Peter’s Diary part 20: The
Awakening pt 1
in Brave New Worlds
The Awakening – New Year’s Day 3659 – (The
Ebbs, New Amber)
Peter woke up a
few hours ago. He’s wandered around this ghost town that is The Ebbs. By now,
he’s somehow decided on the name in his mind.
He’s seen
absolutely no one, but just occasionally he feels a fleeting ‘presence’. He’s
wondering if this place is haunted. He’s known places like that in shadow,
especially near Faerie, but this feels very different, more ‘real’.
It looks a lot
like Amber in some ways; in others it’s very different. Somehow Peter knows
this is Amber and that it’s ruled by Random. He feels it in his bones – this is
Random’s Amber, as opposed to the Amber that
was Oberon’s.
By now, intent
on exploring this city in full, Peter finds himself on one edge of the Ebbs,
looking at some sort of park within the urbanisation. It’s not a large park,
more
Peter’s just
thinking about crossing the canal and avenue separating it from The Ebbs, when
he spies one of Bathsheba’s Palace guardsmen sitting on the bank of the canal.
His armour lies strewn around him, along with his footgear, and he’s kicking
his feet in the water.
The buildings
surrounding the square still have that slightly dream-like feel to them, as if,
when you turn your head away, they’ll jump around and rearrange themselves.
Peter shakes his
head at the fanciful notion and hails the guardsman from a distance away,
careful not to scare him or cause him to run.
Approaching
closer, once he’s sure that the guardsman has seen him, Peter smiles and
addresses him.
“Janath, isn’t it? You were with the Princess Bathsheba at
the Pattern. Is she here in this city? Where are the others?” Peter’s hand
rests gently on his rapier, but his stance is relaxed and unthreatening; more
the habitual wariness of the warrior in an unfamiliar place.
Janath looks up, startled. He shakes his head as
if he’s not quite sure what he’s seeing. He rubs his eyes like he’s just waking
up. “I don’t know, my…my lord. You’re the first person I’ve seen. Am I
dreaming?”
“If you are
dreaming, then I am just a figment of your imagination, and with the greatest
of respect, your imagination is not that developed.”
Peter thinks Janath throws him an odd knowing look but it’s so fleeting,
he immediately wonders if he imagined it.
The smile on
Peter’s face takes the sting from the words somewhat. “I think that this place
is real; as real as the city we remember was. And as we breathe and walk
around, it becomes more real about us.” Peter grins suddenly, looking over the
park. “No, Janath. I think this place is no dream,
and we are creatures of reality, not wisps of someone else’s thoughts.” He
nods, decisively. “This is real. And we are. So I repeat my question; where is
the Princess Bathsheba and the other guardsmen who were with her?”
Janath shrugs. “I know not, my lord. I recall her
being just a few feet away when the hunchback began wielding his magic jewel,
but then everything became so distant and vague...” He shakes his head, trying
to remember. “And then I woke up under a standing stone,” He gestures over his
shoulder in to the park. “I’ve spent hours wandering around, till my feet hurt.
And then the water seemed so cool and inviting.”
Janath sighs like a schoolboy told he must leave
the playground for his lessons and starts gathering his armour as he rises.
Peter notices his feet are extraordinarily hairy.
Before Janath can do more than start to collect his belongings,
Peter sits down beside him and starts unlacing his own boots. “You’re right.
The water does look inviting.”
Grinning as he
dips his feet in the water, Peter says “Oh, relax, man. When the Princess
appears or when danger approaches there will be time for drilling and slope
arms. But here and now there is water and sunshine and these things must be
appreciated. If there’s one thing you Amberites need
to do, it is to loosen up and to take stock of the beauty in the world!”
Janath seems uncertain, just for a second, but
then he grins and drops his breastplate to clatter back on the other metalware. “Yes, my lord!”
Staring at the
ripples in the water, Peter adds, almost sotto voce; “the only thing that would
improve this day would be a hamper of food, some wine, and some attractive
company.”
“Um...I have
eaten some fruit from the trees in the park, lord...” Peter can hear Janath’s unspoken offer to run and get some for him.
