Chapter 1 - The Discussion in Rebma

At the start, it has been arranged that Martel and Desiree should return to Rebma to recover a missing book that Desiree claims to be able to locate. Martin has been imprisoned in the dungeons of Amber, following his capture after his transformation.

Desiree was cold.

She had changed from the encumbering heavy drapery and the excessive amount of clothing that was currently the fashion in Amber, to something more characteristic of Rebma.

Various lengths of some diaphanous material, translucent for the most part, were girded about her waist with a strand of tiny pearls. The colors were various shades of violet and madder, almost at random, and her breast was bare but for the ornamentation of a highly polished circle of mother-of-pearl, framed in silver, pendant from a thin silver chain.

Her hair, brushed for once, was twined with thin ribbons of a matching palette, and fell down her back to mingle there with the colors of the gauzy dress.

She regarded herself in the mirror of her room.

Better, perhaps, than that ghastly reflection of twenty minutes prior... but her eyes were still as shadowed as the hollows of her cheeks, and the chill did nothing to bring a flush of life to her skin.

Certain, she was, that she had no wish to entangle herself in Amber's velvet or brocade when she descended to Rebma... she wanted to be free of all that sodden weight. It posed a problem, however... the trip to Foresthall would likely offend.

She sighed.

She was cold anyway. She draped around her that heavy, hairy animal skin she had worn on the trip here, a few days before, and fastened the seven frogs down the front.

At last she headed out, leaving the door of that dreadful, cold, ugly, little room they had stuck her in... quite ajar. She was leaving nothing of value there. She took away what she had brought with her.

... well, that and the journal from White Lily Tower... but it would not be missed, at any rate.

At the last moment she turned, looking back. Her eyes searched the cold grey stone.

"...no," she told the porter. "I shall take nothing else; you can go."

He bowed properly, and left.

She made her way to Foresthall, finally.

The Hall, sadly, was also cold, and she sat shivering by the hearth ... waiting...

Cat, having taken a moment from her study to see off the pair headed to Rebma, walked into Foresthall to see Desiree shivering pathetically by the fire, trying desperately to warm herself.

"Gracious, it's bitter. I'll stoke it a bit. I'm afraid these Amber winters are meaner than those in Rebma. I've always disliked winter here," Cat says.

"Would you like a sweater of mine to take with you? I shan't need it back so you may discard it when you reach the warm waters of your home, Desiree."

"No... thank you, Cousin," Desiree said quietly, watching Cat try to restart a fire that would offer this room no heat until Desiree had long gone to Rebma. Useless, but kind in thought.

Cat began to poke the fire trying to get it to roar a bit to warm the young lady. "Not to worry, Martel will likely be here soon and then you can be off to Rebma."

Before long, and precisely on time, footsteps rang down the hall and Martel and Dyved entered. Martel was covered in a dark cloak of black worsted wool, though he wore sandals. He was conversing in low tones with Dyved.

"...remember the oysters." Martel told the dark-haired ambassador.

Martel stopped a few feet away, the Foresthall otherwise empty except for a scullion removing a tapestry for cleaning.

"Good ... and I shall use your trump as you requested," said Dyved.

Desiree's face fell as the two of them came in, Martinless.

She looked at Dyved, who turned to smile at the two ladies. "My Lady Catriola, my Lady Desiree," he said.

"Good afternoon, Lord Dyved," Cat replied. "I do hope you are not finding Amber too awful and cold."

Dyved bowed over her hand. As he straightened she saw a flicker in his eyes at her words; it might have been rueful acceptance.

"Martel assures me that the summers are delightful," he responded diplomatically.

"They are at that," Cat agreed, her voice bright and chipper. "He and I spent many a summer terrorizing unsuspecting trees by climbing them and grabbing fruit from their defenseless branches. Though we did manage to have a bit of fun in the wintertime as well, even if he was the better man for a snowball fight."

Dyved glanced at Martel, then shook his head.

"I put ice in my snowballs" Martel told Dyved by way of explanation, though it was likely that Dyved refused to believe that any sane person would play in frozen water. "Catriola settled for making peace, then shoving a huge wad of melting snow down my
collar." Martel glanced at Cat with amusement.

"Are you ready for your journey?" Dyved asked Desiree. "I was wondering if I might ask you a favour. Martel has given me the trump of himself from his pack, that we might speak at need. Would you be kind enough to give me yours too?"

