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

It takes two days and about five rounds of shifting before Raven sees something she'd wondered whether she'd ever see again: the Cabra light, which was the sailor's gateway to Amber. A ragged cheer goes up from the crew when it comes into sight, and sailors go belowdecks to rouse their companions to tell them that at long last, home is near.

As they sail up the coast, the castle eventually comes into view by spyglass. Raven can see that one of the towers has collapsed and been partially rebuilt. The approach to the city shows the same: parts that have burnt down with only some of the destroyed buildings reconstructed, and not always in the same style or according to plan. The balance and grace of the city are diminished; where once she floated above the harbor, now she limps.

The harbor is desolate compared to the old days. Many of the berths have been destroyed and even so, too few ships to fill them are at anchor. The flags of the old Golden Circle treaty shadows are gone, instead replaced by some Amber banners, a similar unicorn banner in red, and another with a unicorn and a fleur-de-lys that Raven doesn't recognize.

When they come ashore, the Harbormaster is deferential to Marius, calling him Captain and putting sailors and officials at his disposal. A carriage is found to take him and Raven and Thalia up to the castle. Raven's sailors are allowed the freedom of the city while the Navy inspects and repairs her ship. It's clear the Harbormaster and the Navy have uses for it.

Prince Caine is acting as Regent; Marius clearly means to see him at once.

Other than making sure that anything portable that the Navy might consider contraband is quietly smuggled off the ship as sailors leave - something she leaves in the capable hands of her first mate with a few words below-decks and well away from anyone that hasn't been on board for at least six months - Raven and the Vale's papers are ready to go.

If it hadn't been clear to Raven that Marius was a royal before, the way he's treated on their arrival at the castle makes it clear he is one. He sends pages looking for several people Raven's never heard of--some men and some women--and there's something about knights as well. His orders are given rapid-fire as they follow members of the royal guard up to the office Caine has commandeered, Caine's office is guarded by midshipmen; Northern Fleet is Raven's guess. On Marius' greeting, they open the door for Marius and his companions.

Caine is seated at his desk, his mind clearly on a card that he's holding. Marius seems to know what he's up to, because he says, "Tell whoever it is you'll talk to them later, Admiral. I've a story to tell you now. And--" he turns to the guards "--we need to put Lady Thalia under house arrest for aiding Huon of the Horn in an assault on Rebma. Captain Raven will stand witness to the perfidy of Gateway."

Marius has Caine's attention now.

The guards move to take Thalia into custody.

Raven salutes the Admiral sharply and then waits to be addressed, although she does shoot Marius a brief and faintly irritated look when he mentions her name. There is not, in her opinion, much she can do about Thalia getting arrested; this isn't her ship, she isn't even passably in charge, and she can't help but suspect that Thalia had to know this was coming - after all, she could have left at any point after they made port.

Besides, the best way she can come up with to clarify her position on Gateway and on Thalia involved maybe implying that Marius was either lying or deluded - which she suspects the Admiral will not appreciate... and she has no proof either way regarding the Thalia-Huon thing anyway, just a general trend of conversation. So she waits, silently.

"Have the Lady kept under guard in the guest wing," Caine orders. "I'll be in to speak with you later, madam," he says as Thalia is escorted out. Then he turns to Marius. "There's a meeting in Paris. You can tell me what you need to later; tell them first." He looks at the card again and holds out his hand to Marius.

Marius takes Caine's hand and then something happens. It's like he steps forward, but then he vanishes. There's something like a rainbow left for a moment in his wake, but then it, too is gone.

"And have someone bring up dinner for the Captain," Caine calls after the departing midshipmen. Once the door closes behind them, Caine turns back to Raven. "Sit down, Captain, and let's hear your report."

"Aye, sir." Raven sets the pile of papers and the Vale's logbook down on Caine's desk where he can choose to look at it or not and takes a seat. "Forgive me if I get protocol all wrong, sir," she starts. "I got field-promoted, and this is the first time I've had to report in as a captain to anyone."

Caine doesn't even look up from the papers. "I'm sure you'll do fine, Captain. Carry on."

"I was bosun when we left Amber last - that was right after King Eric died, sir, and while we were out on tour, we heard that King Oberon had come back.

"The ship what passed that news was the last one with a familiar flag for a long time. This bastard son of a - " Raven stops in the middle of the curse and clears her throat. "This storm came up, sir. Ain't seen one like it before or since, and I'd rather not see one like it again. I missed the first part of it, on account of being bunked down for the night and it not being that bad, but by the time they got me up, we had a sea that boiled a man alive. And then there were silver skies and rain that nearly drowned us on deck and I don't know what else. It turned into a hurricane by the time it spit us out again, a big one, and we was off every chart we had.

"The captain said we should stay where we ended up, sir, because Amber would surely notice we was missing and someone would come looking. So we stayed there, at least for a while. There were these rifts what kept opening up around us, that seemed to lead to other places, and it weren't the best place to keep our supplies up, but those were the captain's orders. And then something started happening to the officers, sir - we still don't know exactly what it was. The only thing we could figure, later, was that they were all sharing something, some food or something, that was making them sick... and then they started dying. It weren't much more than two days before the captain was the only one left, and he put me in charge on his deathbed.

"After we threw out all the special foods and drinks on board, just to be sure it weren't going to get the rest of us, and buried the captain proper-like, with the rest, I decided I wasn't too keen on staying there. So we took a chance and went through the first rift what looked like someplace we knew. It wasn't, but... that's what we've been doing since then. Half the places we been sound mad, sir, and the rest sound like talk better saved for after a few rounds of drinks. It's all true, though, and it's all in the logs.

"Then, two days ago, we got hit by a tsunami. When we went to find out what that was - we'd been doing that, you see, sir, because sometimes, the disaster was another rift instead of just what it looked like - we started finding these bodies. Some of them were Rebmans, sir, and some of them weren't. Not sure what they were." Raven frowns, and then reaches into the pocket of her coat and produces one of the pouches they'd taken off the dead men. She sets that on the desk too. "Those were carrying these, sir, and we couldn't make heads or tails out of what's inside. They had these horns full of powder, too, and were covered in tattoos. Some of them - both types, the Rebmans and the not - looked like they'd died in battle, and some of them looked like they'd been under something what fell. Stern - one of the crew, sir - said it looked like some of them had been killed by Tritons, too.

"And then we found Gateway after that." She scowls. "I don't much like their way of hosting visiting ships these days, sir. They let me and a couple of men come ashore all right, and then the harbormaster had his men jump us when we got to his office. Said something about there being questions for Amber ships. Sent my men off to the gaol, and me off to a fancy little cell - that's where I met up with..." She hesitates, and finally settles on, "Captain Marius. We escaped, and then ran into the Lady, who helped us get my men out and got us out of the harbor without any questions. We came straight here after that."

Caine nods at appropriate places throughout the telling, tracing log and chart information while listening. "Gateway may need a courtesy call from the Navy, to teach them some courtesy. Tell me more about the Lady. Why did she help you, do you think?"

"She wanted passage to Amber, sir," Raven answers. "And it sounded like she was trying to tell Captain Marius that she ain't too fond of Gateway's choices, and that she had nothing to do with whatever happened to him before I got there, but..." She shrugs. "I don't know the facts of that one way or the other. She came off honest enough."

He looks up from his papers. "We'll judge the facts and the risks, Captain. Sir Marius is, as I have recently been reminded, responsible to the King if he starts a war, but protected by the King if an act of war is committed upon him.

"Not many of the scattered fleet have made it back to port, Captain, and the tales from the few that did are wild. You're not the first to find your way in after meeting a member of the family, and it may be that that is a necessary but not sufficient condition. It takes an extraordinary sailor to bring a ship through that, and the Board should recognize that. I expect the formalities will be just that."

Unless she's badly mistaking him, Caine is suggesting she'll keep her Captaincy.

This is clearly something of a relief to Raven.

"You came in by the harbor, so you've seen the state of the fleet. How soon can you have the Vale ready to sail?"

"We got repairs where we could, sir, and while they ain't what you'd call pretty for the most part, unless something fails inspection, she's good to go now. There's some minor things what could use repair, seeing as how they're being held together with spit and hope - nothing that keeps her from being seaworthy, just... Heh." She smiles slightly and shrugs. "Gives her character, let's say. If anything, I'd say it's the men that'll keep us in port, sir, at least for a few days. It's been too long a trip, and I know I ain't the only one with someone to let know that I'm still alive and kicking."

He nods. "If you've given your men liberty, they already know that Amber's civilian population is being moved to a new city. A number of them will find that their 'someones' are no longer here. Also, don't be surprised if people think you've come back from the dead. Assume your crew will be in even more of a state of shock than you planned for."

Caine puts down the papers. "The king will want to hear your story when you get to Xanadu. You'll tell the harbormaster that I said you needed to speak to his majesty. Requisition what you need from the Naval, including any men you need to round out your crew. It's our interim dockside base of operations. There's a flotilla leaving in two days. I expect the Vale of Garnath to be with it."

"Aye, sir," Raven answers, with a crisp nod. She's not thrilled to be back at sea so soon - but soon or not, orders are orders. She's not quite sure what to make of being told to report to the king, either. "Uh... if I may ask, sir - I got something of what went on while we was lost from Sir Marius, and I saw what the place looked like coming in, but... Is it as bad as all that? Abandoning Amber?"

Caine nods. "You'll hear a phrase as a Captain that you may not have heard on the decks. 'I serve at the pleasure of the King'. It doesn't matter what we think, it matters what we have been ordered to do. I recommend you take a good look at the city over the next few days and then when you arrive in Xanadu, recall the differences. You may make up your own mind."

Raven nods again, slowly this time, her expression thoughtful. "Should we be worrying about getting our kin moved, then, sir, or is that being taken care of?"

"Hmm?" Caine says, looking back at her. "I've no idea. Check with the Admiralty, they're handling ship assignments. I'm sure they can move your family onto the list for your ship, if needed."

Caine reaches down and picks up another paper. "That will be all, Captain."

Raven salutes, with a crisp, "Sir," and takes herself out promptly.

She heads back to the Vale. There, she complies the appropriate lists of what they've need of and how many additional men they could use and sends those off. She makes sure that word makes it through the crew that if they're missing people, they may be in Xanadu, and that they're leaving for there in two days. She checks on the status of the inspection and the contraband removal. In short, she does every task that reasonably needs the captain's attention that day before turning her attention to the one task that she knows she needs to do, but that she doesn't particularly want to do.

At last, dutifully and less than enthusiastically, Raven goes in search of her mother.

The inn stands where she expects it. Curiously, it's quite busy, with people sitting in the courtyard, under the scrubby trees. There are more horses than usual, and she sees her mother's scullery-maid fetching water from the well.

Raven stops short at the sight, and mutters, "Huh." Busy, she wasn't expecting - not this busy, anyway. It suggests that things have changed around here, which doesn't make her want to go inside any more than she did before. At least the yard is the same - and the scullery-maid, who might just know what's going on.

She changes direction slightly, heading for the well and the maid instead of the front door. "Need help with that bucket?" she asks casually when she's in speaking range.

The girl smiles and looks up, ready to flirt with the handsome sailor offering her assistance. "That depen-" She stops for a second, recognizing Raven. She drops the bucket and screams, and runs back in the kitchen door, yelling about "ghosts in broad daylight!" Apparently the broad daylight is the most offensive part of Raven's re-appearance.

Raven watches her go, trying not to laugh. Thanks to the Admiral's warning, she'd kind of expected to be thought dead - but a ghost with nothing better to do than offer to help with chores? Chores it probably couldn't do anyway, being a ghost and all? It's too absurd to not be funny.

She picks up the bucket - no point in getting the girl into unnecessary trouble after scaring her - and strolls towards the kitchen door. If no one intercepts her before she gets there, she'll enter.

Before Raven gets to the door, it opens and her mother is standing there. She's somewhat more care-worn and somewhat more disheveled than Raven remembers her. She's holding a wicked looking butcher knife, the one she always kept sharp but never used on food. Her eyes are wild, and she also takes a second to register the scene.

She lowers the knife and steps forward, grabbing the bucket. She spits off to the side, almost hitting a sparrow that hops nimbly away.

"Should've figured. Well, then. And where've you been?"

She doesn't seem to have changed much, other than externally.

Relieved of the bucket, Raven crosses her arms and regards her mother with irritation. "Put that away before you hurt yourself, you demented woman." There are legions of teenagers somewhere that would envy the level of scorn in her voice. "I been out to sea, same as always, just this time something bad went down. Figured I'd come tell you I ain't dead, now we're back."

The bucket is slopped back at Raven's chest. "Fine, you want to fetch and carry, you know where the basin is. You'd best work up a better tale than 'something bad' if'n you're going to show up in Amber now. We ain't seen a ship come in to harbor since the Sundering, less'n we sent it out since then."

She turns and opens the door, with a smile on her face. "Your return is like to make a lot of remarried widows a damn sight nervous." It's not a nice smile.

"Who said I wanted to fetch and carry?" Raven shoots back. "Don't see any point in leaving the bucket there, that's all." She takes it anyway. "And 'something bad' sounds better than 'we got lost', don't it? That's what the truth amounts to. This 'sundering' thing people keep talking about is what knocked us clean off the charts, best as I can tell so far, and we ain't been anywhere near to home until a few days ago."

She eyes the smile suspiciously. "What do you care about widows, married or not? Or is that why you actually got customers today?"

"I don't care none, but it'll make people crazier. People are selling out and moving on. I always get a full house just before a fleet leaves for the new place."

She looks around the kitchen from the door and indicates that the serving maids need to get back to work. It's an economical gesture, but the girls are clear on her meaning.

"I'll go, too. Soon. I have some friends who are making me money in Xanadu. I should be well off when I get there."

Raven snorts as she heads for the basin. "Should've figured you'd have it all sorted for yourself by now. We'll be headed out with the fleet when it goes. And before you start - it ain't my idea, it's orders. Made captain, by the way," she adds, casually. "Field promotion. Admiral says it ought to stick. Not that I expect you care too much."

"Hmf. Captain? Actually quite useful. We pay a third or more of our profits to Captains." Scarlett looks around, and lowers her voice. "You should be more circumspect. Everyone will want a piece of you if you let'em know."

She leans in to her daughter. "I could help you, find you some valuable cargo to take to Xanadu. Small, easily moved items. I have connections."

"I ain't interested, Mother." Raven shakes her head, scowling. "For one, that sounds like you'd be aiming to take a cut, and I ain't about to start giving you money that'd be rightfully mine _now_. And for two, even if I was inclined, I got enough to deal with right now, what with just getting back today after all this time, and all the changes, and us leaving again in two days. Not to mention having orders to go talk to the bloody King when we get to the new place."

"I ain't interested, Mother." Raven shakes her head, scowling. "For one, that sounds like you'd be aiming to take a cut, and I ain't about to start giving you money that'd be rightfully mine now. And for two, even if I was inclined, I got enough to deal with right now, what with just getting back today after all this time, and all the changes, and us leaving again in two days. Not to mention having orders to go talk to the bloody King when we get to the new place."

She scowls. "Suit yourself. I'm just trying to help you get ahead." She looks back at the common room. "Talking to the King, are you? Just make sure you do it in a public place. Them royals can't keep it in their pants."

"Good advice for a daughter," Raven answers shortly. "Don't imagine it'll be a problem for me. Had one on the Vale for a few days, and the worst he did was piss me off." She snorts and follows the other woman's gaze. "You two would have got on famously. Don't expect I get to say where the King wants to talk to me, anyway. Why the sudden concern? One of the girls get a fat belly from one while I was gone?"