Looking up, with
a wicked grin, he adds “No offence, Janath – but in
this new Amber, I hope we will not turn out to be the only inhabitants.”
Janath, still undecided as to whether he should
come or go, is opening his mouth to reply when Peter notices something odd…
The sunshine,
which is as bright and clear as Peter has ever known, throws Janath’s shadow on the ground. It’s still only mid-morning,
when a man’s shadow most accurately reflects his form, but Janath’s
shadow looks curiously different, shorter, more
muscular, with slightly bandy legs, quite unlike the superb specimen of manhood
typical of an Amber palace guard.
Where the head
and shoulders fall upon the road, the outline seems fuzzy, as if cast by
someone very hairy, even furry. The ears seem oddly protrusive, too.
Stretching
slightly, and masking as best he can his reaction, Peter stretches and stands.
“These
trees over here? Do not
stir yourself, good Janath. I am no princeling that needs to be fetched and carried for.” As he
stands, Peter’s hand slips to his sword and he draws and takes a guard as
quickly as he can. “But nor am I unobservant, and your shadow betrays you.
Reveal yourself or die disguised!”
In response,
there’s a wicked chuckle in a voice Peter feels he recognises. Then, without
any transition, the veil is lifted and ‘Janath’ is
revealed as Puck. He bears no weapon (a sheathed sword lies among the debris at
his feet) and neither his manner nor his stance is remotely threatening (not
that Peter doesn’t know Puck’s own devilish sense of humour as a threat as
potentially unpleasant as any blade).
As the veil
drops, Peter’s initial response is a burst of laughter; after all, who but a
Faerie can truly appreciate being got so conclusively? His blade drops from
guard to a casual stance, and Puck’s words cause him to turn his head as
curiosity overcomes the risk involved in turning your back on the Puck when his
heart is set on devilment.
“Yes,” continues
Puck, “this sun at this time can be very revealing in the Shadows cast; have
you looked to your own, Princeling?”
Peter gets no
feeling of threat at this time, though he feels he may shortly become the butt
of a joke.
Peter’s shadow
is pretty much exactly as he remembers it, with the sun at a 45 degree angle, a
pretty fair analogue of his real self – except for the head, of course, where
there seems to be something spiky, like...a crown?
If it is a
crown, it’s not like Amber’s, which is one of those heavy gold things, crusted
in gems and weighing as much as a jousting helm, this is some sort of lighter
job with fine tines.
It lingers for a
short while before slowly fading. Peter is sure he didn’t dream it and,
although he’s no expert, he doubts it’s some Faerie glamour, as lore says Glamours can’t affect shadows, which is how Peter rumbled
the Puck.
Shaking his head
like a drunk trying to sober up, Peter sheathes his sword and looks to the
Puck.
“I saw a truth,
in this place of truths, my Lord Puck. But what that truth means, I cannot
tell.” Peter turns, as if to survey the horizon, but anyone with an ounce of
Psyche could tell he is attempting to hide his face, so that his feelings might
not be easily discovered. His hand drops to the quiver at his belt and touches
the sole arrow in there, fletched with green.
“So riddle me
this riddle, you who are jester to both the King and Queen, telling them the
truths that they will hear from no-one else. When is a crown not a crown, and a
Prince a Princeling?”
His feelings masked
once more, Peter turns to look the Puck in the eye.
“Tell me, Puck.
Who am I?”
Puck grins
knowingly and winks rhetorically. “You know who you are...you’ve suspected it
for some time now, haven’t you...?” He assumes a cross-legged position,
familiar to Peter as the typical pose of someone with a story to tell.
“Begotten on a
pervert by a usurper; you are a child of dual heritage; heir to several crowns,”
he begins cryptically. “But perhaps a little history may clarify?
“Many aeons ago,
renegades achieved the impossible and created a new Far Realm. Its nature was
strange, for it spread outward from the centre, interacting with the other Far
Realms to create a wondrous mythoscape never before
seen.
“Reaction to
this effrontery was mixed; some Realms were suspicious, others hostile, some
enraged. War was inevitable.
