Chapter 2 - In the Library

Their voices seem muted, somehow, swallowed by a mass of. . .something.

Something dark.

They are standing in a dark, dark place. Not even the motes of light that Arathorn saw earlier to cast even a slight shadow.

"Ahh. . .good. Just the two of you," comes Christophe's voice from a few feet off. "Be a good fellow Thomas and just step a little to your. . .left. . . "

Thomas slowly complies.

"That's right. Don't want you to upset the tripwires, now."

Thomas cocks an eyebrow at Arathorn, though the gesture is all but invisible in the darkness.

Then an aroma hits both Arathorn and Thomas.

Bergamot.

"You might want to close your eyes a bit. . .the light comes on rather fast, I fear, and it can be. . ."

Out of nowhere, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tiny motes of lights swarm from out of the dark, swirling, turning, buzzing mechanically, then finally converging two feet above Christophe's head; despite crazed shadows, they can clearly make him out.

He's holding a tray bearing delicate bone china cups on saucers.

"Sorry old boys, I don't have any cream or sugar, but who'd do such a horrid thing to a good cup of tea?" he shrugs, extending the tray. "Go on. Some matters must be faced in a civilized manner."

Thomas extends a hand and takes a cup of tea, though he does not drink. His thoughts seem to be directed inward, despite the remarkable location to which Arathorn has brought him.

On all sides huge bookshelves surge up into the darkness to vanish in distant shadows. Their sheer size leaves them feeling miniscule, dwarfed by their massiveness. The stones on which they stand are polished with age, extending to form an open area twenty feet on a side. Aisles lead off to each point in the compass, cutting between the shelves like narrow rivers through tall stone canyons.

In the corner they see a pair of crossbows affixed to a form of brace, with barely visible strings leading to the area around which Thomas and Arathorn stand. Next to the crossbow Christophe's rapier leans against a bookshelf.

"Mind the wire, now," advises Christophe, nodding toward the wire again. "I needed to make sure it was just the two of you, so I took the liberty to reposition one of my old tricks from up in the antechamber."

Arathorn, not a cousin noted for neatness either in clothing, chambers or movement, sheathed his sabre and gave Christophe a pained Look (and Thomas a resigned one) as he stepped with exaggerated caution over the tripwires. Something in the set of his shoulders suggested that he found traversing the Pattern less challenging. He took the tea.

Having distributed the tea, Christophe takes his own cup and holds it up near his mouth and sips as he turns and walks off toward the aisle behind him. The coruscating swarm of fireflies (for surely that is what they most resemble) follows him, bobbing slightly and humming faintly.

"Thomas old boy, I hope you didn't believe any of that rubbish I was spewing up there earlier," you hear him say. "I had to make some excuse to get out of there, and I knew that some heartwarming tale of familial angst would appeal to the fish and befuddle the oafs. But not Arathorn."

He turned and winked.

Arathorn smiled. "There was also the fact that had I announced my proposal to bring Thomas to join you, the opprobrium I would have attracted from our assembled cousins would have been only slightly less than if I had proposed selling him to the Darke." He reflects on this. "Actually, I think certain of our cousins might prefer me to hand Thomas over to the Darke than turn to you for aid."

"Oh, I'm sure Martel and Rowan would agree," nodded Christophe. "But I had had quite the long conversation with my wife, and then later with Miranda and Arthur. . .and they were quite insistent that I extend to both you and Thomas my trust, and do everything in my power to see to your safety. Which is why we are here."

Thomas smiles. "I hope to be able to thank them in person soon."

"You're both good men, and good friends. Come, I've discovered what we must do to put these. . .interlopers. . .down like the pack of ill-tempered pests they are."

"Indeed," agreed Arathorn, following, with a smile at Thomas. "I'm hoping that whatever you've found out is going to be worth the crossbolt in my back that Martel will undoubtedly place there when next he sees me. He has been burning for a good excuse to do so ever since Foresthall."

