Berd sits silently upon Trista’s shoulder.  When the rain comes up, he looks with some concern toward Cyan, then relaxes.  All around Trista, oddly enough, the rain does not fall – the droplets simply vanish before striking her or the little dragon, and the rain behind them seems twice as dense.


Cyan, for her part, turns her face up to the rain, closes her eyes, and lets it wash over her.  For an instant she recalls doing the same, far too recently; this time, the rain slips cool fingertips over her skin, and she glories in the feeling.  How long has it been since she has sat, outside of that armor, that armor still carried upon the back of the panther, and simply enjoyed the rain?  Even as a child, she loved it, and now….

But in response to some hidden communication, her face grows sad.


She sighs deeply at James’ words, looks down at the back of the panther again, runs her fingers through rain-slick fur.  “That is...a shame.  The harp was a gift from a dear friend, some time ago.  I would say ‘long ago’, but judging the ages of those about me.”  She tries a weak smile, and surprisingly it succeeds.  “I thank you for the attempt, James, and surprisingly you did deliver it to me.  So the irony is that it lies back in my former camp, no doubt the spoils of whomever has taken over the Army of the End of Time…assuming one has.”

All of those poor people.  How she betrayed them!

Berd’s eyes turn to James as he speaks, and they sharpen.  After a moment, the air around questors, all of them, clears of rain, and begins to grow warmer.


Cyan, in turn, stares toward the city for a long moment.  “So this grand construct of steel and glass, overlaid with brilliant light, is similar to your home, James?”  Her topaz eyes flick from light to light, and her lips form the words.  “Such beautiful creations, devoted to singing praise of vehicles…and beer.”  Amusement colours her tone, but she grows more serious, studies both James and Morgan.  “I am always surprised by the powers you possess, and their usage.”

“Sir Morgan…I would hear of your homeland, if you have the time and inclination.”  Cyan looks down at the panther, then up to Morgan.  “It produces marvels.”

Nodding in assent to James' request, Aaron took up the mantle of progression, and helped them continue on their way. The assistance of another in the way of the weather (Berd, he assumed), was a welcome addition, and one he'd be loathe to complain about.

He looked out over the expanse, nodding.

"I've seen many worlds like this. Some with good beer, some with less," he said with a chuckle. "Cityscapes the likes of this and grander still... one could get lost in the maze they create, and prophets and poets alike can emerge from even the darkest of slums."

"I too, would like to hear of your homeland, James," Aaron commented, the majority of his intent focused on forging a path through the Myriad.

Aaron takes the lead now, and at the next junction turns onto a side road, little more than a dirt track really, now become a ribbon of mud.  The rain is easing, though the lightning seems to be becoming more frequent.

The world around them grows darker, as the brilliance of the city falls behind them, and the way is lit only by the lightning now.

And then they crest a rise, and there are lights ahead of them, harsh white lights, casting their actinic glare across dark shapes standing in fenced areas to each side of the roadway.  The fences are of metal mesh, like gleaming fishing nets stretched between tall poles.  And now, closer, the shapes become clearer - rusted metal vehicles, thousands... tens of thousands of them, stacked eight or ten deep in the rain, with long metal arms, claw-tipped, rising above them.

And behind the fences, shapes move, and hurl themselves at the mesh.  Dogs.  Large, vicious dogs.  Their eyes gleaming an insane red in the glare of the lights, as they snarl and bark at the travellers.

The road dips, and something is moving above it, slowly, from left to right.  Dozens of huge boxes, running on wheels, and linked end-to-end, clattering and clanking as they move across the road, which passes through a tunnel beneath them.

The tunnel runs for some distance, and emerges into farmland again.  Looking back, there are old, low mountains above the tunnel, dimly seen through the falling gently falling snow...

A shallow bow accompanies Morgan's words, "I've time to spare, I think, though I can't do justice to the good parts. It is, or was, covered in forest, and the forest covered in people. Our trees are more friendly than those you know. They grow a few inches every day, and bear a fair variety of foods. The bark is a variety of colors, depending on the whims of the ones who planted them,  but the leaves are green.

From bottom to top... there are the panthian monks,  who actually live on the ground. Their religion requires it, and they keep a few horses around. We see them more in Paralicos than some of the others do. We're by the ocean, and everyone likes to swim.

