Chapter 1 - Visiting Martin

Footsteps, light footsteps, slap down on the dank stomes of the dungeon steps. One pair those of a young woman, the other Rebman, shod in light sealskin boots.

The guards seem a little perturbed that the prisoner is receiving another visit.

Cat's voice is heard, arguing with them a little, gently persuading them to allow access to her cousin.

Then Dyved's voice, unfailingly courteous, but insisting on his right, as Rebman ambassador, to see the prisoner of royal Rebman blood.

The combination overbears the guards, and soon Cat and Dyved are moving down the dark corridor to Martin's lonely cell.

Neither have changed in the intervening hours, although Dyved now carries a small soft sealskin bag which makes a soft chinking sound.As Martin and Vincent spoke, two voices could be heard approaching from above.

As they move further into the noisome complex, Dyved pulls a handkerchief from his jacket, impreganated with a strange scent, like a salty eau de cologne, and presses it to his nose.

"How Martin can stand this ... " he mutters. "We really must get him out of these depths at least. If they can find a tower for Bleys, then surely ... "

"I agree, Dyved," Cat says, the odor assaulting her. "I didn't before think about how offensive this must be to his newly sensitive olfactory senses."

Dyved raised his dark head from the scented watered silk to look at her.

"To any olafactory senses, I would imagine," he said darkly. "You Amberites must have nostrils lined with steel not to be poisoned by these foul miasmas ... "

Soft whispers could be heard filtering up the tunnel from the direction of Martin's cell. A liquid chuckle echoed along the slick stones. In the dim lighting and silence, these sounds took on a far more sinister tone. No words could be made out, but their inflection was no less serious. As the pair rounded the corner, they could see the two guards standing at attention. Their eyes were wary, and they held their weapons too tightly. Neither smiled, barely taking the time to acknowledge Cat and Dyved before gazing back down at the cell.

In the darkness, they could see a figure standing in front of the cell door. It took them a moment to recognize Vincent, speaking quietly with Martin. Hearing someone approach, Martin and Vincent fell quiet.

Dyved retreated into the handkerchief.

They come to a halt before Martin's door.

Vincent stepped back and faced the approaching pair. He bowed deeply for Cat's sake, and nodded graciously towards Dyved.

"Martin? Dear One, are you awake?" Cat asks, very softly, not knowing how a louder voice might sound to his ears.

The scraping sound of chains was heard, then Martin's charming voice, so out of place in this hellhole. "Ah, Cat. You've returned. And who is that with you? My brother, perhaps?

"They make such a lovely couple, don't you think Vincent?"

Arching a single brow, Vincent glanced at Cat and Dyved. "Oh, indeed."

"Indeed, they do," said Dyved in his light tenor, the nasal Rebman accent particularly pronounced. "But on this occasion, my Lord, you must be content with me instead."

Martin laughs loudly, "Ah, my apologies. You are so like my brother, I always get the pair of you mixed up. Then again, I do have a thick door between us. Forgive me."

The slither of chains draws closer, as does Martin's voice. "I have looked forward to your return, what news do you bring me?"

With a slight wince (and a last deep inhalation), Dyved returned the handkerchief to his jacket pocket, and then spoke again to the chained Prince.

"The Lady Desiree and Lord Martel have returned to Rebma - and not least of their tasks is to acquaint your grandmother with your condition. And," he added, in tones of strong disapprobation, "the conditions in which you are being kept."

He glanced at Vincent. "We meet again, my Lord. Perhaps you can enlighten my ignorance which, Triton knows, is great indeed in matters appertaining to Amber. But is it customary to keep sick prisoners in such foul and fetid conditions?"

"Don't blame, Vincent," Martin says with genuine defense. "I am sure he would have me moved to far better climes than this dank place. But it is not his choice is it? So mores the pity."

Dyved turned again to Martin.

"I have brought the shells for a game, if you wish it - and if your captors permit. Tell me, has the food I requested been delivered yet?"

"No," he said with a feral anger. "And I doubt it shall arrive any time soon. After all, not even Corwin was afforded the luxuries of more than bread and water. What should I expect?"

A new voice breaks the foul darkness, from behind Vincent and Catriola.

"There will be no special meals for the prisoner," the voice said.

Martin snarls, "After all, we wouldn't wish to be accused of being too humane, now would we uncle?"

Benedict drew up close to the door, where he could peer into the mirrored eyes of the prisoner within.

"Humane? You mistake me," he remarked matter-of-fact. "I am not human, I am a Prince of Amber. Then again, you also, are not human..."

Martin's lips curled back in a feral sneer, "You are not worthy to judge anyone, Stumpy. Out of all of us, no one has more blood on their hands. sorry, hand. than you, dear uncle. You may not consider the millions of Shadow folk you slaughter for your amusement anything more than playthings, but some of us do."

He throws up his hands dismissively, "You wouldn't understand. Why do I waste my breath even trying to talk to you? You've shown more emotion when you were told the porridge was cold compared to that you displayed when Arathron informed you his mother was dead."