“The new Realm
stood like a young sapling in a storm, tossed and torn, and might have fallen
were it not that certain older realms were more curious and allied with the New
Realm to see how it might turn out. Chief among these were the Faerie Courts,
led by King Dom-Daniel.
“With such help,
the New Realm weathered the storm, promising its friends to return like with
like should they be similarly threatened.
“The centuries
passed and then, after a thousand years, the ally indeed faced a fearsome foe.
In dire need, Dom-Daniel called upon the King of the New Realm to provide
succour in return for the favours of a millennium previous.
“But such is the
nature of politics that the King did not feel able to provide the aid required.
Some troops were sent and a general, enough to avoid destruction, but not
enough to secure victory.
“The conditions
of surrender were hard: gems, jewels, territory, a yearly tribute (most
precious). But there was one term that Dom-Daniel agreed gladly – to ally with
the victors against the New Realm. Glad the King was, for he felt betrayed and
insulted by a man whom he had thought his friend.
“But it all came
to nought. There was a big battle: heroism, cunning and treachery on both
sides, and in the end the New Realm won, Dom-Daniel dying upon the battlefield,
falling on his own sword.
“Since then,
relations between the two have always been wary. Such is the way of Faerie: one
courtier, hight Auberon,
slew Dom-Daniel’s heir and took for his Queen, Titania, a lady-in-waiting to
the Old Queen who had died suddenly, quite colourfully.
“With the argy-bargy over, the Lords and Ladies expected an heir right
quick, for both King and Queen were comely and clearly doted on each other.
“But years
passed and no heir came. Some came to speculate on the reason for this lack;
many blamed the Queen. Rumours circulated that she was incapable. It was
noticed that Auberon’s manner to his Queen grew cool.
Soon they ceased to accompany each other.
“Then one day Auberon withdrew from her presence in a dudgeon, calling
his lady ‘unnatural’ and accusing her of unseemly desires. From that day, their
Courts have been sundered, Seely from Unseely. Both have taken many lovers, but while Auberon’s bastards filled many a changeling’s cot, Titania
remained without, venting her maternal instincts on a succession of babes
stolen from cradles. Both King and Queen seemingly blamed each other for this
state of affairs.
“With the Courts
sundered, each formed its own alliances and intrigues with other Realms.
Thousands of years passed. Inevitably, connections were resumed with the Newest
– though never official, always via informal envoys and representatives.
“But then the
wheel turned full circle once more; the New Realm faced its oldest enemies
again and alliances were renewed. In the Courts of the Fae,
plots were concocted, practical and otherwise. One lone courtier with the Ear
of both, out of pragmatism, malice or jest, somehow conjured a brief reconciliation
between King and Queen. This had happened oft before but, miraculously, this
time there came fruit of their union.
“Alas! So long
had they waited, many thought the Queen barren and claimed the child had been
conceived by means unnatural, and clear it was to many eyes that the boy, for
boy it was, was but half-elven, e’en though the
father still claimed the child his heir. Those with eyes to see thought the boy
a scion of the Newest Realm; mutterings spoke of Titania’s fondness for its
special envoy.
“The parents, so
proud, again had a falling out, each seeking to keep the child from the other.
That same courtier counselled them both to let him spirit away the child with
tokens of his parentage, that he be raised away from the ire of the Courts, Seely and Unseely.
“The boy grew to
manhood, ignorant of his ancestry. But, as ever with the Courts, forces tugged
this way and that, and inevitably he was pulled back to his birthplace. As the
Lords and Ladies started to take an interest in him, it was deemed necessary by
both parents that he be sent away for his safety. For one reason or another,
the New Realm, having defeated its opponents, was thought safest of all.
“But then it
occurred to some that the New Realm might not be as safe as was thought; that
the day of its passing might be imminent after all – first to go as it was last
to come.
“So, once again
the Courtier Fae was sent from the Courts, charged by
both parents to watch over the lad. A few choice words were exchanged at an
early meeting and by the time of their next, the lad had proven the rumours
regarding his mother’s infidelity true.
