Chapter 1 - Meeting with Christophe

n.b. Some parts of this chapter happened in the background of the public game.
Explanations of these are therefore given in italics.

(Christophe, on learning that Thomas is not human but a mechanical construct, has hurried off, announcing his intention to rescue his family from Anglia, where he believes the golem (Thomas) might threaten them. Arathorn moves to follow Christophe)

Arathorn moves a step towards the door, then pauses and looks back towards Thomas.

As the door clicks to behind Christophe, Thomas hangs his head for another long moment, then looks back at Arathorn.

"Try to speak to him, would you?" he asks. "He won't listen to me."

Arathorn hesitates, then nods.

Thomas's expression seems so human, it's hard for an observer to reconcile his nature with his appearance.

"I swear to you, I mean him no harm."

"I know," responds Arathorn, "And I will try ... " He looks across, ironically at Rowan. "Unless you feel I am not an appropriate person, either?"

Without waiting for an answer, but with another nod at Thomas, he leaves the room.

Thomas, saying nothing to anyone, follows Benedict down the hall, pulling his gloves back on as he goes.

Arathorn makes his way swiftly through the corridors. There is no sign of Christophe ... and he pauses, frowning in thought. At last he heads towards Christophe's own quarters, some distance away.

As he crosses the corridor that abuts the stable courtyard, he hears the clatter of hooves, the rumble of heavy wheels. Swiftly he moves to the mullioned window and looks out, then curses.

From Arathron's perspective, he sees Christophe rush across the courtyard, wrapped in his cloak, his hat pulled down over his face. Without so much as a look back he scales the short stair and enters the open door to the coach, which slams! behind him.

Arathorn stares out at the massive coach, and is about to turn away and rejoin the party when it occurs to him.

He raises his hand to tap on the glass ... then pauses. From this distance, he would not be heard. And then his hand lowers. He stands still, watching the great carriage depart ... an arrested expression on his face.

Slowly, he starts to smile ....

"Ah," he says, and turns away, to rejoin his relatives.

 

(He arrives at the Oak Study)

As she speaks, the door opens quietly, and Arathorn enters. He looks around the room, and his expression is grave.

"Christophe is gone. I'm sorry ... I was not in time to stop him. But I saw the direction he followed - he is taking a route to Anglia I helped him devise. If necessary, I daresay I could follow later ... "

He looks at Thomas, then moves across the room and speaks to him briefly in a low voice. "Thomas ... I believe it was a ruse. The person who barded the carriage ... it wasn't Christophe. Pickering, maybe, or Zhou, disguised to look like Christophe. But too short. He's still here ... and he's up to ... something. What - I don't know."

Then he straightens.

"I'm sorry," he says aloud again, this time to Thomas, with real regret in his voice, and moves to the wall behind Thomas' chair, leaning there, and watching his father and Dara examining the stone.

(Later, as the family are preparing to descend to the Pattern Chamber … )

Rowan pulls out his claymore and stands firm. "I shall take the rear. For those who are not going down say your goodbyes quickly."

"Good idea," said Arathorn. "I shall just see if Merlin will be accompanying us. Wouldn't want you mistaking him for an enemy of the Darke creeping at our rear."

So saying, he turned and made his way back towards the study ...

(In the Study … Merlin is with his parents, Corwin and Dara)

Merlin also looks quite stunned, and turns to view his Mother for a moment before turning back to his Father, "If you're waiting for me to say no, you'll have a long time waiting!"

The young man holds out his right hand, open, palm to his left, in silent request for a hand given in the true friendship and love of a father-son relationship...

Arathorn appears briefly at the door of the study, glances within, then moves away quietly, his face thoughtful.

He takes up a station in a window embrasure where he can watch the door of the study, and then pulls out his trumps. He selects the one of Christophe and laid his fingers on it, thinking of Anglia, of Christophe's pale, gentle wife ... his children ...

"Christophe," he said urgently, unsure even whether he had contact. "I don't have long ... The Darke is closing in ...

"I know it wasn't you who left the Castle - but I've covered for you with the rest. Now ... speak to me, damn it!

"They're having Thomas walk the Pattern - and I suspect you're the only one who has any notion what the consequences might be ... "

The strange sensation of the trump washes over Arathorn, a brief shiver of cold that raises goosebumps as his words echo dully.

Then he sees what appear to be stars; tiny pinpoints of light.

That move.

"Arathorn. . ." comes a soft voice, "I knew I could count on you. . ."

The stars gather, hovering and turning, to illuminate Christophe, seeming suspended in a pool of darkness. Vague shapes behind him loom up, up, rectangular and massive.

"I've discovered what must be done, but I need you and Thomas to accomplish it. You say Thomas is walking the Pattern? Excellent. . . excellent! I wondered when the collective unconscious that is our extended family would figure out the importance of his doing so. . ."

