Ann’s Diary part 21: The Council of the Realms

in Brave New Worlds

Goat 3659 – New Amber

I had wound myself up a little over my ancestors. I consulted the books within the University Library on the subject of Babylon and then with their author – our own Professor of Geography. His interests were geographical but he was generous with what he knew and referred me onto his primary sources – they were held in the Library of the Castle and mostly donated by the Royal family.

The following breakfast I asked the King’s permission to look through the Library. After I stated my interest he said it was a pointless search and that I was wasting my time. Regardless of his opinion, I asked Peter to show me to the Library. Peter also said that who my parents were didn’t really matter. To him perhaps - but it does now to me.

The Library, if it had any form of intellectual control at all, was sorely of need of order. Unless, of course it was an entity in its own right and had evolved into it’s current form – books and manuscripts lying companionably together. That thought pleased me. Alas, from my cursory glance, I remained disappointed. The secrecy of my husband’s, and now I must concede, my family is to be marvelled at.

Peter showed me some pictures that he called Trumps – not unlike the special playing cards Alaric had taught me to read many, many years ago. Peter said that these, too could be read – or rather interpreted as it was always an art rather than a science. They were of people and places and many were Alaric’s work. As he went through them he gave me a précis of the subject (where he knew them or it but he had strong opinions on many of them) and an idea of how the family lay. Who was in which camp and where, and occasionally when. I created my own pile.

Four portraits I knew from my past: firstly, my rescuer, the Pimpernel, who had been Prince Brand. Dead now, and having died in disgrace this clashed my memories of a gallant and kind rescuer, but my darker self reminded me of why I’d fled his household.

The second face I knew was dark haired and green eyed. He is apparently Prince Corwin, but I recognised him from a street in Paris many, many years ago. This was the man who’d murdered my poor mother. I had seen his image once when I travelled through America and I saw him twice again in person. He'd been an SS Officer at Belsen and he'd given evidence at Nuremburg. I want to meet him - this murderer. I want to know why a poor woman deserved such a death in the streets of Paris. I want an explanation and I want his repentance. But along with the departure of my faith has gone my ability to forgive. For this and for Belsen he seems hell-bent on my misery and destruction.

The third face I knew caused me to gasp in shock for this man had also visited Belsen. He, yet another SS Officer, who’d been shown through the hell of Belsen, stood proudly, still adopting the natural arrogance, pose, uniform colour and cut of a storm trooper. He is Lord Rupert, the son of the woman whom I then recognised from a painting of Alaric’s. She is Princess Flora whom I knew had been the subject of Alaric’s (presumably) unrequited love, as I knew that he brooded over her still when I had known him.

I noted also my husband’s close family – though close is a strange word given that they are mine also. I am related to my late husband within a permitted degree of consanguinity. I hope he did not know, despite Peter’s relaxed attitude towards relativity – a result of his non-Amber blood I assume. Peter explained that Alaric was probably a second cousin. This is already too close a relationship and I can only pray that it proves no closer!

I briefly asked him if anyone had actually studied the physiological and psychological differences between Fey and Amberites? But he seemed insulted that I would consider dissecting one of his blood. My only knowledge of his kind comes from his own mouth and a play called 'A Midsummer Night’s Dream' which may be comedy, or perhaps a history, as I now know the denizens of Faerie were not entirely an invention of the playwright. Peter may be entirely lying to me. He has shown me such kindness that I feel my hackles twitch!

21^st Goat 3659 (18^th April 2003) – the Great Family Council

A few days later Peter took Terisa and me through with him to Paris for the pre family meeting to decide the state of the World. We were in a suite in the Paris Hilton, courtesy of Princess Flora. I felt self-conscious, already wondering if she recognised me now in my grey academic suit and stilettos. I also felt uncomfortable at the level of grandeur I was surrounded by. I am only a doctor. I was an orphan, a maid and a servant of medicine. I am no grandee and I recognise that. These are not my surroundings – especially in Paris.