Scarlett snorts. "Before your time, child. We had proper Royals in those days, the kind if you crossed, you'd end up floating to the surface six weeks later. You know about Prince Gerard, don't you? He and his tore up every every tavern and whorehouse in the quarter when them idiot Bellums made fun of his drink." She shakes her head. "He'll never get out of that chair, now, and Amber's poorer for it."

"Aye, I heard. Damned shame, that." Raven shakes her head, frowning. "I got a bit of the story of what happened from that Marius character, the one that's apparently a Royal I ain't never heard of before I got stuck with him in Gateway. Enough to make heads and tails of what went on, anyway." With a smirk, she adds, "Don't figure he's one of your 'proper Royals'. That must've been well before my time, or I would've heard something before now. Those girls never were much bothered by telling me things when you weren't around."

Scarlett's eyes dart around the room, and she gives a passing maid a swat on the back of the head to get her to pay attention to the crowd.

"Yeah, after the King came back, he left, and after he died, we only had Gerard, in his chair, and a pack of children nobody had heard of. His, Prince Eric's, Prince Bleys', even Prince Random, who ended up King. They was all laws and councils and not getting anything done. The go out drinking at The Pigeon and think they're radical. Good riddance.

"In my day, when the fleet came in, you knew about it."

"From what I was told, there ain't much fleet left to come in now. Is there something you're trying to tell me?" Raven regards her mother expectantly. "You're being nice enough, for you; there must be something on your mind."

Scarlett has never let her face fail. "You've not been annoying me these last six years. I reckon you'll catch up, sooner or later." She turns and, without looking, grabs an urchin who was attempting to slide past her from the kitchen to the yard. She turns the boy around and pushes him back towards the common room, without speaking.

"I done raised you. May not have been the best raising you could've had, but it's done. I ain't gonna slap you on the ass and tell you to clean out the firepit anymore, so what's the--"

Scarlett's head snaps back towards the common room and she heads into it at a quick march, heading towards the fight that's just broken out. She's switched out the knife for some sort of truncheon. Some landsman is getting the tar beat out of him by a sailor. If she still has the same rules, she'll throw them both out to fight in the street.

Raven is hard on her heels. She's helped throw a few other battles out, on other visits - it's a familiar territory, one that doesn't involve her mother being oddly nice and doesn't involve being squealed at by maids. Besides which, if that sailor is one of hers, she'll have to deal with it anyway. Better now than later.

She'll let Scarlett take the lead for the moment.

Scarlett doesn't pause as she enters, hitting a sailor behind his knee with her truncheon. He drops the knife he'd been holding and falls, clutching his leg. On the far side of the room, two men are fighting, a local and a sailor. From the shouting, it's about money, not about girls.

"Enough!" shouts Scarlett, using her truncheon to try to beat her way into the circle of shouting men that is currently surrounding the combatants. The room could erupt if the victim has friends. The sailor certainly does.

Shouting first, then breaking heads. "HEY!" Raven bellows, in an authoritative voice much more fit for the deck of a ship. "Sailors, drop weapons and toe the line! The rest of you lot, sit down and shut up!"

If this doesn't stop things, she starts grabbing shirts and shoving people out of the way forcibly.

It starts so well. Raven's sailor, Fudge, who was in the middle of it, drops the tankard he was going to hit the local with.

It would've continued going quite well if the local hadn't used that as an opportunity to drive a hard left to his gut.

The room erupts and Scarlett goes in swinging with the truncheon. It's remarkably efficient. She swings and her girls pull the people off the ground and throw them out the door. It doesn't seem like they care much if they get hurt or hurt anyone once they hit the paving stones.

Raven sighs and shrugs slightly. It had been worth a try.

She returns to making her way across the room, heading straight for the original fight with an eye towards breaking it up or throwing it out. Anyone that gets in her way gets either a fist or something off the nearest table to the head. Just not furniture - she had to pay for the chairs she broke last time.

Raven finds Fudge curled up in a ball, clutching his belly. His assailant is nowhere to be seen, having either fled or been thrown out of the tavern. Clean up is quick, the common room is soon empty, and there doesn't seem to be a fight going on in the street. Scarlett picks up the gambling money from the floor, including several pouches. "That'll pay for the loss of revenue they caused tonight."

The tavern looks much more like Raven remembers it, empty. The same towheaded child sticks his head out from behind a pillar and reaches for a half-loaf of abandoned bread. Scarlett reaches behind her and swats him.

"Max, I already told you to go to bed!" The head disappears, along with the bread.

She turns back to Raven. "Your brother."

There's an extended pause. "Well," Raven says finally. "You was busy while I was gone, weren't you. I got all sorts of questions now, and here I was thinking we'd just about run out of things to talk about again. Let's start with the easy one. Full brother, or do we get to start a whole new game of who-or-what-did-Mother-sleep-with?"

She laughs. "It's not your business who I sleep with, as it ain't mine what mistakes you make now. But I ain't see your father in many a year. It's not like a woman who does what I do keeps the same looks as she had before she had whelps."

Which turns out not to be very true. While Scarlett is a bit unkempt and dirty from the fight, she hardly looks any older than when Raven was wearing the clothes Max had on.

"Heh." Raven shakes her head. "Wouldn't be my business if you'd ever given me a straight answer. Are you really suprised I had to ask? And I ain't playing that game." She picks up a half-full mug and inspects its contents as she speaks. When she realizes it's the same stuff her mother always serves, she sets it back down again. "You're the same as you always were, save for this being halfway nice to me thing. And the kid. This one actually a boy?"

She nods. "Far as you or anybody else knows, yes." Scarlett starts gathering up the mugs letting the dregs spill onto the floor.

Raven is clearly less than enthusiastic about that answer, but she drops the subject. "What was it you were saying when the fight started? Then I'll get out of your hair, since you seem to want to wash your hands of me."

She snorts. "Don't overrate yourself, Captain. Saying about what? I was mostly interested in keeping them idiots from killin' Shatter, who is also an idiot."

"A few of my lot were in that mess," Raven points out. "Not that I mean to argue about some of them being idiots. We was talking about why you're being nice, for you, to me."

"I'll take your lot's money same as anyone's. You going to pay the bill for the damage they done?" Scarlett gestures to the broken furniture. There were always bills sent out after damage like that, although Raven has no idea if they were ever paid.

"As to me and you, What do you expect, me to tell you to comb your hair and stand up straight? You spent years tellin' me you didn't want no mothering and that was fine with me, I wasn't any good at it. I recon any child who makes Captain in the Amber Navy has be raised well enough. Anyroad, I reckon you'll tell me why you came here soon enough."

Raven regards her in silence for a moment, and then laughs. "And yet you had another one," she says drily. "Be interesting to see how this one turns out. I might pay, assuming it's reasonable. I saw the fight, same as you; I ain't going to consider anything I don't think one of mine broke. Got to find out from the Navy if that's mine to pay anyway, since I don't rightly know. As for why I'm here..." She shrugs. "It's the dutiful thing. I been gone, now I ain't; I'm supposed to check in on relatives and the like before they ship me off somewhere else. It'd look funny otherwise, wouldn't it? And I got enough other stuff going on without drawing attention to funny things I do."

Her mother snorts, then looks her up and down. "Sounds like you need a wife, my girl. If you're expecting to be a dutiful child now, you ought to be more open to my ideas, or else you should dutifully set up your mother in her tired old age."

She pauses. "Did they give you all your back pay?"

"Started the ball rolling on that," Raven answers, briefly. "And I only said it had to look dutiful. Some of your ideas ain't as hot as you think, and I thought you said you was set up. You ain't taken it into your head that we got rich out wandering around, have you? 'Cause we didn't. I can get you and the kid on the Navy's list for moving, however long that'll take."

She scowls. "My ideas is fine. Did fine by you, they did. And you're richer than you think, if you've got five years back pay coming. They paid it all out to the Army that went to Chaos. We all made lots of money while that lasted.

"I'll take that Navy berth for moving. I can't afford to pay to get a priority on the private ships."

"I'll get your names on the list. Don't know how long it'll take or what it'll be like or anything." She snorts. "You probably got a better idea than I do on that kind of thing right now than I do, right? Seeing as how you've been here the whole time. Don't imagine you'll get priority just because I just got back, though."

Scarlett shrugs. "Navy berths are better than others. They'd rather get them there in one piece than deal with the paperwork of losing someone. If you're sailing to Xanadu, expect your ship to be full to the waterline. From what I hear, expect half your sailors to decide they've had enough of the sea when you get there, too."

She looks around. "It's supposed to have whatever it was this place lost when the King died." She laughs, mirthlessly. "That helped my business, it did. All of the sudden most places were dumps."

"The admiral mentioned something about that." Raven shrugs. "I'll find out in a few days, I guess. I ain't going to be surprised at all to have some of the men decide to go back to dry land. We've been stuck at sea long enough for even itchy feet to want to stay put for a while." Whether she feels that way herself or not, she doesn't say.

Instead, she looks around the room, shoving her hands into her coat pockets, and finally settles her gaze back on her mother. "You didn't think I thought you had plenty of custom now just because I'd been away, did you?" She snorts. "Figured it had to be something that weren't anything you did. I guess I ought to be getting back to the ship before long, unless we got anything else to say to each other."

Scarlett scowls. "You go back to minding your business and I'll go back to mine. And don't forget that berth. Your brother needs it."

"I said I'd do it, didn't I?" Raven answers shortly. "I ain't going to forget. I imagine I'll see you again after you get there, but don't expect me to be in a hurry about it."

Scarlett straightens the chairs for a second time. "Suits me."

Raven stands back and lets the activity wash around her. The new men she had taken on seemed to be settling in well enough, although she had a few of her men keeping a close eye on them for now; she'd been as picky as the Navy would let her be, but they didn't need to know everything the Vale and her lost sailors had been up to, and they didn't need to ask too many questions.

And then there was the matter of her mother and brother. She'd almost rather the Navy had told her they had to wait; it would have been less of a headache. At least the makeshift cabin they'd stashed Thalia in hadn't been dismantled before she figured her kin could use it for the trip and have half a chance of staying out of her hair.

But - aside from the reasonable concern of just how long it would be before they saw Amber's shores again this time - ship and crew are ready to depart when the other ships are.

The Vale of Garnath is only one of the ships in the fleet that will be taking the Royal Way to Xanadu, but it's still not clear which royal will be in charge of the trip until the last minute. That's when she's called to the Harbormaster's office--this time with no fear that she'll be thrown in jail--to meet the prince who'll be travelling with them,

When she arrives, she finds the Harbormaster in discussion with two people, a man and a woman. The man is of middling height, blond, and dressed in some foreign fashion, perhaps Begman.

The woman is dressed in a style that seems similar to but simpler than the man's -- perhaps because a more elaborately fussy garment would not comfortably accommodate her obviously gravid frame. She is petite with dark eyes and dark hair that has vivid purple streaks in it that could mark her as part-Rebman, though her skin doesn't show any obvious green tint.

The Harbormaster ushers Raven in. "Prince Martin, Lady Folly, this is Captain Raven of the Vale of Garnath. Captain, the Prince and the Lady will be leading the fleet."

"Captain," Folly says, and extends her hand in greeting. "The Vale of Garnath -- that's one of the ships that went missing at the Sundering, yes? When did you make it back to Amber?"

The captain is a man from solid Amber stock, with brown hair pulled back into a stubby queue and blue eyes. Her clothes - shirt, vest, breeches, and boots - are a mix of simple, workman-like materials and slightly nicer stuff, topped off with what was probably a Navy-issued coat before it acquired a few years of wear.

Raven salutes quickly before reaching to complete the handshake. "Highness, Lady," she says politely. "Yes, milady, we were one of the lost ones. We've been back a few days now, and only in waters we knew for a few days more than that, though I can't say they was as welcoming as they used to be."

Martin nods, once. "I'll want to hear about that, once we're safely underway. Caine recommended the Vale as the lead ship. What do you have in the way of a cabin for Folly? I can bunk with your men." He says this like it wouldn't be the first time, for all that he's dressed like a landsman.

Raven considers briefly. If the Prince wants to sleep with the men, she's hardly going to stop him. As for cabins... "We got a couple of options, I think, Highness. We put together a sort-of cabin coming home. We should have enough odds and ends of things to make another, or if milady," a brief nod in Folly's direction, "doesn't mind sharing, the one we made up already has my mother and brother in it and can be made a bit bigger to fit three. Or I can give up my cabin." She doesn't seem particularly keen on the last idea.

Folly bites her tongue before the first question that pops into her head -- 'Well, is your brother good-looking?' -- can slip out. Instead she says, "A makeshift cabin will suit me just fine: anything's fine, really, so long as it gives me a place to string up a hammock, and protects your crew's delicate sensibilities from the sight of my enormous pregnancy underthings. But in your estimation, what are the odds I'd want to bunk with your mother?" The twinkle in her eye is both knowing and amused.

"I wouldn't do it myself, milady," Raven answers dryly, "but I grew up with the woman. Separate might be a bit more peaceful; the boy can't be more than five or six, and her parenting ain't changed much since I was that age."

"Separate it is, then," Folly says with a grin.

Martin nods once, apparently satisfied by the outcome. "How soon can you be ready to sail, Captain? Anything you need in terms of supplies or repairs?"

Raven shakes her head. "We got the repairs taken care of, Highness. She could use a good overhaul, but we wasn't going to get that done in the few days we had. We can go now, or we can take a bit to put together milady's quarters when we ain't in motion first."

Martin glances at Folly. "Put her quarters together first. If there works out to be room, I'll take it, but mostly I don't want to disrupt the good order of your ship." Another glance passes between him and Folly. "Especially if they haven't had sufficient leisure in Amber before we sail."

"They had enough time to start bar fights over money instead of women," Raven says dryly, looking just faintly amused. "They damn well better have got enough of other types of leisure. And I already made it clear that they ain't to mess with any passengers we got. I can see if we can make it fit two, Highness, but it may be close quarters."

Martin nods once.

"Close quarters we can handle, even if we do take up slightly more space than we used to," Folly says with a smile, laying one hand on her belly and the other on Martin's arm. "Although it occurs to me that perhaps I should rustle up a pennywhistle or a... you know, a..." She holds her hands in front of her and makes a gesture indicating some smaller-than-breadbox-sized oblong-ish object. "In case the natives get restless."

"You already sent your luthier on to Xanadu, remember? We'll have to find something onboard," Martin tells Folly. He turns back to Raven. "I'm not worried about any of the sailors messing with me," he says with the sort of absolute confidence that has long since turned into casualness. "Nor, if they have the slightest sense of self-preservation, my wife. I just don't want to cause disciplinary problems for you."

"Aye, Highness," Raven replies. "I appreciate that. I don't expect they'll be that stupid, but I'll keep an eye out."

After the meeting in the Harbormaster's office, a flurry of work begins on the new makeshift cabin for Folly. Meanwhile the longshoremen begin to load up the last remaining royal cargo and what little in the way of travel necessities the royal couple has with them. At the same time, the civilians who will be travelling to Xanadu in the Vale of Garnath's wake are embarking on the various other ships that will follow her. The quays are busy and full of life, almost reminding Raven of the way Amber used to be. But in her day, the whole harbor would have been full like this, and now it's only the caravan that will be travelling to Xanadu.