"If my calculations are correct, Martel is having his fill of fighting right now. Perhaps when we return, you will find him a sufficiently soft target to dispose of without too much fuss. Or at least he should be less prone to killing you. It is hard to tell with him."

Still walking, Christophe placed his cup on the saucer and held both in one hand; extending the other, he plucked a thin tome from a shelf, causing a brief cloud of dust to bloom.

"But I must tell you about the Pattern. Christophe, I'm convinced that when Thomas walked it, some very profound change occurred. Where you aware of it, cousin? Sometimes it is hard to be aware of anything external when one walks. But from where I was standing, the effect was spectacular. I am sure our cousins are marvelling yet - unless they have embraced instead the favourite family past-time and are squabbling."

Turning a corner you see what appears to be some sort of reading area, a railed balcony overlooking a chasm of darkness. A square table of pitted oak is burdened with maps and scrolls and two dusty bottles of wine. Piles of books are set up as ersatz stools; they do not look all that stable.

As if responding to some unheard command, the fireflies divide into four equal portions and occupy empty spheres of cut crystal that are suspended above you by a webwork of wires. Once within, the area is filled with a richer, brighter light that reveals the chasm below as another level of the library, rows upon rows of shelves extending out to a distant wall.

Arathorn watches with with fascination, even as he sips his tea.

"Christophe - what is this place? And what are those creatures? Are they living? Or some form of simulacrum?"

"We are among the Stacks, or so Oberon referred to this masoleum of dead learning," Christophe replies, looking up at the globes. "And those, those are what Oberon called Miniscules. They are mechanical, and short lived. . .that is why you see new ones arriving constantly to replace those that have spent what little life they have to spend."

Christophe throws his new book on to the table and drains the last of his tea.

"It is a wonder that our regent can get out of bed in the morning without debate," he chuckles. "But that is the least of our concerns right now. When Cymnea produced those acorns. . .and Thomas revealed his little surprise. . .I was immediately reminded of a document I read here, years ago. I had to find it and confirm my suspicions. . . now that I have read it, I believe that I know what must be done, and in what order, so that we can bring events to their proper end.

"The first step has already been accomplished, which was to have Thomas here walk the Pattern. That has awakened a cascade of events, not the least of which is empowering us to hunt down those elements of the Darke now active under Amber, and purge them with Cymnea's gift. For you see, they are products of a broken Ygg . . . and will be defeated by the essence of a whole Ygg."

"Under Amber?" exclaims Arathorn thunderstruck. "You mean the Darke is already here, close at hand? And not in some remote region beyond the Courts of Chaos?"

"Under our very feet, old boy. Actually, under the feet of the children in the Pattern room. . .and the Darke must be quite peeved now that Thomas has realigned its energies. . .souring the milk, so to speak."

For the first time in the conversation, Thomas appears to come alive. "You are correct, and the change is more profound than even you suspect, Arathorn. Shadow is no longer safe or stable, and I believe that any family members out in Shadow should be brought back to Amber immediately, lest they fall victim to the rewriting of Shadow. Perhaps you could contact Benedict and advise him to recall Caine and the others to Amber?"

Arathorn nods, and takes out his trumps. "Vincent, perhaps. He will trust me ... the others will scarcely wish to talk to me at the moment ... nor do I want them interfering with us.

"My father ... well ... if I must."

He pulls out the two trumps and studies each in turn, then shakes his head. "Nothing. They must be preoccupied with other matters."

"I suggest trying them again periodically, then, for I have no idea how soon or how severely Shadow will be affected by my handiwork."

Thomas then turns to Christophe with an expression of genuine regret on his face. "Christophe, I fear that your comments regarding the danger I pose to Anglia are more right than you knew. It is possible that your long association with Anglia will preserve it, and with it Clara and Arthur and the others, from the re-creation of Shadow which is beginning even now...but I cannot be certain. If you have a means to get them to safety, I urge you to use it."