He swats absently at one of the motes of light that had drawn too close to his face.

"Be a good man and come on through, will you? And I hope you've still got at least one of those little acorns the ghost handed out? That is, if Martel hasn't already eaten them, the oaf. . .and bring Thomas."

"I have mine still,and Thomas his," replies Arathorn, smiling faintly.

Christophe Barimen smiles a knowing, relieved smile, as the swarm of lights begin to dissapate once more.

"No ... wait ... Christophe, damn it! You expect me to extract Thomas from the bosom of the family ... "

Arathorn frowns.

"Be ready for my trump call," he says, as the image fades, hoping Christophe hears. "And be ready to pull us through damn fast."

"But of course," comes the now-distant voice.

(Meanwhile … Merlin runs after Arathorn ...)

Corwin raises a hand in silent farewell.

Arathorn is seated in a window embrasure, and when he hears Merlin, he looks up with a slightly pre-occupied frown. When he sees who it is, however, his face clears and he nods in acknowledgement.

"Thomas is to walk the Pattern, and the rest of us to act as guards, it seems. Will you come? My man Wallace has supplied weapons."

(They rejoin the party and descend to the Pattern Chamber … )
Following Benedict's rebuke, silence reigns as the group scuffles down the corridor, mist swirling at their ankles.

They come across the form of another guardsman, bruised and pulped as the other two were, his halberd falled to his side.

Another thousand feet and some turns later, they found the great bronze valves of the pattern Chamber.

Of the guards normally on duty, there was no sign, but odd and unusual sounds seemed to echo from further down the corridor, beyond the entrance to the Pattern.

Distant and muted, as if heard underwater, the sounds could have been anything...the shuffle of flesh on stone...the hoarse cry of a woman in pain...sibilant laughter like sharp glass...the thumping of a pestle and mortar.

The doors were opened from a key at Rowan's belt, and the doors swung open to reveal the immense cavern beyond.

Flat floor, onyx black, was free of mist. The glowing blue lines of the pattern, flickering with power, seemed to keep them at bay as much as the sun burns off morning mist.

The chamber was empty of inhabitants, though the light of the pattern made if difficult to see the far side of the room, and the clammy cold that pervaded the caverns was relieved once inside...

Benedict said nothing, but instead stepped to one side, his back to a wall, and regarded Thomas.

Upon entering the room, Thomas stares at the Pattern as if mesmerized. It is not uncommon for the Pattern to produce feelings of wonder in its viewers, but his rapt expression implies an emotion of an entirely different order.

Without turning his gaze away from the Pattern, he holds one hand out in the direction of Martel. "Give me the acorn," he says, quietly but firmly.

Martel hands it to Thomas, then steps to one side, watchful.

"Thank you," says Thomas. He slips the acorn into his coat pocket, and reaches his other hand out toward Arathorn.

Dyved looks startled. "My Lords, is this a good idea? You have been told again and and again that this Prince is your best hope of salvation, and yet with all the signs and omens that surround this place, you are setting him on this most dangerous of tasks!"

"Be at peace, Dyved," Thomas says. His head still does not turn, and his voice does not raise. "This is what I must do. I know it now. Thank you for your concern."

Arathorn, his acorn in his hand, looks at Thomas. "Our fish-loving friend has a point, Thomas," he rejoins. "There may be some infections present on the Pattern ... some taint of the Darkness, invisible to us now ... but deadly. If I were of the Darkness ... "

"Arathorn," Thomas replies after a moment. "Do you trust me?"

Arathorn smiles briefly. "Yes."

Thomas smiles faintly, though his eyes still do not leave the Pattern.

"Thank you. Then give me your acorn, and let me do what I must do. The Darke has overcome some of this family's strongest minds. It may be that what I am protects me from it; I do not know. I only know that I must try, and quickly."

Arathorn hesitates. "Thomas ... let me go first." He speaks swiftly, urgently. "That way ... if there is danger ... we will not risk you. Blood of Amber." He gives a mirthless laugh. "I have little else to risk ... and less to risk than many here whose loss would be more material to Amber."

"To dare the same infection that has overcome so many?" Thomas objects. "If it afflicts you as well, we have one more enemy to face, one less blade on our side, and I will still need to walk the Pattern not knowing if it is safe. It is a risk I must take, regardless...why must you take it as well?"

Arathorn looks at him. "If I die ... if I am lost ... there are other Patterns. Safer. You can go to Rebma, or Tir. If I live, I shall see you at the centre."

Thomas shakes his head. "I feel that I must walk this very one, exactly because it is at the heart of the corruption. I suspect that, when I am done, my role will be over. But Amber will need you whether I succeed or fail. You must not risk yourself." He takes a step toward the start of the Pattern.

Arathorn sighs. "Very well, Cousin."