From the ground, to the height of the trees around here are the nurseries, plantings wherever we've managed to hack through the blackmoss remnants.  The Rowans have bred several lines that can deal with the stuff, but it is slow going."

He pauses, glancing at the tunnel, and shakes his head.  "Above those, people tend to the various beasts, so we get our weapons, heat, clothes, and the like. I'm told it used to be too dark for most people, so someone bred a hardier breed of lightfly, and its rather pleasant now. Lightflys glow, in shades of red, green, and blue, and they flitter about, hand-sized creatures that gather around pots we set out for them.  There's yearly prizes for breeding more attractive varieties."

"A few dozen feet are kept clear for message runs, and above that, people start to live. It varies, some people are content with a hammock, while we have a home spanning a dozen old growths.  The very tops are public domain.  I can't say much for them, its been storming for the past decade or so.  They used to be fun places.  When we get a few hours of sun, the rainbows are spectacular, though."

Finished the sketchy physical description, he continues into history, "The Julians control the Palican area, an isthmus and everything within a hundred leagues or so of it.  The Rowans have the greater northern part, and the Steelthirst the south. We used to squabble a bit, but twenty five, thirty years ago, the blackmoss came. No one's sure where from. It started small, but it ate most anything it touched.  We were...losing. Large stretches of land were covered in blackness, and scouts reported strange creatures in its depths, when they came back at all.  When the storms came, and drowned the blackmoss, they were a blessing. A dozen and more years later, we'd be more than happy for the blessing to go away. "

With a light slap from Leareth's tail, Morgan startled.  "Oh, and our precious friends. They stay with the royal families. By default, they are bodyguards, military, or both, like everyone with me.  One reason or another, they are loyal to the families. As far as we can tell its instinct, " Another swat from his mount, "though we try to keep them happy. Instinct isn't everything. A lot of them live at home. Imagine the castle, with ten, twenty times as many panthers, and three times the people. The sight when they all decide to go fishing at once is incredible.   "
This message was last edited by the player at 20:17, Sun 08 Apr 2007.

Trista uses the break to take a light, easy run. Her body may not tire, but she still feels the need to keep limber. It’s almost an obsession. Once back on track, she happily provides her shoulder for Berd once again. The terrain continues to twist and turn until they come to a city of glaring lights and blaring music. The place reminds her of the cities near where she lived as a child. She remembers Jonnee being from ‘The Kingdom of Los Angeles’ and smiles at their almost-common backgrounds. Of course, in her world, Los Angeles was no kingdom, but a barren wasteland. Still, the city had been thriving at one time.

Lightning brings Trista’s eyes up, sparkling with anticipation; storms have always been a favorite of the woman’s. Her hands softly stroke the soft fur of Anna’s back, unsure if the intelligent animal would be nervous in a storm.

Her eyes turn to Cyan, “I am sorry for the loss of your harp. I would have liked to hear you play.”

 When James mentions beer and cars, a small smile crosses Trista’s lips, “My home is similar, also.”


The rain breaks and Trista looks up, realizing none is hitting her. Berd’s doing, no doubt. The dragon has expansive abilities. Still, she’s slightly disappointed to not feel the rain coat her skin. Never one to feel the negative affects of weather, she takes pleasure in the sensual caress of water.


The woman listens appreciatively to Morgan’s description of his world, so very different from her own. She has visited many worlds, but none as he has described. Intrigue adds a mental note to visit, if the opportunity arises.

After a request of Anna, the panther falls back to walk next to the silent Banglen-Yp. Trista quietly asks, “How does your little companion enjoy this rain?”

"Fascinating," Dorian remarks as Morgan finishes the description of his home world. He too remembered an impressive forest world, where trees seemed to reach to the moons and planets. Aaron had taken him there, a rare slice of the man's past. There it was that Dorian first glimpsed the Underflow. The ancient tree known as Yggdrasil had roots that sank into the Underflow, drawing forth power and life. Dorian had followed those roots down into the fabric of reality. He had not seen the world the same since. He wondered if Morgan's world had similar entities, or if the trees were merely plants as on most worlds.

Balance; was that the lesson the tree sought to teach?