Placing a hand on Thomas shoulder, Christophe squeezes it once, then pats it before returning to his tea.

"They are already in Amber. They returned immediately following our departure. I was not blind to the portents. . .better that they are here, where I can protect them directly. As for Anglia. . .shadows are shadows. What is broken can be remade."

"I am reassured to hear that," Thomas says. "Perhaps I can extend my thanks to your family sooner than I thought. Arathorn, what of--"

Arathorn has grown pale and half-rises to his feet. "The Manor," he says. "Grandfather ... Grandmother ... Kate! The children ... sweet Unicorn ... I must go ... I must ... "

He walks away from them, as though proposing to start a journey into Shadow immediately ... Then halts. For a long moment he is still. Then he turns, walks back and sits down again.

"There is a mist," he says quietly. "It rises from the river, early in the morning. Pale as silver, then golden when the sun touches it. And then ... it fades away. On a good summer's morning, it looks like a carpet of gold from the terrace. You can stand there, watching it ... and hear them in the dining room behind, Grandfather cursing the newspaper, Grandmother coaxing the children to behave. And Kate ... Harry ... coming out to join me ... "

He breaks off.

"The end, when it comes ... it will be swift, won't it?"

"So bloody swift you won't know what hit you," shrugs Christophe. "It's a pity that dramatic events come and go so quickly, you barely have time to appreciate them."

Shooting a dark look at Christophe, Thomas cautiously extends a hand, rests it gently on Arathorn's shoulder. "I've no idea," he says softly. "They are closely tied to you, and have more of substance than Shadow in them as a result. Whether this will delay the change, or prevent it entirely...I simply do not know."

He pauses, and his eyes are not focused on anything here in the Stacks. "I find myself in much the same predicament as you, Arathorn, and I've my own rescue to conduct if time permits. I, however, am required to be here, as I've much yet to do; you do not have the same obligations as I. Make no mistake, you will be sorely needed; but you may yet have the time to save those you love. I cannot counsel you in this matter, save to say this; if you go, go quickly."

Arathorn sighs. "No matter. Go on."

"At the same time, it has become increasingly clear that we require the services of certain Pattern weapons. This is where Martel and the other brick-headed lummoxes in our family can do some good, for we will need those weapons to defeat beasts that Bleys foresaw would lead the invasion of Amber."

"An invasion which has already begun, and will reach Amber in but a few days," Thomas said. "Fiona has set Ragnarok itself in motion, and the most powerful of our enemies have already awakened. We have time to prepare, gentlemen, but not overmuch."

"But now. . .now is the time for a greater inquiry," he sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "Thomas, whether you know it now or not, you are perhaps the most important man in Amber right now. I've read in a few of these books of a 'man of hours' . . . other books mention a 'timepiece of Ygg'. I've become convinced that this is none other than you."

Thomas nods, looking not at all surprised.

Arathorn looks at Thomas, startled, and then at Christophe. "But ... I thought Thomas' role was to walk the Pattern ... and after that ... simply to work with us ... "

Christophe shakes his head and bows to Thomas. "No, our Thomas is the man of the hour, a keeper of secrets, a knower of wisdom."

"I am," Thomas adds, "in a very real sense, the voice of Ygg."

Christophe points at Thomas' chest. "Your heart truly is the heart of Amber. In your chest lay an icon of our creation, a jewel of our reality. I trust you still have it.

Thomas holds the Heartstone up mutely.

"But more importantly, I have deduced that the mechanisms that make up your viscera are in fact an equal wonder, and in their inspection one might gain an appreciation for the ordering of the reality that the jewel has ordained. For the morphology of the heart describes the veins, the arteries, the very limits of the tissues that it supports. Similarly, your mechanisms are defined by the jewel of your heart, and in them we see the extents of the jewel's capabilities, its purpose, so to speak. Once we know of your jewel, you should be able to employ Fiona's jewel to fashion a more permanent cure on our existing Pattern."

