Timeframe: Early in the winter of 92 NA.
Snow covers the land, but the light and heat fill Amber's Castle on the anniversary of Corwin and Dara's Wedding. A lavish celebration is underway in castle. The second course has already been served, and Ariadne listens as a ballad, attributed to the Late King is performed. The crowd listens in silence as the music and words fill the hall. Prince Merlin sits on Ariadne's right, holding her hand gently, and examining it as if it was a complex tapestry. He has several drinks already and appears uninterested in the ballad - perhaps it is one he has heard many times over the years.
The song is new to Ariadne though, and she finds herself being drawn into it, when she is jolted by a noise in her ear. "Pardon, milady." The castle guard's voice is almost a whisper. "The Queen requires your presence immediately. If you'd follow me, please." You notice Dara's chair two seats down is vacant - an almost empty decanter of wine being cleared away from it as Ariadne watches.
Ariadne sighs, disappointed at the idea of leaving. She extricates delicately her hand from Merlin's, not an easy task altogether. "I'll be right back, dear," she whispers softly in his ear. Merlin nods absentmindedly, turning his thoughts towards... somewhere else, where exactly being somewhat unclear.
She stands up discretly, gives a last, regretful glance at the singer, and follows the guard, a silent ghost of dark velvet.
The guard, one of the older ones Ariadne has seen, pulls out your chair for you. There is a scar under his left eye, and flecks of gray in his mustache. He is of a relatively low rank considering his apparent age. He escorts Ariadne through the marble corridors of the castle, guiding her around a large construction area, that is under heavy guard. Otherwise the route is very efficient and Ariadne finds herself hurrying to keep pace with her escort.
A last you stop outside one of the castle's drawing rooms, seven guards standing watch outside. The guard clears his voice and then speaks in a loud, calm voice. "The Lady Ariadne, your majesty."
The Queen's impatient voice comes from the other side of the door. "Send her in." The guard opens the door, averting his eyes from the interior of the room, allowing you entrance.
There are only two occupants in the room. The Queen is standing at one end of the room, dressed in exotic furs, that instantly bring a recollection of the cold weather outdoors, and a feeling of coldness despite the warmth of the room. "Ah, Ariadne," the Queen says with a smile that gives one the impression of a cat about to devour a mouse. "Its time to put my son's lessons to the test." Turning to the other man in the room, who she has declined to introduce, Dara says, "You may contact her, Guildsman, and we shall see what truth there is in your claims. I have her trump here." Dara opens a metal case with an exaggerated movement of her hand.
The 'man', if one is sufficiently generous to call him that, that Dara addresses slowly rises from his chair. A few robes and cloaks are draped on the chair, as if previously cast aside. He stands revealed as a completely metal form - elegantly matte silver and gleaming chrome edging delineating the major muscle groups and structures normally present on the human form. The chrome lines occasionally pulse with bright stars of white light - as if the man would bleed energy if cut. He might appear to be a completely artificial thing, if it were not for his fluid and graceful movements, something no machine could duplicate. He is currently without clothes, and two details attract the eye as he stands.
Firstly, the surface of his stomach moves down smoothly and uninterruptedly as it becomes the divide between his legs. And secondly, his face is not a face at all. The area where most living things have a face is occupied by a simple steel mask, one of a smiling harlequin - similar to that seen on a theater company's emblems. It is almost garish in its precision and immobility. The mouth is permanently open, as are the eyes. The mouth reveals naught but blackness, and the eyes have the faintest flicker of light coming from within - what color, if any, is impossible to determine. What is revealed, however, is that the mask is on so closely, and so neatly, that there is little hope that a real face lies behind it.
His legs terminate in simple silver boots - again, too precise and snug a fit to be a worn article - and they click quietly against the stone floor as he rises. He turns his 'face' to the new arrival, and his body language suggests slight surprise.
"Very well, your Majesty. If you have confidence in this one, it is sufficient for me." His voice might be called 'broken' - but not in an unpleasant way. Rather, it more sounds as if two voices were speaking, almost at once. One is somewhat deep and resonant, the other a somewhat higher-pitched descant. This man cannot speak without at least appearing to sing. He returns his attention to Queen Dara, deferring to her judgment in how this should be arranged.