While the ship is being loaded, Scarlett and Max come aboard, and are delighted to learn from shipboard gossip that the Prince and his heavily pregnant wife, or paramour, or whatever she is, will be taking passage on the same ship. Raven can almost see her mother's mind turning over various schemes to get into Martin's bed while Folly is, must be, unable to hold his interest.

When Martin and Folly actually board, he seems much more interested in Max than in Scarlett, which dismays Raven's mother no end, although she tries to hide it.

The caravan sails on the tide, and it takes them a day or so to get to a place where Martin decides he's comfortable with moving them onward through shadow. This is about the same place that Folly recalls him making the first major transition the last time they did this; it seems to be something of a regular waystation. Martin takes Raven aside and notes the location for her rutter, as well. Like Marius, he prefers to make the transition at night where he can see the stars, although he explains some signs that will help Raven find the place by day.

But soon after that, they're well on their way on what is becoming the increasingly well-trodden path to Xanadu.

As soon as she has a few minutes to do so, Raven takes her mother aside privately and has words with her regarding what she should and should not be considering with the Prince, whether he's paying attention to her or not. It amounts to 'don't be an idiot, that's his wife, and I'll probably be stuck punishing you if he demands it, so keep your hands to yourself.'

There's a quiet, if tense, argument after that that resolves absolutely nothing.

Aside from that and her standard captaining duties, Raven contents herself with keeping an eye out for the kid and on her mother, and being readily available for the Prince should she be needed.

Martin clearly knows his way around a ship and has enough sense to stay out of trouble. He's friendly, but reserved, with the crew, and polite to Raven and her mother. As he leads the ship through the different shadows, something he's clearly done before, he's careful to ensure she has clear directions for the rutter.

For her part -- and perhaps surprisingly to those who might have expected the lady to sequester herself from the rough work and rough manners of the crew -- Folly spends most of her waking hours on-deck: sometimes taking a turn at the whatever-it-is that the Prince does to get them where they're going, sometimes scribbling and sketching in a little notebook when the seas are calm and the light is good, sometimes noodling on the tin whistle she's managed to find, mostly piping out bouncing sea shanties of the sort that entice those within earshot to sing along. Although she doesn't know the Vale's longtime crew yet, she recognizes some of their names from her time spent with their wives or brothers or friends among the Amber docksiders.

Some of the older crew seem to have picked up on who Folly is, and of course, some of the additional members the Vale has picked up already knew her. Quickly, and perhaps surprisingly to Raven, Folly is accepted not so much as one of the crew but as something more than the "lady of quality" that they treated Thalia as.

If Raven asks, she learns that Folly has a reputation as a patron of sailors and docksiders of all sorts in Amber, and that Folly has arranged for many of them to travel to Xanadu already. During the hard times, Folly helped ensure the poor were fed and had jobs to the extent that there were any to be had. For a royal, she's apparently downright decent.

If she notices Scarlett's over-interest in her husband, she shows no sign (except perhaps to Martin when no one else is looking). That she shows young Max a thing or two about how to play the tin whistle, and promises him that he can have hers at the end of the voyage if he keeps out of trouble, probably isn't even meant as retaliation.

Scarlett's interest in Martin seems, as far as Folly can tell, to amuse him. She knows what Martin's type is, and Scarlett isn't it. The boy, though, is of some interest to him, and he seems to be trying, or re-trying, his paternal instincts on the child. He keeps Max with him through some of his duties, including one shadow transition during the day.

Raven is seated at a mess table when Folly runs across her. The Vale's captain seems to have no problem eating alongside her crew, and indeed she's been doing just that, although the sailors she was eating with have left. She's still nursing her drink, but her plate contains nothing but crumbs and a very small pile of something pale and mushy and currently unidentifiable - it doesn't look much like Navy rations, but as Folly may have noticed, none of the food on the Vale does.

She nods politely and says, "Milady," by way of greeting. And then, with a faint smile, Raven adds, "I trust your neighbors haven't been too disturbing?"

Several days past the first crossing, the weather is relatively calm, with enough of a wind going--perhaps encouraged by some of the royal gifts--to keep the Vale moving at a steady pace. The crew is managing the vessel and some of the repairs Raven had ordered made en route without her supervision. Scarlett is safely ensconced in her makeshift cabin and Folly has engaged herself in teaching young Max a bit of recorder technique.

Martin frees himself from his conversation with one of the junior officers she'd taken on in Amber--apparently he knew some of them--and comes over to join her. "Captain," he says, glancing around as if he expects someone to be watching them, "is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

"We can use my cabin, Highness," Raven answers readily. "It's a bit lived-in, but we ain't likely to be bothered."

He nods, once. It's kind of abrupt, but that seems like his way. Caine was like that, Raven had heard.

Martin lets Raven lead him to the cabin and waits until the door is shut behind them to speak. He draws in a breath, as if considering how to phrase his comments, before sucking it up and just starting to talk. "I'm sorry if this is a bothersome topic for you, but I've got a couple of things I need to talk to you about. About your family."

Raven's expression goes from polite curiosity straight through to exasperation as Martin talks. She crosses her arms and says tiredly, "I did tell her to behave herself, Highness, but she don't listen to me unless she thinks there might be money involved. What did the daft woman do now?"

Edan spends a little time in the gardens of the Parisian palace, just walking about and acting out any number of possible conversations in his head; but finally, after the sun has crossed its zenith, he gives up and goes in search of his father.

Edan finds a page exiting his father's suite. He informs Edan that the Prince and the royal portraitist left for the docks about half an hour ago. He offers to take Edan to them.

[Assuming Edan follows.]

On the far side of Corwin's magnificent royal gardens is a path leading to the tree-lined bank of the slow Seine River, which meanders past the city and the palace on the way to the sea.

Prince Bleys is sitting at the tiller of a boat, next to Brij. Both are outfitted in Parisian style for boating. A painter is working on a canvas from the pier.

[OOC: Not exactly this painting, but similar to it.]

Of course they would be doing something like this. 'Awkward' doesn't even begin to cover it, Edan thinks. He pulls a little at his collar (the Parisian suit brought to him more than a little uncomfortable), stands off to the side, and smiles a little, watching the painter work.

The painter works deliberately, and seems to try different things before he settles on one approach. His treatment of water and light are magnificent, although his Brij has no left arm as of yet.

"Look, it's your son," says Brij, turning head towards him.

Bleys breaks out into a grin. "Edan, my boy! Come aboard! Don't worry, he'll paint around you, if you get in frame. If he even needs us at all."

Edan nods, first to Bleys and Brij, then to the portraitist. Carefully, he makes his way down and into the boat. "Of all the things I would have thought to do in Paris," he says, "being painted was not one of them. As-salaam alaykum... I hope that I am not intruding."

Bleys gestures with his arms, rocking the boat slightly. Neither he nor Brij have any problems keeping seated. "Well, he's run completely out of black pigment, so both Corwin and Florimel were out of the question. Poor chap saw us strolling in the garden and begged us to sit for him. Under the circumstances, how could one possibly refuse?"

Brij laughs at Bleys' story. "I'm please to have a chance to spend some time with you, Edan. Bleys has told me so much about you." She reaches out and pats Edan's knee.

"Not true!," Bleys objects. "She only says that out of politeness, to put you at ease..." Edan's father turns to the painter. "Monsieur, may we slip away for a bit. You do not mind?" The painter nods.

Bleys turns back to Edan. "Cast us off, please. A brief sail on the river will be pleasant and private at this time of day."

Brij opens the frilly parasol she's been leaning against and angles it over her shoulder to protect her from the sun.

Edan nods, casts them off, sets the oars (thanking himself for asking to learn absolutely everything while on shipboard), and rows them out to a point where they can raise the sail. While he rows, he says, "This is a nice place. It is most unfortunate, the circumstances that led us here. I would not have minded a visit in happier times."

Bleys raises the sail and sprawls in the back of the small boat. He leans on the tiller, steering with the crook of his elbow and holds the main sheet between his fingers as if it's a cigarette.

After a few minutes, he starts humming a tune to keep time with the rowing, something that stuck in his mind that he heard the Amber sailors sing weeks ago. Then he remembers the words that went with the song, flushes slightly, and falls silent.

"If you were a fugitive from the King's Justice and his nephew had made a trump of you, would you have allowed it? Taking a trump contact, even for an experienced user, is a risk. How hard would it have been for someone to mentally dominate her and make her walk to the nearest one of Corwin's officers? That's assuming her mind tolerated the contact and didn't break instantly.

"The circumstances are deplorable, but the cause was carelessness. I'm much more concerned with Cambina's death. We don't yet know the cause and I don't expect we'll like it when we do."

Brij leans into the wind, strong enough this evening to take them firmly upstream towards the city. "I didn't know either of them. It's at least as jarring to find dozens of relatives as it is to lose two new ones in rapid succession. I think more of us are in shock than we would admit to. But you know, in some ways it seems as if it's actually making us work together when we could have descended into civil war. That's what used to happen when a strong emperor died where I come from."

Bleys nods. "It happens in enough shadows that it is a reflection or echo of something. Something past or future, I don't know, but something. If I didn't think he never really considered the possibility of actually dying, I'd be convinced that Father had arranged all of this for that express purpose. It would be just like him to arrange for a trial by fire for his successor, to teach him the advantages of cooperation."

He looks back at the little boat's wake. "I shall have to ask Dworkin sometime." He turns back. "We shouldn't let the past interfere with now, though." Bleys smiles his winningest smile. "Paris is like Corwin and I enjoy them both. It's like looking at a man looking at a mirror."

Brij drops her hand over the gunwale into the water and takes up the song Edan was humming.

Edan crosses his arms and smiles. "All right, you asked for it." In his best singing voice, he starts, "In Portsmouth town there lived a maid, Mark well what I do say! In Portsmouth town there lived a maid, The British Navy was her trade..."

He only blushes a little, two or three verses in, and he keeps smiling; but his heart isn't fully in it, remembering why he sought out Bleys in the first place.

Brij laughs and claps. At a break in the song, she asks "Do you know the verse where the maid ends up being a man in a kilt whose name is 'Jock'?" She turns to Bleys. "I always liked this one."

Bleys just smiles indulgently and sails on. If the painter were still there, his father at the tiller would be a near-ideal subject in the late day's sunlight.

Edan just smiles. "Regrettably, no," he says. "I heard a number of shanties, but didn't pursue it that far. I had to leave suddenly, to visit Clarissa." He shrugs. "Of course, I kept getting delayed on the way, like the Race to Madness."

Brij smiles. "Everybody sings in Texorami, and usually about sex. What's the Race to Madness? Sounds like you'd want to lose..."

Bleys continues to busy himself with sundry nautical activites.

"Far away from here, there is a tree," Edan says. "Its name is Ygg. It marks the end of Order... or the beginning of Chaos. It is the point where different rules apply. Near to the tree there is a castle, and a Duke, and a race to the Tree and back. The Race to Madness, a race for a great prize. Madness... had already overtaken the Duke... but the race remained."

Bleys smiles at Edan. "It is a fascinating place and the race is invaluable training for a young Prince with a sorcerous bent. Not more difficult than the Pattern, of course, but it requires a longer term effort and significant determination. Edan raised the family record to two and one."

Brij adjusts her hat to block the sun and looks at Edan from under the brim, and looks young enough to be someone's child instead of a grandmother-to-be. "I remember how lost and scared I was the first time I was dragged into another shadow. I can't imagine a place where they go mad. What was it like for you, seeing it for the first time?"

"Really, it wasn't that bad," Edan says. "Fiona and Brennan prepared me for what was coming, and I ran into an escort of grackleflints... Clarissa's troops... not long after I entered. I guess the worst part was how disconcerting everything is. Time isn't, and doesn't. Space becomes something of a toy for your imagination and will. You have to learn the knack for keeping an area around you relatively stable. Sorcery becomes stronger, which was a pleasant discovery." The mention of sorcery reminds him of something, and he looks up. "Two and one?"

Bleys smiles. "You are the third of us to try, yes, but we shan't dwell on the dead. Can you see if they placed a basket under that thwart? I find myself in need of refreshment."

Brij smiles, amused. "As if you just didn't." She turns back to Edan. "It's somewhat disconcerting to meet everyone at funerals, or chases, but I suppose the wedding is too far to keep myself away from my new family. How long will you be staying in Paris, Edan?"

"Probably not long," Edan says. He reaches under the indicated seat and starts unpacking a basket if he finds one. "I'll be off travelling soon, but hopefully I will be closer to Xanadu and Amber than I have been." He smiles suddenly. "Chases, hah. You have certainly jumped in feet-first, haven't you? I came in during Daeon's funeral, but had at least a little time to acclimate myself. Father is an invaluable resource for information, though."

Brij nods, "He certainly has been. I was so lucky when I was handed to him to help me be ready to meet the family. It's been pretty amazing to be around people who are ... like us. I don't have to hold back."

Bleys smiles. "We've been practicing some of the more esoteric Bellaic martial arts. They're a good match for her gymnastic training." He takes the wine that Edan has unpacked and pours two glasses, and looks at Edan, his eyebrow up in an uncanny imitation of Julian.

Edan takes it, and stares into the glass. "He is of Shadow," he says. "I'll spend a score of years saying that in my head, and getting used to it. Fiona and I talked about that."

Brij looks at Bleys, a puzzled look on his face. He signals her in the negative and she does not interrupt to ask Edan what he means.

His head swivels back in Brij's direction. "Do you know classical ballet? Ballrooom dancing? We should dance, sometime."

Bleys hands the second glass to Brij and gets a third for himself.

Brij lights up. "I love to dance. We used music to provide tempo and cues when I was learning gymnastics. Just last year I was in a celebrity dance thing, for my charity, Find the Missing Children."

Bleys smiles. "We've found yours, of course."

"Found... what? Missing children?" He glances back and forth from Brij to Bleys. "That's new. You had missing children?"

Brij laughs. "Child. He means Folly, who disappeared from our ... shadow?" She seems hesitant, and turns to Bleys, who nods. "When she went to Amber, that is. From our point of view, Syd disappeared a long time ago, then Folly. Then Soren, but by then I was in the know, but I couldn't tell anyone. Not really. Not without getting locked up. Her band was considered cursed. Ash and his little girlfriend went looking for them, probably based on hints I gave him, and then I disappeared.

She smiles. "My first book was nonfiction, about being the mother of the missing girl. It wasn't true, mostly, although I thought it was at the time. My second was a novel about people who walk through parallel dimensions, stealing the brilliant and talented and taking them off to another world and all the loose ends they leave. It was also true, mostly, but most people thought I wrote it for catharsis."

Edan smiles reflexively, then takes a sip from his glass; the look of almost comical apprehension is replaced by an almost comical look of relief. "Oh, that's much better than... what was that stuff? Beer. Yes, that. It is good to find family again," he says with a smile. "And, I suppose, a relief to finally see tangible evidence that you're not crazy. I guess cousin Folly didn't start making Trumps until after she left."

Bleys laughs from the tiller position, "Never worry about whether you're crazy or not, son. If you are not and suspect you may be, no amount of evidence will convince you. If you are, then the authorities will be along in good time to take you to bedlam." He glances at the sail. "Prepare to come about."

Brij ducks under the rapidly approaching boom, laughing and throws herself into the seat on the now-windward side of the boat. She manages not to spill her wine, either.