Thomas shakes his head. "I appreciate your efforts, Christophe, as well as your professional curiosity, but I fear that you have matters reversed. The Jewel of Judgment is no longer of any use. Oh, it is still a useful trinket for controlling weather, but the changes writ by the Heartstone are far more permanent than anything the Jewel could cause, and have rendered the Jewel itself largely impotent. I shall need some time to myself to attune to the Heartstone in order to gain a full understanding of its powers, and better sooner than later. Once that is complete, I think I shall be able to produce a more complete picture of our immediate goals than your examination of my innards, however well-intentioned, could provide."

Arathorn listens to this, but a frown is starting to darken his brow.

Taking a step closer to Thomas, Christophe seemed a bit nervous.

"I. . .apoligize. . .for my words, earlier. . .if they injured you, it was to provide some means of cover for my escape. But I fear that I must still inspect the devices that animate you, if I am to learn of the true location of the pattern blades that we seek, the location of the fell beasts that assail us, and uncover the secret road we must find to strike at the heart of our enemy. With your leave. . .?"

He looks at Arathorn, then back at Thomas. "If it would bring you some more comfort, perhaps Arathorn could assist. . .? I assure you it will not cause you discomfort. . .I have located a most excellent parabolic magnificator that we can use to perform the inspection. I have it here in a box. . ."

With halting movements, he begins to rummage on the table, moving books and other scrolls in search of something.

"Christophe," rejoins Arathorn, troubled. "Is there no other way? This seems to me to smack of those cultures where animals are slaughtered that the future may be read in their entrails. Thomas ... whatever mechanism may guide his heart ... is a man, and our cousin. He proved that in walking the Pattern. And more - he proved his courage too.

"I will not be party to anything that might harm him, or that he does not willingly undertake ... "

"What, are you mad?" he blurts, then pulls out a very fine armature of wire, on which are fixed small lenses at each joint. "I would never bring injury to Thomas, not after what he did for me outside of Anglia. Am I so poor mannered to forget what he did for me? No, I merely wish to peer at what can be seen with ease, as one might look into the eyes and ears of a patient to diagnose some ailment."

He wraps his fingers into circular grips at one end and squeezes; the armature of lenses flexes gently, then turns, then flexes again.

"It was designed to inspect the workings of large clocks," Christophe offers as he pulls a pair of glass lensed goggles over his head, lending him a rather comical appearance as he blinks hugely through the eyepieces.

"We are who we are, Arathorn," he says as he adjusts a lever on the left-most goggle lens. "We are made of different stuff, but in substance, we laugh, we sleep, we dream. . .we live. And so, we are equal, and worthy of respect as equals."

(Arathorn privately decides, on the whole, to refrain from mentioning the Sekkim. Christophe thinks: They don't count. They're animals.)

"No .... "

A soft voice, a whispered command, breathed through the library.

Thomas' head snaps up, looking around the room almost wildly.

"Thomas ... my poor Thomas ... what have they done to you?"

A woman's voice, faint and yet loving, filled with pity.

Arathorn starts and looks around, his hand straying to the hilt of his sabre.

"What ... Christophe, Thomas ... did you hear that?"

Thomas nods slowly, his eyes still scanning the room for some sign of the speaker. "I'm relieved to hear you say that," he murmurs. "I heard the same voice on the Pattern stair, and thought I was going mad. Now at least I know I'm going mad in good company."

"Thomas .... " breathes the voice again.

"Oh, bugger," sighs Christophe as he pulls off the goggles and scratches his cheek with the end of the Magnificator. "Another bloody ghost. Perhaps this one will bring beer with her nuts and we can all have a LOVELY BLOODY SNACK," he hollers as he pulls his goggles back on.

"Now, *if you please*, we have work to do to SAVE THE BLOODY WORLD," he grumbles as he goes about refocusing the lenses, "and I regret that we DO NOT HAVE TIME for another semi-corporeal entity distributing angst and warnings. . ."