The woman the Queen called Ariadne stands next to the door, somewhat out of the circle of flickering lights the dancing flames in the chimney project on the two protagonists her arrival interrupted. A dark purple dress with a deep, square neckline over a black skirt, her hair, braided with ribbons, painstakingly pinned in a fashion over her head, the modest carcanet at her neck, all suggest at first glance a courtier, a lady-in-waiting, or other minor nobility, luxuriously dressed for the feast whose participants can be heard far away.
Yet she is tall, and willowy, and there is a sultry quality in her pose, carnality in her full lips curled in a cocky little smile , her high cheekbones, and in the childish way she sways unconsciously from one foot to the other. There is sensuality in her dark skin, her slender neck, an indolence in her posture that seems to belong to warmer climates, to faraway shadows, to exotic places.
But her eyes attract the most attention, twin lakes that seems to hesitate between hazel and grey, sparkling with curiosity as she examines the Guildsman. These eyes that do not quit him, even as she nods ever so imperceptibly, either to acknowledge his presence or to accept the challenge. These unblinking eyes that seems to memorize every detail of the scene, every aspect of the masked man, as if she was mentally undressing him down to his very soul.
Dara's smile increases, and Ariadne can smell the subtle scents of the night's refreshments on her - the same that Merlin was just drinking. "My dear, you know the art of reading the trumps to determine the user of a trump?" She gives Ariadne a stern glance as to indicate that one answer is acceptable.
"The Guildsman will attempt to contact you, and I simply need you to tell me which face I should endeavor to picture beneath this grinning facade." Dara hands her trump of Ariadne to the Guild Master - a trump surely drawn by Merlin. She then hands the golden case containing the rest of her trumps to Ariadne. The case is almost imperceptibly light, and is covered in an ornate pattern of silver and gold. In the center of the box's lid is a curving design of a double headed serpent encircling a rearing unicorn.
Within the case are a series of trump cards, all drawn in Merlin's hand. Martin, Benedict, Julian, Florimel, Merlin, Caine, Roland, Akira, Gerard, Merek, Dara. There are also several people that Ariadne does not recognize as well as several nobles and merchants, whom are occasionally seen about Court. The cards feel instantly cold, and almost soothing as Ariadne touches them.
Dara sits down in an ornate chair, folding her hands beneath her furs, Her eyes swim back and forth between the Guild Master and Ariadne - causing uncertainty as to whom she is really watching.
Ariadne shrugs elegantly, as if she were used to the Queen's wicked little games.
" T'will be as you desire, Majesty," she mutters softly.
She turns toward the Guildsman. "Ready when you are, Master," she says to him. Her voice is agreably deep, through lacking the huskiness one would think it would have.
As Ariadne approaches, the man moves his head slightly up and down, taking in her appearance and demeanor. His expressionless face conveys little about the thoughts taking place within. Then, he approaches the Queen at her request. He takes the Trump from Dara, head cast down in deference. He takes a few steps back - his boots clicking again, making a hollow tapping that seems to resonate in the room. A slight, almost inaudible rasping sound comes from his mask - he might be taking a deep breath, but it is hard to tell. In any case, he lifts the Trump up, holding it level with his neck, and angles his head slightly down at it. A few moments pass in silence as he appears to focus his attention upon it.
Ariadne nods at the Guildsman, as her gaze already seems to focus on a point somewhere between the cards and him. She flips through the deck with assurance, a little vacant smile on her lips. Then, the smile gives way to a frown, as she goes through the deck again, then again, this time even slowlier.
She shakes her head, looking again at the Guildsman, her piercing eyes lingering over every detail of his impenetrable mask, her smile gone for good. She squares the deck on her palm.
"He's none of them, Majesty," she says in a tone that tries too hard to be neutral.
Dara frowns and reaches for the cards from Ariadne. She is looking decidedly irritated. "Well, Guild?"