There was a television and a computer monitor and a man, Merlin, standing directly behind Peter. The attendees gathered and Flora took us downstairs to the Banqueting Room. Sat about the table were Asmark (a man of youth), Flora, Merlin, Luke, Terisa, Aylwin, Bathsheba, Terisa, Omar, Morwaith, Peter and myself. Omar brought up the subject of Dark and I felt so very, very sick.

I spoke at length with Aylwin and he asked me where and when I'd been on Earth. I stupidly mentioned Belsen and should have lied about it. He seemed unusually perceptive and I know I nearly fainted when Dark was mentioned in the context of the Circus and I was asked to explain to all what the Circus was.

I then worried throughout the discussion on Realms and that there now too many Patterns and how it would be decided which would go. The metaphysics of the Realms and how they should be both counted and regarded. I retreated to observation during the main part of the debate and faded out as they went on to discuss roses or some other flower for a table centrepiece, but when is anything not a cipher in this family?

Dark wants to meet with all to consider our top-ten Pattern list. I have no idea which Pattern is which and I do not want to ever see Dark again!

I felt increasingly uncomfortable in the luxury of this hotel environment. I should be a servant and not a guest here. Lunch was ordered – enough food to feed a small village let alone the small gathered group. We would need another room for the food alone at this rate! My green salad was excellent and the water fresh and I was satisfied – yet watched by my family. I must learn to eat more again or I will stand out like the spectre at the feast.

We spoke of faith in relation to Mira, the Trump Goddess, and what makes a God, and what is the nature of faith. I retreated within myself again as my faith lay in a state of near abandonment on the sacrificial stone where had lain a Catholic who had accepted suicide.

My reverie was broken by a discussion on what happened to dead Amberites. Morwaith looked at me and introduced me as someone with Shamanic skills… sort of. It came out as ‘Ann sees dead people’. I was mortified as I had forgotten the original conversation.

We finished with a decision that we should seek our missing Prince Benedict, whom it is believed is held captive in Faerie. I asked Peter if I could come to see and experience the fabled place. He gave me the rules of the place. Accept nothing unless it is freely given; appearances are deceptive and appearance is everything. I would need to dress carefully for Faerie – Peter pointed to Anya’s dress as an exemplar. I observed the leaf-like dress with some interest. Interesting that she lives with Prince Julian, rather than with her Mother. Peter said that it was about loyalties rather than blood ties. If it wasn’t for Terisa’s accidental kindness I might still be lying on the ground next to the stone.

I have asked Peter for a medical kit to take with us on the journey. The scalpels must be sharp.

Finally, before the group broke up, I spoke with the son of the man who murdered my mother. Worryingly, I realised we both wore similar colours. I simply asked him to ask his father if he could cast his mind back to when he was in Paris in the 1750s and a red haired woman he met named Elizabeth Drummond.

We split up. I had a moment of panic as I first watched Peter staring into a Trump of some kind of an apartment and then vanish! He returned a little later with Flora via the Powder Room and explained that he went to Alaric’s old apartment – except it was no longer Alaric’s.

We went out together with Asmark. He gave me some money. We bought medical books from a shop near the Sorbonne and I had my hair cut stylishly short. We walked to La Place de la Concorde and established that the painting of my execution was not from any vantage point – raising the question of where had the scene come from in the first place? And then attended Vespers at Sainte Chapelle. We went from there to La Comedie Francaise and then onto Moulin Rouge.

On the steps of the Sacré Coeur, en route to Montmarte, we came across Aylwin seated painting the cityscape. I looked carefully and, without thinking, said how much it resembled Alaric’s style, but not as good!

It wasn’t meant unkindly but, although very good, it simply wasn’t as good as his half brother’s work. We pondered on his influence on this new world and again I grieved that we had parted so very badly. I asked Aylwin to give my greetings to my mother-in-law and we continued up to the Moulin. I was concerned that Asmark was too young to enter but he said he would find some suitable identification. I’d have to find out how they all do these things one day!

I noted how much Paris has changed in the 12 years since I’d last been there. So many people speaking with mobile telephones, computers everywhere and a war in Iraq that had started before I’d blundered into the circus one Halloween Night. Bush still President! God is indeed punishing the Americans – yet he cannot still be President? Whose influence is this devilry!