I awoke with a ringing headache, lying on cobblestone, half-leaning on a stone wall. All I could remember were dreams of the Broken Pattern; my mother, trying to protect me, and dying in the process; walking the cracks of the corrupted Pattern to its center; Brand, my father, appearing in a ragged condition, eye missing, bearing a crossbow. I remembered my first reaction: That he was the sender of my dreams, that he was the one responsible for my mother’s death. I remembered teleporting to him in my rage and lifting him by the throat, and the terrible mistake that was, as he bent back my arms like a child, forcing me to my knees. I remembered using a Word to access his mind, and the feeling of immensity, sheer power, that I felt, and then, blacking out. Waking still in his grasp, his words, "You disappoint me, son. I wanted better for you. Take this gift, and my blessing, and we will be together again, to share in the glory that is to come." Then, darkness again. These things, I say I remember, because they seem more real than what was to come next.
My feelings were in a turmoil. Mum was dead. I had been led to take on a Power that I knew nothing of, except that it was an abomination. My father, whom I hadn’t seen in years shows up and I attack him in my grief, assuming he was the redheaded deceiver in my dreams. And, of course, walking so near the Dark Well tends to depress one.
Finally, rising to stand, knees somewhat weak, I took stock of my whereabouts. A fairly large, medieval city, its inhabitants passing me on the street, paying me no notice whatsoever. Looking up at the wall, I could just see the top of a large castle. The sky seemed too close, the moon too bright. It also seemed more solid than the city I was in, somehow. I attempted to stop a man in the street, to ask him the name of this place, but was ignored. I tried asking a lady, ignored again. (Which never happens to me.) Then, I tried talking to a group of children, figuring that, perhaps the inhabitants of this place had some prejudice to outsiders that a child may not have learned yet. Still, it was to no avail. It was as though they could not hear me. Frustrated, I grabbed a man who again ignored my question by the shoulder, only to watch my hand pass through his form as though he were insubstantial, or I was.
Then, suddenly, I knew. This was Tir-na N’ogth. The ghost city in the sky of Amber. And I knew the castle behind me was none other than the reflection of Castle Amber, capitol of the True Realm. Father had told me about Amber, and Tir, when I was a child, and I assumed that I had merely made a leap in logic to arrive at my conclusion, but that was not, I was to learn, the case.
Turning then toward the wall, I followed it some small distance, till I arrived at the gate. Slipping past the guard was not at all difficult, since I was as much a ghost to him as he was to me. I walked up to the castle proper, and entered into the great hall. There was a state banquet going on, but the guests were not all human. Many wore demonic or monstrous forms, while some appeared perfectly normal, save an odd feature. Here a lovely woman with ears that were far too long, there a stout man with skin too red, and too thick. They were all shapes and sizes, and even the monstrous ones seemed to exhibit fine table manners. At the head of the table there was a large, empty chair, a throne. The two seats next to it were also vacant. I walked to the head of the table, and even as I wondered who would sit there, in walked my father, Brand, wearing the crown of Amber, bearing a huge red ruby around his neck. He was accompanied by a cheerful young man on one side, and on the other....me.
I felt a twisting sensation, and found myself walking with my father towards the table. The conversation that the ghosts were having continued, and this time I was a part of it.
"So," said the red-headed young man, "Things didn’t work out quite how you expected, but you still seem to have come out on top."
I merely listened at this point, curious, I suppose. Then, Father addressed me, "What do you think of Luke’s assertion, Kyle? Do you think I was surprised at the turn of events? Or, do you think I got just what I wanted?"
"Hard to tell, with you, Father, but you seem to have come out on top, I’d say," I reply, realizing that the red-headed man to his other side is my brother, Luke, and getting a warm fuzzy feeling about him that I know is foreign. When Father sent me to this place, he must have done something, implanted some sort of basic information, and left me some of his psychic residue in the process. The realization of which did nothing for my declining spirits. I truly hate for my mind to be futzed with in any way. Up until then, I’d never had my mind violated before, nor met anyone capable of the feat.