Laughing Boy turns his head in a slight increment to Dara. "Please, your Highness - take out those Trumps you might not expect to have needed any more. The ones time has forgotten. Please offer them to the Lady Ariadne for her review." His head shifts back to the Trump he holds.
Narrowing her eyes, Dara reaches beneath her furs and removes another, older-looking box, not as fancy as the first, but carved out a black stone substance. She hands it over to Ariadne, but her eyes remained fixed on her metallic guest.
Even as Ariadne takes the case of cards, the connection from the Guild Master continues. The cards in the new case are much older than the ones Ariadne saw before. Most are ice cold in comparison to the first set, and of the faces in the cards, only three are recognizable - the three dead Kings of Amber, whose portraits line the walls of Amber. The artist of almost all the cards is different from the previous cards. The new ones are probably the work of Dworkin, although some still appear to be drawn by Merlin.
Ariadne draws the cards one by one, focusing on each of them, her eyes now two narrow slits. She puts some aside quickly, but not without having checked them first. She rearranges the painted pasteboards, painstakingly slow this time, conscious of the Queen's gaze upon her. Her tension is nearly tangible. Beads of sweat appear on her furrowed brow.
Finally, she withdraws one from the deck, examines it closely, giving several sideway glances at the Guildsman, as if she was trying unsuccessfuly to draw a correlation between the subject of the Trump and the silhouette of metal shimmering in the flames of the hearth.
She sighs, and holds the trump to the Queen, her gaze still upon the man. "This one, if any of them," she says hesitantly, "and I am not even sure of that."
The Guildsman, having heard Ariadne make her identification, immediately lowers the Trump that was given to him and turns to face the Queen.
"I have been through many trials and hazards, your Majesty - as you might now well know. A Trump is based on a psychic impression, at its heart - and my own mind has been shattered and restitched together, perhaps more than once. I am glad to hear that there is some fragment left that is still of myself at all." His head cocks slightly to the side as he awaits Dara's reaction.
Dara takes the card from Ariadne, examining it skeptically, and then looking back at Ariadne, trying to evaluate the words of her ward. Slowly she shifts her eyes back to the Guild Master, surveying him slowly with her eyes.
There is a querying tone in Dara's voice as she speaks. "You have indeed been gone quite a long time, haven't you? I admit I am not familiar with your history, but I know your name now - or whom you believe yourself to be."
The Guildsman speaks quickly, but still with a formality due Queen Dara. "Do not speak my name, please. Whatever old prejudices may lie about in the hearts of my family, I do not wish to reawaken them. While I desire the respect of the Blood and the company of my kin, my name and its forgotten history I do not cherish nor wish restored. I am new, and my story restarted. I entreat you - let it continue only from this second edition." His face turns briefly to Ariadne. "I ask this as a boon from the two of you, you who know me."
Dara nods, "Very well. Once you have passed the last judgment, your past will be silent." The Queen looks to Ariadne, an unspoken threat clear in her eyes. Still looking at Ariadne, Dara continues, "I will ask you to prove what you have shown me, in the most undeniable way. You have passed my Judgment," her eyes flick back to the Guild Master, "now pass the judgment of the Pattern." Dara's voice grows firm - almost mocking, as if expecting a flinch or fear from the strange form in front of her.
Ariadne, who had followed the exchange without intervening, now fixes the Guildsman, a perplexed look upon her face.
The Guildsman has already returned his face to Queen Dara. His voice is firm and confident, albeit still in a respectful modulation.
"Indeed - I would have it no other way. You must be confident in me, know me to say and speak that upon which you may rely. I accept this duty with the respect it confers."
He steps back to the chair he arose from, reclaiming his robes and putting them on in layers which cover his body. In a few moments, his appearance is no more shocking than any Guildsman visiting the Castle after a long travel.
"Will you take me there, and witness the act yourself?" His lack of a genuine face makes a determination somewhat difficult, but it is possible by his body language and tone that he is talking not to Ariadne, but only to Queen Dara.
