Peter’s Private Conversation with Julian and What Happened After

In The Doom that Came to Amber

25th Bull 3658, in the morning immediately after the family meeting

Peter finds himself ushered into Julian’s private office as Regent.

Peter looks around Julian’s office with interest. It’s the first time he has been invited in here, and may well be the last, so he commits as many details to memory as possible before Julian speaks.

There’s little to mark it personally. Peter knows Julian, before becoming Regent, spent most of his time in Arden and with Regent being obviously a non-existent post under Oberon, he’s merely commandeered some rooms in the castle to serve. This room is entirely functional: the desk has a lot of paperwork and the room has several filing cabinets. In the corner is a longbow, quiver and arrows (none like the one the Fae gave you). The only evidence of Julian’s personality is a dog napping on the floor and a falcon on a perch by the window. The dog looked up briefly as the two of you entered but quickly flopped back down again.

“Do you know why I wish to talk with you?” Julian opens as he sits at the desk.

As soon as he is addressed, however, Peter is all attention. “I do not know, Your Highness, though I might guess one or more of several reasons. You might wish to know what I know of this arrow, and what I intend to do with it. You might wish to know how I interpret the poems of Faerie. You might seek my opinion on the conduct of the Lords and Ladies of Amber in the lands of wild Faerie. Or you might wish to commend me on my adroit stewardship of them in that place.” Peter smiles, to take the potential sting out of his words. “But I would rather not guess, your Highness. A servant of Amber serves best by listening and acting, not guessing.”

Julian nods, mind apparently elsewhere, though Peter secretly suspects Julian is not one for daydreaming and in fact noted every nuance of his reply. “You performed well in Emeraldheart and of course we are grateful but that is not the reason you are here.” He looks up from his desk, directly into your face. “That arrow...has a history. By rights, it belongs to the Warden of Arden. I would be grateful if you would tell me what you know of it.”

“Your Highness, I know only what the Lord Morwaith has told me. This is an arrow forged of Truth. An arrow that casts shadows, but is not a shadow. A weapon that will strike against the foes of Amber hard and straight.” Peter lays the arrow across his hands, the head pointing at a wall rather than at himself or Julian. “And that it has brothers, somewhere.”

He looks up, straight into Julian’s eyes. “If you say it belongs to the Warden of Arden, then he should have it, and I will gift it to him, freely and expecting nothing in return. But I cannot refrain from asking; if the Faerie wished the Warden to have it, why did they not give it to him? He sat 20 paces from where I was. Why did they want me to have it?”

“The Warden was not present...” replies Julian coldly, “...merely his lieutenant.”

Peter visibly blushes at his faux pas. “Of course, your Highness. But then the Warden’s lieutenant would have been suitable for delivering the arrow to the Warden.” He blushes again. “But you knew that.”

Julian’s ice-blue eyes betray no reaction at all. Then the ice thaws a little. “Obviously, the Fae gave you the arrow for a reason...and they doubtless intend we should connect it with the verse spoken with it. What do you think?”

Peter takes a moment to collect himself…

“You weave your tales of truth and lies,

Your own not told to you; but Elf,

This birth token opens eyes

To blood. Walk the path yourself.”

“The first level of the first stanza is clear enough. I am a bard of the Elven courts, and there is nothing but truth and lies within my stories, woven together out of dreams. My own story not told to me?” Peter pauses, recollecting Alaric’s reaction to seeing him amongst the Faerie. “I bear more than a passing resemblance to the Faerie. It is possible...it is known in Gonfalon that sometimes the Faerie take a human child and leave as replacement one of their own. Sometimes it is to protect the Faerie child. Other times it is because the human child catches a Faerie princess’s fancy.”

Peter starts to pace around the room, his mind obviously engaged. “I lived my childhood in Gonfalon. I did not live it among the Faerie courts. Thus it is possible...” He stops, and looks Julian straight in the eye, all semblance of hesitation gone. “It is possible that I have Faerie blood. I learnt what magics they would teach me easily enough, and the Court of the Queen was open to me when I wandered there.”

He nods, satisfied to himself. “Which would explain the first level of the end of the second line; calling me ‘Elf’. But a child has two parents, as an arrow has tip and nock. Both my parents could be Fae, of course, but then why make me leave? Why cast me out to the peasants of Gonfalon?” Peter pauses, like a diver about to jump off a rocky cliff to the sea far below. Then, jumping, he says: “Your Highness. When did the Warden of Arden visit Faerie?”

