Peter’s Diary part 19: The Doom!

In The Doom that Came to Amber

5^th Snake 3658 – evening

I no longer know what time it is exactly, for the days when I slept at night then woke the next morning seem as distant as the Ages of Heroes that each world draw their stories from.

I woke, as so many times recently, to the call of a servant, informing me that yet another meal was to be a council of war. I yearned for a quieter time. Perhaps I should not have yearned so loud.

In the dining room of the castle were all those I would expect; Random, Flora, Llewella, Gerard of the Elders, and Aylwyn, Bathsheba, Asmark, Morwaith and myself, of those new to this place. With Morwaith was one I did not know; ageless, calling himself Adam, from the Moghul Lands. At Random’s command Llewella summoned Terisa and the deliberations began.

Put simply, Morwaith wished to sponsor a plan of Adam’s; the universe needed rewriting, the Unicorn binding and cleansing, the Mirans brought onside and the Eye of the Serpent wielded to do all of this.

The beef on the table was particularly fine, it has to be said. The cook had excelled with a red wine gravy, and the vegetables seasoned with the lightest hint of turmeric and saffron; the potatoes especially blessed by the spices gently infused into a buttery sauce before being applied to them. The wine, too, was one of Lord Bayle’s best, which to my uncultured palette carried a thick leathery, oaken taste which lifted the splendour of the beef to even higher realms. It is said that as the world ends, the wise man applies himself to do the best at what he is best at. The cook had obviously taken this lesson to heart. Could I do otherwise than to apply myself to the gastronomic feast set before me?

The family discussed lineages; I had better things to occupy my mouth with. (Though in truth, I did listen to Asmark when he discussed my potential forebear, Rhiannon, whose arrow I bore.)

Eventually, as I was sure it would, all discussion finished. As Asmark found himself with the delightful task of dividing the ending of the world between the Mirans and ourselves, I found myself assigned, with Terisa, to retrieving a tarot deck that Alaric held secret somewhere – a task far more palatable to my taste.

There had been talk of Alaric being a willing sacrifice during the ceremony, sometime near to when I’d snaffled the last of the roast garlic, but it seemed that the Mirans were opposed to him being used thus, and (as Asmark later ascertained) would be happy to provide a sacrifice of their own.

We made our way to Alaric, down in the depths of the castle. He was chained in what would be a darkened cell were it not for the gentle glow that infests his left arm; a reminder of the forces he had been so casually playing with to this point.

I bore Alaric no ill will so, on him being released from his chains into my custody, I first took him to the bath house, cutting his clothes around the manacle that bound him to me, and offered him the chance to bathe, promising clean clothes, food and drink once he had done so. Random had commanded the tasks I must do, but not bound me to them solely. Given his contempt for the lands of Faerie, as expressed to Queen Vialle, I should not have been surprised to see him so lax in the making of bindings and bargains.

While he was bathing, myself as far from him as an Amber manacle allows, and Terisa in the antechamber as her modesty dictated, Alaric was Trumped by Khitan, who spoke with him of Dark and Dworkin, and their relationship to Mira. Once the conversation was concluded, and Alaric dried and sewn into new clothes by servants, we left the bath house to find ourselves confronted by Princess Fiona, Alaric’s mother.

Fiona. Just as well to spit into the storm than to see the truth under the mask she wears. Her mind is a fortress, crenulations and murder holes everywhere that the unwary might step. Still, she seemed genuinely concerned as to Alaric’s wellbeing and promised him that Bleys and she were working to convince Random to commute Alaric’s sentence to exile rather than death.

With protestations of motherly love, she promised him also that she could cure the canker which caused his arm to glow, were he only to co-operate with her. Promising to return later, Alaric’s eyes begged Terisa and myself for distance from his mother, so we left.

The trumps, according to Alaric, were in a place called Groombridge; a Trump shadow that was a reflection of his own mind; conscious and unconscious. As I reflexively patted my sword and dagger, somewhat concerned as to what might lurk in the shadows of so obviously troubled a youth, he noted my concern and asked if I were familiar with the lazy-bean – a weapon of potency in Groombridge? Having ascertained that the lazy bean was similar in construction to a crossbow, I had to admit that I was not, and with that, we walked the moonlight bridge to Groombridge.

We arrived in the courtyard of a house, sometime mid-morning; Alaric wished to survey his lands like the lord of the manor but a gentle jingle of the manacle reminded him that we had a task to do. We set to, collecting paintings and Trumps that Alaric insisted were vital to him and I, mindful of Random, was happy to dally. Our main target, he said, was the cellar; the place where the paintings that showed his darkest self were kept. Lazy beans obtained, we started to descend, only to be stopped by the woman that was wife to the man Alaric was here.