She looked at him with sudden suspicion, though outwardly she gave no
sign.

"But where is Martin?" she asked. "Is he not coming with us? Would they not allow it? Is he to remain locked up below in that foul dungeon air?"

Dyved glanced at Martel, then shook his head.

"The intention is to attempt to effect a cure before he is released," he responded. "I'm sorry, Desiree. Believe me, I will do all I may to aid him here while you are away."

He sighed. "I only wish ... I could hold a trump of him too - at least while you are away. Then I could take swift action if he needed - even without releasing him ... as I shall be on the spot - and not without some influence ... but, alas, without the power to reach him."

He moved away slightly, biting his lip. It was rare for him to make any admission of his relatively powerless position in relation to Amberites, and he seemed to feel the awkwardness of this.

Desiree did not intend to lose any of her newfound trumps, but she instead seemed to consider his words carefully. "Didn't Dworkin make a set of Trumps for Martin, too?" she asked. "What of those?"

Dyved looked surprised. "I had not thought of that."

He turned to Martel. "Was there a set of trumps for Martin? If there were, would I be allowed to hold them ... as a Rebman? Or will they be held in trust for Martin ... for when he recovers?"

"No" replied Martel. "Vincent distributed all of the decks, and I did not see any left over."

It might be difficult to say whether the glare with which Desiree graced Martel was dirty or not, but it was certainly penetrating.

"He distributed all the decks," she said shortly. "But Benedict got extras, and I imagine they were Martin's. Perhaps you could ask him about them, Dyved." This last she said without breaking her stare at Martel.

Cat watched and listened quietly, giving Martel a smile.

Martel had looked rather dour until Cat's face lit a beacon within his face.

"I had not expected you to see me depart," he smiled at her, coming over to take her left hand in his right. "What better way to remind me to return quickly!" he kissed her hand gently.

Cat smiled, "I couldn't just let you leave without saying goodbye to you both, could I? I am going back to work just as soon as you and Princess Desiree are off.

"But I'm curious," Cat spoke up, looking to both Dyved and Martel. "Is there anyone else attempting to look into this? Or do I seem to be the only one?"

"Dyved was going to see about Merlin's mother. She is ill, and there is a slight possibility of a connection. You two might want to exchange thoughts," answered Martel.

"If you would not mind bouncing ideas off one another, Lord Dyved?" Cat inquired. "Perhaps with two heads working together, we may find some alleviation for both?"

Dyved nodded. "A sound plan. Perhaps we could meet after I have seen the Lady Dara. Merlin has already accepted my assistance ... perhaps you could visit when your researches have progressed a little further?"

"That sounds an ideal plan. I've much yet to read up on," Cat agreed. She turned to Desiree, "Best luck on your return to Rebma, Dear Desiree. I do hope the book you are seeking there turns out to be as important as it appears to be."

~Why does she call me 'dear' when she does not even know me?~ Desiree thought, but she just nodded.

Cat looked to Martel and gave him a wink. "No picking on the Lady Desiree during your trip, all right?"

Martel wore the look of the Martyr. "Callous girl! Shouldn't that be the other way around?" he reproached her lovingly, dropping his dark cloak, revealing the fact that he wears only tight swimming briefs of silvery fish skin and a pectoral harness holding two
small stabbing swords.

Desiree, who had perked up rather hopefully at Cat's words, only regained the dull expression she bore beforehand when she heard Martel's.

Cat smiled at Martel as he lost his cloak and she picked it up for him. "I shall keep this put away for when you return."

He looked quite nice, and definitely was not lacking in muscles. He removed his trump of Rebma's palace and held it before him, taking Desiree's hand in his right.

She allowed it with rather vague resignation. ~He could simply have offered me his hand, rather than just grabbing mine up,~ she thought.

Martel grinned at Dyved with a friendly nod of departure, and winked back at Cat.

Desiree simply waited.

Staring at the card for a moment, Martel and Desiree started to shimmer with prismatic aftergow, and faded away to dancing lights on the retina, only to arrive in a brief scintillation as their step foward carried them to the grounds within the Rebman royal palace. The comforting currents and ever temperate waters buoyed both royals like
hundreds of ephemeral hands.

A few guardsman took notice, but upon recognising the two, they put their arms down and approached.

