been rewritten, and we are going home.”

“Father is truly dead? Mmm!” Havelock’s other shoulder becomes immobile – he feels he can almost hear the barbs growing through his shoulder bones. “So… who is King?”

Gritting his teeth he gasps out “I believe that is in flux, a matter of opinion. The Unicorn passed the Jewel of Judgement to your youngest half-brother Random. He returned to Amber before the majority of the Blood Royal and army sojourned within the Courts.” Havelock can sense that the name Random means nothing to Finndo but he goes on… “Some hold that her bequest makes him king. Yet since King Oberon’s funeral I have been aware of no Amber coronation.”

Then he almost spits out the words, “Please good Prince... about that duel... after Osric’s death... what passed between you and your brother?”

“It grows in you, doesn’t it? The pain.” Havelock can tell Finndo is mulling something over in the back of his mind while using the pain to cover his ruminations – and now he can feel the exquisite agony begin to spread up, down and across from his shoulders. Already there’s a stiffness in his neck. “The odd thing is, after a century or so, you grow used to it – it becomes a part of you, quite literally. I can still feel it, but strangely I can feel yours more.”

Havelock grunts an acknowledgement. On his knees he is not sure where his flesh ends and the ground begins... “Your mother... Queen Cymnea... she set me on this task...”

Cymnea’s name surprises Finndo, enough that his façade slips to reveal a glimpse of his inner thoughts. He has the family’s deep suspicion of relatives and wants to learn Havelock’s true purpose; he is intent on spinning things out, confident that he can take the pain longer than Havelock. But this momentary revelation closes with Finndo’s reaction to the news of his mother.

“Mother lives also…? Remarkable! You know it was her fault everything fell apart – well, hers and Osric’s, I should say. But nonetheless it brings joy to my heart to know she still lives.”

Havelock feels his neck turning rigid – what will happen when whatever it is reaches his skull?

[Havelock is worried that he cannot physically break contact with the trump, as is, locked in his petrified hand.]

[Yes, it’s a very real concern. He can no longer be sure he can open his fingers. However the only way to test this is to try to break contact.]

“Spent too long in Courts... sick of games...” Havelock mumbles as he tries to formulate a break in contact.

He can feel a flicker of dark amusement from Finndo; Havelock feels he’s been waiting for this. “Going so soon, whelp? Don’t you want an answer to your question? I’d like to talk some more, if you don’t mind – it has been a long time… a long, long time…”

Havelock breaks the contact and drops to the floor. His last words before slipping unconscious are “Jerk... “

There are two ways to break a trump call, a) physically eclipse the card and b) mentally break the link. Havelock finds his entire upper body from waist upward is now completely rigid and he can neither relinquish the card nor move his body to cover it. As he attempts to mentally break the link he finds himself in a psychic duel with Finndo who, as mentioned, was kind of expecting this.

“Your idiom is unfamiliar but I understand your meaning.” He doesn’t sound even slightly annoyed but his words are spoken through gritted teeth as he focuses his formidable will upon maintaining the connection. “I would have thought you might appreciate a touch of elegance in our dealings. I assure you I have every intention of answering your question in full measure, but I want something in return. Please drop this bootless furore and we can talk. All I want is fair return for my information.”

No conversation only wild furious assault. Havelock’s immediate response to the contact not breaking, (he was also already not expecting it to be that easy), is to smash back with an all-out psychic assault. His aim is now to rip the knowledge away and not be subtle about any damage caused. He plans to keep fighting until unconscious.

“Come man! I feel your anger as you feel my pain. Your wrath will pass quickly enough once I let you go, as I will in but a moment. But my pain has lasted millennia without likelihood of end. You must know the one thing I crave. Promise me succour and I will give you all you ask and you will have my undying gratitude once I have blessed release. Relent, and let us talk!”

Havelock is intent, spares no energy for a reply but redoubles his assault. Finndo weathers Havelock’s riposte; he has a small but clear superiority, but he can do little with it save prevent Havelock from breaking contact.

“What, have you no pity?” Finndo weeps bitter, frantic tears of frustration. “Wouldst thou see a prince of the Blood Royale in such plight as mine and not offer the merest chance of succour?”

“Know, I would...,” Havelock pants, “have wished to aid you... but for your...” He struggles against the cloud of unconsciousness that greys his vision even now. “But for your... your will to dominate the only messenger you have had for millennia...”

“The only messenger who would keep my plight from my brother? Know that, even now, I would release you in an instant if you would but swear to seek my release.”

With their level of mental intimacy, Havelock knows Finndo does not lie.

