Current Log

Months Of The Year:
Horseman (Winter Solstice 1 Horseman)
Cat
Soothsayer
Knight (Vernal Equinox 8 Knight)
Archer
Coins
Tower (Summer Solstice 15 Tower)
Scales
Harp
Boatman (Autumnal Equinox 22 Boatman)
Huntress
Dragon
Warrior

With some help from Folly and particularly from Martin, who's clearly not a newcomer at guiding ships back to Amber, Fletcher's ship arrives at Amber. They arrive in the harbor and the Harbormaster comes out to meet them. He's extremely deferential to Martin and Folly, and a bit less so to Fletcher (not rude, just not as deferential as he is to His Highness Prince Martin).

If he's paying attention Fletcher will notice that while the bigwigs are deferential to Martin, the sailors and dock workers are particularly friendly to Folly, who is well-known and apparently popular among them.

The Harbormaster reports that Caine is in residence and serving as Regent. Folly, who knows Martin well, can tell he's not pleased, but he arranges for transport up to the Castle anyway. They also arrange to unload Martin's goods and have them brought up to the Castle and places for Fletcher's men to stay.

As they came into port, Fletcher could clearly see the Castle with his spyglass. It's bigger than he remembers but one of the older towers has suffered some serious damage and is under repairs.

[I am ready. Please clarify one point though (this need not hold us up): did Fletcher observe Folly using the Pattern?]

[That's a question for Karen A to answer. Quite possibly yes but I don't want to say either way for her. I don't think she has the reflexive habit of using it the way Martin does and Fletcher probably does too. On the other hand, Martin may be using the journey to teach her Shadow transitions, which would be pretty obvious.]

[I think the real question you're asking is whether Fletcher can figure out that Folly is Family -- which will become obvious when she gives him that family tree she promised him. She appears on it as Julian's great-granddaughter. She doesn't include her own paternity. As for pattern-use, she lets Martin do most of the heavy lifting of Shadow-shifting, but she did spend some of the trip learning from him about it.

[[And now I've got a question of my own: Are Soren and Haven still with them, or are we assuming that they (and Random's stuff) got trumped to Xanadu at some point during the journey?]

Fletcher remains very observant of the feel of Shadow and the presence (or lack) of Pattern. He ponders whether perhaps Amber is now somewhere "between" the two new Patterns. Along the way he'll have used the Pattern to adjust his clothes into something a bit more snazzily formal for arrival in Amber, perhaps a neatly pressed suit and hat similar to shadow Earth upscale city/outdoor wear circa 1910.

Martin sighs and puts away his rubber-soled tennis shoes in favor of leather boots.

Upon arrival in Amber Fletcher gladly defers to Martin, stepping in only to sort out details of his ship and crew. He takes in the changed city, occasionally asking about minor points of interest. In what seems like no time at all, he finds himself arriving home at the old family rock pile with his newfound cousins.

On the way up to the Castle, Martin points out several items of interest, including a very odd public monument to the Sundering. "Ossian designed it," he says, as if that should explain everything.

Folly nods in cheerful agreement.

They're ushered toward Caine's office as soon as they arrive. Folly pulls Martin aside for a brief moment of whispered conversation, then politely excuses herself, leaving the two men to their appointment with their uncle the Regent.

Fletcher greets Caine warmly. "Martin here tells me you're Regent now. Congratulations are in order. But then Martin's told me a great many things. If you can vouch for him that will do for now. I've brought news of the moonriders."

Fletcher looks for signs that this really is Caine.

Caine moves to offer Fletcher a friendly, avuncular clasp. "Fletcher. I had no idea you were still alive after all these years out of contact. I'm surprised Dad hadn't put a monument up for you next to Corwin's." He turns to Martin. "Have you told Ben about this?"

Martin gives a single shake of his head in the negative. "I thought I'd wait until I talked to you. Someone should do that, though. If you'll excuse me, I'll take care of it now." Looking at Fletcher, he adds, "No offense, cousin."

Fletcher nods to Martin. "Of course." Turning his attention back to Caine, Fletcher continues. "Well, there's out of contact and then there's out of contact. I'd always assumed that if something seriously bad came up Grandad would use the trumps to call me home." He pauses for a moment and his features take on a more pained expression. "It's true then, about Grandad?"

Martin, having made his excuses, departs.

Caine nods. "Father has been dead for months or years, depending on where you were when it happened. We attended his funeral in Chaos, where he returned to the living void. While I have my own opinions on the question of whether some part of him lives on, those sorts of questions have not been welcome in Amber for some time.

"The city, as I am sure you noted, is diminished, but still spectacular. I have no doubt that one day, sheperds will graze sheep on the hillock covering the ruins of the clothsellers grand guildhall, if the bay doesn't silt up over it.

"Until we abandon it, this city is protected and those who leave it will do so in an orderly fashion, as the King has decreed."

Caine stops for a second, leaning against the window frame, bathed in the multi-colored glow from the stained glass window. "Enough about us. What brings you here, besides the King's firstborn?"

Glad to change the topic however briefly, Fletcher answers. "I was sought. Far out in what I think of as the far sideshadows, but that can wait. The ones who sought me and chased me through shadow were Moonriders. I know I wasn't here when they attacked Amber, but you can be sure I was about related crown business at the time and I know them when I see them. They've turned their eyes toward Amber again, and this time they're saying that Bleys tried to arrange some unpleasantness for their Marshall and he failed. They also mentioned something about, a "Stealer of Brothers" trying to pluck a "Silver Rose" and failing. The allegory is, as always, ominous, and the fact that they chased me across shadows just to ask me to deliver the message to Amber doesn't exactly make me optimistic. I wrote down the details, but that's the gist of it."

"What a pleasant missive to hear. Doubtless you shall entertain the King with this tale as well. The Marshall was at Father's funeral. He caused no offense there, but met with Prince Bleys and Sir Brennan along the journey back, and it did not go well."

Caine listens quietly, looking at a paper in front of him. At particularly interesting parts, Caine makes short notes in the margins. He turns back to Fletcher. "Speaking of offense at the funeral, do you know who Dara is?"

"Based on the family tree Lady Folly was kind enough to sketch out, I believe you mean my niece rather than my... illegitimate half-sister. I've never actually been introduced. I take it from your expression she's a problem?"

"Grand-niece, if my sources are correct. She attempted to kidnap her son and kill a fair number of people at Random's coronation. Look out for her. She's the bad news in the family these days."

Caine pauses. "I can't decide if you'll find the new order more accommodating than the old, but it's not the same. You saw the city, you can tell."

"I've seen Amber, but I haven't seen Xanadu yet or Paris for that matter. You're right that things here feel different. However the surface order may have changed, I can feel that on some level the Inspiration of True Order remains, and each of us are still its symbols. I'm told people are fleeing Amber, but it is still home. I would still do all I can to help. There's a lot I don't know, and probably introductions to be made. I don't even know where the moonriders intend to hit, but wherever they do we show them that the light of Order has not gone out. Sadly my own status seems to be seen as more apocryphal than legendary. That much, at least, I would change. You've done well. Any advice on navigating the new order?"

"Materially changed, Fletcher," replies Caine. "In the bottom of that dusty crate of books we will find a starfruit, a rare foodstuff that came in by boat this week. Doubtless some worker who was moving the crate dropped it from his lunch.

"I'm absolutely certain it is there, even though I've never seen inside that box."

Fletcher feels the telltale signs of pattern manipulation. He knows what Caine is about.

Caine opens the box and reaches in blindly. He pulls out the fruit, a star-shaped, juicy thing, and takes a bite. "Want some?", the Regent asks.

Fletcher declines politely.

"The most important thing to know is that Xanadu is the new Amber and Random is the new King, better in some ways than Father, but worse in others. Make no mistakes about the order of Order, Fletcher. While some things are the same, you will find much different, including the Princes, old and new."

"I understand that order need not be stasis. These differences...who am I likely to meet in the near future? Are others in residence here? Who is likely to be interested in the news about the moonriders, other than the new King? I assume some of the family are still tasked with the defense of Am...the realm."

"Few are in residence here, for reasons of policy and to encourage the migration to Xanadu. Julian keeps Arden, I ward Amber, Benedict and Corwin have their places, Llewella has just installed her daughter in Rebma, and very few of us do not serve, in some way, at the King's pleasure." Caine pauses.

"Some more satisfactorily than others, of course. The Moonriders are a threat, so are many others, including Dara, including Huon. We seem to be more troubled by relatives than we do by neighbors, but I'd hate to see the Moonriders working with our other foes."

Caine puts the fruit down and crosses his arms. "We don't really have the luxury of having idle princes these days. My advice to you is that if you wish to stay in the realm, expect to be put to work, somehow. If that does not meet with your expectations and desires, then you should head back out into shadow for a few more centuries."

"For the last few years I've been waiting to be put to work, waiting for a summons that I now know will never come. With what I know now I can't just turn my back on my responsibilities as a knight. You know I had my reasons for leaving. That was another time and my time away has been...educational. I suppose my first order of business should be to meet the new King. Then again, I've only just arrived here, and I would like to take a closer look around before taking off. I'd at least like to see the damage to the Pattern with my own eyes."

Caine nods. "Seventh opening on the left. Don't get lost. Come back here afterwards and I'll trump you to Xanadu. Or you can go back with his highness the Prince."

Fletchers nods. "Thank you, your highness." His tone runs the gamut from respect to congratulations to mourning.

A short while later finds Fletcher shining a pair of lanterns around the Pattern room deep beneath the castle. He sets one by the door and carries the other around the circumference of the room, inspecting the damage. Completing his physical inspection, he sets his lantern down and sits near the edge of the Pattern. He recalls that when walking the Pattern, one moves forward but leaves a glowing trail of what has passed. He summons the Pattern within him to the front of his consciousness, savoring its Reality and feeling its ebb and flow on the metaphysical tide of shadows. Fletcher extends it, tracing the broken line and probing the cracked earth before him seeking not to control or alter but to understand the reality of this place. He spends a watch doing so in a quest to answer his questions: Is this truly Amber, somehow broken and humbled? Is this shadow now adrift, or is it being acted upon by the unbroken Patterns in Xanadu, Paris, Rebma, or even the Primal Order Martin mentioned? Does any trace linger of Amber's connection to the Faella-Bionin? Or any hint of Oberon whose hand last touched the living Pattern?

When finished Fletcher takes a sip from his flask, pours the rest of his flask out onto the cracks in the Pattern, and carries whatever answers he may have found up the long climb toward the castle's more comfortable regions and a much bigger drink.

Seeing the future has always been a gift of the family of Oberon, and the use of tools like cards and Tir Na'Ogth merely aid in the concentration and focus. On the other hand, self-delusion has also always been a gift of the family. The shadows lie well for those who fly the Unicorn banner.

Despite this, and despite knowing this, Fletcher is convinced. This is what was and is no longer real, not as Fletcher knew it and its reality so long ago. Fletcher has no doubt that he is where he thinks he is, and it is no longer the source of shadows, or even the first shadow, as Martin implied, but one of many, notable for history and not much else.

But it is hard to be in this place, under this mountain with the castle nestled in her arms and think that Oberon and Amber are truly gone. Amber, of which all other places are but shadow, may have been brought low--many places are, somewhere in shadow. Nevertheless, it is here and is not totally destroyed, so how could Oberon the King, the living embodiment of Amber be totally gone?

There is no sign of him, but he must exist somewhere outside of Prince Martin's eyes.

Arriving in the above-ground portions of the castle, Fletcher goes in search of liquor. With the aid of a member of the castle staff, he finds a suitable selection. He pours himself a tumbler of something appropriately brown, quickly downs it, and contemplates his next move. He needs to find Martin and/or Folly to see if they need a ship-ride to Xanadu or if he can hitch a trump ride with them. Then he needs to see Caine, to offer his farewell, offer Caine the use of his ship in the migration to Xanadu, and quite possibly bum a trump-ride if Martin isn't going soon.

Het sets his glass down, and sets off at a determined pace.

Then he quickly returns to the liquor, refills his flask, and sets off again.

Fletcher sits in the red ante-room, named for the color of the decor. As he sits contemplating his drink, Caine walks in.

"Well?", his father's brother asks, abruptly, "convinced?"

Fletcher rises. "Yeah. I'm convinced. I'd better wrap things up and head to Xanadu. I've got a ship and a crew in port, but you mentioned a trump? I gather the trumps are used a lot more frequently these days, and I suppose I should report to the king sooner rather than later. I imagine you could find a use for the ship and crew in the general migration from here to there." Remembering that he'd rather not have to explain how he came to 'lose' his father's trump, he adds, "Speaking of which, are there any spare trumps about? My deck is incomplete, even by the standards of when I left."

Caine shakes his head. "All of them were taken to Xanadu when we shipped the library there. I'll put your ship at the First Admiral's disposal and he can add it to one of the voyages going to Xanadu."

Caine pauses briefly. "You can borrow one of mine, if you wish to use it before I send you to the King." He lets the question hang for Fletcher to answer.

Fletcher pauses to think for about half a second. "No thanks, I should probably get this done. Please just let Martin know I've gone on to Xanadu if you see him. Thanks for your help. It would be nice to catch up on family news some more. If it looks like I'll be around more maybe we can catch up sometime."

Caine nods absently and replies "perhaps at a funeral sometime soon."

Caine pulls out his trump deck and expertly turns over the top card with his thumb. The well-worn card on the top was a young man, hardly full-grown, with straw colored hair in a doublet and hose. He could've been Martin's younger brother, but Fletcher could guess, even though he'd never met him, that this was Random, now King.

Caine holds up a finger, requesting that Fletcher wait. He concentrates on the card and in a moment, confirms Fletcher's suspicions. "Your Majesty, I am here with Fletcher, Benedict's son. May I present him to you?"

Caine reaches for Fletcher's hand.

[Assuming Fletcher takes it...]

The trump contact is instantaneous, and has the odd familiarity of an old habit not recently practiced. Fletcher looks at the man, now older but not particularly more regal than his trump.

"Your majesty, Fletcher," Caine's introduction is as succinct as he can possibly make it. While Caine doesn't seem unhappy, he does not seem inclined to prolong his role in the proceedings.

"Fletcher! My son told me about you. You took the long way home, I hear."

"Yes indeed your majesty. All this time I figured home would be here waiting. I understand that nearly wasn't the case. It seems proper I should pay my respects in person, and I'd very much like to see Xanadu. As you probably know I have news of the moonriders to share. I am at your service immediately, or could await your convenience here in Amber if need be." Fletcher holds out a hand, inviting Random to bring him through from Caine.

Random reaches out and takes his hand. "Thank you Prince Caine, Tell my son it looks like we're a tennight away from the services, assuming his cousins can be reached."

With that he pulls Fletcher to Xanadu. The King, and therefore the ancient Knight from Amber, are on a great flagstone balcony overlooking a lake. The lake is fed by a mighty waterfall and in turn feeds another. It is reasonably noisy, but beautiful. Behind the king is a great house; a palace, not a castle. It is built into the very rock of the cliffside.

"Welcome to Xanadu, the home of happiness. And of me. My historian doesn't know who you are, by the way."

"Oh, that makes this awkward. I'm here to offer you my oath of fealty. Would you like to hear my story first?"

"Well, as King of almost everything, or at least almost everything important, I'm qualified to take your oath of fealty. It'll probably go better at the end of a story, though." Random turns to a nearby servant. "Two, no make that four beers. The good stuff, not that swill Ash makes."

When the man leaves Random gestures towards a pair of large, low chairs that look as if they have no internal supports whatsoever. "Sit, get comfortable, and tell me about yourself. Where've you been?"

Fletcher removes his scabbard and overcoat and sets them on the floor near the indicated chair. After waiting for the King to sit, he plops down himself.

"I'll try to sketch out the historical part first. I don't know how well you know my father but I'm given to understand he was something of a handful for granddad to deal with, especially after he divorced my grandmother. I never quite got all the details but among other things he was hanging out with the wrong crowd, unsavory influences, that sort of thing. Granddad's solution to that and a number of other problems was to bring in my mother, Lady Emerald, to keep my father in line. So a grand wedding was held in Amber and in due course I arrived on the scene. This was when Corwin was young, a little before Caine's time.

"I grew up at court, with my education overseen by my mother and granddad. I spent some time sailing with the ships of Amber, laying down trade routes, and that sort of thing. I was inducted in the Order of the Unicorn, and was later named a Knight Commander of that same order. At Court, I was named Defender of the Faith. It was a job at court principally dealing with spiritual and ecclesiastical matters. In those days people in Amber were more spiritual than they are now, and religious too. Organized religions had a lot of clout back then, which was double-edged sword. Faith, morality, and purpose are vital to civilization. The Order our family embodies makes such things possible. Without it we'd all be Chaos creatures running around randomly eating anyone smaller or weaker than us. Some shadow gods are still like that, dominating their followers, which is not the kind of belief I'm talking about. At the same time, good ideas change and not always for the better. Religious institutions gained...too much influence in Amber. It helped Amber grow, but their thinking wasn't always in line with granddad's.

"I ran into some trouble with church hierarchy and things got ugly. While we were wrestling with that, the Queen - Faiella - died, which through the court out of whack in a lot of ways. I decided I needed some time away. I took my trump deck, such as it was, and began a tour of Shadow." Fletcher pauses to gauge the King's reaction and sample the beer that has arrived.

The beer is carbonated, a trick that requires refrigeration and bottles that seal well. A Maibock, it has a rich amber color and almost no hops at all.

"Fascinating. We know very little of Ben's rebel days. Although, it makes some sense of stuff like Reid. Did you know Reid? Osric's kid? For that matter did you know your father's older brothers?"

The King drinks about half of his beer and wipes off a foam moustache with his forearm.

"No, I never met any of them. They were gone before I was born. From the notes Lady Folly gave me I saw that Reid did return at some point though. There are some gaps in my knowledge of events while I was away. Most of my news came from the occasional trump contact with granddad, or secondhand reports. Of course, I lost contact entirely when he died, and everything out in shadow got turned around quite a bit. I was still trying to make sense of it when I ran into the moonriders. But I'm getting ahead of myself there. For most of the time I was traveling around. There's a lot to see, and I took advantage to learn what I could of options that are available in shadow. Although technology is different, some areas of knowledge are somewhat more advanced than they were in Amber, at least in my time."

"I'd be pretty damn concerned if you hadn't lost contact when he died, let me tell you." Random shakes his head. "I am, by your standards, by Reid's, by Caine and Corwins, even, a young punk. I didn't really bother learning how to King because of the whole 'last son' thing. I expected that I'd be able to bum around amusing shadows forever, if it suited me. And it did.

"But now that I'm in charge, this part of the cosmos is in my image, not Dad's. I happen to like electric lights and electric guitars, so we have them."

Random stirs in his seat. "Tell me what you did for Dad. And what oaths you gave him."

"In general terms you could say I was an explorer, sometimes a courier and problem solver. And that's not a euphemism for 'hit-man'. I was far enough out in shadow that things got pretty exotic. Sometimes 'exotic' meant 'interesting' and sometimes it meant 'strange shadow entities who we don't want messing with Amber down the road.' I'm not really sure how granddad found out about some of them. Sometimes I'd find something weird and call it in, like 'hey, there's a black hole the seems to be collapsing dimension around it' and sometimes he'd call me and tell me where to go. It wasn't exactly a full-time job. As for oaths... there were four. The oath of fealty, the oath of loyalty as a knight, the oath to serve in the office of a knight commander, and my promise not to lose my sword, which was a gift from him." Fletcher indicates the sword and scabbard next to him. If properly cleaned, the term 'priceless antique' might apply.

Random listens closely. "Most of our problems are closer to home right now," he observes. "Well, I'll leave you to your own recognizance on the sword thing, and take your fealty again. That's a fine thing to do in public, of course. In private the old oath still holds, unless Oberon changed it in the past few centuries.

"Now tell me about your order of knights. You may be a Commander of an order of one at the moment."

"I suppose on a strict seniority basis I may have advanced considerably." Fletcher smiles. "I am a K-C-O-U, Knight Commander of the Order of the Unicorn. In my youth it was the most senior of the three principal orders of chivalry in Amber. If I read the family tree correctly, I see that there are at least a few more orders that have been introduced. I must confess I'm not up to date on matters of precedence and protocol in Amber, or for that matter how or if they translate into precedence in Xanadu. So I have no idea how the hierarchy of the Order of the Unicorn currently stands. It wasn't exactly my highest priority, either, though it was on the list. How does all that work these days?"

"As far as I can tell, 'about like it used to', which is to say that there's a defined policy and people who care a lot about it, but at the royal level things work out by what you can get everyone to acquiesce to." Random nods. "If you can convince your Uncles and Aunts that you should be called 'Fletcher, Lord of the Underworld' and that they should defer to you in all matters related to Sewers, then that's your title and domain. Let me know if that's you're life's dream, by the way, because I can make it happen.

"Now I don't know if this is a change, but I tend to use Knighthoods to reward service, and to show people that I reward it. I consider it binding, but I make an effort not to make it chafing. Mostly what I'm looking for is the ability to call on you if I need to go to war and the ability to tell you to knock it off if you're doing something I think hurts the interest of Amber and Xanadu. Things like destroying the universe, that sort of thing.

"That's the minimum. If that's out of the question, then we're not really talking about an oath of fealty. You still in?" Random raises one eyebrow and sits back in his chair.

Fletcher responds immediately. "Of course. And although it's important I don't have a particular urge to claim suzerainty over the sewer system. As for protocol, from what you've said I'm guessing that you're considering Amber and Xanadu to be one kingdom officially as well as in practicality, so for now I'll assume most of the old rules and modes of address apply. I've apparently got a lot of family to meet and I'd hate to make a bad first impression by offending them. Are my uncles considered Princes of Amber and Xanadu, or just Princes of Amber?"

Random shakes his head. "As you may expect, it's not that simple. Your uncles are, as usual, reserving judgement on how they wish to style themselves, but I'm tagging my children 'Princes of Xanadu', so their pride and reticence serves me well."

"Regardless, I don't know how the Order of the Unicorn is currently occupied, or how they're currently distributed between Amber and Xanadu. I'm here to help, and if that's where you need me to get involved, I can. One does wonder, based solely on Caine's descriptions of affairs in Amber and the view of the Xanadu from your window, how much defensive force could be marshaled in the event of a Moonrider attack. I don't know how serious that possibility is. But something is going on. A couple of them gave me a message for Bleys. "

Fletcher leans forward and offers Random his notes on the Moonriders' message.

Random looks over the note. "How interesting. Any idea what in the all the drippy, unpleasant Rebman hells he was talking about?" Random looks at Fletcher for a second. "I suppose that's more of a question for the Prince of Princes. Have you met Bleys? I'm told you and the redheads are more closely related than most of us."

Fletcher looks a bit surprised. "I only know Bleys by reputation. I couldn't get any more details out of the accusers about what actually happened. How am I more closely related to the redheads? Do they have ties to house Chantris?"

Fletcher takes a sip of his beer.

"Other side of the family. Their mother is your father's granddaughter. Was this not in the briefing? I'd avoid calling Bleys 'Grand-nephew', because he's also your uncle. Is there even a term for that? Nephuncle? " Random finishes his beer. "We'll ask Brita, her father's people probably have words for that, they're gods. She's your cousiniece, by the way. Hmm. She's cousin on two sides, so I'm sure it's worse than that."

The king takes the second beer and immediately drinks half of it. "Welcome back to the family."

"Brita was in the briefing. . . . . . Clarissa was not." Fletcher's expression might indicate that his beer has a sour after-taste. "I'd heard of Borel and Madoc, at least that they exist. I was not aware that Lintra had other grandchildren. How public is this information?" Fletcher takes an unhealthy gulp of his beer. Perhaps the beer isn't the cause of his expression.

Random waves the half-empty beer bottle around like a conductor's baton. "Hell if I know. I know it, which means it's not a redhead above-top-secret secret. We met her at Dad's funeral, where she showed up in mourning colors. She doesn't look a thing like Fiona, or only in passing, but she seemed familiar. The best I can tell, the redheads got the way they were because she was their mother. Sort of a trial by fire."

Random shakes his head. "It's nice, once in a while, to find some remnant of the Amber of old and not have it be out to destroy us all. Hey, that reminds me, where were you when the pattern got fixed? Reid and Brita said they thought they were going to be engulfed and erased by a black rain, then everything when white, or spangles, or flying puppies or something, then they were just in some shadow they hadn't been in before. Different or like that?"

"I've been thinking about that. From what Martin and Folly told me I think I've figured out when that was in my own personal timeline. It translated into very bad weather like that. I was on the move at the time, so I wasn't totally sure (at the time) that it wasn't something normal to the place I was passing through. The earth jiggled and there was lots of lightning. The rain looked like dollops of liquid darkness (well dimness anyway) falling out of the sky. It was quite unpleasant. I'm glad it's passed. Any idea what our next big crisis will be?"

"Like that? Hopefully, nothing soon. Less epochal? The contested Kingship of Rebma is still a brangle, the Moonriders are restless, there's a dragon in the woodpile, I've got two relatives to bury this week, a brother who used to be forgotten who is being unforgettably homicidal, Corwin's former girlfriend showed up at the coronation and tried to kill everyone, again, and we've got a state wedding on the horizon.

"So, no idea." Random finishes his beer.

"Well, weddings can be nice, and usually less lethal. Who's this girlfriend of Corwin's? Sorry I'm so out of date on all the latest gossip. I don't suppose someone's capitalized on the opportunity and produced a series of trashy romance novels about our family, have they? That would be a quick way to catch up. But hold that thought. The knight in me feels I simply must ask: what dragon is in what woodpile?"

"Julian's dragon was Corwin's dragon was Finndo's dragon, fighting Princes of Amber from Arcadia in the center of Arden for centuries. In our time, a cold war, because Finndo and Julian did things to make it slumber.

"It's stirring, like so much after the recent unpleasantness. Cambina used to tell me there wasn't really a dragon, that it was a personification, or draconification, if you will, of the underlying Chaos locked into static form by the Pattern. 'Et in Arcadia Ego', the pimento mori says. As there is death even in paradise, there is Chaos even in Order."

Random leans back in his chair, pushing the front legs off the ground. "Given what it did to Daeon, I'm pretty sure Cambina was wrong."

Fletcher leans forward, and for a moment the ancient casually disinterested tourist finds itself doing battle with the inventively idealistic knight of old. "Well, I obviously don't know the details, but whether it's a force or a being or both, there are some possibilities for dealing with it. If it's free to move about now maybe we...it can be broken up into manageable pieces and spread out. It's my understanding that that is an effective way to deal with the lords from Chaos. Is it still focused on Arden, or is it shifting attention to Xanadu? And if Corwin's ex-girlfriend is the same magnitude of threat as that... I hesitate to ask what Corwin's been up to."

"Well, lots. He made his own Pattern--in Paris of course. I think he's gearing up to get stupid in a war between an ex-lover and his daughter by her. We haven't found any old new kids he's sired, so that front has been sorta quiet, and I issued a Family Decree that Corwin is no longer allowed to date.

"I think Corwin's feelings are hurt because Julian picked up on Finndo's old trick of sleeping with the Dragon and its descendants to keep it quiet. When he was Warden of Arden, he missed his chance, apparently."

Random leans in. "I'd like you to talk to Paige sometime. I appointed her warden of my forest of Broceliande, and if you have ideas of moving the Dragon, she should hear them."

"Not Julian? OK. I'll look her up. Does she have a headquarters somewhere? From what I've seen use of the trumps is a lot more common these days. The only trumps I have are no good for reaching anybody anymore. Who makes your trumps anyway? Folly? She's definitely an improvement over Dworkin. I suppose I'll meet a bunch of relatives at the funerals you mentioned. I'm assuming the funerals are related to some of the other problems you mentioned?"

Random holds up three fingers. "Two funerals and a wedding coming up. Oh, and if you want there may be a coronation in Rebma. Dead are Lucas, daughter of Florimel, and Cambina, Eric's daughter." Two fingers tick down. You've met my son and his betrothed. And Khela's managed to boot Moire from Rebma. If that sticks, it'll be a hell of a party down there. You'll want to meet Lilly, too. You have heard of her, right?"

"Yes, Martin told me about her. I should track her down soon. I just hope there's time before another problem pops up. It seems like the family is pretty spread out. On the matter of Khela... her claim to the throne of Rebma runs through Llewella doesn't it? Is Llewella still in the picture?" Fletcher is clearly trying to piece together the bits and pieces he's heard and mesh them with the family tree he's memorized.

"I don't get what's going on there. She's around, but not taking the throne herself, for some reason. Maybe because she'd be a lousy queen, or thinks she would, maybe because she has enemies or problems I don't get. Maybe she's just uninterested.

"Or, I dunno, maybe it's some weird reflection-of-Amber thing and she can't because Corwin didn't, if you see what I mean. Not that it's really a reflection, but there are a lot of correspondences.

He snorts. "I wonder if it'll become more like Xanadu or Paris going forward? Was it always like Amber?"

"As far as I know there was always a physical resemblance. Travel was not completely unrestricted between the two cities. I gather in recent times it was useful to be able to have anybody simply walk from Amber down the stairs to Rebma. It used to be a somwhat chancier proposition, and sometimes required sorcerors. So trips required a bit more organization. That meant the flow of information could be regulated. Some elements of the 'natural reflection' story didn't seem to fit. I figure there's a will behind it somewhere. How are relations between Rebma and Xanadu? You mentioned things are bit tense in Paris. Does that in any way extend here? Are you considering recognizing the new Queen?"

"For a few hundred years, only fear of Oberon kept Rebmans from acting on the death sentence Moire had issued for my crimes. I am no friend of the old Queen." He turns.

"One of the coolest things about being King is that every now and then, you get to do what you want. Yeah, I'm gonna recognize her. She can't be any worse than her predecessor. First I have to try to barter our recognition for favorable trade policy or some such dreck, but it's basically a done deal.

"I'm going to need a neutral third party to go down there and negotiate it," He adds.

Fletcher chooses not to ask about Random's crimes against Rebma. "Well, if my long absence can be construed as neutrality I'd be happy to help in any way I can, my liege. I'd be a bit handicapped in knowing the extent of the current trade situation. Rebma connects to Paris now, doesn't it? The lack of a shadow path between Xanadu and Paris must put a crimp in trade right now. Any idea if some version of magical stairs will start to form between Xanadu and Paris?"

"Paris to Rebma? Already started. You go downriver a bit, and there's a cave, and you can walk to Rebma. Vere's done it, so have others. What's really interesting is the new cave at the bottom of Rebma, which did not used to be there. It leads somewhere quite different."

Random turns towards him. "And, yeah, let's send you there after the funerals. That way we have a while to figure out who cares."

"Right. I guess I should bone up on Rebman etiquette. And I'd like to talk to someone who's seen that second cave. But what I was really curious about was if anything has started to form between here and Paris."

"Vere's your best bet for that. I think he's in Paris, so we'll see him at the funeral. He's a bit too friendly with the recently deceased to skip that..."

Random looks about. "As to Paris, why do you think it should?" He's not denying it does.

"Well, I don't want to sound like a poindexter but really the spirit of Order demands there be such a connection. The Faiella-Bionin which connected the Patterns of old served more than one purpose, and its power (therefore its shape) was not static. It was my belief that the Patterns were joined together as a bulwark against Chaos, and that this bulwark allowed a more primal Order to exist undisturbed, which in turn strengthened the influence the Patterns had across Shadow. You've been through a period of transition, but now that other connections are starting to appear, I'd expect one between the two new Patterns to appear. Unless of course there's another Pattern between them, but I'd think that you would know about such a thing by now."

Random raises his eyebrow. "If there was a secret fifth pattern on the Faiella-Bionin, then there would be a second connection to it from two of the cities we have. And it would have the "no pattern inside city limits" regulations that the others have. And someone would've noticed it by now, wouldn't they? Who do you think might have one?"

Fletcher scratches his head. "The fact that no one's noticed another new Pattern suggests that no one has one. That's why I'd expect a connection to form between Paris and Xanadu. Unless somehow Tir na Nog'th or Rebma are positioned between Xanadu and Paris. Such things might have an impact on trade agreements with Rebma."

"Assuming they could see their noses in front of their faces, yup, sure would. You have my permission to find one if it's there, although I reserve the right to name the paths myself."

Random touches his nose and nods, "I'll have to decide if I can't do better than 'The Random Path' or I can't do worse..."

"Well, I'll poke around a bit when I get chance, after studying up on the Rebma trade situation, giving Paige suggestions about dragons, and meeting the new relatives. Who coordinates things here in Xanadu? Is there a steward or castellan or vizier I should look up later?"

Random claps his hands together and listens to the echo. "Yes! I have two. My right-brained man is Soren Daniels. He is the Court Bard. My left-brained man is Gilt Winter. He's my secretary. If you need anything secreted, see him."

"Soren I met in Texorami. I'll introduce myself to Gilt Winter presently. I'm guessing I'm in for a month of introductions at least. In the meantime, you said something about oaths being taken in public. How public were you thinking?"

Random smiles. "Good question," replies the King. "Public enough that no one can say 'I had no idea he was your vassal and you'd be mad' after they attack you. I'm thinking a 'welcome to court' and swearing. Soon. After you talk to your Dad."

"Oh. Is he around?" Fletcher asks, "I haven't really been in touch. I used to have a trump of him."

Random nods. "Ever hear of Avalon? If he somehow doesn't come here for the funeral, you'll go there."

"I can hardly wait. In the meantime I'd like to see the sights around here though." Fletcher says, implying he wants to see something more fundamental that waterfalls and harbors.

Random raises an eyebrow. "There's a lovely waterfall and a lake and a harbor and a growing town. I can show you what will become the recording studio of which all others are but shadow, if you like.

"But," he says, "the order of operations is Benedict, swearing, pattern. If you're in a hurry, I'll loan you a trump."

After excusing herself from the meeting with Caine, Folly makes her way toward her quarters, looking out along the way for a page or a maid to help her with the things she needs to do next. The castle staff seems much diminished in the few months since she was last in Amber; but she eventually tracks down an eager page to help Soren and Haven find the kitchens and whatever else they need to freshen up, and a young chambermaid whose discretion she trusts to help Folly in packing up her quarters.

Folly sets the girl to sorting her closet into things to be packed and brought to Xanadu, and things to be given to the poor -- the latter mostly the relatively conservative everyday dresses in the Amber style that she reckons she would not get much wear out of in Xanadu. As the girl works, Folly selects a dark dress for herself, changes out of the clothes she'd worn on her voyage to Amber, and pins up her hair in a style appropriate to mourning her cousin.

That it also suggests the style recently favored by young married women in Amber is not lost on her.

Leaving the maid to the sorting and packing for a few moments, Folly moves to the desk in the small sitting-room to write letters. It doesn't take long: one of them is short enough that a barely-literate page could memorize it and recite it to the barely-literate addressee; the other she's already written in her mind so many times that it's like scribing the lyrics to a song she knows by heart.

Then it's out to find another page to go first to the Grouse to deliver her brief message for Ever -- that she is back in Amber, will be at the Grouse that evening, and wants to talk to him -- and then on to Red Mill to deliver the second message. Folly gives the page explicit instructions to wait to escort the recipient of the second message back to the castle, or to bring her reply if she will not come.

Then she settles back to wait in her sitting-room with a beloved and dearly-missed grey cat in her lap.

Rumbling purrs tell Folly that she has also been missed. Making up for lost time carries her through until the page returns. When she calls to allow the boy to be admitted, he says, "Lady Folly, the, uh, lady is in Rilga's parlor."

"Oh, good, thank you," Folly says, rising with the cat still in her arms. "If you would, could you have tea sent up for us? And when Prince Martin is done with his meeting, let him know where I am." She dismisses the page with a smile and then takes just a moment to pluck some of the more egregious patches of cat-hair from the front of her dress before making her way to the parlor.

She announces her arrival by rapping her knuckles lightly and rhythmically against the doorframe before entering. "Hullo, Violet?" she asks, extending her hand -- carefully, since she's still balancing a cat -- to greet the woman within. "I'm so glad you could come -- it's nice to meet you, finally. I'm Folly."

Violet is tall and olive-skinned, with long dark hair that she's put up in a respectable style for this visit. Her clothes are relatively modest, but well-made and of rich, if somewhat dated, fabrics. Someone has an eye for value and color and Folly suspects it's not Martin. She's made up, but hastily, as if she hadn't been expecting a call to the Castle.

She doesn't reach for Folly's hand immediately, as if it takes her a moment to realize what Folly is offering. Her clasp is a bit tentative. "Yes, I'm Violet. You sent for me, my lady?" Her accent is foreign to Amber, but not one that Folly can trivially identify.

This does not appear to be the conversation Violet was expecting to have, whatever this is.

Folly's return clasp is warm, firm, and reassuring. "I did," she says with a nod. "I wanted to talk with you about your plans for the future."

She gestures toward a grouping of chairs around a low table. "Please, sit, make yourself comfortable; I've sent for tea, and I hope Martin will be able to join us presently, once he's done with his current meeting."

Violet takes one of the indicated chairs and seats herself carefully and precisely.

Folly settles into a chair herself, carefully, and waits just a moment for Fathom to situate himself comfortably before continuing: "I suppose you're aware that the new king intends to make the seat of his power a new city far from Amber -- a young city that is still growing. And as that city grows, Amber will fade -- as it has already begun to do -- until it is but a dim shadow of its former self."

She leans a little forward and regards Violet with an air of friendly curiosity. "Have you given much thought to what you might want to do next, if Red Mill goes as the city goes?"

This seems closer to the conversation Violet was expecting. She looks a bit warily at Folly, and replies, "I have some ideas, but nothing definite."

Folly can guess she's reluctant to say what those ideas are, probably because they involve Martin.

Folly's smile is wry with perhaps a faint trace of amusement. "It's all right, Violet; you may speak freely and frankly. Of course I expect that you are in love with Martin -- what woman wouldn't be? -- and would prefer a future in which you continue to get to spend time with him. I also know that he cares about you; and anyone who is dear to him is also dear to me. I have no objection to your continuing to be a part of his life -- although since his father has gone and gotten himself made king, we may need to handle it with some discretion. I hope that you will feel free to share with me your hopes and your expectations, so that we can try to work out a circumstance that is as mutually agreeable to all of us as we can make it."

Violet looks like she's swallowed a bug. It takes her a moment to decide what to say, and when she does, it's a question. "My lady, did His Highness ask you to send for me?"

"Well, no, not exactly -- that is to say, I think I was the one who first brought up the subject of how best to accommodate you in the relocation from Amber, and he wisely suggested that perhaps I should meet you and talk to you about it before we made any decisions." If this is supposed to be some kind of a trap, Folly is an exceptional actress; by all appearances, her candidness is genuine.

The door opens, Martin walks in, and Violet's eyes get even bigger, if possible. Martin comes over to give Folly a kiss and then moves to give Violet an affectionate squeeze, which she really doesn't know what to make of. "How are my two favorite girls getting along, then?"

It's clear that Folly is going to have to be the one to answer that question.

"I think we're still in the 'You--- He--- We--- You mean--- What?' phase," Folly replies brightly. "Quite understandable, really. Any sane woman steeped in the traditions of Amber would be wondering by now whether I were half-mad or simply toying with her." She makes a slight gesture for Martin to take a seat closer to Violet than to herself; she figures the other woman is in far greater need of the reassurance of his presence.

To Violet, she says, "If it helps, where I'm from this sort of thing is... well, it's still far from commonplace, but it's not nearly as scandalous as it is here. Things there are more egalitarian, less... less patriarchal, among other things. There's a bit more freedom in how one can define one's relationships." She smiles, gently, almost apologetically. "Where I'm from, a woman deciding to see to the well-being of her lover's other lover would certainly be considered eccentric, but it's far from unheard-of."

Martin settles safely between the two women, letting Folly carry the conversation for the moment.

Violet looks at him, and he nods.

"As it happens," he says, after a moment of silence, "I'm in dire need of a trustworthy secretary." Martin's gaze comes to rest on Folly for a moment, and he raises his eyebrows slightly.

She nods slightly, and then turns her gaze to Violet. "Might you be interested? Martin already trusts you, and your discretion -- points that speak very highly in your favor." She looks for a moment as if she might be about to say more, but she waits for Violet to respond first.

Violet looks back and forth between Martin and Folly. Her gaze ends up resting on Martin. "If this is what you want." It's not exactly a question.

"The Heir Presumptive rarely gets exactly what he wants, but in this case, yes, it is what I want," Martin says firmly.

"Then I will do it." Violet bows her head. "What do I need to do next?"

"We'll be remaining in Amber for at least the next day or two," Folly replies. "How long will it take you to gather your personal effects and be ready to depart?"

Folly meets Martin's gaze. "And do you think it best if she moved to a room here until we're ready to go?" she asks with an obvious undercurrent of concern. Part of the reason for making Violet part of the household, after all, is to keep her safe from Martin's enemies.

"I do. I'll send word down to Red Mill. Silken can pack your things, Violet. I have a message I have to send her anyway." Which, Folly intuits, is a subject Martin would rather not discuss just yet, and also one weighing on his mind. He comes to his feet and uses the bell pull to summon a page, and instructs him to have a room prepared for Violet and that there will be messages sent to Red Mill.

Violet is still wary, but seems to be willing to let events carry her where they will. Martin's presence has reassured her somewhat, but she can tell that something is a bit off.

"And if you have any messages you need to send yourself, we'll find you some paper and a quiet place to write," Folly says to Violet. "But first, tea," she adds, as a servant arrives bearing the requested tray of refreshments. Clearly the kitchen staff were well aware Martin might be joining the party: the tray is laden with rather more sandwiches than even two very hungry people might reasonably be expected to eat.

As the servant gets the food situated, Folly catches Martin's eye and, with a slight nod of her head, lets her know she's following his lead now. She can tell he's got something on his mind, but she's leaving it up to him whether he wants to bring any part of it up now or wait until Violet is better settled and they can speak more privately.

He waits until after the light meal--and it's clear that Violet is more than used to his appetite--and Violet has been excused to the guest chamber where she'll be staying for the next few days to broach the subject.

"I talked to Dad. I have a metric shitload of news and it's all bad. Get comfortable and let me find you a cat, 'cos you're gonna need it," he suggests. Martin starts looking around for said feline.

"Oh, dear. That does sound bad." Folly hands Martin a little plate on which she's saved back a few scraps of sandwich meat, and nods toward a little side table: its long ruffled covering sways gently in the absence of any obvious draft, as if it were being nudged from behind by a tail or a paw.

Martin scoops the feline out from under the tablecloth without needing the lure, almost as if he decided it was improbable that Fathom would resist him. He hands the cat to Folly and lets her curl up with it, leaving the tidbits with her for possible feeding later.

Then he sits down in the chair Violet vacated. "I don't even know where to start or end, so I'm just going to lay it out.

"Lucas is dead. It looks like my grandmother murdered him through a mirror, because he was making a trump of her. She was in Paris at the time because she was fleeing from the civil war, which it looks like Khela may have won because she was in the right place to lead the defense against Huon. Now she's missing.

"Huon, meanwhile tried some sort of funky trick involving blood bombs and the Rebman Pattern. Between some luck and some cooperation and some magic that I don't understand, Jerod, Conner, and Brennan foiled him. But he got away with Khela's sword, which looks to be the Rebman equivalent of Werewindle, and ended up with half the family giving chase and getting into a massive clusterfuck of a fight with a nest of dragon-things. Net result: they chased Huon down, disarmed him, and Robin dumped him through into the courtyard with no instructions, so he ended up getting away before Caine and everybody else in the fight got back."

Martin really ought to be stopping here, but apparently there's more even after that.

"And Solange stole Cambina's body so she could get Vere to talk to her and tell her what happened to Vialle, and Gerard had to exile her over it."

As Martin runs through the litany of misfortune, Folly listens in concern... then alarm... then horror. At his last remark, she closes her eyes and breathes out a plaintive sigh. "I should've called her," she mutters ruefully; she knew Solange and Gerard had quarrelled over that very question, but she'd had no notion Solange would actually go through with such a contemptuous plan.

Ah, well, nothing for it now. Folly leans her face against Fathom's fur while she regains her composure, and turns her attention to the more pressing matters in Martin's litany.

"I'm sorry about Lucas," she says softly. "I know you two were close." She meets Martin's gaze. "Did you know he could draw trumps? I didn't." Something in her expression, her tone, suggests that she is working her way along a disturbing train of thought.

"No," Martin says very flatly. "I didn't know that. I would have handled a number of things very differently if I had. Apparently he had a trump he'd made of Solange somewhere in his things. It's missing, which means he's got a stash somewhere that we haven't found. Who knows what trumps we might find there. He could have made sketches of anyone he knew reasonably well."

Martin looks at her meaningfully. "Anyone he knew well. And they could be in my grandmother's hands."

Folly pales, but presses on: "Was the trump made with Solange's knowledge, or secretly? And was it known to work? I just can't help but suppose that your grandmother could have arranged to make it look as though Lucas were skilled in that art -- to make it look as though she'd had to kill him in self-defense, if she had a reason to want him dead. It certainly wouldn't be out-of-character for her." Her lips press together in a thin, grim line. "Still. I'll know better than to accept any unexpected trump calls for a while."

She frowns for a moment, thinking. "Your grandmother has never walked a pattern, correct? Do you know whether she had trumps of her own, or knew how to use them? And if she didn't, what other route would she have out of Corwin's shadow, besides the stair?" Now it's her turn to give Martin a meaningful look. "Of course, if she really does have Lucas's trumps, and knows how to use them, that's probably her best ticket out. And it narrows down where she's likely to end up next."

Martin listens to Folly all the way out, although something she said early on clearly didn't sit right with him. "How she gets out is easy. A mirror. She doesn't need Trumps for that. But there are limited places she could pass between the mirrors too. And--" he sighs "--we're sure about Lucas. Solange knew about the Trump because apparently she asked for it. She was in on the dirty little secret."

This thought clearly doesn't sit any better with him than Lucas' having the secret in the first place.

It clearly doesn't sit well with Folly, either, but she's not yet ready to sort through all the implications. Not unless it becomes apparent that Solange's role in all or any of this was actually sinister rather than merely foolhardy.

"I don't think I ever realized mirrors could be used for transport as well as communication," she says instead. "Or if I did, I forgot, and I blame Pregnancy Brain." She offers up a halfhearted smirk that falls after only a moment; she doesn't feel much like smiling. "And I suppose that brings us to Huon. Do we know yet what he is or was after, ultimately? To screw Rebma? To screw Rebma so he could take their magic sword? And do what with it?"

"He's got a grudge against Bleys and he seems to want the sword to even his odds. But that doesn't explain him threatening what he did, so---" Martin shrugs. He takes a few moments to dredge up another piece of information: "Your mother was with Bleys when they rode after him. She's OK as far as I know, and Dad would have mentioned it if she'd been seriously hurt."

