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Chapter Text

What makes a woman stand out in a crowded room? It could be beauty, certainly; a rare and exquisite ensemble of features that caused the beholder to hold their breath. Still, in the Courts of Chaos, the homeland of shapeshifters, beauty wasn’t a valuable commodity. Here, nearly everybody could change their appearance in a thousand ways, and often did. If anything, plain faces were a fashion statement.

A temper, perhaps? A unique mix of character traits that formed an endearing personality one wanted to be around. But what about strangers? One might know nothing about a woman and still be enthralled.

It could be, of course, her words and attitudes, her knowledge of the world, her ability to weave a story. But what about a case, like the present, when her speech so far had been pure legalese, with more caveats than substance?

In the end, there might be nothing to go by, except for a gut feeling. A missed heartbeat at the sight of her green eyes, full of pride and promises. A sense of challenge behind the polite expression on her perfectly sculpted face.

Such were the thoughts of Mandor of House Sawall as he watched Fiona Barimen, fiery-haired and porcelain-skinned and barely five feet tall, giving her speech in the middle of the Thelbane, the Grand Hall of Chaos.

Others were standing next to her: a man in black and silver, a man in black and white, some stout, dark-haired Shadow dweller who looked like he was still awed by his position in her entourage. The delegation from Amber had come to the Courts to sign the treaty, and they had come on their terms. They had just won a war no one expected them to win.

Mandor had his own opinion about the war, but his notions were, at this point, irrelevant. All that mattered was that the war had brought Fiona Barimen here. For that, Mandor was grateful.

Purists of various types would quibble over whether the Princess could be considered an actual descendant of Barimen bloodline. After all, her father, Oberon, can’t have been anything but a construct, a ghost created by the Pattern, albeit a very high-quality one. That was the only way a practitioner of the Arts could interpret the whole ‘son of the Unicorn’ conundrum. Mandor knew most Chaosites didn’t care. Oberon’s brood were offspring of Dworkin the Madman, whatever means of reproduction, and that was enough.

Mandor didn’t ask to be introduced. On the contrary, he made sure the Princess never saw him, never heard his name even. A first impression is far too precious to leave up to chance. A gentledemon ought to do his homework before coming face to face with the lady of his desire.

A metal ball dropped from Mandor’s hand. It didn’t hit the black marble floor. Instead, it floated in the air at knee level, starting a slow journey around the hall. It was as if Mandor himself was walking around, listening to the soft conversations between the courtiers… only much less noticeable. He didn’t expect to hear anything important. Those who were truly discussing sensitive topics had probably taken care to set defences. Still, even innocuous rumours, when used correctly, could make decent leverage.

After five minutes, he had six rumours that he might be able to apply to other ends. Then he found what he was looking for. Gliding through the hall, his metal ball picked up a familiar voice. Lady Dara, Mandor’s stepmother, was talking to the High Priest of the Serpent, Bances Amblerash. Mandor sometimes wished he could plant a spying device on Dara permanently without her noticing. Such conversation was worth his attention even if the two only spoke of the weather.

They weren’t speaking of the weather.

‘... not how I envisioned their arrival,’ Dara was saying.

‘You did what you could, milady,’ Bances replied politely.

‘Not enough… not enough. It was a mistake to send Jasra after Prince Brand. I should have been working the man myself.’

‘Forgive my openness, Lady,’ the High Priest said, ‘but I am of the same opinion I was back then. It was a mistake to go after Prince Brand in the first place. The man was dangerously unstable even before the Fount. We should have cultivated one of the other two. The Princess showed great promise. She could have been forged into a rather fine weapon. And she was so knowledge-starved she’d jump at any…’

'The Princess is far too canny,’ Dara interrupted. ‘At any time, she is likely to have six different plans that get her what she wants none of which actually get us what we aim for. No, I still think we were right to go with the youngest of the brood. He was so perfectly unhinged that he didn’t even need much pushing from us. Just a gentle nudge. Just a hint of promise of greater power…’ She stopped abruptly. ‘I sense someone working certain forces near us,’ she said.

Lady Dara could make life at home unpleasant. Mandor picked his battles carefully, so he withdrew his ball quickly, hiding it behind the skirts and swallowtails of the courtiers around.