The tree had given the same riddle to Jack, and apparently, Jack had failed to decipher it. That irritated him. Deep down, he felt a childish need to prove himself better than Jack. Right now, that meant holding on to his sanity better than Jack had. He wasn't sure he was succeeding.

~ balance ~

The child-like words inside his head pinged with a resonance of truth.

~necessary~

"I am worse for not knowing your world, then, Morgan." Then in a louder voice, he addresses the entire group, "The storm is natural, but it does span many worlds. Could it be a by-product of James and Aaron trying to manipulate reality so fast? I've worked with storms in the past; shall I try to diminish its effects somewhat? If it grows much worse, it will impede our progress--or even grow dangerous."

Things always had a cause and effect. Such powerful shifting of worlds should be expected to cause side effects. As such, his work with the storm could also have side effects, so he would have to keep his manipulations minimal.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 18:11, Mon 09 Apr 2007.

Roman draws on his experience of ShadowWalking.  As nicitating membranes close over his eyes, he offers his opinion.  "This storm could be the echo of something else, ahead of us.  Unless we are closer to Amber than I think, it is possible that someone has created a massive storm to block the road to Amber.  We can  go around such blocks - but there will be more.  If this is what we face, we must try to choose a path that the creator of the block does not expect."

"Indeed," Dorian responds. "That is exactly the first thing I checked, before speaking. I detect no interference, and thus I said it is natural. Thus, if it is not natural, whoever is causing it is powerful and skilled, for I specialize in subtly--in other words, an Amberite is a prime candidate. If that is the case, such manipulation should be readily apparent when I try to clear the storm, which is why I offered the suggestion. Going around it would prove time-consuming, and would not reveal if the storm is forced or not. Further, if Berd, Meredith and I combine our strengths, only a small number could stand against us--and I doubt any being could do so subtly enough to make the storm still appear natural. Any knowledge of our enemy is power, but I suggest starting small so as to not reveal our actual strength, though it may be known already. As for a path our creator does not expect, I believe Berd and Luke could supply just such a path if we lack other means."

Dorian's compliment brings an appreciative smile to Morgan, and another shallow bow.  "When this is over, you are welcome to visit. I should offer to take you, but it isn't worth the route for any who don't call it home. "

As Roman speaks of echoes, he tilts his head in question.  "The archons spill fire from the sky, and Arden is a forest. Might it not have little to do with us, and much to do with that?"

"Such is the way of the Hellride, friends," Aaron sighed, his focus still unbroken. "Swift, hard changes to a singular purpose, rather than subtle, gradual changes to the grand scope."

"This storm is going to be part of the ride for as long as it wants to exist. You're welcome to try dispersing the thing if you wish, but I can't cast a clue as to how it will affect our progress."

With that said, Aaron closed his mouth and focused on making some headway through the mire.

 

Enjoying the ride and the rain, Banglen-Yp smiled as Trista came over and asked how her little friend handled the rain.

•• He • pre•fers • lay•ing • be•fore • a • fi•re • but • it • does • not • bot•her • him ••

A simple reply to which the kitten peeked up from the pocket in which he resided, now with an opening in the front as well as inside the jacket, and even a little roof to shield him from the worst of the rain, even though he did appear to not mind it too much.  Perhaps the roof was more to prevent the pocket from being soaked.

•• Rain • gives • life • and • he • is • hap•py • to • be • a•live ••

Another statement and then she reached up to ruffle his damp head, making him look like a little punk kitten where he sat peeking at Trista over the edge of the pocket, clearly not mind being "punkified".

•• We • have • not • spok•en • much ••

This was evidently aimed at Trista despite the lack of naming who the we were.

•• How • do • you • like • the • rain • and • why • are • you • rid•ing • with • us ••

Two curious questions for Trista who still was under the scrutiny of the little kitten.

 

Cyan listens with avid interest to Morgan's description.  There is poetry in his words - the man has the heart of an artist, she suspects.  Lightflies and homes in trees…small wonder they ride upon great cats!  How curious Morgan must find these worlds - flat and untextured to his refined senses.  "Amazing," she whispers.  "It sounds much like some of the homes of Doriath, but entirely aloft."  She frowns at the description of this 'blackmoss', and wonders what it might have been.  Something of the past?  Or presaging this conflict?  It seems, though, that these 'rains' have wiped away the threat.  The bard laughs aloud at the picture presented, the idea of dozens of enormous panthers in the water, hunting for fish and likely getting in each others' way, then grows more serious.