"...and I suppose it's also safe to assume that he didn't mention, or perhaps no-one thought to mention to him, how she and Huon reacted to seeing one another?" Folly thinks about that a moment, and then snorts. "Although if the answer is '...and she immediately jumped to his side', that would have come up in even the short version of the report, too."

Her thoughts return to the question of Huon's ends and means. She stares into the middle distance and says, slowly, as if she's still piecing the idea together, "The sword Huon took -- you said it was 'like Werewindle'... meaning that it's linked to a Pattern, yes? Your father said... something about swords like that coming with a price. No, not a price -- a cost. An obligation. Maybe that attempt on Rebma's pattern was because Huon wanted the sword without the obligation. Which," and now Folly does smile, wryly, "I suppose makes him sort of the opposite of me."

Martin shrugs and pulls outs a few strands of his hair between two fingers. "Still not red. That could be it, or it could be something he, or someone he was working with, did. Or any of about a thousand other things. I don't know. I just know I took some private time with you and the world fell apart and went crazy. And I'm going to do it again after this funeral, somewhere that we can hang long enough to for you to have our daughter.

"But first we're going to hang in Xanadu long enough for everyone to see you're pregnant and hear us call each other husband and wife. Because I can't solve every problem in Amber and Xanadu, but I can solve the stupid wedding problem. If Dad wants a big party, he can do it for the naming instead."

Folly cocks her head and regards Martin with a little smile. "I sent word to Ever that I'd be at the Grouse tonight. We should stop in for rings on our way down. If there's still a decent jeweler in Amber, that is."

"I'd say something about how you should have grabbed something from the family homestead on your way here, but ... no." Martin grimaces at the very idea, but the expression morphs into something more thoughtful. "You know, technically everything here is Dad's, and I can probably lay claim to some of it. Do you want me to have Vent look into where the royal jewelry is? Because we can probably solve the ring problem that way without even leaving the house."

He thinks about that for a moment before adding, "I'll understand if that's a bit too--" and he leaves the last word unspoken, knowing Folly will understand.

"Well, I'm not after anything too showy," Folly says; whether in rejection of her mother's taste in jewelry, or the likely selection in the royal treasury of heirlooms -- or both -- isn't entirely clear.

"On the other hand.... In light of recent news, it might be politic to lay stronger claim to my distaff heritage, you know?" She leaves unspoken the paternal heritage from which such a move would implicitly distance her. Her gaze shifts to a watercolor painting on the far wall of a woman in late middle age reading to a cherubic group of barefoot ragamuffins rendered in soft-focus romanticism, a portrait of the woman in whose parlor they now sit. "If there is anything left here of Rilga's... I suppose it wouldn't hurt to look, at least. If we find anything suitable, I'll ask Gerard and Julian whether they'd mind if I wore it."

"I can't imagine they would. And I figure that's a better answer than me digging in my mother's jewelry right now for something for you. Speaking of unfortunate parental associations and all." Martin makes a face.

Folly nods in grim agreement.

"Let me ask Vent about that and getting Violet settled and then we can clean up and go down into the city. I need to get Violet's things from Red Mill. And tell Silken about Lucas." Martin looks like that's the last thing he wants to do.

"All right," Folly says; her soothing tone makes it almost sound like an abbreviation of everything will be all right. She sets Fathom down for a moment to enjoy the plate of sandwich-scraps while she moves to offer her husband a hand-up that turns into a hug.

After that night, Silhouette begins a regular routine that she follows over the next few days. She begins each morning sparring with Ettrio in the garden, each the conversation of blades engaging the boy's mind and body alike. After breakfast, they part ways -- Ettrio retires to the library for his daily research, while she attends Huon at the hospice for much of the afternoon.

Most of her afternoons are spent inquiring ceaselessly about Amber and Bleys, as well as playing the supportive companion. Her seduction -- if it can be called that -- attempts to enthrall Huon's heart in a fashion not wholly unlike the smelting of primitive alloys. She recognizes that a male's passion -- like tin -- possesses a low melting point, while his true yearning -- like copper -- requires a more prolonged and hotter flame. A combination focused more on rousing passion rather than inspiring affection creates a malleable, but inevitably weak bond -- pewter. But a combination that stirs true fondness rather than empty passion creates a durable and unwavering bond -- bronze. It is the latter she attempts to inspire during their days together through a skillful balance of flirtation and coyness -- playing games of chess, speaking of uncomplicated matters, and feigning ignorance when appropriate.

When the sun touches the green waters, she returns to the foundry to discuss the day with Ettrio over dinner and further his education in the Grand Design. It is these moments Silhouette discovers herself enjoying the most -- much to her surprise. The boy's thirst for knowledge matches her own, and she relishes the opportunity to play mentor and friend. They usually speak until the candles turn to shallow pools of dim light and the moon is dipping toward the dawn. The midnight hours are spent at the forge and anvil, crafting the mechanical guardians that will protect her home and secrets in her absence -- vicious, clockwork rats with gnashing teeth and scything claws. A scant hour or so of sleep is more than enough for her to begin her day anew.

And thus the week passes -- cyclic, unwavering, peaceful, yet never tedious. Before Silhouette recognizes the passage of time, the Badjao return to Vanderyahr's shores to announce the approach of a new Travelling.

Silhouette senses Huon's eyes on her back. Framed in sunlight, she knows her sheer dress will offer him a sensual outline, while obscuring enough to tease his imagination. She holds her arms around her protectively, appearing suitably anxious.

She allows a pregnant moment before tilting her head toward him. "Shall we discuss your intentions for sending me to Amber, my Prince. I regretfully lack the skills required for navigating Shadow. And escorting me will place you in danger. That I shall not allow." She blushes faintly, her kissable lips mimicking timidity.

"So, how may I be your emissary in a realm I cannot reach?"

"The reason that Amber did not conquer Vanderyar ages ago to provide her merchants access to the same far-flung clients that you serve is that they have ships and captains capable of following the routes laid down by Princes of Amber. I will give you a rutter to follow, which will allow you to sail there by a path of my making that the King himself knows nothing of.

"Will that do? The danger to me is in my past, and your future."

Silhouette nods and returns to the bed, sitting at its foot. "That will be suitable, my Prince. As long as you are safe."

She smiles thinly, "However, will you provide me with a Trump, so I might contact you once the negotiations are complete? Or must I seek you in shadow? I feel it is best that the crew return to Vanderyahr immediately after transporting Ettrio and myself to Amber's shores.

"No doubt coins will loosen stories of the Wounded Prince and his whereabouts. Given the choice, I would kill the crew myself."

"I will send with you, in a cage, a bird of my desire. When you have need of me, attach a message to her leg, and she will fly to me.

"Oh, and let the men land, and talk. This place will not be hospitable to my kinfolk if they were to discover it and attempt to track me down here." Huon's smile is wholly feral.

Silhouette returns his predatory grin. It pleases her when Huon speaks this way -- but not for reasons he likely suspects.

With the adroit pace of a lazy cat, she crawls up his body and curls into his warmth. Playful fingers run through the hair on his chest as she gazes up at him. "And what of this little bird of desire, milord? Will you wish me to fly back to you?"

Huon pets her soothingly. "Only a fool or a madman would not, and while I have been called both, I claim neither title. I have seen the future, and the cards are like my siblings--deceptive and cunning, but ultimately true to their own natures. You can expect to be tested in all your strengths. Have faith in me, and do not waver."

A happy purr answers his caress. "Oh but I do have faith in you, milord." Moist lips touch his shoulder, "Perhaps more than you'd scarce believe."

And then -- much like a feline -- she playfully shies from his affections and sits up. "I intend to approach the King long before I entreat your brother. It might be best to win his favor before I solidify a peace between you and Bleys. In such fashion, I will have the King's influence to strengthen my negotiations. But might you have words of guidance for dealing with either?

"I suspect you would have more insight into the latter than the former. But all advice will be of use to me."

"If Random is King, a peace is his to make and enforce. I'd be perfectly happy to be welcomed home and have Bleys be named outlaw for attempting to murder me after Random negotiated a quit-claim between us." He pauses, momentarily. "Assuming he didn't succeed, of course.

"I can outlast his patience, I think. Or I can trump something up." Huon changes the subject. "They will not believe I am reformed, of course. Do not try that approach. Merely suggest that, having learned the true situation, I have realized that my self-interest lies in reconciliation, as long as the price of such is within reason.. See what they might have to offer for peace."

Fluidly, Silhouette swings her leg over Huon's and waist and then straddles him. Despite the intimate position, she maintains a dignified composure. She ties her hair back, "I had no intention of espousing your redemptive enlightenment, my dear Prince. Such penitential declarations are best reserved for children and the clergy. And I am neither, so do not treat me as such." A libertine shift of her hips emphasizes this point; perhaps more than the steel in her voice.

She begins drawing labyrinthine spirals on his midriff with a coy fingernail. "I shall expound upon the benefits of embracing the Second Law. Even this young King shall recognize that a former adversary is more loyal than any comrade, as they have more to prove. He will embrace you willingly, for he has more to fear from his 'friends' than you."

Silhouette leans forward, draping her breasts upon his chest, nuzzling her lips against his chin. "And you shall become the embodiment of my honeyed words, yes?"

Huon lifts her chin with his hand and leans forward and kisses her. "The honey is sweet, but do not offer too much, lest it attract none but flies. I want freedom, not shackles of a different sort."

Silhouette offers a wicked smile, "If I have my way, the only shackles you shall wear will be made of silk and employed solely at my choosing."

She kisses him again, the lips first and then his throat. Her fingers soothingly stroke his brow. "Tell me of your brother? Even if you must embrace familial harmony, I wish this man undone. He troubles my Prince and thus is my adversary. You cannot be forsworn if it is my hand that brings about his end."

His hand touches her wrist stopping her, but gently. "He is a pot of poisoned honey. Sweet and pleasant to be with, and in the end, painful death. He is my father's assassin. I wonder that he outlived him, his time has passed. I wonder if the new King pities him or uses him?

"He has children, and grandchildren. I would never have thought it of him. He never seemed domestic to me."

"Spilling one's seed is no more inexplicable than more malodorous bodily functions. And both can coax life from well furrowed soil," Silhouette says, rolling her shoulders with an annoyed shrug.

She drums her fingers on his chest, "I have suffered tortures even you cannot imagine, Lord Huon. An assassin -- even one such as this -- does not instill fear in me. Respect? Indeed. But not trepidation.

"If you wish Bleys undone, I shall endeavor to do so. If you do not, I shall shun his company. It matters not to me either way."

Huon laughs, and she feels it throughout his body. "Careful, tiger-cub. If he turns his full attention to you, you would do well to fear him. Not because he offers a simple threat, but because he offers a subtle one."

He smiles at her. "He will be undone, but I am in no hurry. We immortals have no need to hurry."

Silhouette smiles. It is good to hear him laugh. She turns her head to offer her delicate throat. "You are correct, milord. On occasion, I forget that -- for us -- time is little more than a paper tiger. Forever chasing, but toothless."

A brow rises. "Do you have children, milord?"

He laughs again. "I am past that period in my life, and children are rare jewels in our family, to be hidden and protected.

"I have descendants, if they yet live. I was locked away from my home for five centuries by Bleys' hand, and I have not walked into Bleys' trap for me in that shadow, if he did not destroy it."

Silhouette offers him a smile, so profoundly tender that it might even be genuine. "Oh, my sweet prince. To have your home denied you for so long. My suffering has been but an eye blink in comparison. How do you endure it?.

She slides atop him like silk and kisses his mouth. "Let us lose ourselves, yes? If but only for a moment. Let our last night together strip away the illusions and insults. Dismiss the shadows and hatreds. Let there only be you and I, and nothing else between us."

He laughs. "At a century, you may realize that such a thing is not possible. At five, you may realize that the striving for it is worth it despite that."

"We shall see," Silhouette whispers. "We shall see."

As she stands in drizzling rain, Silhouette remembers how much she hates ships of timber and cloth. They remind her too much of the Before. The creaking whispers of wood and rope, the sharp cries of and laughter of men, stir memories she cares not to explore. Memories of darkness and pain and grimy hands. She adjusts her umbrella and stares out at the ocean beyond Rethora's protective harbor. A line of grey slate stares back, mysterious and somber.

Soft chirps call her attention away from the ashen waters. She smiles down at the covered cage in her hand. She can feel Huon's farewell gift - a bird of fiery plumage and golden eyes - hopping about its home. Oddly, the creature provides her a modicum of comfort. It is a living link back to him -- her lover, her patron. Such noisome sentimentalism should be beneath her, but for once she tolerates it.

She adjusts the cage in her hands and turns her head. Nearby, Huon is engaged in last minute discussions with the ship's captain. He appears in his element -- thriving off being in charge of men once more. It pleases her to see him this way.

Farther down the dock, Ettorio oversees the loading of their luggage. A touch of pride warms Silhouette. The boy is coming along perfectly, she thinks. He will be an excellent tool for the Grand Design in short order. And for now, an excellent companion.

Her eyes drift back to Huon. He has dismissed the captain and now stands there, staring at her intently. She smiles and walks over to him, "Is everything prepared, milord?"

His nostrils flare as he takes in the sea air. "All is. I am not one for sentimental farewells, and I know you are not either. You know what to do." It's not a question.

"Indeed," she replies. She graces his cheek with a chaste kiss. Then, without another word, she turns and ascends the gangplank to the ship. She pauses only once to glance back at him, more for Huon's benefit than hers.

"Set sail at your earliest convenience, captain," she tells the ship's master. "I shall be in my quarters unless there are matters that require my attention. When my manservant has completed his duties, send him to me with some hot tea."

The captain nods, and looks at Huon, who nods slightly at him. The quarters are well-appointed, but small and tightly constrained, as is necessary on board a working ship. Her young charge arrives within a quarter watch and has both news and tea.

"The tea is tasteless, Lady, but may be spiced adequately." His tray has a variety of tools for fixing the beverage. "We sail in half a glass."

Looking up from her working schema, Silhouette offers him a thin smile, "Thank you, Ettrio. This will do." The quill is set aside and the sketch book closed momentarily.

She pours herself a cup of the bland tea -- adding a bag filled with dried corn mint, wild carrot seed, and rue. A grimace passes over her features as she sips the bitter liquid, her stomach rebelling almost immediately. But -- considering the previous evening -- the concoction is a grave necessity; ensuring Huon's seed will not take root. Granted, the Amberite physiology generally inhibits conception, but as an Earth magus Silhouette is abundantly aware of her disproportionate predilection toward fertility. A ruined appetite seems a small price compared to the possible consequences.

"I shall join you on deck promptly," she says. "I would like to witness our departure. Afterwards, would you join me for a game of Gateway, perhaps? I have found your company most tolerable of late."

Sil will remain in her cabin during that time, putting together a mechanika raven that can move about, spy, and record messages. Sort of like a flying tape recorder. She'll only use temporary parts (roughly a season's 'duration').

Ettorio wants to know how that's done.

Silhouette gestures to the seat across from her. She folds her hands together and offers a sad smile. "Ettorio," she says in a motherly tone. "You ask the impossible. My work is of arcane origin - manipulating the laws of Draig-talamh to my will. This cannot be taught to the Unenlightened. Teaching you Mechanika at this point would be as effective as explaining Fermat's principle to a cave bat."

She cocks her head, "Only those willing to give themselves over to the Grand Design might learn this high magick. And I doubt that you could endure the five Ordeals to even begin this path to Enlightenment. I do not mean this as an insult. Your intelligence intrigues me. But this path is all-consuming and your heart belongs to other realms."

He says "Yes, Lady", but his heart is unconvinced that there is something he cannot know.

She says nothing more. But over the next few days, Silhouette begins surreptitiously testing the boy with the Ordeal of Humility -- requesting him to undertake dull and mundane tasks, such as recording water depth or joining the sailors on dog watch. She notes his reactions for later assessment.

After a few days pass, the lookout on deck cries out. "Land! Cabra rocks on the port bow!"

The captain sends work to Silhouette. Amber is twenty miles to the North and the ship will make the harbor that evening.

"Thank you," Silhouette says to the sailor -- too busy to look up from her work.

She takes a smoldering coal from her palm and sets it into the heart of her mechanikal raven. As a red glow flares, she shuts the boiler plate with a satisfying clink. White puffs of smoke rise from its beak -- the bronze wings springing to life. She leaves the simulacrum to its self-discovery, brushing the soot from her unblemished hand before heading for the upper deck.

It flies away. Silhouette wonders if it was as well-made as she'd like. It seems to be less ... something than she expected.

This erratic behavior both alarms and intrigues Silhouette. Her work had been above standard -- the poor working conditions notwithstanding. Something else must have influenced the simulacrum's development.

She instinctively tightens her cloak as the cool sea breeze hits her. Locating the captain, she joins him on the quarter deck and nods politely to the helmsman. "Captain," she says in greeting. "Have we encountered any Amberite patrols as of yet? Or do we remain undetected?"

The old captain turns to her, his face a mirror of his thought process. "This far out? They don't patrol here. This is far enough away that they'll notice us from land a lot sooner. We could land you and your boy, and horses, and be in the harbor waiting for you in a day, if you wish discretion."

"Then do so," Silhouette says with an edge of finality. "Never underestimate the benefits of cultivating an air of unpredictability. My family will wonder how a non-Initiate traversed Shadow, particularly this close to Amber. Let them waste time with speculation.

"I also I prefer to have an out, as it were. Make harbor, trade and carouse, but say nothing of your association with me or the Lord Huon. Wait for one week before sailing with the tides. If I do not return by that time, it is likely I shall not return at all."

He nods and arranges it. In a half a glass, Silhouette and her servant are on the shore, with their horses, watching the boat that ferried them here row back to the ship.

The horses are saddled and fed and happily on the dry land. The city is visible in the distance, or at least the castle, glimmering in the sunlight on the side of the only mountain for some distance. It is a singular sight.

Silhouette pauses for a moment -- overcome with a rush of bothersome emotions. Wonder, admiration, awe... and burning hatred. This glorious bastion of stone should have been her home. It should have been her birthright. Instead, she'd been abandoned to cruel hungers and grimy hands, robbed of everything sacred and innocent. Beautiful and cold, it is a perfect representation of her mother's betrayal.

As she begins riding toward the edifice, she erases her sentimentalities beneath an icy wave of soothing logic. She evaluates the landscape for the possibility of siege -- prolonged and expedient. Mentality dissecting the castle's weaknesses provides her with intriguing thoughts for the future -- but more importantly calms her nerves.

Going up the mountain in the face of an active defence would be a slaughter, and the other direction would go through dense forest of unknown safety. The castle walls look tall and thick, and the stairs up the steep face look slick and narrow. If the castle can project force outwards as well as it can defend, it is nigh impregnable, at least with the technologies and magics that are supposed to work (or not work) in Amber.

Silhouette smiles faintly. The castle becomes an intricate puzzle box urging her to unlock it. She considers the stronghold's architecture and positioning for a moment, when a possible key becomes apparent so swiftly that she cannot stifle a delighted laugh. The solution is so decidedly obvious - so ridiculously simplistic - that it has probably been overlooked by her more grandiose-thinking uncles. She notates this working hypothesis for investigation later.

She leads them along the road, making certain to be noticed by any observers. Indeed, she wishes to attract as much attention as possible.

Silhouette turns to her companion, "When they come, I shall speak for us both. No matter what, do not interject or interrupt. We walk upon glass from this point forward."

Ettorio has been scanning the mountain, the forest, and the beach-side road. "Five leagues or more to the city, but if the road is good, we shall be at the gate by nightfall. I will be your eyes and ears, Lady, and you will be our voice."

"Thank you, Ettorio," Silhouette says, pleased.

They ride in silence from then on -- accompanied only by the soft chirp of Huon's blood-bird from beneath its hooded cage.

In time, the city gate looms before them and Amber's sheer scope instills Silhouette with a renewed appreciation of her grandfather's vision. Despite the numerous improvements she would incorporate, she feels a warm sense of pride to be a part of this bloodline -- this legacy.

Considering recent events, Silhouette suspects that new visitors will be viewed poorly -- if not ill-treated. She cautiously guides her horse within ear-shot of the guards before finally pulling on its reins.

"Hail!" she calls. "I am Kabeiro ap Cadmilus and I hereby invoke the Right of Hospitality, as is granted me by birth and by my status as emissary. Will you guide me to the King, so I might parley?"

The main gate is open, and a young officer of the guard is there. "Emissaries and Ambassadors must send word to the castle within twenty-four hours of arrival in Amber. I suggest you find lodgings in the harbor district and prepare to wait, Lady." He seems bored, as if her arrival is part of his normal day's events.

Silhouette's smile is like a line of polished daggers. "I see. And might I have your name, sir? So I can inform the Princess Florimel that you've been ever-so helpful to her daughter. I am certain that she and my cherished uncle -- the King -- will wish to reward you personally for following protocol, despite the unfortunate delay to our reunion."

She removes a notepad and pencil from her cloak and waits patiently.

He stands slightly straighter. "Sir Gradient, Lady Cabero." He looks to the castle, and sees which pennants are flying. "The Princess is not in residence, but I am sure the Regent will send word to her and your uncle once he is apprised. Through the city to the Plaza of Remembrance, there's a big statue there, you can't miss it, then turn left up the big boulevard, out the Kolvir gate, and up the mountain. They will assist you at the castle.

"Most considerate of you, Sir Gradient," she replies, "I shall remember you."

She clucks her tongue to get her horse moving once again, heading into the city. Her ride through Amber is both enjoyable and informative. She studies the architecture more closely -- the composition of buildings, the angle and width of streets, and, in particular, the drainage and water sources.

Following Gradient's instructions, she turns left upon reaching the Plaza of Remembrance and begins the steep ascent to the castle proper. As she passes the Kolvir Gate and the magnificent and imposing structure comes into better view, the censure for her uncles Bleys and Corwin intensifies. What fool would assail this bastion with mere flesh and steel? Even with siege engines at elevated positions, such a task would be formidable at best. An unforgivable waste of manpower, when a more subtle -- if risky -- solution to achieve victory offered itself to the trained observer. She shakes her head in disgust.

"Remember this day, Ettorio," she says, urging her horse onward. "You shall not see the likes of this again, I suspect."

Upon seeing the castle guards, she hails them. "Goodmen, I am Princess Kabeiro ap Cadmilus. As emissary and niece, I claim the Right of Hospitality and would speak to the Lord Regent. Can you assist me in this?"

The guards are quiet and a young officer appears. "Of course, Lady. Please come in. We will see to your horse while word is sent to the Regent." Silhouette thinks he dresses and carries himself in the manner of a seaman.

"Thank you, sir," she replies humbly.

Grooms come forward and are ready to help her dismount and to take her horse to the stables.

Silhouette plays the part of the innocent, young noblewoman -- leaning on the groom's shoulder as he helps her down. She blushes shyly, letting the moment linger before speaking in a gentle tone. "If you could store my luggage in a guest room, I would be most appreciative. Nothing fancy, please. My manservant will assist you." She nods to Ettorio.

"Welcome to Castle Amber, Princess. If you would care to step into the guard tower, we can wait inside for a return messenger."

Silhouette follows the guard, hands folded over her belly. It is a demure stance, but also provides her easy access to the needle-thin blade strapped to her wrist. As friendly as these men might be, she prefers caution at this uncertain time.

"My thanks to you again," she chimes. "I find myself a little overwhelmed. My uncle's stories could not have prepared me for seeing Amber for the first time. It is a rather... humbling experience."

She laughs musically, "I am sure you must think this all prosaic by now, Captain."

"Ensign, Princess," the young officer corrects her absently. "I was born in the city, so it seems to be .. normal to me."

Silhouette exchanges enough pleasantries to learn the young man's particulars, as all are important instruments in the eyes of the Grand Design.

Another young officer appears in the door. "Please come with me, Lady. The prince will see you now."

The officer escorts her to what is obviously a receiving room, where the Prince is waiting for her.

He is young, blond, and handsome, and carries a blade. He has the nondescript and pleasant demeanor of a minor courtier and the eyes of a killer. "Kabeiro ap Cadmilus," he says, "Welcome to Amber. I'm Martin fitzRandom. Your mother is not in residence, but we'll send word to her. Unfortunately she gave us no word of your impending arrival."

The Prince Regent? An intriguing choice, Silhouette muses. And an appealing fellow -- the eyes, in particular. Men of predatory nature have always appealed to her.

He gestures to her to take a seat. The chairs are heavy leather, and well made, but have seen better days.

"I was told you claimed rights of hospitality as an emissary, but the guard didn't advise me of whose emissary you were."

"Firstly, my thanks to you Prince Regent for meeting with me," she replies, bowing her head. "I am certain that news of my arrival will catch my mother equally unaware. As she left me for dead many years ago, doubtlessly she remains entirely ignorant of my existence. Indeed, my true motivations have little -- if anything -- to do with her."

She leaned forward in her seat, resting her arms on the table. "I come before you in the name of Prince Huon. He seeks an agreement of peace with your goodly King Random. I shall be his voice in settling this matter." She falls silent, allowing this revelation to truly register.

Prince Martin is either really hard to read or extremely unflappable. To the extent that he should be shocked, he doesn't seem to be.

[OOC note: known as the high-earth champeen of the youngers, and don't play poker with him.]

"I'm sure my father will be pleased to hear that Huon is ready to negotiate a peace. But I'm afraid negotiations will have to wait their turn, as there is other family business to be carried out first. I would arrange for your mother to return to Amber for a reunion, but I'm afraid she's unavailable, as she is currently seeking the murderer of your brother Lucas."

The Dutch Defense to my Queen's Gambit, Silhouette muses. Perhaps I shall enjoy this game after all.

She silently debates continuing an aggressive stance or utilizing a fianchetto; dismisses both and settles on any entirely different gambit. Her fingers knit into a tight bundle and grief shimmers in her forest-brown eyes -- the cold resolve dismissed and a mask of empathy slipped on.

"My brother is dead?" she says in a pained whisper. "Lord Huon did not tell me this. When? How? And has Vendetta officially been declared? Pray tell me, cousin."

Martin moves to take Silhouette's arm and guide her to a seat. "I doubt Huon knew. There's a lot about the family he's unaware of. We don't have all the answers yet, but it happened in Paris, and Corwin's daughter Celina, who was acting as Regent, is investigating."

Silhouette is light as a feather in his arms -- a shy smile painted on her lips. "Perhaps you're right. I... I had hoped to meet my brother. I lost my sisters. And now this." She touches her hand to her mouth, shivering.

Her body stiffens and she shakes her head, as if to cast the grief away like molting scales. Her hand seeks Martin's, patting it chastely. "Forgive me, my prince. My duty is to Lord Huon. I should not allow my personal feelings interfere with our initial meeting. I am sorry." Sad eyes plead with him.

"No, it's quite understandable. Initial dealings with the family can be a shock." Martin relinquishes Silhouette once he's sure she's not going to fall over or make any such womanly display of weakness. "I'll arrange to contact your mother as soon as possible. Am I correct in assuming that you'll wish to attend his funeral?"

"If that would not be an inconvenience," Silhouette says, settling into her chair. "As his sister, the Rite of Blood and Ash demands I be present."

She takes a steadying breath and sits up. "However, as much as I appreciate your kindness, my concerns are secondary. Please relay to your father that Lord Huon wishes to accept the offer of amnesty previously offered him. In return for your father's reprieve, he will cease all hostilities from this point forward, as well as renounce his vendetta against his brother, Lord Bleys.

"I suspect he would be happy to retire into Shadow without further incident."

Silhouette offers a rueful smile, "He is fully recuperated from his previous encounter, both physically and logistically. He is also -- if I may speak plainly -- overly fearful of retribution. So, any harsh dealings from wayward family members would complicate matters at this sensitive time. My limited communications with him -- a precaution -- make it difficult to defuse a potentially volatile situation. As such, time is of the essence."

Strength returns to her eyes, "Until the matter is resolved, I offer myself to your father as an ostaticum. Will you accept my surrender, in his name?"

Martin straightens once he's sure Silhouette is properly seated. "I can provisionally accept your surrender on my father's behalf and make arrangements for you to speak with him as soon as possible. I know he'll be pleased to achieve a peaceful resolution of this division in the family."

Silhouette bows her head, "You are most kind, my prince. As Lord Huon's ostaticum, I freely give myself over into your custody. I am now your hostage."

Her eyes seek his -- tinged with pain. "However, before my incarceration, will I still be provided the opportunity to pay my respects to my brother? You have my word that I shall not shirk my responsibilities. I would not take advantage of your hospitality so unduly and endanger our agreement."

"There's family business in Xanadu first, but my understanding is that most of the family will be in attendance in Paris for Lucas' funeral. I don't know of any reason you wouldn't join us for the service."

There's a pause and Martin adds, "I'm sure his wife and children will be comforted by your presence."

Silhouette tilts her head like a curious cat. "A family? Another item my Lord Huon apparently neglected to inform me of. How many children and how old?"

Martin nods at the word 'family.' "Two. Young enough to still be with their governess but out of arms, both of them. A boy and a girl, named Philippe and Hope."

She taps her chin, "I doubt a lost sister could offer them much solace at this dark time. I would be nothing more than a stranger to them. But I shall endeavor to provide what comfort I can."

Silhouette raises her head and smiles, "Thank you for informing me of this, my Prince. I have lived a great many years... alone. In a matter of moments, you have dispelled a lifetime of solitude."

"We are, as one of us once said, a bunch of immortal superheroes. Other people come and go, but family remains." Martin smiles pleasantly at Silhouette. "If you'll excuse me, I need to see about arranging your transit to Xanadu to speak with my father. Has Huon instructed you in the use of the cards?"

"The Trumps? I regret, no," Silhouette says. "Nor do I have access to them. He allowed me only one method with which to relay missives and I intend to reserve it until I speak with your father.

"However, if provided access to Trumps, I do believe I can utilize them with little difficulty."

She stands up and curtsies, "Shall I retire to my quarters until further notice?"

Martin nods. "I'm sure you wish to freshen up after your journey. Dinner in the Castle is a family affair, so you'll meet the members in residence here--assuming that my father doesn't want me to send you through to Xanadu at once."

"Of course," she replies. "I will make myself available to your father at his convenience."

He moves to the door and pulls a long cord hanging by it. Moments later, the door opens and a youth, presumably a page, enters and bows to the Prince and the lady.

"This is the Lady Kabeiro. She is Princess Florimel's daughter and will be staying with us at my father's pleasure. Please see her to the chambers Steward Vent will have arranged, and obtain anything she needs." Martin glances back at Silhouette to see if she has anything to add.

"Thank you, my Prince," Silhouette says, curtsying once more. "And please, you may call me 'Silhouette'. It is the sobriquet I am best known by now. I look forward to seeing you again." She turns to the page and gestures for him to lead the way.

Quietly attentive, Silhouette studies the halls of Castle Amber. She pays particular attention to the structural system, noting strengths and weaknesses, as well as form and function. The calculating aspect of her personality appreciates the architect's skill at satisfying the Three Principles of Firmitatis Utilitatis Venustatis. Although she notices areas for improvement, she cannot help but feel a heart-swell of respect for this talented craftsman.

Even as she considers this, another aspect of her personality disturbs her thoughts like a wriggling snake. Self-indulgent thoughts wonder what her life may have been like here as a child. Playing hide-and-seek with her cousins in the vaulted chambers and impressive grounds. Exploring the servant passages and lost rooms. Walking hand-in-hand with her mother through the decorative halls. Growing up as a child should -- without the knowledge of pain and blood.

A bitter snort escapes her nostrils. And what good would such a sheltered life done her? She'd be nothing more than a wastrel by now, a vain shadow of her true self -- just like her mother. She crushes these juvenile fantasies before they can interfere further. The Grand Design has little room for such indulgent ponderings. There is work to be done and no time to be wasted on lost childhoods.

When she arrives at her room, Silhouette discovers that Stewart Vent has accommodated her in surprising luxury -- at least, extravagance for one more accustomed to far more Spartan conditions. She finds her traveling bags set out and easily accessible, as well as a turned down bed and plenty of amenities. Having initially expected a jail-cell, this is more than she could have dreamt for.

"Thank you," she says to the page. "Might I have some green tea brought to me? And a quill and paper, if possible? Oh yes. And please see to it that my servant is informed that I may be departing from the castle for my brother's funeral, but I shall return shortly thereafter."

Once alone, she settles in and lays out a dress for the evening. By the time she has unpacked, her tea and the requested writing materials arrive. After politely dismissing the page once more, she sits down at her vanity and begins to write a letter:

Lord Houn,

I have arrived in Amber and spoken with the Prince Regent Martin. He has provisionally accepted your surrender in his father's name. Amber and your lordship are now at peace. I will ratify your amnesty with King Random shortly.

However, there is a minor delay. Negotiations are postponed due to the funeral of my brother, Lucas. I am to attend in Paris. It is there I shall most likely meet the King. From all indications he wishes a peaceful solution to this matter.

Please send word of any requests you may have. This method of communication appears the best for the time being.

Your faithful servant, Silhouette.

She seals the missive with wax and uses her thumb as a stamp. Collecting Huon's blood-bird, she leaves the room and begins searching for the nearest outside window or balcony from which to launch the creature.

The creature departs and quickly flies out of sight.

As Silhouette watches it disappear from view, she idly ponders the fate of her own bird. She makes a mental note to investigate this later.

A man walks up, clearly a warrior, lithe and easy in his person and his place in the world. "You are the Lady Kabeiro? I am your Uncle. Caine, Regent of Amber. My sister wishes to speak with you."

Silhouette strikes a demure pose, lowering her eyes in respect. "That is I, my Lord Regent. Although most know me as Silhouette. It is a pleasure to meet the man my Prince has spoken of so highly."

Caine nods politely, as if bored with pleasantries.

She tilts her head, providing him a glimpse of her elegant throat. "Your sister? I assume, then, you do not refer to my mother. Shall we, then?" [Assuming he allows it] She slides her arm into his, as if it had always belonged there.

He allows her to take his arm and leads her back towards a sitting room. The castle looks as if it has been half-abandoned, with some things clearly gone, such as paintings on walls and books from shelves. The actual furniture seems to be staying.

After a moment of companionable walking. "I confess to some curiosity. Why would you assume any of my sisters other than your mother would be interested in speaking with you?"

Silhouette turns her head toward him and smiles kindly, "Firstly, it was your choice of words. It would have been more advantageous for you to state 'your mother wishes to speak with you,' rather than 'my sister.' It would have created a greater emotional reaction and thus a deeper desire to answer your invitation. Secondly, with my brother's murderer still at large, I suspect Florimel's attentions would be elsewhere. And is she not in Paris at this moment?

"I would suspect that Princess Llewella might desire my presence when one considers my association with the man that recently undid her realm. Princess Fiona is a less likely choice, but not out of the realm of possibility."

She gives a self-effacing laugh, "Or perhaps my prolonged proximity to Prince Huon's mistrust has clouded my judgment enough to read far too much in your words."

Caine nods. "His judgement is not necessarily assumed to be sound, here. One option to consider is that my relationship to my sister is more important than yours is. The other consideration is that I may be reserving judgement as to the truth of your parental identity."

This inspires an odd smile, but Silhouette says nothing further. She has learned what she requires. And there are so many delicious sights to partake of.

Caine opens a door behind a painting--there are a lot of doors behind paintings. This part of the castle is awash in art, floor to ceiling. He leads her into a hallway and into a utilitarian office dominated by a massive wooden slab that can only be called a desk because it was being used as such.

He leads her to a group of seats that almost look comfortable and offers one to her.

Silhouette sits down, folding her hands modestly over her lap. While Caine seeks his own seat, she breaks the silence. "Lord Regent, may I make an inquiry of the proper etiquette required for vendettas in this realm? And do they extend to other realms as well? I do not wish to inadvertently cause insult when I seek retribution for my brother's murder. For example, in my original homeland, a letter of warning is required thirty days before an official vendetta is called against those of noble birth. This allows the offending family enough time to offer proper compensation.

"But after mother abandoned me, my education into Amberite politics degraded most profoundly. And -- Unicorn bless him -- my current mentor's attitudes toward vendetta are slightly... skewed."

Caine shakes his head. "The rules differ depending on whom you wish to kill, child, and derive from the qualitative differences between us and shadows.

"A person of shadow is yours to kill for the insult or not if you see fit. Were I with you, and you chose to take offense at a stranger's actions, it wouldn't be my place to gainsay your choice to kill him or not." He pauses. "Just because a person was yours to kill or not, doesn't mean I won't judge your choices, but that's the way the world works.

"Where a person is under the protection of a family member, the family must be satisfied that the cause is just. Were my secretary to insult you would come to me for satisfaction. I might tell you to leave him alone, or give you permission to act as you saw fit, or kill him myself for putting me in the position of having insulted you by proxy.

"Where the giver of offense is a family member, one can either appeal to authority, or one can take care of one's own business." It's clear from his tone that the former is not commendable. "If you or your patron's choices lie in that direction, recall that all of the family are vassals of the King thus under his protection. The Lesson of Osric and Finndo was 'don't annoy the King, even if you're in the right'.

"Now, those are the rules, and an ugly world it would be if we failed to understand that they are the extreme limits, to be approached only in time of need and not on a routine basis. That was the flaw of Eric, of Huon, and of Brand. Have a care which relative you choose to emulate. We survive best and get along best when we treat people as people rather than chattel."

Silhouette nods to this, "Thank you, Uncle. I shall reflect upon your council. Fear not, though. I understand this is my mother's Vendetta to carry out and shall not intrude without invitation. However, a Preceptor's approach to Vendetta is as sagacious as their approach to mathematics. As such, until both terms of the equation are satisfied, they cannot dismiss the impression of something left incomplete.

"I cannot suffer such a deficiency ad infinitum."

He reaches for a pouch at his belt. "Now, shall we trump your mother?"

"Please. It is time we were reunited."

Caine pulls out a card and looks at Silhouette. "When I reach out, place your hand in mine."

Without waiting for her response, Caine pays attention to the card. On it, Silhouette can see a woman with reddish blonde hair, wearing a low cut green dress that highlights her figure and brings out her startlingly blue eyes. Caine says nothing for a long, long moment, then reaches out for Silhouette's hand.

Silhouette slips her fingers into his, squeezing his hand. Seeing the image stirs old memories. Those blue eyes. Like the Mesogeios Sea at midday. Infinite, alluring, mysterious. She'd been framed in sunlight last they'd been together; standing on the south balcony of their home's gynaeceum. The scent of olives and lemon myrtle hung in the air, carried up from the kitchens below. A faint breeze tugged at her mother's sea-green chiton, its sheer fabric moving like the waves. Her smile had lost its softness, now wistful, pained. Silhouette -- Kabeiro, then -- knew unease, as if she could sense the coming betrayal. Could sense that she would soon lose a piece of her innocence to forces she could not hope to understand.

"I must leave you, Little Meliai. But only for a time," she'd said.

"I shall return to you, I promise."

It had been the first time her mother had lied to her.

But as Silhouette holds Caine's hand, a lifetime away from that fragile moment, she doubts it would be the last.

Once Silhouette takes Caine's hand, she comes into the contact, and Florimel is present almost as if Silhouette were looking through a magical window.

Her mother is dressed in a style unfamiliar to Silhouette. The ruffles and frippery are alien, but suit Florimel perfectly. The color is dark, and Silhouette understands it is mourning. Florimel wears it flamboyantly, almost aggressively, as if it is a weapon in her own grand design.

Her mother is angry.

"Who are you," she says coldly, "who claim the name of my daughter? If this is Huon's idea of a peace offering, I'd hate to see him try to offend."

Despite herself, a derisive snort escapes Silhouette upon seeing her mother for the first time in twenty-five years. Emotions -- hate, anger, bitterness -- bubble to the surface like sulfurous impurities rising from smelted copper. Emotions she'd long thought purified from her heart. This revealed weakness disturbs her greatly, but guides her voice nonetheless.

"An elegant dress, Mother." The word drips from her tongue like acid. "I wonder, did you wear such finery when you mourned for me? Did you shed perfect tears for your husband, my father? Did you cloak yourself in black for my sisters, who loved you as their mother? Or is such doleful elegance reserved solely for your favored son?"

Caine can feel Silhouette's hand tighten with rage. "I am the specter of Kabeiro ap Cadmilus, your precious Little Meliai. The eleven-year old girl you abandoned to the flames of war and cruel men. The child you left to die and be reborn from the ashes. And no matter how you deny it, I am your Daughter. I am your Blood. I am your Sin.

"And I shall no longer be forgotten."

Florimel's eyes narrow. She does not appear impressed or even particularly fazed. "I'm sure that's what Huon told Pinabello, too. If you don't understand what that means, ask Caine before you die in flames.

"This conversation is over. Do not disturb me again, imposter."

The connection closes.

Silhouette's anger flares again. However, it is not directed at her mother's dismissal, but her own loss of control. She closes her eyes and whispers the first stanza of the Iron Heart, "Once wrath hath entered thy heart, thy life's work is at an end. Even the stone may crack when placed in the fire. Be forever diligent and turn thy back upon contemptible passions." The chastising words soothe her wounded heart.

She realizes she still holds Caine's hand and promptly releases it. Her back straightens as the cold, comfortable mask falls back into place. "Forgive my outburst, Regent. My antipathy poisoned my words. But it does not change the truth. I am her child.

"However, I suppose that matters little to you now, yes?"

Caine slides the card back into a pouch at his waist, just beside an elaborate jeweled dagger that Silhouette is only half-convinced is for decoration.

Upon seeing the dagger, she begins mentally calculating the outer limits of Caine's reach -- incorporating body height, arm length, and the additional blade length. Once the mathematical approximation is acquired, she tries to remain constantly aware of his movements. She doubts he would attempt anything so rude, but caution appears prudent.

His smile is the bland one of a courtier, and is entirely and obviously merely for decoration, unlike the knife. "What matters to me is my duty. The preceding scene merely delayed it while I allowed my sister to conduct her business with you. Now, onto matters. What assurance can you provide us that you do, indeed, speak for Huon?"

Silhouette produces a sealed envelope, "My Prince provided me with this missive to the King to authenticate my identity as his emissary. Prince Regent Martin, did not ask for it, nor did he question my purpose here. If you are willing to take responsibility for this letter, I shall surrender it at your request."

She sets the envelope on the table and then leans back. "On a personal level, Prince Huon has been my patron for some time now. You may have witnessed some of my armaments in action, yes? I am also a skilled healer, of which he happened to be in need of following his encounter with... how did he put it? 'Two brothers, a sister, a brace of assorted nieces and nephews, and an ex-girlfriend all screaming for my blood.' And a dragon from the appearance of his wounds.

"I believe this prior -- and continued -- patronage influenced the decision for me to become his liaison. And witnessing an opportunity, I accepted the role."

Caine looks nonplussed. "Well, he can thank the King kindly for the generosity of his kindred in not using him to keep the dragons occupied while we departed.

"I hope, but am not convinced, that the King intends to extract a very high price from Rebma for Huon's head. They are most vexed following Huon's attempt to massacre everyone living in the city." The regent picks up the envelope and flicks it open. He scans the contents quickly.

As he reads, Silhouette remains mute. Her thoughts dwell on Remba and the possible conflict over the King's future treatment of Prince Huon. Schemas begin to materialize, each one serving the Grand Design to varying degrees. Firstly, the ultimate destruction of the now weakened Rebma might revitalize Amber, providing it dominance over this section of the Real. Secondly, euthanizing the ailing Amber in a war of vengeance might be a mercy and spawn a new, stronger legacy. Thirdly -- and matching her current goals -- fueling their current animosity into open conflict could weaken them both and make them vulnerable to a final strike from the Queen's Exiles. Time would reveal which path -- or other paths -- to take, but allowing the status quo to continue would only invite Stagnation.

"How long will you need to prepare to be taken to the King? He is in Xanadu."

Silhouette offers a sparing smile, "I require no preparations, as long as my manservant is cared for in my absence. With your leave, I'll attend the King immediately."

She rises, smoothing her dress with long, elegant strokes of her hand. "Before I depart, may I inquire as to the meaning of my mother's comments regarding Pinabello. Should I recognize the reference?"

"Huon murdered his brother Pinabello by tricking him into walking the Pattern in Rebma. Pinabello burned alive. I had the misfortune to see it replayed in a vision recently." Caine shakes his head.

"His hatred of Bleys, of course, is a displacement of his hatred for Oberon for judging him for it. Bleys was merely the instrument of the King's displeasure." Caine shrugs and reaches for his belt again. From his pouch, he pulls a different card, this one a slim man, or older youth.

Silhouette listens without comment. She offers an appreciative smile and nods. After sleeping with the lion for some time now, she finds comfort in finally recognizing the thorn that troubles it so. She compartmentalizes this information and then turns her full attention to the card Caine produces.

He wears clothes not unlike the Venzanian traders who sometimes visit Vanderyahr--bright, blousy silks in a riot of colors. For all his youth and slightness of build he does not look unable to use the sword by his side. His hair is a shade lighter than Silhouette's mother's, but one could envision them as brother and sister.

"My brother, the King," Caine replies, then concentrates on the card.

"No, your highness," he says with a slim, unwelcoming smile. He pauses. "I'm with the one we discussed. ... Yes, she has. Flora has disavowed her, as I'm sure you'll hear about in detail. ... From our brother." Caine picks up Huon's note, and it disappears from his hands.

"Your hand, Silhouette." It's not a request so much as a command.

Silhouette follows his command without hesitation, lacing her fingers with his. She finds his matter-of-factness refreshing and it shows in her eyes.

The man is as she saw, just as young, but not as trouble-free. He is holding, open, her bona fides from Huon.

"Hello, Silhouette. My son told me of you, so did my sister. How'd a nice girl like you end up with a louse like Huon?"

She bows her head reverently, "Milord Random. It is a pleasure to meet you. As you know, I am Lord Huon's chosen emissary. We have been acquainted for roughly a year now; our preliminary affiliation being of a serendipitous origin.

"He sought my skills as an artificer, specifically my talent for constructing weapons. Upon our initial meeting, he became aware of our shared lineage and revealed it to me. Until that point, I had not encountered another member of my blood-line since my abandonment by the Lady Florimel. In addition to his coin, the information he provided me of my 'home' paid for his commission. These current duties are merely an extension of that original contract and correspond with my current goals. His actions against Amber and her allies -- be they good or ill -- are extraneous to that association."

She bows her head again, "I only wish to assist in the resolution of this difficult situation, in which you now find yourself."

"Weapons for Huon? We'll get back to that. I am indeed in a difficult situation. One of my inherited vassals seems to want to make every other one of my vassals and my neighbors and scores of complete strangers want to kill him."

