Blethius

After ensuring that my defensive spells were still properly in place, I drew Werewindle and once again focused on the Trump in its hilt. As before, I arrived on the side of the road leading up to the keep. This time, however, I was not standing in a dry and dusty spot, but in a wet and muddy spot...a result of the rains Cerridwen had predicted, no doubt. Thus far, it was not much of an improvement. I lifted my skirts enough to keep them out of the mud and began walking towards the keep.

From the moment I stepped within sight of the keep, I could sense Blethius watching me, although I could not spot him in any of the windows. He did nothing to interfere with my progress, however, and I passed through the first hallway into the courtyard unmolested. I paused there and studied Father's statue again, the feeling of being watched undiminished. I got the feeling that Blethius wanted me to know I was being watched. I had to smile a bit at that...as if I scared that easily. Still, this was getting me nowhere. I needed to convince Blethius of my right to this place, and for that I needed to converse with him. I had been hoping my reappearance would be enough to draw him out, but it appeared I was going to have to make the next move. "Are you planning on coming out eventually?" I called out, my attention still ostensibly on the statue. "Or must I go to the basement to summon you?"

I felt the warmth of his breath as he whispered into my ear, "No." And then he was out of reach, just a few feet away to my left. "A wiser woman might have been intimidated and left well enough alone," he continued. "I hope I will not be required to do something exceptionally unpleasant to you to convince you of the futility of lingering here." His expression was perfectly calm, and his tone was bland.

I could not help jumping a bit when I felt his breath on my ear, but in truth, I was more amused than frightened. The fact that he had let me get this far, that he had allowed me to return to this place several times, in fact, indicated that he still was not sure where I fit in. He could not risk hurting me until he was certain that my claims were false. Which meant that I had some time... I turned to face him with what I hoped was an unconcerned expression on my face. "What, you want me to leave after all the effort I have put into making this place presentable again? How inhospitable of you. Do you have such a dislike of my company?"

He shrugged. "You do not belong here. This place is not for you, I think. You are wasting your time with these efforts. I little care whether the flowers bloom or wither; it is of no import." He glanced at me again, and his eyes narrowed for a moment. "Whatever your ambitions, curtail them. There is nothing for you here."

More threats. I merely shrugged and began walking towards the main entrance, knowing that he would follow. "I have no intention of walking your precious Spindle, if that is your concern. I am not foolish enough to blindly throw myself upon a power I know nothing about. This place was my father's, however, and with his death I think I have as much a right as anyone to claim it." More, in fact. I had discovered it first, after all.

Blethius frowned. "Your father?" he remarked. "No. You are no daughter of his. He has two sons who may lay claim to his legacy, but no daughters." He smirked, ever so slightly. "You are sadly misinformed, milady."

I had to smirk as well. He was in for a surprise. "I am afraid that you are the one who is sadly misinformed. I have merely been more discrete than my brothers in proclaiming my heritage. I am his daughter through Selena."

"Selena he has only just met recently," Blethius responded. "Your sources are inadequate. When Brand returns, you will have to answer for this." He turned and began to leave.

I came to a halt in the Great Hall and sighed. I was beginning to feel exasperated by his stubborn refusal to accept the truth, and a touch of it showed in my voice. "Are you so completely out of touch with anything beyond this little Shadow that you have no concept of how much time has passed outside of it? More than 100 years have passed in the Courts since I was born. Father doubtless slowed the time down here so as not to risk anyone setting up shop while he was gone. A sensible precaution. But he is dead. Killed by the Amberites. Mother is dead too, for that matter, or nearly so, having been claimed by minions of the Abyss. The Serpent is destroyed as well. Were you unaware of that?"

Blethius was silent for a few moments, and I prepared myself for another round of arguments. Unnecessarily, as it turned out. Much to my surprise, he finally responded, "You speak the truth. How irritating. Brand left very specific instructions as to the limitations of my curiosity. I am not allowed to look beyond the Realms of the Spindle."

Indeed? No wonder his information was so outdated. In retrospect, it was not all that surprising, however. Father was always prone to keep everyone in the dark, even his own creations. A precaution against betrayal.

Blethius stared at me cautiously, obviously uncertain of what to do now. "Who else of his brood remains?" he finally asked.

"Both Adam and Lylesberg yet live, amazingly enough. I have heard that they reside in a Shadow known as Avignon." I gave him a curious look. "Did Father leave you instructions regarding any of us?"

"In regards to your brothers, yes, he did. He didn't leave me any information about yourself, however, which puts me at a bit of a loss," he answered. "Avignon is Victoria's demesne. Why has Lylesberg left his sanctuary in Verity, I wonder?"

Never having heard of Verity, I had no answer for him. But it appeared that none was required, for Blethius continued, "No matter. If you are a formal guest, then, and not an interloper, then I suppose you should be treated accordingly."

Abruptly, the entire room changed. The dust faded away and I noted carpeting appear under my feet. The table in the Great Hall seemingly mended itself, and as I watched, everything fell back into place and the keep became clean, bright and furnished. I sensed some energy from Blethius as this happened...something akin to Pattern. An example of the Spindle's power, perhaps?

"White wine or red?" Blethius asked.

"White, thank you." I smiled as I picked up the glass that appeared on the table next to me. "I do not suppose you are at liberty to share what Father's instructions were with regard to my brothers?"

"It has never been my policy to gossip, milady," he replied.

I was unsurprised. "I do not image it is, if Father had any role in creating you. How long have you been here, from your point of view?"

He frowned and thought for a moment. "From my point of view, I have existed for some eighty-three years. This place was created shortly after Corwin crafted his own Pattern."