"You do your world fair justice, Sir Morgan.  Does it have a name, this land of yours?  And this Blackmoss - has the threat truly ended?"  She considers his offer to visit, and adds it of the list of Things To Be Done after the quest is complete.  Assuming I survive.  Seeking Tander's people.  Visiting THX 1168.  Finding Duncan, wherever he might have been thrown through the Myriad Worlds.  So many things, so little time.  It's enough to make one wish they were immortal as well.

She turns a sad smile toward Trista.  "Artifacts and items mean little to me, but the loss of the gift of a friend…that is a different matter.  Still, I have my memories."  Her emerald eyes shine slightly in the dim light of the rain as she thinks back upon the green lands, the huge forest from when that friend hailed.  Memories indeed.

She listens with only vague comprehension as the immortals of their group discuss the mechanics of World-Walking - a fascinating subject, to be sure, and one she finds greatly interesting, but a trifle beyond her.  Without the ability, Cyan simply cannot grasp many of the mechanical theories.  Aaron, it seems, holds them steady on the path at the moment - small wonder, the stresses upon his face.

Berd, for his part, gets an innocent look on his reptilian features at Dorian's words.  His eyes flicker and flash for a moment.  Cyan grins.  "Perhaps it is better to simply divert, rather than eliminate.  Berd may be able to leave the storm, while protecting us from its fury."  The drake shifts upon Trista's shoulder, and steam rises from his nostrils.  But Cyan grows more vigilant, more concerned, at Morgan's suggestion.  Indeed, is it not possible that Amber is besieged?

James mood does not shift appreciably at Cyan's response and the shelter offered by Berd, although he is perhaps a little more relaxed.

James listens with interest to Morgan's account.  A world of trees, a concept that is not entirely alien perhaps but is certainly different from any world James has seen.  It sounds like an interesting place, living always in three dimensions.  The closest analogy James can conjure is an endless city of interlinked skyscrapers.

"The black moss you mention, Morgan, reminds me of a story Bleys told me.  During the last war in Amber a death-curse went awry.  That, together with some damage to the Pattern, the original that is, caused a black road of sorts to pass through the worlds all the way from Amber to the Courts of Chaos.  The black stuff, however it manifested, had unpleasant consequences.  It was wiped clean when Oberon repaired the Pattern.  That was apparently accompanied by a storm, too.  But it passed."

All the while James keeps a careful eye on their surroundings.  Even now that he no longer leads a measure of caution is needed.  While an ambush is unlikely, a hellride, with its acceleration of changing variables, can spring nasty surprises on the unwary.  A junkyard world and the requisite dogs.  No open gates?  Okay then.
"Leave it Ahmad, they're just dogs, they don't know any better."

As discussion turns to the storm surrounding them, James says only, "We're still a ways from Amber.  If this is connected to the battle there...its reach is impressive."

"Thank you, Lady Cyan. There might be, but it has fallen out of use, and I don't know it." laughs Morgan. "The maps say Paralicos, or Rowana, or Blade, for the largest areas. Live blackmoss has not been seen for most of my life, we think it truly gone. "


He listens with sympathy, but does not speak on the subject of the lost instrument. James story, however, sparks a muffled, "Corwin's horns."

Quick on the heels of the curse, the lift at the end forms a question of "And your people make roads out from the stuff, you said?"


Ahmad snorts, whether disdainful of James's comment, or the dogs, it isn't clear.

Berd, on Trista's shoulder, turns on his back and stares up at the rain vanishing a little over a foot above his head.

Roman feels a need to point out a neglected detail in James' story.  "And it was an Amberite who damaged the Pattern and another who pronounced the curse."

"Still, I feel that it is better to go around the storm.  If it is set for us, then we may evade the trap by not using our more unusual capabilities, as the person behind it might expect.  If it is set for others we still have those capabilities in reserve.   And if it is natural, I doubt that we will lose much time,"

The woman’s strange cadence mesmerizes as Trista watches her lips while she speaks. Her kitten shows itself on cue as if prompted by a stage hand. The corners of Trista’s lips curve in remembrance of her own string of pets throughout the years.