Random leans back against a column and Silhouette can see a dappled, colored light behind him, as if a he's inside a cathedral. "Now, I don't give a fig if he lives or die, but I don't want anyone else thinking they can decide to kill a Prince of Amber, no matter how mean, and not have consequences.

"In addition, he's sent you, which I hope few will hold against you, so I am doubly bound to be cross if anyone kills him while I'm negotiating with him for his surrender to royal authority.

"So, yes, you can assist. My recommendation is that you come here to Xanadu and we can discuss terms.

"If so, take my hand." It seems as if she can actually take his hand, even though he is on the far side of the magic card.

Silhouette nods to this, "Agreed." [If allowed] She graces Caine's cheek with a chaste kiss, "Thank you, Lord Regent. I hope we may speak again. I find your company - pleasing."

She reaches out with her free hand, marveling at this strange form of magic. Despite the tales Huon has told her, she is still surprised when she feels the King's hand wrap around hers, transporting her into another place with but a gentle pull.

The other place is a balcony, halfway up a large mansion that abuts a cliff-face and overlook a lake fed by a giant waterfall. The lake itself is on a ledge overlooking a giant lagoon and there is a second fall from it into the lagoon. Beside the lagoon is a growing harbor and a large town.

The mansion, or perhaps palace, isn't a castle, but is certainly fit for royalty. The banner that flies with the most prominence is a variation on Amber's: The Unicorn Rampant is still white, but the field is red, not green.

There are other banners as well, and the same flag flies below in the town and from ships in the harbor.

Holding Silhouette's hand is a young-looking man, dressed in casual clothes similar to what he wore on his trump.

"Welcome to Xanadu."

Silhouette allows her hand to linger in his, scanning her surroundings with bright eyes. "I believe Mister Coleridge would be most pleased, my King." A sly smile paints her lips as her discerning gaze meets Random's; her silky voice dropping to a whisper. "And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

"Tell me, King Random. Should I close my eyes with holy dread?"

Random's eyes narrow. "Sammy was a thief. I sang him a song and he wrote a poem. That's why I got got him hooked on Laudanum." He pauses. "Your mother introduced us---your purported mother."

"Ah, do I find myself in the company of the Man from Porlock? Yes. It does suit you," she says with a pleasant smile. "And I understand your actions. The Grand Design views thieves as base creatures. For when they steal from the Whole -- be it coin or words -- they invite Discord and thus hinder Progress."

Her thumb idly brushes over his knuckles, "And yet our talk of Samuel does possess a hint of irony to it. As I now find myself trapped in one of his poems. Will you think me Christabel or Geraldine? I am certain my mother would prefer the latter. But I assure you, although I have known the merciless company of rough men, I am no doppelganger."

Random snorts. "Don't be too hard on Sammy. We fell out because he wouldn't play cards with me. He was a sore loser." He moves towards the castle, framing himself perfectly in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight coming down over the clifftop.

Pleased that Random has not yet relinquished her hand, Silhouette follows him toward the castle. She offers an admiring smile as she studies his face.

"Look, I ... know things your Mother doesn't. You're somebody's kid. You're young enough that your parent could be in for a big surprise. Huon was on the loose by then, although we didn't know it. You could be his, or a plant, or more likely he could've arranged the whole thing to steal you from Flora. You and Flora could both be right: she came back and found you dead, and you ended up in the next shadow over.

"And if you think that sounds unlikely, I can tell you how Caine 'died'."

She casually flips her hair back to better expose her sensual neckline. "Might I hear this story? I found my uncle... captivating. And I wish to learn more of my family. Lord Huon provided me with only snippets.

"In return, I shall tell you my tale; beginning with my death and concluding with my contract to Lord Huon. Would that please you, my King?"

Random laughs. "The tale is, as they say, 'nasty, brutish, and short', but then so is my brother. Caine believed that Corwin was allied with Brand in his attempt to take over Amber, so he went to a nearby shadow, found a reflection of himself, and killed it. He left the corpse for Corwin to discover and be blamed for. In all honesty, I myself didn't care if he had or hadn't, I just didn't want him to have any problems over it."

The King pauses. "Both inspired and horrific, and I can't imagine what it would do to your psyche to literally murder yourself, but Caine did. It's the kind of service to the crown of Amber I hope never to need again. So, you see why anything is possible. Now, tell me about your death."

Silhouette's eyes sparkle with admiration. "Very clever," she comments. This joyfulness is short-lived, however.

She heaves a sigh, squeezing Random's hand as if gaining courage from his touch. "Kabeiro's life ended twenty-five years ago with the arrival of a messenger. He wore strange clothing of heavy fabrics and dull colors -- his skin untouched by sun and salt. Back then -- a child of eleven -- I mistook him for a Northman, but know I know he came from Amber. I still do not know the contents of his missive, but upon reading it, mother announced her immediate departure. She took me aside to say her goodbyes, promising me that she would return. I still recall the scented oils in her hair -- lilacs from our gardens. She kissed me on the brow and sent me to my lessons. I did not see her again until today. Weeks passed. And life -- apart from mother's absence -- continued much as it always had. But that would change.

"My father -- Cadmilus -- kept the world's ills from his daughters. So, when the Hydran War reached our doorstep, we were completely innocent to its horrors. The soldiers came in the night, slaying our guards and servants, and pulling us from our beds. My sisters were screaming, kicking and fighting like furies. My father wept silently -- tears staining his bruised, but hardened, face. I had never seen him cry before. That frightened me more than the soldiers and all the blood, I think. They bound us to the olive trees shaded the house.s open-air aulae. The ropes cut my wrists. The trunk was gnarly and twisted. It bit into my back, soaking my night robe with blood."

She glances up at Random, "Did you know blood appears black in moonlight? I didn't. I thought it ichor. The blood of the gods. After all, my mother was a goddess and I her blessed offspring. It made sense to me. But as I said, I was only a child. I believed a great many things back then. I had even believed mother would come. That she would save us."

A tired shrug. "My sisters were beautiful. The soldiers of low character. Need I tell you what followed? There are worse things than death. Of all the things I learned that dark night, perhaps that was the most significant. They did not touch me. Too young, I suppose. But once they had slacked their lusts, they busied themselves with other conquests, emptying our home of its riches. Finally, they drenched the aulae in oil and set it alight.

"And still, mother did not come."

Her body stiffens, eyes closing in the futile attempt to block out the images. But they still lurk behind her eyelids, as fresh and vibrant and terrible as they were on that night. "I remember the smoke. And the blinding flames licking at my skin. I remember my clothing burning off my body. The ropes turning to ciders around my wrists. Mostly, I remember the screams. Vestia bless me. Those screams. Not like before. Shrill. Impossible for a human throat. Indistinguishable. I recall the bitterness of cooking flesh in my nose. Of burnt hair in my throat. And still mother did not come."

She wets her lips and breathes out, steadying herself. "I awoke in the glowing embers, nestling against the greasy thing that had once been my father. I do not know how long I lay there. Nor the words I spoke to him. Children's stories, I believe. The stories he once told me while we ate ripe olives and watched lightning dance upon the ocean. Days passed. I grew weaker. But did not care. I ignored the rains and cold. Dismissed the growl of my stomach. I screamed and tore at my hair and flesh in mad rages. My rancor was not directed at the men who had stolen all I knew. My family. My home. My innocence. No, I raged against myself. For I lived and they did not. I hated this girl that was not Kabeiro, but someone -- something -- else. A wraith that refused to enter the Elysium Fields. A cuckoo's child crying in its nest of ashes. And still, my mother did not come.

"But the slavers did. They discovered the cuckoo's child and took her to another world. A world of molten iron and clamoring hammers and blistering smoke. In that world of steel and soot, Silhouette was reborn like the phoenix. And now that woman stands before you.

"However, her story is for another time, my King."

Random nods, letting that go, for now. "So, this was about 25 years ago? You're too old for it to be during Eric's reign, unless your home shadow was a place of fast-time, but I hadn't heard of her being away from Shadow Earth much before Corwin escaped. Still, it's not out of the question. In any case, time ran differently in different shadows when the world was ending. It still could've been anytime.

"Given that Huon was known to be out of jail at least that long ago, I really suspect he might have been involved. We tend to cross each other's paths inexplicably frequently. Or perhaps it's completely splicable, just not by me."

Random sighs, and continues. "So, anyway, I'm going to propose that we deal with you and your claims after we deal with my brother and his desire to make peace. I have been warned, I should inform you, that Rebma would like his head. What reason does Huon offer to ignore their claim?"

Silhouette nods courteously, "My personal matters are of no consequence at this time; only in that I serve the best interests of my patron and you, my King. Lord Huon did mention Rebma in passing, specifically the Mirror-Witches. However, apart from his initial concerns, he did not provide me much insight into your current question. I believe he fears his family more, which is why he sent me to you. As I've mentioned, he is willing -- within reason -- to cede to your command, as long as he is provided amnesty for his previous discretions. As a sign of his good intentions, he will dismiss the vendetta he called upon Prince Bleys."

She slips around in front of Random, halting their leisurely walk. "I am young in the way of things and -- as you say -- still of questionable origin, but if might I speak plainly for a moment? Rebma has suffered a terrible blow; that is true. And your lady wife is of Rebman origin, if my Lord Huon informs me correctly. So, I can understand your reluctance to simply dismiss their claims against your brother. But they are weakened and likely in turmoil. I doubt they could mount an effective offense against Amber were you to refuse their pound of flesh. A great opportunity has been provided you.

"Offer Rebma assistance in their rebuilding efforts. Call it a sign of Amber's good favor and its sadness for the actions of its misbegotten son. The people will desire food and resources far more than blood. A stroked pride does not fill one's belly. And nobles are only as strong as the people that support them. As their discomfort fades, even a villain such as Huon will be forgotten. You will -- as the Eleventh Law dictates -- garner support and influence in Rebma, as well as expand Amber's hold over the region, all without angering your closest neighbor.

"In the meantime, offer amnesty to your brother. He is a valuable resource in his own right; one foolishly wasted simply to appease Rebma's bloodlust. Nor do you wish to risk provoking his Blood Curse. You have witnessed what horrors those can unleash. Furthermore, you would not only save him from Rebma's vengeance, but his family's animosity as well. An enemy saved from the hangman's noose shall be more loyal to you than any friend. He will always demonstrate gratitude for his life and can ask no further favors in return. And if he betrays you, well then, you can dispose of him without concern of reprisals from hidden allies."

She smiles faintly up at him, "Just a singular opinion, my King."

Random smiles down at her, and it is not a particularly avuncular look. "It is. And in this scenario, how would you have me deal with any number of possibilities? What if I do as you say and Rebma or Rebmans attempt to kill Huon while he is under my protection? Would you have me go to war over him?"

He turns towards the lake. "What hold would I have over his loyalty? Fresh treason would require harsher measures than even those currently contemplated. And what form of visible punishment would we need to undertake to placate the many, many angry relatives whom Huon has crossed? I am sure you see the necessity for the King to not seem overlenient with recalcitrant vassals."

Silhouette follows his gaze. She rubs her arms, absently warming her skin against the faint breeze coming off the lake. "Pick up a wasp from kindness and you shall learn the limitations of kindness."

Her smile wanes. "Huon is guilty of crimes against peace; that is an undeniable truth. A mere slap on the wrist shall not suffice. It would make you appear weak and invite unwanted reprisals. Were it my choice, I would require Huon publicly swear an oath of allegiance to you and place him under house arrest in Amber for an indefinite period. Admonish and shame him, but do not harm his pride -- lest you evoke true resentment. And certainly do not follow King Eric's path. Instead, utilize Huon's services and council as you see fit, perhaps even to the benefit of Rebma. Reconciliation rather than retribution, yes? In time, he will grow complacent in his gilded prison. More importantly, he will remain at arms-length from Xanadu and thus cannot undermine your authority, be it purposeful or by association. Also, he can escape at any time, just as he has already proven. But now, if he opts for this course of action, he will be truly forsworn in the eyes of all. Your hands will be clean of any misdeeds to follow.

"Furthermore, Huon's 'incarceration' in Amber serves another -- perhaps more valuable -- purpose. The clever hunter sets his bait where the prey might find it easily. His continued presence shall inspire jealousy and resentment in those you believe to be 'friends'. This will draw forth the wolves from the lambs, be they hiding in Amber or Rebma. Should they be of familial origin, you have lost little and gained much, for creating a new -- more controllable -- enemy is always beneficial. Should they be of Rebman origin, you can rescind your support without consequence -- whilst remaining the superior force in the region. Or, if you so choose, you may cite the murder as an excuse to wage war and eliminate the Rebman gentry once and for all."

Her hand gently brushes over his back, empathic eyes touching his. "You must remain formless and cannot commit to one side of this argument. For only fools take sides; as obligations breed further and greater obligations later on. And although I do not envy you in this, my King, I shall assist you in whatever fashion you deem best.

"Your desires shall be my desires."

Random smiles and takes her other hand, pulling them together between the two of them. He speaks almost eagerly. "And if I desire Huon's head? Kings are, as I am sure you know, notoriously prone to fits of emotion and illogic."

Bold, Silhouette strokes her thumb along the side of his hand. "Then I would counsel you otherwise, as my current oath to Huon decrees -- as well as my firm belief in the Greater Good." She tilts her head. "However, if you persist, I would support whatever desire pleases you. Without question. Illogical. Emotional. It matters not. You are my King. My duty to you supersedes all others.

"That is, if you will have me."

Random drop her hand. "Take off your boots," he says, and begins taking off his.

Perplexed, Silhouette gives a curious nod. "As you wish."

She strips out of her boots. Despite her regimented nature, she allows herself a relieved gasp as her feet are removed from the riding boots. "Oh, my," she chuckles. "I'd forgotten how long I've been in these."

Random smiles, looks at both the boots, and at her feet, nodding. "OK. Ready? Run."

He turns and takes off, running as fast as a prince of Amber can. He's heading straight for the low retaining wall that overlooks the bay. It is a long drop, if he doesn't stop. The good news is that the waterfall means that it's very unlikely that he'll dive into a passing ship.

Silhouette pauses for a moment. Although she is a consummate swimmer -- as one must be living on an island -- she possesses a feline revulsion to water and avoids it whenever possible. The practicality of leaping into said element -- particularly from great height -- eludes her.

"You are quite mad," she says.

And yet -- despite her better judgment -- she pursues Random, running toward the wall's edge.

"It's less than a mile!", yells the King, over his shoulder. It looked like a lot less than a mile, actually. He's stripped off his shirt and is now wearing only his pants. He reaches the edge and leaps out, arms spread like a royal bird. He disappears over the edge.

"Completely mad," Silhouette reiterates. She reluctantly sheds her skirt, relying on her long blouse for modesty. But now -- at least -- she move more freely.

In spite the irrationality of leaping from a cliff, logic dictates that the King would not take this course of action unless a modest chance for survival existed. This cool logic steels Silhouette's nerves as she reaches the edge and leaps into oblivion. She finds the thrilling rush oddly pleasing.

As she passes over the edge of the cliff, Silhouette finds it to be undercut: she's free and away from the edge very quickly. Below her, quite some distance, is the water, choppy where the falls hit the lagoon.

For a creature of stone and iron such as herself, Silhouette finds hurling oneself into the thin air treads on lunacy. And certainly nothing that she is accustomed to. As such, she more closely resembles a plummeting penguin than a soaring hawk.

"Spread your arms and legs!", shouts Random, who is doing so. "When we get close, tuck and roll so you land feet first!"

The view is magnificent. The perfectly circular lagoon, the falls rushing by, the growing city, and the view back up at the castle.

Silhouette thinks she's falling more slowly than she should be. That's probably a good thing. The water is coming up very quickly and Random is grinning like a m -- like himself.

Magic perhaps, Silhouette muses. Initial doubts aside, she finds this experience quite exhilarating. The panorama is breathtaking, as well as provides further insight into the King. She finds herself smiling, in spite of herself.

As the water approaches, she follows Random's instructions; tucking up her body and then rolling in order to enter the water feet first. A girlish whoop reaches her ears. Much to her shock, the sounds of elation are her own.

When Silhouette surfaces, the King is treading water and looking at her. While the waterfall is rushing down nearby, Random's voice seems to somehow carry to her anyway.

It takes her a moment to recover from the impact -- the water clinging to her eyes and nose and ears. Satisfied that nothing is broken, she wipes her face and then kicks toward Random.

"To be my vassal, there are three things you must do. First, conclude the matter of Huon. Two, resolve, at least to my satisfaction, the matter of your mother. And C, take the oath. The same oath Huon is in violation of and negotiating his way back under. Except I expect you to keep it. In exchange you get my protection and you'll be able to walk the Pattern. Make sense?"

"Indeed," she replies. "My oaths are as eternal as the stone, my King."

She floats just out of reach from him -- her dark hair spreading out in the water like spilled ink. A quiet chattering of teeth accompanies her voice. "However, I do hope you will allow me some consideration should my mother refuse to accept my true origin. For I doubt twenty-five years has allayed her obstinacy. Father always said she must be the Lady of Cythera, as only a goddess could possess such a stubborn nature." She begins rubbing her arms to warm them.

Random laughs. He swims in slow circles around her, like a dancer or a shark. "You shouldn't ever ask Corwin's opinion of your mother. 'Goddess' wouldn't be on his list. Her opinion isn't relevant. I know you're a relative, and what I say goes.

"You can prove it, you know. To her and to everyone else." He stops circling and swims in closer. "What do you know of the Pattern?"

When Martin comes into his torn up, half-packed chambers, he finds Folly in the sitting room where she's been supervising (and helping Violet get things in order). Giving Violet an apologetic look, he dismisses everyone for a break of a half-glass or so for a private discussion with his wife. The workmen have the good taste not to snigger in front of the two of them, or Violet, but Folly can imagine what they're thinking.

Martin can too, because as soon as the door is shut, he rolls his eyes. "I have news. Finding the cat and sitting down kind of news. The good part is nobody's dead."

Folly slides a partially-packed trunk to one end of the sofa so there will be room to sit. Instead of hunting for the cat, though (who will probably materialize out of thin air -- or whatever box he's hiding in -- as soon as her butt hits the cushions anyway), she reaches for Martin. "And the bad part is...?"

"Huon's sent an envoy to Dad. She claims she's Flora's daughter and she's taken an interest in Lucas' family, as if that situation could be any more of a clusterfuck than it already is. And I got the job of good cop." Martin makes a face. "Of course, it's easy to be the good cop when the bad cop is Caine."

Folly can't quite suppress a smirk at that last, but she quickly sobers. "And what is it she claims Huon is after? Has she come bearing threats, or promises?" She settles carefully onto the couch; as if on cue, Fathom appears out of nowhere and crawls into her lap, purring. Folly fusses over him for a moment in a way that tells Martin that she's more worried than she's trying to let on.

"Claims she's negotiating a peace." Martin's eyebrows go up and if he were wearing those glasses she kept trying to put on him on their first visit to Texorami, he'd be looking over them.

He flops down next to her on the couch and puts up his feet on the edge of a crate that's been left in place of a table. "She tried to play a little hardball with me but she folded way too easy when I told her about Lucas. After seeing how she reacted to Lucas, I think it's prudent that we keep you under wraps. My recommendation to Caine and Dad was that she go through directly and you and I take a slow boat to Xanadu, and get there just in time for the funeral."

"Prudent," Folly agrees. "But...." Her brow furrows. "...Do you know whether my mother will be attending the funeral? Either or both of them?"

"She's in Xanadu, with Bleys. I assume she'll be attending Cambina's." Martin ponders that and starts to scrub his nonexistent bangs out of his face. "How do you think your mom is going to take Huon sending a cousin as an envoy? You think she's likely to let on? Especially if the envoy is credibly Flora's daughter in that she'd be pretty hot if she went natural?"

Folly blows out a sigh. "Difficult to say. Mum is nothing if not capricious; although I've come to expect that given a wide field of options, she'll generally find a way to choose the most irritating one." She makes a face and engages in a bit of preemptive cat-petting before she gets too annoyed. "On the other hand, that was Texorami. There, I suspect most of her choices, even the horrible ones, were about staving off boredom. Here, maybe she won't have to worry about that so much."

She pets the cat some more, but even that can't keep a frown from creasing her brows. "On the other-other hand -- is it even technically possible to _keep_ a civil tongue in one's head if there never was one there to start with?"

"I think what I'm asking about is whether your mom's likely to get into a fight with a girl who could be taken for Uwe's younger, hotter, new model," Martin says, drawing out Huon's use-name with Brij's Texorami accent. "Is it bad if I hope she is? 'Cos that means she's less likely to admit she's old enough to be a grandma."

"Well, if you put it that way -- weighing the likelihood of a good catfight versus admitting her venerable new generational status...." Folly smirks, just a little. "Fight. Totally."

"And otherwise we play it by ear. But," Martin says, straightening up from his couch-slouch and turning to meet Folly's gaze, "if Silhouette messes with you, I'm going to send her back to Huon or on to Paris in pieces." It's very matter-of-fact, as is Martin's way, but Folly knows he means it.

"I know," Folly says, without judgment; it's simply a statement of fact. She reaches up to touch Martin's cheek. "Let's just hope, for her sake and ours, that Huon has chosen his emissary for something other than their similar ideas on how to interact with family."

Martin nods, once, and reaches to take Folly's hand with one of his. "Her and a lot of other people."

One morning Ossian knocks on Brennan's door.

Brennan comes to the door dressed casually, and apparently a little in the middle of something. He starts to reach out to clasp Ossian's hand, then notices that it's got dark dust of some sort on it. Ossian can probably tell that it's stone dust or residue of some sort. There's a little on his clothing, too.

"Ossian," he says. He looks around for a rag in sight, and steps back to put his hands on it and wipe them. "Come in."

"Thanks." Ossian says as he steps in. He might look slightly older than he did last time Brennan met him, but calmer.

"Working on something?"

Brennan gives a sort of a half-shrug. "Something to occupy my time and my hands, really." To keep from going crazy. "I've had a few projects going on for a while, now, in various stages of neglect. Seems like I should finish one."

Brennan's suite looks more like a workshop than a dwelling place... which suits him. True to his words, it does seem like Brennan has more than one project on his mind. On one bench, there are the fragments of a broken sword-- one of Brennan's own, if Ossian has an eye for that sort of thing. On another, there is something about the size of a bowling ball, but it's under a drop cloth, and there are enough papers around it and poking out from under the cloth to fill a medium sized notebook. Some of the notation is Thari, some is that horrid, cramped ideoglyph language they use in Uxmal.

The third one is very obviously the one that Brennan was engaged with. It is-- or will be-- a stone statuette about three fists high, the same color as the dust that was on his hands. Also, the same color as the Pattern chamber under Amber. It isn't finished, but the outlines are clear enough for Ossian to be sure that it is the figure of a broad, deep, solid-seeming man. There is no convenient scale object associated with it, but it suggests height as well as breadth. The proportions are wrong for Brennan, so it is clearly not a self-study. The figure looks like it's walking forward, though hunched forward as though walking through hurricane force winds, and one hand is holding something-- it might become a lantern-- ahead of it.

The dust on Brennan's hands-- which is also on that bench-- is there because Brennan has started the fine detail phase, although he's started at the bottom with the boots. One feature that Ossian's trained eye is likely to pick out, though, is the flaw in the stone at the statuette's chest. Among other things, that flaw makes the work very delicate, with no room for error. Evidently, whatever anyone might think of Brennan's meager artistic talents, he has a steady, disciplined hand.

Once Brennan's hands are clean, he offers one to Ossian in a proper greeting. He stands in a way that does not block access to the work benches. "Social call?" There's some irony in Brennan's tone, but not the nasty kind.

Ossian shrugs. Brennan might notice that Ossian is keeping some comments about the sculpture to himself.

"I promised to look into the question of children. I am not certain, but you might have a granddaughter."

Brennan looked as though he was going to invite comments on the sculpture, but when Ossian mentions a daughter, his focus changes. He doesn't even bother to feign disinterest... or if he is, he's exceptionally bad at it. Ossian has Brennan's full, undivided attention. "Might?"

"I have claimed the fathership. But it is hard to be certain. I know of no method to find out that I would want to impress on the child." Ossian smiles. "But I won't press grandfathership on you if you don't want to."

Brennan's eyes narrow, just a bit, in the suspicion that someone is, once again, keeping back vital information. "I can think of several that would be reasonably conclusive and reasonably painless to establish whether she is or is not Family," he says. There is a question nibbling at the center of that sentence that Brennan would prefer not to voice, so he gives Ossian the chance to address it.

Ossian smiles "She is family alright. And without me she wouldn't have a father anyway. How would you do that, anyway?"

"To establish Family status? Present her to the King," Brennan says. "Present her to Brita. Present her to me. In order of decreasing certainty." Brennan's eyes are still narrowed, as he asks, "Just what is this girl's situation, that her Family status is not in doubt, but her parentage is?"

Ossian sighs. "Lucas could be the father too, I have learned."

Brennan favors Ossian with a flat stare. "I doubt that the first two methods would suffice to determine paternity," he says. "Does she have a name? This girl, and the girl's mother, both."

"The girl's name is Jasmine. The mother's name is Darling." Ossian's eyes narrow. "Does paternity really matter?"

By Brennan's expression, he must have thought this would be one of their few points of agreement. "Ask Flora if it matters," he says. "Or better yet, don't, until we actually know something. Are they coming to Xanadu, going to Paris, or staying in Amber?"

"They are here. I did not consider Amber safe."

Brennan nods. "Probably wise, but in one way unfortunate-- it will be harder to establish paternity here than there."

"As for Flora. If I was a child I'd rather have you as my grandparent."

"Maybe so," Brennan says, "And I don't doubt your motives in this matter. But put on your practical hat for a minute and ask yourself this: Should Flora decide she has an interest, and should you be unable to prove your claim-- or be wrong-- do you want to be involved in a custody battle with her? This may be a concern over little or nothing, admittedly, but it is a concern. What, if anything, does Flora know, or did Lucas know?"

"Lucas knew. Knowing Lucas, I doubt Flora knows. And I'm willing to risk her wrath by not informing her either. But yes, a custody battle with her would be rough. Let's hope I'm not wrong, then."

Ossian thinks for a moment. "What would we need to do to establish her paternity? It might be best after all."

"That's a good question," Brennan says. "And we want to consult with Fiona before proceeding. And perhaps Brita. Fiona may know her sister well enough to tell us this is not necessary. But the thing that comes to mind is to have objects important to or well-used by all of you, Lucas, and young Jasmine in the same place at the same time. That might be difficult to arrange, given Lucas' fate. Failing that, having a strand of her hair provides another path." Brennan thinks about how that might sound, then adds, "And we are firmly speaking of methods that do not involve working Sorcery on the child."

Tactfully, Brennan does not suggest introducing the child to Clarissa.

"That's a relief. I'll see if I can dig up something that belonged to Lucas." Ossian sighs "It's hard to think he's gone. I never learned what happened to him or..."

Ossian goes quiet. "Do you want to talk about her?"

Brennan thinks that over for what is-- for him-- a respectable amount of time.

"No," he says. "No, I want to talk to her. I want to ask her why she left. I want to ask her what she thought she was doing, that a blind Queen was the right choice for a spotter in Tir. But I can't do that, can I? Ask your cards that," he adds, bitterly, "Ask them, if you think they'll answer."

Ossian ponders for a moment. "I can do that. She probably consulted them before." Ossian flinches a bit at that. "Do you want me to?"

To the extent that Brennan even expected an answer to his question, this isn't the one he expected. Still. "Yeah. Do it." He looks around, sets his eyes on two chairs, and a table that can be configured appropriately for the task, and sets about doing that.

"Do you have any cards you want to add to the reading? Cambina's Trump? I don't have much except the standard deck."

Ossian sits down and starts to shuffle his deck with nimble hands. "Now we don't want to make Brand's mistakes here. Don't involve your desires in the reading. It's not that easy."

"I don't actually have one of her," Brennan says, "Nor did she have one of me. Presumeably she would show up as Eric, reversed. The only ones I have that you're not likely to are Uxmal and Huon, and I will be very cr--" Brennan breaks off and at least tries to follow Ossian's directions. If Ossian wants to include the Uxmal, or the Bleys, Fiona, Caine or Amber that are also in his pack, he'll hand them over. "I would prefer not to use the Huon card, as he might not even know it exists, much less that I have it, and I see no need to do anything at all which would even slightly activate it and alert him that it remains." Huon's card remains face down or in the pack.

Brennan follows any reasonable instructions Ossian gives.

Ossian will want the Fiona, Caine, Bleys and Amber Trumps. Other than that he will have cards or sketches of Brand, Folly, Jovian, Marius, himself, Reid and Vere in his deck.

From this, Brennan infers that Ossian doesnt' have a complete Elder deck, either.

He shuffles the deck a bit more, then hands it over to Brennan. "Shuffle" he says. When he takes it back he cuts it once, and starts laying the spread.

Brennan puts Uxmal and Huon back into his pack, and puts the pack back at its customary resting place, on his hip. Then he shuffles as bidden. He takes the first reading he'd seen done, after Dara's coronation assault, as inspiration. Not for any flashyness of shuffling technique, but for the length and depth of the shuffling.

He passes the deck back to Ossian to cut.

Ossian deals out the following cards:

Bottom row:
The Usurper
Brand, reversed
The Fish

Middle row:
Vere
The Fool, reversed

Top row:
Trickery

Brennan watches the cards as they come out, scowling especially as Brand, reversed comes out. But, uncharacteristically, he isn't the first one to venture an interpretation. He looks across at Ossian waiting to hear what he has to say.

Ossian looks at the cards and nods. "Do tell me if this does not make sense.

"Since the theme is Cambina's last visit to Tir, it is reasonable to interpret the cards in a time frame centered on her visit there. The Past could be the reason she went there, but I think it rather is the reason she went to Tir at earlier times. The Usurper. This could be something to do with Chaos, maybe Dara. A more interesting interpretation is that it has something to do with Tir itself: Tir's major force. The Moon...?" Ossian trails off.

"Brand reversed. The obvious interpretation is you, I guess. Either she went there because of you, or made some desicion up there because of you. Brand could also represent the Trumps, in this case, them not working properly. But... that's far fetched, I think.

"The Future is more interesting. The Fish could be Vialle, as a Rebman. But then the cards do not tell us much we didn't know. The Fish says 'The Soul Prevails'. Let's wait with that for a moment.

"Vere as the Virtue is very interesting. Of course the card could represent any cousin, or Gerard for that matter. I'm at a loss as to what Vere's role in this is. We'd better ask him.

"Lack of Connection" Ossian points at the Fool "This ties in with The Fish. There is a dangerous interpretation here, which you should approach cautiously. Her soul might be out there. Disconnected from the body.

"Another interpretation is ties in to the Trump problems here." Ossian points at the Brand card.

"The fate is always the hardest. Who is performing trickery here? It could very well be Cambina herself. Or Vialle. Or this." Ossian points at the Usurper again.

"I think there are things to be learned here. Go talk with Vere. And if you really want to you should go looking for her soul."

"You're right that the obvious interpretation of Brand, reversed is me," Brennan says, scowling, "which I do not like at all because I have no idea what it would mean. If the timing was not extremely urgent, it would even mean she kept something from me. Another possible referent is Ambrose, though-- he has a lot of Brand's notes on Tir-na Nog'th, but we haven't decoded them all yet. As for the Usurper, yes, I normally interpret that as Chaos. How that fits here, I have no idea. For the Fish, the simple interpretations would be either that we will soon understand what this was all about, or that this event will lead to a greater understanding of something, presumeably Tir-na Nog'th. Which again refers back to Ambrose."

"Do you know if Cambina had any contact with Ambrose before going there?

"Or", Ossian says "Did Dara use Cambina to get to you? Could Cambina do something in Tir to get even with Dara?"

"For the virtue and the fault, consider that the one isolated right now is Solange, in counterpoint to Vere." Brennan says. "How much do you know about that?" Brennan keeps his voice almost conversational as he asks that, but his eyes are cold and hard.

"Has something happened to Solange?" Ossian asks, with a worried voice.

"Solange has been banished from Xanadu," Brennan says, flatly. "After Cambina's death, before Jerod or I returned, conceived the plan of having Vere summon her shade and interrogate it. Despite being told flatly not to do that by several interested parties, she proceeded to do so anyway. In order to do this, she not only defied the Regent's commands, but conspired to remove the body from Xanadu by subterfuge to bring it to Vere. The formal terms for these actions are 'graverobbery,' and 'necromancy.' She has been banished from Xanadu until she makes things right with Jerod and I, at the very least. And at the very least, this means she will not be attending the funeral. She's also crossed Corwin in the process and though I have heard no formal pronouncement, she would be wise to avoid Paris. Vere has repented formally, by my understanding, and I don't think he was fully informed of how many people he was crossing. If he has any sense, he will also be very angry with Solange for using him and abusing his trust. But he is not banished.

"So when Vere appears in the Virtue slot, and disconnection in the Fault slot, I think naturally of Solange. Are Solange or Gerard in your deck?" Brennan asks.

Ossian shakes his head. "No. Although Solange was never good at following the rules this surprises me.

"But it can shed new light at this" Ossian gestures at the reading "Why would Solange and Vere try to resurrect Cambina? What would Cambina know that was so important to them? One possibility would be Gerard'legs. Corwin found an arm for reednict up there. Maybe Cambina was looking for a replacement for Gerard's legs?

"Then the Usurper could be the Sundering. Brand reversed could very well be Gerard. The disconnection could be the legs? Or Solange, of course." Ossian trails off, obviously waiting for Brennan.

"I can tell you directly what Solange was trying to find out. She was looking for information about Vialle who was, at the time, still missing. Solange is involved in this primarily by being unlucky enough to have found Cambina on the shore. Vere is involved primarily after he got dragged in by Solange," Brennan says. "Although thinking about Vialle makes me think: if the Fish is Vialle, as you say, we may have this backwards. Instead of Cambina using Vialle as a spotter, Vialle may have asked Cambina to do something for her-- something a sighted sensitive could do-- in Tir-na Nog'th. Like read omens and portents of her future, or the King's future, or Rebma's future.

"Which makes me realize, all of these should be read as applying to Cambina. Cambina's past, present and future at the time of the event. Cambina's Virtue, Fault, and Fate. Which you probably already knew," Brennan says.

"I'm not as certain as you seem to be on that point. Why would Vere be Cambina's Virtue?" Ossian looks confused. "Just because he did the honourable thing?"

"If we knew that," Brennan says, "we probably wouldn't have needed to do the reading. And I'm not happy with the implication, either, because Vere is the one with the ability to actually speak with shades, and I'm not happy about that at all. But if the only insight that comes of this is to start thinking of Vialle as a potential actor, here, rather than a reactor, then it's been useful. Cambina was always going to visit Tir. Nothing anyone said or did short of locking her up in Xanadu, Paris or Rebma was ever going to prevent that. But there's no reason to assume that Vialle going with was Cambina's idea."

"True" Ossian says "Vialle is not harmless, even if she is blind. What happened to her after the walk. She disappeared? I have been out of the news circuit for too long."

"After what walk?" Brennan asks. "The timeline that I know is that Cambina and Vialle went up to Tir-na Nog'th; Cambina was recovered the next morning, I believe; and while Solange was busy getting herself exiled, Vialle was found by an expedition led by the King. I've heard two perspectives on that last, and neither of them makes any more sense than what happened to you and Brita under Rebma."

Brennan is at this point wearing that expression he gets when the universe disappoints him by failing to make sense. It is closely related to the expression he wears when dealing with Trumps.

Ossian nods. "Two perspectives? As in contradicting ones?" he asks. "As for me and Brita, you are free to ask any questions."

"Three perspectives, even," Brennan says. "Garret's, which I was lumping in with Brita's, and then Signy's. Not so much contradicting as partial. For example, only Signy described the dead creatures they found precisely enough for me to identify them as Grackleflints. Minor point, but potentially important. They all seemed to agree on the critical point, that they found Vialle somewhere in a very strange Shadow, on a throne, behind which stood a Moonrider I took to be their Marshall by description. He, in turn, was holding chains around the throats of a Shadow of Random and a Shadow of Robin.

"I'm leaving some things out of that story," Brennan says. "Because from there, it feels more like gossipping about something I didn't see." That's one reason, anyway.

Ossian shrugs. Or shivers. "The Moonriders. I don't know much about them. Are they connected to Tir in any way? What about this being them?" He points at the Usurper. "Just a thought."

"I've met some of them," Brennan says, "including their High Marshall, but I don't really think I know that much about them, either. I know they're descended of the same stock as the Altamareans, who I've also met. They were allies, led by Bleys at Patternfall. I remember hearing once that when they sacked Amber, they rode down from somewhere, which is a good trick considering the geography. I'd always considered that a pretty good indicator that they had some tie with Tir-na Nog'th," he says. "What, exactly, I don't know.

"For the Usurper, I always read it as Chaos or something of that origin which hasn't broken its ties. So, the Courts, but not Oberon. The Dragon, but not Dworkin. You tell me, though-- am I right in reading it that way? Or am I too fixed on my experiences," Brennan asks.

"I don't think it is always associated with Chaos. In my experience The Usurper signifies something that can overturn whatever you make the reading for. The Dragon for Arden, maybe. Certainly Chaos for Amber...." Ossian pauses. "For Tir or Cambina, I'm not sure. Dara for instance would of course fit for Cambina at least."

Brennan absorbs that for a while. "I only seriously started casting cards around the time I got serious about coming back to Amber," he says, "Which wasn't too much before the Black Road showed up, in the long scheme of things. Which means in that context, at least, the Usurper was probably always Chaos. I understand why the Moonriders might signify for Tir-na Nog'th, in those lights. Why Dara for Cambina?"

Ossian nods "Back then Chaos would be Usurper in most situations, yes. As for Dara, it is speculation from my side, dating back to the Masquerade."

"That's a long speculative memory," Brennan says. "And as much as I'd love an excuse to go heading back to Chaos with a strike team and do something about her, I never had the sense that impersonating Cambina was anything more than a best-fit opportunity." He raises an eyebrow, inviting anything Ossian might know that he doesn't.

Ossian just shakes his head "You probably know more than me there. I don't think we can glean more from the cards today. If you want to talk to Vere, I have a sketch there." Ossian smiles and points at the Vere card.

Brennan stares at Vere's Trump long enough that he almost activates it inadvertantly, before picking it up and turning it over. From his frown, the idea probably hadn't occurred to him. "No," he says at length. "No. But thank you. Right now I'm still too angry. Unlike Solange, no one has banished him from Xanadu or barred him from the funeral. We'll speak then, when I've figured out what to say and how to say it."

Ossian nods.

Fiona is supervising the preparation of a laboratory for her work in Xanadu. It looks as though she's brought some equipment into the castle from Shadow and some workers are setting it up under her instruction. When she sees Brita, she leaves the workers to their task and comes to greet her daughter.

She reaches to put her arms around her daughter. "Brita. It's been too long. How are you?"

"I'd be Better if there were Fewer Deaths to Deal With," Brita says wryly as she hugs her mother. "What have You Heard of These Incidents?"

"Of Cambina's, quite a bit. Of Lucas's, less so. Which one do you want to talk about first? And shall we find somewhere more private to have this discussion?" Fiona suggests.

The workers don't appear to be listening, but there are some matters that need to be discussed in privacy.

"It is Cousin Lucas's Death that I have heard Little About although Both are Of Concern. Do you Have Rooms we could Talk in? I have Just Returned with Cousin Paige's Armada from Former Reality Amber and would Rest as well." Rest here obviously means eat.

"We can go back to my quarters," Fiona says. She moves to lead Brita there, stopping only to arrange with a page for a substantial meal whose details include an emphasis on meats and starches to be brought to her chambers. Along the way there is some small talk, or at least apparently small talk, about various features of the castle and various personages they see on the way: lessons about who and what matters in the new regime in one form or another.

Once Brita is settled in her chair, Fiona speaks. "The gist of it seems to be this: Lucas made a trump of Moire and she killed him for his presumption. The murder weapon was a mirror shard through the heart."

"Cousin Lucas Made a Trump of Queen Moire." Brita blinks. "Did he Have to Use it to Alert Queen Moire or Does the Act of Making it Alert the Subject? Or was she just Spying on Cousin Lucas at the Wrong Moment?"

Brita looks up at her mother with a slight frown and asks, "If Cousin Lucas's Murder is As You Say - a Rebman Vendetta - that would Seem to Imply it is Unrelated to Cousin Cambina's Death. Has anything New been Discovered about Cousin Cambina's Demise?"

"No, but there's all sorts of trouble with that, too." Fiona presses her lips together tightly for a moment before returning to Brita's questions about Lucas. "We don't know how Moire became aware of it, exactly. But she did, and early on. The report of the murderer comes through Vere, who arrived in Paris soon after the murder. He has a gift for speaking with the dead." The tone invites Brita's thoughts and comments on Vere's gift.

Brita cocks her head to one side, thinking. "Where does he Go to Talk to them? Valkyrie Radgrid was Good at Counseling the Dead - She had a Simple Hut near the Lake of Memories, but it Was decorated Well - Soothing for those Troubled by their Deaths."

Brita becomes pensive, "Mother, How would I Protect Myself if I were Making a Trump of Someone and they Did Not Wish it? I Did Not Feel anything - any Alert - when I Made the Trump of Myself."

"Vere's problem isn't where he goes to talk to them; it's how they're brought to talk to him. But--I don't know that you can detect when a Trump is made of you."

This is clearly a more interesting question to Fiona than speaking to the dead, at least for the moment. "You must always ask first." She reaches out to take Brita's hand. "Promise me that you will never make a trump without consent of either the subject or, absent that, on the King's orders."

"I Promise, Mother," Brita says. "I am Only Making Place Trumps right now."

"Good." Fiona squeezes Brita's fingers. "Because that is what your uncle Brand did--made a trump without permission and then used it to attack someone. If Lucas had lived, and people had learned that he could make secret trumps, it would have gone ill for him."

"And Cousin Cambina's Death? You Mentioned Trouble with That?"

Fiona sighs and relinquishes Brita's hand. "You know that she fell from Tir at the same time that Queen Vialle went missing?"

Brita nods and adds a "Yes, Mother" for emphasis.

"Your cousin Solange became convinced that if she could speak with Cambina, she could find out from her what had happened to Vialle. It was an interesting plan, but one that would have required some careful negotiation to carry off without incurring a certain amount of family wrath."

As a redhead, Fiona speaks with some expertise on that topic.

"Solange asked Gerard, who was acting as Regent, and he forbade it. Apparently Corwin was in the room and he didn't like the idea either. So Solange stole Cambina's body and took it into Shadow where Vere was to get him to speak with Cambina. When the body was returned, Gerard exiled her for her disobedience."

Fiona presses her lips together for a moment. "If you ever have to take a chance like that, be sure you have someone's backing first. And for the Unicorn's sake and your own, be sure you succeed. Success obtains forgiveness where permission will never occur."

Brita digests what is said, but she looks confused. "But Mother, Finding the Queen was Critical. Why would Regent Gerard Deny an Opportunity to Find Out Key Information?"

"That's a complicated question. Had Solange been willing to ask Jerod, or Corwin, who were Cambina's nearest kin, Gerard might have agreed. But Corwin forbade it for his own reasons--" and Fiona frowns here, as if she doesn't entirely understand them himself "--which probably have to do with his own experiences with magic in Shadow. Or maybe he thought Jerod wouldn't approve. I don't know; I haven't asked them.

"In any case, once Corwin said no, because he's so senior in the family's council, it would have taken Random's word to override him. Solange didn't wait for that; instead she acted on her own."

Fiona purses her lips and considers the question from a different angle. "Had Corwin known or understood exactly what she was proposing, he might have said something different. But she's a woman and Corwin always underestimates women. And worse, she'd already argued with him about something he considered vital for his trip to Tir with Hannah. So she was already withholding information important to Vialle's rescue, or so he thought.

"But I think a lot of it goes back to whatever necromancy he expected Vere to perform. Most of the family isn't comfortable with that kind of thing. To them, it's as if Solange stole Cambina's corpse and desecrated it."

Brita looks attentive through all of this. When Fiona is done, she merely nods in acceptance and then changes the subject. "Mother, the Silver Chain that the Gaunt Marshall used on the Apparitions of Cousin Robin and Uncle Random, do you Think it Resembles Valkyrie Herfjoturr's Magic Chain - the one that Earned her the Name 'Freeze with Horror'?" Fiona can see worry in Brita's eyes.

Fiona narrows her eyes to think about that. "They might be related. I don't think you could call Herfjoturr's chain a shadow, necessarily, in that there was something Real about her. But the power of Tir--and that seems to be what was in play--reflects many Real things. Or perhaps both were related to a third chain. I don't have enough information to be certain." This answer is clearly not entirely satisfactory. "What do you think?"

"Uncle Huon was Traipsing about Through Shadows to Gather his Armies. What if Others have been Gathering Forces Too? In Shadows like Shadow Asgard? Dara and cleph, Uncle Huon, Moonriders, Queen Moire - How many Enemies Do We Have? Is it Really Many or One?" Brita shakes her head. "I am Young, Mother, and have No Politics. Even in Shadow Asgard I could Not Understand the Infighting and Back Stabbing. How am I to Understand the Reality of it all?" She seems a little lost.

"What of My Brother? Is He Well? Have you Heard from Him?"

"Conner has come back from Rebma for the funerals, so we'll see him soon and you can ask him yourself. Perhaps when we're all together in Paris, we can all speak of what we've seen and heard and decide how to advise the King on dealing with these threats," Fiona suggests.

She reaches over to brush Brita's hair, now almost the same color as her own. "If your strength isn't in politics, don't be a politician. What do you think your strength is? Because you can hardly apply your strength if you don't know it."

"Cleansing. Seeking. Unfortunately, I've been Finding More than I Want and Not what I Need."

"What do you want, then? And what do you think you need?" Fiona asks.

"I Want Time to Learn and Appreciate my Family. I Need to Know my family is Safe." Brita is quiet for a moment. "What do You Think I Need to Do to Achieve That, Mother?"

"I know you cannot make them safe," Fiona says sadly. "If I knew how to do that, your Uncle Brand would never have gone mad and died."

Brita pats her mother's hand in comfort. "Some Chart their Own Path Regardless of what We would Wish. I Must Ask the King what he would Have Me Do. There are So Many Enemies at the Gate. He will Likely Need to Delegate Defense. I would Wish Dara and clef Neutralized Soon; they are like Uncle Loki - insidious and Sneaky. Uncle Random may Wish my Services on a Different Front, however."

Fiona's delicate eyebrows arch slightly. "How would you neutralize Dara, if the King grants you that task? She's an initiate of the Pattern and a powerful sorceress in her own right. Assuming you don't want to kill her, what would you do to bring her to heel?"

