Aylwin’s Diary part 20: The Awakening

in Brave New Worlds

The Awakening – New Year’s Day 3659 – (Absinthe)

As Dworkin draws the new Pattern we are pushed away, away into the dark. The darkness takes me and I know no more till I open my eyes and watch the dawn break on a world that I have never seen before.

I am at the top of a great tower, looking at mountain peaks surrounding me, amid the mountains. Down below me lies a city, thousands could dwell there but it seems quite deserted. Above me the sky is misty green. I am seated in a great chair of polished black stone, my stick is now made of light but intricately wrought metal. My leg is still stiff and sore but I can walk on it without too much difficulty.

I make my way down the some fifty steps to a landing where there are doors for a lift, though it does not respond. I descend countless more steps, stopping when my leg protests, and examine the rooms. They seem to be palatial offices; most strangely the books and papers seem to be growing writing but is not yet legible.

I wander a city; black stone and white crystal predominate. A great palace at its centre seems to be a factory. The whole place has sombre beauty, I seem to half know the place but each corner I turn holds new surprises.

I sleep when night falls in a bed in an Inn. I have wandered through houses but they looked too lived-in.

The next day I awake, sure that I have heard the sounds of singing and of hammers but it's days before the shadows of the people appear and gradually become solid. Though I have seen them grow from ghosts, all have a past they remember.

I am in the city of Salamand Ferrand, manufacturing centre of its province. I take the train to Frere Alaric, a town of artists but also the base for a force of rangers, much like those of Arden. Then to Leyonne, capital of the province and city of song, then south to the sea and the City of Mare Celles. I meet Bleys here, the Realm is Fiona’s and is called Absinthe. She and Asmark are also here.

Talking to the others, I realise that there are gaps in my memory, people have been taken and left gaps as if they never existed but their actions still did.

Months pass as we learn our way around the land, establishing our rule, and I prepare to walk the new Pattern at Fontaine Vert.

The Pattern resides within a maze of thorn. The thorns, as Bleys demonstrated, will rip mail like cloth. The Pattern itself burns green-white like the after image of a bright light. There is a fine collection of family there to watch, but not Julian. I am a little disappointed by that. I have walked several patterns over the years, each a little different but all similar, all shadows of the old Primal Pattern. In a perverse way I have always enjoyed it, like people who climb mountains in blizzards and then tell you how great it was!

I set foot on the Pattern, sparks arise but it does not reject me. I hear some words of encouragement behind me and then lose myself in the act of walking. Much becomes clear to me: I see in myself the jealousy of Alaric that was always there, not of our mother’s love but of his art and the fact that his led to the power of trump whilst my own music did not. I remember the beauty he could create and mourn, a hundred shared moments knot about my chest and I grieve. I pass the first veil.

My perspective twists, Alaric’s self-centred monomania flashes across my mind. I am angry, so much that was fine, beautiful, special, has perished because of him. His rashness and stupidity, the pain he caused our mother. I see his face in my mind, would I had the strength to kill him long ago. I pass the second veil.

Alaric’s face is before me once more, but like a mirror. If I had killed him, I would have diminished and been less than what I am. I see his actions and how easily I could have followed the same path, I took the first steps. That which set us apart was my restraint. Alaric is dead, he died well, I have grieved and it is over. I pass the third veil.

I am aware of the differences in the Pattern, a tight left curve and I face outwards for a moment. The family are watching and I raise my hand in greeting.

Mira. She offered me a short cut to what I wanted, how tempting. The other routes I could have, should have taken, sorcery or Pattern. I could have done better. The last veil.

I reach the centre; my ankle aches as if I have walked far, but no more.

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The weeks pass, I have Trump again and use them. I visit Random and at last we have the time to jam the night away.

I teach Asmark more of shadow-walking and we search for fuel for Clermont Salamand’s industry, as is told elsewhere.

I discuss with Peter the possibility that Rhiannon may have survived.

I visit Bathsheba in Ellas and admire the sunny island where she dwells.

I join in the planning of a family banquet. Paris Babylon is the location, exiled royalty the cover.