Then in a softer voice, he gestures at Thomas with the end of the Magnificator. "And if by some freakish turn of events that *does* happen to be your auld lost mum, come back to check that you're wearing clean underwear, tell her that I not only promise *not to hurt you*, but that the two of you can have a fine long sit down with tea and biscuits *just as soon as I'm done*, mmm?"

Looking sidelong at Arathorn, he sighs expansively.

"See what you can do about her. If she persists, there's something on that shelf over there on the topic of etheric isolation fields, or some bloody foolishness like that."

Arathorn nods and rises, moving over to the great shelf. He looks along it with interest.

"Christophe ... how many of these have you actually read? There's some amazing stuff here ... "

"Oh, I don't know. . .I've nearly memorized the index, but as for individual volumes, it is hard to say. The way I figure it," he said, staring down the length of the Magnificator to align the lenses, "it is better to know what you have at hand *first*, then if you need the detail, you'll know where to look. The old boy had quite the appetite for oddities. . .there's even a section here for erotica. Maybe that's why he took so many wives. . .he wore them out."

Arathorn selects a volume ... and then, his eyes widening slightly, another. He brings them back to the table and begins to read swiftly, frowning a little.

"Do have just a bit of patience, cousins," Thomas says. "We do not yet know everything that we must, and I am willing to listen to any source of information to which I have access." He begins to unbutton his shirt slowly. "I will permit you your examination; do me the favor of permitting me my visitation, if you please."

The frown on Arathorn's face increases, and he pushes the one book aside. He begins to read the second ... a small, pocket sized volume, but rather stout.

After a moment, he reaches in to his collection of trumps and withdraws one. He looks at it for a moment.

A manor house of old golden stone, set on the side of a low gentle hill ...

But unusually, the trump appears to have some of the qualities of an old hand-coloured postcards, the colours a little leeched out and sepia ones prevailing. For a moment he considers it, then slips it in as a bookmark in the volume he is reading ...

Then he looks up at Christophe and Thomas.

"Well, Cymnea certainly displayed the classic symptoms of an apparation," he says. "We could have dispersed her - if we wished. But then we would have lost the acorns. This voice, however, seems altogether different. And it seems not to belong in Amber at all ... "

He looks suddenly at Thomas.

"Cousin, was it this that you heard on your way to the Pattern Chamber?
And is it what Christophe said? Is it Deirdre?"

"Because ... if it is ... I don't think she is a ghost at all ... not as Cymnea was ... "

"Then for all our sakes, stop hinting and say what you mean!" Thomas' words are sharp, but not angry. "The voice is the same as I heard before, but I cannot place it for certain." He looks around the room as he finishes removing his shirt, revealing an unblemished and very human-looking torso. "Well, spirit? Have you any more to say? I wish to know what you would tell me, but I have no time to spare for portentous silences."

The voice comes again. "Thomas ... my boy ... they are holding me here ... here in the Darkness ... I have so very little time. Thomas ... the pain ... the pain."

There is a terrible sound, the sound of lost, hopeless weeping.

"I am here all alone ... here in the Darkness .... "

A ragged breath.

"They want your jewel, Thomas. You must stay away ... from me ... "

The voice fades away.

Thomas stares motionless into the empty corner from which the voice seemed to emanate, his eyes unfocused, his jaw set. After a long moment, he turns away. "I am sorry," he says quietly, though it's unclear to whom he is speaking.

"Arathorn," he continues after a pause, "you said you had a theory regarding the nature of...this most recent visitation. I believe that hearing it would help distract me while Christophe indulges in his Delphian fancies. Please enlighten me," he says, and ... opens his chest.

"Well," begins Arathorn, then breaks off, gazing at Thomas with horrified fascination.

His hand moves along his ribcage to a spot on his left side, a few inches outside of and below the nipple, and makes an almost imperceptible pressing/sliding motion. With a nearly inaudible click, a section of his upper chest roughly a foot square simply swings open as if hinged on the right side. The edges of the opening are straight and smooth, though slightly paler in colour than the surrounding skin, much like an old scar.