"Uncle Loki was Neutralized by Tying Him Down with Entrails from one of his Innocent Victims, but That may be Difficult to Do with Dara. I Assume that the King will Find One who is a Better Match in Sorcery Skills to Best Dara. What do you Think are Her Weaknesses, Mother? Or clef's? I have Battled them Twice and Lost Each Time."

"If you fight them two against one, it's no surprise that they can work together to defeat you. You must find someone you can work with as well as they work together to even the odds." Fiona delivers this piece of maternal advice with a smile.

"Dara's weakness in the past has been her overconfidence, and her affection for Corwin. Now, she seems obsessed by her son, and perhaps by this woman Meg. That is a weakness. Cleph--I don't know enough about him to say. We'd have to learn more about him to defeat him."

"Children. That was One of Uncle Loki's Weaknesses as well. Cousin Ossian and I were Not Successful as a Team against Dara and clef. Perhaps M... Cousin Brennan. I will Speak to Him on That. I would Speak to Brother Conner as well. Shall we Go Find Him?"

"We can do that. Or send for him." Fiona rises and summons a page to find Conner and tell him that Fiona and Brita want to speak with him.

It is apparent that even after years in the castle, Brita still doesn't think of using a page first. She nods, however, at Fiona's suggestion. "A Castle Page would be Able to Find Him Faster." After the page is sent, Brita converses with her mother about her laboratory preparations until Conner or news of him arrives.

Some time after Conner's return to Xanadu-- the day after or perhaps the next-- Brennan seeks out and catches up with Conner.

"General Conner," comes the call from halfway down the hallway. "Dignity tells me he has you to thank for bringing him and the Aelfs back to Xanadu. How fares Rebma?"

"It stands," Conner replies as he pivots to face Brennan. "and unless you're enlisting you can drop the General stuff. We've been through too much for formalities." Conner smiles. He is holding a leather bound book with ribbons marking several places within the tome. "They are still recovering from the battle and the quake. So am I truth be told." Conner stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. "How are you holding up?"

"Keeping busy," Brennan says, "and looking for outlets to my frustrations." Clearly, Conner is neither of those. "The king mentioned an earthquake, but I didn't get much detail-- we were discussing the aformentioned frustrations at the time. What happened? When?"

"Almost immediately after the culmination of our sorcery, the area was struck by a seaquake. It could be felt on the battlefield but its only affect was to obscure our vision with floating earth. Damage to the city was mostly in the poorer areas but the pattern of the damages mirrored that of the Sundering, if less severe." Conner adds quietly. "Did anything happen in the Pattern chamber that would explain this?"

"You mean other than brutalizing the laws of time and space?" Brennan asks. "Nothing that would be more disruptive than that. I'm not sure there is a short version of what happened, but I'll try to give you the edited version. I've already had several rehearsals. I arrived right in the blood cloud, or clot, or whatever you want to call it, and was stuck in it for a short time. It's very possible that we were looking at me inside of it, through your device.

"The thing ruptured, which was painful, and at that point I was outside it and facing a man-shaped construct of blood. The remains of Eater were still there, too. When I was in contact with the blood, there were strong hints of a mental contact not completely unlike a Trump... and I have a feeling I was in contact with the Aelfs or their prince. So, while I have no idea how Huon did what he did, I still think it involved those Aelfs. At any rate, the blood golem and I fought, while the Eater remnant and I argued and bargained." Despite having told this tale several times, he still suppresses a shudder and reverts to a thousand-yard stare as he remembers it.

"Just as a piece of advice, never get yourself in a position where a creature made of royal blood is trying to stab you a few hundred feet over a Pattern. There are really no good options. Sorcery is a non-starter. So is hacking it to pieces. I've had nightmares that weren't that bad." His eyes focus back on Conner. "But my guess is, someone was stabbing the real Huon while I was fighting this golem thing. I'd guess Jerod, from what I've seen of his style. The bad thing is, it started springing leaks. The good thing is, it was distracted and in pain. So I activated Amber's Trump, and tackled it through the opening. I'm guessing that's when you must have seen Huon, Jerod and Khela disappear, because we all ended up in a pile in the courtyard. And since the universe hates all redheads except Bleys, I was on the bottom of the pile," Brennan says.

"But," he continues, "the Pattern was very much resisting my will when I was there, so it was still functioning. You and the rest of Rebma aren't dead, so that's good. I haven't heard anything about the Faiella-Bionin reconfiguring itself, which is very good. Have you been to the chamber to inspect it yourself?"

"We tried." Conner replies with a frustrated sigh. "The key to Rebma's Pattern chamber is missing and I was too drained to try anything more than trying the handle and looking about in the nearby rubble. I suspect Morie has it secreted as a bargaining chip." Conner adds. "Wherever she might be."

Brennan closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly in frustration. "My advice would be Sorcery, not to try to open the door, but just to see if the Pattern is still resisting. Assuming you didn't already do that," he says. "Must be frustrating for Khela not to be able to reach the heart of her own realm. That's not just a bargaining chip, that's a grave embarassment, especially among the people that know what's in there."

Conner nods in agreement. "She is trying to keep it quiet of course. Assessing the damage of the seaquake makes a nice cover for poking into nooks and crannies looking for it though. I plan to seek it with the Eye when time permits. I wasn't up for anything after the battle. I've never pushed myself to those limits before. I hope I won't have to again for awhile but somehow I don't think I'll get the respite."

Brennan nods at the mention of the Eye. "Well, we know that should work. I doubt you'll need the help, but I'm willing to assist just to get another look at the thing. I assume you've heard what happened to Huon-- any chance of locating him?"

"I tried and viewed only darkness." Conner replies. "Huon is no fool. He is employing the common countermeasures against mirror work. After all, he knows every mirror witch in Rebma will be after his head. I plan to try again later when I can sorcerously enhance the Eye. In the interest of keeping you busy, I have been wanting to analyze the Eye in more detail. I tried once with Merlin but the experiment yielded no usable data. I should like to try again."

"Hmm. What if I told you I have a Trump of our dear uncle Huey?" Brennan asks. He does not take the Trump out of the pack.

Conner just blinks for two beats. "I would ask where you obtained such a thing," Conner replies. "and further inquire if you have tried to use it."

"From my brother," Brennan says. "He found it some time ago among some of Brand's effects. It's clearly in Brand's hand, and given the history with Huon you can guess what he was intending. Ambrose gave it to me to offer to the King as a gesture of good faith to the Family. I presented it, but Random didn't take it.

"As to using it, the answer is, no, I'm not a fool. I know my strengths, and Trumps are not one of them. I try not to even take it out of the pack, because it is my sincere hope that Huon doesn't even know Brand created it. My thought-- and we'll want to consult with an expert when the time is right, before we do this-- is that the Trump might be used as a sympathetic token for the Eye. On the one hand, it should work. I can't imagine a better token unless I'd managed to take his own eye out. On the other.... Order and Chaos don't always play well. If it works, it could provide enough anchor to Part the Veil and either drag him out or go there and get him, with great surprise." Brennan pauses. "Just a thought."

"An intriguing thought at that." Conner agrees. "Though I recall speaking to Merlin on a related subject. At the coronation he used Grayswandir as a prop in his sorcery and has vowed never to do anything like that again. So there is one data point against. Uncle Bleys seems to take both in his stride but then I only know of one occasion that broke his unflappable nature." Conner smiles warmly in remembrance. "I have been wanting to speak with him anyway. I am having doubts on a course of action. I am not sure if I want him to reassure me or talk me out of it." Conner chuckles. "But he is the expert in the subject."

"As I said, just a thought. Contingent on expert consultation and finding the right squad of people before the next great crisis hits. I can only assume that after he crawled out, trailing blood, he found somewhere fast to recover. Prudence dictates we assume he's fully healthy and fully paranoid," Brennan says. Then he thinks over what Conner said about Bleys, and changes the topic. "Something about a sword, I take it?"

Conner nods. "I named a price for my aid to Rebma and Khela agreed to it." He says simply. "Now I wonder if I have negotiated myself into a bargain I no longer want." Conner pauses a moment. "You see, I made the bargain I did in part to safeguard the blade and the Pattern of Rebma. Why should one that has not even walked the Pattern be allowed to be the guardian of either?" Conner points out. "Then came the battle with Huon and I saw how well Khela wielded the blade. Now I question if putting the blade in my hands makes things better or worse. After all, how much of that was Khela and how much the blade?" Conner shrugs. "No way of telling without walking the trail I have blazed."

Brennan gives a cynical smile when Conner mentions that Khela hasn't walked the Pattern. "I caught that," he says. "I had my suspicions, but I was surprised to hear her admit it outright. I'm not sure if Moire has walked it, or was able to walk it, but if I had to guess, I'd guess no. Khela, on the other hand, as Llewella's daughter, ought to be able to do so. Which causes my suspicious, red-headed mind to wonder why exactly she hasn't. I'm also trying to imagine, say, Corwin's reaction on learning that she's neither walked nor seen the Pattern of the realm she claims.

"I'm also curious about this geas she mentioned. Planning on asking Bleys about that, too?" Brennan asks.

"Most likely. I've not heard of such a pact coming with the other blades. Should Werewindle bear one, I should love to hear how Uncle Bleys managed to fight his way up Kolvir." Conner remarks. "As for Khela, that's easily explained. Moire sealed the Pattern chamber tighter than a oyster. No one got anywhere near it without her approval and with Khela actively opposed to Moire even in her early years, it would not have been given. No doubt, Aunt Llewella had a plan for getting her onto it at some point but things seem to have swam away with themselves." Conner shrugs.

"There was a reason I was not impressed with giving the sword away," Brennan says. "Among other things, it may have been the blade's geas whispering that suggestion in her ear as the fastest way to get him to go away. Fine for Rebma in the short term, but unacceptable in the larger scheme."

Brennan pauses, then asks, "Has she walked any Pattern? And is she coming to the Funeral?"

"To the best of my knowledge, the answers are no and yes," Conner replies. "but I cannot confirm either absolutely. If she does come, I plan to have my sister get her scent and see if that answers a few questions. I always seem to be trying to answer a few questions. The redhead's burden I suppose." Conner smiles.

Brennan just closes his eyes and shakes his head. He seems to be doing that a lot, lately.

"Formally," he says, "I'm a redhead and take no position on the Rebman succession. I do take a position on the destruction of Rebma's or any other Pattern. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I have very little desire to get sucked into the swamp of Rebman politics. Informally... while I like Khela, she's really got her work cut out for her. It would probably go better for her if people weren't asking in public the questions we're asking in private. And it won't be long before it's an open question among the Family at large."

"Agreed." Conner nods. "As it happens, I share your views only I have decided to venture into the swamp to try add influence things. Sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty to get things done."

"Khela and Llewella over a presumptive Celina and Corwin?" Brennan asks. "Good luck with that. All the more reason for me to have that conversation with her as early as possible.

"She is on my list of people to talk to, for what it's worth. If not in Xanadu after the funeral, I may want to catch a ride back with you to Rebma," Brennan says.

"Certainly." Conner nods. "I will let you know when I am returning if you don't get your chance to speak with her sooner." Conner looks over Brennan's shoulder. "And speaking of messages it seems one of us is wanted." The castle page arrives and delivers the message to Conner that his Mother and Sister wish to speak with him. "Well it seems the family confab can start sooner rather than later." Conner comments to Brennan. "Shall we?"

Brennan nods. "I'm expecting a full redheaded conclave after the funeral," he says, "But there's no reason not to attend the precursor. This is a Family in desperate need of some planning."

A page finds Conner (and Brennan) and leads them back to Fiona's quarters.

Like all the suites in the castle, it looks like it was furnished in beige Ikea, although Fiona has contrived to bring or conjure some tapestries and pillows in heavy greens for the sitting room. There is a seating area with several low chairs and a couch where Fiona and Brita are sitting. The low table in the center is covered with the remains of a heavy repast which Brita and Fiona--probably mostly Brita, from the look of the leftovers--have shared.

Fiona gestures to Conner and Brennan to join them.

"Good day, Mother," Conner plants a kiss on her cheek, "and to you sister." Conner braces himself for the crushing hug that usually follows and then sits himself down. "How are you both today?" He inquires.

The joyous "Brother!" is indeed accompanied by a big hug that almost lifts Conner off his feet.

"Aunt," Brennan says, by way of greeting, and "Cousin." He waits to see why they've been summoned.

Brita is more reservered in her greeting to Brennan, offering him a hand and then pulling him into a one armed hug, but her smile is just as big. "It is Good to See you Both Well," she says as she releases Brennan's hand.

"Brita wanted to see Conner now that she's returned to Xanadu. Your presence is a bonus, Brennan," Fiona says pleasantly.

Brita nods in agreement. "We have been Discussing Recent Events. The Losses in Our Generation are Unacceptable and I was Seeking My Mother's Opinion on the Possible Instigators and How Best to Deal with these Troubles." Brita turns to the two men. "What of Your Views on the Recent Deaths of Two Cousins?" There is an obvious stress on the word Deaths that implies Brita consciously chose that word over another.

"I think Lucas let his desire for good lightning override his good sense and he paid the ultimate price for doing so." Conner remarks bitterly. "I am not even sure that Moire acted wrongly. Any one of us might have done the same given the circumstances and means." Conner pauses to brush some non-existent lint from his pants. "Aunt Florimel will kill her for it though." He adds. "That is as it should be too.

"As for Cambina," Conner looks at Brennan a moment before continuing, "I don't know what to make of it except for being sorry it happened. Very little of the affair seems to make any sense."

Brennan doesn't dignify the question about Cambina with a comment. "I haven't heard much beyond the basic facts, that Lucas was trying to make a Trump of Moire without her knowledge and permission, and she took grave offense. I'm sure Corwin is wroth with just about everyone right now, and I'm glad I don't need a favor from him." Brennan shakes his head and looks annoyed, more with himself than Lucas or Moire for some reason. "Part of the dangers of having an unadvertised skill, I suppose-- no one can warn you when you're about to do something catastrophically stupid."

Brita glances between the two men but focuses on Brennan. "How do You think former Queen Moire Knew of Cousin Lucas's Attempts? I Know Trump contact can be Dangerous with the Separation of Several Generations from the Royal Blood, but I have not Experienced any Knowledge of the Trump when it was Being Made. Why did She Know?"

Brennan gives something between a laugh and a snort. "My days of hiding my skills are over, but that's still not one of them," he says. "Nor is it ever likely to be. But, thinking about it, there's two broad classes I can think of-- spycraft, or metaphysical. She could have been spying on him, either with mirrors or servants, and gotten lucky. That's easy enough to imagine. If something deeper then..." he spreads his hands, "Ask Ossian. He'd have a much better idea than I do. What do you mean, dangerous?"

"Merlin has a theory," Conner adds. "He thinks that Lucas may have made a first sketch and in testing it harmed and alerted Moire. He then rushed to complete a second sketch while thinking his target was weakened and unable to strike back. Then Moire or one of her retinue struck back."

Fiona nods. "That theory makes as much sense as any." She looks at Brita to confirm it, since she is the artist of the four redheads present.

Brita also nods, "That is Possible. The Danger in Making a Trump of one Removed by Generations from the Blood is that Using it Causes Physical Pain." She winces slightly as she adds, "That is what Happened when I attempted to Trump Lord Vidar. I thought it Might be the Speed of the Sketch, but Lady Solace was Potentially Similarly contacted or Attacked. I Remember Discussing that with Cousin Lucas..." She fades off in memory for a moment, her brows drawing together in thought.

Through the conversation with Fiona, Conner and Brita, Brennan starts frowning to himself. It's a characteristic frown actually directed at himself rather than his cousins or his aunts.

"...When he no doubt artfully diverted the conversation," Brennan says, flatly. "I was discussing Trumps with him on another occasion-- not about that-- and he diverted me away from the topic, too. It's not a mistake I intended to make again. Looks like I won't have the chance. So, hypothesis number one: Moire is vulnerable to Trump contact in the way that non-Amberites or very distant relations are. But, to fit this circumstance, Moire is also strong enough to retaliate.

"Let's hold that thought while I ask two questions to anyone who might know," Brennan says. "Question one: Is Mirror work Ordered or Chaotic? Question two: What do you suppose would happen if someone were making a Trump of you-- actively making the Trump, not just had a partial lying around unattended-- while you were engaged in Sorcery?" Brennan looks around the room hoping to learn something new.

Fiona frowns thoughtfully in a gesture not entirely dissimilar to Brennan's. "There's no evidence that making a Trump while you practiced Sorcery would be harmful. Using it, depending on the type of sorcery, and your own control, could be bad."

Conner nods in remembrance at the last statement. "As for Rebman mirror work, it is ordered. I had the opportunity to examine a piece of Khela's mirror work. It is unlike any sorcery I've witnessed."

Brennan raises an eyebrow at Conner's statement. "Interesting," he says.

"I can reinforce what Fiona said: being contacted by Trump while you're engaged in Sorcery is not good. It's disruptive, and potentially painful. I'd conjecture that having a Trump used while you're engaged in any Chaotic exercise would be painful. I'm not sure about having a Trump made while you're engaged in something Chaotic, and I'm not sure how strong Fi's statement of 'no evidence,' is. But I'm not volunteering for the experiment," Brennan says. "My conjecture was running along the lines that Lucas made or engaged the Trump while Moire was engaged in some Chaotic practice or other, which is why she felt it as an attack."

He shrugs. "Not as well-supported a hypothesis as I'd hoped."

"But not too wide of the mark, perhaps." Conner adds. "Merlin explained that making a Trump of a non Ordered being would be painful simply because it is an imposition of an Ordered construct on a Chaotic being. Celina and Merlin heavily implied that Moire may have more in common with a Chaotic ancestry than is currently ascribed though that seems based on intuition and visions more than anything else." Conner shrugs his shoulders. "By their reasoning, just living might be Chaotic practice enough for these purposes."

"Didn't Cousin Paige Make a Trump of Cousin Merlin? He is Fairly Chaotic. And the Farther Up the Tree you go, the Closer to Chaos. Were there Trumps of Grandda or Great-Grandda? I would be More Inclined to Believe it was due to a Separation of Blood or some Link to Use of Sorcery while Being Trumped, as you suggest. To That effect, I would be Willing to be a Test Subject, but we would Need Another Artist."

"I believe there are Trumps of Merlin. But Merlin is less Chaotic than, say, Mother or Madoc. He has all the marks of humanity. Whether this is true of Moire is not a question I am willing to put to Corwin, who has the best chance of knowing an answer. I will leave that to one of you two--" Fiona gestures at Conner and Brennan "--or Bleys if we must have that answer." She makes a moue of distaste at the idea.

"What I do know is that Moire has never been described as having any inhuman traits. The manner of dress in Rebma is such that it seems likely any strangenesses--extra fingers and the like--would have been noted by now." Fiona turns her attention back to Brita. "If there were trumps of your Asgardian family, they were made by Reid. We could ask him, or Paige, to assist in a test, or one of us could stand as a sorcerer."

Brennan was hiding a ghost of a smile, until Fiona started talking about him questioning Moire on the marks of humanity. At that point, it's no longer funny. "Well, let's explore the idea to its logical ends, then," Brennan says. "Assuming that Trump reacts badly with all other forms of Chaos, where does that leave us? Possibly Sorcery, based in part on my personal experience. Nothing but supposition that Moire's a Sorceress, though. Possibly Shapeshifting, based on general theory, but again nothing more than supposition for Moire. Mirror work is apparently Ordered," Brennan says, but he has the polite skepticism of someone who likes to see, not be told. "Pattern is obviously Ordered, and apparently not one of her gifts anyway. Tritons, though: I know with my own eyes that those scaly things are Chaotic, and the royal family of Rebma seems to have a link with them. Any possibility there?"

Brita holds back the one comment she would make as she waits for the others' inputs.

"Hard to say." Conner shrugs. "The Tritons are known as sons of the Dragon and what little of Dragon lore I've learned seems to paint Dragons at Chaotic beings constrained by Order. I think of the Tritons as the same. The only known link between the Rebmans and the Tritons is the binding laid down with Cneve and Paxblade apparently having a central role. Anything else is conjecture from me."

Fiona turns to Brita with an inquiring look.

Brita almost rolls her eyes at her mother's look, "They are Green. They Smell Different than Amber Blood. I cannot say if they are Chaos, but they are Different than Amber Order."

"If you ever return to Rebma I should have you sniff around the Tritons." Conner remarks. "I wonder if they would seem more like a Chaosian or the Green to your senses. For while we ponder the background of Moire and her ilk, I wonder that if a Dragon is the mother of Tritons, then who was the father?"

"Sniff around Moire, is more like it," Brennan says. "Although I'm not sure Brita's nose is community property," he adds, to make it clear that he's suggesting, not pressing. Then, on a chord both practical and philosophical, he asks, "Even if we're talking about the same Dragon of Arcadia, here, why assume it's the mother and someone else is the father? Dragons are chaos. It could easily have been the father. Or both. Or something else."

"I merely use the terms the Trtions do." Conner explains.

Brennan nods-- a perfectly reasonable explanation he had obviously failed to consider.

"Moire is a sorceress of some sort, and to the extent that mirror-work and sorcery, true sorcery, are functions of Order and Chaos, it suggests strongly that Moire's ancestry is Real even if Moire herself isn't fully so," Fiona points out. "None of you are old enough to remember Moins, any of you, but I do. She might not have been your grandfather's equal, but she was a being of some power, one that I would place on the Ordered side of the Order-Chaos continuum. My question about Moins was never 'is she Real?' but 'how is she Real?' and I suggest that the latter is also the correct question to ask about Moire."

"That does seem to be the question about Rebma in general." Conner concurs. "Even down to the state of its Pattern in recent days."

"If the path to Paris is still there, and Sorcery still doesn't work," Brennan says, "those are good indicators. As for Moins, the only thing I know is how much I don't know. Which is essentially everything. Not her history, not her origins, not her relation to Oberon-- if any-- and despite rampant speculation in that direction, not even whether she drew Rebma's Pattern."

"What is Wrong with the Rebman Pattern?" Brita asks. "Did Cousin Ossian and I Hurt it with our Encounter with Uncle Pinnabello?"

Fiona politely does not look at Brennan as she says. "Unless you bled on it, I doubt it."

Brennan politely does not return a tight, thin smile.

"It sounds like you have a story to tell me, sister." Conner grins at her. "As for Rebma's Pattern, we are more concerned about any stray blood from Huon's construct having caused some damage. As yet, I have been unable to directly view the Pattern to verify its integrity." Conner explains.

Brita's brows are furrowed. "Uncle Huon's construct? Was That what Cousin Ossian and I encountered in the Hall? It Smelled like Reality, though." She shakes her head. "I will Give you My Story First and then You can Tell me Yours." She thinks for a breath and then dives in, "Cousin Ossian and I were Searching for Cousin Meg or, more Specifically, Dara - who had Taken Cousin Meg. In Mirror Rebma, we Gained Permission to Search Below for our Quarry. Walking the Halls, I Smelled an Odd Hint of Tobacco and Amber, but we did Not, At First, Trace it. We Came to The Door, but it was Locked with No Key. We went Back and Followed the Scent and came to a Barred Gate. Behind it was Uncle Huon - smoking. We Spoke to Him and it Seemed he was Out of Time as he did Not Know of Our History. He Mentioned that His Brother Pinobello Walked and he was Waiting for Him. We Returned to the Door to find it Unlocked and As Uncle Huon had Described with our Lost Uncle Afoot and Approaching a Rift in the Pattern." Brita turns to her mother with a lost little look. "It Seemed to Me, He would have Died to Set Foot on the Rift and we Thought to Save him and Set Aright what had once Gone Wrong." She shakes her head. "We were Able to Swim out and Grab Him Off the Pattern, But the Pattern became Red and Enraged. Cousin Ossian Trumped Uncle Caine and He Pulled All of us Free. Or so it Seemed. We Turned Out to be Trapped within a Strange Trump Place of Uncle Caine's Office, with Uncle Cain and Cousins Paige and Signy. Cousin Paige and I were Able to Make Trumps within by Drawing on the Surface of the Trump Place. Cousin Paige Trumped King Random and I Trumped Mother. I Thought She could Take Uncle Pinobello, but He..." She seems to be searching for a word and sends a questioning glance at Fiona with the next word, "...Disintegrated? in Silver Light on the Attempt to Pass him Through."

Conner took this all in and then wordlessly turned to Fiona for her comments on the fantastic tale.

"You were out of time somehow, and when you came back into time, our time, it destroyed Pinabello because he wasn't real or because he hadn't finished walking the Pattern. He would have died either way. But the part that concerns us here is that being out of time in that way is something we don't normally associate with the Rebman Pattern. We associate it with Tir," Fiona explains. "That Rebma's Pattern has that effect is disturbing. Bleys and I have been examining the equations to see what we can discover, but nothing is conclusive.

"We need to examine the Rebman Pattern sooner rather than later. Something is terribly wrong."

Brennan looks rather grim at Fiona's statement, not least because it sounds so obvious after she says it. His first comment is to Brita, answering one of her side questions: "Huon's construct looked like an actual man made out of actual liquid blood. If you were close enough to see it's features, you couldn't mistake it for anything else."

Then, to the group as a whole, but especially to Brita, he says, "Smoking. You were in Rebma, at ground zero for its Pattern, but Huon was smoking? That bothers me every time I hear it."

"Only magicians smoke in Rebma but every house has a chimney." Conner comments. "I had a recent conversation with his Majesty about the idiosyncratic nature of Patterns and the reality they reinforce." Conner waves that away. "I agree on the need to get into Rebma's Pattern chamber. The problem we have is a massive locked door and a missing key."

"Maybe we could ask King Random or King Corwin about How to Enter a Pattern Chamber that is Locked," Brita suggests.

"I would prefer, for Rebma's sake, if this information not make it back to Their Majesties." Conner asks gently. "You can imagine the embarrassment for the Rebman Royals if this got out. Besides, if we here cannot crack this, there is likely little anyone could do." Conner smiles.

If Fiona has any commentary about the likelihood of keeping the news that Khela is locked out of her own Pattern chamber from Random and Corwin, she keeps it to herself.

"I doubt my brothers are likely to advertise any methods they have for circumventing their own security. But perhaps you might to talk to someone who'd taken the Pattern against the will of its master, or mistress, as the case might be. We assume there's only one key. Do we have evidence for this assumption?"

"A search of Castle Rebma turned up no duplicates." Conner replies. "Though that is hardly definitive."

"And if Martin declines to answer," Brennan says, "and all else fails, there is always brute force: Walk another Pattern, go directly, and who ever does it Trump others in. Tir's is unwise for obvious reasons. Paris's and Xanadu's carry with them the risk of questions from uncles. That leaves only the Primal as an obvious first choice."

By tone as well as word, Brennan is suggesting this only as a last, drastic course of action.

"If Martin declines to answer, I have two less drastic plans to try." Conner replies. "The first is a manhunt for Moire which is already underway in Paris for other reasons so I leave it to them for the moment. The second is to cast another key. I have no evidence to suggest the lock is anything but a typical mechanical mechanism and I am quite adept at getting through those." Conner smiles at his mother. "Yet again Mother your training room proves its usefulness."

Fiona smiles. "The casting of the key may work. I am not so sanguine that Moire will be found in Paris, or that it will be so simple to persuade her to give up her secrets if she is. But we have three angles; we should attempt to work with them before resorting to the brute force method Brennan suggests."

Signy finds one of the stewards of Random's castle, and inquires to see if Bleys or Fiona is in Xanadu.

The stewards direct Signy to a suite of rooms in on the waterfall side of the castle. The view from the great window at the end of the hall is breathtaking. The door on the left is Bleys. It's wide open and the prince is sitting at a writing desk, penning something. When he sees Signy at the door, he puts some papers in the desk and shuts it.

"Hello, Signy. What brings this familial visit?"

Signy opens her mouth to introduce herself to her uncle, and then closes it with a slightly surprised look. "I'm...ah...yes. I wanted to talk to you on Brennan's recommendation. There were some things that happened during the rescue of the Queen that he thought you should hear, and I had some questions about the swords my father made."

She takes a step or two into the room and towards Bleys before stopping, a slightly uncertain look on her face.

"Come in," he says, gesturing to a seating group by the window. Signy notices the light here is excellent for reading.

"It's been quite a while since I last spoke to your father. He confirmed some things I only suspected about number theory." Bleys leans in towards Signy.

"What happened with the Queen? I've only heard a bit about that."

Signy walks over to the seats and perches on the edge of one, facing Bleys. "Well, we rescued her. Beyond that, I'm not sure."

She takes a breath before continuing. "We left from Benedict's castle, and rode for a bit before we ran into someone named Robin, who called the King 'Brandom' before attempting to kill him with a device. We drove off her and her men, and then came to this large depression. It was filled with dead bodies -- Robin's men, and these things called 'Grackeflints'. The Queen sat on a throne, and this Robin and someone that looked like the King were in chains in front of her, being held by the Marshall. We attacked, the Marshall, Robin, not-Random and the bodies all disappeared, and we were left with the Queen. And a silver chain."

She gives Bleys a quizzical look. "Some people think that all of that is just nonsense and looking for meaning is pointless, but Brennan thought I should talk to you or Fiona about this."

She pauses, and then tilts her head slightly. "And why would the Queen be with these people, and order the death of someone that looked exactly like the King, and then seem to have no memory of any of what went on."

Bleys pulls a cigarette from a silver box and offers one to Signy. "Tir is an odd place, and it's easy to attach too much meaning to what you see up there. Formerly, the only known way to get to Tir was the intermittent stairs in the moonlight of Kolvir, but now, that's not the case. And it never made sense that there was only one way up. The equations don't balance unless the metacyclicals are freely transformable in a ring. I think I may have to visit Benedict's castle soon. It sounds more special than we'd been led to believe.

"As to the Queen, in Tir you can often see people you know, and the odd ways in which they act are the portents and signs that people interpret to mean whatever they hope or fear they'll mean before they head up to it. So imagine the Queen is there, held, unable to see or hear. The image of the Queen does whatever images do, then when the magic is broken, the real queen is there, as if you'd seen her act.

"That's the most likely explanation, I'd expect. I'm not in love with fortune telling. It's been done so poorly by our family in the past." He takes a long drag on his cigarette.

Signy looks at the cigarette, before shaking her head and declining the offer.

After Bleys speaks, Signy is silent, clearly working through the things that Bleys said. "So, first. These equations that you mention. Is all of this, the Pattern and everything, governed by them? And if they are, who can teach me?"

"There are a few of us who could teach you more about reality and how it is calculated. Father offered it to all his children, but few took advantage of it. The benefits of a higher education are many, but finding an agreeable tutor is not always simple.

"We were taught by Dworkin, who is genially insane these days."

She takes a breath, before continuing in a slightly slower pace. "That still leaves open the question of how the Queen got there in the first place -- are abductions like this routine? And even if people attach too much significance to what happens in these sorts of places, it sounds like you think they may be devoid of any significance entirely?"

"So, the Queen was last heard of leaving Xanadu late at night with the Lady Cambina, to investigate the stairs to the Dreaming City above. She didn't return, and Cambina's body washed ashore the next morning. That someone could stay in Tir beyond the setting of the moon is a thing that has not been reported before. What happens in that case is wholly unknown, since the Queen cannot tell us."

Bleys takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette, more for show and to give Signy a chance to respond than for the flavor of it. It hardly smells of tobacco at all.

Signy quickly quashes a hopeful gleam that tries to burst forth from her eyes. "Would you be one of those people?" she inquires.

"As for the Queen, I don't think we were in Tir, exactly. It sounded like we were in something congruous to it, but not it exactly."

"In all the time I've been around Amber, I've never known anyone to have a back door to Tir, so that makes sense. I wonder if it could've been a shadow of it. Moonshadows are not out of the equations, but of a necessity, they haven't been well-explored."

He blows some smoke from his cigarette. It twists and turns upon itself as if building something, then dissipates.

"And I know enough to teach, but I'm not looking for an apprentice right now."

Signy deflates at this. "Is there anyone else?" she asks in a quiet voice.

He nods. "Yes. Your great-grandfather is the most knowledgeable, although he's still mad. It wasn't a popular course of study and of those who were trained in the ways of Kingship, I was the only one who kept at it, although I daresay that Random and Corwin have a journeyman's education in the field by dint of their patterns. Still, one never knows what one can ignore if one diligently sets out to do so.

"My sister is also quite knowledgeable. As is my mother, but you probably don't want that education."

"Your sister Fiona," she asks, not quite managing to hide the uncertainty.

Bleys nods, encouragingly. "I see someone has given you the guided tour of the genealogical rolls."

She gives Bleys a considering look. "Was my mother given to Weyland as a debt for one of these Pattern blades?"

Bleys looks surprised. "Unless I miss my guess, your mother wasn't born when the Pattern Blades were forged, and there'd be no keeping them from their masters. She also," he says, pausing, "seems unlikely to have agreed to any such bargain."

He tilts his head and looks at Signy. "What makes you ask that?"

Signy shakes her head in the negative. "It was an educated guess -- Brennan mentioned you and her as the two to talk to about what happened with the Queen."

She exhales sharply. "My mother left my father when I was very young, and apparently took my brother Marius with her, but not me. It seems there's a lot with my father that I have yet to learn." She looks at Bleys quizzically. "What are these Pattern blades, exactly?"

Bleys opens a wardrobe and takes a highly decorated scabbard from it, he unsheathes a blade from it. "They're tools for reinforcing Order, and a specific vision of Order to boot. They are a particularly shaped reflection of the thing that gives us our power of shadow, and they are damned useful in imposing your will upon others, with caveats." It's one of Weyland's blades, clearly. And if it's balanced the way it looks, the best work of his she has ever seen.

"Werewindle, by name," he say, introducing the weapon to Signy. "Did your father tell you nothing of them?"

Signy starts to raise her hand to touch the blade, before visibly restraining herself and giving Bleys a questioning glance.

"No, he didn't mention anything about them. This is his work, but I've never seen its like in my years working with him at the forges."

"There are, to the best of my knowledge, only two others. It sounds as if your father plans more. I frequently find it disappointing when an artist returns to a completed theme. It's unlikely that they find anything new to say on the topic." He pauses. "Not impossible, of course. And it matters how 'completed' the theme was."

Bleys reverses the blade and hands her the pommel. Even in the low light, Signy can see the burnished blade has the pattern itself inscribed on it. She feels it resonate with the pattern that is in her.

"Yes, you feel it. But it's not quite the same. Werewindle is Amber's blade."

Signy grasps the blade and holds it up, casting an appraising eye over its length. She raps the blade once sharply with a knuckle, feeling the vibrations in the palm of her other hand. Her wrist flexes, allowing the blade to catch the light and briefly illuminate the whorls and ripples of the metal underneath the Pattern tracings, feeling the uncanny lightness of the blade as it glides through the air.

Bleys watches her use the blade, and Signy suspects that he learns quite a bit about her strenghts and skills by doing so.

"How did he capture the Pattern in there like a living thing? Is he part of our family by blood?"

Bleys looks at her like a teacher asked a very clever question by a student. "I can't prove it. But I don't see any other way. I suspect he is the child of some lost brother or sister of your grandfather.

"You may be your own first cousin."

Signy doesn't notice Bleys's expression as she continues her study of Werewindle.

She attempts to reach out to the blade with the Pattern within her, attempting to ping whatever of Order is within the blade and see what resonates back to her. "What is the debt that the King mentioned?" she murmurs, her eyes slightly unfocused as she stares through the blade.

Signy reaches out with her powers, and it's clear the blade is -- something. It's hard to tell here, in Bleys' presence and near an active pattern, but it's not just a sword.

Bleys laughs--an unforced, easy sound like bells ringing. "You don't think a blade like this comes without a price, do you? Ask your father if you want details. Suffice to say I knew there was a price, if not the exact nature of it, when I accepted the honor and burden of this from my father."

Bleys continues to watch her handle the sword. "I've been wondering what it would be like if your father made more of these, now that we have new patterns."

Signy looks up at Bleys at his last question. "If you need a Pattern to have a blade, what happens to the blade for a Pattern that's been...Sundered?" She thinks for a second before continuing. "Do you know how quickly after the existing Patterns were created the swords were made?'

"No, no idea--to either question--at least since I'm not dead, my first order equations were wrong. The three blades predate me. I'd advise against asking Caine, the previous holder of Werewindle."

Signy nods slowly, giving the sword one last, long look before deftly flipping it in her hand and offering the hilt back to Bleys.

"Thank you," she says simply.

Bleys nods, takes the sword and resheaths it. He hangs the hangar over the bedpost.

Signy looks out the window for a moment, before looking back at Bleys. "How well did you know my mother?"

Bleys blinks slowly. "Not as well as Brother Corwin did. I was a younger brother and she had very little time for such. She didn't approve of her father's remarriage."

Signy gives Bleys a considering look. "Did she have any close friends, or allies or servants or anything? Surely she would have known that Weyland is family -- is it usual for our family to have that sort of relationship with one another?"

Bleys steps over to the window and opens it, letting a fresh breeze in. "Hmm. Your mother's associates? Caine, Eric, Corwin. Her friends were few and far between. That lordling she liked, who everyone thought was Marius' father. Boreal, I think. She may have had friends in Rebma. Not a lot of people. She was hardly the type."

Signy stands and inhales the outside air deeply, scrubbing at her face briefly.

"For learning more about the Pattern, what are my options for teaching myself? How are other family members trained?"

Bleys' eyes shine. "Oh, it's possible to train yourself, but unwise. It's a long road, with many possible missteps, and some real dangers. You could be like some of your uncles and not understand for centuries, even if you think you know. I learned from my grandfather, as did my brother and sister. That path is not necessarily available, and in the end Brand was not strong enough to survive what it did to him.

"That kind of training, and I say this so you understand, does not come without a price."

Signy nods, and her voice takes on a coldly calculating tone. "And what would that price be?"

Bleys almost laughs at her demeanor, but doesn't quite. "'From each according to her ability, to each according to her need', as they say. In a sense, the price is what you negotiate it to be with your teacher. In another, the example of my late brother is not without relevance to this conversation. The top going price is your sanity, your life, and your reputation. Try not to pay that much."

If there is one thing Lilly simply can not do, it is sit around and wait for her body to recover. Yes, she made promises. Yes, she told loved ones she would take the time to heal. But healing and growing soft were two different things entirely. While it might be a while before she can fully bear her weight on her leg, her arms still work perfectly fine. After several days of following doctor's orders, Lilly decides to take charge of her convalescence.

Making her way to the salle, proves to be a bit of an effort. Moving about a castle of crutches is a workout in and of itself. Still, Lilly is determined. It may take twice the normal time but eventually, she finds herself in the salle. The next order of business is finding a suitable blade. Doing this serves as a painful reminder that she needs to return home. The ruin of her sword remains carefully hidden away in her rooms. Hopefully Mallett would be able to repair it. At the very least, he could provide her with something close to it's equal. For now, however, she would have to make due.

Lilly tests the weight of nearly every sword available before deciding that she likes none of them. With a sigh of frustration, she takes the least annoying of them, and moves towards a chair. After all of that, she needs a bit of a rest before beginning a true work out. She closes her eyes and shuts out all distractions until she is one with her breathing. Slowly, she lets all cares flow away until her mind is clear. Meditating, Lilly has found over the years, is always the best way to begin.

Jerod views the environs of the salle quietly, having finished another exploratory walk through the castle hallways, the metallic tap...tap...tap of the spear end echoing quietly as he memorized the layout, noting the changes in this new Order compared to the others that he had become familiar with.

Having seen Lilly, he stops himself from approaching, remaining at the edge, noting the behaviour and recognizing the situation for it's strangeness. Data filters through the back of his mind, bits of information gleaned from servants like a whale sifting krill through baleen. A seated Lady who should more likely be standing, a pair of crutches, kitchen staff comments on food for guests, mention of royal physicians and their regular visits to certain rooms, the collected minutae of dozens of conversations, forming a conclusion in the barest fraction of a second.

He steps forward onto the sand, absently noting his own ribs previously broken, a lifetime ago it seems. His pace is measured and steady as he approaches and stops on her left forward flank, just outside of sword range. Once there, he waits patiently. He too understands the value of meditation and patience.

Slowly Lilly opens her eyes and looks Jerod's direction. She allows for the briefest of smiles. "I see Garrett and I are not the only ones of our generation present in this fair city." Her smile flares for a moment then recedes behind a mask of stoicism. "It is good to see you, Jerod. I trust all is well? Or at least as well as we can expect these days?"

"The latter I would say." Jerod replies, nodding to her as he leans slightly on the spear, the grey of his new colours a contrast to his previous ones. "The preparations for my sister's funeral have occupied some of my time but not enough I'm afraid. I find myself spending more time here than I normally would. So much that I am lacking for sparring partners. I'm guessing my reputation has caught up with me."

He motions to her seated position. "You appear to have had a run-in of sorts." he says, leaving it open for her to respond as she wishes and at her own comfort level.

"Of sorts," Lilly replies with a nod. "Brennan's sister. Lovely girl, really. Perhaps just endowed with a bit too much of her father's psychosis. Though, I will admit, meeting her makes me glad Brennan is on our side." She pauses for a moment. "I can also safely say the outcome might have been quite different if not for Edan. I'm not sure how, but it would have been significantly different." She shrugs.

"I can give you all of the messy details if you'd like but the moral of the story is be wary of the redheads - particularly when they are being helpful."

Jerod smiles a little. "Tell you what. I'll trade stories. You tell me about psycho-bitch of the redhead clan and I'll give you an update on psycho-nutbar Huon.

"Edan did not strike me as being one who was...extravagant in his behaviour. I'm guessing he did something that didn't quite work as it should have?"

"Edan is a sorcerer. I think there is a rule somewhere that they all must be extravagant at some point or else risk loosing their power," Lilly quips. "I was with Martin. We were attempting negotiations with Maddoc. It went poorly. In a fit of sorceral rage, he cast me out into Shadow and as fate would have it, I ended up very near Edan and Clarissa in Uxmal, Brennan's home Shadow. There a war was being waged between Chantico and Ambrose. Edan and Clarissa were there to extract Ambrose from the situation and so I agreed to help." She gives her hand a small shake. This, of course, Lilly now recognizes as her first mistake.

"Clarissa opened a portal for Edan and I to use to track him but she was unable to follow due to some type of mystical trap laid forth by Ambrose. You will have to forgive me, my knowledge of sorcery is minimal at best and, as such, I am unable to give you much more information then that." Lilly says with a shrug. "But once Edan and I made it to the other side, we were able to track the path of the armies with ease.

"In fact, everything went fairly easily. We managed to infiltrate Chantico's army causing unrest and accomplish the task of getting to Ambrose without much effort. A little sword and sorcery seemed to go a long way. But in the end, the whole set-up played out like an elaborate trap though I think that was less the plan and more a set of circumstances that worked in Chantico's favor. In the end, it came down to Chantico and I battling one on one. And that is when things got out of hand.

"Is this making any sense so far?" Lilly asks not wanting to get too far ahead of herself.

Jerod nods, motioning to one of the men-at-arms on the side lines, a hand signal for refreshments. "Your narrative has been quite clear, though as always there are many questions forming." he says. "I promise to keep them in abeyance to allow you to continue."

"All right then," Lilly replies as she shifts her weight subtly to find a more comfortable position. Pausing for the briefest of moments, she reaches into her memories and decides how to best present this Jerod. "Do you know that moment? The moment in the heat of battle when everything is going just as planned and you feel as if you are one with your blade? That invincible rush that rarely occurs? So rarely in fact, that when you become aware of it, it immediately loses it's magic because you start to become suspicious? You start to wonder why it is all going so well? And then you notice, through it all, that your opponent has never lost their swagger and their confidence seems completely unshaken? And you realize, right then and there that you have lost the battle somehow before it even began." She falls silent and averts her gaze.

Jerod remains silent. He knows that moment, has known it several times. He does not comment on her words though, for he wonders of her need that she would offer them.

In a quiet whisper Lilly continues on. "My blow landed clean. Her head separated from her shoulders with the barest bit of skin keeping it from flying away. And she laughed. She actually seemed to enjoy the whole thing." She turns back to him, eyes still down and sighs deeply. "We had walked into the middle of her trap. I with my honor failed to recognize her utter lack of such. Or, as my father chided, her difference in perspective when it came to such things. Her form was incorporeal and the force of my blade ripping through non-existent skin threw my balance. In that moment, she was able to land just one decent blow. Perhaps it would have killed another. Perhaps I am lucky I was merely thrown rather than cut deeply about the center. I can not say for sure. But I landed hard on rocky terrain and felt my hip give way.

"Edan realized the treachery of her actions and intervened. Somehow, he forced her into a more corporeal form and bade me to strike again. By then, I had accepted the prospect of certain death as she neared me, ready for the killing blow. I knew I would have but one chance... Before that final confrontation could commence, it began to rain fire from the skies burning everything it touched." She shakes her head. "I took cover, of course. Better to allow to sorcery to work on the enemies, I decided." Her mouth twists into the ghost of a grin. "And then, just when things seemed to be at the darkest, it all ceased and Edan, Ambrose, and I stood alone on the field. I did not see the cause but can only tell you this - Edan believes the entire army was swept up, somehow, by a coyote spirit of sorts. Or that was what I though I heard. At that point, the pain and the shock of it all had begun to affect my senses. He went to investigate and sent me through to Amber. If have not seen or spoken with Edan since."

Jerod nods when she finishes, accepting the jug of water and the plain cups from the guardsman who has brought them. He fills them both, rough hewn and simple, but more than functional for what is needed here and he offers one to her, keeping the other.

She takes the cup with a grateful nod and sips gently.

"Shortly after the return of the King, I managed to get back home to Rebma. Was snooping around in Court business and got my ribs busted by a Triton." he says, smiling at the remembrance, his expression at odds with his words. "A rather unpleasant experience. Got caught like a flat footed squige surfacer, even using a sword instead of a decent spear.

"I gather you consider your situation on the unpleasant side." he says, drinking from his cup.

At this, Lilly laughs. "You might says that." She takes another sip of the water before becoming serious once more. "I'm not used to such a sedentary lifestyle. Even as a small child I refused to sit quietly and 'act like a proper' lady as my foster mother would put it. I need to stretch... and run... and spar. Something. Anything. And so I came here. But now that I am here, I'm not quite sure where to start."

"So if I may be so bold, to sum up, you appear to be faced with a situation where your considerable talents appear to have no benefit." Jerod says. "You are not in direct control of your surroundings but like all family you want to be, and you either have no training or experience, or at best limited experience, upon which to fall on to guide your next move. Would that be fair to say?"