Julian has been following Peter’s perambulations with a somewhat distant, almost disinterested air but Peter is enough of a performer to know, while Julian does not appreciate the histrionics, he is interested in the libretto. “To my knowledge, there have been three wardens. The first was before my time. Oberon appointed myself as third warden in place of Prince Corwin after he had incurred our father’s displeasure. I cannot speak for the earlier two but I for one have visited with the Fae not as often as they have visited me.” His lips twist into a tight smile. “I like to believe I am on good terms with King Auberon.”

[I think I should explain a point which you may not know but Peter certainly should: the Faerie realm has 2 courts, the Seely, based around ‘She’ = Queen Titania, and the Unseely, pertaining to King Auberon. Mortal folklore traditionally portrays the Unseely Court as more antagonistic to mortals, frequently calling its members ‘evil’ and inhuman. Those with better knowledge of Faerie consider that the Courts reflect their respective monarchs. Auberon is colder, more distant, as men tend to be, while Titania is, at one level, the archetypal woman, chatty, caring and warm. Julian is perhaps hinting that his temperament is closer to Auberon’s than Titania’s.]

The smile fades and Julian’s eyes drift down across his desk, into space. “What do you make of the arrow?”

Peter lifts the nock of the arrow, sighting down the shaft to the tip, inspecting each feather and binding. “Amber is a place of Truth. There is a power here that is harsh and unforgiving of fools, or those who would try to mould it without much preparation.”

As he sights down the arrow, perhaps a shaft of light catches the tip but the head seems to flash unduly brightly for a moment. His sensitive fingers seem to know the tip holds a virulent power and carefully stays away from it, touching only the wood. The shaft of the arrow is beautifully crafted, a work of art in its own right, but it is the head that makes the thing special.

Whatever is in the tip, it is somehow connected to the thing downstairs.

Peter looks, almost involuntarily, in the direction of the energy source that he still does not have the resolve to try and tap. He recollects where he is, and who he is speaking to, and shakes himself like a dog leaving water before continuing.

“This arrow is forged of the same Truth, with some of the same virtues that Amber has. It will fly straighter than any shaft crafted by mortal man or faerie fletcher. It will strike with the impact of Truth, hard and unforgiving.” Peter pauses, and looks directly at Julian. “And I do not think that the Arrow will care particularly what target it is aimed at.”

Julian continues to regard Peter impassively, even coldly.

Peter places the arrow on Julian’s desk, equidistant between the two of them, nock and tip still pointing towards the walls. “So why give it to a crafter of lies, this weapon of Truth?”

“Why indeed?” Julian leans forward, apparently examining the weird swirls in the metal of the arrowhead. Peter has never seen damascening in an arrow before; apparently, neither has Julian. “What does your experience tell you of gifts from Faerie?”

“That they cannot be trusted. That they are sometimes life saving.”

Julian nods slowly, distantly; still regarding the arrow.

Peter rubs his fingers absently on his doublet, as if he is trying to make sure that no taint from the arrow remains on his hands. Again, he looks directly at Julian. “And, my Lord, they always come with a price.”

“Oh! There’s always a price.” Julian looks directly at Peter, catching him unawares with eye contact. “What made you take it?”

Peter shrugs. “To be honest, my lord, the same thing that made me take part in the Battle of Eight Sorrows and to climb the Tower of Red Shadow to steal a breath from the Princess of Eskishar. Because it was there. Because when something is put in front of me, I would always rather choose the option that makes a better story.” Peter looks more serious than Julian has ever seen him in their short acquaintance. Julian nods slowly, as if coming to an understanding of some difficult problem. “It will kill me some day. But until it does, what a life I lead.”

Julian nods again, but this time seemingly in agreement. He resumes his seat and gestures for Peter to do the same. When both once again face each other over desk and arrow, “We were at the end of the second line, I think.”

Peter nods, and his serious manner disappears as he takes the seat offered. “We were, my lord. On to the third then?” He declaims “but elf, this birth token opens eyes to blood. Walk the path yourself.”

“The fact that I may have the blood of the Courts...” he pauses, then continues “…the Courts of the Fae within my veins we might accept for the purpose of this discussion. This token, the arrow, is not pointing towards that – the shape of my ears and the tinge of my skin is far more likely to do that. So we ask; how did the arrow get from Amber to Faerie?”

“I confess that is what intrigues me about its reappearance.” Julian’s tone is pure ennui; anyone would think the situation has no interest for him at all but Peter somehow feels the mood is false.