"Hail, Princess of Llewella. Hail, Prince of Vialle. We are at your service." The men, though polite, were clearly not used to anyone, even familiar faces, appearing in their midst so strangely.

"Hail to you Watch Captain. The Queen has made Rebma available to us this quick manner of arrival. Don't be alarmed. Would you convey us to the Queen so that we may pay her our respects? If she is not available to us as yet, then see us to our quarters and alert the Lady Vialle to my presence."

Desiree jerked her hand out of Martel's as if she had suddenly realized she held the entrails of a rather large fish. "QUIT ORDERING ME AROUND!" she cried passionately, in ALL capitals. Her hair began to rise about her like a violent thunderhead. "What if I don't want the guards to take me to my room? What if I don't want to be anywhere near you while you talk to the Queen? What if--"

The more senior guardsman brought his green-tinged fingers to his forehead in a Rebman gesture of respect. "The Queen herself has asked that should either yourselves or Lord Dyved return, she would avail herself of your requests, immediately. If you will, your Graces?"

He gestured that the pair should follow him...

Martel nodded, accompanying the guards without glancing at Desiree.

She smoothed her hair, and shrugged off the sodden fur, which floated like a carcass in the water, expelling random bubbles trapped in the sleeves and collar. She hadn't thought to relieve herself of it before they left, even - she mused clinically - when Martel began showing off his muscles for Cat.

"Yes, of course..." she responded to the guards in a curiously modulated tone, casting the black-furred cloak aside with one hand, where it loomed in the water, framing her face and pale shoulders. She stepped into line behind them, as if in a trance. "Lead on, sirs..." she said coolly.

The pair bowed, and called a replacement set to take their stations before they led the newcomers deep into the coral-green palace.

It was many minutes later that Desiree and Martel reached the base of the Porpoise Spire, a cloud-gray up thrust of rock that was surmounted by several glowing corals at the top.

At the atrium, a curtain of bubbling gas from a captive geyser separated a chamber to the north of the entranceway. Both sound and sight were obscured, as the soothing sound of rising, silvery bubbles coursed upward to escape in a small fissure near the ceiling.

One guard gestured to Martel. "Please wait...she will see the Princess Desiree first."

The other guard gestured that Desiree should enter the veil of bubbles.

Relief flooded the strange calm she wore plastered on her face. "Oh!" she exclaimed softly.

Whether 'twas from surprise or some (nearly) unfathomable effort of control on Desiree's part, she did not turn Martel's way to cast a haughty glance, nor to stick out her tongue in some childish display (as indeed she may have been wont to do), but instead, she only moved forward as directed.

Martel contented himself with talking to the guards about 'shoptalk' and catching up on local gossip.

Long, graceful strokes took her slightly up, upward... through the veil of air at about shoulder height. There it buoyed her even higher momentarily, until the last of her disappeared through the curtain, and she was gone.

The Queen rested languidly upon a divan formed by a huge open seashell easily five feet across, its interior polished to a pearlescent sheen and filled with royal purple sea sponges, acting as pillows.

The rest of the room was remarkably spartan, in the Rebman fashion, bearing only several built-in shelves in the coral walls, and a few mirrors.

With green hair floating about her face, Moire extended a tapered hand.

"My dear, please come - it is good to see you again."

Desiree took Moire's hand with her own thin one, and pressed forward to kiss her Aunt's cheek. "And you," she murmurred. "I'm glad to be away from that wretched, cold place. I - "

She paused, thinking. "I don't know where to start... with Martin, or with the threat from the Darke, or with Fiona..." She shook her head. "What should you like to hear first of all?" she asks.

Moire offered from a seashell platter at her side a fruit, dark purple and near black in the undersea lighting. It is a delicious seaplum.

"No thank you," the girl murmured politely.

"Tell me whatever comes to your dear heart first, my Desiree."

Desiree hesitated, and then seemed to break down. "Well," she confessed at last, "I'm firstly worried about poor Martin! - do you know what they've done to him?"

"They say Fiona infected him with something," she answered, "so he has to be locked up. Does that make any sense to you?" she demanded. "Locking up sick people! They're barbarians! 'Course, they say it's for his own protection. Like he'd hurt himself... or something... I think they're afraid he's all changed, on the inside..."