Within the cavity can be seen a bewildering array of gears, springs, pistons, pipes, pendula, conduits and valves of all descriptions, in brass, silver, platinum, copper and a myriad of other, less recognizable materials. Partly covered by the first layer of clockwork, but nevertheless clearly visible due to its almost intolerable brightness, is a great, shining, coiled spring in the shape of Amber's Pattern, ceaselessly coiling and uncoiling in a cold parody of the human heart. Indeed, the entire apparatus is in constant motion, oscillating to a double-dozen rhythms at once, and there is barely a finger's-breadth of empty space within any part of the mechanism.

Arathorn swallows, glancing up at Thomas' face, and then looks away.

"I'm sorry, cos," he says. "And believe me no less your friend and ally. But I find I can't watch you stand there so calmly with your ... your innards on display."

"I understand," Thomas replies, quietly. His face is quite calm and his expression slightly melancholy, adding another level of eeriness to the entire scene. "I find it rather...difficult to regard myself."

Christophe slowly pulls off his goggles to gaze with rapt wonder at the ticking mechanisms inside of Thomas.

"I. . .I. . .never imagined," he stammers, before quickly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes dart between the clockworks and Thomas' face a few times before he clumsily pulls his goggles back on and raises his Magnificator, pressing it close to his lens-covered eyes.

Turning his head to the side he calls out in a loud voice "Begin command! Two five! Record!"

A number of the bright miniscules separate from the globe above the three and zoom down to swarm around behind Christophe's head.

"Fix coordinates zero, zero at the upper left, measured in fingertip widths," he enunciates carefully. The briefest of moments later a soft echo of his voice emerges from the swarm of miniscules, clicks and whirrs producing an odd simulacra of speech.

"zzzzzEEEEEE roo roo roo...tiptiptiptiptip WITSSSSSS"

Arathorn hastily flicks over some pages of the book, his back resolutely turned.

Methodically, carefully, Christophe moves his Magnificator across the visible surface of Thomas' inner workings, describing what he sees in clipped sentences using such strange words as 'counter-gear' and 'tippet spring' and 'in-shuttle' and 'out-shuttle'. From time to time new motes of light settle down into the swarm behind his head from up above, as others zoom off into the depths of the library and the occasional one sputters and drops to the ground, inert.

"The manifestations of a presence seem unaccompanied by any of the usual signs of post mortem apparition," said Arathorn, his voice a little louder than usual. "In fact, they seem more attuned to a manifestation of darkness. But for that to occur, there needs be two elements. One - what is here could the Pool of Entity - an actual physical presence that can be drawn on. And secondly, a human partner. To put it simply, if such a manifestation of your mother is present in Amber, it is because someone asked her to come."

"As a distraction, perhaps? An attempt to draw me off from the 'correct' course of action, whatever that might be?" Thomas ruminates over this for a moment. "Or is it possible that whoever brought her here cannot control her actions, and that her advice is actually what she feels will be best? Damnation, but I hate not knowing!"

After a sour glance upward from Christophe, Thomas reins in his agitation and attempts to sit still once more.

...and is rewarded by a pat on the arm by Christophe and a quick, nervous smile.

"Much better, old chap, much better," he said; reaching forward a finger to get closer to one area, Christophe is rewarded with a sharp tzzzapp! of static and pulls his finger back, reflexively shaking it.

"Almost done. . .lower left, a complex of interlocking gears connected to. . .to. . ."

With his free hand he adjusted the smallest lens of the Magnificator and then craned his head, tilting it first to the left, then to the right.

"Thomas, be a good chap and turn a little to your left. . .the light is just not all that. . .THERE! Jolly good, just hold that. . ."

Then he stopped moving. For a few seconds of time Christophe seemed transfixed in space, his head canted over, one hand poised with his jointed apparatus, the other cradling a lens.