“Items of power, such as this, move through stories like clouds through the sky. But let us weave a story. Could this have been a gift from one who might be of Amber to one who might be of Faerie? Could there be a reason for that gift to be given?”

Julian’s grudging inclination of head is equivocal. “I am sure there could...but since this particular cloud drifted out of any story somewhat more than three thousand years ago, such a reason might be lost in the mists of time.”

Peter pauses, and then grins. “Perhaps I talk too much...”

Julian, quirks an eyebrow, somewhat sardonically.

“...Is this, rather, a gift from Faerie to myself, a signifier of my birthright?” Peter looks straight at Julian. “Could the Faerie for, whatever reason, be trying to suggest I may have the blood of Faerie and Amber intermingled? And if they do...?” Again, Peter looks towards the power source, “What path do they wish me to walk and why?”

Julian leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in deep thought. After a few seconds of cogitation, he lifts his head in reply. “Since you claim to be of Fae blood yourself, I am sure you are better qualified than I to speculate on Fae intentions.” A silence hangs in the room as he regards Peter.

Peter shrugs, his mood relaxing visibly as the story starts to unfold around him. “I am not sure I want to lay claim to that blood. But for the story, let it lie for now. The Faerie could be seeking to show us a way forward, or to cause dissension...” Julian nods in distant agreement. “...For now, it is not as important.”

Julian stops nodding and something about the way an eyebrow lifts suggests he’s surprised to hear you say that. “For the blood of Amber and Fae to mix, some intimacy would presumably be required between my family and Faerie. I confess I find this unlikely. What do you think?”

Peter’s composure cracks slightly, though he quickly brings his features under control. Thoughts of the gossip of servants crosses his mind, and the complex family trees that the scions of Amber weave around themselves, but he tries to not let this show.

Julian’s eyes bore into yours; you wonder how he can possibly miss your discomfiture.

“I cannot comment on the choices that your family would or would not make - it is not my place. But from what I know of the Faerie courts, they are not...” Peter pauses, obviously choosing his words carefully. “They are not averse to intimacy, and the lords and Ladies of Amber are far from unattractive, on the whole.” Peter smiles, slowly. He looks at Julian. “The Faerie have their own morality, my Lord.”

“Do they? Interesting! You are clearly intimate with the Fae mentality; you must explain their ‘morality’ to me when we can spare the time.” Julian smiles, a cold smile that does not reach his eyes. You wonder why he’s taken such a dislike to you. “However, I think your knowledge of Amber is less complete, and I cannot imagine a single one of my brothers would so sully himself.”

Peter stiffens, and there is a moment, just a moment, where his hand almost looks as if it would move towards his sword.

Julian isn’t wearing a sword and his hands remain steepled. The moment passes, and Julian smiles icily, radiating an aura of arrogant confidence. His smile broadens, revealing teeth. “But, of course, I may be wrong; perhaps you can tell me your parentage?”

Peter swallows, then looks at the arrow, no humour in his face at all. “As I said, m’lord, until the journey to Emeraldheart, I thought myself the child of two crafters of Gonfalon. Now?” He pauses, and looks around the room, and then down towards the golden chain around his neck. “Now, my lord, I do not know whose blood runs through my veins. And I am not sure if I care to know.”

“No?” Questions Julian, in supercilious disbelief. “Interesting!” He abruptly leans forward and takes up the arrow, examining the head once more. “But someone in Faerie would appear to have an interest, and...a desire that you also be interested, do you not think?” His eyes flick up from the arrowhead into your eyes.

His question is apparently rhetorical as he continues fluently after the briefest of pauses, again examining the arrow. “I recalled once seeing that bauble of yours elsewhere and asked our ambassador to Faerie, Prince Bleys, if he knew anything of it. He remarked that it was an item of power and the culture clearly Fae but was unable to provide specifics, having never seen or heard of it before. What does that tell you?”

He doesn’t look up but you get the feeling he’s paying very close attention to your reply.

Peter looks more closely at the necklace and holds its familiar weight in his hand as he considers his answer carefully.

“There are many treasures in the land of Faerie, and many of them in the Queen’s own bedchamber. As your brother, Prince Bleys, would not have sullied himself, I doubt that he would have seen every bauble that Faerie had to offer.”