Edan ducks under the boom, too, in an effortless reflex, almost like he's floating. "You're absolutely right," he says with the start of a smile. "I have so many other things to worry about. Well, two, actually. One has to do with Trumps- did the old decks in Amber, did they survive? I think I will need to ask the king if I may borrow one."

Bleys chuckles. "It takes more than a Pattern-breaking shift in reality to damage those, although they didn't work for some time, I hear. Sometime we really must sit down and work out why, and see if we can localize and induce the effect. It might come in handy. Don't let the King charge you too much for the loan of a deck. If worse comes to worse, I could probably lay hands on the deck that Corwin threw to me when I fell off Kolvir."

Bleys gets a raised eyebrow at the thought of such reality-bending mathematics, and a slight smile from Edan at the offer. He nods in agreement. "I will find out the going rate first, and get back to you," he says. "Don't go out of your way yet. The other thing, well..." He glances at Brij, smiles more fully, and looks back to his father. "...is a case of indigestion. Possibly."

Bleys looks grave. "Indigestion?" he says. "I've often thought the Faellans would have paid more attention to Master Dworkin's teachings if he'd used more prandial metaphors to describe the cosmos."

Edan snorts. "But would the Clarissans?" he asks, finishing the joke. "Now I am in a situation where I don't want to leave myself vulnerable to the next shrewd Moonrider that I meet, and yet I don't want to wander off alone and try to take care of things and end up needing help. I would only trust you and Fiona to help me here, and you know much more about me than Fiona. Either way... you could say I've learned a valuable lesson."

Bleys nods. "Moonriders are tricky. They think obliquely. It's difficult to discern their intentions. They cultivate this to the point that they do not always understand themselves. It seems an unfortunate way to live, but their Queen is insane. Unlike our monarch, of course."

Bleys gets a raised eyebrow on this one.

"All lessons are valuable to some degree, but the cost of tuition is worth considering. Tell me the lesson, and how you are sure you have truly mastered it."

"Be very careful about foreign food," Edan says, "especially when you don't know what it's going to do to you." He shakes his head. "I'm not going to speak out against experimentation or curiosity, but the lesson I learned has to deal with things Chaotic. I understand, now. We are Ordered. That is our strength, our advantage over the more distaff members of our Family. The Lords of Chaos, while interesting in their own way... theirs is not our way. Embracing their customs, doing what they do, it weakens us. Leaves us vulnerable. Doing so might be the quickest way, or the easiest way, but not the right way. The wise man does not forge the sword that will kill him. Neither does he Eat a thing that will lessen him."

Bleys nods. "It is a fascinating lesson, true, but do not learn this lesson too well. Knowing their customs allows you to take their measure. Taking the best from their ways can strengthen you. Becoming them takes it too far, and you limit yourself unnecessarily to their limits.

He turns to Brij. "We are outsiders everywhere, letting the shadows lie for us in all but the few outposts of Pattern. We all want those places because they are not shadows. No matter how much we love the places we find in shadow, we know we are different in ways that the billions of people on each of the infinite shadows cannot truly grasp.

"We fool them as a matter of course, and do not even think of it. We may not, as Corwin did not in his absence, even know we do so. It is when we fool ourselves that we can do the most damage to them and to each other."

Bleys pulls on a line, and repositions the tiller. The little ship speeds up. "It is a good lesson. How else can you apply it?"

Edan thinks a moment, then smiles. "It is unlikely that the Moonriders will be sharing their customs with me, or with Garrett or Signy. The Altamareans, perhaps... plus, there is the matter of my affine. I think Fiona mistrusts it, but then I have given my word to protect it, and it has proven its loyalty to me many times already."

Bleys nods. "Nothing that strikes closer to home than that? Hmm. Where is your affine, anyway?"

"In my rooms, at the moment," Edan says. "I have been careful to avoid situations where I brought along Kyauta and met Family who would not enjoy its presence, or have it along when I anticipated discussing it directly. Except Fiona, of course. Kyauta has had to wait without me before, but he is recently fed and I would have heard already if Paris were injuring it." He pauses. "As to the other, I'd have to ask what you meant. You could be referring to my bout of... indigestion... or learning the customs of Xanadu and leaving behind those of the Dar-es Salaam, or discoveries about religion and the Merciful One, or maybe even something else. What are your thoughts?"

Bleys smiles and pulls in the sail, sending the little boat racing up the slow river. "My thoughts? I've dozens. It's how I keep from being bored. My thought on that matter is that I cannot learn lessons for you, and can only sometimes point out where there may be more lessons to learn.

He shakes his head. "It's more useful to ask you what you might learn and watch you explore and integrate your answers than it ever would be to tell you anything."

Brij laughs. "That would never have worked with my daughter. Too hotheaded..."

Edan smiles. "Welcome to the deep thinker side of the family. Observe, analyze, predict, test. Rinse and repeat. And repeat, and repeat." To Bleys, he says, "All right, there is an obvious other item, that of my mother. And her father. I am afriti, as much as I am a Barimen. If Clarissa has not already told you, I have already taken on a fiery form, more than once. You could say that that is becoming a thing of shadow, a lessening. However, it is the only path I have found, the only link to sorcerous ability. I will never get completely away from it. It is part of who I am." He pauses. "And the affine. You think it is a weakness, also?"

Bleys shakes his head. "A weakness is anything you let be a weakness. Some would say it is a weakness that I care for you and your sister, or my own sister. It is not. The strength of total isolation keeps one from being manipulated and betrayed, but is no way for a man to live. We are social creatures, every one of us, and our relationships are our strengths. If they were of no value, we would never care enough to fight for them or within them."

He pulls on the cord again, and the boat speeds up again, the trailing edge of the sail almost, but not quite, causing the little boat to come about.

Edan's sense of balance is spectacular, but still his grip tightens on the rail as the boat enters a teeth-clenching tight turn. Otherwise, he stands there in uffish thought, wondering if Bleys is subtly trying to link up the statement about relationships with the earlier one about lessons learned.

The wind whips along behind them, almost as if Bleys were manipulating probability. It seems unlikely this close to Paris, but the breeze is nearly perfect. Bleys steers towards the far bank, keeping the rudder and mainsail under tight control. The boat is now definitely heeling to one side as she speeds downriver even faster than she went up.

"All right," he finally says. "I agree with you. Every relationship I have made has turned out to be an advantage, one way or another. But it does lead me back to my problem. The one relationship exception that proved the rule. Would you watch my, er, figurative 'back' while I do a little meditation?"

Bleys beams. "Of course, my boy, of course. Right this moment or shall we wait for a more contemplative moment?"

Edan looks back in the direction of Paris. "Normally I would say as soon as possible," he says. "But we may be too close to a Pattern for you to do anything if you need to. If you think you can handle adverse events, I'd rather do it here."

Bleys nods. "How about now, if you have a few hours? We can sail far enough quickly, with this wind and current. Paris is new, even if her sewers are old."

Edan nods. "All right, then." He flashes Brij a smile, and arranges himself cross-legged on the bow side of the boat.

Bleys switches positions with Brij. "Wake me if we get to the ocean," he tells her.

With a deep cleansing breath, [Edan] lets his eyes droop closed and reaches for that part of his mind where he's walled off what he's Eaten from the Giver.

In his mind, the memories are locked inside a gem, and Edan begins, like a jeweller, to open it.

First he feels a need for water, as if he will suffocate without it. It soon subsides. The memories here are alien, as if Edan does not have a key he needs to open them. He knows, somehow, that they are the bridge to the Giver.

Already, I must take the plunge, Edan thinks. Very well. Language... there are two ways to tackle this problem. One is Chaotic, where Edan would change himself to fit the memories and then absorb them. Edan elects the other, one of the most Ordered of approaches: mathematics. He immerses himself in the memories, observing, seeking relationships between sounds and cadence, looking for patterns. He bends his will towards learning the language, approaching it as if he were trying to break a code or cipher.

[Card Draw: Overlooking the Diamond...Reversed]

The language, the code, the memory, the mathematical abstraction -- the gem is all these things. Edan studies it, turning it over in his mind, searching and probing it. Deep within the whitish-blue depths, Edan sees an imperfection. This is the handle into this watery stone.

It grows bigger in his mind, becoming a sea of purest water. The imperfection grows as well and Edan sinks in his head towards the bottom. Soon, he is submerged and in front of him are a series of carvings on round stones.

They are Uxmali code wheels. Edan knows this, but does not know how he knows.

Edan feels a sense of elation first, as he knows this is the key he needs to pursue; that quickly fades, however, because he knows the enormity of work he'll have to do, literally in his head, to make sense of this. The Giver told the truth, is his first thought; then Edan immediately gets to work. The first step is dedicated to observation, a detailed comparison of symbols from one wheel to another. Basic questions emerge. Are they true codes, a secret language invented to conceal the meaning of the message? Are they ciphers, scrambled letters meant to conceal plain words and phrases? Or are they both? Do the code symbols have any similarity to the flowing Uxmali script Edan remembers from his trip there?

The writing seems related to the Uxmali script, in the interconnectedness of meaning of the pictographs and the circular or cyclical nature of the meaning. Edan senses that the wrong approach would be to attempt to solve this by attacking a part rather than working to discern the whole.

What is most striking is that the Uxmali script is distinctive in its transience and action but this writing is more connected, as if any part of it is connected to every part but the application of action or energy to the writing might make it split apart into a new thing.

The wheel is the key, but it's not clear how.

Cyclical...

So, Edan thinks. The writing connects, closer than that of Thari. It comes back to itself. The meaning is more in the whole, not in the parts. I need a change in perspective.

Switching gears, Edan holds his hands out, palms facing, perhaps a foot apart. Water swirls as heat begins to build, slowly, until there is a sphere of moving water between his hands. He knows that his body, far removed from him at this point, is holding a sphere of fire in the same kind of position. He hopes Brij doesn't panic.

From this position, he weaves a spell. Fingers of water swirl out, dividing, stretching, until he's touched all the different pictograms on the code wheel. He eases his mind into the pictographs, absorbing them, looking for meaning in their structure and combinations; then he lets his mind move outward, observing from a higher vantage or dimension. It is as if one has drawn a line between two points on a plane, and that line is the whole world; then moving back to look at the line and the plane from the height of a third dimension. In this way, Edan tries to look at the messages around him, seeking similarities between them and the many combinations of the code wheel he's linked to all at once.

[Spell: Cipher Sight: seeking patterns and meaning in the messages using an awareness of all the code wheel pictograms at once. The concept of paradox is a big factor here. Prowess + Performance (1 minute) = Target (self) + Duration (1 minute) + Effect]

Everything Edan touches changes and disperses as he touches it, only to re-form when he withdraws his attention.

The distance helps, and Edan recognizes the central symbol of the primary wheel, which means 'water'. Where he has disturbed it, it's a related symbol that seems to be a variant on the topic. 'Firewater' is Edan's best guess.

His father's voice comes to him, as if from no place at all. "You may need to bring less of yourself to bear on the problem. It's easier to find a torch at midnight than at noon."

Edan frowns, still looking at the symbols. "Yes," is what he says. Pulling the threads back on his spell, he concentrates instead on the central symbols of the other wheels, wondering if there's meaningful connections between wheels, or perhaps a progression to follow and extrapolate from.

Edan spends an immeasurable moment concentrating on the symbols and their connections when he has an insight.

This is not a thing he should try to learn, but instead a thing that can teach him. It's all a matter of letting it wash over him rather than probing it.

When he realizes this, he begins to feel as if he knows things. Things he has never experienced, but that he knows as if he had practiced for years.

He thinks he could make it rain.

The sense of elation Edan feels at assimilating the language rapidly drains away at this new knowledge. It's cold and it stinks and it causes his whole body to convulse in a wracking shudder. He cries out, almost a wordless bleat, as he turns away from this power.

Edan does so, but it is difficult. Everywhere he turns there is water; pure, clear, and shimmering. Each drop is an ocean at another remove, each lake a teardrop. The symbols are the way water speaks to itself, the rhythm and the flow and the pull and what it is to be the tide.

For a moment, all Edan can do is let it move around and through him. Only for a moment.

He could break the gem open, freeing what he knows, or he could bottle it up. He's not sure he can keep it bottled up, but he could try to assimilate it over time. It would, after all, still be there, waiting.

"I... I can't," Edan says, knowing Bleys can hear him. "That creature was cowardly and false. Its power smells of foulness and corruption. Just the thought of this, being a part of me... it disgusts me. It sickens me. There are cleaner ways to make rain than this. I cannot help but feel somehow infected by it. I can't keep that as a part of me, forever. I don't understand how Lords of Chaos do so."

Bleys voice is with him, instantly. "There is nothing you cannot, only what you will not. It is worthwhile to have a strength, but if you have but a single strength, it must win every fight for you, no matter the varied strengths of your competitors.

"If you have many strengths, you can choose the most advantageous one to use against your opponents.

"Before you reject water explicitly, I will remind you of two things. Primus, it's a good tool to have to surprise people with when you are known for fire. And secundus, it is the element most closely associated with your sister."

Edan falls silent. It is a long minute before he says, softly, "Damn you and your logic."

"In all likelihood, yes." Edan cannot see his father, but from the tone, he can assume his father has that small grin and is nodding as he speaks.

It is only then that he realizes he's kneeling, there in his own mind, and is slowly, nonsensically pounding at an imaginary floor with an imaginary fist. He stops, and settles back on his heels, and closes his eyes, and regulates his breathing.

"All right," he says. "If I can speak the language of fire. I can learn the language of water. Not all of its practitioners are like the Giver. Brita does it. And you say Paige..." Edan spends a moment, amused, wondering who he's trying to convince with that kind of argument. Then he opens his mind again and lets the water flow through him and speak to him.

Edan opens himself and listens to the voice. His watery tutor speaks without words, revealing things that seem more like Edan is remembering than that he is learning.

Water is about pressure, and motion, and change over time, long or short. Everything it touches changes somewhat becoming more wet if nothing else. Everything that touches water leaves an impression in the water, so it become a part of the water. Water is the element of understanding, because it goes everywhere, into everything, around and over and through, following the laws of water. Water is patient, because it cannot be otherwise.

It goes on at length, this memory, washing over him, washing through him, washing him clean, pulling away and flushing away the weak, the uncertain, the wrong, leaving a stronger, cleaner, brighter Edan behind it, and a wetter one.

"What, my son, is the difference between an Efrit an a Marid?"

Edan smiles, just a little. "Marids have patience," he says. "They follow their heads, while Afriti follow their hearts. If they embody what I have just seen, then I understand them more than I did. Marids seek for information, for knowledge. Afrits for power. Fire is quick and strong and bright. Fire is the spark of life within us, the drive to complete what we started. Water is patience, understanding. It moves at a different pace. I did not give marids enough credit. I must think on this."

Bleys seems satisfied with this. "Well, then. Good. Are you ready to come back or do you need more time now?"

Brita has ordered a wide swath of options for Prince Martin's meal including various meats, breads, and cheeses. For herself, she has included some seafood, although she has requested no sauces, and a selection of fresh fruits. She arrived at the Green Salon early to note that the food is attractively arranged on the side bar in various tiers so that all the selections are easily accessed. She is not surprised to see that the ever-present Parisian pastries including all flavors of eclairs and several fruit tarts have also been added to the menu. She selects a small plate with a couple of shrimp and some orange slices to pass the time until her cousin arrives.

She turns from the buffet and scans the room, wincing slightly at the abundance of delicately worked chairs with flowery cushions. Finally, she settles down on a somewhat more sturdy green velvet covered divan positioned near the window to await Prince Martin.