I will give Alaric this; he has taste in women. Before she could question us too thoroughly about the chains that bound us, I bowed and with my free hand kissed hers, pressing gently and, it must be said, somewhat inappropriately upon her palm and whispering to her the words that Titania once forbade me from using for a year and a day. It is interesting to note that the words have the same effect upon a lady of Groombridge as upon a maiden of Faerie; a flustering, and a gentle heat, and a lack of desire to ask awkward questions for a second or two.

Taking our chance, we descended.

My Lord Alaric needs to clean out his mind.

As we ascended once more, we were met again by Mira, this time with a servant with a long-arm lazy-bean, requesting our presence for tea. Naturally, wishing to avoid the distress to the lady of killing one of her servants in front of her, we agreed.

Alaric’s lady seemed scared; agoraphobic, frightened of a copse of trees that could be seen from the house. The local priest preached insurrection, blaming the Creator, the local god, for the beasts which wandered the undergrowth, preying on the peasantry. Muttering meaningless pleasantries, we leave the poor woman to her fate – the universe was about to end and Alaric’s fevered dream world would not survive unless he does. And, with any luck, such survival will change it for the better.

Terisa, her arms laden with paintings, gestured to a mirror then and we saw the audience chamber that is Random’s favourite. There he stood, practicing the sword cuts from a fechtbook with a zweihander almost his height. Once he had finished a measure, we stepped through the door that Terisa had opened, and made our report.

Once he had the tarot deck we had asked for, Random ordered Alaric returned to the dungeons though not, I noticed, with any indication as to when. Taking that as implicit permission for my actions, Alaric and I retired to my chambers where food and several bottles of Bayle’s Best were ordered.

I did not bear Alaric any ill will, though neither did I count him a friend. But I was versed in the ways of the Faerie courts and could see many reflections here in Amber. That being the case, I knew I supped with a man who was not long for this world and, an it cost me little, I did what I could to make his last hours more pleasurable.

We talked of art, and of his daughter, Anne; she who was depicted in the painting that had particularly caught my eye. He gave that painting to me then, along with several others, as well as the Trumps of Groombridge and of him in the armour of Mira. For this, he bound me to seek out his daughter, if she still survived, and to tell her of her father. This, somewhat drunkenly, I promised.

It was there, deep in conversation, that the envoy from Random found us, summoning me to council. Aware that bringing Alaric was probably a faux pas, especially at these times, I hurried him to the gentle care of the jailor, such effort making me late to the chamber. Random was displeased but the minor peccadilloes of a faerie bard were the least of his worries that night.

It seemed that Asmark had negotiated, and the terms were these: the Mirans would provide the sacrifice and we would provide the executioner. The aspergant; he who will wipe the Pattern clean, will be from Amber, and then one of Mira will redraw it, using the Eye of the Serpent to do so.

An it were done, a pardon would be applied to all involved, such that the new universe started with everyone on a clean slate. Random ordered all members of the family to reconvene in the library in one hour and, noting the blanket demand, I returned to the dungeon for Alaric, pausing only to retrieve Rhiannon’s arrow, and the weapons that were mine.

Alaric, rightly, wanted to know what was going on and I told him. He expressed concern for Paulo, currently being tortured by Roger, but the gaoler assured us that he was protected in the bowels of Amber, as were those under his aegis. Somewhat reassured, we started out for the Library.

It came as some shock, it must be said, when Alaric conspired to escape from his shackle by turning his hand into a tentacle. It was only the fact that this obviously came as a shock to him too that stopped me of accusing him of … well … anything, really. Both he and I could not spare the thoughts to work out what this might mean, and reacted, much like children will do to matters completely outside of their ken, slightly hysterically.

Playing a game of dress up with a cloak and careful folding, we gritted our teeth and made our way to Alaric’s chambers to sleep, even if only for a while. For now that we were no longer bound partners by metal, the shackles of secrecy still held us close.

My sleep was twisted and tuned by portents of doom, the visions of Amber that seemed almost designed to haunt. And I woke, half woke, and in that dawn state my mind turned to the name of this place that claimed me; for Amber is a jewel well known, wherein may be found the death of ages past; traceries of flowers and ferns and the insects of the air, preserved for antiquity in this golden air. What was the hold the city had? And were we, Children of Amber, the jewel, or the fly?

6^th Snake and the Redrawing

With such portents, there is no breakfast that can raise the spirits, and it was with a heavy heart that Alaric and I joined the others for the trip up Kolvir. My mind was cast back to my last visit to Kolvir – the changing of my status from storyteller to saviour of the Queen, and my resulting rise in status.

Kolvir had changed my life the last time I stepped on his flanks. Would this climb see once more my world turned upside down?

So we climbed, carrying with us that was dear to us – Falasia and Montfort with Asmark; officers of the Guard with Bathsheba, each of us carrying that which shackled us to this world and which we wished to carry through to the other.

And I carried an arrow, and a gift, and a bow, and a sword. For the bard’s baggage must be light, else how will he march forever?