It was just then that I realized something else about our family. It is that we feel things very intensely. One would think that a race of immortals would become jaded over time, our feelings dulled, but if anything, the case is quite reversed. Just as we are more vibrant, stronger, faster, healthier, even able to regenerate over time, and, yes, smarter, than the average Shadow-dweller, so run our emotions, deeper, and more true, undiluted, you might say, by mere mortal consciousness. And, at this moment of realization, I was angry. Very angry. Not that I let it show on the surface, or that even a casual mind probe would reveal it, but the anger was there, and it burned in me.
I looked at the assembled mob of half-men and monsters and said, by way of observation, "It would appear that you have a kingdom, but these lords and ladies of Chaos are cluttering up the halls."
Luke, or his image, or ghost, or whatever the nature of these visions, laughed heartily at the remark, and the false Brand smiled a sly smile and said, "A small concession, but not a permanent one, you may well believe." Gesturing to a shadowy servant, he said, "Now, my son, it is time to meet your bride, Drusilla of Chaos."
From out of the shadows stepped a tall figure, thin, with writhing tentacles about its head. As it approached, it resolved into a definitely feminine figure, with firm, high breasts, snakes for hair, and scintillating blue and violet snakeskin. I didn’t get past these features to see the face.
I was incensed. I flung a sliver platter full of sweetmeats to the floor at her feet, and upset my chair when I arose from the table. "Damn you and your fool games! I refuse to be party to this glamour any longer, you fool construct!"
Nobody at the table seemed to notice my outburst, but at that moment, the false Brand turned to me, looked up and smiled that same knowing-but-not-telling smile of his, and said, "You don’t really have a choice, son, it begins even now."
I just got up and walked out. There was nothing further to say to this madness.
As I made my way down from the castle, and out the gates into the town, I failed to notice a lithe figure slip out of the courtyard behind me. As I passed through the throngs of ghost people I slowly let go of my rage. Hell, it didn’t matter, did it? I would be better off like one of them, a ghost, or not here at all. No sense in going home, with me Mum dead, and there was nothing for me here. That mad prince I had just dined with wasn’t the father I knew, and his kingdom, in whatever state, wasn’t mine to call home, even should I want to. No, I’d had twice the three score and ten promised mortal men, so perhaps this was a sign that it was time to move on. My mood was dark, and my heart felt barren. Perhaps it was a lingering madness from the Broken Pattern I had so recently, and unwillingly, walked. I didn’t question the feeling at the time, however. I simply decided that it was time to go.
So, I headed out of town, to a grassy plateau overlooking the sea far below. It was the closest thing to the countryside of home that I could find. As insubstantial as it was, it fit the occasion, so I settled down in the faux shade of a weathered old oak-ghost, and closed my eyes in concentration. Soon, it would be all over. No more pain and confusion of this strange world, just the sweet rest of oblivion.
The end, however, was to be delayed. I heard footsteps on the phantom grass behind me. Rising to my feet, I turned, to behold an image in blue satin. She was tall, my height in her heals, and wore a shimmering satin dress all in blue, molded around the well-formed curves of her body, just revealing enough to be seductive while maintaining decorum. Subtlety that I could appreciate, that. Her hair was long, and of an odd cast that at first seemed a very light blonde, but resolved itself into a very pale blue as she neared me. Her eyes were large pools of ice blue, her lips of just the perfect fullness, and her skin the consistency of fine china. She wore little in the way of adornment, only an unassuming string of pearls and small pearl earrings. Anything more would have been overkill, for she was the jewel of the piece, and nothing in her dress should draw away from that. When she spoke, her voice was music, resonant, rich, and altogether inviting.
"I am Drusilla, and I was hoping you could aid me."
"Ah, you are a fine phantasm, lass, and I’d willingly be snared by your charms, but I have business to be about, so you can go back and join my father’s other phantasms." It was a shame, I thought, she could almost have swayed me. Any other day, but, I had to do a bit of spellcraft, my last bit.
"You do not understand. I am not one of them." She looked distressed, and I could have fallen into those icy blue orbs right there. "I…I was brought here, I think. I am uncertain. But, I am certain I am real. I knew you were real when you got up and stormed out of there. I saw you talking to that man, and then you stepped. . . out . . . of yourself and left, wearing those strange garments."
I looked down at my outfit, and realized I was wearing biking leathers. I’d had some notion of going out for a ride when the idea had taken me to go chasing that dream. Nightmare, more likely. "Look, I am sorry, but I can’t help you, I am very busy killing myself right now."