Lilly nods. "More then fair." She takes another sip of her drink. "But I suppose in the grand scheme of things, it could be much worse. I will heal. I have assured of that. This is but a very minor setback. Frustrating but I am trying to use the time wisely. But enough of that," Lilly sets the cup aside and promptly changes the subject.

"I was very sorry to hear about you sister," Lilly says quietly. "If I may ask, what happened?"

Jerod nods but says nothing for a moment. If there is sorrow, it is no longer fresh enough to show on his face, though he does not appear to be trying to suppress his feelings. He appears more pensive than anything else.

"I'm not entirely sure." he says. "By the time I found out it had been a few days since she was found. I was in Huon's camp outside of Rebma, bringing a message from his brothers to him, looking to avert a war. The option to depart was not available.

"I managed to get additional details as time passed, after the battle was done. She went with the Queen to Tir, without backup as far as anyone can tell. Her body was found later, the Queen missing. I learned after the Queen had since returned safely, apparently found by the King. I learned of other activities that had happened with regards to Cambina's body and the hunt for the Queen that require...resolution." he says. "Ultimately, the trail is now cold so I must return to the start and begin ask questions. For some perhaps uncomfortable questions. But my starting point will be the Queen, and that means the King and it means possibly dealing with Tir as well."

He looks at his cup and smiles a little, just a little. "Which means I am faced with a situation where my considerable talents are of little benefit, I am not in control even though I always like to be, and I am wishing I did not have as much experience in burying family as I already possess. I think the King would say that at this moment it sucks to be me."

"It's nice to know I'm not alone," Lilly replies with a genuine smile. "As for your problem... I do not believe in speaking ill of people, particularly not when it is the wife of the King. And even more so when it is someone I have been assigned to protect in the past. But I am uneasy around her. There is something I can not quite put my finger in. Something odd. I suppose it might be nothing more then protective walls built to fend off the difficulties born of her blindness but still.... If there is something I can do to help on that front, let me know. I may not be the best person for interrogation but she sees me as someone in her service and bound to keep her safe. And that might give me an edge."

"I'll take whatever I can get, and an inside person is worth extra points." Jerod says, finishing up his cup. "I'm curious though. What would make you uneasy? I've known the Queen for awhile, but I'm also aware that I have a bias so I might miss things that others would not. And I never under-estimate the value of a fresh perspective."

Lilly shakes her head slowly. "I don't now," she answers honestly. "Something I can't quite put my finger on. She just never seems... genuine, perhaps? It's always as if there is a bit of a performance. And there could be very legitimate reasons for that. I have always accepted the King's judgement when it came to her. If he loves and trusts her, then who am I to question? But this situation seems a bit odd and if you can forgive me for saying so, love is sometimes blind."

"Love, and guilt." Jerod replies. "Random's last intimate conquest in Rebma ended poorly for Martin's mother, though the details on that remain sketchy. I have sometimes wondered if Random remains committed to Vialle as a way to atone for a perceived guilt for his actions. It is a question that is likely to remain unanswered."

Lilly nods. "It makes me wonder, at times, if it is possible for those of our blood to have truly loving relationships. Those who dwell within the Shadows can not truly understand us and those who dwell closest are effected by power and politics. Perhaps now, while I still know youth and innocence, is the only real chance I shall ever have to know love. And even still, I can not help wondering if such a thing will last."

Jerod smiles. "Martin and I had a discussion on this topic a few years back. He took the position that love was not possible, that it could not last and that it was ultimately meaningless. I bet him a drink that he was wrong.

"Turns out that a little while ago he admitted as much. I'm expecting that drink right after the wedding. What do you think of that, given that Martin could be considered one of the most put upon of us of this generation?" he asks.

"I suppose there is that," Lilly agrees with a smile. "Though I do find it ironic that one of the last pieces of advice my father gave to him was 'do not have children'. And he was not being anything other then completely forthright and serious when he said it. He seems to think increasing our numbers is unbalancing the universe. I myself think it's an excellent piece of advice regardless of the universal metaphysics of it all."

"Advice is usually good if it in application to a situation that one finds oneself in." Jerod says, having rapidly sifted Lilly's words. "I believe Oberon's prohibition was on pairings between Family, which no doubt raises some questions when one considers Vere and Robin or Martin and Folly.

"I would wonder however...why would your father offer you such advice? He may come across as stingy in his speech but he did not survive as long as he did by being obtuse. And parroting common prohibitions does not seem to be his style."

"That is a very good question," Lilly responds thoughtfully. "Especially considering it came before Martin became involved with Folly and before I became involved with... anyone." The last word sticks and Jerod is certain it was a last minute substitution.

"Okay, give it up." Jerod says, once more smiling. "Don't make me figure it out. I can, but then I'll destroy my reputation for being a sword-swinging brute incapable of deductive reasoning. You have no idea how many people would suffer the total devastation of their view of reality should that vision ever be brought low. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

The laughter that flows forth is both honest and innocent. "There is not much to give," Lilly replies but she's still smiling. "It's all probably ridiculously sweet and makes me feel rather like one of those annoying girls who sneak around behind their parents' backs to exchange small kisses with their betrothed." The smile falters. "That is not to imply a betrothal of any sort," she continues firmly. "It's not that serious."

Lilly takes a deep breath as she realizes she is rambling and is likely to continue to do so unless she puts an abrupt stop to this uncomfortably show of proper courtly feminism. She looks Jerod straight in the eye, nods once and states quite simply, "Garrett."

An eyebrow goes up momentarily as the name registers. "Well, as choices go he doesn't have anything immediately against him." Jerod says. "Certainly if you are going to get serious, you might as well do it in the big leagues. And you could certainly do a lot worse, though I'm not sure about the reverse.

"I suppose the logical question to ask is...does the King know?"

"I have not told the King," Lilly replies. "I suppose Garrett may have but he has not mentioned it to me if he did." She smiles, "But when we arrived, I sort of got the feeling he suspected something. So he may very well know or at least suspect that something is going on between the two of us."

Her mood quickly darkens, "And my father most definitely suspects but certainly has not been told... At least not in so many words."

"Well, he won't hear about it from me." Jerod says. "I've experienced that wonderful moment when a parent decides to find your choice of a companion to be...not to their liking.

"Are you concerned that his reaction may be more than simple displeasure?"

Finding himself with royal introductions out of the way, Fletcher's concerns turn toward closer family introductions. Borrowing a room temporarily in the palace, he asks the castle staff to let him know which members of the royal family are in residence and takes a bit to clean himself up. Upon learning that Lilly is in residence and Benedict is not, Fletcher determines that decorum dictates that he introduce himself to this newly-discovered sister as soon as possible. Employing the palace staff as his allies in this endeavour he sets out at once to find her in Random's palace.

It takes the staff very little time to discover that she is in the library. If pressed, they will note that most days, she can either be found there or in the salle. Today, her reading load is modest and only a small pile of four texts occupy the table in front of her as she reads from a fifth.

A tall man in a suit of clothes more fashionable to Paris than Amber appears in the periphery of Lilly's awareness. He is tall and of middle years. His suit is more appropriate to Court or the city than for battle but he carries a long sword in a scabbard slung over his shoulder. In his lapel is a stick pin bearing the insignia of the Order of the Unicorn. He pauses at the periphery, as if certain she is aware of him but does not approach before announcing himself. "Pardon me, please forgive this intrusion I am Sir Fletcher, Knight Commander of the Order of the Unicorn. I am told you are Dame Lilly, Knight Commander of the Order of the Ruby and the third child of Prince Benedict. When I was told you were here in residence I wanted to take the first opportunity to introduce myself." He seems to assess her condition with a physician's eye and awaits her reply.

Third child? Lilly thinks to herself. Father what have you managed to leave out now? Certainly, life should not contain these sorts of surprises.

Lilly turns slowly at the torso to look at him fully. Her right leg is propped up on the chair on front if her and she is careful to not move her hips as she pivots. Raven black hair is tied loosely at her shoulder and her almond eyes are a deep shade of brown. Normally, she refuses dresses and gowns in favor of more serviceable attire but today is different. She is wearing a simple, deep red gown with a squared neckline. As she moves, her right hand come to rest on the cane that had been leaning on the table beside her. Her face carries little expression but the set of her shoulders betrays the wariness within her mind.

"I am Dame Lilly," she replies in soft tones. "How may I be of service?"

He approaches closer, but remains standing. "This is my first trip to Xanadu." He pauses, blue eyes taking in Lilly's posture and the cane. "I didn't know you were injured. I trust you're recovering well? If there's anything I can do to help...I suppose one should start at the beginning. From your expression I'm guessing that you've never heard of me, which is a reaction I'm starting to get used to, actually. I was away from Amber for some time. My mother was Princess Emerald, you see, and by virtue of my father being Prince Benedict I'm told you and I are brother and sister." He half-smiles, not knowing what to expect.

Lilly nods once, very slowly, and manges, somehow to hold back the gape mouth expression that is currently residing within her mind. "My... Our father is rather adept at holding back details he deems to be either inconsequential or dangerous should they be known. But I suppose you already know that," She takes a deep breath and gestures to a free chair, "Please, have a seat. I having to look up at people all the time a bit disconcerting. And I suspect this is not a conversation we will be able to complete in a matter of minutes." Her voice has less of a formal edge but remains flat and devoid of emotion.

Fletcher takes a seat and sets his scabbard at his side. Leaning forward, he gives Lilly his full attention. "I imagine you have some questions."

"I hope I'm not the only one," Lilly promptly returns. "But first, put something into perspective for me, as much as you can anyway because I know this is a dangerous question," for the first time she nearly smiles before continuing on. "You said you had been away from Amber for quite some time. About how long is that? Do you even have a way of counting it? I confess that I only counted 20 turns of the seasons before my first arrival in Amber and that was... well... not that long ago. And yet, even still, with the way time passes in Shadow, I would be hard pressed to give you an age but let's just say early twenties and leave it at that. How old do you consider yourself?" Lilly's interest is genuine and may have something to do with the books of Amber's history and lineage that are sitting before her.

"I was born in Amber, so I suppose I tend to keep the Amber calendar and let the shadow math work itself out. I'll try to put it in terms you might be familiar with. I was born during the reign of Queen Faiella in Amber, when Corwin was a young man and Caine had not yet arrived on the scene. That was, by Amber reckoning, about 1800 years ago, give or take. I'd need to check the calendars to be more exact. I left shortly after Queen Faiella's death, and have only been in intermittent contact since. Most days I don't feel a day over a thousand, but today isn't one of those days. It must have been strange coming to Amber after being raised in Shadow. Was it very different from Amber?"

Lilly looks at him intently for a moment. "My...", a pause and a slight shake of the head, "Our father took me from the place I was born when I was a very small child and fostered me with a weapons smith and his wife in the Tecys. It was, I daresay, a quiet upbringing. They gave me the things I needed instead of the things I wanted and I thank them for that. We remain very close. They tried to prepare me for life within this family as best they could.

"And actually, I think even if I had been raised in Amber, it would probably would have been very different then the home you knew. As I understand it, a few major events happened between our births."

"Yes, there were several changes I know of. I don't know how one would prepare someone for life within our family. My childhood was a lot of things but quiet wasn't one of them. Our father was... not suited to simultaneously fighting on the three fronts of marriage, parenthood and the affairs of a royal court, you might say. As I talk to people I'm slowly warming up to idea that he may have adapted. Fosterage may have been a wise choice. At least, from what Martin tells me, you've done quite well for yourself so far. He didn't mention you'd been injured though. I trust you've been receiving the best of care?"

Lilly nods. "Two of our cousins aided my healing soon after the incident. And of course, there are those in the palace who have taken it upon themselves to ensure I am as safe and comfortable as possible. To be honest, it is a bit stifling at times. I am rather accustomed to a much more physical lifestyle. I took up the sword when I was a small child and have spent the better portion of my life learning to duel. Being stuck in the library is a bit of a departure." She gives a shrug. "And as for our father, I do not think he has adapted well. I think in many ways I am still something of an experiment or an opportunity for learning. I used to try my damnedest to do exactly as he wanted but now I am thinking I may actually do him a true favor by offering up more of a challenge. I would hate to think he has conquered parenting a female in only twenty short years." Her expression and voice remain completely neutral but her eyes twinkle with mischief.

"I should think the trick would be to keep him committed to the endeavor. Faced with an unconquerable resistance he might retreat or surrender altogether. Was your training with the sword the path he charted for you, or your own choice? Our family seems to have a natural affinity for swords."

Lilly smiles. "Most definitely my own," she replies. "Though one might suppose he was hopeful for that outcome when he placed me in the home of a weapon's smith. Most children don't have such things available to them, I suppose." She pauses for a moment, then smiles again, this time more brightly. "But actually, if I am being honest, I did not really have them available to me either. My foster mother was far too sensible for that. I just managed to discover all sort of interesting ways to break into my foster father's work area."

"I suppose I was lucky in that regard. My mother probably started screening fencing tutors as soon as I was born. But then, I was a boy. If I recall correctly my mother thought concealable weapons were more fashionable than swords for women. It seems our family has pushed the boundaries of traditional gender roles since then. Random told me 'Paige' is the warden of Broceliande. Are you familiar with many of our cousins? I only know their names and places in the family tree."

"Many of our generation gathered to fight the War in Chaos," Lilly replies. "Paige is formidable but she is complete. If you would like her to play the part of the traditional Lady, I am certain she could manage.... At least for a time. Like her father she can take on the needed role. But some of the female cousins do mirror the Aunts a bit better then others. Solange and Celina strike me as more traditional. Then there is Folly. She may perhaps be the most loved for the joy she brings to others. Hannah is strong willed but I can not say that I know much more about her other than that. Robin and Brita seem about as comfortable in the traditional court roles as I am. And trust me, I far prefer the uniform of a soldier to a ball gown. And my only encounter with Signy left more questions than answers so I can tell you very little about her as well."

Fletcher nods sympathetically. He also prefers to wear military uniforms rather than ball gowns.

Lilly pauses for a moment as she realizes she might be rambling on about presumably unknown cousins. "There are quite a few of us, as I am sure you can tell. And like all things. I know some better then others. There are those I would trust with my life, Garrett, Ossian, Brennan, Folly, Martin, and Paige most definitely. Most of the others as well. I daresay we are closer in some ways then our parents might ever hope to be."

"Yes, I'm ... given to understand that some of our cousins are quite close. I've studied the family tree, but that only really has their names on it. I don't know much about them otherwise, except for Reid. Were they all raised secretly in Shadow before going off to war in Chaos?"

"Many were," Lilly replies. "The Elder generation has difficulty trusting one another when it comes to disclosing what they ate for breakfast let alone letting loose details of intimate relationships." She smiles and settles back in her chair slightly. "But some, I suppose, were much more secretive then others. Brand for one. His children are still coming to light and they are not exactly friendly. His daughter gifted me with this," she gestures to her hip. "She has some issues."

Fletcher thinks for a moment, quickly deciding that if a man had attacked his sister honor would require him to act, but not if it was a fight between two women. "She must be quite formidable. I was told that you were one of the most skilled combatants in the Courts of Amber and Xanadu. Is she an enemy of the realm, or was this strictly a personal engagement?"

Lilly thinks on that for a moment, "She is an enemy of her brother, Brennan. And I consider him to be a close friend and confidante as well as my brother in arms - we are both founding members of the Order of the Ruby," she offers. "And these days, very little seems strictly personal. This is a time of unrest. The fall of the Pattern in Amber, the loss of King Oberon, and the resulting coronation of King Random and the establishment of a Pattern here in Xanadu has created a time of great change. Some see that as a vulnerability, I am sure. Still other, long forgotten enemies are rising anew because they no longer have reason to hold to the diplomatic accords with Amber. Plus, Amber could not and did not fall without directly effecting events in Rebma and Tir. To think it otherwise would be absurd."

"I see. So she's become a problem for everyone. I don't look forward to meeting her if she was able to best a warrior of your reputation. Is she really that good, or did she use some kind of gimmick?"

"She is the daughter of Brand," Lilly says in flat tones. "And, like her father, shrouds herself in sorcery. Had it been a fight of steel against steel, her head would no longer reside upon her shoulders and I should have needed little more then a warm bath to rid myself of her stench afterwards. But here I sit," she gestures to the broken hip. "Like her father though, I strongly suspect her pride will become her undoing. She is by no mean invincible merely formidable."

"Watch out though. Killing a descendant of Oberon can come with its own built-in penalty. Am I likely to run into her soon? What sort of tricks does she favor?"

The scrape of the pencil on the page is barely noticeable even in the stillness of the room as Jerod finishes the notations to the page. The departure of the other musicians has left the studio quiet, the thin silence lingering in a place that seems bereft of purpose under such circumstances.

He looks at the paper, the neatness of the staves filtering through his thoughts. Not what anyone would expect from him, he thinks. Yet inspite of appearances, some things never change.

A glance up at the door, a mental check of the time frame. He wonders where the page that he sent out could have gone. It's not like the instructions were that tough. Find Prince Gerard, ask after his guest and have her come to the studio. How hard could it be to find a bright green haired, and green skinned woman in Xanadu?

Jerod looks around at the studio, the disorderly yet oddly neat pile of beer cans left behind by the musicians. Given the number of people in the King's employ possessed of at least adequate musical talent, Jerod wonders if it might not be as simple as he first thought.

The door scrapes open and Carina's head appears around it. Her eyes take a moment to become used to the uneven pools of light as she makes sure that Jerod is alone. Seeing him so, she rushes into the room, and stops suddenly right before him, as if she fears that her welcome will not be the warm one she expects.

At the sound of the door scraping, Jerod's head snaps to view her entrance. He does not move as she rushes in, the flash of emerald green hair a blur in his thoughts, perhaps so as to not cause a collision. Where normally there is a flatness to his expression, the mask of control firmly fixed in place, there is now an expression of brief sadness. For as long as the time that he will be here with her, it is more likely that something will draw him away in the future.

He gives his heart a shake at that thought. Down that road lies nothing good he knows, and he will not spoil this moment. He puts down the pencil and rises up from the chair at the small table, not bothering with the uniform jacket. He always considers what he wants to say when these moments come, always the time in between each rejoining seeming too long, too protracted. Each time there is earnest desire to bring forth some new words to tell her how he feels, but in the end, he always comes back to the same three words.

"I missed you." he says simply, and holds his arms open.

She slides into his arms and buries her head in his chest, just breathing and letting him enfold her.

She laughs, briefly, but not at anything. "We have spent years only seeing each other occasionally, so I am quite used to missing you. I have now been forced to flee two kingdoms, and am here as a guest of the Queen, who has no reason to treat Rebman courtiers kindly. I have not had time to miss you properly until I arrived in your home." She looks at him.

"I'm told you saved Rebma from being destroyed by Huon."

He kisses her forehead as she looks up. "After a fashion." he says. "While my parents will surely be displeased that I do not claim as much credit as possible, it is fair to say it was a joint effort, though very much a pragmatic one. Given a choice between taking on Khela or Huon, the latter was the bigger threat at the time. I'll explain details in a bit."

Dark eyes always serve to capture his attention and her's most of all. "A hint concerning the Queen. Despite the fact that Random is the king, I like him. He might even turn out not bad at the role - I'm waiting to see how long he keeps bluffing and when he's going to put his cards down. I also like Vialle and she knows this. That I like you is a point that can be used in your favor should you need it." Jerod does not bother to explain how it can be used. She is old enough by far to understand what can be done with it and he trusts her not to abuse it.

Carina nods. "Thank you."

"The Queen. Mother. Leaving Rebma." he says simply. "What happened?"

"It was... difficult. We were told that only a personal appeal from the Queen to the King of Paris could possibly save us from the oncoming armies. Your mother argued against it and offered to go in her place, but the Queen was adamant.

"It was untrue, of course. She wore the face she wears when she tells a courtly lie. I had not determined what her real plan was."

She looks at Jerod. "I do know that she spent some weeks prior acting as if her death in the war or shortly thereafter was preordained. When this mission came up, that was no longer mentioned."

"When was the mission first brought up?" Jerod asks, using her answer to run a calculation based on relative time flows to determine when it occurred in relation to Cambina's death.

Carina leans into him. "It came up suddenly. I was awakened and told to attend the Queen, and when we were out of the city, I was told of why. Huon's forces were threatening our ability to get a message to Paris, so we had no time to delay."

"If she spoke a lie about a meeting with Corwin, then what did she do when she arrived? Vere informed me that he spoke to you there and you stood in the Queen's stead to advise of her fleeing the palace."

"It wasn't that it was a lie, " she says, frowning. "More ... pretext. As if she had some other reason but the one she told was plausible enough."

The frown disappears. "Whatever her plans, it was not as simple as meeting the King. When Celina arrived to act for Khela, the Queen was content to allow her a seeming victory, as if she only disputed her from habit or to confound observers."

She looks up at Jerod. "That court was no good place for scholars before, and now less so."

"Celina has her own reasons for hating Moire." Jerod says simply, his expression enough that Celina's reasons are hers alone. "It remains to be seen if she realizes the nature of the position she has placed herself in.

"Why do you say that about the Court?" he asks.

She smiles. "No court is a good place for scholars. If one is successful at court, one becomes a rival to be torn down. If one is unsuccessful, one becomes a stepping-stone for the powerful. And the occupation of being a courtier takes too much time away from scholastic activities."

Carina pulls back, holding Jerod by the forearms, letting him support her weight. "And you cannot imagine that I would have been retained, or complacent with requests, implied or explicit, to change the archives to suit the victor."

She lets out a deep sigh. "No, exile is a better place for me, but I do not have to like it."

"Your exile may not be that long." Jerod says, easily holding her weight. "Khela holds a throne not meant for her. Her actions mirror my father's. She may yet inherit his fate. If so, I am curious to see if she faces it with as much courage as he did.

"If exile is in your cards, what would you do, if you were bound only by your desires?"

She smiles, and leans into his arms, and the words flow like a deep current from her, warm and rapid. "I don't know. If I am not in Rebma, I am at risk, because Khela's partisans will not want my version of history to be perpetuated. If I am, I have to turn on the Queen who helped me and my family so much, and who looked the other way when I inappropriately courted her grandson.

"So I think I must be somewhere public, so as not to be quietly murdered, and yet not threatening by my presence. Here may be best, where I am just another exile, in the service of a new Queen. She's changed so much from when she was in Rebma, but who would not, having been raised so high?"

"Then here is where you shall be, for as long as needed. We'll see if Khela appears for either of our upcoming funerals. If so, then I'll be sure to provide her with an understanding of what will happen should something untoward happen to you." Jerod says, his expression changing a little as he speaks. There is no rage at the thought of losing her, only a coldness at the thought. He recognizes it as a limit, a boundary of behaviour that he instinctively knows he should not cross, a boundary that would disappear if she were to be gone from his life too soon. There are things that can be done, and things that should be done and the former often exceeds the latter to the detriment of all. He knows that without her, the former might easily become the only way he would continue to behave.

The possibility of this, he realizes, is something he finds disturbing. He also realizes that others would like it even less than he. Both are realizations that have value.

"And on the subject of the Queen, I must now ask you some questions about that." Jerod says. "Questions await for her and Random that will not accept silence as an answer and I must have every scrap of information I can before I meet her, if I'm to unravel what happened to my sister.

"I want to know everything about Vialle that you know."

She opens her mouth and then closes it. "Hers is not a history I know well. A poor relation to the queen on her mother's side, she was orphaned young and brought to court rather than be left to run an estate sightlessly. It was more physically safe for her, but not a happy place. Duke Martin would be able to tell you more of her early days; she was not well-loved after he left.

"When I knew her, and it was only in passing, she wore a very meek face. It was unusual for the court, but one I recognized. We were not friends, because that didn't happen.

Carina pauses. "Now she is a Queen, and not like those of us who are not Queens." Her smile is small and sad. "Sometimes she remembers her old self, I think, but only sometimes."

"Faces for court are for survival." Jerod says, repeating an old lesson. "As for being Queen, I must say truthfully that I pity her. For all that the position might offer, the choices frequently become fewer and less palatable it seems. I will not belittle your exile for I know how much you love what you do, but in this you have greater choice now than she. And I for one am glad of the most recent choice you have been able to make.

"If Martin were here I could question him further, though he is loath to speak to her or about her. He indicated to me that Vialle was set upon him as a minder, to watch him and report back to the Queen and I gather she approached that task from the perspective of an intimate relationship. The face of meekness is useful in blinding prey, like the irukandjis, small and inoffensive looking, until it stings you. That she was not well loved after Martin's departure is probably due to her not warning the Queen of his escape.

"I need to know if there is anything unusual about her, if she dabbled or met with others who did so, no matter how insignificantly. My sister was many things but foolish was not a characteristic I would place on her. The Queen went with her to Tir, and Cambina would not have accepted her company without a good reason. And a blind woman in a ghost city of visions is as much a paradox as I've ever encountered."

"That was before I was here, but I can ask and learn. I can at least use my skills as a Rebman Archivist, we are trained to learn the doings of the court by listening and asking innocuous questions."

"Let us hope that Random is wise enough to recognize the value of an archivist." Jerod says. "In the meantime, I was wondering about your help on another matter. I'm just in guest quarters now but I'll need to set up permanent ones if I'm going to be around for awhile. I could always use a second opinion on some choices. Interested?"

"Of course," she replies, very casually. "Have you spoken to Gilt Winter about it? He seems to run a number of things here, not the Steward."

Venesch bows to the retreating Prince and opens the door for his old student. He gestures towards the long grassy sward between the castle and the lake. "Shall we walk?" he asks.

[Assuming Jerod goes with him.]

"My Prince, I would ask you to second me rather than Thorn. He is a good man, but I would not put him at odds with Lady Robin."

"I'm curious as to what odds you believe he would be at?" Jerod asks, side-stepping the question of being his second. "In a first blood situation, the second's function is fairly limited. Are you anticipating something else occurring?"

"There are two reasons I do not wish him to be my second," Venesch explains. "The first is that it places him at odds with the royal family, which is a burden neither he nor they need in a captain of guards. Just as I could not have accused Lady Robin if I still held my former position.

"The second, my Prince, is that I do not wish to place him in a combat that he has no chance of winning. However low the odds that seconds will be called upon to fight, Thorn does not have the ability or experience to win."

"Logical." Jerod replies. "Though if in fact seconds are required, there are options to allow Robin having her second step forward? She's not going to pick someone who is lesser rank than herself. You could be putting me in a position to face off against Bleys. Not that I wouldn't mind the attempt." he says after a moment. "Might not win, but getting a couple of whacks in would be fun.

"I'm more interested in what all started this. I only got part of it when I walked in. I want the rest."

Venesch strolls on, turning aside only when they are within a yard or so of the water. "You had, I believe, returned to Rebma, when I offered my resignation to the Regent for the escape of my prisoner. It was not voluntary; I was in charge and therefore responsible. You will recall, of course, that I offered the same to King Eric when Prince Corwin escaped. The Regent chose to accept the offer, as is his right.

"The Lady Robin, who I was later told was responsible for the incident, did not choose to take responsibility, leaving it on my head. While I thought it possible that she was in league with Huon and aiding his escape, I was not convinced, but were she such, she could have acted no better to assist him.

"And so the Lady Robin found me, a few hours later. Deprived of my position, a risk to my family and my very existence an embarrassment to the Crown, for none would accept the justice of my reduced circumstances. I chose to commit honorable suicide rather than be at odds with the Crown or hurt those I loved.

"It was not until Lady Robin first offered me employ in her own household and assaulted me when I refused that I began to seriously consider that she committed more than technical treason by assaulting the King, in the person of one of his soldiers.

"I was as surprised as I had ever been to actually see you and the others when we arrived here. I am not the Marquis Maritime, and so do not assume that all act from hostility to us, although Lady Robin's antipathy to the city and castle my masters loved so well is quite obvious.

"I would like to believe her motives are honest, but her actions are ill-conceived and her education was grossly mishandled for a Lady of Amber or Xanadu.

"Do you have further questions, Prince Jerod?"

"Just one." Jerod says, re-directing momentarily, making a statement for context. "Robin, is messed up, not treacherous. She has issues, and she lets her emotions rule what should be a considerable intellect. Let's hope Vere rubs off on her.

"What will you do after the duel has concluded? If she is victorious, and she does not accept responsibility for Huon's escape by her actions or lack thereof, then what? You will be in the same position you previously were. Only this time, I will be a witness to it. That might be sufficient to force my hand and call her out myself, to answer for her misdeeds that have claimed a loyal retainer. Is that what you are looking for?"

"I assume she will be. I have some tricks, but she is the child of a Prince of Amber, and I am an aging swordsman. There is only so much that training and experience can overcome.

"Consider what would happen if you were to defend my honor. If you were to win, the Lady Robin would be disgraced and I would still not be welcome in Amber's guardroom amongst Caine's ambitious, well-connected midshipmen. Nor would I displace Thorn, here. In addition, I would be weakened by being seen to need your support. And there would be bad blood between you and Lady Robin, and possibly Prince Julian as well.

Venesch shakes his head. "No, best for all if I make my statement with my steel and retire, one way or another. I served at the King's Pleasure, and that is clearly passed."

"Bad blood is irrelevant where friendship is concerned." Jerod replies. "I am not concerned about the politics of having a...retainer lose their position. I am worried about my friend, which is what you are. You have been that, and more, since my father handed over his only son to you for training. I have very few friends, and I will not turn from those I have should they be in need."

"I appreciate that, as I appreciate Thorn's offer," Venesch replies. "Prince Caine would have found a way to relieve himself of me before too long. I am content to retire, although I will take a posting if Winter can arrange it.

Jerod nods slowly, accepting what he hears. "Very well. In that case, I agree to act as your second. You may be a bit older than her, but as Dad taught me youth and enthusiasm are no match for old age and treachery. We'll just stay light on the treachery part so we keep in the rules and maintain honour. Let us discuss our strategy concerning the upcoming duel and then I will await the arrival of Robin's second."

Venesch nods. "The first step is to consider one's opponent. The Lady Robin was raised a Ranger and will be skilled in what they teach, and is old enough to have fought in Arden against both Corwin and his monsters. Notable Ranger weaknesses involve small unit combat, and are unsuitable for a duel. In addition, she will be faster, stronger, and prepared.

"She is considered to be less prone to intellectual pursuits than her peers are. One wonders if she and Prince Gerard's son will be able to have happy evenings at home.

"She is not comfortable indoors, and is not well-suited to castle life. This keeps her from knowing enough about the environment to be at her best in it." Venesch turns and looks towards a castle window.

"My current approach to strategy is two-pronged. First, try to fight her on ground that is advantageous to me, which is to say an indoor duel in a location with much of the trappings of civilization. I may slide across a table that will not hold her weight. Second, steadily pepper her with comments and questions so that she cannot think on the fight due to my distraction.

"My expectation is that those will not be enough, but will give me something of a chance to not be blooded inappropriately quickly."

His eyes snap to Jerod. "What are your thoughts?"

"As challenger, you choose the site, and she chooses the weapons." Jerod says. "Robin is good, no doubt of that. She may be as good as me, though she's never given me the opportunity to test that assumption. But she's a Ranger. She's more hands on and practical. You've both had experience in battle but you have the advantage of formal military training and all the extras that go with that. Use it. If it were me, I'd piss her off and make her angry, but in that state she'll probably run clean through your defenses and not even realize she was getting hit, at the cost of you getting killed very quick. If you intend to distract, make it personal. Not insulting mind you, just personal. I think she is realizing she made a mistake by not considering her situation when she had Huon, and that rash actions can precipitate unfortunate consequences. Keeping that foremost in her thoughts may slow her down, cause her to hesitate, even momentarily. In this fight, to first blood, that's what you need.

"As second however, I am duty bound to attempt a negotiated settlement to avoid the duel in the first place. I need to know what terms you wish to pursue. Your maximum and your absolute minimum, so I can get an idea as to what range for negotiations I have."

Venesch nods along. "Even mutual bloodletting would do. Well noted, my Prince. I shall endeavor to do so. I think I have some facility with angering Lady Robin.

"As to a negotiation, I would like the Lady Robin to admit her error and apologize to me for failing to do so promptly, in front of the Court and the King. In return I would apologize for overhastily deciding her motives were treasonous.

"At a minimum, a personal apology and an explanation to the King. The latter is a formality to allow the King to take cognizance of the cause of my failure to secure the prisoner."

Venesch actually cracks a small smile at this point. It's an expression his face seems to have abandoned of late, and is unfamiliar with. "If the Lady Robin offers to recapture the prisoner, that would also go quite a way towards making amends with the King, whose best interests I have at heart."

Jerod chuckles at his old mentor's comments. "Then I will do my utmost to put forward your last request to her. You never know."

Venesch nods. "Thank you, my Prince. You are a credit to your father's memory."

Gilt Winter walks out with Robin. "Lady, are you familiar with the customs of Amber in this regard? Most importantly, you will need a second. They are your advocate and arranger of details and, should you be unable to duel, your substitute."

Robin smiles wryly to Gilt as they step out into the courtyard again. "I'm not familiar with the customs of Amber in most regards, let alone this one. But I figure I can wing it."

Once away from the building, she stops and croons to her little lovelies. Oh, they did so good. Robin's very, very proud of them. She nuzzles Peep, strokes Chirrup and gives Ooot a fond thump. Now they can be themselves. She releases her little friends back to the sky and their own ways with sparkling green eyes.

"Soooo," she says, scratching her chin contemplatively, "a second, hunh? Probably should be someone who's already in town. Who's in town?" Robin finishes with a smile.

"A number of your cousins and uncles have arrived for Cambina's funeral. Conner and Brennan are here, the Lady Brita, the newcomer Silhouette, Ossian, Prince Bleys and Lady Brij, Lilly, Prince Gerard, of course, and Princess Fiona. Arrivals happen frequently by informal means, but I think the list is reasonably complete.

He pauses. "Unless you were looking for someone outside of your family." He pauses. "I would recommend someone of your rank or higher, it is the custom."

"Yeah." Robin nods thoughtfully. "Especially with the possibility of Jerod stepping into the fray. Well, since Vere's not on the list," a small pout dashes across her face, "I'd love it if Brita could give me a hand with this. Thanks.

"Oh and where's my horse?" Robin looks around the courtyard. "It's got Venesch's gear on it. Especially his sword. Whiiiiich I'll bet is pretty important to him." She ticks her tongue in disgruntlement.

Gilt glances across the courtyard and gestures towards a long outbuilding by the lake. "In the stables. When they bring it to the palace, I'll have them send it to Venesch."

"Thank you." Robin nods.

He walks on a bit. "Lady Robin, it is assumed that you will have no trouble beating and possibly even humiliating Venesch, who is old and, frankly, not the child of Prince Julian of Amber. What shall I tell the King of your intentions?"

Robin glances at Gilt in surprise from where she walks alongside him. She thought she'd said. But then, she also said she didn't know the customs of Amber. So maybe this was just another log to jump.

"Weeeell, my intentions are to pink Venesch without getting pinked in return." A wry smile dances across her face. A daughter of Prince Julian she may be, but Robin bets that Venesch's got her in craftiness. "Then make my apologies." Her smile vanishes.

"I've got no desire to humiliate Venesch for all he's the..." her green eyes wander as she counts, "third most annoying man I've ever met.

"Gilt? Are there other things I should do before this duel? Am I supposed to talk to Brita or you?"

"You should talk to Brita. A second is supposed to be a confidant of the duelist who ensures fair-play and can step in if needed.

"Also, your second and Venesch's second make all the arrangements. This is because you and Venesch are not supposed to talk until the matter is resolved."

He holds up his hand. "I, as a representative of the King, have no position or authority other than any he assigns me. His Majesty may have additional requirements, which is why I am trying to gather adequate information regarding your intentions."

Robin takes all that in with a nod of understanding and thanks.

Gilt pauses at a path that leads towards the palace. "Are you coming inside, Lady Robin?"

The Ranger smiles wryly. She never was too subtle about her issues with Amber Castle. But here? Robin cocks her head for a moment, taking in Xanadu's syncopated nascent beat. Not her style but something she can dance to.

"Reckon so." She says with a nod.

Once inside she'll ask Gilt if she can get on the King's docket to make her Regent-ordered report, thank the man again and look for a page that can direct her to Brita.

Gilt nods. "I'll let him know that you need to speak to him." He turns to a young girl by the entrance. "Plait, please help Lady Robin find Lady Brita." The girl curtseys and smiles. "This way, Lady." She turns and walks down a hall.

Robin smiles back to the girl and follows her off down the hall, showing none of the bewilderment that Amber Castle typically bestows upon her.

Plait seems to know exactly where she is going. She quickly leads Robin down a small hallway to the left of the palace entrance. The hall curves slightly and, after a few minutes of walking, ends in a solid wooden door, elegantly carved with trees and flowers. Opening the door, Plait waves Robin in.

"Thank you, Plait," Robin says as she steps through the door, lingering a moment tp admire the way the carving moves through the wood-grain.

Robin steps into a circular chamber - apparently the base of one of the palace towers. Across from the door she entered is an archway leading out to a small garden which reminds Robin of a colored, living version of the carving on the door. To the right is a narrow stairway that curls up into the dimness above. She can see Brita through the archway, going through the slow, stylized motions of the meditation rituals that Robin has seen her perform before when with the Rangers. It is oddly quiet here - perhaps a trick of the cave wall arching above. Not even the distant waterfall's roar climbs over this garden's walls.

"Mmmmmm...." Robin hums in a satisfied undertone to herself. Quiet is nice, restful. It's been a long... week? A long time anyway. Shaking down her ruffled feathers, the girl skates along to the archway.

Not wanting to interrupt her Cousin, Robin waits there, arms crossed, leaning casually against the stone. It's not so bad in this young vibrant place but the Ranger still prefers the sun on her face and the wind in her hair to any civilized trappings one would care to name.

Robin notes that Brita is nearing the end of her movements. As she does so, she turns to face the door and with the last glide bows to Robin. "Cousin Robin," she says with a smile, "Well Met. You have Found Xanadu's little Haven. Do You Need to Speak with Me?" Brita knows Robin would not necessarily be wandering indoors without some purpose, but she could have scented out the garden quickly if forced to be indoors for some other reason.

"Cousin." Robin smiles as she straightens, pleased as much by Brita's company as by the lack of poison welling up within herself. "I was looking for you. The haven just makes it all the better."

Robin flutters out into the garden and looks around with curious glimmering eyes, making sure they are alone before ducking her head bashfully toward Brita. "I, uh, did need to speak with you. I need to ask a favor." The girl grimaces as she feels her tongue start to tie up. She pushes her words forward in a rush in the hopes of heading off the stuttering. Or the stammering. Or the wild jargon.

"WouldyoubemysecondinahonorduelagainstVenesch? Firstbloodonly? Please?" As the sound of her own voice reaches Robin's ears, she wrinkles her nose in distaste. Maybe that wasn't better than stuttering, stammering or wild jargon.

Brita is very still for several heartbeats as she processes the stream. "Duel? Captain Venesh Dishonored You??" Brita is obviously having a bit of issue with the thought, but she quickly shakes it off. "Of Course. Of Course, I will Be Your Shield Bearer. Tell me What he Did to Dishonor You that you would Challenge Him to Holmgang?"

Robin cocks her head, gratified and delighted by Brita's response as well as confused by her words. Ah well, it was Brita's understanding of the honor stuff that led her here in the first place. She was just going to have to trust (gulp, that word!) Brita and try to explain as best as she could.

"Thank you, Brita." She ducks her head again as her face colors. "I... I'll try to answer your questions. But please, please understand that I really... don't know what I'm talking about. Duels. And honor. And all of this is just... foreign to me." She flaps a frustrated hand.

"Soooo, Captain Venesch dishonored me? Iiiii... gueeeesss so. I mean, I know that's what he was trying to do when he loudly called me a traitor in the courtyard a few moments ago. Personally," Robin shrugs, "while that kind of pisses me off, it's not something I'm going to kill anyone over or anything. A trapped and hurting animal will naturally claw at its rescuer. Oh wait! Scratch that. Venesch doesn't like being compared to animals. But anyway, I figure that's what he was doing. So I'm not terribly mad about it.

"Esssspecially since Venesch explained in the Judgment with Prince Garrett that he needed to insult me pretty heftily so that... a duel could be... fought to, uh, balance... the insult I made to him earlier. Right. I think that's right. Ssssssooooo, actually he's the challenger and I'm the defender."

Robin looks up at Brita with worried eyes. "Did you still want to second me knowing that?"

"Of Course." Brita responds instantly. "I Understand how His Insult would Not insult You. You Said he was Trying to Instigate a Duel with You. Why would he Do That? What Insult did You Give?"

"Ummmm..." Robin thinks about it carefully. "I think there were two -- one actual and one implicit. The actual one Venesch was pretty clear about. I saved his life but was... ungentle and rude about it. And since he didn't want me to save his life, his nose is out of joint. He says I treated a soldier of the King like a beast of burden instead of a grown man responsible for his own actions. Hence the treason call out."

Robin shrugs. "I guess I can understand that. I'd be pissed too.

"See. After that rather exciting dinner in Amber? When I climbed out the window?" Robin checks with Brita to make sure she remembers. "Well, when I got down to the garden, Venesch was there starting some kind of ritual. It didn't feel... right so I interrupted him and asked him what he was up to.

"Heeeee said..." Robin's brow furrows as she has trouble understanding even in retrospect, "that he had dishonored his sword beeeecause he had allowed an important prisoner -- Huon -- to escape and the Regent -- fucking Caine -- had accepted his resignation so none of the rest Family would have him -- which isn't true -- and that the best thing he could do for his own family and their allies was to off himself -- which is just plain stupid.

"You remember I wasn't too articulate that night? Well, I tried to talk him out of it. To offer him other options. To sympathize with his pain. To explain some little of the Family's various dynamics. But he wasn't having any of it. Sssssoooooo, I hit him. Knocked him out. And drug him here to Xanadu against his will."

Robin shrugs. "Okay, so that was the actual insult. Which I'm not sorry for. And would do again. But if fighting a duel with Venesch helps him live and stay in the King's service? Okay, I'll fight a duel." She shrugs again, whatever it takes.

"The other insult? The implicit one? Oh, Deep Green, Brita." Robin's teeth clench. "I get so mad. I, grrrrr... insufferable, arrogant fucktards! Gaaaahhh, ack! And then Venesch gets caught in the middle! And... somehow, it's supposedly all MY fault! Safer, I suppose to pretend that I'm omniscient than to task the fucking Regent... Or take responsibility for their own idiocy..." Robin squawks angrily and begins to pace in agitation, her shoulders mantling, her fists clenching. "And then the Prince! What the hell?!?

"And now... and now... I have to apologize!!! To Venesch. In order for him to live."

Robin turns wet green eyes. "Oh, Brita... it's so wrong. And it hurts so much. But... but... but..." Robin shakes her head sadly and sighs. "But I will. Goddamn, that man is high maintenance."

She ruffles sadly and looks over to her cousin.

"Men," Brita says succinctly. "They Act like Little Boys when they Do Not get Their way."

Robin rolls her eyes and nods emphatically. She can.t imagine Paige or Lilly or Folly acting like that.

[Brita] takes a deep breath. "I Understand Captain Venesch's Issue with Honor over the Loss of Uncle Huon. Master Ngyen explained how Honor was So Important to His People that they would Die rather than Deal with it. He Could have Pledged to Regain his Lost Prisoner instead of Attempting to Kill Himself. It will Not do Former Reality Amber or Reality Xanadu any Good to Lose One of Skill and Wisdom over Something that can be Remedied." She nods firmly. "You did Right to Stop Him."

Robin's green eyes tear up as the stress leaves her shoulders. "Thank you, Brita. I was... beginning to think that everybody was mad at me. I really appreciate it."

Brita clasps Robin's shoulder and looks straight into her eyes as she adds "And, while You May have Made a Mistake, you are Not Totally at Fault for Uncle Huon's Escape. You Were Trying."

"Uhhh..." Robin drops her eyes, "Brita? I haven't made my report to the King. And I'm all... 'grrrrr-arrgh' right now. Hard to talk about Huon. But I didn't 'make a mistake'. I knew what I was doing. Knew the risk. Acceptable. Free my sword. Fight for my Family's lives. Only Dragon-knowing person there. Couldn't abandon them. Even now knowing he was Pattern-breaker, might still choose so again. Revenge is never worth more loss." She pats Brita's hand where it holds her shoulder, hoping her martial cousin will understand.

Brita just says, "Exactly. Family - even Uncle Huon. You Knew the Acadian Dragon Best."

Brita straightens and paces away a bit. "As to the Apology, you Said you Understand Captain Venesch's reactions to the Halting of his Honor Death. Would you Apologize for the Way you Handled the situation? Sincerely?"

"Yep." Robin nods firmly. "Still can't think of what I could've done better. But that's my limit, not his. Can I get help with the words though?" Robin waves at her mouth, smiling wryly. "Don't want to make it worse but apologizing wrong."

"We can Ask my Brother." Brita smiles with obvious joy at the thought of her brother. "He is Good with Words.

[Brita] turns back, "And What would you Ask of Him in Return?"

"In return?" Robin looks bewildered. "I want him to live and stay in the service of the King. That's all I ever wanted. Iiiiitttt... might be nice not to be labeled a traitor by the former Captain of Amber's Guard, but if he's not up to that, I'll survive." She shrugs.

Brita nods. "So, Do you Know who is Captain Venesch's Shield Bearer? I think I must Talk to Him or Her."

Garrett speaks to no one after passing judgment on Venesch and Robin. He stalks through the castle, choosing a route that takes him to the salle through lesser-used corridors. The expression he wears resembles storm clouds before a particularly violent gale, sending any servants he happens to meet slinking off silently in the opposite direction.

Once in the salle, he selects a sword that's a bit heavier than he generally prefers, strips off his shirt, and launches into a vigorous workout, working the tension forcibly out of every muscle.

Some time in, he begins muttering to himself. "What right did you have?" he grumbles under his breath, stabbing hard at the practice dummy as punctuation. "What do you know about warriors? Stories and tales and legends." He stabs again and darts away with rapid, practiced footwork. "You're a child. Kill a man in battle and you're ready to puke," he chides himself viciously.

Thwump. Another blow strikes the dummy.

Conner arrives at the salle with a more pensive frame of mind. As it was quite likely that he would become the bearer of one of the most important swords in the cosmos, Conner had been focusing more on his sword drills than ever before. Conner watches Garrett beat on the dummy as Conner carefully folds his shirt, places it on the floor and selects the same blade he has been practicing with, as close to a replica of the Paxblade as he could find.

"Well I'm no expert," Conner comments, "but I don't think he'll ever bother you again." Conner grins at his cousin. "Care for a livelier opponent?"