If Benedict felt compelled to answer the insult, or the accusation, he shows no trace of it.

The sickly light of his eyes intensifies as he leans closer to the door. He regards his willowy uncle and smirks. "Let me go out on a limb, but I suspect those were your orders to dny my food, Benedict."

"Of course." Benedict turns to the younger Royals.

Turning, those present see step from the shadows the lean form of Amber's eldest prince.

His hair falls partly in front of an eye, and he has the stump of his right arm tucked behind his back. "And there will be no games."

Benedict's eyes fall to the pair of guards for a moment, than back to the royalty. "I have noticed a regular stream of traffic to this locale...would anyone care to explain what is occuring?"

"Humanity, dear uncle," Martin says; voice like crushed velvet. "My cousins were showing me kindness. oh, and before you ask, that is an expression of emotion. Not that I would expect you to understand."

Catriola gathers her thoughts, and her courage to speak up. "I cannot speak for Vincent, Uncle. As for Dyved and myself, the good Lord agreed to accompany me to visit with Martin. Martin and I have been friends a long time and I wished to ask him a couple of questions that he may or may not be able to answer. Is there no place less unpleasant for Martin to be held? I fear these surroundings may not be very good for his condition."

Benedict takes a lantern from the floor near the guards and thrusts it toward the window of the cell door, sending shadows flying in all directions as the yellow radiance battles the gloom.

"Before you show this thing kindness, let me remind you of what IT is!"

His eyes fall first to Cat and Vincent, then to the interior of the cell where Martin's distorted body shies from the brilliance.

"Look will you!" he barked.

"Kindness," Benedict warned, "is not a virtue. Not here, not now. Do you know WHY I have imprisoned 'what we suppose to be Martin' down here instead of up in some pretty tower?"

Martin jumps away from the door as if scalded with hot water. A deafening hiss erupts from the shadows he flees to. The chains pull taunt, creaking with the effort of their captive. The eyes glow red, pinpricks of pure hate. "Put that away!" he screeches, then turns to hide his face.

"You see, Cat. Vincent," he cries out, "I help you and this is the payment I receive. I knew I should not have trusted you. You're all like HIM. I pray Fiona kills the lot of you. Slowly!"

A wooden drinking mug comes spiraling out of the dark, shattering in a thousand splinters against the door.

"TURN OUT THAT DAMN LIGHT!"

The moment hung in silence. Cat remains glued to her spot, unable to speak, move, or even be horrified as one might expect her to be. Her eyes never leave 'Martin'...

Martin's eyes narrow as he regards Cat, his face twisted by feral animosity. Then he rips a large piece off of his clothing. One second, he is in the shadows; the next, his bulk slams against the door. The entire wall shakes at the force of the blow.

He uses the torn cloth to block out the light from outside by covering the small window. You can hear his unsteady breathing inches away. Final, a low, hideous voice trickles out from behind the makeshift cover. "Put that light away."

Benedict broke the hanging stillness. "I will tell you. Because, like the light, this thing that calls himself Martin abhors the Pattern. The close proximity of that artifact may act as a buffer to whatever control either Fiona or the Darke has over it. And this cell, though it be dank and gloomy, has fewer escape routes than a place above the ground, so many hundreds of feet above us."

"Or did you think that he was merely a free-willed victim, left abandoned after his master went through so much hard effort to create this abomination?"

Benedict thrusts his face forward, his face deadly serious. "He is smooth-tongued and clever, I'll give him that. But for all his talk, he is a horror...a pawn of a darker power that will choke the life from Amber as quick as he can toss that mug or eviscerate a man."

His gaze falls to Vincent. "Yes....the marks of his claws...consider them on the edge of the cell window...do they not match the one's at your own chamber window...? I know death...I know how a man may die, a thosuand times a thousand ways. I know who savaged your man Marcus, and he lies not six feet from you."

Benedict faces the door. "Before you so harshly accuse, dear thing, consider that. Search your memories...the cloud of darkness that obsucres your thoughts....you cannot recall the time after you were tainted, can you? You cannot recall the time you tore apart poor Marcus in your feral lust for blood and murder..."

Vincent's eyes lost focus, and he took a step back, away... away from the door, and the creature beyond it, and the act... the act it committed against him. Against Marcus. Benedict was right. It was what Vincent had suspected since he had watched in horror as Martin changed, and fled... what he suspected, but didn't want to believe. It seemed just a few short weeks ago, when the King was murdered... somehow, even that terrible act--and the resulting machinations--had an air of innocence about them, compared to where Vincent now found
himself. He glanced up at the door, his face resolute. He knew. He knew, but he still had to ask... "Uncle," he began, his voice controlled, a part of him dead, "How can you be sure?"

Benedict's eyes came to Vincent's own, their damning certainty a final nail in the elder man's accusation. "How can you doubt?"

 

Home Page | Title Page | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3