Martin arrives on the late end of on-time for lunch. He's dressed in the local fashions instead of his usual Amber or Xanadu jeans and shirt. Someone made an effort to neaten him up at some point, but he's already come a bit un-pressed by midday.

"Sorry I'm late," he says. "I had business in town, following up on some of Lucas's connections. How are you, Brita?" His eyes linger on the spread Brita's arranged for lunch, and he grins in approval.

Brita has stopped with a slice of orange half way to her mouth as she gapes at Martin for a second. One eyebrow raises slightly as she returns the slice back to her plate. "I am Well, Cousin. Please, Help Yourself to the Array. What would you Like to Discuss First?"

"There's a lot of stuff about Dara and Cleph that we can discuss, but some of it might put you off your feed." Martin nods to the orange slice that just landed on Brita's plate. "In some ways there's not that much to tell: I sort of blew Cleph up, but he's a Lord of Chaos. Without using a lot of power to back it up--something like Werewindle or Greyswandir or using a hell of a lot of Pattern to impose raw will on Chaos--that's not going to keep him from re-forming afterwards. He may change some, but he'll still be Cleph."

Brita glances down to her plate, back up at Martin, and then gets up and fills her plate with a heap of food in defiance of the subject. She begins to tuck into the food and notes as she swallows a bite of shrimp, "cleph is Always cropping up Where he is Not Wanted. I am Glad you Damaged him, though. He Deserved it. Feel Free to Discuss what I Should Know. It will Not Affect my Appetite." She proceeds to make inroads into the pile before her as she awaits enlightenment.

Martin shrugs at Brita's metaphysical finger to the nastiness of Dara and Cleph, and starts filling his own plate. Conveniently, it means he's not looking at her and she's on her way back to her chair before he starts talking.

"So, it goes like this: when we were in your mother's lab, before I headed off to rescue Meg, you mentioned a black pearl bracelet--the one Celina was showing off yesterday--and I realized that it was probably the same piece I'd commissioned in shadow for Dara to thank her for saving my life after Brand tried to kill me. Could have been a different piece, but now, having seen it, I'm sure it's not." If Brita's looking at him, she can see the outline of Martin's grimace even though he's looking down at his plate and not at her.

[GM note: the discussion Martin is talking about is at the bottom of this log page.]

"So I headed out to Borel with Lilly, although we split up at Madoc, so she missed the showdown with Cleph and Dara. I made my way into Borel--eventually I'm going to remember to stop calling it that and start calling it Dara--and it was the usual sort of nightmare: hostile building, hostile furniture, hostile environment generally. I knew she was going to stop me, so I'd stocked up on high explosives just in case, and I planted them as I was going along. When she sent Cleph to stop me, I used some on him. So he's probably still putting himself back together."

By the time he's finished telling this story, Martin has a plate full of meat and starch and a few of the little Parisian pastry things, and has settled down on a chair by Brita.

"There are Thoughts that Dara may be Assisting Cousin Brennan's Sister in his Home Shadow. Was Dara actually in Chaos Borel while you were There?"

"She manifested while I was getting Meg out. I can't say for sure all of her was there since I'm pretty sure it's not Castle Borel any more, more like Castle Dara." Martin makes a nasty face, which quickly turns to something happier with a bite of his lunch.

"Not bad. I may see if Dad can't steal some of Corwin's cooks. Anyway," he continues, "Enough of her was there to conduct a conversation, and she looked ready to fight, for all that we ended up taking a quick Trump out without one. I guess she could have been across Ygg and doing that, but she'd probably have to be unconscious. And Cleph was there, so he wasn't with another body somewhere else, protecting it. It's not definitive, but it's highly suggestive."

"It is Something," Brita comments. "Do You think Dara is Behind or Assisting in Any of our current Issues?"

"Like which ones? Lilly thought Dara had poisoned her foster-mother, plus she's suspected in whatever Huon was up to and what they did to Marius, and I remember Celina said she'd seen Dara working with someone Rebman, maybe, but--I don't know. She's a badass, and she's not human, but she's got her limits. She can't be responsible for every problem we have." Martin shrugs.

"And if Dara wasn't up to something before, she's likely to be now. She struck at the coronation because we 'stole' Merlin." He airquotes the word 'stole'. "I really did steal Meg. Meg promised to come back, and I sort of agreed to that, or at least I'm not in a good position to obviously object to Meg doing it. If Dara had an unfortunate accident or--" he brightens suddenly "--somebody proved she was working with Huon, I certainly wouldn't object. But it would need to be real evidence on the Huon thing."

Brita nods in understanding. "I will Continue to Watch. How was Cousin Meg after her Visit?"

"She recovered pretty quickly, as far as I could tell at the time. She's not in the mood to talk to me now, so I'll have trouble monitoring her progress in the near term," Martin says a bit flatly.

"Why is she Not in the Mood to Talk to you?" Brita asks.

Martin makes a sort of half-snort, half-laugh noise between bites of his meal. "There's a long story there but the short version is that she wants me to whack Huon for her, and I won't. I'm a King's man, and the King doesn't want that, and I have other things to do, like watch over Folly and my other daughter."

"Your Other Daughter?" Brita asks, cocking her head to the side at the odd wording.

"Folly's carrying a girl," Martin says absently. "I forget sometimes that everyone doesn't know that. Meg probably thinks I put Folly first. Maybe I do." He looks up from his plate. "Folly's earned my loyalty."

"Congratulations!" Brita's smile is sincere. "A Daughter will be a True Joy!" Brita finishes off the crumbs from her plate and gets up to go for seconds. "Are there Other Items you would Wish to Discuss, Cousin?" she asks as she piles on the food.

"Nothing about Dara or Cleph, although I'll answer any questions I can about them." Martin makes a face about that. "I'd ask about all the business that happened while I was gone or in transit, but I don't think you were there for any of it."

"The Only Question I have about Them is How to Place myself on an Even Plane when Battling Them. Thrice, cleph has Outdone me. What can I Do to Gain the Advantage?" Brita is obviously frustrated by her limitations. "As to what has Transpired Since you Left, I was Only Part of the Search for Queen Vialle."

"Well, I'd love to hear how that went down, but let's talk about Cleph." Martin puts his plate aside for a moment and looks seriously at Brita. "What do you want to do to him? Beat him in some kind of a fair fight?"

Brita humphs. "cleph Wouldn't be Fair, so No, not a Fair Fight. I need Your Thoughts on its Weaknesses, ways Around its Strengths."

"I've got some guesses about his--its--weaknesses." Martin rolls his head back and looks upwards for a minute, clearly processing, or remembering something. "So Cleph is what used to be Borel. He was Borel until Corwin killed him with Grayswandir. There was so much of him burned away, destroyed, by the Pattern blade that he stopped being Borel."

He tilts his head back up and looks at Brita. "So this next bit is my speculation, after being in Castle Dara after having lived for a couple of decades in Castle Borel. I think what Corwin burned out of him was essentially the bit of him that, I don't know, linked him to the castle, made him part of the castle, whatever you want to call it. It used to work on his will, but now it's Dara's. If I'd done what I did to him and he'd been one with the castle, it would have done a number on the castle, and it didn't. And no Lord of Chaos ever voluntarily gives up that kind of power. They might risk it to create an offspring, but they'd never just give it up. So he lost it, and Dara picked it up.

"What that means is Cleph doesn't have the castle to draw on any more, which means he's got a lot less in the way of reserves than Borel did. But at the same time, he's self-contained; everything he has is always with him, the way Ordered beings are. Like us. So basically you'd have to be able to beat someone like, say, Bleys, to beat Cleph. That's how tough he is. And you can't get behind him, as it were, and cut him off from the castle, which would be the way to beat Dara."

"Like Fighting Uncle Bleys?" Brita seems a little aghast at that thought. "I Suppose I will need to Find Cousin Ambrose Quickly and Return to the Protection of Our Uncles." She seems put out by the concept, but shakes it off. "So, It is Self Contained and Dara is Not. I will Remember that Even If I can't Use it Right Now. Thank You for the Explanation; Not Many in our Family can be as Clear." She is silent for a bit, eating from her plate. Finally she glances back up to Martin and says, "Do you Have Questions about the Queen's Rescue?"

"Cleph's not unbeatable. I did it with C-6 and Pattern, but I wasn't trying to finish him, either. You've faced him twice and walked away. That's pretty respectable, Brita," Martin says in what he clearly hopes is a reassuring manner. "But you and Ambrose together can do better against him than either of you can alone. You don't have to run from him. Just don't go against him chin-first, or try to make it fair. And yeah, tell me about the Queen's rescue from your point of view."

He picks up his plate again, since this will involve a lot of Brita talking.

Brita sets down her plate as Martin picks up his and prepares to relay the story yet again. "In Searching for the Queen, Cousins Garrett and Signy and I Travelled with Uncle-King Random into a Realm that Uncle Benedict Says is Congruous with Floating Tir in the Moonlight. We travelled Into the Forest and were First Attacked by a Shadow Robin and Shadow Rangers with Pistols. She called Your Father Tyrant Brandom. Uncle Random used Magic to Disperse the Attackers. In determining what to do Next, I caught the Scent of a Rebman and we Followed it. We arrived in what Appeared to be the Grove to find a Scene: the Basin Drained and Filled with Dead Rangers and... Gracklefinks, I think they were called? The Stone was Replaced with a Stone Throne on which sat a Sighted Queen Vialle. Beside her was the Moonrider Marshal with a Shadow Random and the Shadow Robin in Chains."

Brita pauses for a bit, remembering, then continues. "The Scene was Initially Still. Something Changed and the Moonrider asked the Queen what to Do with the Prisoners. The Queen told him to Kill Shadow Robin and Leave Shadow Random for Questioning. The Scene grew Red as Uncle Random led our Attack. He and I moved to Engage the Moonrider as Shadow Robin attacked Shadow Random. I heard the Queen call to Garrett as I Diverted and Launched myself at the Prisoner's Chain Still held by the Moonrider Marshall in an Effort to Overbalance him. Signy, at the Same time, Attacked but her Strike flew Through instead of Connecting and the Scene Disappeared except the Queen and the Chain, although it was Now Smaller."

Martin listens to the story intently between bites of food, nodding at a couple of points, and correcting her on one point: "Grackleflints."

"So something sort of real and unreal at the same time. Sounds like Tir, with the mindfuckery, at least." He scowls. "Who's got the chain now?"

In answer, Brita reaches into one of the inner pockets on her jacket and draws forth a silk wrapped bundle which she unwraps to reveal a delicate silver chain. "I Know it is Not the Best Location for it, but I am Loath to let it Out of my Possession Until more is Known About it. My Mother has Looked at it and Uncle Corwin, but They did Not provide Me with any Information."

"Bleys is the Moonrider expert. Maybe talk to him, see what he thinks. Or Ben if you didn't ask him already." Martin sets down his plate. "May I?" He's too polite to reach for it until Brita agrees.

Brita offers the entire package to him, turning it slightly so he can get his hand under the silk wrapping if he desires, as she sighs, "More People to Talk to - I will Likely Not have the Time right now."

"I'm no expert on Moonriders or I'd offer an opinion of my own. Sorry." Martin takes the package and unwraps it enough to get a good look at the chain. He's careful not to touch it with bare skin, but only through the silk. "I dunno. I have a bad feeling about it, but I can't say why."

Brita nods in agreement, "It Reminds me of Valkyrie Herfjoturr's Magic Chain but hers Paralyzed the Victim. The Shadow Robin and Shadow Random were Not Paralyzed." She gingerly takes the bundle back when Martin holds it out to her and wraps the chain back in the silk. "This has Come from a Tir na Nog'th Link. Could it be Similar to Uncle Benedict's Arm?"

"Could be. I never saw it, but I heard about it, and it sounds like the same kind of thing." Martin looks up from the bundle to Brita. "You know that means you'll lose it somehow if it is, right? Something to do with Vialle, or Robin, or Dad?"

Brita cocks her head to the side, "Lose It? What do you Mean - Lose the Chain or Go Crazy?"

"I meant lose the chain, the way Ben lost his arm in whatever kind of time loop that was he and Corwin were in." Martin blows air out between his lips in a way that approximates sighing. "But anything to do with Tir could drive you nuts too."

"Hopefully, we will be Able to Determine the Nature of this chain Before I Lose It," Brita notes. It is not completely clear which definition she is using now. "What could I Do to Discern its Nature?"

"I'd be worried about doing anything you could do to it with Pattern. That's the kind of thing I'd expect to make it Go Away." Martin capitalizes the words somehow after Brita's own fashion. "After that, well, you're the sorceress." He touches the side of his head with his index finger and draws a strand out to the end of its short length between the finger and his thumb.

Brita nods. "I will Assess it when I am Away from Reality." She rises to return her plate to the buffet. "You Mentioned that you and Cousin Folly will be Remaining in Reality Xanadu for a time. I Hope to Speak to you again once I Know More."

"We may be taking a boat back from Amber, but I'm pretty sure that you can get Folly through the trump booth. And if it's an emergency, you can always ask Dad to borrow his trump of me," Martin says agreeably.

Brita nods, pauses briefly, and then pulls Martin into a quick hug. She grins as she releases him and says "Congratulations, again, on the Daughter." before bowing slightly and departing.

Martin hugs her back and says "Thanks," before letting her go.

Celina sends a page off with sealed note to Conner. There are directions inside for a special retreat in the palace. The request is for him to find her in the Royal Observatory. Once a rooftop rookery, the place seems to have been changed some years ago into a scientific retreat for studying the skies over Paris.

Having discovered it by adoring the copper staircase that wound up through a shadowy corner of the palace that overlooked the main south garden, Celina has cleaned it up a bit herself in two separate trips. It still forms a background of disuse as she fiddles with the telescope studying the western sky.

Celina has a snack buffet board set up off to the side that she has carried in herself. She hasn't really touched it for it is mid-afternoon. But politics breeds hunger. She does have a strong white wine at her elbow on a stack of books.

"Why does it not surprise me to find a Rebman attracted to a thing of lenses and mirrors?" Conner observes from the doorway with a fond smile for Celina. "A fine little retreat. I approve."

Celina grins at him. "It is fascinating. We learn that surfacers do not respect the air above their heads as living in the sea will have you look hard above and below you. However, I think between this gadget evidence, the airship that arrived with Vere and the talk about Tir in the Sky..... Well, it seems Paris thinks the sky might have mysteries to solve. I hope you've been busy." She points at the buffet tray. "Since most of us seem to be a bit mad by design, I thought we could talk about next steps. Things are going to get worse before they get better."

She takes up the wine glass but does not quit the telescope just yet. "I think the blade holder is going to be pivotal in the short term, as it is intended in the long term. What sort of promises has Khela asked? You should know I'm designated her Heir in addition to my other Choice Appointments."

Conner whistles in appreciation. "So Her Majesty felt the target on your back needed to be enlarged, did she? Congratulations." Conner walks over and pours himself a glass of the wine. "As for promises, she has asked none of me since we last spoke. The main one between us is as before. My fealty and support for her Queendom in return for the Pattern Blade of Rebma. As that question is on your mind, does that mean she has wrested promises from you?"

"You are so much more fun to talk to than Khela," Celina laughs.

Conner grins and mock-bows to Celina. "I do try."

"Indeed, we have wrested promises from each other that we are on the same side...still. We got past the part where each of us stormed over the lack of news between us. Trumps are in short supply everywhere. She doesn't have one and neither do I that I know of. Despite that, each of us expected some extra effort at courier to have been made. We were both disappointed."