He extends his hand with the acorn. Thomas appears to relax, just a fraction, and reaches out his hand to collect the acorn.

As Arathorn drops it an inch short of Thomas's hand.

"My apologies," Arathorn says, as they both stoop ...

For the first time, Thomas looks away from the Pattern, blinking as though emerging from a dream-filled sleep. He kneels down to pick up the acorn... But Arathorn straightens, takes three swift steps and sets his foot on the Pattern. Blue sparks surge and wash over his boot.

As his fingers close around the acorn, Thomas' head snaps towards Arathorn. His free hand stretches out towards his cousin. "No!..."

Arathorn turns his head and smiles.

"Wait until I am done - to be sure. Then - I shall see you at the centre, Cousin."

Thomas looks to Benedict, as though Arathorn's father could do anything to stop his son once his Patternwalk has begun. Then, mutely, he stuffs the last acorn in his coat pocket and stands to watch Arathorn make his slow journey through the mighty spiral.

Arathorn looks at the path laid out ahead of him, the glowing line, as if committing it to memory ... then begins to move .... surefooted, but slow, deliberate ... feeling the charge from the surge of blue sparks that stir around his own feet ... He draws a deep breath, through his nostrils ... steady ... even. Don't rush; don't delay. Think of your own journey, not of those who must follow.

The last time I did this, Caine was pointing a crossbow at me ...

A surge of blue sparks.

No matter. Move on. Move forwards ... Sure ... certain.

A barrier. Testing it ... pressing against it. They think I am strong. Few care to test my strength ... An illusion, merely. Unlike this ... a barrier will truly test me ...

And it is gone. The First Veil is passed and I can walk and breathe more freely. But the sparks are higher ... and I am lost in the ways of Pattern, simply focusing on the ... next ... step ...

Vibration within me ... am I a part of the Pattern? Have I become the pattern? Perhaps I stepped off , faltered, and never knew it ... No ... don't think like that .... move forward, step, by step, by ...

The Second Veil comes almost as a relief, telling me I am still moving, still treading the pattern, still alive.

Through it ... and now the slowness is not my choice but the Pattern's - holding me, binding me to the spot. It's dragging me down through the floor, knitting my bones with the stone, making me one with the core of Pattern. I swim in Pattern, bathe in the sparks ... twisting and turning in the ways of Pattern ...

With the release comes the urge to hurry. You can move faster here, I remember ... yes, I remember ... my mind freeing itself with my body. It is possible to twist, to turn, to become giddy. Here would be the danger ... here the infection ...

Slow, steady, cautious. Wary.

And there is nothing. I move freely, steadily ... onward ...

And still it takes me as though by surprise. The heaviness ... the awful weight as I try to push through the Final Veil. I can't ... it can't be done ... impossible. Better step aside, better turn and flee ... the coward worm writhes in my guts. But my body, my strength is steady. And my heart, my powerful heart beats still. Trust that. Trust yourself.

And I am through the Final Veil, stepping into light, bathed in blue radiance till I can hardly see as the sparks surge about me ...

Through light into darkness. Through air into stone.

A heave, a last effort ... fighting the impossible.

And Arathorn stands in the centre, pale with exhaustion, breathing rapidly, and looking back at Thomas, his father and his cousins, a faint smile on his face.

All through Arathorn's ordeal, Merlin watches with silent facination, watching enraptured by the very physical presence of the Pattern. He grits his teeth in time with Arathorn's own physical efforts as he penetrates the three Veils. He sighs hard when the older Prince pushes through the last to end in the center of the glowing design.

"By the Abyss!" Merlin exclaims loudly.

As Arathorn emerges into the center of the Pattern, Thomas positions himself to begin his own journey. He turns back to regard the remaining family members gathered in the room. "I do not know what will happen here," he says. "I hope that I shall see you all again. If not…well, preserve Amber."

With that, he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and steps onto the Pattern.

Once Thomas has begun his walk, and Arathorn is certain all eyes are on his cousin, he unobtrusively eases a trump from his pocket, holds it flat in his hand and looks down at it.

"Christophe?" he says softly. "The time is near. When you hear me say, 'Now', pull me through immediately - and Thomas with me. I will be in physical contact with him."

He hears the faint, distant sound of someone humming a nursery tune.

"I've put the tea on," comes a soft reply. "Do be quick about it."

For Thomas, it is like stepping onto a live electrical cable…but then, it always is. As expected, sparks begin to swirl around Thomas' feet; just around the soles at first, then rising gradually higher with each step. Absently, he notes that the sparks themselves are a vivid green rather than the customary blue.

<There must be some significance to that,> a part of his mind thinks, but there is no time for distraction now, as his will focuses itself on the task at hand.