Her countenance changed, her face so downcast that I reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. To comfort her? I don’t know, but I was drawn to her. Somehow, I knew that this wasn’t right for her, to be in this state. No, I knew she had more fiber in her than that, although I didn’t know how I knew. She looked up at me, and I caressed her cheek. The caress turned into an embrace, and the embrace into a long kiss. That done, and, believe me it had to be done, for there was no denying the magnetism, I stepped back a bit. "I’m so sorry that we had to meet here, and now. If you are real, you had best be leaving this place before dawn. The steps lead down from the city gates, over there." I pointed. Once again, that marvelously expressive face changed. She bit her lip ever so slightly, and said, "If it must be, then fare thee well, Kyle. May we meet again." Her eyes were getting a little moist when she turned and headed toward the gate. I remained standing, and watched her progress until she was hidden by the ghost buildings.
Tir Part 3: Out out damned spot!
As the sight of Drusilla faded, so did any thoughts of whatever possibilities lie therewith. I settled myself down to be about my grim work. Choosing a soft patch of green ghost-grass on the lee side of a tall ghost oak, I seat myself in a lotus position, and closed my eyes. After a few minutes of preliminaries, I cleared my head and was hovering slightly over the grass in short order.
First things first, I needed a conjuring cup. Actually, I didn't need the prop at all, but I planned on casting a real whopper of a spell, and it usually helped facilitate concentrating the needed energies. Besides, it was kind of a traditional thing among my Mum's folks, and I've always honored that. So, without much ado, I set about singing up a nice, copper cup. Nothing fancy, no ornamentation to speak of, just a large cup, or goblet, of pure copper. I usually just pull in the appropriate molecules of copper or some metal easily transmutable and shape them, but in this case I wasn't really sure where the raw materials came from. Probably the ghost-stuff of this place, and that would have its effects on the working. Well, it seemed real enough, and I supposed that it would serve its purpose.
Taking in a deep breath, I raised the cup to my lips and breathed my pneuma into it. The breath settled like a small fog in the bottom of the cup, and coalesced slowly to a frosty coating all around it. No mere breath, this, but the very breath of my life, given intent and purpose by my will. Next, I left the cup suspended in a web of arcane forces in front of me, and drew a slim dagger from my boot. I brought the cold blade across the palm of my hand, and let fall three drops of my blood into the conjuring cup. The crimson drops landed near the top edge of the cup, and followed one another around a slowly descending spiral to gather in the bottom in a tiny pool. With life's breath and blood, air, water, and fire, combined in the copper cup of the earth, the vessel was almost complete. A single Word ignited the blood in the cup, and an eldritch flame began to burn within. Even as I started to sing the ancient incantations, the cup began to draw mana into itself to fuel that mystic fire.
I began to sing myself out of existence then, and it's a hard thing to describe. I started with the old things, summoned my memories of earliest childhood, and sent them away, into the cup. My first memories of Mum and Da; Da leaving us to go on the road; the horse I rode at a carnival; summer bathing in one of the Moygashel's many tributaries' my fist dog, a white mutt with a mangled ear, Lucky. All of these things went. I remember them going. Onward, to my teen years, rabble-rousing; fighting bullies because of my long hair and dance lessons, and my anger at me Mum for enforcing both of these; my first kiss; my initiation into the Art; Da's news of my birthright. All of these things, I remember going. Then, things were fuzzier, and fuzzier. OK, more like psychedelic at points. I ran through my early adulthood and another hundred plus years of history, until I reached that most hated of places, the Broken Pattern.
It was then that I realized the power of the thing. Mum had told me it could be used for magic, though it was dangerous, and it seems that whatever knowledges Brand implanted in me included a pretty thorough primer on the Broken Pattern. I drew upon the beckoning power of the Black Well, and wove it into the final spell. My voice hoarse from hours of singing now, turned into a hideous wail of torment as I spit out those syllables that released the power of the Black Well, and hurled all of me into it, tearing me asunder, and removing me from existence...or so I thought.
The sensation was of being torn apart, body dissipating into a large column of flame that erupted from the copper cup, even as a similar wave ripped out from the center of Amber, Oberon's attempt to set the universe straight. Consciousness followed corporeality, and I simply dissipated. . .
I was no more.