"Oh. Lord Conner," Garrett gasps, apparently having been in deep concentration. His cheeks flush from what Conner suspects is more embarrassment than exertion. He shifts his sword to his other hand and wipes his sweaty palm on his trousers. Rather than offering it though, he returns the sword to its proper hand.

"That would be good, yes. He, um, doesn't put up much of a fight," the young prince quips with a nod toward the battered dummy.

"I should worry greatly if he did, Highness." Conner chuckles back. "Come then. I've been fighting mostly underwater these days and need to refresh my air technique." Conner brings his blade forward and salutes with it before dropping into a defensive posture. Conner's current technique emphasizes thrusting over swinging cuts. He probes Garrett's defenses to see what kind of skills the young prince has picked up.

Garrett returns the salute and begins to fence. His opening moves are tentative, probing to gauge Conner's style. He grins good-naturedly at his opponent's successes, occasionally trying to emulate maneuvers that pique his interest. The young prince is quick on his feet and deft with his wrists, but Conner recognizes the studiousness of one who is in the early stages of training. His moves are like those out of a textbook, lacking the signatures of an individual style. Still, Conner can tell even now that Garrett has the potential to be a good swordsman with a few more decades of practice. He learns quickly and is tireless.

As the men engage in their conversation of blades, a dark-haired woman enters the salle as quiet as cat's feet on silk. Perhaps in her late twenties, she wears a black unitard that hugs her slender form -- providing the illusion of obsidian nudity. A diaphanous skirt of russet and goldwork offers her some modesty. She pauses long enough to regard the men with a reptilian interest before sauntering toward the line of practice weapons.

"Conner," Garrett says quietly, nodding toward the newcomer between blade strokes. "You know her?"

Conner sidesteps around Garrett as they fence so he can look in the direction of the mystery lady. "No." Conner draws out the word. "New family or yet another of your father's Texorami anchors at a guess. Something in her manner suggests the former is closer to the truth. Let's find out shall we?" Conner steps back from their contest and pivots to face the Lady in Black. "Is their anything we can help you with, lady?" Conner calls out. "If you are looking for a sparring partner, I am sure either of us would be happy to oblige."

Silhouette wrinkles her nose as she examines the collection of blades. But the disappointment transforms to curiosity when she hears Conner addressing her. "Do either of you gentlemen study La Verdadera Destreza, perhaps?" she says, stepping toward them. "I have been neglecting myself these last days and a sparring match would be most invigorating."

Her forest-shadow eyes drift from Connor to Garrett and back again. "I am the Lady Silhouette." She curtsies, using the opportunity to smooth out her skirt.

"I am Lord Conner," Conner bows slightly towards Silhouette and then sweeps out an arm towards Garret, "and this is his Highness, Prince Garrett of Xanadu." Conner smiles broadly at them both. "As for La Destreza, I have have favored the Agrippan school over it though lately I have been seeking the Way of Water." Conner chuckles. "Regardless it is always good to test oneself against unfamiliar styles. It is the only way to temper one's own."

Garrett grins at Conner's veiled reference to Rebma. "Indeed," he agrees.

"Then this meeting is most fortuitous, cousin. Or should I say cousins?" Silhouette replies, glancing questioningly at Connor. "May we impart Knowledge upon each other this day."

The prince nods pleasantly to Silhouette. Even if Conner had not introduced him, Silhouette could have made out the family resemblance. Garrett appears to be almost as young as her page. His build is slight like his father's, but his wiry shoulders and arms are well-muscled and tanned. He also has his father's narrow chin and bright blue eyes. Instead of being blond, his hair is dark brown but no less unruly. "You're new to Xanadu," he says. It's not quite a question.

Silhouette's gaze lingers on Garrett's features for a moment, approving. A shy smile warms her features at his question. "You are correct, my Prince. My current obligations to the Lord Huon have brought me here. This journey has been one of both wonders and sorrows."

Garrett's eyebrow arches dubiously. "Huon?" he repeats warily, shooting a glance at Conner.

Conner's smile freezes in place for a moment. "And what, pray tell, are your obligations to Huon of the Horn?" Conner inquires. His grip on the blade he holds tightens.

Silhouette's expression remains immutable. "I am his emissary," she says. "At the moment, I am negotiating an amiable cessation of hostilities and Lord Huon's eventual surrender into King Random's custody. I fear I cannot discuss the terms of this agreement. I'm sure you understand."

Her head tilts with falconine inquisitiveness. "Were either of you involved in the recent conflict with his Lordship, perhaps?"

With a look, Garrett leaves Conner to field that one.

"You could say that, yes." Conner lets a thin smile grow across his face. "I think a fuller introduction is in order. I am Conner, son of Fiona and General of the Seaward Expeditionary Force of Queen Khela of Rebma. I am a primary reason your principal failed in his objectives. I am part of a small but vocal faction of the family currently negotiating to hunt Huon down and stick his head on a pike as a warning to future generations that there are some things you simply must not do." Conner smiles wider at the thought. "I suggest choosing a weapon, Lady of Shadows. We are going to be sparring often in the coming days and I see no reason not to start right now."

"Lady of Shadows. I rather like that," she chuckles sweetly.

"Yes. You and I have much to speak of, Connor, son of Fiona," Silhouette says in a pleased tone. "And a conversation of blades shall serve as a delightful beginning to our continued intercourse."

She excuses herself long enough to choose an acceptable sword and dagger pairing from the practice wall. Satisfied, she strolls into the center of the room and tests the sword's eight with a rapid succession of estocadas, tajos, and reveses. After placing a reverent kiss upon the blade, Silhouette settles into an off-line stance. "Shall we begin, cousin?"

When Silhouette moves to chose a dagger, Conner strides over to the clothes he removed and picks up his cape of dark green. He settles it over his left arm with a comfortable grip.

Garrett grip tightens on his blade though he does not draw on either of the combatants. Instead, he takes up a position halfway between them but out of their way. "She's an Ambassador, Lord Conner," Garrett warns. "Let's not end the negotiations here." From his stance, they can tell he's willing to let them spar, but is ready to put a stop to it if it gets out of hand.

"You may be unaware of this Highness, but I was a member of Amber's Diplomatic Corps for many years." Conner replies easily. "I appreciated not being killed by foreign powers for unpleasant messages and I shall extend to the Lady the same courtesy." Conner takes an on line stance and salutes Silhouette with his sword. "We shall." Conner begins with a flurry of lunges and thrusts designed to test his opponent's speed and footwork.

Technically, Silhouette's utilization of the Destreza hallmarks is impressive -- almost flawless. A textbook student of The True Art. But despite her perfect form, it becomes immediately apparent that she lacks Connor's finesse and adaptability. Her attempts to counter his initial tests -- while successful -- are hard fought and rob her of any opportunities to alter the fight's momentum. He pushes her around the circle with relative ease, but she does not appear ready to submit.

And, to her credit, she does not so much as flinch when he scores a solid hit across the knuckles of her dagger-hand. Nor does she grow fatigued, in spite of the obvious exertion being placed upon her. She only smiles, "You impress me, cousin. I fear I shall not provide you with much of a challenge this day. My apologies."

"No need to apologize, my dear." Conner says easily. "This was just what I needed today." Conner grins. Conner makes a note to thank his mother, yet again, for the contents of his Training Room as a child. Silhouette's fighting style was so by the book that Conner could overlay the diagrams of his youth over her moves and know where she was going next.

"Cousin?" Garrett pipes up from the sidelines. He has been following the fight attentively, keeping himself in good position to both step in if needed and view new techniques to try out later. "Whose daughter are you?" he asks. Based on her endurance, Garrett already reckoned she was Family of some sort.

Silhouette remains silent apart from the whistling of her blade and the shuffle of her feet.

"Oh now that is an interesting question." Conner approves. "It is so tempting to guess based on available data though, isn't it, Highness?" Conner pauses to parry an overhand cut and riposte. "Assuming a known child, her level of skill shown here would argue against Benedict for a parent. Corwin might let a lady achieve a moderate level and be satisfied but you lack the Faiellan features. Similarly, you lack the red hair of a Clarissan though my sister arrived as a blond so that is not definitive." Conner takes a moment to consider the next likely parentage and for a moment his blade slides off line.

In that moment, Silhouette lunges forward to bind Conner's blade and Conner's blade snaps back into position. His blade forces hers to the side and Conner brings his cape down on it hard to entangle it. The flat of his blade slaps down on Silhouette's sword hand and her sword and his cape drop to the floor. "So, now that you not otherwise occupied, will you satisfy our curiosity?" Conner smiles.

Conner's trap catches Silhouette completely off-guard. Out of position, she cannot even turn to defend herself with her dagger. A crimson droplet falls from its hilt, as if in confirmation of her defeat -- the thin line of Conner's previous touch blooming scarlet beads.

"Well played, Lord Connor. Thank you for providing me with Enlightenment today. If you allow me a moment's grace, I shall disclose my lineage to you both," Silhouette says, surrendering her dagger to Connor. She glances over at Garrett, "Your Highness, might I trouble you for bandage or cloth, as well as a lit candle?"

The purpose of the cloth is obvious, but the request for the lit candle piques Garrett's curiosity. In this marvel of an electrically-powered castle, finding one might take some scrounging though. Garrett nods and goes off to look as Silhouette continues.

She cradles her wounded hand and retreats to a nearby bench. "My mother is the Princess Florimel -- not that she would admit such. She is under the erroneous impression that I am a doppelganger spawned by Lord Huon."

Garrett pauses in his search to listen to that tidbit, then continues to hunt.

"Well if you were such, your beliefs would be the same. That's the trouble really." Conner observes. "Let me see your hand, Lady. Among my many titles is physician and Xanadu allows for medicine that Amber lacked." Conner sits next to Silhouette and holds his hand for hers. "Were you intending to use hot wax to cauterize your wound or does the candle have a more obscure purpose?" Conner asks.

"I would not risk infection by utilizing the wax in such a manner," Silhouette says, allowing Connor to examine the wound. "It is the flame I seek, as I am unfamiliar with the sterilizing agents in this world. But if you are a physician, perhaps that shall not be necessary." She smiles faintly at him.

"Thank you for your kindness, Lord Connor."

"Whenever circumstances allow, I like to heal what I've harmed." Conner replies easily. "It seems a shallow cut and it bleeds cleanly. My last visit to the infirmary was brief but it should have bandages and antibiotic creams that will serve the purpose."

Silhouette gives a pleased laugh, "I forget the technological paradigms here differ from where I originate. Salves and herbs are more familiar to me. I place myself into your care."

She tilts her head, disquiet coloring her eyes. "Tell me, Connor. Will the remainder of my family treat me with the compassion exhibited by Prince Garret and yourself? Or should I expect my mother's reaction to be more commonly duplicated?"

"It'll be a mix," Garrett states, returning with a towel, a pack of matches and a used ashtray to put the spent matches in. "Some of the more militant of our cousins will want your head on a pike. If my father has begun negotiations with you though, they'll have to hold their horses."

He sets the matches and ashtray down and takes her hand. He wraps the towel around the wound securely and bends her elbow, positioning her hand at shoulder height. "Here. Put pressure on it and keep your hand up for a bit." When she is settled, he continues.

"I reckon most of the others will be too curious about you to do much damage before they get your story. We're funny like that," he smirks.

Silhouette allows Garrett to care for her, remaining silent throughout. Her lips curl with amusement at his final comment. "Thank you, your Highness. Instead of the matches, I shall utilize the medicinal items Lord Connor suggested. Forgive me for the inconvenience I've caused you."

"His Highness has the right of it." Conner confirms. "I have been too long a diplomat to withhold common courtesy from the opposing side. Besides, if you are truly of our bloodline, then you will still be around long after this incident with Huon is past. No harm in taking the long view of things. Why have you chosen to walk such a hard path, Lady? You had to know you would be walking into the lion's den."

"Of course. I was made aware of the potential risks involved in this negotiation," Silhouette says. She straightens with pride. "However, I am a Preceptor. Until my current duties to Lord Huon conclude, I shall serve him as required by our covenant. Surely you understand this."

"In theory," Garrett replies. "What are the particulars of the covenant?"

Silhouette casts a guarded look over at Connor and then back to Garrett. Her expression softens into one of deference. "Your Highness, as your station requires that I speak, I shall hope Lord Connor will be discreet in this matter.

"Lord Huon requested that I negotiate a mutually favorable reconciliation -- offering his capitulation to your father's rule. He seeks amnesty and to be reunited with his family -- and avoid further bloodshed. To that point, I shall settle the ancient Vendetta with his brother, Lord Bleys -- utilizing your father's influence to solidify a lasting peace. At the moment, the negotiations are proceeding well, but have been delayed until after the Royal funerals.

"Once these matters are at an end, my covenant with Lord Huon shall be dissolved. I intend to enter into your father's service at that time -- if he will allow me that honor."

"You may rely on my discretion in this matter." Conner assures her. "I will confess a curiosity as to how you found yourself in the service of Huon in the first place. It is an interesting coincidence for unknown family members to have found each other." Conner adds.

A lazy smile curls Silhouette's lips. "Initially, Lord Huon sought me out for my expertise as an artificer -- offering to exceed my standard remuneration. Our relationship grew from there; once he discovered my skills extended beyond engineering and metalwork. He hid our familial relation until much of our business had concluded. He only revealed this association just before launching his assault on Rebma." She checks on her wounded hand, nodding with satisfaction before adding, "The King suspects Lord Huon may have arranged for my family's murder and my subsequent slavery in order to position me in his path. It is an intriguing hypothesis."

Paige crests the rise, leading her horse toward the cliff's edge, hoping the Children will appreciate the view as much as she always does. "This is Xanadu, King Random's new creation, and our new beginning. Once we arrive, I'll introduce you to the mayor and we can find you all a place."

[BTW, while I understand that Lalal is always with them, is she with them?]

[You think you see glimpses of her throughout the trek, but unless you seek her out with the priestesses, not in any way you can chat with.]

The people stand with her on the cliff's edge, looking down from the forest verge over the caves to the beach and the sea. The city is growing, but still quite incomplete and the palace, flying the ruby unicorn flag, is magnificent. The waterfall is a ribbon of silver, and cannot be heard from this distance.

"Lady, we are glad you brought us here, but we are a forest people. We were told we would be here." The speaker is a woman, not a priestess, but clearly of some social standing. She looks to be one of those women who barely age between 25 and 55, but she speaks with some confidence.

Paige replies smoothly, "Those that take service with the King's Rangers will live where they work.

"As to what other woods are available for settlers, you can speak with the King's man in town." She indicates where she last saw Lord Ash.

The woman looks down at the town in the same way Robin looks at the Castle. "We will stay here. It is close enough. Send the Man to us."

The body language of the people indicates that they agree with her.

Paige nods, drawing her Trump deck from her saddlebags, a pleasant expression on her face even as she silently curses herself. Shuffling out her Father's card, she concentrates on his warm eyes.

Bleys' eyes smile his genuine smile, and his smiling face follows. "Paige. Are you in Xanadu already?"

Paige smiles at her father, "Broceliande at least. The passage was uneventful, almost enough to make one worry, if they're inclined to do such a thing.

"Lalal's Children of the Moon and I are atop the cliff. I've explained that there will be no settlement within the wood, save those that serve in the Rangers. As such, they would like to speak with someone from the City as to other options. Are you aware if the Lord Mayor still serving in that role?" she asks, stepping a few paces from the refugees.

"Ash? Yes." Bleys nods. " He was up here yesterday, but I haven't seen him today. He usually disappears into Random's confidence with Soren when he climbs the cliff. If you need a suitably impressive official to snow the rubes, I can certainly come through."

Paige extends a hand, chuckling, "I warn you though, I told them that I was looking for a King's man."

Bleys steps through with a cheery smile of his own. "To the extent that I'm not, they'll never know the difference."

His daughter nods, and taking the lead turns back toward the Children.

"This is Prince Bleys, brother to King Random," she introduces.

Bleys grins and says to Paige, "well chosen spot." He bounds upon three rocks arranged in a stair at the edge of the cliff. He turns towards the Children and bows. "Well met, oh Children of the Moon. The King bids me bid you welcome in his name. Our lands are new, and they are raw and rich, and none who sets his mind to prospering will fail."

He gestures towards the city. "Who speaks for you? I would have words with your leaders."

The High Priestess steps forward, although for a moment Paige things the woman who spoke to her earlier was about to.

Bleys leans in towards Paige. "See if you can find Lalal. I'll butter up old hatchetface, here."

Paige nods, "Watch the other one. She's got an attitude."

Bleys smiles at the older woman. "Come, let us discuss your needs and ours." He leads her quickly away.

Paige steps towards the group of people, reasoning that her cousin is with her people. She whispers with the slight breeze atop the cliff, calling gently, "Lalal, cousin, we have arrived. I would speak with you, for your Children's sake."

Paige feels a breeze on her face, coming from the woods to the west.

She thinks that it's more subtle than a windstorm and turns to find her cousin at a brisk walk.

"Why not show yourself among your Children," the redhead asks the zephyr as she gains some distance from the refugees.

The wind sounds like laughter, and as Paige reaches a brook, she sees Lalal sitting on a tree branch. The tree is tall, but not like those deep in the forest. "My people need separation from their Goddess. They need to be able to be virtuous or sin as they please. People die inside if they are not given a free choice to serve or reject."

She looks down at her cousin. "Did your parents not teach you this about being a Goddess?"

Paige sits back on the grass beneath the tree and looks up at her cousin. "My mother was mortal and knew nothing of gods and goddesses, and in the end little enough of me.

"My father and his siblings? Well of the many things in which he instructed me, godding was not one." She runs a hand through her short locks, smiling. "I believe our grandfather discouraged it."

She nods, sadly, and the breeze grows warmer. "I knew of that. My sister spoke of it, because it affected her son. He never understood why it was discouraged, when it was just who he was-- we are not suited to your rules and rigidities."

Paige nods. "I fear several of of us raised with such strictures are not suited either, but it begs the eternal environment versus heredity question," she muses. "If such had been imposed on you in your formative years, would you be as trapped by them as... well, as I am?"

She shrugs her shoulders, indicating no need for an answer, but obviously won't stop her cousin, either.

"My father is speaking to your people about settlement options, but I am sure you are aware of that," the warden begins. "As of this moment, only my Rangers will reside within Broceliande, and I fear your Children have no desire to serve nor reside in the growing city."

Lalal looks down, contemplating Paige for a long moment. "This is true. Will your soldiers hunt them if they try to live in the forest?"

"I am the King's servant," she responds plainly. "One of the conditions of their rescue was swearing the King's allegiance, and it is by his command that Broceliande's environs remain unpopulated." Her eyes are full of compassion for Lalal, genuinely touched by her concern for the Children.

She stands on her branch. "We were at home in a place not of Arden but in Arden. Can we not find similar Arcadian Groves for my children?"

Paige nods, "Perhaps such is the ideal, until then there will be some temporary arrangement made."

She looks back toward the cliff. "I'm sure my father will have some options."

Lalal looks in the same direction, as if listening to distant conversations. "Yes, very persuasive. My sisters and I have never cared much for time. Seasons are cyclic, not progressive. I would prefer to find solutions in the way things have been done in the past."

"Of course," Paige agrees. "Those that ignore the past are doomed to repeat it, or so they say.

"But using past solutions. It mires us in time, does it not?" she muses. "I would learn from the past solutions and problems and forge something better. Wouldn't you?

"Isn't your very being here in Random's new seat of Order something of a new future for you? Nothing cyclical about the destruction of Amber, to my knowledge of history." The redhead watches her cousin's reaction carefully.

"In the forest, a sapling or a yearling roe experience the change of seasons and the cycle they are born to, as surely as they are new things, they fit old, old patterns. It is a different valley, but the herd still eats, watches, and mates as they did in years past." She looks up and her voice becomes more tense. "My sister," she doesn't explain, and stands on the tree, looking for all the world as if she is about to leap down.

"Then we shall trust the old patterns to provide the answer, if it meets the King's will," Paige answers, rising to her feet smoothly.

She scans the distance. "I have a brother to call forth, but if Adonis's mother or another of your sisters have need of me..."

There is a rustle in the leaves and when she looks up, Lalal is gone.

Paige shakes her head at Lalal's disappearance before removing her Trumps. Edan's face on the pasteboard makes her smile a long second before she wills his image to life.

She is standing within a magical wood, before a large bole, her cropped red hair tossled by a breeze.

Paige stares at the card, willing the redhead into presence.

Edan comes into focus. Wherever he's standing, it's nighttime, and he's managed to get some rest and is wearing fresh clothing. He looks chipper, almost. Behind him is a tremendous tree that is glowing with a dark crackling green energy. "Ah, Paige," he says. "I like the look. I was hoping you'd call a little later, though."

"Well, the funeral hasn't started, but I've arrived here in Broceliande. Father's being diplomatic with our cousin's refugees near the cliff," she answers, rubbing the nape of her neck self-consciously. The sunlight dapples through the greenery above her as she considers. "I suppose I can try you again later, but I have no idea how much more time it would afford you."

Edan smiles and shrugs. "It is night-time here, and more than halfway to the dawn. I think time runs almost twice as fast here than there. But I do not ask just for myself, my sister. I have run into one of our cousins, and she asked to, ah, hitch a ride, as it were. Perhaps we could talk a little while; I expect her to come with the dawn." He looks like he's about to say something else, but stops.

"You're just like Father, to be off meeting women when you should be paying attention to me," Paige chuckles.

"Which of our cousins did you run into?"

Edan barely hesitates. "Hannah is her name," he says. "She asked to come along, and bring one or two others. Will that be possible?"

With a larger-than-usual sketch book under his arm, Ossian goes looking for Random.

Ossian finds the King easily. He's standing in the door to the chapel. Cambina's body is lying in state within. As Ossian approaches, Random says, without turning, "Hello, Ossian."

Ossian nods. "Hello. I have a proposal. If you are in the mood. And if Amber is still standing."

Random still doesn't turn. "I'd hate to think that Amber was lying down on the job, so that's out of the way. My mood is 'mercurial', so the odds are that whatever one you're looking for is one I've got, at least in parts."

He raises his arm and gestures towards Cambina's body. "We buried a few brothers and sisters, back in the day. Most before my time, admittedly. And who knows how many of my sibs grieved in silence for a child they had not told us of? No wonder we were cranky, as a group.

"It seems like we used to be immortal and now we keep having funerals."

Ossian swallows a comment.

Random turns to look at Ossian. "What do you have to propose?"

"I have an idea for Trumping a lot of people out of Amber. It will take a few months to complete." Ossian says "If you still want them here.

"A normal Trump or sketch is too small to let large numbers of people through, especially if they have luggage. I think I can make a larger one that will hold for a number of weeks at least."

Random nods, slowly. This is one of the few rooms with candles in it, and the light is softer than the electrics Ossian has seen throughout the palace. "Sounds like a fine idea. What part of it is risky enough that you decided to talk to me about it before proving or disproving your plan?"

"Well. A sketch that big can be used for other things. Taking a sizeable army through. And not only with handguns either. Other things too, I guess.

"And yeah. I need a warehouse somewhere here too. And a few months."

Random nods. "Right. Army, bad. So we guard it. We're mostly using those caves that pockmark the cliff face as warehouses, would one of those work? And can you make it one-way?"

"A cave would work if it is large enough. And has lighting. I want to build the interior myself. By hand." Ossian says "I know it sounds corny, but I need to know the place to paint it.

"Why would you want it one-way? Not that I intended to transport much from Xanadu to Amber. I would paint a sketch of the arrival room here, and take the sketch to Amber. The sketch would of course need an operator in Amber. Me I guess, to keep it working as long as possible."

[Random] looks at Ossian again. "Hey, did I ever get those trumps back from you? Do you still need them?"

Ossian brings out his Trump deck and finds Caine's Trump (Which is the one he borrowed). He hands it to Random face down. "Of course, I'd rather keep it. More than once I have been without good Trumps, despite being a painter."

"Huh," Random huhs. "You should have a deck. I don't have many, but I do have this one." He reaches into his beltpouch and pulls out a small, neatly-embroidered pouch and hands it to Ossian. The motif on the pouch is moons and stars.

[OOC: I guess Ossian can't make a one-way sketch? How would such a thing work, anyway?]

[OOC: Well, place trumps are one-way, now that I think about it. Random isn't much of an expert, so he's making sure. What he wants is a trump of Xanadu, not Amber.]

Ossian's eyes shine as he takes the pouch. "That's most generous." Then his voice changes. "Cambina's?" (which is not really a question)

Random nods. "She doesn't need it as much as you do."

"Thank you. You are far more trusting than I thought. Shall I start the Trump project? It will take a while."

Random smiles at this. "Sure. Two things. First, it's kind of a secret project. We don't want to stop people from coming here before it's done."

Ossian nods. "Of course. And second?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, second. Yeah, there was one. How soon will you know if you can do it? Can we get it in place before the wedding?"

"I don't think anyone has done anything like this before. I simply don't know. Building the arrival room will take at least a month, as I have to do it myself. After that I think I will be able to make a guess." Ossian says. "When is the wedding?"

"Oh, I dunno. More than a month, I guess. What date could I tell you that would convince you to get started right away but wouldn't seem too ludicrously fast? Cause that's probably it."

Ossian grins. "Don't worry. I'll start immedeately."

After allowing a day or two for rest, Conner sits down and pens the following note.

Majesty,

I formally request an audience to discuss matters that have arisen during the Rebman conflict. I apologize for not elaborating further but these things are better discussed face to face.

With deepest respect,

Conner

It wasn't much for an hour's effort but for once Conner just could not find the right words and settles for the brevity. He flags down a page and has it sent off to Random.

A note comes back, with a single word upon it.

"Studio."

Conner smirks. Where else would Random hold court? Conner idly considers fetching his flute in case the King wishes to jam but decides it unlikely. Besides, his studio would probably have spare instruments for last minute sessions. Conner heads over to the studio forthwith.

The hallway approaching the studio is dark, and the dark, thick curtains on the wall and the slightly spongy floor all seem designed to eliminate noise.

The effect is spoiled by the open door onto the well-lit room and the sound of metal pounding on metal from within, interspersed with streams of rather inventive Thari curses.

From the doorway, it's clear to Conner that Random is building some sort of contraption out of metal bars. It's sweaty work, and he has his shirt off.

Ash is in one corner, apparently attempt to teach Gilt Winter how to play a musical instrument.

It's very loud in here. Conner will need to shout to be heard.

Conner strides over to the King and his contraption. If they notice him, Conner nods to Ash and Gilt but stays on target. Conner idly wonders what the King is building. If this were a concert venue his money would be on a lighting fixture of some sort. Getting closer, Conner braces a bar that Random seems determined to force into place. "Need a hand, your Kingship?" Conner asks.

"Yes!," Random moves Conner's hands into particular positions, and braces the bar against his diplomat-nephew's foot. "Steady on!", adds the King, who then pulls the bar so it bends just above Conner's hands.

"Almost... Crap!" The bar folds at Connner's hands, collapsing and losing structural integrity. Random lets it go before it flies away.

"Ash was right. That'll take a smith." He claps his hands together, clearing off dust. "Thank you, Conner. Now, you wanted to see me?"

Conner takes a moment to clean off his own hands. "Yes." Conner clears his throat. "I guess I'll come right to the point. After all of the events in Rebma, I have been offered a position in the new court that Khela is forming and I would like to accept her offer." Conner pauses a moment and looks Random more fully in the face. "I gave you my oath, Majesty and I have no intention of breaking that. I have come to ask if me being a vassal of both realms is acceptable to you." Conner greatly desires to say more but having laid the issue so plainly he waits to see Random's reaction.

Random wipes his brow and points to some very large cushions on the floor. He collapses onto one of them, cross-legged. "Ohh. Well, Martin is a Duck of Rebma and so's Jerod, and I once got accidentally knighted in Texorami for "services to music", so in theory, no.

"Normally, nobles with cross-allegiances are a problem when the nobles are called to war. They tend not to respond to either liege, or if they do, they don't fight very hard. Ask yourself what it would have meant if Clarissa has fought with or against us in Chaos. The other thing they do is send one son to fight for one side and another for the other. That's sorta sucky.

"Now, we don't envision a case where we'd go to war against Khela, but stranger things have happened.

"What would you do if I summoned you to war, and the orders were to attack Rebma?"

Conner drops onto a cushion by Random and considers the question. "I would try to talk you out of it," Conner said at last with his trademark smiles. "and the Rebmans for that matter. Both kingdoms get the greatest advocate and worker for peaceful relations out of this deal. Still, that's evading the question."

Conner ponders a moment longer. "It really depends on why the war is happening. Let me explain a little further my motives for accepting this post. I made a deal with Queen Khela. She got my services as a general, diplomat and all around useful person in exchange for the Pattern Blade of Rebma. Now from what everyone has been telling me, that would make me the Knight of Rebma and the Defender of her Pattern. At the moment, keeping the Pattern safe means putting a strong Queendom around it and so I support Khela. So if war breaks out I need to know if you march on her Pattern as a savior or a madman for I can see very little middle ground that would lead to such an eventuality." Conner chuckles lowly. "Is that a fair answer Majesty?"

"It is. However, when I was most recently taking the hospitality of Moire, Bleys was climbing Kolvir with Amber's patternblade in hand, so it's gotta be pretty complex."

"Indeed." Conner nods. "I plan to have a conversation with my Uncle on that very topic. Either there is no geas, or Bleys's gift of gab extends to steel." Conner grins slowly.

"I can just imagine a meeting of the talking swords' club. 'Brother Caliburn, we find you guilty of braggadocio. We sentence you to five years serving under Bleys!'"

Random flops back on his beanbag. "Now, you know what's going to be complicated about Rebma and Xanadu? Even more complicated than Martin?"

"Well the two major thoughts that spring to mind are the Huon situation and the myriad of issues that could arise with a Rebman Queen in Xanadu." Conner answers. "Also on the list are any lingering feelings still in Rebman circles about you and your past and the fact that all things Rebman seem to pass through Paris nowadays. So in short, just about everything." Conner grins once more. "What is uppermost in your mind, Majesty?"

"Martin is Moire's grandchild by her eldest daughter. He's my elder child, but he's male, and only of marriageable consequence in Rebman dynastic politics. Folly's little girl is a whole 'nother kettle of Triton-chow. Typical succession politics started occurring about 23 seconds after Khela's triumphal entry into the City. Assume Jerod's sisters and his mother are out of the line, and who's left?"

Random throws his legs over his head and somersaults out of his chair. "Beer?" he asks, walking towards an icebox.

"Please." Conner nods. "It would seem I am far behind on family news. I must remember to offer my congratulations to the happy couple." Conner smiles warmly at the thought then focuses back on the politics. "Yes, that would be a confusing twist to the family Moebius strip. Let's see. Llewella, who for the moment seems content to back her daughter's bid; Celina, who also backs Khela and seems tied up in Paris for the nonce, and Baby Girl Chance. It would make the child a target for every side especially until such time as Khela produces an heir of her own." Conner ponders that for a moment. "I don't see Martin or Folly wanting to groom a future Queen of Rebma so we are mainly worried about plots from below, yes?"

"Rebma is full of such, usually. And a regent during a Queen's minority would be very powerful. So, there's an advantage to myself and young Miss Chance if you're there to keep a watch to see that the people wearing scaly underpants don't get too rambunctious, and the advantages to Khela and You are both sorta obvious."

Conner nods. It is convenient that any such plots to put Martin's daughter on the throne are by definition plots against Khela. Conner can fulfill two oaths with one stone. A niggling voice warns of paranoid rulers who seek to eliminate all other contenders for the throne. Conner beats that voice down with a stick. Khela does not seem that paranoid or stupid. Any of her supporters that are will not be missed.

He hands a cold bottle to Conner. "You'll do fine. Khela is technically my vassal, since she's Llewella's daughter. Unless she wants to spend a lot of time in Xanadu, I'm unlikely to remind her of that."

"I suspect she'll have her hands too full for that however tempting cold beer and live music might be." Conner replies easily. He takes a drink from the bottle and nods his approval. "While we speak of things Rebman, how is Vialle?" Conner asks. "I've only heard third hand stories about her ordeal. Is she well?"

A shadow crosses Random's face, and is gone as quickly. "Her ordeal scared her, deeply. I fear it will take her longer to recover from that than any harm she took. We are ... humoring her wishes, which are mostly concerned with safety at this point." He smiles.

"She's seeing some of her old friends, but she doesn't want to overdo it. Send her a note if you wish to see her, and don't worry if she says no."

"I will do so." Conner nods. "Any ease I can bring to her I shall." Conner takes another pull from his bottle. "What is that you are trying to build by the way? I've been trying to figure it out and I keep coming up blank."

"Nothing complex. A frame for my drum-kit that's also a percussion instrument in itself, so that if I hit the frame, it plays like a steel drum. It was in Rebma that I got serious about percussion. It's not a place that's kind to strings." Random frowns slightly at the last, but it disappears as he concentrates on his beverage.

"Not the tangible ones anyhow." Conner agrees. "Otherwise, it is practically a web of ties and bindings. As above as it is below, I suppose." Conner sighs. "I guess I won't be playing my whistle much down there either. After the last few days, I fully appreciate the idea of beating something with a stick for recreation. Getting music out of it is a nice bonus."

"Rebma is funky, and not in the positive way. Some things work because people expect them to work. Some things are harder, so people work around them. Only magicians smoke in Rebma because it takes funky fire magic, but every house and tenement has a chimney."

Conner just blinks for a moment. That has never struck him before. Now that it was pointed out, Conner wonders how he never thought to question that.

"Rebma works like Amber worked and like Xanadu works--idiosyncratically. What's important is that it not forget that." Random smiles. "When we get recording working, I'll want to tape your whistle."

"I would like that." Conner smiles. "Thank you for the beer and the understanding, Majesty. Good luck getting the sound you want." Conner finishes off his beer and heads back to his rooms.

After weighing the pros and cons, Conner finally sits himself down and pens a pair of notes.

Conner always felt vaguely uneasy writing a note to the blind. Partly it is the inappropriate nature of the medium but mostly it is because someone must read it to her and so the words must be carefully chosen.

To her Majesty, Queen Vialle,

It has been too long since we have had a chance to sit together and speak of things light and heavy as we did below the waves a lifetime ago. I happen to have brought back from Rebma a packet of your favorite salt tea. Perhaps we could share a cup together?

Yours in friendship,

Conner

The second note by comparison is easier.

To Carina, Archivist of Rebma,

I hope this missive finds you well after the varied travels that brought you to fair Xanadu. I was hoping that we might trade knowledge over a light meal at a time and place convenient to you. I am looking into various details of Rebma's past and would gladly trade knowledge of her present situation for them.

Sincerely,

Lord Conner

A reply to the first note comes back, written in the hand of Vialle's secretary Ember.

Dear Conner,

Your mother mentioned that you had returned from Rebma and I had hoped that you would have time to join me. I have missed speaking of my old home with you. I would love to see you tomorrow afternoon.

Vialle.

There is no immediate reply to the message to Carina.

At the appointed time, Conner presents himself at Vialle's chambers. He is dressed formally in greens and blues mostly. Vialle would not be able to see it of course but Vialle appreciated the proper protocols being followed and Conner would not disappoint. He has brought the promised salt tea as well as a scented candle that he was able to procure from the eclectic jumble that was available at the Xanadu dockside markets. He scratches at the door in Rebman fashion and waits for admittance.

Ember opens the door for Conner to allow him entrance. The room is dark and cool; Conner might almost describe it as damp, except that there isn't really any moisture. What light there is comes from the windows, which are curtained off enough to avoid direct sunlight. Conner imagines that they are warmer and seem drier that the rest of the room.

Vialle is seated in a low chair near the window, where the temperature gradient is changing. She comes to her feet as the door opens. She waits until she hears the sound of Conner's entry to speak. "Hello, Conner."

Her movements are a bit slower than they were during the Regency, and there are lines on her face that age her. But there is pleasure in her voice and her step as she approaches is steady, if not swift.

Conner crosses to her side and clasps her hands. "Good day to you, Majesty. It has been far too long." Conner releases one hand and draws forth the packet of salt tea and places it near Vialle's nose. "I hope Lir's Blessing is still your favorite blend. It was all I had to hand when I left."

Drawing in a breath of it, Vialle smiles. Her return clasp is gentle but there's still some strength in it, despite the coolness of her hands.

"With our direct links to Rebma broken, it's difficult to get any salt teas at all. The Duchess Valeria is in Xanadu, at the Rebman embassy, such as it is; she and I correspond and it's one of our regular topics. Perhaps if you're to spend time in Rebma, you can help to open a more regular trade. But you said we were to talk of light things; please, let's sit down and do so."

Ember is hovering in the background, waiting for a dismissal that will certainly happen in a moment if this visit continues to follow the usual form.

"I suspect, Majesty, that light topics may be hard to come by." Conner chuckles and offers Vialle his arm to escort her back to the chairs. "Still, let's have the tea and conversation flow where they may. How are you settling into Xanadu?" Conner inquires. "It is quite a different experience from Amber and Rebma both, is it not?"

Vialle makes a motion to Ember, who catches Conner's eye and nods before departing. The sounds are quiet to Conner, but undoubtedly quite audible to Vialle, especially the door that closes behind Ember.

"Very different. The lights do strange things to the heating of the room. Random says he's going to get me a clapper if I want one, but he didn't explain what that was." Vialle smiles, as if that's a private jest of some sort.

When Conner locates Vialle's chair for her, she does not need assistance to seat herself.

Once Martin and Folly assemble their household and its goods, they lead a small flotilla of ships to Xanadu. The trip takes about a fortnight, and on their arrival, Folly finds a number of messages from her relatives waiting: most notably from Hannah and Gerard.

The last one, apparently sent on hearing that her ship had arrived at the Xanadu docks, is an invitation for afternoon snacks as soon as Folly has her land legs again.

The note from Hannah, who is not in Xanadu, reads as follows:

Folly,

This is a salve made from marigolds, butter, pennywort and oil. If Martin will allow you to do it, an application of this with massage would help loosen and eventually break up scar tissue. The massage may even be the more important part.

If you'll allow, he could also massage this onto your skin to prevent mother's marks. But if you start to have any blood-sugar related problems with the pregnancy, stop using it. Your skin shouldn't be able to absorb so much for it to make a difference, but no one with our blood has ever used it before, so caution.

When it stops smelling good, stop using it. I'm gone for a bit, but... I hope to be back quickly. No way to know, though. I'll teach you how to make fresh batches when I'm back, if you like it.

If you can bully Gerard into staying in Xanadu while I'm gone, that would be a good thing. Whenever he leaves, he is starting over his battle to move off morphine. Every time it will be harder to fight again. His wife has come, so I am hopeful she will slow him down a little.

With love,
Hannah

"Looks like Hannah has left us an engagement present, of sorts," Folly tells Martin. She uncorks the jar and takes a tentative sniff. "Not bad. And a little something to look forward to after I catch up with Gerard...." She grins.

"Wedding gift," says Martin reflexively, throwing his sword belt on the side of the bed not containing a cat. He continues unpacking his personal gear--mostly weapons--grumbling something about putting Violet on cat-introducing duty.

Folly leaves the salve on the bedside table and takes a few minutes to make herself presentable. Even without the aid of mirrors, which she's been avoiding even more assiduously since learning of Moire's hand in Lucas's death, she can tell that there's really no pretending anymore that she's not visibly, unmistakably pregnant. Ah, well; nothing for it but to treat it like the blessing it is. She smoothes the fabric of her dress over her bulging belly and murmurs, "It's good Uncle Gerard has promised us snacks, isn't it?"

She checks her pocket for her trumps and for the second little velvet bag she brought from Amber, and sets off to visit Gerard.

Gerard has a corner suite, and he has had a plate of sandwiches brought up by the time Folly arrives. When she comes in, he looks her up and down. "Well, Folly, and welcome. Should I send off for some ice cream and pickles too?" he asks, before he rolls toward her to give her a relatively gentle bear hug.

Folly returns the hug warmly. "We," she says as she straightens again, and lays a hand on her belly for emphasis, "will eat anything." She grins and takes a sandwich. "Have you been well, uncle? Is your wife settling in all right?"

Gerard takes a sandwich of his own, but Folly can tell he's keeping her company for politeness rather than tearing into dinner because he's starved in his own right. "Better than she had been. I think she's ready to see the outside of this castle more than she does, but I canna go with her. And she's grieved about Solange, of course. I reckon ye've heard the rest about all that by now."

Folly nods, but adds, "...Unless there's any news on that front in the last week or so. We didn't check in much during the trip home." She hesitates, then adds, "If she has need of a more-or-less neutral intermediary for smoothing things out with the rest of the family... well, I'm just a few weeks from not being able to do much besides sit around being nearly-spherical, but I can always talk. And listen."

Gerard pauses in his slow demolition of his sandwich to answer Folly.

"If ye want to mend Solange's troubles, ye'll be talking until yer blue in the face. Random's decreed that since it happened on my watch, I must mend it. And since Solange wants to be treated as a woman grown and not a child, I say she must answer for her own actions. So until she makes her peace with Corwin and Brennan and Jerod, Solange is not welcome in Xanadu. And I dinna think any of them wish to speak with her just yet. But if ye wish to take their temperature, as it were, it might not go too badly amiss if you speak with them--after the buryings, though, I reckon."

Folly nods her agreement on that last point.

"I willna be speaking for her. Corvis wants me to turn my thoughts to healing my legs--" and here Gerard pats the side of his wheelchair "--and she thinks I canna do both."

"That does seem the sort of thing that would go best if given your undivided attention," Folly agrees gently, "which I know is not a luxury you've had of late. Solange will make her way in her own time; and in the meantime, I'll do what I can to test the waters on this end. In a climate in which even Huon is given a chance at reconciliation, I have faith that this business with Solange will be set to rights soon enough." She offers up a reassuring smile.

Gerard's expression suggests to Folly that he's not quite so sanguine about Solange's prospects, but he doesn't contradict Folly.

"Talking of Huon, and of Corvis, reminds me, though--- I have something I wanted to talk to you about. A favor, of sorts."

"I'll be glad to help if I can," Gerard says, clearly happy enough to change the subject. "What can I do for you?"

Folly lowers her voice slightly, even though there's no one else in the room to overhear. "Well, I've been thinking lately about Family, and my place in it, and it has occurred to me that it might be politic for me to lay stronger claim to my family heritage on my mother's side, if you see what I mean. And not just because it would put a bit of symbolic distance between me and my sire, although that's certainly what got me thinking about it in the first place -- but also, your kindness and generosity to me since I came to Amber makes me proud to be descended of your mother's line." She sits a little straighter, and smiles at Gerard with shining eyes.

"Martin and I were talking about it, and... if you think it's appropriate, and Julian as well... I was wondering if it would be all right for me to wear one of the rings that used to belong to your mum. As my wedding ring."

"I'd be pleased for you to wear some of me ma's jewelry. Vere won't need it all for Robin," Gerard says. "Did ye have a piece in mind?"

As Cambina's funeral draws nearer, Brennan turns to more active forms of distraction to keep himself on an even keel. And if distraction doesn't work, then working himself to exhaustion does.

The afternoon finds him in one of Xanadu's gyms, one of the ones outfitted for sparring and training. While it's not likely that any of the castle staff would have sparred with him for long, Brennan is still putting the room to good use. He's wearing only loose black silk pants and a black headband. Although his hair is not long enough to get in the way of anything, it's a wise choice, because he is working himself hard enough to work up a generous sweat.

Anyone familiar with the Family would probably mark out as a member. It's not just the red hair, or the physical resemblance to Bleys, in frame and carriage, although those are enough. It's not just the more abstract resemblance to Fiona, in his concentration, either. It's this: As he runs through exercise after exercise, some with weighted weapons, some barehanded, he displays a level of improvisational precision that few can achieve in a mortal span. Some, but few.

A man of middling years enters, and remains just inside the entry way. He's over six feet tall, wearing a suit jacket over a silk shirt and tie, with matching slacks and shoes. Over one should he carries an longsword in a scabbard. He doesn't interrupt, but waits until Brennan pauses, and then inquires, "Pardon me. Aren't you Sir Brennan? I'm Sir Fletcher. I was looking for Dame Lilly. Rumor has it she's been sneaking off to over-exert herself." His demeanor is casual, and it might seem as if he expects that Brennan will have heard of him.

Brennan works for a few seconds more, until he reaches a natural break in his routine, then turns to look at his visitor. "All things considered, if Lilly's sneaking off to do that, she'll probably be sneaking away from me rather than toward me," Brennan says. "And she probably is.

"Yes, I'm Brennan, although you seem to have the advantage of me, Sir Fletcher." He eyes Fletcher's blade. "You wouldn't be planning on helping her with that over-exertion, would you?"

Fletcher eyes the sword as is he'd quite forgotten it. "Oh, no. Actually, I haven't seen the inside of a practice room in...I don't really know how long. I was just checking up, you know, though I don't know how Lilly would react to the whole 'Big Brother is watching' kind of thing. But please allow me to introduce myself properly. I'm still new to Xanadu and don't really know how fast news travels. I am Fletcher, Knight Commander of the Order of the Unicorn, Defender of the Faith, son of Prince Benedict and Princess Emerald, grandson of King Oberon, and if everything I'm told is correct, you and I are at the very least cousins."

"Brennan, Knight Commander of the Order of the Ruby, son of Brand, grandson of Oberon," Brennan replies formally. "Pleased to meet you, cousin. My guess is that Lilly won't care for the over-protective relatives. And my opinion is that when she's recovered enough to do something about it, she's recovered enough. She's quite good."

Fletcher shrugs and after a moment, nods.

Brennan eyes his cousin, and makes the obvious observation: "You must have been gone a long while, all things considered." It's not quite a question, but an invitation.

"I've seen quite a lot of shadow in the intervening years, at the cost of missing out on getting to know the newer members of the family. I lost touch for a while, and by the time I re-established contact Caine was regent in Amber. I don't expect things to slow down for me to adjust, especially with moonriders and dragons in the mix, but it's going to take a lot of work to get re-acquainted." He tries to maintain a positive smile, but his eyes reflect the incalculable losses of recent years.

Brennan nods in sympathy. "Not the same, but similar. Most of us in this generation are newcomers to the scene in one way or another. And life would have worked out very differently, had I joined the fold even as much as a century earlier. But it's a done thing," he says, "and I can't go back and change it. I can guess what brought you back. What kept you away, if you don't mind the question?"

"I don't mind. There might be a moral to the story. I was confident, perhaps profoundly confident, that the greatness remaining in Amber was equal to any challenge, and that one such as I could consider himself free to explore the deep reaches of Shadow. Believing Amber to be so firmly fixed gave me to liberty to explore, feeling that everything I loved (and those few things I did not) would still be waiting for me when I returned. More practically, I relied on trump contact to keep me up to date and to recall me if I was needed. Sadly, that was not a good bet. The moral there might be that gambling eventually does one in over the course of centuries. I, however, generally prefer activity to guilt." His expression might indicate that Fletcher is quite capable of multi-tasking when it comes to combining guilt with other pastimes.