Thomas' concentration is such that he does not even notice the reactions of the others in the room as they note that the Pattern is changing as he walks it. Ahead of him, the Pattern glows its customary blue-white color; but as he moves forward, the parts of the Pattern he has already trod glow a deep and vibrant crimson, flickering momentarily to green and then back again almost faster than the eye can follow.

Making the first sharp turn in the grand sweep of the Pattern, Thomas knows instinctively that he is approaching the First Veil. Would passing through the Veil bring back some of the memories Thomas had lost, as it had done for others? Or would the Pattern reject him entirely, expelling him as a mechanical abomination grafted onto the body of Amber? These steps will tell, and with each one, the weight of Thomas' past drags at his feet.

<...Gerard, on the balcony in gold and green, noncommittally nodding his becrowned head at me. "Have you returned to us bereft of memory, then? A Corwin to this modern court?"...Gerard, strong and proud, is dead.>

TICK. The First Veil parts. Something within Thomas changes. The green sparks flicker, fade, return, well up his shins now. He can feel the Pattern within him vibrating in synchrony with the one he walks, and knows that he belongs here.

The knowledge does not, however, make the walking easier. The turns are more frequent now, more treacherously placed, harder to surmount. Thomas' body throbs with the power he is attempting to tame. Then the curves end, and the Second Veil rises before him. Each foot lifts, moves, drops as if in slow motion; Thomas' teeth grind together as he forces himself past one turn, another, another.

<...Dworkin, in his study, draining a cup of tea, eyes glittering over the rim, staring into my soul. "Lovely, lovely...and here you are...like clockwork, pardon the pun. A final stroke of the pen...I wonder what the particulars will be like?"...Dworkin, brilliant and mad, is dead.>

TOCK. The Second Veil gives way. The steps grow easy by comparison, though 'easy' hardly seems the word to use. The sparks are up to Thomas' knees and above, and he can now see the red/green line of the Pattern he has left behind, but there is no time to contemplate its meaning.

A Gordian knot of curves awaits him now, a Byzantine web of glowing blue-white lines. Thomas' whole body is growing warm, and if he could spare a glance for himself, he would not be surprised to see himself glowing as brightly as the Pattern itself. Each step must be placed with the precision of a dancer and the will of an emperor. There is no room for error, but Thomas makes none. He knows the line he walks, could trace it with his eyes shut, can feel it within him as well as without. He is walking the map of his soul.

Emerging from the web, moving along the Grand Curve. Making almost a full circuit of the Pattern, the Curve is no Veil, but offers barriers of its own. Thomas feels as though a rain of hammers is beating upon his body, but will not be deterred. One hand reaches slowly into his pocket, cups the purple stone that he wore within himself, drawing strength of purpose from its smooth contours.

The turns, the lines, the arcs, move by as in a dream; each inch of the Pattern is in brilliant, sharp focus as it is crossed, then forgotten in the all-consuming Now as Thomas moves ahead. A few straight steps, a lull like the eye of a hurricane, and the Final Veil lies ahead, invisible, implacable, impassable. The sparks almost hide Thomas from view now.

<...Fiona, eyes almost manic, leaning forward, gazing at me with mingled command and envy. "If there is anything true or pure in Amber, it is you, Thomas."...Fiona, ambitious and corrupted, is dead.

I am not.

And though they die, Amber will survive. And if it will, so must I.>

Fist clenched tight around the purple Jewel, squeezing as if to crush it to powder as the Pattern tries to crush him, eyes like slits, mouth open, neck muscles corded, face flushed, Thomas pushes his way though the insurmountable Veil. It is done. He looks over at Arathorn, saying nothing, but sharing the exhausted pleasure of obstacles overcome.

After a moment, he raises the purple Jewel to his eyes and gazes into it. For a long moment, he is still...

The seconds pass ... Then Arathorn moves forward, smiling, and grips his arm in greeting.

"You did it," he says. "I had faith that you would."

And then, still smiling, still grasping Thomas's arm, he draws his sabre, speaking in a low tone to Thomas, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on his cousin's face.

"Trust me in this - even as I just ventured my life to protect yours. I'm not about to fight you - I fight beside you, as I did before.

"This is ... insurance ... for where we are going.

"Christophe wants to see us."

What he says cannot be heard - but Thomas seems to draw back slightly. Arathorn's grasp never wavers, and then he turns to look at the watching cousins. "I must ask you to excuse us," he says politely. "We have an appointment ... elsewhere."

For a second, his gaze rests on his father's face. The smile becomes ironic.

"Now, please!" he says suddenly, sharply.

Their images waver in the centre of the Pattern, and then both Arathorn and Thomas ... disappear.

At least, to the others they do. To themselves, they never disappear at all ...

Instead, the room about them shifts and changes, until they are on solid ground again, looking around cautiously, Arathorn still holding his sabre - for insurance.

"Christophe?" he says. "Where are we? And where's that tea you promised?"

 

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