Moire held her face stiff, though her brow seemed troubled. "I have heard he was detained...Corwin himself did send his message. He was greatly troubled by him. He said Martin was under the influence of whatever dark forces hold sway in our lands. What more will you tell me?"

Desiree's voice grew a bit dreamy. "It didn't seem like he acted any different to me," she said softly. "Only he was nicer, I mean, like... more-- I don't know-- attentive... to me... than ever he was used to."

Her voice changed again. This time, it grew a bit harder. "Of course, Martel went down there, and he was all, like, 'Quit being the victim all the time.'" She blinked, twice, in disbelief. "He actually said that... to Martin!"

She continued, aghast. "And Martin had apparently fallen in love with Catriola, too... and Martel knew about it. So what does he do? He brings her, too, so they can be all love-y in his face... and Martel's all, 'So you'd better tell us what's happened to you, or else the others won't be so understanding,' like he was going to let them torture Martin or something. And Martel called him an animal, and wouldn't even unlock the door so we could talk face-to-face like civilized people. He was all, 'I don't trust you. The door remains locked.'" With this last bit, Desiree actually managed a surprisingly convincing approximation of Martel's tone of voice.

"It's true!" Desiree exclaimed. "They've got him in the dungeon!" She seemed to be nearly overwhelmed with outrage. "There's no need for that, is there? Why couldn't they just lock him up in some room, somewhere, if they think it's necessary? It's not as if he's being punished for something. And they hadn't even fed him or given him any thing to drink. Poor Dyved could hardly even stand to be in the hallway, the air was so dank and terrible. And it was so cold..."

Her eyes were red with salty tears, shed virtually unnoticed into the warm water. "So finally Martel said he would see what he could do about having Martin released to Rebman incarceration, but I knew he wouldn't do it. He just said that to trick Martin into talking to him... like Martin would have done, anyway, if Martel hadn't just started in with demands and veiled threats and things. If Martel is the 'co-regent', or whatever, why wouldn't he be able to order Martin released, if he really wanted to?

"They say they're looking for a cure." Desiree lifted her bright eyes to the ceiling. "Why couldn't he just walk the Pattern? That cures things..." This she said rather vaguely, as if she were repeating something learned, but not entirely understood.

"And all this time,"she continued, "Martin was saying he thought he could find Fiona, who they're all looking for, anyway."

Desiree's face grew more earnest, and two spots of color appeared on her hollow cheeks. "Aunt Moire," she said, "I talked to Martin alone for a bit. His body... he has... changed ... gone through some sort of transformation. But he says his soul is not affected. You know... inside he is still Martin, still your grandson..."

"What should we do?" she finished, pleadingly, and her lower lip gave one, tiny, touching quiver. "He can't be left to just - just rot in that dungeon... while they all plan for war, and push him to the backs of their minds..." she said shakily. "He just can't!"

Moire held up her hand, palm flat, facing outward. "Hush, child - you are a princess, gather decorum about yourself like a robe of dignity."

Inwardly, Desiree smiled, pleased at her performance. It had been good... it would most certainly elicit the required information: whether or not Moire would be opposed to Martin's escape.

That's what Desiree wanted to know before she proceeded further...

Moire continued, "Martin is my grandsom, there is little I would not do for him, blood of my blood, of the line of Triton."

Desiree listened, calculating. Though encouraging, her words could as easily be a buffer for bad news.

Moire's face grew grave, and stern, and for a moment Desiree could see the power and strength that had caused her ably to rule for the centuries since the death of the former queen, Moins, her mother.

"I despair at his condition, though I think you are hard on his brother, Martel - he acts without malice - so much do I know of my grand nephew."

~Without malice, perhaps, but certainly without intelligence,~ Desiree thought.

"I will confer with Corwin more," Moire stated. "He will owe me an explanation for Martin's treatment, but do tell me - in what manner has Martin changed?"

~She's on the edge,~ Desiree thought. ~At the crux. What I tell her next will decide her for certain, and I must be careful not to reveal my hand... I must emphasize their poor treatment of him. Still, I think she is too conservative for an escape....~

"He--" she began, painting the water with her hands. "Nails like so," she said. "And his teeth were pointed. His skin was... smooth... but hard, like... like fish scales, or some sort of armor, but that part wasn't really visible-- in the, in the DARKNESS," her voice rose
bitterly, in sudden anger, "where they've KEPT him!"