In the privacy of his alcove, he tallied his findings. So, this was not the first time Princess Fiona had visited the Courts. She had been here before, along with her brothers, Brand and… Bleys, was it? The War of Patternfall itself was a distant echo of that visit.

They had been looking for power… looking for teachers. This was surprising. Back in Amber, Oberon’s children could learn from one of the masters of the craft: Dworkin himself, the man who stole the Eye of the Serpent, the man who challenged Logrus and succeeded. How could the Princess be in want of knowledge?

Whatever was the reason, this was golden. If there was something Princess Fiona needed, that fact opened a path for interaction.

The game was on.

Chapter Text

‘Some would say it’s ironic,’ Mandor said quietly, ‘for Lady Dara to invite you into the chapel devoted to her former lover.’

The Duke smiled. That is to say, the corners of his lips moved infinitesimally, giving his cheekbones a slightly sharper angle. Mandor felt excitement rising in his chest, as if he was still a boy of fifty, not a seasoned courtier two centuries old. Gramble Sawall was going to share some information with him. And it was, by definition, something juicy.

Around them, other invitees were mingling, lightning candles, black and silver, admiring the portrait of a man on the wall: green-eyed, raven-haired, with a defiant look to his face. The shrine was brand new, freshly opened for guests. A novel craze was picking up speed in the Courts. Of course, Lady Dara had to keep up with fashion.

‘Prince Corwin,’ the Lord of the Rim said presently, ‘is an interesting character.’

‘You will have to forgive me, Father,’ Mandor said politely, ‘for I fail to understand your meaning. I saw Prince Corwin when he came here for the Concord. The man looked mediocre to the least detail.’

‘Ah,’ his father replied. ‘But that’s exactly the enigma.’

Mandor pondered the matter for a bit. The thing with older Chaosites - they don’t talk much. Suhuy was something of an exception because his job was explaining the ways of the Logrus to arrogant youngsters. With the rest of elders, you had to listen. You learned to distill meaning for the smallest hints.

Mandor looked again at the hostess, tall and proud as ever. When the Lord of the Rim married Dara Helgram, it was pure politics. The woman had next to nothing to recommend her as a partner. Yes, she was somewhat beautiful, and her magical abilities could be called formidable. Personality-wise, however, she was mediocre at best. She craved power, control, dominance - just like everyone else. She was nothing to tempt a person of such refined tastes as the Duke of Sawall.

Mandor had decided that it must be the bloodline. Dara was descended from Prince Benedict of Amber, the most deadly warrior alive and one of the most obvious claimants to the throne of Amber. The fact that the throne was currently occupied by Random, the youngest of Oberon’s sons, made no difference. Prince Benedict could take the crown any time he so desired.

The other obvious claimant was Prince Corwin, the man Lady Dara had an affair with. The man who portrait embellished the wall of this chapel.

‘Corwin of Amber was chosen by Pattern to be its champion,’ Mandor said thoughtfully.

The Lord of the Rim gave his son an almost imperceptible nod. ‘However mediocre the man may look,’ he said, ‘there is something in him that justifies the Pattern’s choice. I’m curious to unravel this mystery.’

Mandor turned his father’s answer in his head, viewing it from every angle. With the elders, you had to listen. Not just to the words. To the gaps between words. To the idioms. To the tenses used. They all were chosen for a reason.

‘He is still here,’ Mandor said eventually. ‘Corwin didn’t leave the Courts with the rest of the delegation.’

‘He is very much here,’ Gramble agreed. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must pay my regards to Lady Belissa.’

‘By all means, Father.’

Mandor remained in the corner of the chapel, staring thoughtfully at the floor.

***

Back in the Mandorways, he conjured a pleasant courtyard full of greenery and lowered himself next to a pond with lilies floating in dark water. Relaxing in the reclining chair, Mandor closed his eyes, placed his fingertips to his temples, and carefully extracted the memory of the evening, pouring it gently into the pond.

The mirror-smooth surface came to life. Faces emerged from the darkness, soft voices filled the yard. Mandor watched his own memory, studying the expressions of everyone who had been in the shrine, including himself. He listened, once again, to what was said and done, trying to discern secret meanings from mundane moves and words.

‘He is very much here,’ his father’s voice echoed in Mandor’s ears.