Her eyebrows rise at the woman’s note of their (lack of) conversations and the following questions. Blunt, another oddity of the woman’s speech. Trista nods and sighs, “No, there hasn’t been much chance to talk since I met up with your group in Charyk. I remember James’ introduction though. Banglen-Yp, right? Do you prefer to be called by your full name or something shorter such as Banglen?”

Whatever the woman answers, Trista will adjust. She thinks a moment on the woman’s questions before responding, “I love the rain. Though my friend here,” her head nods toward her shoulder at Berd, “does not. Therefore, we ride as if in sunshine.” There’s no sadness or annoyance in her voice; she’s perfectly happy accommodating Berd’s wishes. In fact, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“As for riding with you?” Her voice grows wistful as she peers up into the dark clouds, “To catch the sky.”

She grimaces at her own vocalization of another’s personal metaphor and turns back to Banglen-Yp, “Sorry, a stray thought. I travel with you because I was invited. I came across both Berd and James in Charyk and helped in what small ways I could. I suppose some of your party believe I can be of service.”

Her eyes gently stray to each of those around her. “As for why I chose accept the invitation…” she trails off, searching for answers within. It doesn’t take long, a moment of two. She turns back to look at the blonde woman, “To have purpose. These worlds we cross are my family, in one way or another. If the Archons are not stopped, they will be harmed or rather, wiped out. It is better to live for their protection than to meander for my own selfish desires.”

A wry grimace and she adds another apology, “Sorry, perhaps that doesn’t make a lot of sense. What of you; have you been traveling with this group long?” Her brows crinkle with an added idea, “And where are you from? Your accent is far different than any I’ve heard before.”

Meanwhile, talk of the storms grows around them. In conversation with Banglen-Yp, Trista keeps an ear to the talk though she keeps her attention on the woman. Through it all, she hones her skills at multi-tasking and dividing her attentions though certainly, not on the level of which Berd is accustomed.

And then, suddenly, the precipitation stops.

Or, rather, it doesn't.

Overhead, the clouds still roil and swirl, and deposit their load of water, whether as ice or as rain... but somehow, it never seems to reach the strange group who travel the long road.

It falls, and then it is as if it strikes a roof of infinitely clear glass, and is pushed aside, to continue its fall a half mile away from the riders.

The ground is still wet underfoot, and nothing else changes, beyond the sequence of shifts wrought by Aaron, but there is relief from the storms, for those who must journey on this day.

"Good," Dorian says. "Let us go around, then, and see what happens." Based on what he had observed of the storm in the local worlds around them, he doubted it was merely a coincidence. While he detected no intelligence behind the world-spanning storm, it did not mean it had nothing to do with them. He predicted that there would be more storms as they tried to move around it. Time would tell, though.

 

Banglen-Yp looked a little confused at first when asked about her name and then slowly shook her head.

•• Not • a • name •• It • is • me •• Bang•len••Yp •• I • have • no • name •• Yet ••

A careful explanation accompanied by a big smile.  The little kitten meowed and turned to look up her which trigger her to look down at it and smile gently.

•• Yes • rain • is • nice ••

A steadfast agreement.

As Trista's eyes lifted towards the sky, so did Banglen-Yp's.

•• I • too • seek • to • catch • the • sky ••

It sounded almost sad, that statement and the kitten clambered out to nuzzle her neck, wet and all as it was.  This made her giggle softly and she lifted a hand to scratch the kitten behind his ear.

•• My • par•ty ••

An echo of words and she looked around at the others.

•• Pur•pose •• Mea•ning •• Fam•i•ly ••

More echoed words and she seemed sad again, giving a weak smile.

•• Make • good • sense ••

The rain ceased and the kitten blinked, looking up, before starting to groom himself where he sat against odd blonde's neck as she shook her head, the golden locks partly falling over the kitten.

•• No •• I • join • at • old • Cha•ryk •• I • come • with • a • car•a•van ••

A simple statement first, the a moments of brooding, looking at the sky and then wandering over the little dragon and the others as they were talking.

•• I • come • from • where • I • was • be•fore •• I • am • still • young •• Lear•ning • still •• Acc•ent • is • from • beg•in•ning ••

An attempt to explain, by the sound of it, and then some more brooding.  Along come another cryptic statement, a seemingly serious attempt to explain something not easily explained.