“I am seeking knowledge from you to assuage his mental collapse... he is of very fragile mind right now... Of course to tell him that both you and Osric are where you are would, I judge, drive him to useless madness... Your mother has tasked me to aid his recovery... When he… when he is more recovered... I intend to tell him...”

“You… speak truly…?” Havelock senses Finndo’s bewilderment. If Havelock can sense truth in Finndo, then Finndo, with his psychic edge, must be able to see that bit further into him. Havelock senses a shift in paradigm within his correspondent. “What exactly do you need from me?”

Havelock slows his fight – enough to not be overwhelmed, but to buy a little time before his imminent physical collapse.

“I need the words that were spoken when last you met your brother... I seek to help heal him in his dreams... Arrgh! By Odin’s beard!” Stiffening pain interrupts him and fatigue coldly grips his limbs. A little slurred he forces out almost a whisper. “Since he lost his arm he has not been the same... but with a successful inception and Nuada’s Hand...”

Finndo goes silent. His formidable will is still focused on maintaining the link but Havelock can almost hear the cogs of his mind churning beneath his surface thoughts as sudden hope wars with doubt and fear. Then…

“I remember as if it were yesterday – I’ve had ought else to ponder down the centuries. The battle was won but an evening fog had risen to hinder the mopping up, and we found odd pockets of the enemy: demonic entities, evil beasts, manticora and the like, waylaying the unwary.

“I literally fell over Osric as he lay. He related how the final charge had come too late, then died in my arms as he delivered his curse. At the time my grief overwhelmed my reason, or I might have wondered why Osric cursed our enemies and not our brother… Are we not all wise with hindsight?”

Releasing himself from struggle, Havelock reaches out a mental hand, as if to grip Finndo’s. He teeters on the borders of consciousness as both fatigue and infernal pain weigh heavily.

“Ah... yes, hindsight. To paraphrase Oedipus, Hamlet, Lear, and all those guys, ‘I wish I had known this some time ago’.”

“Indeed!” replies Finndo. Though Havelock can sense that he knows none of the names mentioned, he understands the sentiment. “But divorced from reason and consumed with rage and suspicion, I prowled through the mist after Benedict with the flat of my blade upon my right shoulder – a bad habit Benedict had oft warned left me open to a chance blow driving the blade into my neck.

“I found my brother at his command post, behind the centre, and in my anger I sneered inwardly at his place of ‘safety’ before accosting him…

“‘He’s dead!’ I said; Benedict replied, ‘Who?’ and I said, ‘Osric!’ I remember our exchange so clearly. He said it was ‘…unfortunate’. I asked ‘Unfortunate, brother?’ and he seemed to grope for an appropriate response, ‘…and regrettable’ is all he could come up with.

“Then a dreadful idea stole upon me that my brother’s death might have been at the behest of our father, Benedict being the most dutiful of our father’s sons, it seemed to me he might have colluded with the King. But Benedict denied father was involved.

“I accused him outright, ‘So, you killed Osric?’ He admitted he was ‘…responsible’. I have had a long time to ponder his words and I think now he may merely have voiced a commander’s responsibility for the death of any of his men, but at the time I took his words as admission of a deeper guilt.

“I asked, ‘Do you really want the Crown that much?’ He denied it, of course, but I interrupted his reply. ‘Such ambition!’ I said, raising my blade, ‘But I will thwart you, brother – one way or another’.

“So we fought and I lost, as I always knew I would. As I died in his arms, just as Osric had died in mine, I voiced my curse that the crown would never rest easy upon his head.

“And then I was accounted a suicide and have spent the centuries alone, pondering my folly.”

Havelock is not quite at the end of his tether, and during his narrative Finndo has let slip his iron grip over the connection. A sudden onslaught now might break it, perhaps. Instead the red-haired lordling pauses…

“Thank you, Uncle. That will be of great help in aiding your brother. In what little time we have together I would know, when I get Benedict fit, how best do we wrest you from your torment? Should we storm the gates of Hell?”

“I know not. All I have seen of Hell is my grove within the Wood of Suicides. When first I came it was but a copse, now I perceive it is a veritable forest, and yet but a small part of one of the Nine Circles. And the demons…!

“If thou wouldst storm the gate then I would counsel you bring a mighty host – else I might suggest you use your wits better than I used mine.”

At the mention of the Wood of Suicides Havelock cannot but help think of the stiffening pain that reaches from sole to scalp. He gasps at the cephalic pressure.