Celina closes the distance to Conner. "So what would be the short colorful version of what you made of Khela in battle? Overmatched by Huon?"

"Overmatched but magnificent." Conner replies. "Jerod and Khela together were a match for Huon. That alone speaks well of her abilities. In point of fact, she did better than I in close combat. So as sword wielder I have a little training to do. As sword bearer I hope to make up for any physical shortcomings with metaphysical skills. I also plan to smile a lot but that is more of a baseline to any of my plans."

"A baseline with proven value," Celina quips. She pushes off the idea that Huon will be back, sooner rather than later and that Uncle Huon will paint a target on Conner's back. There were many reasons Huon could still want the sword. She raises her glass to Conner. "Well, not quite counting Aunt Llewella at all. You and I are the basis of a stable trident for the new court. Yes, she's made my situation harder, but no harder than her own or yours. Khela has many redeeming virtues. I don't think politics is one of them. What might we do about that? Shall we plan to be awesome in spite of our targets?"

"I ascribe to my Uncle Bleys's philosophy that one should be awesome at all times." Conner chuckles. He pauses a moment to pluck a small pot of mustard from the array of snacks and sniffs it gently. His eyes widen as does his grin. Conner starts collecting pieces of cheese and meat to go with it. "So what shall we make of Rebma? My primary concern is to make sure that the Pattern I am binding myself to will not be erased or sundered any time soon. Aside from it being strong, I am not too picky about the particulars. What are your thoughts?"

"My first thought is that sundering hasn't seemed to slow down Uncle Bleys at all," Celina wonders aloud. After all, she hasn't known him that long. She moves to a velvet lounger and sets her wine glass on the floor nearby as she drapes herself into the worn green plush. The old color reminds her of the waters of Rebma in the dark green swirl of the time. "Agreed. I think we don't want to lose the Pattern there or allow the Sunder to get any closer than it has. Rather I think we should figure out what we've already lost with Moins' absence. Rebma might be the Pattern that has special properties regards Chaosi influences. It certainly is more resilient than Amber's device."

"Among other things, we've lost the key to the Pattern Chamber and her jewel." Conner replies easily. "As for your assertions about the Rebman Pattern, I don't know about it being more or less resilient. I've always thought of it as simply further removed from the epicenter of things. That is sometimes protective when the center fails to hold."

"But is Amber the center? Or is Tir actually older? Is Rebma older?" Celina makes gestures in the air to illustrate the phantom geometry she is thinking through. "Oberon made Amber seem the center. He even pulled a lot of things there that might be older. Certainly most of the family we know comes from there or was born there." Celina searches Conner's face to make sure he doesn't think she's being insulting. "Rebma is close enough to Amber that we are in the wash of that Sundering. What I'm curious about would be--- was Tir Sundered first for example. Is it now a ghost because of that old event?"

Celina decides it would not be demeaning to make her subtext more plain. "Rebma persists but there is no Moins. Tir persists, but the Queen is trapped in some strange not-place. Amber fades with the death of Oberon. You see my curiosity."

"I do indeed but alas I have little to offer by way of satisfying it." Conner dips a cube of cheese into his mustard. "Though I would point out that Amber fades as much if not more so from the destruction of its Pattern than from the loss of its King. Though the degree to which they are linked is still an open question. You brought up Uncle Bleys and how the sundering may or not have effected him. The mathematics which we use to model the effects of Pattern were inconclusive as to whether one bound to a Pattern blade could survive the destruction of the its Pattern. The continued existence of Uncle Bleys is an encouraging data point but he once commented that he intended to enjoy his borrowed time. This implies a worry still that as Amber will slowly fade away without the Pattern to anchor it that so might he. Weighty thoughts."

Celina is quiet a long time. The morbid thoughts just seem to never stop with this family at this time. She does not shiver outwardly at 'borrowed time', but she has a more subdued tone when next she asks Conner, "Well, then we should compile a list of awesome." She tries for a smile and gets a thin one. "I'd like to start the list with keeping Khela alive. Finding the Jewel of Rebma. Opening an embassy to the Dragon of Nedra."

Conner gives Celina the time she needs and focuses on his food for awhile. Food and drink fill the otherwise awkward pauses in conversation. That is Diplomacy 101. Conner matches her wan smile with a brighter one of his own.

"Finding the Pattern Room Key, neutralize Moire and Huon as threats, integrating the Tritons safely into Rebman society." Conner ticks off the awesome on his fingers. "Integrating the Rebmans into Triton society, integrating the Rebmans and Tritons into Khela's society. We never do pick the easy jobs, do we?" Conner chuckles.

"No," Celina says, "we certainly don't." She considers and offers a sorting. "So in terms of time essential; we could say, Pattern Room Key, Find Jewel, neutralize Moire, Integrating Tritons, embassy to Dame Nedra, neutralize Huon, Intergrating Rebmans, Khela and keeping same queen..."

"I suspect the first three come down to the same thing, finding Moire." Conner grumbles. "Is there any more information on that score than was revealed at the family sit down?" Conner inquires.

"No, she's a bit ahead of us in that regard." Celina responds. "But it seems to me she cannot hide from mirrors and probability together unless she puts herself in a box and lives there. Corwin lost himself in shadow but he could walk it. Unless Moire allows such an ally to walk her into a distant place, she's got to be still connected to the paths she knows. She's guarded against scry, but she's also doing things which means she is not guarded entirely." Celina looks at Conner for his critique of this.

Conner simply nods. "Not knowing Moire's allies and abilities is our prime lack of our knowledge." He agrees. "Most defenses against scrying require a prepared location or a sustained sorcery. Neither of which is conducive to travel. It is possible that we might catch her in an unguarded moment if we attempted regular scrying attempts. Attempting to see her attendants or guardsmen is another possibility. What I cannot fathom are her motives. If she schemes to retake Rebma then she would need an army at her back and call. So either she travels to find allies or she knows something we don't and plays a waiting game. That's what concerns me the most."

Celina holds back her strongest response, considers other aspects and tries to rescale a few of the angles that present themselves. She rolls the wine glass back and forth between her palms. Her emerald gaze never leaves Conner.

"She will have allies in the Seaward, but they will be hard pressed to profit from helping her without some large proof she can retake the throne. I do not think armies will be easy to come by. Cadres of sorcerers, perhaps. I would be more worried if Huon tried to put his mobility and magical resources in Her hands to further his own agenda. He can make some guesses about the outcome of his loss on the field.

"She might be waiting for us. Knowing that she has some things that are needful. A key. A jewel. Some very good information sources. These are things she knows that we do not. As a diplomat, what is the political backwash of robbing an ex queen?" She smiles. "Recovering antiquities?"

And suddenly, she asks, "Conner tell me about vendetta. What does Family permit Florimel to do in pursuit of Moire considering no one thinks what Lucas did was permissible?"

Conner sucks in his breath quickly in surprise then lets it out as a grim chuckle. "You ask two related questions, Celina. Lucas was direct blood kin, Florimel's only claimed child. Florimel could bring down whatever doom she desired on Moire's head and not one member of the Family would question her right to do so. They might question the wisdom of her chosen method or critique her execution but no more than that."

Celina nods slowly.

Conner pauses for a drink of wine. "Of course, this does not mean that the family is disinterested in what happens to Moire. We, for example, would want her taken alive for her knowledge and for the opportunity for Queen Khela to pronounce sentence on her. The question is if we want that strongly enough to stand between Florimel and her vendetta. That is a very dangerous place to stand after all."

"I think I see," Celina offers, "....finally." She thinks, looks honestly at Conner. "I feel that Florimel considers her rights at least as strongly as any prince. So I agree that we cannot openly stand between Moire and Florimel. Neither King would do so, it seems. So the question of taking these things from Moire becomes moot. She is perhaps already dead. We need to be careful about place, timing and style." Celina licks her lips and sets her looks a bit harder. "We may have more leverage than I expected. Moire needs us more than we need the jewel."

Conner nods in agreement and perhaps approval. "Convincing Moire of that may be difficult but I concur with your analysis. Unless Florimel's anger can somehow be blunted or powerful allies are secured, Moire lives on borrowed time. The safest path for Rebma, aside from doing nothing at all, would be to offer assistance to Florimel with her vendetta and thus have someone on hand when the confrontation occurs to represent our interests. Of course, the pitch to Florimel would have to be a good one. Vendetta is such a personal thing and any hint of alternate agendas could turn her against the one that offers. The far trickier gambit is to try and beat Florimel to the punch and to do that without word getting back to Florimel. Not sure I'd recommend it, but it is an option." Conner concludes.

"Paris..." Celina looks about the room and then just smiles at Conner, "is a place that I would like to come back to on occasion. I would not like to make an enemy of Princess Florimel by any slim chance. Even if it means that Florimel gains the jewel and wants some concession from Khela." She considers her love a moment and hears a different voice. "However, if a fortune arrives that we are in position to regain Rebma's treasures with little interference in the vendetta...we should look at that seriously. We shall be willing to act very quickly." An arched eyebrow invites Conner to say she's read this wrong.

"Quickly, quietly, and carefully." Conner nods. "Any hint that we shielded Moire earns us Florimel's ire. So there must either be no story to be told of how we encountered Moire or the story must be that we found Moire for reasons of our own and immediately, or near so, informed our dear Aunt of the fact to aid with her vendetta. Once under the heading of helpful ally, it might be possible to negotiate with Florimel. After all, the promise of Moire dragged in chains through every Pattern realm before final judgments are handed down for crimes against Xanadu, Paris, and Rebma might appeal to our Aunt. Princess Florimel always struck me as "a fate worse than death" type when it comes to being wronged." Conner observes.

Celina feels a slight tilt of her inner axis and recognizes again the world changes by reveals, not by war. She has brainparts that shiver at Conner's description...seeing Moire resisting with every ounce of grandeur the ex-queen can manage in chains. And yet, Celina examines the inner terrain. The shiver is smaller. The Seaward Lass is smaller. The Celina, princess of Rebma, heir to the throne is larger and would agree with 'fate worse than death' when dealing with her enemies.

Pearls. Pearls of very darkest hue. "Moire has created her own fate more than most."

Celina sits down and fills a plate with cheeses. She nibbles slowly. "Conner, if Khela dies on the Pattern, what do you need from me? This sword bearing that I once contemplated myself...what will it mean between us? Speculate."

Conner places his plate down for a moment and stands beside her deliberately looking down. "This is where we started I think. You a fish out of water, learning to breathe and walk, new in your discoveries and powers. I was further along those paths, a source of knowledge and perhaps an ally."

Conner sinks down into a neighboring chair. His head is deliberately slightly above hers. "Here is where we are now. Comrades in arms. Friends. You have grown into your skills and by circumstance and by choice found yourself at the heart of the Rebman maelstrom. You still seek my advice but as a peer and with agendas of your own."

Conner slips from the chair and kneels before Khela on one knee. His head is below hers but only just. "This is where we must be if you wear the crown and I bear the blade. I will need you to be strong and clever and ruthless and to know that I would give you my oath freely if you become Queen."

Celina feels the tears of strong emotion rise. Before they can even come close to the surface of what Conner has offered...or be in conflict with what he has asked of her...she reaches out with strength, she takes his head ruthlessly but with light clever fingers and she kisses his forehead upon his Third Eye.

"May the Pattern preserve us from that day and into the far future."

Brita leaves Martin and goes in search of a page. When she finds one, she notes that she and Prince Martin are finished with the Green Room and the excellent buffet. She then asks if the page knows the whereabouts of Princess Fiona.

The page doesn't know for certain, but he shows Brita to the chambers reserved for her mother. Fiona appears to be packing a few things for her return trip to Xanadu, but she stops when Brita is announced and comes to greet her daughter, arms extended for a hug.

Brita walks into the hugs and gives her mother a tight squeeze. She steps back and surveys the packing, "You are Returning to Reality Xanadu, Tomorrow? I will Need to Return as well for Cousin Robin's Duel. Cousin Brennan wants to Return Tonight.

"Mother, Cousin Vere had a Concern Related to His Discussion with Cousin Cambina and Seeks Your Thoughts on the Matter."

"Brennan's always welcome to come ask me himself. But what is he concerned about?" Fiona returns to her work, which involves books and instruments rather than anything as mundane as clothing, which the servants will probably pack for her.

"It is Cousin Vere with the Concern," Brita clarifies. "His Concern is that in his Conversation with Cousin Cambina, she Seemed...Less than she Should - Confused, Lost, and Incomplete. He has Not Experienced this Before in his Conversations. He has Two Theories on How this could Occur. First, the Conversation was held Away from the Place She Died; This theory could be Tested by Displacing someone who has died and Attempting a Conversation. Second, and more Worrisome, that she had been Somehow Consumed by One of Chaos and Only Portions Remained Dead. We Both felt that the Second Theory should be Brought Before the Kings as having One of Chaos with Cousin Cambina's Memories would be Dangerous. However, Given the Anger expressed at his Conversation with Cousin Cambina, Cousin Vere did Not think He could Approach Either King. One Separate Thought I had was Whether the Location of her Death - if it was In Ghostly Tir na Nog'th - and the Potential that Part of her was Left Behind has Contriubted to that Partial Aspect of her Shade. What do You Think of the Theories, Mother?"

About halfway through the recitation, Fiona stops sorting books to pay full attention to Brita. "For the theories, Vere is in the best position to know about his own abilities, and to test the first and, since he's travelling with Merlin, the second. What I think--and this is surmise based on what has been said, and more importantly, what has not--is that your third theory is closer to the mark."

She glances toward the window, as if she could see Tir through it. "Something happened up there. Cambina was caught in it and it killed her."

"We Need to Discover What Happened," Brita states the obvious. "Do You think Cousin Vere's Concern that Cousin Cambina may have been Consumed should be Relayed to the Kings?"

"I'll tell Random and Corwin. It may touch on the problems I'm working on for Random, and Corwin will take it better from me than from Vere. Someone may need to sit on Corwin to convince him not to do something foolish--as if there's anything to be done at this point." Fiona's expression is unfamiliar to Brita: it's almost a scowl.

Brita unconsciously mimics her mother's expression as she nods in acceptance of Fiona's words. Then she cocks her head to one side and asks, "What are you Working on for King Random, Mother?"

"I've been working on Vialle's dreams for some time. Right now, I'm using that as an angle of approach toward her memory problems." From her tone, Fiona doesn't feel the research is going well. "She doesn't remember anything that happened to her in the time she was missing. I worry about the sort of power that could do such a thing to her memories. Vialle's not one of us, but--" Fiona trails off, leaving the rest of the thought unspoken.

"The Queen does Not Remember and Cousin Cambina was Also Unable to Recall the Events. The Memories Exist Outside of them both. Could You Seek those Memories? Perhaps in Moonlit Tir na Nog'th?" Brita asks. "Or Perhaps tracking the Memories themselves would Lead to Whomever has Taken them."

Fiona shakes her head. "Memories aren't external in that way. The Chaosian fashion of eating life energy and the mind is one thing, but Tir is an ordered power. It's theoretically possible, or at least not impossible, but I wouldn't like to count on it. There might be a connection between Vialle's inability to answer and Cambina's, but I think it's more likely that in Cambina's case the connection simply wasn't there for any number of reasons. And in Vialle's case, she bears none of the other marks we'd find if a Lord of Chaos had consumed her memories."