•• He • is • old•er • than • me • but • Bang•len••Yp • is • old•er •• Young • and • old ••

Then a single word, sounding nearly heartbreakingly sorrowful.

•• A•lone ••

 

The road continues down from the highlands, and then veers to follow the course of the broad valley.  The snow turns to rain, though that matters little now, as the group of travellers are shielded by some invisible force above their heads.

There is no lightning now, just the howling of the wind as it blows across the barrier.  Gradually the valley curves, but the road continues straight on, into the teeth of the wind, which carries rain and sleet with it, and something else.

A familiar smell...

The road rises, slowly climbing towards a gap in the valley wall.

They have been riding now, with breaks, for many hours.  Perhaps more than a day, though with the constant changes in the sky, the shifting position of the sun (or, occasionally, suns), and strange distortions of time and distance, it's hard to be sure.

The only thing that is certain is that Charyk, whichever one is referred to, is far behind, lost, somewhere in the infinite worlds which hold the road and its myriad tributaries and junctions.

As the way enters the gap, a pass through the mountains, the sky ahead becomes visible.  Dark and ominous, threatening rain and wind and storm.  They ride through the high pass, the rough ground to each side, and even the road itself, treacherous with water and a film of ice.  And beyond the gorge, the world opens out to reveal the source of the familiar smell.  An ocean, storm tossed and grey.

Below the exit from the gap, a city huddles close to the mountains, built on the lower slopes.

The city is large, constructed mainly of a grey stone, and most of the rooftops are a sullen blue in the gloom of the storm.  Above and behind the city, to each side of the roadway, a dense forest rises to the snowline of the high peaks.  Watch towers stand up in the snow, standing guard over the great city.

That city bears the scars of recent conflict.  Some areas are blackened, as if great fires have burned there, and there are wrecked ships pulled up on the beach alongside the harbour.  Many of those look to have been put to the torch too.

There are a few vessels at anchor, but the harbour looks as though it could accomodate many more.

As the Defenders of Worlds start their descent towards the wall which shields the landward side of the city, and the gate which gives access to it, more details become clear, including the broken windows, the damaged buildings, and the torn, frayed, faded and tattered remnants of coloured flags and bunting adorning many of the structures.

Cadiniagart.  For some of the travellers, this is not their first visit, and not all of them carry happy memories of the city.

Dorian looks out over the city of Cadiniagart, deep in distant thoughts. This is where it all began, for him. The others, Cyan, Jack, Aaron, were already embroiled in this struggle when he arrived. He stumbled into the struggle blindly, merely seeking another foray into Amber--more cautiously this time--and instead found himself in a battle with the shape shifter. They had a name for the thing, did they not? He could barely recall it, now.

Here he had first met Cyan. He had returned here thinking he had learned, but he had not. His first words to Cyan had proven that. So much had changed since then.

And Cadiniagart looked even worse for wear. Signs of a struggle abound. The war leader in him takes in the details with a critical eye. The wall stands, the city survives. Yet, what lies within remains to be seen. Has some enemy overcome the great city? He doubts it from what he sees, but anything is possible.

Cyan keeps her ears open for James' assessment of the situation - his experience is far, far greater than hers, and she defers to it instinctively.  For all of her raw talent, James has the instincts of a soldier who has spent much of his career hunted - it has scarred the big man where few can see, but also made him wary in ways others might not appreciate.

"Paralicos...a beautiful name, for a land of heights and shadows."  She smiles, nods.  Paralicos it will be, then.  To her, that is, when she writes the song of this Quest.  Someday.  "Perhaps the blackmoss is an ancient threat, then, gone stale with the decades?  I suppose one might so hope."  Indeed, one might.  It smacks of the tactics of the Seraphim, of their use of the Gatherer, but in a more subtle fashion.

James, again, brings a snippet of knowledge to the conversation that may indeed be pertinent.  Cyan frowns, glances at Berd.  "I have...heard of this war.  It may have coincided with the fall of the lands most dear to my heart.  A ripple, perhaps, through the Myriad Worlds?"  Roman speaks up then, possibly in defense of his own homeland.  Lexy had spoken of this war, Cyan thinks.  Hadn't she?  Or had it been Lazarus?  Both of Chaos, both possessing knowledge far, far beyond her own.  "In the past, yes," she mumurs.  "But the ripples spread still."