“But before the
Courtier could reveal things to the young man-elf, the New Realm was plunged in
turmoil and our subject was too deeply involved in matters marshal to be
distracted with the intricacies of history and genealogy...
“But events move
on. All the Far Realms are connected and the events here will be echoed
elsewhere: Heaven and Hell, Chaos and Dream, Atlantis,
“Do you
understand now who you are?”
“That I am of
the blood of both Faerie and Amber is evident; proven, as you say, by my
actions.”
Peter starts to
pace, his feet still bare from the pool, his manner distracted. “But you claim
that I am the child of a Prince of Amber – he who was Envoy? You claim that
Bleys is my father?”
“I claim
nothing;” Puck replies slowly, “...I speak only of appearances.”
Hardly able to
speak, Peter draws his sword, slashing energetically but distractedly at nearby
bushes.
And then he
stops, and a completely different expression covers his face. “And ... that
Titania is my ... mother?” The mental gear shifting that one goes through as
one reclassifies a whole category of thoughts as ‘inappropriate’ is evident in
Peter’s eyes.
Puck grins
wickedly, he’s enjoying this. “Maternity is generally more certain than
Paternity, so I’ve heard it said.”
It takes, it has to be said, several minutes for Peter to
regain anything close to composure – minutes that are extended by the Puck’s
presence. Finally, however, he gathers the tattered remains of his dignity
around him and turns to face the Puck, bowing deeply.
“I thank you for
your words, and the message you bring, Lord of Misrule. And I hope the telling
of this tale in Faerie will gain you what you most desire.”
Somehow, Puck’s
wicked grin intimates that Peter really hasn’t the first notion of Puck’s
desires.
Peter shakes his
head, and then grins. “But does Faerie still exist? Is my ... mother still
alive?”
Puck shrugs in
reply, it seems he neither knows nor cares of either. Peter’s not sure if this
nonchalance is feigned. “I know not if Faerie exists, but we shall know afore
we part, else our parting will be short indeed.”
Locking eyes
with the Puck, Peter continues. “And will she acknowledge the clai... does she also share the perception of appearance
that you do in this?”
Puck meets and
holds Peter’s gaze. There’s power in those old eyes, and resilience. Peter
thinks he can match one but not the other.
“How can a mere
Puck of the Woods know the moods of a woman? You should ask her yourself – assuming
she’s there to be asked.” He looks away for a moment, his expression the
epitome of slyness, “...but speak soft when you ask; Titania’s moods can be
fiery and you will be speaking of power.
“So? What now be your intent, Princeling?”
Peter sits,
drying his feet on his cloak and starting to put his boots on. Without meeting
Puck’s gaze, he points with his chin towards the city, “Break’s over, Janath. Back on duty!”
As if
emphasising that he is done with being Janath, Puck
pointedly leaves the scattered armour lying on the grass.
Rising to his
feet, Peter nods towards Puck; not a friendly nod but one that acknowledges the
connection between them; kinship if not necessarily affection.
“Either thou and
I are the only two people in this New Amber, or there are others here. And I
would know who lives, and who does not. And I would know my place in this city,
for while there is no question that this is Random’s
city, there is a place here for me. I can feel that. I belong here, like I
never belonged in Gonfalon, like I never felt I belonged in Titania’s courts.”
Puck nods in
sage agreement, with everything. “There is a place for you here, among others
of like kind, but like calls to like and half of you is Fae.”
Peter runs his
hands over the equipment he carries; an almost unconscious check that any
warrior would recognise; is each thing I need in the place where it should be?
Secured so it will not be lost but able to be deployed at need? Am I ready for
what faces me?
His hands still
moving, Peter turns to face Puck squarely, his feet solid on the ground and his
face set.
“But when I am
sure that those I care about here are safe, and that the people of this City
are secure, then I will seek Faerie, and my mother. And
perhaps my father also.”
Puck shrugs in a
‘so what do I care’ manner, but underneath Peter thinks he’s pleased.
“If in time you
will come to the Fae, you must understand the manner
of travel. Will the Princeling see his mother’s
subject on his way?”