“I will consult with your son, William; his new bride, Rachael of House Seraph, may have some insight.” His vision blurring from the pain, he stumbles out the words, “When I have more news, with your permission, I will recontact you.”

Havelock has time to sense the word ‘angel’ rise in Finndo’s thoughts at the mention of Seraph before Finndo reacts…

“What? No… don’t go! It’s been so long…” Havelock can feel Finndo mobilise his will once more to keep him from leaving – he genuinely meant it when he said he’d let Havelock go but now he just can’t do it. “You don’t know what it’s like – there’s no one…”

But at that moment contact is abruptly broken. Havelock finds himself looking down at a hand covering the trump. Suddenly he can see again – it’s Poliziano – and Havelock senses the veriest movement in his joints.

“My lord! Are you alright?”

Havelock wiggles his fingers experimentally, and then tries to stretch out his neck.

Right now all movement is painful – but that’s just a shadow of the pain he experienced during the contact. His joints click and creak but he can feel normalcy is returning. Give him two to three minutes, five tops, and Havelock will be right as rain.

“Thank you, my good friend. I am sure I will be given a little time. I have been to Hell for the second time this night.”

“We were getting worried, old man,” chimes in Despil, sounding relieved. “You said something about Cymnea giving you this task and then you went quiet.”

Sigrid alone seems unconcerned. “Unlike before, there was no actual frost forming, so we weren’t sure whether to intervene, in case we interrupted a dialogue.”

“Then, when I tried to stir you, it was like you were stone.” Poliziano is deeply affected. “But you were flinching and grunting… So it seemed wise to intervene.”

“What happened, Lord?” Zubenelgenubi’s curiosity is clearly echoed in everyone else, now that Havelock is returning to normal.

Surveying the small group slowly, Havelock gathers his thoughts and starts with, “Well, I contacted Prince Finndo and he too has suffered at the hands of the Neverborn.

“It seems the outcome of challenging his brother to combat was deemed such a certainty that he has since then been punished as a suicide.

“I am not sure which is worse, Osric’s chill or spines that continuously grow through one. At least I learned something useful this time.”

Poliziano shudders, everyone else just listens gravely; Zubenelgenubi’s eyes whirl slightly faster at the mention of learning.

Havelock pauses to read reactions, and then asks “Can someone pass me a full goblet?”

“Surely!” Despil scoops up the empty goblet next to Havelock’s chair and sets about refilling it from a cupboard in the corner. “You lasted much longer this time – I’d say either you’re getting the knack or the vicissitudes were easier to bear.”

“You should not underestimate the value of your converse with Osric;” Sigrid admonishes, gently, “We have an idea of his manner of speech and that was all we needed.”

Despil hands Havelock the refilled goblet – this time the contents are not aflame. “We’re all agog – so what did you learn?”

Havelock grins, “I have his turn of phrase and what words were exchanged between them. No more than about three dozen altogether.”

Then he muses, “Will Benedict stay on script and use the line he used before?” It occurs to Havelock that Benedict is famous for his conversational minimalism – he may use long words, but generally as few as possible. Before anyone can reply to that he adds, “Also, I learnt something of their battlefield, which it was shrouded in evening fog. That helps us I think?”

Despil is pleased, “Fog and mist? That’ll be excellent for hiding the closed geometry of the dreamspace and means we needn’t be too fussed about the scenery.”

Sigrid smiles, a quite disturbing sight. “Wonderful! I now feel much more confident of our prospects. Lord Havelock, you will need to turn your new-found intelligence into a workable script. Then I will be better placed to assign roles.”

“And, if you can spare the time, my lord, I would very much like to discuss your experience of Necromantic Iconography.” Poliziano seems both earnest and concerned. “It appears to have been rather more… extreme, than I believe is the norm.”

Havelock, who at Sigrid’s instruction had started to rummage in his satchel, glances up at this, “I do hope so my friend, or I will be out of the necromancy trade faster than I got in.”

Then, smiling, he fishes out a pad and some pencils, “Give me a few minutes brothers and sisters, I need to write and sketch a little.”

“Of course!” Sigrid sweeps the room with her imperious gaze and nods toward the exit. Despil and Zubenelgenubi leave with her, the latter obviously reluctantly.

Sigrid pauses at the door, which at the moment leads into the chapter house (the room with all the chairs and heraldic panoply), to raise an eye at Poliziano. He steps forward to Havelock’s side as he arrays his writing materials on a side table, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sigrid nods the once and shuts the door behind her.

“My lord, can you talk while you write?”

Without glancing up Havelock replies “Do you mean, can we talk while I write?”