Julian betrays no sign of noticing your lèse noblesse. “My ‘brother’ has a…passionate interest in such things and, as I have observed, you do not know my family as well as...your own. I would be surprised if he had not seen it were it in a place to be seen. Of course, he may have had reason to deny it; I am, however, inclined to believe him...on this occasion.”

“My lord, you have asked many questions, and I have answered as best I can. Would you answer one in return? When and where did you see this necklace before?”

You wouldn’t exactly call it warmth but Julian turns his smile on you in a manner suggesting he’s pleased for the first time since you entered the room. He puts down the arrow carefully, exactly where you put it, to the millimetre, but his gaze and thoughts are elsewhere as he considers his words carefully.

“Women...tend to find...my brother...charming while I, as I have said, have always been on good terms with Lord Auberon; we each entered into our...provinces at about the same time and in many ways we think alike.” He suddenly drops his voice and gaze as if embarrassed. “But I know only that it is familiar;” he confesses, “I cannot recall when and where I saw it save that it was long ago.”

Perhaps realising he may have revealed more than he wished, Julian retires into formality but at least there’s no trace of snidery or superciliousness. “Do you have any more questions?”

Peter shakes his head, aware of how close he treads to the abyss. He let himself forget for a moment that this man he faces is, firstly, not a man as Peter would define it; something far more powerful than a man, like the rest of his family, and, secondly, that if he were merely mortal, Julian is still a Lord here, with the resources of a kingdom in his hands, and more than enough power to remove an annoying Faerie bard.

“Then I must ask you what you intend to do with this arrow?”

Peter considers his answer very carefully. He starts a sentence two or three times, composing it in his head until it is just so. Then, with clear diction, Peter says: “I will find a target worthy of it.”

Again that single raised eyebrow of feigned surprise. Rising, Julian picks up the arrow as he rounds the desk. “Bearing in mind the nature of Fae gifts, do you not think the target might be yourself?”

Peter takes the arrow, his face still serious. “Perhaps so, my Lord. A bard I knew once tried to tell me that there were only 7 stories in all the worlds. His master riposted that in fact there were only two - the hero against the world and the hero against himself.”

Julian seems unimpressed. “Perhaps the arrow has already struck...?” He opens the door, gesturing for you to follow. He leads you in silence through the busy palace, heading for the stairs to the dungeons where you pass two soldiers on guard in full armour who uncross their halberds at a gesture from Julian. Their weapons cross again behind you.

Peter is quiet as Julian leads him into the depths of Castle Amber. The thought flits across his mind that he has said something to offend and that Julian intends to do away with him, but that is quickly dispelled by the following thought that Julian almost certainly has people to do that for him and thus wouldn’t need to bestir himself so.

You and Julian descend a spiral stair quite a long distance but not enough to tire you. It’s lit by oil lamps at intervals, set into niches. At the bottom you emerge into a moderate-sized square chamber. Two dark arches lead off it to either side but light spills from the oubliette across from you, silhouetting a lean figure, already listening attentively, pipe in hand, as Julian, calling him ‘Roger’, asks for a light.

Julian gestures for Roger to give you the lantern, which he does with a knowing leer. Another gesture indicates you are to precede Julian through one arch. You pass six dark caverns before reaching a seventh to the left that Julian’s laconic ‘here!’ indicates is your destination. Turning, you find your way blocked by an impressive pair of doors.

Julian steps past you, producing a large brass key from somewhere, unlocks the door and pushes firmly as his offhand vanishes the key. Stepping aside, he gestures for you to enter.

You can see little but the cavern must be very large indeed and something within is pulsing with a faint blue light.

Peter almost instinctively extends his senses - what is this thing in front of him?

Your senses tell you immediately that it’s the ‘thing in the basement’ – immensely powerful and, like all major power sources, requiring precise initiation rites and procedures to utilise – very dangerous, perhaps lethal, without.

Concentrating, he says almost as an aside to Julian “What is it you wish to show me here, Lord? Guarded like a treasure of the Kingdom, but far enough away that getting here is an inconvenience.”

Julian is silent for some time. You look up to find him gazing distantly into the room, perhaps thinking on his reply. He seems amused and philosophical at the same time.

“There is a...thing within. If you use the terms ‘birthright’ and ‘walk the path’ to my family, we will all think of it...together with other things, perhaps. You might call it a state secret...but I think Titania and Auberon are well aware of its existence. However, to my best knowledge, you will be the first of Fae blood to see it first hand...”

He glances down with quirked, questioning eyebrow, “...if you have the courage.”