She returns to packing her gear. "And I don't want to go to Tir just yet. I'd rather exhaust other theories before having that argument with Corwin."

Brita nods in acceptance and moves to help her mother in packing. "Since the Moonriders Wish to Return to Tir na Nog'th, which is Ordered, does that Mean They are From Order as Well?"

"Something about Tir is broken, and something about the Moonriders is too. They were Ordered, once, but now they are neither exactly Ordered nor exactly Chaotic. I think of them," Fiona explains, pausing for a moment in her work, "as relicts of an earlier time of Order, when the frequencies of Order thrummed at right angles to their current sound."

"Broken," Brita echoes. "Does the Breaking Precede Grandfather Oberon or did it Occur in His Time? Was it the Breaking that Changed the Acoustics of Order?"

"That was long ago, before your uncles and I were born. But if Tir weren't different somehow, weren't broken, it would appear all the time instead of just by the light of the full moon, wouldn't it?" Fiona presses her lips together. "It was one of the things Dworkin wouldn't explain, and our mother really couldn't. And Father never answered anything. It's all speculation, ours and Corwin's, and of course your Uncle Brand's."

"Appearing by the Light of the Moon Might be a Feature," Brita notes. "Something Designed into the Way Shadowy Tir na Nog'th Works." Brita continues packing. "I will be going to Gather Cousin Brennan Soon and we will be Trumping to Reality Xanadu. I will Need to Address Cousin Robin's Duel when I get There and, once That is Settled, I will be Travelling to Find Cousin Ambrose. Cousin Brennan and Cousin Edan have Agreed to Try to Help me Find Him through Sorcery."

Fiona shakes her head at the comment about the design of Tir and doesn't elaborate it. "Yes, tell me when this duel will be happening. I suspect I'll be out of Amber dealing with a concern of Ossian's if it's anytime soon, but ideally I should like to be present." Apparently she feels the three redheads should have the matter of finding a fourth of their number well under control.

"I am Not Sure, Although I Expect to Resolve it Within a Few Days. Our Conner has Agreed to Help Cousin Robin and I come up with an Appropriate Apology so there May Not be an Actual H'olmgang," Brita notes.

"In that case, I'm sure I won't need to be present. Your brother is sensible. If it weren't for the egos of all parties, none of this would ever have happened." Fiona's tone dismisses the entire affair as childlike playtime. "I'm pleased someone is going to sort it out with minimal recourse to violence."

Brita nods in agreement. "Surprisingly, Cousin Robin Wishes there to be No Violence. Hopefully, we will Make it So. If I do Not See you Before I am Off to Find Cousin Ambrose, Good Luck with Your Endeavors for the King." Brita moves to give Fiona a hug.

Later in the afternoon on the day following the family meet, Signy makes her way to the infirmary.

She slowly approaches the door to the room where Marius is located, and raises her hand to knock. She pauses there for several heartbeats, before marshalling the nerve to knock on the door, to answer the question if Marius is here, or if this time is like the last, a meeting of moments and glances.

A nurse opens the door to Marius' chamber. Marius himself is resting in the bed, with strange medical devices that Signy may not recognize, like an IV dripping fluids into him, nearby. He looks better than he did the evening before: more rested, less pale. There's a tray sitting beside the bed with the remnants of a healthy, hearty afternoon snack.

The nurse, a man on the younger end of middling age, starts to say something, but Marius cuts him off before he can get started. "My sister is welcome to visit me. I'd appreciate it if we had some privacy."

There's a glance that Signy has no trouble interpreting as displeased back at Marius, and then the nurse steps aside to let Signy in.

"Thank you," Marius says pointedly, and the nurse steps out, closing the door behind him. Marius lets the sound of its closure echo for a moment before saying to Signy, "Welcome."

Signy moves over towards the bed, her steps tentative. "Welcome back." Her voice is soft, and she hangs back slightly from his bed. "I'm sorry I left so suddenly after walking the Pattern, I just reached the end and...left."

She stops, and glancing to the side hooks the chair there with her foot and snakes it towards the bed, though she doesn't sit down. "How did you end up captured like that?"

"We can be overcome when we're alone," Marius says, a dry humor inflecting his voice. "It's not just magic. Enough men around us, and we can be beaten into submission." He sighs heavily. "After you walked the Pattern, since it was clear to me that I was--out of favor, let us say--in Xanadu, I left to follow up on some information I had about our mother's ring. The one that led me to you. I crossed paths with someone who was allied with Huon more or less directly; they overcame me; I ended my road in Gateway. From there, you know the story."

He looks to the chair. "You can sit down, you know."

Signy sinks down onto the edge of the seat, her hands folded in her lap. "These weren't the same as Brother Tomat's order, were they?" she asks nervously, before the full weight of Marius's words sink in. "Wait -- was there more with the ring? Do we have other brothers or sisters?"

She inches ever so slightly towards the edge of the chair, and leans towards Marius almost unconsciously.

"I have no evidence that Mother left us any other siblings. But until I heard the translation of the ring, I had no idea she had left me you. Or you me, depending on how you put things. I sometimes wonder what else is lost in the ruins of the tower she lived in all those years." Marius masters his bitterness at something--the fallen tower or their mother, perhaps--and meets Signy's gaze.

"And if they were Tomat's former brothers? He abandoned them for you."

Signy shifts restlessly in the chair, not quite squirming at that last observation. "What about the ring were you looking to follow up on? Do you still have it, or did they take it from you?"

"They took it. I will get it back," Marius says, and that sounds like a problem. "But I think--I think there was a second inscription."

Signy's curiosity momentarily overwhelms her. "Why? Did you understand any of it?" she asks, eagerness at the new puzzle making her momentarily forget her surroundings. "Do we need to go back and get the ring?"

"We should. The inscription--the one Tomat translated--was in Mabrahoring, which is a language of Chaos. Our father apparently knew it. If there was a second inscription, I think it might also have been in Mabrahoring, or at least used the same letter set." Marius frowns thoughtfully, trying to recall what he'd seen of the ring. "Thalia might know how to get it back. She's a member of their council. I left her in Caine's tender care."

Signy deflates slightly. "I think I'm not allowed back in Amber for a bit, unless you think you might be able to help intercede with him. I was told I couldn't come back until I figured out why everyone was being kicked out." She thinks for a moment. "Brother Tomat is still in Xanadu -- do you think he might be able to help find any inscriptions?"

"He translated the original inscription. If we can make the second inscription appear again, then he may be able to translate it." Marius grins conspiratorially. "And I know why Caine sent everyone away: because too many scions of Order in one place--a place without a Pattern--can rend the fabric of the universe asunder. The Pattern, like a pearl inside an oyster, protects the universe from the irritant that is too many of us."

Signy looks slightly relieved at this. "I was afraid I'd done something."

She looks away for a moment, before looking back at Marius. "So she never mentioned me at all?" she asks softly. "How did you find that ring after all these years? How did you know the inscription referred to me?"

"I found the ring in some of Mother's effects; they were given to me after we returned from the war. I'd never seen them until then," Marius explains. He shifts slightly, as if to get more comfortable, before answering the second question. "I didn't know it referred to you. That was Tomat's understanding. I don't think he lied to me, but he might have been narrow in his focus on what the ring meant, if you follow my meaning."

Marius' story jibes with what Tomat had said to her.

Signy looks slightly confused. "'Seek her on the Plain of Towers'" she quotes from memory. "I don't understand -- was there more that he didn't translate?"

"The second inscription appeared later. I don't think he knew it was there; I didn't. But he wasn't inclined to look any further once he knew I was looking for you," Marius clarifies, with a meaningful emphasis on the last phrase.

Signy clears her throat, breaking an uncomfortable silence after a few moments. "Does...what other things of hers do you have?" Unspoken questions start to poke their heads up in the tone of her voice.

"Lord Boreal had some of her belongings. He gave me a box of them after she died; they're in my quarters in Castle Amber. I suspect," Marius explains, watching Signy for her reaction, "that he and our mother were more than friends. It would explain why he had personal mementos."

Signy sits, looking past Marius with a blank, wooden look.

"Was Weyland your father as well?" Or is it this 'Lord Boreal', and you just to polite to mention it? "Did she ever mention him to you?"

"I believe Weyland is my father. He seems to be the only candidate. And no, our mother didn't talk about him. Caine served as a father figure for me when I was a boy," Marius says by way of explanation. "Boreal might be old enough to be my--our--father, but I suspect he was too young then to interest our mother. Caine didn't seem to think he was a candidate for paternity. He was as close to her then as any one living. Although not," Marius adds, "in that way. If one of our uncles was, it would probably have been Corwin."

Corwin's name cracks the mask, letting some of the uncertainty and doubts leak out. "Corwin?" She doesn't bother to hide those notes in her voice.

She sits and struggles for a moment, before forcing out "What was she like" in a strangled tone.

"She was beautiful and terrible, and all, particularly dear old Uncle Corwin, loved her and despaired." The comment could have been sarcastic, but Marius says it as though he means the words as spoken. "She was like a diamond. Very little touched her. I think she liked to be underestimated, or the subject of masculine fancies, at the same time the way her brothers dismissed her because of her sex infuriated her."

He leans forward, a certain eagerness shining in his own eyes. "What was our father like? Weyland, that is."

After the boat trip, Edan pens a note:

::Cousin,::

::Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bleys' son, Edan, and I thought I would be remiss if I did not at least try to extend greetings to my brothers in the Art. I may be leaving Paris soon, and I heard that you may be doing the same thing, but if you would like to meet I was thinking of a quiet stroll early this evening through the eastern wing of the Louvre. If that is not feasible, I hope that we will have a chance to meet at a later time. ::

::Yours, Edan::

He receives a return note by the same page, setting a time and specific location, in Merlin's neat handwriting. The eastern wing of the palace is huge; without naming the gallery, he'd never find Merlin.

If he arrives at roughly the appointed hour, Merlin is waiting, dressed in the garb of a Parisian gentleman, all in black. The sun is low in the sky, although it won't set for hours yet, and its early evening glow lengthens Merlin's shadow where he stand by a window looking out onto a courtyard.

Edan is immediately struck with a desire to look at Merlin with the Third Eye, but he squashes the impulse. He does make enough noise to be easily tracked (having heard that Corwin's son is not the most self-assured of their generation), clears his throat, and says, "Cousin?"

Merlin turns, almost startled, but not quite, to look at the intruder. On recognizing Edan, his face rearranges into a pleasant smile. "Edan, yes." It's not a question as much as a confirmation, or a filing of fact in his mind.

He offers Edan a pleasant clasp after the Amber fashion. "And I am Merlin. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"And I you," Edan says. "I have heard a lot about you, Cousin. I wanted to meet before we both went tearing off again. I wish I had the time to meet more of us before they left, too." He indicates the Louvre with an incline of his head. "This place is... beautiful. It seems old, though, established, and it suprised me; I understood that it hadn't existed as a place of Order for long."

"My father modeled it, consciously or not, on a place he knew in Shadow. I believe he has incorporated parts of its history into his own city's past, such as it is. It feels more like what I expected Amber to be, with that weight and heaviness. I do not pretend to understand how, although I appreciate the results." Merlin gestures lightly with his hand, indicating the building in much the same way Edan did with the incline of his head moments ago.

"How quickly do you plan to depart?" he asks, gesturing down the hall as an indication of the direction they might explore.

Edan smiles a little and turns that way. "In the next day or two, surely," he says. "As soon as Garrett and Signy and I figure out where we're going and have a plan. Still, I daresay I will be staying closer to Xanadu and Amber and perhaps here than I have been. I was quite far afield, but you heard about that at the gathering." He glances Merlin's direction. "Do you have plans? From what I had heard, Lord Dara had been looking for you, and made that abundantly clear at the Coronation. I would have thought this was one of the safest places you could be."

"I will be leaving with Vere to train him in metaphysics in the morning, a training that I cannot conduct here. Fortunately, I have reason to believe that my mother will be too busy dealing with the question of my sister to spend much time thinking of me." Merlin's facial expression involves the corners of his mouth turning up, but it's not exactly a smile. "If you passed Ygg, perhaps you met our kinsman Madoc?"

Edan shakes his head. "I have not met him. I took part in a race on this side of the Tree, and found out that there was a similar race on the other side, sponsored by Madoc, going on at the same time. Later, when Clarissa and I went to Uxmal, Madoc apparently pushed Lilly through a Veil close to us. That's about as close as I have gotten. My impression was that he bears us... his Amber relatives, I mean... some antipathy." He suddenly brightens, remembering. "Speaking of that race, Martin and Lilly came through right after it was finished. We know the reason now, of course, which was Meg. Did you make that charm that Martin carries? That was very good work."

Merlin's expression at the mention of Madoc's antipathy is some cross between rueful and dismayed, as if Edan had suggested something he hoped to be false and was disappointed to find out was true.

"Which one?" Merlin says, ignoring further discussion of Madoc in favor of a better topic of conversation. "Martin has several. He got them from our grandfather. I have inspected them in the hopes of determining how to construct them on my own."

"Martin had a gem that masked his presence from sorcerous senses," Edan says. "He used it to mask our conversation. I ensorcelled one of my swords with the same charm later on, which may or may not have hid Lilly and I from Chantico until we actually joined the battle. The tricky part, I think, was the duration; had I tried the same thing, I might have ended up with a charm that protected us for about a half an inch radius." He smiles.

"Ah, yes, I have seen him use such things. Gems, coins, what have you, that protect from scrying spells and mirrors. I do not know how that one was constructed, although I could guess if I had the item in hand, nor by whom. Perhaps Dworkin made it," Merlin suggests.

"I see," Edan says. He's quiet as they walk under a particularly large fresco painted on the ceiling, looking up; then he shakes his head and says, "You were speaking of Meg a moment ago, weren't you? When you mentioned your sister? I forgot about Celina."

"Yes." Merlin's expression goes a little wide-eyed as he, too, stops contemplating the art and starts contemplating Edan's question. "Celina would be of interest to my mother, if only because she is my father's. I am glad she goes to Rebma, which I believe is unsafe for my mother."

Edan looks confused. "Would it be? I thought she walked the Pattern."

"Yes," Merlin agrees, "but it is still a Pattern realm, which limits her. She cannot draw on the power of her Castle, and her ability to perform sorcery is at least limited, although in the telling of the story of Huon I understand she is less limited than I would like. But some sorcery has always worked in Rebma, as I understand it. There are sorcerers who will oppose my mother if she attempts to harm Celina, the new Queen not least among them. I would prefer that she remain in Paris, but Rebma is safer than shadow travel."

He looks upward again at the fresco, as if examining whether the blue background is the airs of some shadow-Paris' heaven or the waters of Rebma, or both.

"This Khela is a sorceress? I did not know that." Edan muses a moment. "Perhaps I misread things when I was in Clarissa. I saw her castle, her realm, everything as an extension of her. I imagined Clarissa avatars wandering throughout the universe, not progeny mind you, but small parts of herself invested with power and given independent movement. I saw a mechanism for her maintaining immortality that way. I can see Dara drawing power from her realm, yes. But her castle, it is like an affine unto itself? If Dara were not present, it would act independently, not merely be an extension of Dara? Forgive me, if I am intruding too far into gastronomical politics."

"The castle was Borel. Such a large piece of him will naturally take time to digest, yes?" Merlin looks at Edan to see whether the metaphor stretches far enough to enlighten him.

The metaphor appears fine to Edan; more than fine. Too fine. Too close. Edan nearly stumbles, then looks away. "Time to digest," he says. "Naturally."