For a moment, the pond showed the floor of the chapel. It was quite remarkable, Mandor noticed, tiled beautifully in black, silver, gray and white. On the far side of the room, it had Amber symbolized by a a geometric design. On this side, exactly where Father was standing, there was a representation of the Pit of Chaos.

He is very much here.

Mandor leaned forward and moved his fingers in a quick and complicated gesture. Obeying his command, the memory slowed down, expanding to three dimensions, engulfing him. Mandor was standing in the shrine again, looking at the floor. He searched with each of his senses in turn, looking for the slightest hint.

And he felt it. The pull of a narrow passageway, very well-hidden yet noticeable for those who knew what to look for.

Mandor allowed himself a smile.

Chapter Text

‘The Courts are a busy place,’ the man observed. ‘I didn't have half so many visitors when I was a prisoner in Amber.’

‘I’m just a raven,’ the bird croaked.

‘Oh, I knew one raven,’ the prisoner laughed. ‘Ate him in the end, poor bastard. He talked too much.’

‘I’m content with just listening,’ the raven said.

‘You’re big on listening over here in the Courts. That other visitor was all ears, too.’

‘Chaosites are curious lot,’ the bird replied. ‘And you’re a curiosity.’

‘I guess so.’

Silence.

‘Wouldn’t the others look for you, though?' came the voice of the raven. 'That man in the white armor, perhaps?’

‘Julian? He’d gladly leave me rot here forever.’

‘The woman, then? The redhead?’

‘Oh, Fi. The very reason Julian hates me so much. No, Fi won’t be looking for me. I told her not to.’

‘The man hates you because of the woman? I sense a story here. Care to share?’

‘It’s a very old story.’

‘No harm in sharing it, then.’

‘Hell, why not? There’s nothing else to do here. I only wish I had some wine to spice the tale. Do you have any wine, raven?’

‘I’m just a bird.’

‘Thought so.’

‘There may be, however, something left in a stash left by a previous prisoner. The guy was a sneaky bastard. Or maybe it was a lady. It’s hard to tell with their kind sometimes. Anyway, she had a hidden place for her stash. You can check it.’

Rustling. A profanity. More rustling.

‘Hooray, you clever bird! There is something that feels most definitely like a bottle… Of wine, hopefully. Let’s hope its content didn’t have time to turn into vinegar.’

A sound of the cork going out, and then of a tentative sip.

‘My goodness,’ the man said dreamily. ‘It was almost worth it getting imprisoned just to taste this vintage.’

‘Glad it’s still good.’

‘Want some?’

‘I’m just a bird.’

‘Birds can get drunk, as far as I know.’

‘You need it more.’

‘You wanted me to share. Come on, have a go. Be a good companion.’

‘All right.’

A clinking sound, then several long gulps.

‘So, Fi,’ the prisoner said. ‘Fi is smart. Smarter than anyone else in the family, perhaps. We became friends, long ago, when we were still quite young. Deirdre had just left for a Shadow trip, and I missed her horribly, so Fiona’s attention was a welcome distraction. We organized a tournament together. I bested Julian in his favourite game, and Fiona congratulated me with a kiss on a cheek. When Julian saw it, he was mad as fuck. Do you know what fuck means, raven?’

‘I have some idea. Is this why Julian envies you?’

‘What? Oh, no, no. It isn’t like that between me and Fiona. We’re siblings, see. You can’t fuck siblings in our family.'

‘You seem to regret the ban.’

A pause.

‘Small difference. Deirdre is dead.’

‘You don’t fuck the dead in your family, either?’

‘Now, raven, watch your tongue. I’ll let it slide this once, because you showed me the stash.’

‘Just trying to understand you better.’

Another pause. More gulps.

‘Right. Anyway, Fiona befriended me. I first thought she did it to spite Bleys, her other full brother besides Brand. Still, she was a pleasant company, charming, witty, and sharp. She could drink like you wouldn’t believe. Absinthe had no effect on her.’

‘Absinthe,’ the raven repeated.

‘Do you know what it is?’

‘An alcoholic beverage, I presume?’

‘Right.’

Another gulp.

‘Go on,’ the raven said.