On his goggles a brief flash of prismatic light flickered.

Deep inside Thomas felt a slight flush of warmth, a sensation of comfort, of acceptance, perhaps.

When Christophe pulled off his goggles, his eyes were wet with tears.

"It's. . .beautiful," he stammered, then buried his face in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

Thomas, still unmoving, stared down at Christophe in uncomprehending wonder, like a deaf man watching a concertgoer who is overcome by the beauty of a Beethoven finale. There was something of awe in his gaze, though it would be hard to define the subject of that awe.

When Christophe could finally bring himself to talk, he appeared to be at a loss for words as he gestured impotently with his hands.

"It's all. . .too beautiful. Everything. It's all. . .it's all so. . . so beautiful now. We. . .we have to go see. We must!"

Turning first to Arathorn, then Thomas, Christophe seemed possessed with a sudden energy as he began to pace.

"The swords. . .they are in the acorns! We must plant them immediately, for the beasts are above us, even as there are creatures far below Amber. . .and one in the Pattern room. . ."

Passing by a shelf he pulled out a book and banged the flat of his palm against its cover.

"Should we not--" Thomas began; but Christophe's frenzied epiphany swept on, giving him no room to speak further.

"Pattern. . .Pattern. . .Thomas, you rewrote it! Everything is new. . . everything! You swept it clean, Thomas, entirely clean!"

Christophe tossed the book over his shoulder and continued to pace; the miniscules struggled to keep their place behind him.

"I've seen something at the heart of you, Thomas. . .something marvelous that I'd only dreamt about. We need. . .we need to dispense with these creatures below Amber, then we must get to work!"

Thomas began to appear increasingly uncomfortable with Christophe's near-messianic fervor.

Stopping suddenly, Christophe became aware of the book Arathorn was holding, then began to talk very quickly.

"Oh, that. Yes. We should go and see if that Pool is around here somewhere. Some of what Thomas has done might have brought her back. Hard to say. Certainly."

A quick look to Thomas.

"Certainly. But not now. We have to get you. . .and these acorns. . . to somewhere where they can do some good! Seeds belong in the green earth, so let's fetch some oafs capable of swinging the implements of ignorance and plant some seeds. If what I have divined is correct, the swords will reveal themselves. . .just in time for us to dispense with the beasts. The true tree that the acorns yield should suck up whatever evil lurks below, just as a common tree will in time purify tainted land."

Without so much as a look back Christophe strode past both Thomas and Arathorn into the dark.

"Come now, both of you! It is a long walk back to the surface!"

Hastily closing his open torso - the seal is seamless and imperceptible - Thomas rapidly buttoned his shirt as he regained his feet. "If I recall Cymnea's words correctly, the acorns must be planted at the very heart of the darkness; I am afraid that simply planting them in the earth will not be sufficient." Picking up his sabre once more, he follows Christophe into the darkness.

From somewhere ahead the other two hear the sound of Christophe's footsteps halt.

"Oh. Yes. She did," comes a voice from the dark.

The swarming miniscules finally caught up with Christophe, and revealed him leaning against a shelf, head down, his left hand thrust deep in his pocket.

Turning back to Arathorn and Thomas, he seemed more subdued.

"Well, then we must do just that. I suppose that we must find our gallant cousins and enlist their aid. Perhaps Martel will delay his inevitable attack on me until we are done, mm?"

"I think our only hope is that Martel will be hesitating so long trying to decide which of us he wants to kill first that Thomas will be able to gasp out some words of explcation," returned Arathorn, coming up with them. "This place seems fairly deeply buried, Christophe. Surely it must be lower than the Pattern Chamber?"

Christophe scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"I never gave it much thought, frankly."

He crouched down and scratched at the floor experimentally, then inspected his fingertips.

"Perhaps it is."

Then he looked up at Arathorn.

"Oh....bugger."

 

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