She took a breath, and seemed to calm herself down, slightly. "His eyes," she said with perfect calm, "his eyes reflected light... like a, I don't know. Like he could see in the dark. And he could," she finished.

"And this transformation," Moire says sternly, "it does not concern you!? This does not seem a natural thing. And if the man's outside has been warped, one wonders as to his internal condition!"

There it was. Moire would never agree to have Desiree help Martin escape.

"Why, yes!" Desiree answered, her face the picture of worry. "Everyone says he's terribly dangerous-- that he was raving!"

Desiree turned her tack a bit; she was good at this. After all, she had, with admirable care-- only complained about Martel, and the conditions of Martin's imprisonment... his treatment - starvation! - in the terrible cold dungeon...

She had gone for the emotional impact, waiting for Moire to suggest her own solution, or desire..

" - but there's no reason for him to be in that nasty dungeon," she continued in character. "He's sick... what happened to him was hardly his fault...

"Why can't he be brought here, at least?" she pleaded. "He was asking to be let out into my care..."

Moire positioned her fingers under her chin in a loose fist, and looked out a window into the seas beyond. "That would be as I would have it, too, child. I will ask for his release to our custody."

Desiree heaved a sigh: the perfect picture of relief, as if she had just won the battle.

Moire's eyes flickered back to the princess. "Did Martin tell you what it was that altered him? What could do such a thing to the Blood of Amber, and Rebma?"

"It was Fiona infected him," she began, "as I said..." Here she elucidated Moire as to the details of the incident, so far as she knew them, and with a distinct bias against the actions of Martel.

"... co-Regent," she muttered. "And his Lady wants a Council! Well, I never! ..."

She did rather mention in a passing way that Martel and Cat stood up for Martin in the Family Meeting-- let it not be said that she was completely unfair to Martel, or his bride-to-be!-- but she also managed to assign that altruistic behaviour underlying motives. "...I'm sure they knew you would never have it," she said.

"And the assassination attempt," she said, when she had done with the subject of Martin, "I was very tricksy, and I managed to find out that Caine and Julian had been let out the night before... I don't think Martel ever got 'round to investigating that stuff because he was so busy, you know. I mean, making deals with Rowan and such... that requires a lot of attention, I guess. But he's not likely to tell me if he found out anything, is he?" she asked. "I mean... he had this co-Regent thingy all worked out in his head beforehand... and we were supposed to be a team, and all. But he didn't even let me know about it... and didn't even argue when they were accusing Random of not being real and all... when he was losing his claim to the throne...

"That was Rebma's best hope," she said with sudden, dignified sorrow.

It was lost in a moment, however, as she continued her narration with what she had discovered about Caine's and Julian's release, along with all the sundry details and a few ill-thought out hypotheses of her own.

Lastly, she told Moire with justified ire about Martel's repeated revelations of Desiree's possession of Triton's mirror.

"Dyved has asked for its use," she finished, "but I wanted to check with you, first. I know it's not mine to give, you know... that I only had the use of it. Would it be all right to leave it with Dyved, Aunt Moire?"

"Dyved," Moire replied, "speaks with my voice. In him, you will hear me. And I should wish to speak with him. Ensure he understands this."

A green striped fish darted in the window, before darting back out again, and Moire sat more erect, leaning upon one gracefully tapered arm.

Desiree nodded, and her dark hair rippled behind her. "I will," she said.

"Now...I must hear what it is Martel has seen on his part. For now, dear child, rest assured I shall see to it that Martin will be looked after - but I am afraid, even in Rebma, he will not be given his freedom. Not until I can assure myself that whatever Fiona has done to him has not ensorcelled him into her pawn. I am his blood, but I am a Queen first, and so must think firstly of my kingdom's safety despite sentimentalities."

At these words from Moire, Desiree began to notice a sick feeling, creeping into her stomach, and high in her throat. ~I am thinking of Rebma's safety,~ she thought desperately. ~And Amber's... Fiona must be found. And Benedict said... said if I was 'clever'... "

She fought not to show her sudden, unexpected uncertainty, and composed her face into an excellent simulacrum of interested agreement. She didn't want Moire to believe this was an act of sentimentality, but that was what Dyved would think... what Dyved would tell her...