And then Peter steps inside the chamber and slowly walks towards the blue light.

As you step forward and turn the corner, the cavern opens...and opens...and opens! Its immensity staggers you: over five hundred feet long, extending obliquely to your right, and perhaps two thirds that wide. It bears signs of having been excavated, though the floor looks to you like smooth, polished black marble.

But that’s not what hits you. Occupying most of the floor is a rough oval of blue-white tracery glowing brightly and pulsing like a slow heartbeat, quite regularly. The raw power hits you like a force and you feel your insides start to resonate with its beat - a most uncomfortable feeling. You are unaware of Julian stepping up behind you until he speaks.

“My brother...my late brother...Caine, had an amusing trick with a dog that he liked to demonstrate to...privileged visitors. However, I am fond of animals so we will use inanimates in our ‘experiments’. Please, step closer...but be careful not to touch.”

You advance gingerly a few yards, to within a couple of feet of the edge of the tracery. For the last couple of paces Julian’s hand falls gently on your shoulder. You’re not sure whether to steady, reassure, or push you forward.

At the edge, each pulse seems to sweep over and through you with a cold fire. [If Peter has ever been to a hi-tech shadow, he may be wondering about radiation burns.] A gentle squeeze from Julian’s hand emphasises it’s time to halt. “Stand here a while; feel the power scorch your...soul.”

Somewhere deep inside, that part of you that watches and records to recount in future tales is aware that Julian is probably watching you as carefully as you are watching the thing on the floor. He must be distracted though or he wouldn’t have forgotten that the Fae don’t have souls.

After perhaps a minute of silent regard, he speaks again. “Now...cast some item – any little thing you are willing to part with – onto the swirls...not the arrow!”

Peter carefully tucks the arrow through his belt, his eyes never leaving the cold blue light in front of him. His hand moves over his body, skipping from pouch to pouch to sleeve pocket. Finally, he withdraws a handkerchief from his sleeve; plain and unadorned but obviously woven for a lady’s delicate nose rather than a man’s.

A gentle pressure via his hand conveys Julian’s approval.

Taking a last sniff at the kerchief, no perfume remaining, Peter lets it drop from his hand. The lace cloth wafts gently in the breeze, dropping to the floor as gently as a curtsey until the edge of it brushes, oh so gently, the glowing line.

With a noise more like a sigh than anything violent, the handkerchief vaporises without a flame. You feel a brief wind whip your hair; the passing of a few square inches of silk has stirred the airs across the room out of all proportion.

“You will notice its passing leaves no mark,” observes Julian: you find yourself very aware of his hand. “Of course, silk does burn without trace but if you doubt my word you may experiment for yourself – my late brother’s demonstrations left no sign either.”

After a short silence...”Why might a father want his son kept away from his wife?” Julian questions, rhetorically. “Now... carefully... holding the arrow by the nock, pull the head across a line. Why would a king want his heir raised away from his Court?”

His hand shaking, an almost invisible reaction to the power in the room and the power standing directly behind him, Peter draws the arrow from his belt. Usually dexterous, his hand is unsteady as he reaches out towards the line with the truthful point almost touching the floor.

“If the king loves his heir, or wishes the heir protected, then the child would be safer away. Royalty always has rivals.” Almost like a pendulum, the arrow swings across a cold blue line and back again moving to the beat of Peter’s heart. “If the king hated his heir, or feared prophecies of the future, but was sworn not to shed royal blood, as many tales say, then he moved his rival far away.”

<swish-swish-swish-swish>

If Peter has ever held two magnets close together, he knows the sensation. Some force is trying to pull the arrowhead in one direction and push it from another. It keeps trying to flip out somewhere toward the middle, somewhat right of centre. It’s all you can do to hold it.

“Or perhaps, the King wishes his child to know a better life?”

Julian is non-committal: “Perhaps you are right? There could be many reasons.” <beat> “Now...touch the line.”

And steadily, Peter draws the point across the line.

Letting the arrow point where it wants, you drop the arrowhead on a dark interstice where the rampant power flows make it dance, producing an eerie tinny clatter. As you draw the point across a line, sparks fly and the noise becomes more of a fierce crackle.

Suddenly, a surge in the forces twists the arrow from your grasp and flings it across the thing of power, a foot off the floor, until the point dips to meet a point on the Pattern, no different from any other to your eyes. There the arrow spins about its long axis, point to the Pattern, fletchings in the air, as if kept there by some tiny whirlwind.