When Peter
speaks, there is an edge to his voice, but it is one that those who know him
would recognise as light sarcasm; a wish to make light of a situation but not
to offend too much.
“I would not see
anyone who stood in the favour of my mother put at risk. So I will travel with
you, m’lord Puck, until such time as you are
confident of your path.”
And Peter bows;
this time without sarcasm, and it is a bow showing that he considers Puck his
equal, and worthy of respect.
Puck leers as he
bows in return. It’s kind of weird; anyone observing the two would definitely
say that the Faerie is taking the piss and Peter knows Puck holds nothing in
reverence, yet he recalls the inverted etiquette surrounding Lord Fandoral – perhaps this is the closest that Puck can come
to genuine respect? The only other people Peter can recall him bowing to are
Titania and Auberon.
Without the edge
of sarcasm, and with a smile on his face, Peter gestures ‘away’ with his right
arm. “Lead on Puck, and I will learn this from you.”
Puck capers away
in to the park, singing a nonsense rhyme about a mouse and a goose. As Peter
follows, he springs half up a tree to chase a squirrel and then leaps across to
another and down to the ground. He criss-crosses back
and forth and around Peter’s path with manic energy, like an insane comet in
orbit about a sun, but their course takes them in to the centre of the park.
Eventually, even
Puck’s manic distractions (and Peter begins to wonder if they are deliberately
intended to distract) cannot prevent Peter from noticing they’re approaching a
stone trilithon in the centre of the park.
Peter notes the
scrawls engraved in its surface, they become clearer as he nears them; cup and
whorl symbols, strange patterns, typical of Faerie. Peter realises he knows a
Faerie portal when he sees one.
Then he becomes
aware that Puck is no longer capering; things have gone quiet. Peter cannot see
him.
Peter takes note
of his surroundings – while the Ebbs are new to him, he looks for landmarks to
identify this place to him in the future.
The sprite’s
head appears, comically, from behind the stones.
“Things
fall apart,
The Centre
cannot hold;
So we make
a new Centre,
Better than
the old”,
he spouts cryptically
before vanishing again.
Peter approaches
the stone. “So this is the test, Puck? Here is a gate. How do I open it?”
Puck’s head
appears again, this time the other side of the trilithon,
though Peter doesn’t know how he crossed from one side to the other without
being seen through the gap in the middle. “As I am an honest Puck, there’s a
trick to it...let’s see what you can see...”, and he’s gone once more.
As he muses
aloud, Peter starts looking not only at the stone, but at the flows of magic
around it.
Though Peter’s
magic is all about illusion, nonetheless he can sense the flows of other magics when he sets his mind to it. Peter’s been schooled
in the sorcerous arts, whereby magical energy is conveyed from a source to fill
a construct, by which it can serve a purpose. However, what Peter senses is
completely different; the magical forces in these rocks is
innate and the energy flows and whirls within are wild and chaotic.
Furthermore, and
Peter knows it’s his Pattern initiation that reveals this to him, the physical
appearance of the stones is part of a ‘cage’ which is all that holds the energy
at bay. That cage is derived from the Pattern but Peter lacks the ability to
sense its deeper ramifications.
“If this be a
thing of Faerie, then does it build a bridge across moonlight in the same way
that the Amberite Pattern does?”
Puck appears
once more, this time over the top of the trilithon,
above Peter’s head. “What do I know of Amber’s ‘Pattern’? The only question of
any meaning here is; can we open the gate?” This time he doesn’t disappear but
continues to leer at Peter from a height of some fifteen feet.
Examining the
stone as if it were a locked door, (and assuming he finds flows of magic around
it) Peter starts to gently pluck at the magic strands that surround it.