Stupid! Stupid! Why had she trusted Dyved? After all this time... bearing this alone... and she had finally taken someone into her confidence... and he had just latched onto this-- this idea from a passing comment... that Desiree was in love with Martin...

Now it would ruin everything.

Her heart thrummed in her throat, and she concealed her shallow breathing beneath the dumbly placid mask that was her body.

She could hear Moire's voice continuing, but she was only aware of it through a haze, and she struggled to focus on the words.

"... is true," Moire continued, "it may well be to our favor that Martel did decry the marriage to seal Amber to us. Though he did abandon his duty as Prince, I do not consign him ill will - but I cannot entrust him to Rebma's fate. Dyved will assume all official duties held by Martel, as Martel has shown himself to be not of kingly material, for he cannot overlook his need for the good of the whole."

It was well that Desiree hadn't eaten anything that morning. Such a wave of nausea passed through her at these words, that she doubted her control could have withstood it had there been anything in her stomach to dispose of. ~It is not for my need, that I will do this~ she pleaded silently.

Moire went on. "Martel will be recognized of my line, but will have no part of it. On this matter, you will remain silent and respectful, for my words are not to be bandied about in gossip."

"Yes," Desiree said weakly, and she knew it wasn't her strongest performance. there was a lot she could have done with that word, had she been so disposed, but she let it lie, meek agreement.

"Thirdly, do not despair, for I have kept you in mind, dear Desiree...as a Princess of Rebma there is much you can yet do to lend your strength to our fair realm. Know that when the proper King of Amber is found, not some council of fools or equally absurd construction, it is the intention of this Queen to see you wed."

Her hand came up to forestall any objection by Desiree.

"No!" Moire's voice was steady and firm, underlaid with iron. "I will brook no rebuttal. You are a princess - and you have a princess' obligations. Do not test me again with one of your legendary tantrums."

Desiree allowed herself to pale... and then she began to shake.

Part of her was screaming, "Don't think I do this for the sentimentality of some school-girl crush! Don't think that I wouldn't have Rebma's interests always at my heart!" while another part of her wanted her... to use it, use the hysteria. Use the horror of that thought... use it for this reaction, the reaction to what Moire clearly thought would be shocking, unpleasant news.

She blinked away the warmth of tears, and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. At last she looked Moire straight in the eyes, but the facile naiveté was gone. Let Moire think it was because of this last pronouncement; it would be well... a touching scene, a young girl's doom...

Moire nodded, softening her voice. "Of course, I do not intend to sadden you, but Rebma has always prospered under the duty of her royalty."

"I know my duty," she said at last, quietly. But she was thinking of the Ragnarok, and the serpent...

"I want to be alone for a while," she said after another heavy pause, as her mind began to whir again, making those calculations... reading her audience's face... predicting probable reactions.

"I want to... I want to, to think - " she stopped as her voice broke, quite touchingly.

"Very well, Desiree. Take such time as you require, but do let me know when it is you return to Amber, or what plans you lay before you." Moire stood and laid a kiss against the younger woman's cheek.

"Be off with you then..."

Desiree made her way from the room, her mind whirling.

She must reach the blue library, and see to the book... or not...

Freeing Martin would only be bad if she were caught, she consoled herself, fighting down hysteria. And then... if she were caught, then it would be useful, that so-called crush. Then it would be supposed that Martin was the culprit... that older, more experienced Martin used his young, little cousin's unworldliness-- her trust-- to his advantage...

Only Dyved must not tell Moire that Desiree was quite used to the tought of a political marriage by now. If he did, then Moire would wonder about Desiree's reaction to the news...

But... but he couldn't quite manage to take both sides... that she was in love with Martin, and that she was perfectly at ease with the idea of marrying someone else. It would have to be one over the other, wouldn't it?

Bah! She cursed herself again for having been fool enough to trust anyone. There was nothing for it, however. Either Dyved would reveal more than she wished to Moire, or he would not. She would have thought he was intelligent enough to see that she was no ninny, but he had first jumped to the conclusion that she was in love with Martin, and then he had feared to let her alone with him...

What of that? Did Dyved really believe she would be fool enough to try to break down the cell door then and there? Openly putting herself under suspicion was not in her plans...

She shook her head. She had played the fool too long, it seemed... now, there was no one... no friend whom she could trust, if Dyved proved untrue.