Berd, having dealt with the rain, slowly rolls back over onto his stomach and sighs out a puff of golden sparkles.  Immediately, the Questors' sodden clothing (those who actually suffer from the rain, that is) begins to warm and steam.  Cyan frowns, recalling something.  "We know of many of the worlds of the people here, but others we do not.  Trista, you say your home is similar to Jonnee's and James'?  Interesting - what is it called?  From what city do you hail?  Jonnee came to us by way of Las Angelos - is there a city named so in your homeworld?"  Her eyes light upon the strange woman beside Berd's current porter, the woman who is alone in the Myriad Worlds.  "Banglen-Yp - would you give us the name of your world - or…can you?"

Then it lies ahead.  Cadiniagart.  Cyan's lips thin, and she stares down at where it all began.  Four times, now, she has travelled to this city.  Does Beldin still lurk within its walls - she never did get satisfactory answers regarding that man.  Will they again meet a Prince and Princess of Amber here?

One, she came on a boat, alone.  Here she fell in with Lexy, Duncan, another Morgan.  Here she met Ares, poor Ares, slain along the trail with his grave despoiled, and Otandal, killed in ambush shortly after their introduction.  The second time she returned, the mysterious artist Kendell accompanied them, along with the indomnitable Kalika and Hunter.  The third time she came with Jack, found Aaron again, met stolid Andrej and bitter Kaelyn, brave James and laughing Jonnee, all agents of the crown.  Here, too, she encountered the artist Leonardo for the second time - the third time he and her had met had been in his homeland, where she cut him down with Gurthang.

The rain has ceased to fall upon them, but Cyan wipes her cheeks.  A girl entered the city - an innocent, wandering minstrel, with a happy, lazy drake upon her shoulder.  When the girl returned, she was an agent of Amber's Crown on a mission of state to determine the threat to an empire.  Entering the city a third time, she was a girl no longer, no innocent to the trials of the worlds, and the drake upon her shoulder cast a long, dark shadow.

Now?

Once again into Cadiniagart, sporting its own marks of war.  A war of flame and explosive violence.  Cyan stares down at the city with hematite eyes, grey and lustrous, and no drake rides upon her shoulder now.  He sits close by, but things have changed again.

She shifts in her saddle, reaches up.  The Warrior in Jet and Gold adjusts Gurthang's hilt, then raises her hand toward the city.  "Best we continue," Cyan says quietly, and urges her horse forward to the war-torn port.

Leading the troop, Aaron couldn't help but pause as he considered the city that stood before them. Deep inside, something old and craving recognition stirred, welling up in ancient talent.

"Slate grey, with silver lines of rain etching our memories. A history sits, stares, not judgemental, having been here forever. We pass it by, not ingorant; mere playthings in the ever-moving tide of consequence."

He walked, halting his manipulation of the Worlds. James and himself would need to conserve their energies if they were to finally reach Amber.

"I am unfamiliar with this place," Aaron said, ignoring his own poetic observation. "However, we're not unfamiliar with its current state. If this place is any reflection at all of our proximity to Amber, then I'm certainly glad we rested up."

He reached behind him, checking Ilse in her scabbard. It would do them no good to enter a trap at this juncture.

The road leads down to the great gate, rain-slick cobbles laid in terraces, providing a flight of broad stairs down the mountainside.

At the gate, there are many guards, and one of them, bundled in a heavy cloak, protection against the weather, steps forward.  His hand is raised in the universal gesture for "stop", causing his cloak to part slightly, and allowing chainmail to be seen glinting beneath it, trimmed with what looks to be brass.

He eyes the odd group of riders, and calls out to them, in an accent which speaks of noble birth, when they are still some twenty yards distance, "Hold, travellers!  There has been trouble, of late, in Cadiniagart, and we are charged with questioning all who would pass through this gate and enter the city.  I'll make it as quick as I can, however."

"What business brings you to the port of Cadinagart, this... fine... day?"  His gaze goes to the sky, and when he looks back at the group, he is wearing a wry smile.