‘Well, at some point, I went to war. Those were the days when Amber was threatened by Weirmonken, dark creatures from Shadow. There was one battle after another. In one of them, my troops were cornered. We fought valiantly, and my people were better soldiers, but we were outnumbered twenty to one, and the terrain didn’t work in our favor. I realized, for the first time, that I might die.’

Several long gulps, followed by the sound of liquid being swirled in a bottle.

‘The situation was dire when Fiona contacted me via Trump. She extended her hand and demanded I come to her. I refused. I couldn’t leave my soldiers, and we wouldn’t have enough time to get them all out. Fiona insisted, and I broke contact and kept fighting. Luckily, my squire, Rein, brought reinforcements and saved the day. I knighted him after that battle.’

‘Your sister was probably not very happy about you cutting contact when she was trying to save your life.’

‘Not very happy? Fi was furious. She has a fiery temper and doesn’t believe in hiding it. We had an argument as soon as I was back. She said it was irresponsible of me to take such risks. She said my soldiers’ only purpose was to protect me. No soldier could be worth the life of a Prince of Amber.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘Oh, she was right, of course. I would agree with her, were she not so dismissive about my men. Yes, soldiers die on battlefields. Obviously. I fought enough wars to accept that and even be callous about it. But there is a difference in whether they fight and fall defending their commander or their commander flees, abandoning them in a tight corner to die. Had I accept Fiona’s offer, there was no way for me to get back to the battlefield quickly. I would need to walk the Pattern to reappear in a slightly different location and to do what Rein ended up doing. By that time, my troops would have been slaughtered.’

‘Hm.’

‘What?’

‘I’m just a bird.’

‘But?’

‘To be honest, I share your sister’s view. I’ve seen wars. I’ve seen commanders. There are no rules that are carved in stone. Some generals fight to the bitter end. Some flee, leaving their troops behind. There are no right or wrong decisions. There are decisions that are right or wrong for the moment.’

‘You know what, raven? You sound exactly like her.’

‘She must be a very wise and prudent person.’

‘Well, anyway, we had a fight. Fi insisted this battle had been one of those cases when fleeing was advisable. I didn’t budge. She wouldn’t cave in. It spiraled downward from there. We didn’t part friends. Then next day, I wanted to continue the argument, but she was avoiding me. She maintained a distance. I got angrier and angrier until I couldn’t stand to be around her. And Julian hated me, for ditching her.’

‘Ugh.’

‘Yeah.’

Another gulp.

‘I’m not politically brilliant,’ the prisoner said. ‘But eventually I got it. It was never about me. It was about the throne. My father was going to make me his successor. Fiona realized it earlier than anyone else. She tried to make an ally of me.’

‘Sounds perfectly reasonable.’

‘I think she found me to be way too…’

‘...idealistic?’

‘...reckless. She probably decided siding with me exposed her to greater dangers than she was willing to tolerate.’

‘I must admit, this lady sounds more and more sensible. A person would definitely benefit from having her on their side.’

‘Well, she was on my side... at the very end. I don’t think I hate her now. I don’t think I hate anyone. Not even Julian.’

‘Being imprisoned for a long time will do that to you, I’ve heard. Now, tell me about that other sister of yours… Deirdre, I think?’

Chapter Text

‘Young Sawall.’

The voice came from everywhere around Mandor. Each syllable and the echoes of each differed from the rest, seemingly randomly, in pitch, volume, and accent.

‘I come to ask permission,’ Mandor said, ‘to lift the ban on teaching Princess Fiona.’

The darkness around him shivered. Flashes of red lightning started to cracked the sky in the distance.

‘This spawn of the betrayer,’ the voice thundered. ‘Why should I even consider this?’

‘Could I know the reason for the ban?’

The lightning got brighter and nearer.

‘The Barimen girl is talented,’ the voice boomed. ‘If taught, she would make a formidable spellworker. Her allegiance to the Order is strong. Why would I want to strengthen my archenemy?’

‘You allowed tutoring of Prince Brand.’

The voice now reminded him of a gallery of demonic bells, wild and out of tune.

‘I was given to understand the youngest of the trio was more tractable. He wanted personal power and personal glory. His allegiance was primarily to himself.’

‘He also wanted to destroy Amber.’

‘That, too. That was not the case with Princess Fiona, though.’