She came to the door to the Blue Library: a round room, smallish in diameter, but several stories tall, its walls lined with row upon row of books, tablets, and scrolls.

She entered, half drifting, and closed the door behind her. With a push off the mosaic-tiled floor, she ascended to the shelves where the books of runes had once been, hoping they were still here, now...

The libram was empty, it's length lit only here and there by the yellow glow-spheres of luminescent algae.

It took almost fifteen minutes before the slim fingers of the princess pulled out a volume inscribed on sheets of shark vellum.

The cover read: Poetry of Eldre Landes - A Collection by Saccritan the Younger, dated 1208 K.R. (King's Reckoning).

~Eldre Landes?~ she wondered. ~Could that possibly be a name, or does it just refer to the subject matter: old places?~

She took her time checking to see if there are more volumes of similar origin... perhaps other collections of Eldre Landes' works (should he prove to be a person), or information about him. Perhaps Saccritan had some connection to the mysterious Eisman, of Eisman's Nine?

Indeed, Eisman's Nine may not have been written by Eisman himself, but instead by his disciple, Landes. That had happened, for example, with geologists Hutton and Lyell... Or maybe Saccritan the Younger was the disciple, though that seemed less likely, if this book was a collection of the works of different authors from different "Eldre Landes"

There was even the possibility of, say, Saccritan the Elder's being a contemporary of Eisman...

So many avenues to explore...

She set about it with the meticulous interest of the obsessed.

She would eat later, when she had more time. Yes. Perhaps when she returned to Amber.

... but hours later, there had been nothing.

Nothing else that vaguely related to that for which she searched.

She sighed, and sat for a moment, cross-legged on a tall, round-seated stool, bringing a hand to her aching temple. Her hair rose around her, alive with movement, as the current twisted long curls in its warm, watery fingers.

At last she moved.

She went to a desk, and tossed off an appropriate note to Moire:

Am returning to Amber for the quests.
Something will be found for me to do, I'm sure.

She was going to end it there, but following some instinct, she added:

I will do what I have to do to serve Rebma, even if it seems simply terrible.

She enclosed the thin skin on which she had written in the pearly shell of a small brachiopod, and passed it into the mouth of a nearby silvery fish.

"Moire," she said, and the fish darted away with the small parcel borne in its mouth.

~Can't do that in Amber,~ she thought vaguely, removing her trump deck.

She smiled unconciously as her fingers brushed them. They really were lovely. Such an eye, had Dworkin!

Naturally, however, when she herself had finally arrived in Amber, Dworkin was nowhere to be found. There would be no discussing art and the arcane, now. She had missed it all again.

Her face twisted slightly in resentment.

Too young, too young. Always too young!

Her eyes fell upon her own trump, and she gazed at it a while, distracted from her self-pity. Was she not beautiful? she wondered.

She was thin, it was true. She became occupied in one thing or another and simply forgot to eat. But her face was pleasingly symmetrical. Her eyes, large; her lashes, long; her chin, small and feminine...

She brought out Catriola's trump, and gazed at it in comparison.

Yes, certainly Cat was beautiful. She must have that way about her that men found to be so attractive, too - that... that low-key modest flirting... that mask of grace...

Bah!

Desiree cast it up, perfectly timed to the wake of a rather large pipefish so that it caught in the water and flipped to face away from her, suspended in the current... a dancing unicorn on a field of green.

Now she took out Vincent's trump, and setting it down so that she should not activate it by mistake, she looked at the picture, imagining her hands painting the strokes.

Yes, handsome. He did resemble his father. Perhaps he would more so with a beard.

But, what would he be like?

And how old was he? she wondered suddenly. Maybe he had a love, somewhere, out in shadow. He obviously felt for the death of his manservant; that was something good to be said for him, at least.

And he was also sensitive enough to have that slight falter of smile when she had mentioned his height. That was... possibly... good, because he had retained his courtesy, after. That would be kingly.

Not too fast to take offense. Yes, that was a good quality. Unless it was all an act, and he was even now plotting her doom...

She chuckled at her own cynicism and gathered all her cards up, keeping her Uncle Benedict's in her hand.

If it had only been Martin that would be king, she thought.

When at last she was ready, she focused on her uncle, visualizing that long, fuzzy tunnel as she had been taught.

"Benedict," she spake.

 

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