“Oh!” Comments Julian, coldly. “How careless of you…Well you’d better get it back; it’s a very valuable artefact.”

Tearing his eyes from the flight of the arrow, Peter spins to face Julian, almost forgetting the cold fire pulsing behind his back. His eyes are full of anger and his mouth opens to challenge Julian’s behaviour when, suddenly, he laughs.

Julian’s supercilious icy stare is broken by a single raised eyebrow.

“My Lord, I had not thought the gatekeeper at the start of the quest would wear such a noble mien. This then is the challenge that the story demands? The young hero,” and Peter executes a graceful bow, even in this confined space, “stepping forth upon his journey, having been shown the dangers by the wise old hermit.”

This time both eyebrows rise at being referred to as ‘old hermit’. With an air of long-suffering silence, Julian roles his eyes.

He starts slowly striding clockwise around the glowing whorl of lines. Peter follows him around the room as Julian explains the procedure. “The initiation is demanding. You must start at the edge of the Pattern and walk the lines until you reach the centre. Progress is arduous and, in places, may feel impossible. If at any point you hesitate or stop, it will destroy you. Do you understand?”

Peter modulates his voice with a storyteller’s skill so that it can be heard, playing with the echoes slightly. “This then is the task: to retrieve the treasure from the guarded path. And what a joy! The path itself is sufficient guardian that no others are needed. Indeed, the path is locked behind metal doors to prevent it from harming those of the Castle.” Watching the Pattern on the floor, Peter starts following it with his eyes, trying to discern a start or an end to it.

The task is by no means easy as the design features plenty of dead ends and false starts but ardent scrutiny will no doubt reveal the true path...

“The path is dangerous, Lord Gatekeeper. But had you wanted me killed you could have pushed when your hand lay on my shoulder in easy familiarity, and I would have disappeared like a wisp of silk. So the task must be possible to achieve, which means that the path is true if it is walked correctly.”

Julian nods, clearing his throat. For the first time in Peter’s recall, he sounds uncertain of himself. “Erm!...Yes!...Provided it is assayed by one of the Blood of Amber. It is...always fatal to those who are not...<beat> My father used it as a form of execution...for the most privileged of felons.”

Again, Peter paces, looking for the first place to step.

Despite your keen mind and natural perceptions, you still cannot find the ‘start’. However, Julian stops you roughly a quarter way round and gestures to where a particular line meets the edge.

“So, my Lord Gatekeeper. I accept the challenge. I will retrieve the arrow from the path, and return with it. And then, you might be so kind as to answer one or two questions that I have?”

Julian’s hand falls heavily on your shoulder, twisting you forcefully to face him. “I warn you, Peter, to presume such familiarity is an impertinence – I may deign to hear your questions; I promise no answers. Now be about your business!”

And with that, Peter bows a bow of deep respect to Julian, and steps onto the start of the path.

You stand at the edge of the design, feeling out into it with your senses; you breathe deeply, calming yourself, focusing your mind. When you’re ready, you raise your boot...

...but while your foot is in the air, you have a premonition that something is deeply wrong. Somehow you know that to place it on the glowing line will result in your swift annihilation. You notice a glow from your medallion; you’ve only seen it twice before and both times you were about to make a dreadful mistake.

Peter stops, his hand involuntarily going to the chain around his neck as memories flash through him: two cups, and a grinning Faerie Lord, malice shining deep in his eyes. A choice, and doom in one cup. A gleam from the necklace, a slight warmth, a hint of constriction. The left hand cup....

Earlier...Bridges made of gossamer and lace, soaring over the summer faire. A time for Faerie and the mortal world to mingle safely (or as safely as they ever can). An old man (Old? No... but appearing to be old) offering a choice.

Everything is about choices. And the first memory. A weeping child watching his playmates shift and twist shape, birds chasing cats, chasing shrews, chasing lions, chasing wolves. A boy unable to shift his shape, watching from the sidelines when a hand appears. A gift. The ability to change at least into one form, to continue playing. A gift unasked for, and unpaid for. And the face of the giver hidden from view.

The Pattern pulses, drawing Peter’s attention back to the clear and present danger. Raising his eyes from the cold blue light in front of him, he meets Julian’s gaze. All trace of levity gone, he speaks. “My Lord. Have you ever known a Faerie gift go unpaid for?” Peter watches carefully for Julian’s reply.