"It's a good moral for us," Brennan says. "Even immortals face opportunity costs."

Brennan eyes Fletcher's blade again. "If you're looking for therapeutic activity, I'd be happy to engage. I can tell you what I know of our younger cousins, and maybe you can tell me what you know of our older ones."

"Sure, why not? Just for practice though." Fletcher removes his jacket and tie. He eyes his scabbard. "Are there practice swords about?"

Ossian will be pretty busy the upcoming weeks, building the arrival hall from Amber. In Ossian's room in Xanadu is a collection of sketches and models, and people meeting him will see callouses and bruises on his hands from working so much with them. He will do most of the work of building the room himself, except for the enineering parts where more than two hands are required.

The room Ossian prepares has high walls, with an at least semingly random black and white pattern of straight lines. It has a simple wooden ceiling, and hopefully electrical lighting. The floor is different nuances of grey stone, forming a "road" towards an opening to the left (this is where people are supposed to leave the room).

The task starts well, and Ash is happy to find hands to help Ossian whenever he needs it. Some of the workers would like more of the work; Ash pays them well for supporting Ossian.

The electricity is the biggest hurdle, but isn't too hard. It might be done in time for the funeral.

Is there anyone from Amber or Xanadu that Ossian wants to have help him?

The messenger comes from the Danaan camp by motorcycle, and requests to speak with Vere and King Corwin immediately. Corwin summons Merlin and Celina, and the group meets in his private receiving room, where, on Corwin's orders, food and drink have been brought for the guard. The lad has waited to deliver his message and for the King and the Prince to question him before eating.

"I bring news from Commander Siege of events in Camp. Queen Moire has appeared in camp by some magic unknown to us and some of the Children of Lir have rallied to her cause." The young man stops there, clearly waiting for questions.

Corwin doesn't bother to keep the disappointment from his expression. What's missing is any hint of surprise.

Vere's control slips for a moment, and a flash of anger crosses his face, then is quickly suppressed. "How many, and has she taken them from the encampement?" he asks, his face once more calm and his voice steady. "Or do she and they remain?"

Celina is surprised by this turn of events. She allows that to show, but waits on her father and Vere to have the say about this military stratagem of Moire's.

"Perhaps a third of them," the messenger says. It's clear he's reporting what he's been told and not as a witness with understanding.

Merlin looks to the others. "This is enough for a guard for her person, and perhaps Rilsa, but not for a military action against Rebma, correct?"

Vere nods. "An excellent size for a bodyguard during a time of trouble. A dozen on duty at any time, another dozen relaxing nearby, ready to be summoned at a moment's notice, and a third dozen sleeping. However, it is also an excellent size for a strike force for targeted action. Small enough to be moved quickly via arcane means. Well trained warriors who have fought both under the sea and on the surface. Men who have demonstrated their loyalty to her by violating their oaths of allegiance to me and their fellow warriors in the Children." He smiles grimly. "Though no doubt they would argue they are following a higher loyalty."

"And if there is the assumption of a vendetta," Celina asks, because really, she can't guess, "would such a small strike force move to deal with Aunt Florimel? There was an agenda here in Paris before Lucas was killed. It seems likely Moire would need to get to that and get out of here. So I am interested in the notion of a small force moving by arcane means...particularly here to the palace."

"I hope Moire's not that stupid," Corwin says flatly, "but she's not batting a thousand so far on smarts. Merlin, call for a page and tell them to have Alice summoned. I need to know how many mirrors we have left and how many are covered. I hope covering them is good enough and I don't have to break them."

Corwin turns to Vere. "Do you need to go back to Le Havre to resume command over the remainder of your men? I'll send Lance with you, or Merlin if you think you need a sorcerer."

[gms, you can answer here or in the OOC...but I think I understood that mirrors could be opened for non-initiates to pass through (I blame Zelazny) but how dangerous is it to move a dozen men at once? My guess is that it might be a trivial feat at Moire's skill level. What does Celina expect?]

[Celina thinks Moire and Rilsa could do it with a mirror of sufficient quality.]

Celina waits on Vere's response. At least in this moment, the fact that Moire, Florimel, Alice and Celina are all on the 'stupid plans' side of things seems morbidly amusing to her inner currents. For once, her face does not react. She does not offer that he has eleven mirrors that might transport five persons, only two of those that could transport fifteen. Celina knows the two are covered as she moved one of them into the palace recently herself and covered the other the day she left to search for Moire. Alice knows why these are covered, as she knows how Lucas died.

Better if Alice checks and shows the King she is dutiful.

Vere nods. "The men who remained true to their oaths need me there," he grimaces slightly, "Even if many of them remained true because their families are either opposed to Moire, or else sitting the fence before committing. Furthermore, my cousin the Lord Commander Siege may need my backing to maintain order over the warriors of three kingdoms, until recently at war with one another, in light of this defection. And, to add to the amusements, I also need to ensure that the various factions of sorceresses and witches are not being seduced by the promise of a new magic. In light of that, the assistance of Prince Merlin would be greatly appreciated."

"I will make ready to go at once," Merlin says. With Corwin's permission, he excuses himself to gather the materials he'll need to do whatever he thinks he'll need to do in Le Havre.

[Vere may also excuse himself and set up a new thread for himself and Merlin to .]

[Vere does so, with a murmured, "Send word if you need me," to Celina before departing.]

After Merlin's departure, Alice comes to report. Under questioning by Corwin, she counts the number of mirrors of appropriate dimension a bit higher than Celina. Since she doesn't instinctively know the quality of a mirror that is required for transport, her conservatism is understandable. She also reminds him that a lack of mirrors means that the planned reception following Lucas' funeral will need to be held by day or outside, since the Louvre doesn't have light switches.

This reminder makes Corwin frown, but he acknowledges it nonetheless, and tells her to do as she thinks best under the circumstances. Which means 'no mirrors'.

"Unless we're going to break them," he says to Celina.

Celina stares at the King. "They are your mirrors. You said Moire was being less than bright." She shifts her stance a bit to close the personal space between them.

"If I thought I was going to be attacked through mirrors, or through a mountain pass, I'd use it as an exercise in grooming my resources and powers to respond to such threats." Celina shrugs, "But I do not consider myself a warrior. If Moire wants to get to Florimel, or you, why not let her use the back door that you have left less guarded? I'm hoping she has other plans already and the Lucas event was an aberration.

"What is your will regards Moire killing in your kingdom? What is your punishment for me? I was in charge here when it happened."

"What's about to happen to Moire is probably worse than anything I could do to her. I don't and can't countenance the murder, but Lucas was also a fool for making a trump of her." Corwin's expression darkens somewhat. "What did Merlin have to say about that? Did Lucas ask you for permission, Celina, and did you countenance it?"

Celina wants Merlin little in this. "Merlin said making the Trump was a foul move without permission."

And here comes the rub. Celina lifts her chin and tucks her hands behind her back. "Lucas sent a note, asking for my authority to 'take all measures necessary to watch Rilsa'." Celina lets that idea linger only a beat. "Rilsa, not Moire. My response was that he could have that authority for a week if he would pledge a year's service to the throne of Paris. I did not think a scion of Amber would make that pledge. I thought it odd he would ask for such a written ward when family needs were most pressing. I did not know he was an artist. I do not much appreciate Trumps myself, but I did not know it was an assault."

She looks at him to see what he shall make of that. She's balanced and prepared for his full anger.

"So he lied to you too." Corwin's expression darkens. "I'll have to tell Random that being too stupid to live is a heritable condition," he adds as something of an aside.

Corwin purses his lips for a moment. "A year probably didn't seem that long to Lucas in exchange for cover against what he was doing, given what happened to your cousin Martin and how badly the rest of the family was likely to take it. What would you have done if he'd told you he was actually making a trump?"

"It would have made my skin crawl even so," Celina responds, as this is something she has often thought about. "I did not easily give my permission for Merlin to start a sketch of me. I don't like being watched through beauty contained in a compression of paint and ardor." She almost starts to tell him about her mirror doppelganger before she remembers she is still on trial and compressive psychosis is not a legal defense. "In glass you work without substance, working the compression of light and ardor strong enough to catch meaning from ordered image. Trumps have always felt like some sort of flat fishhook fastened to the nape of your neck. With glass I can be wary and watchful, with Trump you are a lock with the key resting in it vulnerable."

Celina thinks that makes it clear enough. "I would have asked a lot of questions. He would have lied to me. I would have given permission and been wrong."

"You'd be an accessory to an attempt on your mother's life," Corwin agrees. "As it is--merely an unwitting accessory, if that. You were badly advised. Merlin should have known Lucas was up to something, if not what. And so should you."

Celina doesn't quite relax, but this is the first actual discussion she's ever had with this man that made sense while it was happening. She balances her TaKhi. "I did know he was up to something," Celina nods, "and your comment that a year of service would not have been onerous is valuable. I expected my answer would tell him that I knew he was doing something he didn't want to take responsibility for and that I wasn't happy with the way he managed to ask or plan that. I also did not want to ask at that point, feeling the Realm's need more pressing than my honor. After all, you could always return and disparage my conduct and punish Lucas to seal the matter."

She stares at him and goes further. "You should not have me in positions of power. I am Unwitting to all this. I have no place to stand. My life is tattered and I know nothing of what I am to be. Why did you put me in charge with Merlin? How can I possibly fit into this family as anything other than a curious exhibit of Moire's devious use of you? The regrets I represent.... the uses I could be put to that would anger you." She sighs to cover her rising emotion and the controlled breath works to calm her. "I'm grown, but false to the values your family holds dear. What's to become of me... father?"

Corwin folds his arms. "Do you want me to turn you back to your mother? Or turn you over to Khela?"

Curious Celina studies him since he has asked such a stupid question. Handsome. A touch of cruelty to the mouth, or is that just his world view leaking through? Amazing eyes. So green and full of current. So treacherous and attractive. Killer eyes.

Should I just walk out? What to say after that? Look at that stance: he denies me in every inch.

Celina smiles at her sire. "I understand. I shall not speak of it again." She curtseys and stays down in the stance waiting. "What is about to happen to Moire? My duty is to be educated."

"And experience is a harder teacher than I am--but you've found that out already," Corwin says, shaking his head. "What I suspect will happen to your mother is that most of the family will conclude she's gone too far and let Flora complete her vendetta, if she so desires. Do you mean to stop her?"

My father's father must have been a teacher by cold absence. I can almost imagine the voice of King Oberon. How interesting that my mother favors cold absence as well. Celina considers what her Sire has asked.

"Moire has shown little interest in what I want, to include being amused at my analysis of the complexities I have inherited from the two of you," Celina speaks now easily and from the heart, as if she were talking to Merlin. The smooth balance in her voice mirrors her isolation...when you dance alone, you are never out of step. "There are reasons to think I should ally with Florimel but they are hardly wholesome reasons."

She smiles again at her Sire. "I should like to stop both of them, Moire and Florimel, and yet my remains would lie unknown somewhere as a marker to standing between such Agendas. Still, Moire should do a penance. Florimel should have her cup of blood. I see how inevitable that is. Of late, Solange has asked me to aid her in retrieving her Trump from Lucas' effects. This is something I need to work on. I do not think I can address that until after the funeral. Perhaps I shall trade a favor with Florimel. The trump card for helping her with my mother? Would this suit you? It might be that Moire does not need to die. Perhaps if I am Florimel's agent in Rebma...there is an influence to the good."

Celina asks for the point of Order. "How works the family justice? Does Moire need to die to satisfy Florimel?"

"I don't know. It depends on whether someone steps up to say she shouldn't die, or whether enough someones do. Flora isn't the only member of the family your mother's crossed. But some of my brothers and sisters won't want your mother dead on general principle." Corwin uncrosses his arms and picks up his drink.

"How badly do you want to save your mother and how much effort are you willing to put out to save her if Flora decides she wants to extract her pound of flesh from the heart? That's the way the family works."

Celina has an incredulous response to the question, but this time she claps it down before it escapes. She moves, pours herself a drink, sips and wrinkles her nose at the taste.

"General principle seems a bold reason," Celina says. "In particular, I have so much to learn about family principles, it could be worth being battered to find out how they work. However, Moire has not left me with the ambition of saving her heart. In the final measure, I am afraid I would not be very heroic.

"I suppose I should find out if there is any other support for leaving Moire alive before acting on my general principles. How about you, Father? Would you support Florimel's agenda or Moire's? Or neither?"

"I don't support either of their agendas," Corwin says flatly. "I have my own agenda and to the extent that their causes march with mine, I'll ally with them or not." His eyes narrow and he focuses in on Celina. "What was that about Solange and Lucas' trumps again?"

"Solange said that Lucas had a trump of her," Celina responds. "She wanted to negotiate for it to come to her hands."

Corwin's voice has lost none of its flatness. "Solange is under my royal displeasure for a number of reasons, not the least of which is her removal of your cousin Cambina's body from Xanadu against my wishes and the orders of the Regent Gerard. Lucas isn't the only cousin who likes to try to pull fast ones on you, Celina. If Solange wants that trump, she can come back here and get it herself."

Well, that certainly was that. Celina nods. "As you wish. If you want her to owe the throne a favor, you'll let me know I can help her and then I'll let her know she's been maneuvered."

Celina raises her glass in toast to her father. "Is there anything else you wanted to cover with me? I shall be speaking at the funeral unless you would rather I not."

Corwin shakes his head. "My sister is in charge of the funeral arrangements; if you want to speak, talk to her. I didn't know Lucas well enough to have an opinion.

"As for Solange--do as you like. If you're going to let her use you to get back in my good graces, make sure she repays you handsomely." His tone softens a little as he frowns, "But I keep thinking about what Deirdre would have said about this situation and not liking the answers I get."

He is thinking of a woman's mind, and one that he cares about. Celina nearly steps closer to him, so wanting to chase that thought and slip passage under the harsh face of her Father's will.

But she holds, balanced. "Solange seemed a bit bruised about the issue, she may contact me again soon. I'll consider your advice and she will pay dearly." She watches his pulse move through his neck, timing, counting and waiting to insert herself into his next action as if he were her dance partner. "What would she have shared? I would know some measure of that voice I shall never hear or dream."

Corwin's frown settles in, and his face and voice are distant for a moment. "Deirdre would have said that if Lucas made a trump of her, and they'd had a falling out, Solange had a motive too."

Then the moment is gone and Corwin focuses in on Celina. "A lot of people might have had reasons to kill a secret trump artist. I want that stash of trumps; it gives us a list of suspects beyond the obvious."

Her emerald eyes widen as she catches the implications. "Nothing was said yet to Solace. The trumps will be in Lucas' effects." Alice might be the person to easily speak to Solace about it, but that is out of her hands. She says nothing.

If he wants her to take a direct hand in that... well, she waits for his comment.

"It's a family matter. Solace--isn't. Even though she is." Corwin doesn't explain that remark, but continues, "Find the trumps, and if you can, discreetly, find out what he told her about them."

She nods. "As you say. I'll see to it."

After leaving the King's presence Vere finds his sister and informs her of what has happened back at the camp, along with an analysis of the politics involved. He lets her know that he's heading back to camp immediately to assume command, asks for any messages she has for the priestesses and sorceresses, and asks that she continue her investigation of whether the areas around Paris are a fit match for the refugees. It would be good to break camp, and get people settled, as soon as possible after resolving the issue of Moire and the Children.

Avis clearly understands this is bad news. She agrees that they need to move her people as soon as possible and, if they're to remain in the area of Paris, to settle them quickly.

There is no word for the priestesses and sorceresses at this time, save that they should support Vere as needed. Vere suspects that this is a political decision on her part.

Unless Avis has a very good reason for not doing so Vere wants that in writing, as a royal order from her to them.

She provides him with a scroll and a stick for the priestesses.

Then Vere meets with Merlin, commandeers a motorcycle, settles Merlin in the sidecar, and rides at maximum speed back to the encampment of the refugees.

While they are commandeering the motorcycle, Merlin asks Vere to describe a bit of the personnel and politics of the situation, supplementing the information Vere has mentioned in the past. He's aware that Vere doesn't perform magic but asks for any information Vere can provide from his perspective about the magics of the Isles and who uses them. If he's going to be walking into a minefield, Merlin seems to want to know as much as he can about the mines.

Vere will give Merlin as much detailed information as time allows on the politics and the individuals involved, and let him know the capabilities of the various magic using factions among the refugees. He'll stress that as far as he knows none of them had ever travelled away from their world, and he would expect them to have severe difficulties using magic now, but, as always, one should not disregard the possibility that some among them have adapted far faster than expected.

For Vere, the journey seems to take forever. The arrival is superficially similar: he is greeted by a sentry from the Brotherhood of the Stag, and once he has offered the password on his own and Merlin's behalf, he is ushered into a tent to see Siege and Hartwell, who have clearly taken command together.

Vere nods as he enters the tent, and says, "Prince Merlin, I present the Lord Commanders Siege and Hartwell. My brothers, this is Prince Merlin, son of King Corwin, who acts as his father's representative." Vere sits, and gestures for the rest to do the same. "Before we begin, a question. I sent Castor back to take over the Children. I trust he was not among the ones who defected?"

"He's still with us," Siege says, "for all that part of him wanted to go."

Hartwell nods.

Vere nods, and appears to relax slightly. "Excellent well. Let us bring him into this conversation, then. Hartwell, please have a runner summon him, and also deliver this message from my sister to the head of the Priestesses." He waits for Hartwell to speak to the guard outside, and return to the table, then says, "Report, my lords. What happened here?"

"We don't know how the Queen of the Rebmans came to be in the camp," Siege says, "but she was, and a few of her women with her. It must be that she had some magic we do not know. She did not spend much time here, and she did not wish to speak with the priestesses other than to assure them she meant no harm but was merely reclaiming her men for her own war for her homeland.

"She spoke in counsel with Castor briefly and he came away with a grave face. He said he was forsworn no matter what he did and that he would remain but would not lay hands on any of his own men who went. Creon asked to remain with him, saying that he feared Castor might try to reclaim his honor by suicide.

"As soon as Moire and her men left, we sent to Paris," Siege concludes. "We have not asked the priestesses for guidance. This is yours to deal with."

Vere nods. "Indeed," he says. "As to her appearance here, yes, she is a mistress of the Rebman witchcraft of mirror-working. The sorceresses of Rebma can scry through mirrors, to see through any reflective surface. As I understand it, most of the women of the Rebman royal family are skilled at this art. The more powerful can also travel through mirrors, and convey others through them. And Queen Moire, it appears, slew King Corwin's nephew by causing a mirror near him to shatter, sending a shard into his heart.

"Aside from the matter of Moire and the Children," Vere continues, "Is there anything else of which I should know?"

Hartwell and Siege both look unsurprised and not particularly pleased to think of the Rebmans using this strange mirror-magic to sneak into the compound. Siege, Vere reckons from his sour expression, is considering how to defend against it; Hartwell's shining eyes suggest more of an interest in controlling it.

"The Brotherhood and the priestesses are restless after all the troubles with the Children of Lir," Siege says. His tone suggests that he assumes Vere already knew this. "You'll need to talk to them sooner rather than later."

Vere nods. "The priestesses first, immediately after we finish this meeting," he says. "I can only put them off for so long before it ceases to be independence and becomes calculated insult. Have the Children gathered while I am meeting with the priestesses, and I will speak with them immediately thereafter." He shakes his head ruefully. "This assumes no fresh disasters occur, of course."

Not long afterwards, Castor arrives. As he approaches the tent, the guard announces both him and Creon, but only Castor enters the tent. Castor looks pale and drawn, but there are no marks on him to indicate he has attempted to harm himself.

"My lord," he says, on seeing Vere. "I have betrayed my oath to you. I submit myself for punishment."

Vere starts to rise when Castor enters the tent, but upon seeing him and hearing his words he settles back down and regards his second closely. He is silent for several minutes, then says, "Tell me what happened, Tanist. From the time you arrived here at camp."

"I assumed command of the Children as you had ordered, and all proceeded as expected until yesterday afternoon. It was at that time that Alcides came to me and told me that Queen Moire had come to the camp and conveyed her command to attend her."

Castor swallows. "I could not disobey that command, so I followed Alcides to the tent where the Queen and her daughter were waiting with an attendant. The Queen charged me on my oath to her to take charge of the Children on her behalf, that she would need us to help restore the rule of law in Rebma. I said that I had sworn to serve you and that I could not be false to that oath and asked her to leave off until I could speak with you. She would not.

"Some of the Captains had begun to arrive, also at Moire's bidding, and it seemed to me that Trajan and Octavius were ready to come to blows. So I said that while I would not go, but would remain to face your punishment, I would not lay hands on any man who felt his oath to Moire came before his oath to the Children. So the captains and their sergeants took word back to their men, and some chose to go and the rest to remain. And when those who would follow Moire had left, I sent for you."

This being the end of his tale, Castor falls silent.

"A pity she would not heed your request," Vere says quietly. "I would not have had my men come to blows one with the other, nor would I have had their consciences torn by conflicting oaths. Had she asked, I would have released the Children to follow their own consciences in this matter." he shrugs. "But Moire is not a trusting sort, and I confess I am not surprised that she would force men to such a choice, to serve her will."

He stands then, and approaches Castor. "You were in a difficult position, torn by competing duties, and seeing your men torn by those same conflicts. You did the best you could in such a situation. You kept the men from striving against each other, which would have been ill indeed not merely for the Children but for the rest of the refugees as well. The Lords Commander Hartwell and Siege would have been forced to intervene if conflict broke out in the encampment, and the Goddess alone can imagine what the priestesses and witch queens might have done. On the other hand, I note that you did not send word to me at once, but rather waited until Moire had departed with those who would leave. I understand your reasons for this, though I do not say that I fully approve."

Vere nods thoughtfully, "One result of what you have done is most pleasing, and that is by taking the full brunt of the decision upon yourself you have to some extent alleviated the sin of the deserters. Not so much that I may forgive them, but enough so that my honour does not demand vengeance against them for the breaking of their oaths. I am pleased by this, for truly I did not relish the task of seeking down and punishing men who had fought well and loyally for me and my home.

"You, however, have taken that onus upon yourself in their stead. Hear then, the punishment I decree. You shall remain in my service, in whatsoever capacity I choose, until such time as I release you. Your first duty shall be to disband the Children. You shall contact their female relatives in Rebma, and determine in each case whether it is better for them to go straight to the city, or to meet their relatives somewhere else, depending on the political situation of each individual family. Your first concern shall be the honour and welfare of the men, and how they can be most speedily reunited with their families. The pay and awards due to the deserters shall be divided amongst the men who remained loyal, in addition to their own pay, plus an award of an additional ten percent above what I promised them. Speak with King Corwin's men of business about the funds, with my name as a Lord of Amber as their surety. You will send messengers to the families of all the deserters, explaining why their relatives are not returning immediately, and why the funds promised will not be paid."

Vere sighs, and sits back down. "I will want to meet with the Children who remained faithful, to express my thankfulness and appreciation. I regret that I cannot do that immediately, but I must speak to the priestesses, and to the Brotherhood, first. You will return to the Children and explain what will occur, and assure them that I will speak with them soon. Be ready to have the remaining Captains join me so soon as I leave the Brotherhood, and the assembled men I will meet with thereafter."

He stops speaking them, and looks to Castor, awaiting his response.

Castor sags a little as Vere pronounces his sentence and again as Vere gives his orders.

"I hear, and will remember," he says, which is a formal Rebman oath-taking response. "Do you wish me to go directly to Rebma to bear any of these messages? And if not, how should I tell the Children that these messages will be sent? They will ask me these questions."

Vere looks at Merlin. "Your Highness," he says. "Might I ask that Castor be allowed to use messengers of King Corwin's, who know the way to Rebma and can be trusted to fulfil their task diligently and without fail?"

"I will arrange it," Merlin says, speaking for the first time since Castor entered the room. "I can trump my father to ask him for such men now, if you wish it."

"Unless there is anything else?" Vere asks Castor. Unless he answers affirmatively Vere nods to Merlin and says, "If you would be so good, cousin. And let the King know that Moire has taken her men and departed the camp, and what she said of her purpose in taking them."

Castor has nothing further and bows before making his way out. As the tent flap opens, Vere and the others can see that Creon was waiting for him. Merlin moves off into a corner and shuffles out Corwin's card to contact him.

On Vere's command, Hartwell and Siege will gather the Children and request the presence of the priestesses.

Vere instructs Siege and Hartwell to gather the Brotherhood of the Stag, whom he will speak to after his meeting with the priestesses. Then he asks them to inform the priestesses that he is ready to report to them at their convenience. "I have shown my independence sufficiently," he tells them with a smile. "It is time to show them that I can follow the forms, and give them at least the appearance that they retain authority."

Once Siege and Hartwell leave Vere turns to Merlin, waiting for him to finish his trump conversation with Corwin.

Assuming that Corwin doesn't wish to speak with Vere, and that Merlin finishes the conversation before the priestesses summon Vere, once Merlin has put away his father's card Vere says, "I wished to speak with you on a personal matter, Cousin, if that is acceptable." He smiles. "And assuming there is no message from your father the King that takes precedence over my concerns."

Merlin shakes his head once in the negative. "I suspect that my father will wait to deliver his comments to me in person. I suspect I am somewhat under his displeasure right now for my conduct in dealing with Lucas' murder and with the Regency he thrust upon me while he was in Tir." He shrugs slightly, a fluid gesture. "What do you wish to speak to me of, cousin?"

"You know of my father's injury," Vere answers. "His legs, his pelvis, they were crushed by the fall of Castle Amber, so badly damaged that his body cannot heal them on its own. And yet, it occurs to me, he is of the blood of Dworkin, and thus of Chaos. And I am led to think on the possibilities of healing that the heritage of Chaos might offer. I know no one who has mastered this talent, and am loathe to seek out Oberon's Chaosian queen, who has no reason to aid me. So I thought perhaps you might offer me some advice, some insight, into whether this is a possibility that is worth my time to pursue."

"But you do know someone who has mastered this talent, although he does not advertise it," Merlin replies easily, gesturing at himself to make his meaning completely clear.

"Indeed?" Vere lifts an eyebrow. "No, I did not know this."

"What are your questions? There are injuries that can be healed by a shapeshifter and injuries that cannot. I know some things about your father's troubles, but I am not a physician in the Ordered manner. There are none, not as you understand them, in the parts of Chaos where I was grown. If an injury is too severe to be survived, one does not."

Vere nods. "And this is my reason to think that it might be possible to use Chaosian healing. Father did survive the injury, although he has not recovered from it. It seems to me, then, that it should be possible to repair the damage. However, from what I am told there is no indication that he is healing. Rather the opposite, in fact." He frowns. "The bones in his pelvis and thighs were shattered, into thousands of tiny pieces. While there are magics and technologies in Shadow that could repair this damage, there is a great deal of doubt whether such repairs would last when one traveled through Shadow, and extreme concern that they would not survive a walk on the Pattern, should father ever need to do such again. I seek, then, a way to enable him to heal himself. Does this seem possible to you?"

"If your father were Chaosi, he would have healed or perished by now. A certain--adaptability--is needed to survive outside protected environs beyond Ygg," Merlin explains.

"It is possible to take the Pattern as one who can shift shape, and survive and shift afterwards. Apart from my own case, my mother has done so. So I do not believe the Pattern itself disrupts such healing. But--" Merlin frowns, and pauses to consider his words, or perhaps his concepts "--I do not know whether an Ordered being can accept the changes of its nature needed to adapt in that way after infusing himself with Order."

He stops and squints at Vere. "Does that make sense?"

Per the King's mission, Celina will set a time to see Solace.

She'll also speak to Alice about what Solace seems to be doing and saying about funerals and arrangements. Celina also asks after the children... who are at an age to remember their father and be upset by his loss.

Celina will check with Alice, her assumption that Aunt Florimel is becoming the first respondent to all the Family needs Solace might have.

Florimel is handling the funeral, a matter that seems to be both a relief to Alice and a right pain in the rear for her. Solace has--some input--but the impression Celina has is that nobody wants to argue with Florimel and that Solace is a bit out of her depth in dealing with her formidable mother-in-law.

The children are a topic that Alice can address with more something. Ease, or perhaps certainty. Solace has taken charge of them personally, almost to the exclusion of the nanny. Alice, Celina intuits, approves of this; perhaps children are raised by their mothers in her native shadow. But Alice admits she's concerned for Solace. Perhaps someone closer to her own age might be able to do something for her.

At the appointed hour, Celina will present herself to the widow wearing sea depth greens and a black armband. Her hair will be firmly in the Parisian updo style. The dress will be mostly Paris but recall the classic lines of Amber.

"Thank you for seeing me, Lady Solace," Celina squeezes hands gently with the lady---watching the eyes for mirror to Solace's emotional state.

Solace is festooned in black, to the point of being overwhelmed with it. Parisian formal fashion involves a lot of gear by Celina's Rebman standards, and it's too much for Solace's slight form. Plus, the black makes her look washed-out and pale. Celina suspects Florimel would have pinched Solace's cheeks, and will, the day of the funeral.

The room where Lucas was killed has been closed, but Solace hasn't moved out of the suite just yet. Perhaps the effects that Lucas arranged just so are a comfort to her.

"Thank you for coming to see me," Solace replies, and gestures to the love seat. "Please, sit down, Princess." And, to reinforce that permission herself, Solace sits carefully on her own chair, sweeping her heavy skirt aside in the fashion that makes it possible to move in the bustled thing.

Captain Raven has heard many times of the great waves spawned by undersea earthquakes, but in all her years on the sea, she's never seen one until now. The lookout in the crow's nest calls down to report the peculiar pattern that precedes a tsunami. They are far enough out to sea that it appears to be a swell, but closer to shore the water will suck out and then the wall will come crashing in.

The ship is beginning to rise on the water. If Raven is not careful, she will be drawn along to shore and her ship wrecked, her crew lost and scattered.

Raven swears under her breath; she wasn't fond of this place to begin with, and now this? She searches her memories for a moment. There had been an old sailor she'd shared drinks with back in Amber that had a few things to say about tsunamis. A lot of it, she suspects, was utter garbage - clothes sucked off corpses and fish in trees, for sure - but there's always a bit of truth to such things, and his comments on how his captain dealt with it seem sound enough.

"Turn us hard to port and put the bow to the waves," she orders, and by habit she scans the faces that turn towards her to see who disagrees. There should be an exit from this world somewhere two or three days up the coast, or so she's been told, and it's moments like this, when she has to order a change in course that takes them away from the next possible way home, that she clearly recalls how she became captain of this ship. The last world had been kind - or more properly, prosperous, and so her men are well-fed now and look better than they have in months. And richer as well, she notes with amusement as she spies touches of gold and embroidery on clothes and around necks. If - no, when - they make it back to Amber, there will be some very heavy trunks carried off this battered ship... her own included.

She paces restlessly as her orders are carried out, waiting to see if she's chosen correctly.

The Captain's men move to do as she says, not without grumbling. The officers quieten it; some of them have sailed long enough to see the swells that are coming and read their meaning. The ship slowly turns to port as the wave rises slowly.

Soon the ship faces out to sea, cutting through the rising water, running parallel to where Raven is sure the rift should lie, if the old rutters are true. Since the storm that sent them running and lost away from the double-dozen seas of Amber, the rutters have played Raven false more than once.

Something has happened to make this tsunami. Perhaps when she's ridden it out, its source will give her answers.

And maybe that source is something useful. Maybe it's even a way home; they have seen things as strange. Their passage to this land had been through the belly of a black fog, and some months back, there had been a ride on the edge of a whirlpool that still haunts Raven's dreams now and then.

She also considers that if they were to, say, continue the port turn once the swells had passed and make a loop of it, they will be unlikely to end up right back on top of it. And if they can stay behind the deadly wave, there might be a bit of salvage to be had - at least if the tales she's heard are true. Salvage, she knows, will go a good way towards making up the detour with her men. What she has been told about the exit down the coast sounds like she has a few more days than the days it will take to get there, so as long as they keep any other detours to a minimum, they shouldn't miss it if this tsunami turns out to have come from nothing they can see.

Raven nods to herself and continues to pace, keeping a sharp eye out for the end of the waves.

The waves continue to rise for hours, and it's close to nightfall before something changes. The lookout reports something in the water: first one, then another, then still more.

They are bodies, bodies that have come up from the depths of the ocean.

Raven stands at the rail, watching the corpses float. In normal waters, she would expect to be able to follow the corpses back to some great drowned wreck, probably a victim of whatever had caused the tsunami. Here? Well, who knows. There's nothing to do, she thinks, but to investigate with the hope that it's something to benefit her crew.

"Follow the bodies," she orders. "I want to see where they're coming from. Never know; it could be a way home."

The ship continues on its course, which seems to be heading toward the where the bodies are coming from.

The first mate turns to Raven and asks, "Shall we bring one up?"

Raven considers for a moment. The floating dead are macabre, but it might be useful to know what they're headed into. And - well, salvage is salvage. She smiles thinly at the first mate, an old drinking mate turned assistant with a face to match his namesake. "Do it, Mister Stone," she answers. "And make sure you give it a thorough search."

Stone nods and moves off to obey the order. A few minutes later, they retrieve one of the bodies. It's not, by consensus of the crew, costumed as a man of Amber or Rebma. The weapons, or rather, general lack of them, aren't right. The decedent could have lost his spear, though.

Nor is it immediately obvious what the animal horn on a knotted leather string around his shoulder was for. It seems to have some sort of cap on one end, designed to seal it against water. He did die of injury and not from drowning or (solely from) crushing pressure.

The condition of the body is not great since it has been in the water for some time, but the crew has strong stomachs. They haven't had to handle it closely, though.

Raven walks over to the body and nudges it with her foot. If it doesn't immediately explode or do anything else untoward, she snorts. "Right. Somebody go pull Stern out of the mess." Stern has probably the strongest stomach of the crew; he'd told her once he had taken on a number of odd jobs before joining the Navy, including a brief stint working with the dead. And it's not the first time she's called on him for this kind of task, although she has to admit that the other times, the bodies had been a bit less soggy when they started. "Tell him there's a body to be dealt with again."

"Aye Cap'n." Someone runs off to do just that.

She works the horn free while she waits, turning it over in her hands for a moment before looking up again. "Miles." The owner of the name is terribly thin and always has been, and jumpy even when he doesn't need to be. "See if you can get this open," she tosses the horn to him, "without dumping it all over the deck or yourself. And stay in my sight this time, you hear me?"

Miles comes over to take the horn. "Aye, Cap'n."

Soon enough Stern comes up for instructions. Meanwhile, Miles has been working on the horn, which he's managed to open. He shows its contents to Raven: a strange powder with an odd smell that the horn has kept dry, perhaps magically.

Raven eyes the powder suspiciously. "Somebody pull up a bucket of sea water, and get me a spoon. Make sure it's dry."

She turns to Stern. "Strip him," she says bluntly, indicating the body. "And then chuck him over the side before he starts to stink worse than he already does. Let me know if you need a hand."

"Aye, Cap'n." Stern doesn't even wrinkle his nose, but begins work on the body. The rest of the crew finds excuses to be somewhere else as best they can.

Once she has both bucket and spoon, Raven wipes the latter on her shirt briefly - just to be sure. There are any number of reasons why this stuff was being kept dry, and she isn't eager to lose a hand if it reacts badly to water. Then she scoops out a tiny amount of the powder and drops it - and the spoon - into the bucket.

The spoon falls into the bucket and the powder gets wet. There's no chemical reaction that Raven can see: certainly nothing instantaneous.

Stern, meanwhile, finishes his gruesome task and there's a splash as the body goes overboard. He brings back a pile of goods. He hands what seems to be the coin purse to Raven without opening it separately from the rest of it, which he drops on the deck.

"He had a knife--" which Stern shows to Raven "--but that was his only weapon. And he had markings, tattoos, on the skin. No clue what they mean. Never seen anything like them."

Raven tucks the purse into her belt for the moment, still keeping a wary eye on the bucket. Just because it hasn't exploded doesn't mean it's safe - or, for that matter, that it won't explode soon. If the spoon dissolves or rusts or turns into a lump of unidentified goo, or for that matter if the bottom of the bucket dissolves, that will tell her something about the powder. And if none of those happen in the next few minutes, there's always the step of catching whatever was scuttling in the hold a few days ago and dropping that in the bucket to see what happens. Unidentified powders didn't make her happy; they never had.

"Think you'd know the marks if you saw them again?" she asks Stern as she examines the knife in his hand. "Seems a fair guess that there will be one or two more of those out there."

"Aye," Stern says, and makes shift to help hoist another body or two out of the water.

While Raven waits, the men haul up another body and Stern repeats his task. When he reports back, he has another horn of powder and another strange, fringed coin purse, which he gives to Raven. This man had tattoos of a similar design, but they weren't identical.

Meanwhile, the bucket has remained intact.

"See if you can find one without a horn to pull up," Raven tells him. "Let's see if those are any different."

She pulls the first pouch out of her belt and compares it with the new one. Fringed things always remind her of a rug her mother had insisted on hanging in her childhood bedroom, and she frowns at them. It's kind of... girly too, even if they'd both come off men.

At length, she opens the first one and shakes the contents out onto her palm.

It's not a money bag at all, as it turns out. There are objects in it: a couple stones of different kinds, one of which might sell for some money if it were polished up nicely, a feather that was probably very elegant before it was submerged in water, a small carving of an animal--maybe a bear?--that Raven can hardly guess what is, and some herbs, which, like the feather, are submerged in water.

She takes some time to examine these things while the men pull up another one. Once they get it on deck, Stern calls over, "Cap'n, you'll want to take a look at this one."

When Raven does, she can see that his gear is easy to recognize, at least for an Amber sailor. He's Rebman.

Raven pockets everything but the feather and the herbs, which she decides aren't worth saving. She tosses them over the side to join the rest of the waterlogged dead before heading over to the latest corpse.

"I'll be damned," she says. "Looks like we're closer to home than we thought, lads." She turns on her heel, locating her first mate, and calls across to him, "Make sure we're keeping an eye below the water as well as above, Mister Stone. And if anyone spots a landmark they know, don't be shy about calling it out.

"You lot," she adds, turning again to the body and the crew that had pulled it up, "back to work. Stern and I have it for now." She kneels next to the Rebman, indicating Stern should start on the other side with a gesture, and looks him over.

The crew disperses and heads back to work, or back to stations where they can look for the signs of Rebma. There's a palpable excitement among the crew now: hope that they'll make their way back to Amber soon.

Stern and Raven look over the the Rebman's body. He doesn't appear to have been killed by weapons. It's more like he died of falling rocks or some other crushing damage.

Raven frowns at the body in puzzlement. One killed by weapons, one killed by crushing... and presumably all three had come from the same place. And it could be that they all came from the source of the tidal wave. It's interesting, she admits to herself, and not a little baffling. "Well, he doesn't look like an officer," she says quietly. "Let's strip him and chuck him, same as the rest. How did the other one you pulled up die? Anybody that looks like an officer out there?"

Stern says, succinctly, "Battle. But I've been looking over the edge, and some are dying of both. I saw one bloke, one of the others--" by which he means not a Rebman "--who looks like he got crushed and squoze." Stern makes a wringing kind of a motion with his hands. "You know what that means?"

"A messy death," Raven answers drily. "I've a thought on the matter, but I wouldn't mind hearing yours first, seeing as how you're the expert on dead bodies around here. And if you've got another on why we're seeing the crushed and the battle-marked all floating on the same sea, I'll hear that as well, because I don't much like mine."

"Why the one that looked like something fell on him was like that, I don't know. But all squoze up like that means Tritons, Cap'n. The Rebmans brought the Tritons to war."

Legend has it that nobody has done such a thing since before Moire was Queen, perhaps not since the Tritons were bound to serve Rebma. Only in direst need would the Rebmans do such a thing. It speaks of disaster of an epic level.

Raven whistles lowly. "That's worse than what I'd come up with. Guess it was too much to hope we'd come home to what we'd left." She settles back on her heels, frowning at the corpse. Doom and war come to Rebma - but was it just Rebma, or would it be in Amber, too? Better keep a sharp eye out. Not - and her frown twists towards a smirk - that she was going to have to tell a ship full of homesick sailors looking for landmarks of home to keep a sharp eye out. If more than bodies get by, she'll be surprised.

And then, of course, there's what she has to assume is the other side of whatever's going on. She fishes out the two purses and the contents of the first and drops the handful on the dead body - since it's between them, it can serve as a table as well as it can rot. "Interesting coin purse you found. Stones and this thing," she pokes the carving, "and some bits of plant. I bet the other's the same. The closest I've seen to anything like this is that port months back where they were handing us shells instead of proper money." She regards Stern with her best prompting stare, although she's not hopeful; he probably would have mentioned recognising the other corpses by now.

Stern shakes his head. "If this is money, the hinterlands they came from were more broke than most of the stale backwaters Amber can't be arsed with." And it's true, no two things are alike. And it's not like they're carrying gems of quality that they could use as money in different Shadows.

It's reminiscent of the troubles in Amber after Oberon left, when Eric took the Regency and then the throne. When strange things came out of Shadow, and the rumor was that one of the Princes had sent them against his brother, or worse, when there were armies led by Bleys and Corwin that the navy had had to defend against. At least this lot seems to have been human.

"That we're seeing folks with clothes we don't know at all means the Royals were involved," Raven counters. "Just because Amber wouldn't give a rat's arse for it don't mean someone couldn't have got an army of them anyway. They brought in those ships full of whatsits, right? Don't suppose those things used proper money either."

She eyes the objects for a moment longer and then scoops them back into her pocket. "I bet you're right that it's not money, but why are they carrying pouches of trash and horns full of powder that don't seem to do anything?" She shakes her head, thoroughly puzzled by this. "Strip this one and throw him back, Stern. And see if you can spot me an officer or two; seems like we're sailing into a nasty bit of business, and it'd be nice to know what it is."

"Aye, Cap'n." He lets Raven retreat before he starts the business of stripping and dumping the body.

It takes about a half-glass for them to find a Rebman officer, or one with enough of him left to be worth saving. Miles appears at one point to report they think they have one, but he turns out to have been a meal for a shark, so there's not enough of him to be worth bringing up.

The officer's corpse doesn't seem to reveal much other than that he had a nasty encounter with a spear that ended his life. He's not carrying dispatches or any such.

One of the sailors, Vado, whose mother was a Rebman, approaches Raven to speak. When she permits, he says, "Captain, I've been watching the bodies. Not all those Rebmans are army. Either they summoned reserves or there were Rebmans on both sides."

Raven frowns at the information. Tritons plus non-army Rebmans and foreigners adds up to two very different pictures in her mind, and one of them is likely to be more hospitable than the other. How all this might be affecting Amber is another question, and one she has even less of an answer to so far. "You probably know more about Rebma than I do," she tells Vado. "Anything from before we left that might point to whether we're eyeballing the remains of an invasion or a civil war?"

Vado shakes his head in the negative. "There's been no civil strife in Rebma since before Prince Martin quit Rebma, and that's been more than a century. But if it's true what they say about Rebma and Amber, that the undersea city follows the landward?" He shrugs. "It's above my head, Captain."

"So, it's likely invasion." Raven nods. She understands the feeling, but she's not going to admit it quite yet. "Keep an eye out for anything else that strikes you as odd and let me know." She doesn't bother with a formal dismissal, but a dismissal it is, as she moves back to the group pulling up bodies. "Keep fishing until you find me a useful officer," she orders. And then she snorts in amusement; dead men weren't exactly useful, unless you were desperate or starving. "Or at least someone with papers. A courier'll do."

Papers are less likely in the undersea, but they might happen. Unfortunately, in Rebma, the information couriers had is likely to have died with them. They might get lucky and find a written message with the surfacers, though. The men redouble their efforts.

Assuming they have nothing to add, she turns on her heel, surveying the deck, and locates Stone. "How ready are we," she asks as she reaches him, "if trouble should come looking?"

"Close quarters combat, we're good for. Better than we were, if we take any decent weapons from the Rebmans and their foes." Stone flashes a smile at the idea of spare weapons he might leave in his enemies. "Ship to ship, depends on their weaponry. Thraxian fire might be a problem, but not so many carry that."

Raven nods. "Good enough. I'm not sure of what we're sailing into still, but it's as like as not an invasion into Rebma and who knows what into Amber beyond. It'd be best if we're keeping a sharp eye on the water as well as below." She smiles thinly in answer to his, not at all disagreeing with the sentiment. "We've got a few weapons so far, and some clothes for those that want it. Holler if I'm needed; I'm going to help fish 'em up."

"Aye, Captain."

From above a voice cries out. "Sails Ho!, Land Ho!" The man on the top of the mainsail is pointing in the direction of both the stream of corpses and the prow of the ship.

"What flags?" Raven calls back up.

Then, to Stone as she heads back down to Stern and the others, "Have someone run up the Amber flag, or what's left of it, anyway."

"Aye, Captain!"

As soon as she reaches the group, she directs briskly, "Strip 'im and ditch 'im, boys, and no more for now. Any of you need clothes or weapons, take from what we've pulled so far and then pass the rest out to those that need it. Miles, take the horns and stick them with the rest of the crap we've not made heads or tails of." As she speaks, she picks up the bucket she's left sitting all this time, fishes out the spoon, and dumps the rest of the contents overboard.

There is no effect from dumping the pail overboard.

Raven's men scramble to obey her orders as the news filters down from the crow's nest.

"There's a gate, Captain. And on the other side, they fly the flag of Gateway!"

Gateway is the end of the trading route, but there's a way back to Amber from there. The news is electrifying and the off-duty sailors pour up from belowdecks. They explode in cheers and cries of relief.

One of those cheers is Raven's. It's a relief to finally be sure she hasn't been leading them the wrong way. Rebmans on the water or not, it has to be easier sailing from here to home.

As the noise dies down, she moves among the off-duty men, detailing them in ones and twos as necessary to duck back belowdecks. There are some assorted little tasks that need taking care of, just in case there should be someone from Amber's Navy about: things to hide for now, mostly - trinkets and treasures from ships they had met along the way, most of which were obtained in ways the navy definitely would have frowned upon. None of the tasks take more than a few minutes, plenty of time to get back up on deck as familiar sights come into view; she hasn't the heart to chase them all below where they should be, anyway, not as long as they can stay out of the way.

The orders are welcome--except for any that involve staying below decks--and in a little while, they've sailed through the gate, leaving the bodies and their mysteries behind, and are headed toward the familiar docks of Gateway.