I nodded. "Of course." Father naturally could not have borne the idea of Corwin possessing a Pattern while he did not. "And have you been alone here for most of that time?"

"There was the painter, the one who served your father, but he didn't last long," Blethius replied rather coolly. "He irritated me, and so I changed the conditions of this land to ensure that he wouldn't continue to irritate me."

I raised an eyebrow at that. So the deterioration of the Shadow was not an effect of the Abyss War, as I had supposed, but merely an extreme reaction on Blethius' part to being irritated. Interesting. It would appear that Father had programmed Blethius with a bit of his own temper. Speaking of which... "Were you not concerned that Father might be somewhat irritated at the loss of his painter?"

"Given that he possessed the ability to paint himself back into life, it represented no long-term loss for anyone. It would not have been too difficult to bring him back at a later date," he replied.

I had smile a bit at his answer. "Hmm, good point. I take it Father chose not to bring him back? Or did he simply never return after that point?"

"Brand never returned, and I saw no reason to arrange the painter's premature return," he answered with a shrug. "I do well enough on my own."

I nodded. "Do you not grow bored after a while, though?"

He smiled. "Boredom is a word...a mortal convention used to justify impatience. I have no such limitations."

I chuckled. "Indeed. How terribly convenient for you. It seems you are well suited for your function, then." I sipped at my wine, which I had to admit was quite excellent. "So, from your earlier phrasing, I assume you are not completely convinced that Brand was my father?"

"Dear lady," he replied rather gently, "I am convinced that you believe you are the daughter of Brand. But that is not quite the same thing, no? If you are the daughter of Brand, and Brand is dead, then it must fall to me to be your servant. But if I am mistaken in assisting you and Brand returns, then I will be made very uncomfortable. I do not choose that to happen. Until such time as I can verify that you are indeed Brand's child, and that he is deceased, I cannot assist you to the fullest of my capabilities."

I was afraid that would be his answer. I nodded again. "I understand. Is there anything I can do to assist you in this?"

"You are a Trump artist, I assume," he replied. "Brand would have had it no other way. Show me your work, that I can begin assembling the information I need to prove or disprove your claims."

I considered his request, looking for any possibility of it being used against me, but I could see none. "Do you wish to see my existing work, or watch me create a new illustration?"

"Process is more illustrative than product, really," he replied. "But do this at your leisure. I have nothing but time on my hands."

"I see no reason not to begin straight away, then. Given your lack of impatient traits, I believe you shall make a splendid subject." I looked the room over critically. "But not here, the light really is not the best. Hmm, perhaps in the courtyard?"

"But of course," he replied.

As I turned to walk to the courtyard, suddenly, I was there, an easel standing before me, Blethius standing beside the fountain. A paintbrush rested in my hand and a light white apron was tied about my waist to prevent paint from staining my dress. I was quite startled by the sudden change, to say the least, and almost dropped the paintbrush. For a moment, I even felt a touch of fear. This was not like anything I had ever felt before. Through Trump, or magical teleportation, there was an abruptness to the transition...a sense of going through a door. This was entirely different. The transition sneaked up on me, somehow...I almost did not realize that things had changed. It felt less like being moved and more like forgetting the process of reaching a goal.

Blethius looked at me quite innocently and asked, "Where would you like me to pose?"

I hid my confusion quickly, glancing around nonchalantly as if this happened all the time. "Move a little to your left, if you would."

I studied him carefully as he positioned himself according to my directions, checking the fall of light on both himself and the fountain, making sure that the statue of Brand would not be visible in the background. Not that I intended for anyone besides Blethius to see the finished work, but still, one could never be too careful.

And so, I began my first painting of Blethius. It was, to be honest, an uncomfortable experience. He was very difficult to paint...difficult to look at for too long a period of time. He was so utterly still as I painted that it was nearly unnerving, and his symmetry grew more disturbing as I looked at him. He was...perfect...but in a way that I sensed was somehow wrong. As I studied his features, I kept noticing eccentricities. His eyebrows were so perfectly tapered as to appear plucked. His hairline was a perfect curve. His teeth were a white that seemed to have never been stained by food or drink. His eyes, vividly green, were an exact match. I could see the tiny lines of his left iris perfectly mirrored on the right.

If Blethius noticed my growing uneasiness, he did not show it at first...and then he smiled. "Not easy, is it?" he asked. "The other painter found me a difficult subject, too."

I nodded, frowning slightly. "I wonder if that was not a deliberate plan on my father's part? It does make it almost impossible for a Trump to be drawn of you without your cooperation."

"To be fair, it was not his choice, though he was not displeased with the results," Blethius replied. "It is not impossible to construct a Trump of me; it is, however, fairly difficult. No painter can create a perfect image of a subject. There is always some flaw in perspective, color, or perception. It is human nature. There is something about me so ordered that it resists modification, even in the form of, say, imperfect replicas. If you can paint me, it is because your talent and skill enable you to overcome this resistance."

I smiled determinedly. "Oh, I can paint you. It will simply take me longer than I had anticipated. Since you do not experience boredom, I do not imagine this will be a problem for you."

He merely smiled, not moving from his position. It took me far longer than it normally would, but in the end I managed to create a Trump portrait of him...although, much to my frustration, it was somewhat flawed. The Trump worked most times, but occasionally it would not. It reminded me of when I first began making Trumps...a reminder I found irritating. I did not enjoy playing the novice again, and I was determined not to remain in that stage for long. I would master this. Even if I had to draw a dozen portraits of Blethius in the process.

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Last modified on March 1, 2000 by Kris Fazzari.