Peter can
immediately sense that this is not the right approach, as his tentative magical
pluckings prove futile. It’s clear this thing
requires some approach completely different to Peter’s illusion magic, or (as
Peter might guess) any formal school of sorcery. Peter’s pretty sure Pattern
could probably manipulate it, but he has no idea how and it must be more
complex than direct intercession with the inner energy. On the other hand,
Peter can sense that energy much more clearly than he can the Pattern element;
something about it calls to him…
Puck chuckles
wickedly, “We Fair Folk are creatures of Wild Magic. We are ruled not by law,
but by custom, and so are the artefacts of our ilk. This lends us certain freedoms
and talents but still there are rules…
“You will not
open the gate by the exercise of intellect, Princeling,
but when was the last time you tested your intuition?”
Peter nods, as
if accepting a lesson from a teacher. “Every time I pick up a
sword, Puck.” And with that, he walks directly towards the stone, trying
hard not to imagine how stupid he’s about to look walking straight into a big
rock.
As he paces
forward, Peter realises something is wrong. Something inside him is trying to
do something but the gate is not responding. His hand comes to rest lightly on
the rock as he halts just in time to avoid bloodying his nose. It’s the wrong
approach, but it’s much closer than his sorcerous dabbling – and he learned
something…two things.
Firstly, whatever
he should be doing is metaphysical rather than physical, but it is of the same
order as just nonchalantly walking forward.
Secondly,
something inside him tried to make the right manipulations but was prevented
from doing so, as if something was in the way. The only thing Peter can sense
that might do this is the Pattern element on the surface.
Puck eyes him
knowingly – he doesn’t want to miss the imminent moment of truth.
Peter studies
the flows of magics around him, and the constraining
issue of the cage. Suddenly, he nods. “It’s not like Gonfalon, is it? The wise
of Amber don’t want just anyone stumbling away from their fair city and into
our wilds. They’ve placed a grate across the fire that only they know how to
release.”
Puck grins and
capers on top of the rock – he may be slow but the boy’s got it.
Peter brings to
heart the resolve and the focus that let him walk the Pattern in the first
place. “There is a locked gate barring the path, Puck. And first that must be
opened.”
Puck replies, in
typical doggerel,
“The Princeling spies the truth aright;”
“Upon the
gate is set a lock.
Thrice
Royal heir must key the rite
And loose
the spell placed on this rock.”
And in the way
that
Fastening his
mind upon the task in hand, Peter imagines the cage unravelled, just enough to
access the Faerie energies within. Then he turns and commences to walk
widdershins around the rock.
The process is
slow and painful but he knows it will come easier with practice. Imperceptibly,
he feels the nature of reality subtly transform around him. He gets the feeling
this is really only possible because this new ‘reality’ is still congealing. In
a few hours, it will take something much stronger to work this change.
Though perhaps
just the fact of Peter moving things will mean it won’t be quite so ‘set’ in
the future?
But as he nears
the end of the seventh circuit, he feels his desired reality slot in to place –
he briefly imagines an audible click. He knows the gate is now accessible.
As if to
illustrate the point, Puck vaults lithely down from his perch to dangle briefly
from one arm, like a gibbon, as he makes his farewell.
“And, as I am an
honest Puck, now the Princeling grants escape from
this Amber realm, we will meet again as friends – else the Puck a liar call. Good morrow, one and all!”
And with that he
swings through the arch in to green mists that roil for an instant and are gone
– and so is he!
Peter stares in
disbelief at how he’s been tricked, and then, from deep in his belly, a laugh
breaks free so long and incapacitating that it leaves him rolling on the ground
in a combination of mirth and agony.
“You
Cad! You Cur! You absolute genius!”
Still laughing, Peter
returns to his feet, draws his sword and salutes the departing Puck.
“Friends it is,
next time we meet. And I hope that our friendship will last long enough for me
to get the better of you as comprehensively as you have of me on this day!”
As he sheaths
his sword, the one thing that might bother Peter’s peace-of-mind is that ‘liar’
is one of Puck’s more common epithets, from those that know him.
Reaching out
with his senses, as he did before, Peter calms himself and assesses the gate – it
would not do to leave it open, but it should remain unlocked for those with the
will and the ability to make it through. Retracing his steps, seven times
around he walks, making sure than none will wander through this gate unless it
is their wish.
When he believes
himself done, Peter looks to the City of
“Time, I think,
my dear Puck, to find out more of this place.”