Flashes of crimson light were now bursting in a series but with no perceptible pattern. Mandor’s eyes ached. Every thought was a shard of glass slashing him from within. Still, he pressed his case. ‘Princess Fiona craves power. She has ambition and desires esoteric lore. Those aspects of her personality can be used to our advantage. She possesses expert knowledge of the functioning of the Pattern. It can be extracted. She is philosophically inclined. I can spin our case to present it as to her benefit. She’s pragmatic. We have a lot to offer. I believe the Princess can be persuaded. Her allegiance can be altered.’

The voice was now metallic, crackling like static electricity. ‘And you say you are able to work her?’

‘Able and willing.’

More crackling, then a thunderclap.

‘‘Let it be done. You have permission. But only in regards to this particular child of Amber.’

‘Understood.’

The world around him quieted and stilled. Crimson vibrations, so intense and bright a moment ago, dissolved as if they had never been. Mandor closed his eyes, relishing the newly restored darkness.

He had gotten what he came here for.

Chapter Text

Mandor was single for the same reason most Chaosites were.

Shadow dwellers have very short lifespans. For them, it makes sense to marry quickly, and to have children and grandchildren in rapid succession so they can see their seed prosper before they die. That is their way to immortality.

In the Courts, however, romances rarely ended with a wedding. When one is already immortal, marriage becomes mostly a political endeavor. The same goes for offspring.

In this light, it had been very telling that the Lord of the Rim had adopted Merlin, his wife’s son from an earlier seduction of Corwin of Amber. Gramble Sawall already had two sons by Dara. He also had Mandor, his eldest and heir. Yet he adopted a bastard boy, placing him in front of two of his own children in the line of succession.

The child was a genius; Mandor had to grant him that. Mandor had been watching his step-brother for all Merlin’s life and had never ceased to be amazed by the boy’s spellcasting ability. The potential in the child was immense. The machine this kid had designed sounded like a Suhuy level artistry. Father, as always, had proven to be an excellent judge of character. In adopting this gem, Gramble Sawall had made a safe bet.

And yet...

‘How many miles to Avalon?’ Mandor said conversationally, looking into the abyss below. ‘None, I say, and all. The silver towers are fallen. Our swords were shattered in our hands, and we hung our shields on the oak tree…’

‘Wow,’ Merlin said. ‘That sounds exactly like something my father would say.’

Mandor waited. Would the boy follow up on the hint in any way at all? As talented as the child was in certain domains, in the field of intrigue he was so hopelessly naive it was nearly unbelievable.

They sat at the edge of the world, looking down into a bottomless rift full of stars. Their dinner table stood on a bridge between two darknesses. Numerous dishes had been sampled and done with; a dark twisted bottle in a gleaming ice bucket waited patiently for its turn. The silence between them lengthened.

‘This dessert is quite nice,’ Merlin said. ‘May I have more?’

Mandor smiled, pleased and exasperated all at once. Incredible, just incredible. As much as Mandor wanted a malleable king, he appreciated subtlety too much not to want to cultivate it in his younger brother. His efforts seemed to have been in vain, however. When it came to allusions and hints, Merlin remained appallingly dense.

Their conversation returned to the boy’s misfortunes in the past couple of weeks. Mandor was surprised Merlin was still here to tell the tale. The boy needed to be sheltered somewhere until all of this succession business was done with. Mandor made an effort to persuade his younger brother to become a recluse for the next little while. Then, it happened.

First, a Trump contact. It was baffling, the way how carelessly his step-brother accepted calls without taking even basic precautions such is checking who was calling. Annoyed, Mandor activated his own checking spell. It wasn’t as reliable on someone else’s Trump contact, but it still gave him a blurry vision of female-looking figure with hair as red as flame.

Could it be..?

The antics of his little brother temporarily forgotten, Mandor came up beside the boy and placed his hand on his shoulder. Yes, this was Her. Elegant and beautiful and mysterious and looking quite stern at the moment.

‘My! My!’ He heard his own voice and quickly composed himself. ‘Will you please introduce me, Merlin?’

The child hastened with the formalities.

‘This is my Aunt Fiona, Princess of Amber.’

Mandor bowed quickly to hide the fire in his eyes. His heart pounded. His mind sang, eager to start unriddling the most delightful creature he had ever beheld.

Now, Princess, let’s dance.