As well as jotting down the words Finndo had spoken, Havelock finds he is also sketching some impressions he has of the scene and its three principals.

“Well I am sure I can talk while you… sketch,” Havelock can feel Poliziano kibbutzing over his shoulder, “but I confess I am hoping for dialogue. Necromantic Iconography is a rare talent but I’ve not seen it manifest such phenomena as we’ve observed in your presence.”

“The location of my two Uncles is quite an extreme place. Maybe it is something of the infernal, or perhaps the application of will required to make such a connection?”

“You said something about them being in Hell – one of the Far Realms, I believe, and one with which has had occasional alliances with the Thelbane, but alas I know little about the place – could you describe their places of extremity?”

Havelock pauses momentarily in his work. “Describe? Not fully I could not see, I could but only feel.”

Going back to his writing he continues, “But I understand Osric was in Cocytus, the Ninth Circle of Hell, whilst his brother was transformed in the Wood of Suicides, in the Seventh Circle.”

When I sojourned for some time in a shadow called Dumas I had a religious friend. He trained for the priesthood, loved women, became a soldier.”

“Anyway, d’Amaritz knew he was on the side of Yehovah and his angels, and worried about my immortal soul, so he saw to it that I was ‘educated’ about damnation.”

“Cocytus was described as a frozen lake in which the souls of traitors are encased in frigid floes. From traitors to family, whose heads and neck are free of the ice, to those whose treachery was against those they had fealty to, who are completely entombed.”

Shivering in remembrance, he adds, “As you saw from my experience, it is indeed damnably cold.”

“I had always thought Hell to be a place of flames,” Poliziano looks aghast, “is that not what ‘infernal’ means?”

Havelock shakes his head, but keeps writing.

“It is the other way around, my friend. Inferno was used to name the territory, and traditions that it was ablaze lead to the use of infernal to call up ideas of hellfire. No, the root of infernus is to mean the lower world – very similar to Hell, which comes from concealed place or underworld. Shadow dwellers have different concepts of these realms, some are indeed fiery places, but just as many are frozen wastes, some of the oldest legends are of places of nothingness and abandonment.”

“A frozen inferno? That sounds quite… hellish?” Suddenly Poliziano is struck by a moment of clarity. “Actually, that sounds very much like the Thelbane, where the meanings of words are so fluid.”

He continues to ponder as Havelock writes. “And how was your uncle Finndo transformed?”

“Hmm, yes, transformed.” Scribbling intently he seems a little distracted. “In the Wood of Suicides, those who commit an ultimate act of violence against themselves become gnarled and thorny trees; dried up, dead, and withered.”

“Yes, I thought your skin was taking on a dryish look, almost like parchment, though I saw no thorns.” Poliziano shudders again – something about this is affecting him viscerally – but then he smiles, “But this is good news also, it means that the extreme effects manifested were artefacts of the condition of your correspondents and presumably you will not suffer so unduly should you do this again.

“Would you like to know more of Necromantic Iconography, as practised by House Cyril?”

Giving a brief nod, Havelock says, “Sure, go ahead. Be nice to know about it now I have given it a try.”

“Well hopefully future practice will not prove so difficult, provided your correspondents are not in such fraught circumstances.” Poliziano steps slightly away, turning to face the artist at work. He adopts a stance that screams ‘lecture’ to Havelock’s finely attuned sensibilities, before declaiming…

“Ahem! In my house there are three recognised levels of competence. You have demonstrated a natural facility for contacting the spirits, shades, ghosts, whatever, of those who have passed beyond veil of death. With a little practice you may use this facility to capture the verisimilitude of such a spirit within an icon.

“Such an image can attain a limited amount of self-awareness, allowing conversation with the subject by anyone later encountering the image. Many houses have picture galleries of deceased persons of note, as perhaps you are aware.

“Please understand that this is not commerce with the spirit itself, but with a copy of the spirit. However, with a higher competence, it may be possible to secure the spirit itself within such an image. This may involve some psychic prowess as the subject may not appreciate being so captured.

“Both these talents allow commerce with a spirit currently in existence but oft the spirit does not persist beyond death, or it has been secured in a place or state beyond contact. The third and, so my house believes, the ultimate level of competence allows the querent to make contact with the subject in a previous time. This last is very arduous indeed, and considerable skill is needed to find the appropriate temporal juncture.

“I have mentioned three levels of attainment within this discipline. Records from the Time of Legends and earlier speak of a fourth level, which reputedly allowed the querent to make contact with a point in the future, but none have attained this fourth level in historical times and I personally believe the legends to be apocryphal, though it is said our ancestors from the Time of Myth and earlier had great powers since lost.