Julian considers his words equally carefully before replying with simple clarity. “No! <beat> Someone always pays.” A faintly mocking tone enters his voice. “Does something trouble you, Peter? Your ebullience seems suddenly lacking?” He moves forward and bends slightly to bring his mouth close to your ear as his hand again finds your shoulder. “If you cannot bring yourself to trust my direction, perhaps you should find your own start point?”

Peter looks down at the cold blue lines by his feet, and feels the weight of the Faerie Gift about his neck. Considering for a moment, he pauses, and then lifts his head to look at Julian, still waiting for an answer to his question. “My Lord, this quest ... you have showed me a path, but I hear warnings of danger from it. Perhaps your role here is not to show me the way, but to test that I am worthy of this path?”

“Perhaps!...Perhaps it is time for you to decide whether you trust some bauble over your elders and betters…or whether you prefer your own callow judgement.” Julian relinquishes his hold and steps back.

The amulet still pulses dully – following the line you were about to step on, you find it swiftly enters a labyrinth of convolutions, on the far side of which it abruptly dies. You cannot reach the centre by this route.

Peter starts to pace, examining the Pattern in front of him for any clues as to where he should take the first step.

As you look, the medallion continues to pulse its warning red in time with your heart, in time with the Pattern. Curbing your impetuousness, you take the time to follow a line back from the centre. It’s a long process but, after a few minutes, you find it reaches the edge a few yards to your left, a little further around than Julian brought you.

“The Faerie poem said that I should walk the path myself, after all.”

“Indeed.”

Peter studies the Pattern in front of him as he would study a battle, or a court scene, committing the feel of it to memory rather than the actuality. Feeling and emotion is what makes people connect to the story, not bare description. He hardly seems to react to Julian’s questions, unable to listen enough to guess whether Julian is truly offended or if this is yet another mask that the Amber Lord wears.

This is the place; both intellect and instinct tells you so, but still the medallion pulses its warning. Behind you, you hear a stirring. “Is something the matter? Perhaps the place is right but not the time? I hear that happens oft in Faerie.”

Peter raises his head and looks directly at Julian. “This is not Faerie.”

“Where is Faerie?” <beat> Julian sighs deeply, as if finally coming to some difficult decision. Stepping forward, his hand once again falls on your shoulder, again half turning you to face him. The mocking tone is gone, replaced by a ‘facts-of-life’ pragmatism.

“You must understand two things. Firstly, walking this path will be the most arduous thing you have ever done. If you bear the bloodline, you may succeed; if you do not, you will join those who are but footnotes in history. But be sure the task may break you even if you are of the blood. If you were to ask, my counsel would be to wait; let someone school you before you assay the thing. But as you are impatient, I urge you to start slowly and keep moving – to stop is to die.”

Julian’s gaze becomes even more intense; evidently the more important point is coming. “The second thing:.. be assured that it will change you. Both you and the world will never again be as you once were. You are Fae...Faerie is a thing of shadow and glamour, illusion and allusion, what may be and may once have been. This, <nodding toward the Pattern> is pure order: what is and must be.” He smiles gently as he thinks of a simile that may make sense to you. “To begin a new story, you must end another.” He drops his hand and glides back, still smiling. “The choice is yours.”

Peter nods, as much at the advice as at Julian’s change of attitude.

A single step. One foot movement, and Peter steps onto the Pattern. Despite the danger, despite the dire warnings from Julian, Peter moves surely and with confidence. This will be a journey of which he will be telling stories for the rest of his life. ‘Ignore the voice that suggests that won’t be a very long time’.

A second step, and a third and a fourth. The power of the Pattern swells and surrounds Peter. Blue flickering light moves in the corners of his vision, crackles of static and storm charged air surround him. But still he moves, certain and sure that the Path he walks is one that he should be on.

Still walking, Peter steals a look at Julian. ‘What was he so concerned about? This is not hard. This path welcomes me.’ Peter grins. ‘The Amberite has made this seem more difficult than it truly is, just to scare me.’

A flash of red heat from his necklace. Pain around his neck forces Peter’s head forward, his foot almost dropping onto an adjacent section of the Pattern as his concentration wandered. Shamefaced and grateful for a Faerie gift, Peter turned his focus to the journey. ‘Gloating comes later’.

Ahead, a ghostly nimbus covers the route that Peter planned on taking. Picking up his pace, Peter approaches the curtain, not sure what to expect. The air thickens, resisting his forward movement, and Peter leans into it, a slight sweat breaking on his brow as the resistance increases. ‘A storm’, he thinks. ‘You’ve walked in worse weather than this.’ Push, and push and through the cloud.