The journey I will not speak of – the mountain is that only in name and I have climbed higher peaks where the ice and snow conspire to drop you down to the depths from which you came – Kolvir is more friendly, and yet more strange.

We met Mira, and I marvelled at her likeness to the woman of Groombridge, and wondered at the lesions within Alaric’s mind made plain.

And we met Dark, who changed his face and the name of Dworkin was whispered, the mad hunchback who might be the father of us all, but who is certainly the parens of Pattern and the hand from which Trump emerged. He led the way, passing an asperger in the form of a cross to me, and ignoring the mutters that came from the Blood of Amber at his presence.

The way we took was strange; with more and more people following us – the Rangers of Arden stood to the left and right and fought off the creatures that would interfere with our progress – what was their coin? Loyalty and the hope of memory in the world that was to come, perhaps? In truth, they fought knowing that they did so at the behest of Julian, and perhaps that was enough for them.

See my arrogance? I am truly a princeling of Amber if I can discard life so easily. They are Shadows, not real, the whisper comes. Their deaths are not as important as ours.

And I, the bard whose voice should be raised for those who have no voice? I am silent, complicit with every word unspoken.

They are not real.

But neither are words, and those are the tool of my trade. I deal in unreality, and here, on Kolvir, I sacrifice it for the hope of a future.

We travel through a black and white world, and one where up is down and down is up, and we succeed our way through. People join us, trumping through to the end of the world as if it were the latest fashionable haunt of the bon viveurs, their faces recognised by one side or the other. Myself, I see many people, but none I care to recall.

It is on the slopes of Kolvir that the truth shines; those who are of the blood of Amber or of the Courts of Chaos are strong still; all others show weakness; some even dying from the effort of the climb. Montfort has a shadow over his face; his (evidently) half sister, Falasia, glows with the sweat of righteous exertion.

We stand by the Pattern. Real, this one, very Real!

It is strange, my mind observes, to talk of degrees of reality, but where the Pattern is concerned there is nothing else we may do. The Pattern under the castle of Amber is Real. Of that there is no doubt in my mind at all. But this Pattern is more so, in every way that the senses can tell or the mind can encompass. This is more Real, and so, our actions here have more weight.

I stand heavy, cross in hand, and I wait.

Dworkin gestures to a stone and a woman dressed head-to-toe in black with only her blue, blue eyes showing, detaches herself from the crowd and lies down – her arms folded, her posture relaxed. The blood channels cut in her bed are clean and empty, for now.

Another gesture, and a dagger is handed to Alaric, the cloak slipping free to expose the touch of chaos upon him, but in this place and time, who is to care? He steps forward, this scion of an ancient House, and, despite all his worries and cares, he stands tall.

Oh, Alaric – you and I were not friends, but I swear I will sing your story when the Faerie celebrate the festival of the Shrouded Moon on the night of the greatest darkness, when those whom Fate dragoons are remembered. This I swear, most unfortunate Prince. This I swear!

Alaric steps forward, the weight of duty upon him. As the story demands, his hand does not tremble.

As the story demands, he raises the veil of the sacrifice.

As the story demands, he recoils, and whispers a name.

And as the story demands, this child of destiny lifts the woman from the stone, lies down, and cuts his own throat.

There is a whisper of a word. A notion of a name. An announcement of Ann, and with that, Alaric, Prince of Amber, dies.

His blood Mira catches in the cup she bears; if he is to die, his life must not be wasted. And in communion the cup is passed from person to person, each sipping of the soul of the sacrifice.

Dworkin summons the Mother, using names from all the worlds, and we respond. Hoof beats drum in a syncopated rhythm and the Unicorn appears; legs, tentacles, chitin and hide; Dworkin calms her and she drinks from the cup.

Shoes are brought and Morwaith turns to his task; the Smith strikes, and strikes, and strikes and strikes and with four shoes the Unicorn is freed from that which would shape her other than she is.

And then Dworkin gestures to me.

And I destroy the worlds.

A ghost called Oberon strives to stop me, but he is one I know little of and he has no hold on my heart. As I walk the Pattern a second time, wiping clean what lies before with the blood of a noble heart, Dworkin walks behind, a glowing jewel in his hands as he draws a new Pattern anew.

And the worlds start once more.

I look over to Alaric, and to Ann, but they are receding from me, their course like that of a shooting star.

I look to Dworkin, standing in the centre of a new Universe, and with him the Unicorn, and I dance further and further away from them without taking a step.

I look to the children of Amber, those with red hair and those without, and the distances between us grow greater and greater and then they are out of my reach and next they are out of my sight.

And I sleep, and I wake, in a city that is at once unfamiliar and yet again, is like unto the back of mine own hand.

I wake in the new Amber, with little with me save my sword, my bow, my Arrow and my necklace.

And Alaric’s Trumps.

I will find Vialle.

I will find Ann.

And I will remember Alaric!