Dara rises from her seat as she speaks. It may only the reflection of the fire, but something seems to burn within the Queen's eyes. "Come with me, then. This may prove more entertaining then tonight's festivities." She turns to Ariadne. "Thank you, my dear." her hand rises up to caress her ward's cheek. Her ice cold nails brush against Ariadne's skin - like knives being carefully run against the top of meat, before slicing in. "You did well enough. Why don't you run along and make sure my son is not having too much fun without you. I'll be rejoining you shortly."
The Queen opens the door. "We travel through the castle. Have somebody escort the Lady Ariadne back to the feast." The guard who escorted Ariadne to the chamber steps forward and bows. "Yes, your majesty."
"As you wish, your Highness," answers Ariadne deferentially.
As she is about to leave, she turns towards the Guildsman with some hesitation, as if she was unsure of herself. Or of the Queen's reaction.
"It is quite a trial you are about to face, my lord,"she says with an amiable smile and a little curtsy. "Or so I heard... I wish you good luck in your endeavour."
She follows the guard in a ruffle of dark velvet, and disappears at the corner of the corridor.
The Guildsman's head turns to Ariadne at her comment - and tilts slightly. "Thank you, milady. I pray we will meet again."
He looks back to the Queen again, and takes a deferential position behind her.
The guard escorts Ariadne back to Grand Hall for the banquet, while Dara leads the Guild Master, under armed escort, down to the lowest reaches of the castle.
Almost an hour later, Dara returns to the Grand Hall. The performance, a duel between expert swordsmen from Erde, comes to a quick halt when one of the swordsman sees Dara and lowers his blade. The other swordsman, not being as observant, gets in an easy strike, stabbing his fellow in the left arm, before the situation dawns on him. The conversations in the room hush, and the nobles all stand upon her majesty's entrance.
Standing just behind the Queen, is the Guild Master from before, still robed. The Queen does not resume her seat, but speaks where she stands, addressing the assembled crowd. Her voice resonates in the hall - full of authority and power.
"Subjects! I wish to present to you one of the Blood, newly-found. He is a Master Craftsman of the Guild, and to be accorded respect due to that station." She turns, and whispers something to the Guild Master. With a fluid motion, the robes fall from the Guildsman, revealing his metallic body. There are some sharp cries from the attendant nobles as his form is revealed - but the quick gaze of Dara silences them.
"He is, however, persona non grata here in the Castle! He is, for now, only a Guildsman - no honor of the Family is to be accorded him." She whispers something else to the Guild Master, causing him to numbly nod. "And to all here present, and to those who deal with him forever more, he will be known as..." She turns to face the Guild Master one last time, and the slightest smirk runs across her face. She turns back to the assembled crowd.
"...Laughing Boy." The crowd silently reacts. Some seem shocked, but most are amused.
Dara returns to her seat at the head table, just two seats down from Ariadne. The Queen gives Merlin a reproaching look as she takes her seat - evidently due to Merlin's overindulgence of drink. The chair to her right, is empty, marking Corwin's place at the table - as it does every year on this day. A platter of untouched food sits in front of it with a filled glass of wine. Dara claps her hands, impatient at the silence. "Begin again." she orders the performers, who resume their fighting stances, and launch into another duel. The silence is broken, and a cacophony of sounds erupts from the audience. Dara's eyes remain fixed on Laughing Boy though.
Laughing Boy is obviously in a stance indicative of great fatigue. While the motion to remove the robes is graceful - it's more of a graceful slide off his shoulders than of a real act of removal. He is a little slumped, as if pantomiming some degree of exhaustion. He might be a little unsteady on his feet - it's hard to tell. He bows to Queen Dara - somewhat unsteadily, and a roll of the hand and a lesser bow to Lady Ariadne - both appropriate gestures to their level of honor in the Court. Having paid his respects, he drops onto his haunches to pick up his robes. He makes a first attempt to pick them up, and seems to sink back. He takes another try, and finds his legs once more.
As he turns to depart, he gesticulates to a palace servant at the entrance, and looks about to hand his robes off to her.
Laughing Boy slowly departs, and before too long, the tide of conversation has changed, and not every topic discussed relates to the bizarre new face in Amber.