Peter draws a heavy breath, raising his hand to wipe his forehead clear. The path ahead seems uphill, demanding more effort again, though he could have sworn that this cavern was as flat as a tourney field when he started walking. Onwards, though. ‘You’ve fought all day on the fields of Dalriada, you can manage a walk in a cave!’ One foot lifted, then another, and again, and again. Ahead, another cloud darkened the horizon, blocking the Path. Peter’s thighs strain with the effort of walking uphill, of leaning into the storm, but he continues.

Sounds start to echo around him. Battles, swords, the clash of metal on metal. The neighing of horses and the screams of the dying. ‘Not your business. Don’t get involved. How can the storyteller tell the story if he is involved in it?’ The sounds intensify, and drawn by them, Peter begins humming a war song of Gonfalon under his breath.

‘Fight ye sons of morning, Strive against the foe. Glory, honour, duty are the payments ye shall know!’

A step, a breath, and the second cloud is passed. Ahead, a confusing filigree of delicate paths, and the Arrow. Do not forget the arrow. That was the reason for this journey in the first place.

Delicate steps, like dance. The sounds of battle have faded, to be replaced by the murmur of conversation and chatter. Music plays, a galliard, as Peter’s steps become more precise and measured. Each step, he hears a snatch of conversation from his past.

“…Never did understand what she saw in the human child …”

“…he’s a competent enough performer, I suppose. For a Shortlived, at least…”

“…well I laughed, of course. It would have been rude not to. And look at his dancing. The mud still sticks to his feet…”

Ignore them. Stuck up bastards. Keep walking. Move, and move. Dance through this pattern like you wove through the throng of the Court.

The end of the dance. Bow, turn, bow. Grab the arrow! Move on to your next partner.

As the dance ends, and the music fades, Peter again wipes water from his face. This time, it is not sweat, but bitter salt tears.

The path ahead curves, like the promenade outside of Castle Amber. Weary beyond measure, Peter settles into the march of the troubadour who has many miles yet to travel and no promise of fire or rest at the end. Each foot lifted and raised is a triumph uncheered; each swing of the arms a victory without a story to tell. Another curtain. Another push. Another heroic effort to keep going, and not to stop, to curl up, to sleep here. To die.

And silence reigns. Not the quiet of being alone, or the calm of a starry night, but the dead silence of the grave. No footfall, no pounding of blood in the ears, no tortured breath drawn into aching lungs. Peter hums again, trying to make a single note heard, but the silence that surrounds him swallows everything. Peter is alone here, unreachable and without hope of succour. Without hope.

‘No!’

A wall this time, not a curtain. For the instant of a fraction of a heartbeat, Peter feels still. This barrier is impassable. This curtain cannot be got through.

‘NO!’

‘You have taken my childhood companions and the wars in which I have fought. You have taken the intrigue and malice of the Faerie Court, where I sailed through deep waters with innocence and inexperience. You have taken my voice, that which I treasure most above all. BUT YOU HAVE NOT TAKEN ME!’

Step. Step. Step. Push. Be bloody minded. Be determined. Be focused. Don’t give in. Walk because this Path is yours by right of birth, by right of place and by right of time.

Now is the time. PUSH.

A fourth step, then a third and a second. One final step, and Peter stands at the centre of the Pattern.

‘I am not a warrior of Gonfalon now. Nor am I a courtier of the Faerie Realm. My voice is not my own, so a bard cannot be my calling. Who am I?’ Peter looks across the Pattern at Julian, and answers his own question. ‘I am a child of Amber, my Lord Kinsman. Bloodied, bruised and exhausted, but here by the right of my blood, and my determination.’

Peter slumps to his knees, exhausted, as he realises his whispered defiance can be heard by no one but himself. He feels the world darken as consciousness slowly ebbs. Dimly, he hears Julian’s voice calling as from afar, “Do not swoon there! Come to me! Focus on me and the Pattern will bring you. Come now!”

Peter searches for the voice but there’s some sort of shimmering around the centre of the Pattern and the world is darkening around him, clouding his sight.

His head bowed, Peter pushes with his hands to try and raise himself to seek Julian’s voice. Fatigue drags at his eyelids, and his muscles drop. Again, he tries to raise himself from the ground. “I will. I can.” Drawing on his last reserves of strength, reserves that he had not known he had, Peter focuses. “I come.”

And darkness falls.