By long custom, a naval vessel like Raven's doesn't anchor at the docks proper, but in the harbor, and the Captain takes a rowboat ashore to settle papers and the like. The men are anxious for her to do so, because by custom, when the Captain returns, they'll find out about shore leave.

Raven can see the Harbormaster's men coming out on to greet her before she debarks from her own ship.

Raven ducks into the captain's cabin long enough to exchange her comfortable coat - pilfered off another captain some time back, albeit not a Navy captain - for the coat of her ship's former captain, which is a bit too small in the shoulders for her and perhaps a bit too large about the waist. She had never quite mastered enough sewing to fix it; she can patch holes in sails and people, and that's about it. Still, she doesn't figure it will hurt too much to at least look the part. She gathers up whatever else she thinks might be necessary while she's there.

Then she boards the rowboat and heads across, aiming for the nearest location to the Harbormaster's men to come ashore.

The Harbormaster's men wait for her boat to arrive and for her to step up onto the dock before greeting her and asking her for her ship's papers, which the Captain keeps in his cabin. The papers should tell where her vessel, the Vale of Garnath, has been.

Raven has kept the records as tidily as she can. The deaths of the captain and upper officers are noted over the space of several days, with a final note detailing the cause of the deaths as either disease or a poisoning; they weren't sure which, given the unusual surroundings, so they dumped any food reserved specially for the officers overboard just in case. Curiously, none of the regular sailors seems to have acquired the disease, if disease it was, and it didn't touch anyone of Raven's rank or lower. The officers were too weak to work up any official paperwork in their last days, but it is recorded that Raven's appointment as acting captain was witnessed by Stone and the master-at-arms, who died some time later during a brief stay ashore (that entry reads: "Locals are foul. Lost Hook. Left quickly."). Each journey through a rift is documented, along with observations of the new world taken as soon as they came out the other side; each landfall is noted, along with a few concise notes about the place. Salvage operations are also noted, always as a sad necessity to keep the ship provisioned. And, of course, the usual observations of wind and wave and weather are noted regularly.

In short: nothing to point to any acts of murder, mayhem, mutiny, or piracy, on board the Vale of Garnath or off. Nothing is forged, though there is almost certainly a fiction or three and a certain amount of omission.

The Harbormaster comes out to review the documents and haggle for the harbor fees himself. There's some hmming and hawwing about various points, but that doesn't seem too unusual to Raven based on what she knows. When they've agreed on the fee, he invites Raven into his office to weigh out the goods, also as usual. There will probably be a drink for her as well.

[How hard does Raven haggle over the fees?]

[Enough to make it look good, so long as they're not ridiculously outside the range of normal harbor fees; if they are, then enough to get them back down into that range. She's not terribly fussed by handing over money at this point. Shore leave, now - that, she'll haggle for in earnest if she needs to.]

Raven accepts the invitation, of course. The more smoothly this goes, the quicker she can find out what she needs to know and get back to the ship. The crew aren't the only ones looking forward to at least a few days on dry land.

When they enter the Harbormaster's office, the Harbormaster's men move to subdue Raven and her sailors. They outnumber the sailors, but aren't as strong as men of Amber, much less Captain Raven.

"I see the hospitality of Gateway is in full force today," Raven says curtly, the anger in her eyes hearkening back to a night on the open seas, when a plague of knives in the darkness hit the Vale of Garnath and left her temporarily captainless. "Come on, then."

And with that, she wades into their opponents, with every intention of subduing them first with fists or whatever comes to hand.

Following Raven's lead, her men also join in the attack. The Harbormaster's men subdue her sailors quickly, especially as more of the harbor patrol pour into the office from behind her.

Raven is made of heartier stuff than her sailors, though, and it takes a fair number of the Harbor patrol to come to a standoff, with Raven holding them off with a chair. Raven thinks she might have a chance of getting away until the Harbormaster points something at her.

It looks like a small version of the thing the invaders of Rebma were wearing. If she hadn't been sure of what it was, she is now. It's a weapon.

"Stand down and I'll spare your life, Captain."

"I'd rather it be done the other way 'round," Raven answers. "But for the sake of not being killed like a cornered rat, let's compromise. How about you let me in on what that thing in your hand is, and I'll consider not throwing this chair at you and making a break for it until you've done?" She isn't making any openly agressive moves, but she's definitely continuing to defend herself in case anyone else comes at her.

"It's a gun and it'll blow your head off if I fire it at you," the Harbormaster explains.

"Ah." Raven considers this for a moment, frowning. "And if I stand down, are you just going to kill me anyway?"

The Harbormaster shakes his head. "There are questions for those who come from Amber. I can't say what happens after that, but you'll not be killed by my men if you stand down."

"If you're expecting recent news, you'd do better let me go and keep hunting," Raven says flatly. "But fine. I always did prefer alive to dead. Better be quick about the questioning, though; I've a ship full of men that haven't had a decent shore leave in longer than I care to think about, and haven't been this near to Amber in longer. If this takes too long, I can't promise that they won't be taking action to find out what's gone wrong this time." She smiles thinly as she sets down the chair and steps back from it. "Last time they had to find me, they burnt down half the town."

"Burning down half of Gateway would be harder work than that," says the Harbormaster, keeping his gun generally pointed in Raven's direction, but no longer aimed straight at her, once she lowers the chair. Raven knows he's right; the magicians of Gateway can do a lot to stop that kind of thing.

[Assuming no further resistance]

Raven's men are separated from her and sent off to what she expects is the harbor gaol. She's taken to another building that seems to be a makeshift lockup of a slightly better sort. There's furniture, including a bed that someone brought in, and there's actual food and wine on the table, if mostly consumed.

The other resident of the room rises to greet Raven when she's locked in with him. He's dark-haired and bearded, unkempt, and pale. He moves like a man healing slowly from bad wounds. He's not in naval garb but even so has the gait of a sailor.

"Captain?" he asks. "Which fleet?"

"Aye, name's Raven," she answers agreeably. "Southern Fleet." She glances around briefly before settling her gaze back on him. "Hope you don't mind me being blunt, but - you been here a while and had a time of it, or were you half-dead when you got here?"

He throws back his head and laughs. "Oh, I doubt you have what they wanted from me." He offers his hand, and despite the slowness of it, his hand (if she takes it) proves strong.

"Marius. Once a captain of the Southern Fleet and now--" Marius trails off and smiles. "Now, I think, an enemy of the Gatwegians and their ill-chosen ally. Give me a day or two, and I'll be ready to break out of this place."

This seems unlikely to Raven unless the man's a Prince of Amber.

Raven squints at him for a moment. "Right," she says finally. "So you've been in here too long, then. Got any recent news from Amber? It's been a while."

Marius eyes Raven with some interest. "How long have you been gone? Were you lost before what they call the Sundering? Who was king when you left the Pearl of Cities last?"

"The what?" A beat, and then Raven snorts in amusement. "Well, that'll answer that question, I suppose." She frowns, clearly thinking, and finally says slowly, "Near as I can recall, who got to be king was still being sorted out when we left Amber. That was right after King Eric bit it. Heard later from a passing merchantman that the old king was back - that was before we got lost - but this is the first place we've been that we know since then, so I can't say if that was truth or not."

"Oberon did come back, but he's left us forever now. I was there when he was put in his grave, such as it is," Marius says. "Random is King now. The civil strife of the last war seems to be over; the princes will remain united for a time against external enemies. Some of them are dead, and others have left the city, for good, I believe. You'll find Amber much changed when we return--assuming I can travel with you for the price of showing you the path home." He tilts the end of the sentence up, not quite enough to make it a question.

Mad he may be, but he seems quite lucid.

"Yes, yes, of course," Raven says absently; she's clearly chewing over the rest of what he said. "Though I take no responsibility for what might happen if you lead us astray." She grabs a chair, turning it around to sit in it backwards, and eyes her cellmate again once she's settled. "Sit down, will ya? You look like you might mean to fall over if you stay up too long, and I have questions. What do you mean, 'much changed'?"

Marius takes the other chair in the room and sits down with a bit more care. He seems to be favoring one arm in particular. "When the armies came back from the far end of the universe, after we defeated the foes of the Black Road, we found that there had been an earthquake under Kolvir. The castle was damaged and there was fire and destruction in the city.

"There were other changes. The sea paths have changed--but I'm sure you've noticed that."

"A bit, yes," Raven answers sourly. "If we're counting 'lost for the last few years' as noticing." Drumming her fingers lightly on the back of the chair, she considers her growing list of questions and settles on, "What's this 'far end of the universe' crap? How did the docks fare - and the Navy, for that matter? Oh, and why in the name of the seven hells of Kari-Hum did we follow a line of dead Rebmans into Gateway?"

"The far end of the universe is the place the Black Road sprang from. We went to the other end and defeated the army that sent us there. But it cost us the lives of many good men, and some of the Princes and Princesses as well. And King Oberon." He pauses there, as if that death means more than the rest somehow. "The measures he took for the defense of the realm--for its salvation--wiped the sea paths away. Yours wasn't the only ship stranded. Every vessel that was at sea, be she navy or merchant marine or mere fishing boat--was lost."

Given what Raven knows about the size of the navy, and what she knows about their rotations, the scale of the loss is awful. In the merchant marine, it's likely to be even worse, since they ship out as quickly as possible to keep from losing money on idle cargo space.

Economically, Amber must have been destroyed.

Raven whistles lowly. "That's - " and she stops there, frowning. A little silence falls, and when she speaks again, her voice is very thoughtful. "Keep that little tidbit under your hat for now, all right? Not that I don't think you're telling me the truth and all" - which she isn't entire sure of, given that he seems to think he'll be perfectly fine in a few days - "but I need to come up with a good way to break it to the lads." 'A good way,' of course, being a way that won't cause a riot or a mutiny. "Just how bad is it?"

Marius laughs.

"Bad enough that they're abandoning the city in favor of a place Random founded and another Corwin founded. And the shadow paths that are re-forming lead to Xanadu and Paris now. I've heard that some of the merchant marine ships have found their way back. So might you have, if you'd not stumbled into this trap first."

"I'm pretty sure it was luck that brought us here," Raven observes. "We've been following holes to other places the whole damned time. And we're going to Amber." That is a distinctly stubborn statement. "Ain't no reason to head elsewhere when we don't know if our families are still there or not." She taps her fingers against the chair for a moment. "So Random and Corwin are running their own kingdoms, huh? I suppose that means they don't have the whole kingship deal sorted, then. Who's the Navy gone with?"

"Caine." He says this as if it's self-evident. "Gerard stayed in Amber through the war, as Regent, and when the earthquake they call the Sundering took Kolvir, it broke his back. He lived, but he gets about in a wheeled chair now. So Caine is the only admiral left, and the Navy follows him.

"He swore to Random, but Random treats him like Julian now: with the deference that comes from knowing his brother has a military he can't match."

"You're just full of sunshine." Raven shakes her head. "That's a damned shame, about Gerard. Not that I've got problems with Admiral Caine, mind, but I've been Southern Fleet my whole service, and I've never seen or heard anything but that he's done right for us. I don't have that kind of intel about Northern affairs. Never had much need to ask, to tell the truth. I'm guessing that's public knowledge?"

Marius has to stop for a moment to think about that. "It is, if only because he ruled Amber for five years from his chair." There's another pause, and he says, "Tell me about the bodies."

"There was a tsunami, and then there were corpses," she supplies, with the air of one who wishes that this was the weirdest thing in recent memory. "Lots of Rebmans and lots of... well, not-Rebmans. Didn't look like anyone we'd expect to see near Amber or Rebma, and carrying things I still haven't quite made sense of. Knives and such, I get - but they had these little bags full of rocks and trash." She pats her coat pocket and then shakes her head at its emptiness. "Other coat, or I'd show you. Our best guess is that there was some sort of invasion or civil war...?"

Marius is nodding slowly as she speaks. "So he did invade. Did he win or lose, I wonder?" He blinks a couple of times; his words are slow and seem aimed mostly at himself, not Raven. "Whatever happened, it's beyond changing now," he adds, and refocuses on Raven. "We need to rest. Tomorrow I may be well enough to get us out of here."

Raven holds up a finger. "Wait. He who? 'Cause I thought you said all the princes were getting along for now."

"The royal family as we knew it is. I suppose," Marius says, thinking about it, tasting the words, "I don't like to think of Huon as family." Refocusing on Raven, he adds, "Huon is one of Oberon's bastards. The Gatwegians have allied with him. And if the battle in Rebma is already over, we need to get out of here sooner rather than later."

"Glad they're not my family," Raven remarks off-handedly. "I've got enough trouble with the one I've got. Thanks, though; that explains some things. Gives me a bit to chew on, too. One more thing, before you go back to resting - anything I need to know about the grub around here?" She smirks. "Not that I'm a suspicious soul, mind, but I didn't exactly volunteer for this." She waves a hand in the direction of the door.

"They haven't tried to poison me, if that's what you mean. Ensorcel me, yes." Marius gives her a smile whose sanity is questionable. "Poison me, no. But if Huon's been taken, it's only a matter of time until something unpleasant happens."

Raven laughs. "Story of my life, that. I'll see if I can't come up with a plan or two while you nap; I'm not ready to rest yet."

Marius gets up and retreats to the bed, lying down for his nap. Soon enough he's asleep, and not long after that, dinner is brought, or at least shoved through the tray slot, such as it is. It's stew, and hearty, and there's a hell of a lot of it more than Raven thinks she and Marius ought to be able to eat together.

There's also wine, but only a bottle of that, and a lot of water.

Raven mutters, "Huh," under her breath as she examines the meal, but after a moment she shrugs. If her - their, she amends with a glance at her questionable cellmate - captors want to waste food, so be it. They must just have more food than sense.

She takes a generous portion of the stew for herself and, bowl in hand, moves around the room as she eats. Not that she had any particular qualms about inspecting the place while Marius was awake, but there had been questions to ask, so while he was asleep was as good a time as any. She's mostly interested in what's there and what might be turned to their advantage if he's serious about an escape attempt in a few days at the moment, but she'll stop and examine anything else that seems interesting.

The makeshift jail seems pretty solid. It's a stone building with windows that have been barred so Raven can't break them and escape easily. The door was barred from outside when she arrived, and she remembers hearing the bar fall into place, but when Raven tries it, she finds that she can't make it budge. It's probably Gatwegian magic of some sort.

Well, it is a prison. Raven chuckles to herself. It wasn't really a surprise that they'd have to wait for the door to open to get it. After all, it didn't make any sense to do half a job if you meant to keep someone in. Particularly if one of the someones believes himself a Royal. Speaking of which... She saunters in the direction of the bed, pausing a short distance away to address the sleeping occupant loudly. "Food's here."

Marius is a light enough sleeper that that's enough to wake him; he may have already been partway awake from the look of him. He makes an "mmph" noise and sits up. "Thanks," he says after a moment, rubbing his eyes in a fashion that might almost be described as boyish.

Then he comes over to the table and inspects his dinner, nodding at the state of the table. "You've eaten?" he asks Raven.

Raven nods. "Figured you could use a few more minutes," she says. "It's not cold yet."

There's a moment's pause, and then she adds, "I took a bit of a look around." She shoves her hands in her coat pockets and jerks her head in the direction of the door. "Tidy little prison we've found ourselves in. I don't suppose you're saying you'll be fine in a few days means you can do anything about barred doors what should give a little and don't, does it?"

"If you can force the door, physically, I should be able to take care of the rest of it."

Marius serves himself generously, and it becomes apparent why they brought so much food: he eats for two. At least.

He looks surprisingly better after that nap, too. Or maybe he just seemed worse off than he was when Raven was brought in.

"I can try, but no promises until I have," she answers. "Is that the grand plan, then? Shove the door open and make a run for it?"

Marius grins and nods at Raven. "The old plans are the best sometimes. We'll need to arm ourselves, but I think we can arrange for that by the time we get to your ship. It seems likely enough." The grin curls a bit higher, as if Marius has made a particularly funny private joke.

"Huon's the only one I worry about being able to take me blade to blade. And without his backing, the Gatwegians will fold against Amber. Or Xanadu in any case. Your arrival is particularly convenient for everyone involved, Captain. The Gatwegians get to say I recovered and escaped, you get to go home, and I get to leave before Huon gets back." The smile has turned sourly cynical now.

In no wise has the discussion impeded Marius's prodigious intake of dinner.

Raven laughs. "Well, if you're not too fussy about being down a chair if this fails, we can have some passable weapons to start with.

"And before you go calling me 'convenient', I have two complications. One, two of my men came ashore with me, and I'm guessing they're in the regular jail with the rest of the miscreants. I won't be leaving here without them.

Marius glances up from his dinner. "That's a minor problem unless the Gatwegians have some reason to put them in special holding. Like this." He gestures around their chamber with his fork. "We can let all their prisoners out and keep them busy that way. And the other complication is?"

"Well, the last I saw of the papers and the log was the Harbormaster's office," she says. "And I ain't leaving without those either."

"We'll get them." He sounds remarkably unconcerned about both items. Either he's crazy or he really is something special. Instead of worrying about that, he changes the subject. "So, Captain Raven of the Southern Fleet, I've told you what I know of Amber. Tell me your tale while I finish this fine repast our jailers have left us with."

"Mine, or my ship's?" Raven answers, and then waves a hand with a thin smile. "Never mind - the one isn't as interesting as you'd think. We've wandered, seen some strange things - just trying to get home. I already told you about the corpses; did I mention the tsunami before that? Or the fog so black, it made a crow's wing look as white as a lady's arm? The lightning eaters of Orchid Hill? The fish men of the third tier of the seven hells of Spak?" She snorts. "Half of it sounds absurd, and the rest like we've been to sea too long."

"Oh, you might be surprised what I'd believe. I've had an adventure or two myself in my Navy days, and since then I've had a few more. Tell me about the tsunami. And tell me about how you got lost," Marius suggests.

"Not much to tell on the tsunami front." She shrugs. "We had only been in the area a short time, and we were headed for a rift we'd heard about from a passing ship. All of a sudden, there was a big wave. Decided to head for the source once it passed, and that's when we encountered the dead bodies. We may have found Gateway before we actually found the center - but gotta admit I'm not sure how you'd find the center, so we could have passed it and not known.

"Now, as for getting lost." Raven frowns, thinking. "Near as I can recollect, it started with a storm. I know it ended up a hurricane fit to wipe out half a country, like that one twenty years back that just missed Karboras and flattened that neighbor of it that I can never remember the name of. Don't matter, it's not like we dealt with them, then or now. I'd just bunked down for the night and missed the first part; by the time they woke me and I got on deck, we were somewhere with a green sea that boiled Red Jones when he went over the side." She shakes her head. "At least, we figure he was boiled; we hadn't seen him match his hair before. We were set to fish him up and see if he still lived when the sky went silver and the rain started - rain like nails, hard and cold. The sea went blue, just as sudden-like, and whatever gods might or might not have been in that place must have decided they didn't like us, because the blue sea's rain fair near drowned us right there on deck. It got stranger after that, but I didn't have much time to look - the weather got worse, and there's more to do in a storm than gawk, ain't there? And I weren't captain then, I was bosun. Didn't make captain until later. When the storm stopped, we were near some little green islands, just big enough to have something that looked like a camel, ate like a bird, and tasted like someone'd boiled shoe leather in garlic."

"Was there a moment when it all just seemed to stop?" Marius asks, watching her intently now. "When it just seemed as if there were nothing?"

"Maybe..?" she answers, drawing out the answer slowly. "There might have been. Things was a bit chaotic at the time, if you follow me. There might've been something like that, some time between the storm and the eye of it, but I don't rightly know if I could say if it's what you're asking for or not." She pauses, clearly still chewing over the question. "It was the stillest damned eye of a storm I've ever been in, I can say that much. Full moon up, not a breeze to be found, and water like glass - the fancy stuff what has no bubbles or flaws."

Marius nods slowly. "That could be it. That could be very well be it." There's a pause, and he adds, "I was just wondering."

Raven gives him a slightly skeptical look, but lets the subject drop.

Marius finishes his dinner at long last. He really did eat all of that food. He looks quite a bit healthier than he did when Raven came in and he seems to be moving more steadily than he was when Raven entered the cell.

"I think I could do this," he says. "Are you ready?"

"As charming as it is to stand around watching someone eat, this ain't exactly my idea of a good time," Raven answers. "I'm ready."

Marius smiles as he comes to his feet and moves to the door. It bodes ill for the Gatwegians.

He gestures to Raven to get into place. "You force it, and I'll deal with their magic. It should come free quickly enough."

Raven positions herself appropriately and then nods. "Ready." It has not escaped her notice that she'll be first through the door and first to find out if there are guards out there (and how many). Not that she blames him, but it's nice to know that her fellow prisoner is self-serving enough to let someone else be attacked first. It's not the most charitable of thoughts, but given some of his claims so far, it doesn't seem entirely undeserved.

As soon as Marius indicates he's also ready, Raven applies her boot to the door with extreme prejudice, aiming for the weakest point. If it's actually going to give, it'll give there, and she'll give it her best effort.

The door rattles on its hinges. Whatever Marius is back there doing, it's having some effect, because when Raven inspected it before, it wasn't moving at all. "Again," he says, and there's some strain in his voice.

She assaults the door again, with no less vigor, and will continue to do so until either the door breaks, stops moving, or Marius passes out, all of which seem to be reasonable outcomes to her. And if she happens to be taking out some of her irritation at the Harbormaster on the door at the same, well... it's not undeserved, and the door is there whereas he is not.

It takes two more tries before the door falls. Marius almost does the same, but then he picks himself up to make good his departure. Breaking the door and the bar are a feat of strength Raven hardly thought she had in her, but still, people can do amazing things in extremity, and this is extreme.

Once she's sure she won't have to sling Marius over her shoulder and carry him out, Raven makes a point of being first out the door. "You been out of the room enough to know which way we're going?" she asks as she looks left and right for guards and witnesses that might cause a problem later. "Or are we going off my memory of how I got here?"

Marius takes a moment to recover from his exertions but once he does, he's moving through the door as fast as he can. He has no more desire to stay in the gaol than Raven. "You'll need to be our guide. That took more from me than I expected."

He's moving steadily, despite the appearance of a splitting headache: wincing at the sunlight outside and care for how his head moves when he jogs.

"Done, and done."

She does her best to navigate them back to the Harbormaster's office, although she'll choose whatever seems to lead towards the docks if she isn't sure. After all, finding that particular office from the docks is supposed to be fairly easy. She keeps half an eye on her companion - enough to make sure he doesn't fall too far behind (or over) with the fast pace she's inclined to - but otherwise leaves him and his headache to commune with each other in silence.

Assuming they make it as far as the dock area, she'll momentarily stop their progress, turning off into an alley if there's one convenient. "Right," Raven says lowly. "So is part two of this plan 'walk casual' or 'charge in swinging'?"

Marius grins in a way that shows his teeth. "We'll 'walk casual' until we need to break heads, and then we'll charge in, or out as the case may be, swinging. Let me see if I can find something to make it a bit easier to walk casual."

They're in a nest of small warehouses like the one that served them as a gaol. As they move along between the buildings, Marius finds a door and tries it. Surprisingly, it comes open and he ducks inside, gesturing to Raven to join him.

It's a bit strange; Raven wouldn't have expected the building to be unlocked.

"I'm starting to think this isn't your first jail break," Raven says, sounding amused, as she follows him. She frowns slightly and quirks an eyebrow at the door as she passes it, despite her amusement; it's strange that it wouldn't be locked... but then, Marius seems to be a bit strange all around. On the other hand, this could also be a set-up; it would be a shame if it was, though - he was doing so well at lulling her into a sense of fellowship to go and screw it up with a 'luckily' unlocked door. She shrugs just slightly as she looks around. Time will tell, after all.

"It is a useful skill if one travels a great deal," Marius says agreeably. He looks at the crates and locked trunks in this warehouse. "There should be a crowbar around here somewhere. See if you can't get one of those crates open--quietly. I'll work on this." His foot nudges a trunk with a padlock on it.

"I got more sense than to make noise fit to wake the dead," Raven answers drily. "Say something if you need help."

A bit of searching turns up a crowbar on top of one of the crates, as though someone had set it down to do some other task and forgot to pick it up again. She hefts it for a moment, testing the weight, and decides to take it with her when they leave; she'd always liked the utility of crowbars. And then, badly humming a tune about a particularly bloody sea battle under her breath, sets off along the row of crates in search of a likely suspect: a crate with shipping marks indicating it contained clothes, boots, hats, or some other useful thing.

Searching through the warehouse, Raven finds and opens what proves out to be a crate of bolts of cloth of the right weight for cloaks. When she digs around the edges a bit, she finds two cloaks that she wouldn't describe as perfect fits for herself and Marius, but certainly adequate for disguise. When she looks down from her perch on top of some boxes, she finds Marius has joined her. He has a sword in hand and looks like he knows how to use it, which is no surprise.

"Can you make do with knives, or should I keep looking?" Marius asks.

"Knives'll work," Raven agrees, "and I'm taking the crowbar, too. Might come in handy. Here." She tosses down one of the cloaks. "Finder's right - I'm taking the less ugly one. 'Ware below; I'm coming down."

Marius catches the cloak, laughing at the comment about finders, and steps back to clear a space for Raven to leap down into. When she's steady on her feet again, he passes her the knives, haft first. They seem like they'll do for throwing from the way the weight is distributed, which leaves her with the crowbar for any melee they get into.

The blade Marius took is a bit longer than the ones sailors use for close-in work; more of a landsman's duelling weapon. He draws the cloak around his shoulders and fastens it with his free hand. "Lead on, Captain Raven. We have your men to free and your vessel to escape to."

"And my papers to collect," Raven reminds him pointedly as she tucks away the knives and hooks the crowbar on her belt. "I ain't about to try explaining the last few years to the higher-ups without 'em. And I hope you're planning to hide that thing," she adds, with a gesture at the sword. "You did say 'walk casual' and not 'stalk around like a young idiot with more gold than sense'?"

She fastens her own cloak and leads the way back out of the warehouse, returning to where they'd turned off. She picks a pace that is not so fast as to be conspicuously running away from something, but brisk enough to look like they have someplace to be and something to do - which is entirely true - and sets off down what she thinks is the correct way.

"We'll find them," Marius says, closing his cloak in a way that somewhat conceals his blade, but not enough to suit Raven's taste. But he walks behind her swiftly and silently, and as if he's well used to moving with the blade, not just sitting and dancing.

When Raven identifies the Harbormaster's office, Marius nods and suggests they see if they can't get behind it, with an eye to entering via a back door or some such. He judges the risks as being more likely to be seen if they bluff their way in, and more likely to be caught by magic if they try to sneak in. He'd have an easier time if he went it alone and Raven rescued her crew, but he certainly understands that she's unlikely to think much of that plan.

The just slightly mutinous look that briefly crosses Raven's face when he suggests the plan of splitting up is probably a good indication of how she feels about it. She tempers her actual reply to a succinct, "Terrible idea."

The back door seems like a reasonable plan to her, and she somewhat prefers bluffing over having magic tip off unknown and unseen numbers of people and maybe just catching them like flies in honey. At least if they're bluffing, they have half a chance of seeing who they tip off and a fighting chance of getting away.

Marius slips into an alleyway with Raven right behind him. The two escapees are reasonably sure their initial escape has not yet been detected. The harbormaster's office is a low building of two floors.

Marius straightens his hair unsuccessfully and places his makeshift weapon behind his belt. He gestures at the back door. Behind it, Raven hears voices, too quiet to understand. Marius is grinning, as if he's enjoying this.

Raven eyes him for a moment, and snorts in amusement. At least he'd finally put the sword properly out of sight.

She moves up to the door and - just on the off chance - tries the doorknob. If it doesn't budge, she knocks on the door, pauses, and then knocks again, more urgently. Then she ducks her head slightly, her plan to pretend to be servants sent on an urgent mission, and waits.

The door opens, and one of the Harbormaster's men, not one Raven knows opens it. Marius steps up and speaks. "Message from the Collegia Arcanum for the Harbormaster. We're to wait to bring it back." He holds up a sealed parchment that he did not have when they left their gaol.

The Harbormaster's man looks at Raven expectantly.

Raven nods helpfully, shifting aside to let Marius hand over the supposed message - which she rather suspects is just a list of contents from whatever chest he found the weapons in. "They said it was quite important," she says. "And somewhat urgent."

Marius hands over the paperwork and the Gatwegian opens it, scanning the list. He frowns. "Hold on, I'll get it." Then he disappears into the innards of the building.

"I decided it was likely he'd interpret that as your paperwork," Marius says to Raven half under his breath.

If he had said, "By the way, I can transform into a dolphin and I'll swim us out to your ship," Raven might have given him a stranger look.

Maybe.

As it is, Marius is treated to a look that could not say any clearer that she has at best half an idea of how to take what he just said, and that she suspects he may be slightly unhinged. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she says, "Riiiight. That's probably better than us going inside."

"As long as we don't run into one of their mages, we'll be fine," Marius says in a tone that's clearly meant to be reassuring. He scans the area, perhaps looking for any of the aforementioned mages, and waits.

[Assuming that Raven is happy to wait.]

[Raven is unreassured - but fine with waiting.]

A few minutes later, the Harbormaster's man comes back and hands a stack of familiar paperwork to Raven.

Marius beams. "Thank you, good sir. We'll be sure your cooperation is noted."

Raven does not flip through the papers to make sure everything is there once she has them. She wants to, but she doesn't. The paper Marius had handed over was sealed; they weren't supposed to know what they were getting. She damned sure will be checking as soon as they get out of sight, though. It's just prudent, to her mind, to check it all over, regardless of who handed it over - although she also doesn't entirely trust a looney, a mysterious parchment, and a guard that probably only didn't try to hit her earlier because he was at the back door and not the front to have got it all right.

Instead, she nods agreement to what Marius is saying. "Yes, thank you."

The door closes and Marius gestures to Raven to come along. They duck into an alley between two buildings so Raven can reassure herself that she's gotten everything they came for.

Marius waits impatiently while she looks through the paperwork. "Is it all there?"

Raven gives him a brief, quelling look - the kind usually reserved for a sailor that's irritating her. Clearly, she is unimpressed with his impatience, although she does understand they're in a hurry. "Looks like. Let's go."

As they head off, she adds, "Bluffing ain't going to get us into the jail. Ain't neither one of us can pass as somebody's grieving girl."

"No, but we can pass as errand boys from the Collegium. We've proven that," Marius points out. He rubs his temple, as if it aches a bit. "As long as we're lucky enough not to run into an actual mage from the Collegium, we should do just fine. I'm handy at finding keys and once we free your men, it's a moot point."

He looks over at Raven inquiringly. "Unless you have a better plan?"

"Well," Raven answers after a moment's thought, "to be blunt, no. I got the broad plan of getting out of here, but I ain't never tried to break anybody outta jail."

"You're not about to try to break someone out of jail," Marius tells Raven. "You're about to do it." He produces a second forged letter from inside his cloak. "Who's the most senior of your men? I'll ask for him with this letter."

"Jasper," she supplies.

"And then when we have him, we take out the guards, set the prisoners free, and we're on our way."

"That's a lot of ifs," Raven says drily, "to be sounding so confident, especially with the possibility of mages hanging about. I assume plan B is the same: break faces until we got what we came for, then run for it?" A response doesn't seem to be required to that; it's only barely a question, anyway. "And put that note away. Ain't no reason to wave it about 'til we get there, not with me carrying papers as well. It looks odd, and we don't need help with that."

Marius tucks the note away with a flourish. "I wouldn't say I'm not worried about the mages, but they don't spend much time in the harbor. The stench of honest labor, not to mention honest laboring men, distracts from their esoteric studies." He says the last with something that might be an eyeroll.

He sticks his head out of the little alley and looks around. "I think we're clear."

Raven chuckles. "Right. Fair enough." She moves around him and turns in the direction her men had been led off. "Don't know exactly where we're going, other than this way, but it ain't never hard to find the harbor gaol."

Marius and Raven make their way toward the gaol in a businesslike manner, keeping their heads down and their presence minimal. It's Raven that spots her first: a blonde witch, by her gear and insignia a senior mage of the Collegium.

"I see trouble," Raven says lowly, pitching her voice just loud enough that Marius can hear her. "Blonde trouble, at that. Keep your eyes to yourself; we got things to do." Thanks to a tribe of short and particularly cranky mages some months back, she's wary of eavesdropping when a mage is nearby and standing still - on top of being a bit wary of mages in general - so she's hoping he'll get the message to stick to the plan until it doesn't work without her having to spell it out.

"That," hisses Marius, who has spotted her moments after Raven, "is Thalia. If she spots me--" he does not complete the sentence. Perhaps he thinks he doesn't have to.

If Thalia hasn't spotted them, she may soon. She is headed their way.

Raven scowls. Additional complications, they do not need. Especially ones her dubious companion is on a first-name basis with. A mage is bad enough - this better not be his jilted girlfriend too. "Right. I got three ideas, then: you fake a faint and I sling you over my shoulder; you go make like you're puking your guts out in yonder alley; or we keep our heads down and hope we make it to the corner before girlie gets too close. You got a better one?"

"I drag her back to Amber to get some much-needed answers," Marius says, his hand tightening on his blade's hilt.

Thalia continues her approach.

"Your idea of 'better' needs work," Raven answers bluntly. "And we ain't got a jail on board that'll hold a mage. Alley. On your knees. Muster up something that sounds like you've spent the last week in a cask of rum and regret it. Hustle, and make it look good." And if there was any question that that was an order, she resolves it with the kind of stare reserved for disobedient sailors and a stern, "Now."

Marius stares at Raven for a moment like she's grown a second head, and then laughs, loudly, as if she said something hilarious. And maybe she has.

Thalia's head snaps up at the sound of the laughter and she's looking right at them, or perhaps at just Marius.

"You moron." The scorn in Raven's voice could wilt vegetation, were there any nearby to be wilted. "You bloody lunatic. The idea is to get away with what we came for - it ain't to beat up mage-girls you know, or to try it and get caught again." She scowls at Marius. "You better be able to back up your claim you can get us home, boyo, 'cause I'm starting to think you ain't worth the trouble."

And with no more preamble than that, she takes a swing at him. After all, if he's face down on the ground and unconscious, this 'Thalia' woman won't be able to recognise him - and he'll be less trouble, at least for a few minutes.

Whether because Marius is slow or because he's paying more attention to Thalia than to Raven, Raven can't say, but the blow lands hard. It would have felled most men, even most of Raven's sailors.

Apparently Marius isn't most men, because while it rattles him, it doesn't fell him. It might have annoyed him, though. He doesn't bother to wipe the corner of his mouth where a little blood is trickling out before he moves to respond in kind.

This is going to get out of hand and draw notice--more notice--in a moment. Thalia is already moving to intervene, but she doesn't seem to have called for help yet.

Raven dodges back, trying to get out of his reach (and not coincidentally in the direction she wants to go) in a hurry. "Heh. So you ain't made of glass. So much for that plan." She smirks. "Come on, time to go - your girlie's headed this way."

The retreat takes her out of Marius' reach, but the punch was rather half-hearted, or perhaps reflexive and partially pulled, anyway. He's paying more attention to Thalia than Raven, anyway, so he doesn't seem to be following Raven

Thalia continues her approach. As she gets within speaking, rather than shouting, distance, she calls Marius's name and he turns to face her, his hand moving to the hilt of his blade to ready his draw but not completing it.

Thalia glances at Raven, but is more concerned with Marius.

Raven just crosses her arms and looks irritated. If Marius moves to draw his blade without any particular provocation, she'll grab his nearest body part and yank; if it looks like they're about to be arrested, she'll start heading for the hills. Otherwise, she's willing to see where this is going.

Thalia is a moderately tall woman; her bearing gives her the illusion of additional height until she stands close to someone like Marius. She has a fine bone structure and a sharp chin, and from the color of the tendrils that have evaded her headdress, her hair must be blonde. She stops out of the reach of Marius' blade and, not coincidentally, Raven's arm. "We must talk, Marius. There's been a terrible misunderstanding."

Marius has not yet drawn his blade, but he's ready to if Thalia makes the wrong move, clearly. "I understood you perfectly well. You made it clear you'd allied with Amber's enemies. What happened? Did your bet go badly? Did the assault on Rebma fail?"

"Not everyone agreed with the Collegium's decision--"

Marius interrupts her. "So now you want to--what? Rectify your mistake? If your alliance with him fails, you'll play my card for the good of Gateway?" He flashes a very toothy grin. "I'm as corrupt as any of my kin. Name my price, and perhaps you'll have me." The look in his eyes makes the entendre clear.

The curl of Thalia's lip suggests Marius has scored no points in that direction, if it was what he intended. "Don't be a fool, Marius, we're not all allied with the Black Tide Army. Yes, as a matter of fact Huon's assault failed, and you should do what you're clearly working on doing, which is getting back to Amber. I saw what they did to you; if you think you can stand up to me, even now, you're deluding yourself. I'll help you get this Amber ship free if you'll take me with you."

"Begging your pardon, miss," Raven interrupts, "but you'll be wanting to talk to me about being a passenger on my ship. And quite frankly, I've got enough trouble on my hands," she glances meaningfully at Marius, "without adding a lady mage of apparently questionable loyalties to the matter. Unless, of course, there's more to this escape still than what I can see with my own eyes...?"

Thalia's delicate eyebrows arch slightly at Raven's statement. "Are you rescuing Marius, then, Captain? I was under the assumption that he was rescuing you."

Marius' expression has shifted to something approaching cross, and not just at being left out of the conversation.

[Edan] watches until Hannah is out of sight; then, checking his reflection in the river, he makes his way back to Estimaza's lodge. On the way, he makes a mental call for Kyauta, but will not as yet use sorcery to force the call if his affine does not answer.

Great Lord! Do you need me? I am afraid I cannot come to you quickly without assistance.

~No. I'm checking up on you, and our link. If you are well, I shall expect to see you at the big tree by the next sunrise. If you are not, I shall come to you. Edan trudges onward towards the lodge.

I am in a fish, eating it. I ... can almost certainly eat my way out by then, Great Lord!

The lodge is across the clearing from Edan; the horses whinny when they scent him.

Very well, then... call to me if you run into trouble.

Taking a deep breath, Edan squares his shoulders and walks back to the entrance of the lodge. If not met beforehand, not knowing exactly the proper form, he scratches at the side of the entrance.

There is no answer, but he hears snores from inside.

Taking care to erase what must either be the remnants of a silly grin or the beginnings of a guilty look from his features, Edan scratches louder at the door frame and adds, "Ah... hello? Estimaza?"

There is a snort, followed by the sound of stirring, then the blanket is pulled aside. "Yes? Firedancer? Where is Ohanzee?"

"She went on to find her Grandfather Bear," Edan says. "She asked me to come back and ask you... to meet her at the big tree in the morning, if you... or you and Elm... intended to come with her. And despite her desire to honor our dead cousin, she would come to you if you wished to speak with her and stayed here."

The man smells strongly of tobacco. "Elm and I believe that I was waiting here to be brought to our people to help them not be stupid any more. We will go with her, and if we are to honor my dead step-niece, that is an honoring I would be pleased to offer."

Edan bows. "I must go wake the great tree, then, and talk to him and ask him a favor," he says. "I will see you there in the morning, then, Estimaza, if not before."

The young man who doesn't look like he could possibly be Enana's father nods. "Look out for bear. They are a jealous lot," he says, smiling.

"Ah..." Edan smiles and nods back. "Of course. I will. I shall see you there."

He turns, and makes the long walk back to the place where he first made his camp only a day before, but what suddenly seems like a very long time ago. It is a long walk, but he spends the time remembering what he was originally going to do and how he was going to do it. When Edan finally arrives, he rebuilds his fire on the ashes of the old, digs a small hole in the earth with his fingers, and fills it with water and shavings of exotic wood and leaves that he finds around him or in his pockets. He dips Enana's three hairs into the mix he's created, pausing every once in a while to stretch the hairs over the fire and let the smoke and heat dry the hairs. After a minute spent doing this, he ties and knots the hairs around his left wrist, knowing that Enana likely felt these gentle manipulations on her own head. He strokes the hairs, once, then stands to start work on the larger spell.

Edan moves in a large circle around the great tree, perhaps twenty yards radius from the center. Every once in a while he stops and clears a little brush and starts a new flame, until there are seven small fires burning around the tree. Strangely, they don't spread and don't light the brush around them. Edan then walks a path from fire to fire, humming something under his breath as he does so, until his circle is fully circumscribed, each fire connected to all the others. Each line contains a strange squiggle that Edan draws in his walk. The circle takes a watch to complete.

When he is finished, Edan goes to the tree and lays his hands upon the bark; he sends his awareness down, deep beneath the roots, down, down to the heat and energy he knows is deep beneath the earth, even in this place of spirits. He pulls the energy back up, funnelling it through his awareness, up to the roots of the great tree and the matrix of containment he himself has created. Slowly, he lets the restless energy of fire work its way into the roots of the tree, up into the trunk, up, up into the branches and the leaves, all the way to the very top. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know that the tree is burning now without heat, a dark greenish flame of energy and health and awareness. He binds that energy to the tree with his name, just for a moment, knowing that the spirit of the tree has woken and can feel and be aware of this new world and the strength that Edan has brought. He makes his plea, then, offering the tree a choice: be aware of this new energy, the world around it, feel this new strength and awareness, for at least a season. Edan offers to return at the change of seasons to offer this source of power, as long as the tree wishes; or, if it wants to go back to its sleep and remain undisturbed, Edan will withdraw and not trouble it again. All he asks in return is to use the power of the tree and its fire to come and go as he wishes, for the tree to remain a guardian of this gateway as long as the power is manifest. He holds, then waiting for the tree's response before he continues.

The tree seems pleased with the new energy, although it doesn't seem to quite understand, it welcomes the gift.

Edan makes the fires and the circle permanent, and the tree will have the awareness to grow and fortify itself, with occasional visits from Edan to continue the binding.

The effect is strong, Edan is convinced he could visit this locale from any fire in this world, and possibly closely related ones like Enana's Blue Earth. Until he tries it, he's not sure about farther.

As he completes his work, Edan feels the oddly familiar stirring of a trump contact.

Hannah heads the bank of the river, picking up a rock to play with, and grinning the whole way. She doesn't linger, but is hopeful she'll find a fishing grandfather down the way. She hums a tune as she goes, but not too loud, because Coyote may be around somewhere.

She looks to the sky and the water and the grasses and breathes deeply of this place she has missed so badly.

The tune seems to form little secretive musical creatures in the air, who hide out of Hannah's line of sight. She can hear them, like ancient echoes, behind her.

After a short walk, Enana tops a small rise. Grandfather stands in the stream, his back to her and his wet fur blue black in the sunlight. He is swatting fish from the river.

"Grandfather, Grandfather, what have you caught for me?" she calls, and continues to up the little hill.

The voice that comes back is deep and sounds like Grandfather's blue-black fur. "Who is that calling to their grandfather thus? Hare, is that you?"

"A little rabbit? It is your Shadow, Grandfather, and I have been gone too long," she calls down the rise. "You used to give me rides on your back and keep me warm after swimming because I didn't have the sense to grow enough fur. Do you remember me?"

A fish is expertly pawed onto the shore, where it flops, still stunned from the great paw-swipe. "Shadows are long in the morning and evening, and gone in the night and noonday sun. Where do you go, Shadow, when you disappear from me?"

"I go following a unicorn to my mother's people, who think they live at the center of all worlds. Could you tell I was not on the Blue Earth, or was I just gone too long?" she asks, circling around the pile of fish. She picks a spot she hopes is out of range and settles herself to watch him fish.

The fish is followed by a second and shortly by a third. They slap wetly on the shore, near to Hannah. "Your father's people are strange. They must be very strong to have bodies in the spirit realm of the world-center. I saw the Unicorn when she passed through the Blue Earth. She did not speak with me."

"She did not speak with me either. I do not know if she has forgotten how to speak like we do, or never knew, or if she simply does not do it because then everyone would be asking her many questions. Like I come to ask you, Grandfather. Are there more of my father's people here?"

"You did not seek me out for an accounting of your family. Ask me more serious questions, or come fish." His great paw stabs the water, and Hannah hears a meaty thump, but the fish swims away.

Hannah smiles. "Very well. First question then: How do I heal a pelvis that has been crushed and then healed back together all wrong?"

"Hmm," says the bear, poking at the river again. "Very specific question. How do you heal it? Others might do otherwise, but you break the problem down into smaller, solvable problems. You reverse the course it is on, step by step. It is your way."

"That is such a long path. I am not sure he can survive that long." She puts her face in her hands, rubs her eyes, and looks over at the river again. "I am trying, but I am not sure he has the patience for this journey. And there are many pressures, from the family. Everyone wants him to heal, because his not healing means they can be stricken this way. So the family is... difficult. His son has sworn not to marry until his father his healed. This is..." she rolls her eyes, "this makes everything more complicated, because the father cannot be the son's first priority right now.

"And my uncle is stubborn, like you, he has all these rules that must be followed. And like you, he is not wrong. But it is hard. And I just knew I was going to come here and you would tell me the hard way is the way for me to try, but I had to come anyway, because I have missed you so much. I wish you could still take me for a ride."

"Why do you think I cannot? You are not too big for a bear. Come ride on me, and I will tell you what you need to know instead of what you asked. It is quite simple."

Hannah smiles and shakes her head, but gets back up and dusts herself off. "Very well, I will listen to good advice while having a ride. I might giggle like a child, but you won't mind at all, will you?"

She starts to step around the fish, and then stops and stands back. "I will climb right on after you have eaten," she insists politely.

Grandfather looks at an odd fish that swims by, its stomach bulging, but he doesn't paw at it.

"Very well," he says, and eats his fish, offering a small one to Hannah.

When he is done, and has done what is needful with the remains, he comes over to Hannah, and says "Climb on, child."

Hannah does as she's told, careful not to prod too hard with her boots. She settles herself and gives him a big hug. Then she finds a roll around his neck and gets a hold with her hands. "So tell me, grandfather, what I need to know. If it can not be easier, perhaps I can at least keep to simple."

"We go swimming," declares Grandfather Bear, who begins to wade into the river. As the water reaches up his legs, he turns to Hannah. "You asked me how you would fix your Uncle's legs, and I told you. What you did not ask me was how would someone else fix your Uncle's legs. Look outside yourself for ways, Enana."

She sighs. "Guilty. I will try that. Perhaps I can even get said Uncle to participate in finding out how others might do it, so he can agree." Hannah reaches a hand down to run it in the water. "I have been all out of balance."

The bear pads deeper in. He could swim from here, but seems to be content to enjoy the passing water. "Yes. Many things could be done, all are their own balancing acts. It is difficult to help others fix themselves when you are off balance. What are you doing about that? Should I expect strangers and girl-children as when your father lived here the last time?"