“Do you have any questions, my lord?”

Havelock has paused in his writing. In response to the question he looks up at Poliziano from where he had begun to idly sift through his trump deck for dead cards.

“Could one create self aware simulacra of the living?”

“This has been done, though some think it in poor taste – it can be disconcerting to encounter one’s own simulacrum, as an icon, but especially if in the form of a sculpture.

“I should stress that it is a limited self-awareness, the images show character and personal traits but do not actually possess the full depth of personality. They typically react poorly to seeing the original of which they are but, as you yourself put it, …simulacra.”

Whilst he listens to Poliziano’s reply, Havelock begins to feel his dead cards, looking for the same sensation as Osric and Finndo’s gave.

It’s hard to be sure, he gets the feeling there’s a sort of spectrum. In order of increasing deadness he thinks Brand is the most lively, followed by Rhiannon, followed by Morgan and Petra, and finally Eric and Oberon feeling the ‘deadest’ – though he wonders if even their cards might come to life were Havelock more adept. Osric and Finndo might come after Rhiannon.

Of his non-family cards: Havelock is happy to note that Athaliah, Lucy and Aloysius Moore seem alive but his step-parents may be dead – Nathaniel’s card feels an Osric level of deadness, while Martha’s feels more like Eric’s.

From this contemplation he asks, “But I would need an image to make initial contact? Or if by other means an artist came into contact with a spirit could they then create an icon?”

“Yes and yes, my lord – though I should advise you to be careful of such contact; as ever with necromantic pursuits, one must be wary of hungry ghosts.”

Stopping at Lucy’s trump Havelock looks into her scarred black face and whispers “Mwen rele Maman Brigitte pou pote pwoteksyon.” After a moment of reverie he looks again at his companion, “Yes, one should always be wary of those.”

It takes a while but Havelock can feel Lucy’s card getting colder – if he holds it much longer he might very well contact his old nurse.

“A shekel for your thoughts, my lord?” Poliziano can tell Havelock is distracted.

Havelock covers the card and breaks his own focus; glancing at Poliziano he replies, “Some other time for reunions.”

Putting the deck back into its case he looks as if he is considering and then asks, “Could I bridge a contact for others to talk to the dead?”

“It is perfectly possible but you must ensure the link is through you, the correspondent must be in physical contact with you, not the card. [Havelock knows either way is possible for normal Trump calls.] And, of course, the warning regarding hungry ghosts must be redoubled, since the correspondent may be of lower mental strength than yourself. Another reason for the link to go through your person.”

Picking up his script work again, Havelock nods. “So you’d better tell me what you know of hungry ghosts. I may have missed a few lessons.”

“Well, I suppose it’s the chiefest hazard of any form of necromancer; that if you would have commerce with unhoused spirits, and by chance meet a spirit of superior mental powers, then you may find yourself in a vulnerable position.

“Of course I am no expert, but I understand that a spirit naked to the elements is itself subject to spiritual assault. And if such a spirit is to persist, it must have the fortitude to overcome its assailants. As the saying goes, ‘that which does not destroy us makes us strong’, so a spirit which has overcome much may thereby be strengthened. A possibly chastening thought, my lord.”

Havelock ponders for a moment. “Perhaps I should further my education with some appropriate sorcery to combat or compel ghosts, or weave magic with icons?”

“An appropriate school of sorcery might prove useful, but you would be facing a long program of study to reach a point where it would be effective. A few Words of Power might help. Otherwise maintaining personal vigilance and possibly employing a third party with the requisite skills might be advisable in extreme situations.”

“I believe there are Words of Power that can provide an edge to break contact or give a boost. Could any of our order tutor me?”

Poliziano preens himself, “I would be delighted to instruct my lord in the basics of perhaps half-a-dozen that might be useful in our line of work – though I’m a little surprised you don’t know of them already. You could be proficient in the basics within a matter of weeks, with focused, diligent study. Of course you would need practise to become fluent in their use.”

Havelock smiles broadly at his companion, then bending back to his now word strewn papers says, “That would be a fine thing, but right now I am close to finishing the draft text. Would you review the first few pages whilst I work on the denouement?”

Poliziano’s eyes light up, “I would be honoured, my lord!”

Knuckling down Havelock then continues to write, occasionally passing sheets of paper up to his companion. He obviously slows his writing to listen to Poliziano’s comments on the script, but otherwise does not lift his head from the text, until finally stopping abruptly.

“I think that this is good. Here,” passing up the whole sheaf of notes, “have another read through.”