Merlin politely looks away too; Edan can tell by the echoes of his voice in the gallery. "I am sorry; I have spoken out of turn. Such things are a disgusting subject for the Ordered members of my family. I forget this sometimes."

"No... no." Edan shakes his head and turns back to look at Merlin. "It's not your fault, it's mine. And this subject is hardly disgusting. It's... important. Will Dara change as she Eats Castle Borel, and all the various and sundry affines that served him? It? Would cleph not be, er, jealous of this?"

Merlin's head swivels back, his expression a bit sharp at the word 'important'. "If he were to rejoin with the castle, he would probably be Borel again. I do not know why he has not done this, except perhaps he cannot. My father cut him with Grayswandir."

"Oh, I see. Too bad for him." Edan's tone makes it sound like it's anything but. "Or perhaps Dara isn't permitting it. It does lead in to one of the questions I was hoping to ask you, Merlin. It's about affines. Have you ever... what is the term... accepted one? Do you know much about them?"

"I know much about them from observation, but I have never taken an affine. I was not permitted to do so, since I was raised to be a Prince of Amber and not a Lord of Chaos," Merlin explains. "Why do you ask?"

"I... have one," Edan says. "You may have seen it already, since I have hardly been hiding it. It was a gift. I have had a rather steep learning curve as to its care, and have made a series of wrong guesses as to its origins, its food, its abilities... everything. I started by being mistrustful of it, and now that it has proved its loyalty, my feelings may have swung too far the other way. Is it a common practice for affines to be given as a gift?"

"No." Merlin sounds both intrigued and confused. "Who gave it to you?"

"The daughter of the High Marshall of Ghenesh," Edan says. "I met her while in the Race to Madness, near Ygg. For a while, I thought the affine might have been a remnant of Aisling, but Clarissa denied that possibility."

Merlin nods slowly at this answer, considering it, and not coming to a conclusion. "Was it her affine, then? I mean, when she gave it to you. Did she tell you where she got it?"

"She said it was unaffinated," Edan says. "She held out her palm, and it was there, in the shape of a tiny horse. 'It is not Mine', she said, 'but it comes from further away on this side of the Tree.' I named it, soon after, and it has acted as an affine ever since. I could detect no other bonds or geas upon it, and it has proven its loyalty to me time and again."

"If it is your affine, it should be utterly loyal to you. Were you not Ordered, there would be only a trivial distinction between you and it." Merlin frowns thoughtfully. "I understood at our grandfather's funeral that the Moonriders had dealings with the lords of Chaos. That you obtained an affine from her is a sign that those bonds were closer than previously suspected. I wonder now what she would have done with it had she not met you."

"Clarissa said that it was tainted by Order... I suppose from me," Edan says. "I don't know why Chases would be carrying it, or whom would receive it. It followed that it might have been created specifically for me, which is why I was so distrustful of it to start." He shrugs. "So. You see my problem. I will keep it, and continue to rely on it, and even if I'm wrong, it's better to keep your enemies closer, and all that." He smiles. "Though if you hear or think of a good reason why that would change, I would appreciate hearing it. Did you, ah, wonder why I wanted to meet you?"

"I assumed it was the natural curiosity most of our family has about one of us raised beyond Ygg." Merlin says this as if it's natural and not particularly offensive to him to be viewed as a living freakshow.

Edan shakes his head. "No, Merlin. It is because of all of our many cousins, I think you and I are among the most similar. There are only a few that understand Sorcery, much less practice it. Brennan is centuries older. Conner has strong ties to Rebma, and is more of an 'insider' than an 'outsider', though I must admit I do communicate well with him. You grew up learning of Order without having seen it; I grew up learning Sorcery without being able to practice it. As you said, you grew up near the Courts but were raised to be a Prince of Amber. I have grown up Ordered, and have gotten a crash course on what it means to be a Lord of Chaos... actually, a little too far for comfort. You and I are peers, in a way that very few of our cousins can say. It is most relaxing to be able to, ah, 'talk shop', with someone who understands what I am talking about and yet does not have a yawning gulf of centuries-old experience betwixt me and them. That is why I was curious about you."

Merlin blinks a couple of times, slowly. Time-buying gestures like that seem to be a part of his repertoire. "I see. I believe this is the first time that one of my Ordered kinsmen has considered himself more like me than like the rest of the family. I must--ponder this. Do you carry any Trumps?"

"Er..." Edan looks a little sheepish and scratches the back of his head. "That is one of the things I need to do, actually, before our group sets out. At the moment, I have no Trumps. Paige has my Trump, or at the least should have a good sketch or two. And as I've told our other cousins who can make them, you have my permission to draw a Trump of me if the need arises."

"I prefer to make them when the subject is present. Apart from issues of permission, the artistry is better. But the permission is duly noted." Merlin pulls out what must be his own trump case, although it's thicker and has more room in it than most of the cases Edan has seen. "Eventually I will run out of these, but not today." He passes Edan a card, face down, which Edan has heard from Bleys is the proper etiquette. "My card, should you need it."

Edan does a slow bow from the neck, somehow making it look so much more than a simple head bob. "Thank you, Cousin. Would that I had one of me to share. I hope you have good fortune on your trip. Come to think of it, I'll wish myself good fortune on my trip, too."

"I will join you in both of those wishes." Merlin's smiling as if Edan has said something particularly amusing. "Farewell until we meet again."

After his breakfast with Brita and Edan, Brennan finds most of his day free, and spends it looking through the Paris library that Corwin and Random had mentioned the night before. As always, his interests are far ranging, but in this case he's especially curious to see what pops up in the history section of a library whose city doesn't really have one. Are there histories of Paris? Histories of Rebma? Histories of the relations between Paris and Rebma? Or are some of those sections simply absent?

The library concentrates on the sciences (physical and social), and heavily on music. The history section is not so much absent as best represented in song and mythology. Tales of old Paris are apparently best set to music.

Most of the books appear to be recent acquisitions, and the librarians are shelving even as Brennan works through the books. The printing press has been invented, clearly, and there are many modern flourishes, but most of the bindings are leather and seem to be hand carved.

When Brennan asks about the histories, he finds that section has not been elaborated much yet, but they do hope to fill it out as scholars come to Paris at the King's invitation. Rebman works are difficult to obtain since the Rebman tradition is mostly oral, but the librarians hope to obtain copies of some of the books in the Amber library.

As for the matter of Rebman-Parisian relations, the library doesn't stock the broadsheets where that war seems to be fought these days.

After a day of wandering the stacks and indulging his curiosity, Brennan has a light evening meal, then seeks out Prince Martin. Given the topics they're likely to discuss, there's no need to discuss them over a meal and ruin anyone's otherwise pleasant dining experience.

A page is able to direct him to the quarters Martin has been assigned.

The door opens almost immediately upon Brennan's knock to an excited voice saying, "So did they actually have the---?" --and then Folly is standing there blinking up at him, having clearly been expecting someone else. But she quickly recovers and smiles warmly at him. "Brennan, please, come in."

She moves back from the doorway to let him in, revealing a sitting-room that is just as ornately and fussily decorated as the other guest rooms, but with two conspicuous blank spots on the walls where large framed paintings or other art might normally hang. "What can we do for you?" she asks, though Martin is not obviously present.

Brennan grins down at Folly, and though he can guess the outlines of the ending of her question, he doesn't bother to try and guess the specifics. Instead, he just bends down to kiss her on the cheek before coming inside.

"Hello, Folly," he says. "No grand agenda, I just came to touch base with you and Martin while we're all in the same place at the same time. I know there's a few things Martin will want to talk about. Figured the same might be true for you, all things considered."

"Ohhhh, yeah. Please, pull up a girly couch and make yourself comfortable." Folly moves to a couch herself and settles onto it. "Martin should be back shortly, hopefully bearing snacks. And then I think we'll all want to compare notes about that shitstorm you're about to wade into. Or whatever the Rebman equivalent of a shitstorm is."

"Folly," he says, "as bad as Rebma may turn out, I don't think it can get much worse than it's already been," with a suppressed shudder. "As bad, sure. Politically bad, yeah. Grappling with blood things..."

"Yeah," Folly agrees in a small voice. She goes a little pale just thinking about it.

Brennan's not too happy about the memory, either.

He runs a hand through his hair, and, failing to find a manly couch in the vicinity, pulls up a girly one and occupies it. "Still, forewarned is forearmed."

Folly nods. "Speaking of which, I had a long conversation yesterday with Celina, to forewarn her about a thing or two. It left me thinking that Khela doesn't really know what she's getting herself into, metaphysically speaking. And -- I'm sure you know more about these things than I do, but I keep wondering what it took for Moire to rule when she wasn't the original Pattern scribe, and who could have been that scribe for the Pattern to endure after Moins's --- oh!"

Folly blinks and looks at Brennan. "The Dragon. That the Tritons are sons of." Something in her expression says that this is a new thought, rather than a direct continuation of her previous line of thought. "She wants her babies back. If she really is a chaos-y sort of beast, she could have been the one colluding with Huon to... you know, break the Pattern.

"Er, would you like a drink?" she asks belatedly.

Brennan's grin is lopsided: "Yeah, it is going to be that kind of conversation, isn't it? Is coffee convenient? Perhaps with whiskey in it?" Or whiskey, with coffee in it.

Folly returns the grin. "I'll see what I can do." She rises and moves to a credenza that has clearly been set up for beverage preparation.

While Folly attends to that, Brennan turns over the Huon-Dragon connection in his mind, which he hadn't considered before. When he speaks, it's slowly, working the idea out loud, "Well, I know I can't be the only one who heard the description of that treaty and thought, 'Diplomatic Hostages.' It just makes sense it would want its offspring back-- to consume, if not for any reason with a human analogy.

"But to be good diplomatic hostages, the monarch would have to have some way to make good that threat-- the ability to execute some or all of them at any time, right? So trying that against Moire seems... dubious, unless we think Moire lacked that ability. And why try it against Khela at all, who seems bound and determined to give it exactly what it wants anyway?" Brennan asks.

"I'm not clear on the Rebman timeline, but perhaps at the time Huon sought out the Dragon's help -- or vice versa -- it wasn't yet clear that Khela was so close to making a successful move," Folly muses. "As for Moire's ability to eliminate the hostages--- well, if I understood last night's story-time correctly, the true threat to the Dragon came from Moins calling in, you know, the manly flaming swords of Amber, and all that. I don't know how much Huon knows or has been able to intuit about the current apparently weakened state of Amber, but somehow I can imagine him spinning an appropriately self-advantageous tale to the Dragon regardless." She shrugs a little. She's clearly still mulling over the possibilities and implications herself.

"Conceivable," Brennan says. "But one piece of the puzzle here is figuring out who he learned all these Blood of Amber tricks from. Do we have any reason to believe that the Dragon is a source of that information?"

"It's only speculation so far," Folly concedes, though something in her tone suggests that she's almost as comfortable with speculation as others might be with facts.

"You know what would help?" Brennan asks rhetorically-- "If I'd remembered to hint heavily that Bleys should tell someone where he stashed Huon in the first place, so someone could go investigate it." He is clearly displeased with himself that he forgot to bring that up.

"Good point," Folly agrees. "There may still be time for that, though, since I think he's still here." She pauses, and her nostrils flare minutely as she bites back a related but not relevant comment. She finishes with the steaming concoction she's been working on and brings it to Brennan in an Irish coffee glass, though it clearly lacks the usual layer of cream.

The coffee might not be quite up to Brennan's exacting standards, but Folly has been more than generous with the whiskey to make up for it.

"Did you see any tritons while you were in Rebma?" she asks as she hands over the mug. "I mean, closely enough to get a sense of how chaos-y they are. Or even how Arden-dragon-y."

Brennan smiles his gratitude at the coffee, sips, then answers. "I saw a small army of them," he says, "And a few up close enough to get a good look, if briefly. Verdict: Definitely descended of chaos. Knowing what we know, I'd say definitely Draconic. Tell me something, though, since you sat through the same Mandatory Fun I did-- Did you hear Corwin assume that the Arden dragons we fought, and the Tritons, are descended of the same Dragon?"

Before Folly can answer, there's a knock in a particular rhythmic tattoo on the main door of the suite, and then it pushes open and Martin looks in. He locates Folly almost immediately and instinctively, and Brennan a moment afterwards.

"Hey, Brennan. Folly, I brought something back, but they didn't have exactly what you asked for, so they made this other thing and we'll see if it'll do." Having determined that the room is safe, he pushes the door the rest of the way open and backs in, pulling a cart with a dome-covered dish on it. "They told me how to make it work, but I'm not sure I got it. But what's the worst thing that can happen? We set the Louvre on fire? I'm sure Aunt Flora would love a chance to rebuild the place."

Folly beams at him. "And we were just talking about dragons. Accidentally setting the place on fire seems thematically appropriate, don't you think?"

To Brennan, she says, "I've been thinking about what Benedict said -- about Cneve's loss being why there was a ban on combat with Arden's dragon. That certainly suggests that the two dragons are of a piece, at least figuratively if not literally. I think Corwin did leap, or assumed we'd all leapt, to the conclusion of common origin. I mean, it's easy enough to imagine a greater Dragon slithering up out of Chaos to investigate the sudden irritant of Order -- and then, finding several sources, splitting itself into littler dragons to keep separate eyes on each Pattern. I wonder if there's a sky dragon?" She has moved to the cart, and peeks under the dome to see what sort of culinary insanity Martin has managed to find for her.

Brennan rises to greet Martin, when Martin comes in, and eyes the food cart with some trepidation. He's got his coffee, and ate recently, so he can maintain a safe distance without temptation.

To Martin, he says, "The topic for the moment is Dragons," he pronounces the capital letter, "by way of the mess in Rebma." Then, to Folly, "I don't even want to think about the possibility of a Sky Dragon. But maybe I was hearing Corwin wrong-- I thought he was saying that the one in Arden and the one in Nedra were the same entity, which doesn't track with anything I've heard or learned anywhere else. Related, yes, I could see that, although it would be... curious. My understanding is that the one in Arden is-- was-- effectively caught, or stuck, by the creation of Amber's Pattern."

Martin pulls the dome off, revealing a towering meringue pastry thing of some sort with a bowl of some mixed berries and a small crystal decanter that smells of brandy when it's uncapped.

"I have no opinion on what Corwin thinks, but I have opinions about the Rebman mess and Cneve and the Rebman Dragon. I did a lot of research into that war because of Cneve. Cneve was, even if he was long-dead, my cousin, and I wanted to know whether he'd walked the Pattern and lived. That was the first bit of family history I got into--the interregnum stuff came later," he adds for Folly's benefit.

"I don't think the Rebman dragon can be the same. We know the Arcadian dragon has offspring that can breed true with Amberites. Tritons don't reproduce sexually. I don't think they reproduce at all--I think the dragon does. That makes it much closer to something Chaotic." Martin frowns, deciding how best to follow whatever instructions he'd been given, and proceeds to pour a little brandy on the bombe. Then he strikes a match and lights the brandy, adding a second dollop to get the flames going before looking at Folly.

Folly grins approvingly at the rising flames, though she has taken a cautious half-step back and armed herself with a carafe of water in case it all goes horribly wrong. "But I thought the children of the Arden dragon were the way they are because they were also the children of... wossname. You know. With the giant beastie fetish."

"Finndo," Brennan supplies, eying the confection. A bit too sweet for his palate. "And I'm sure I'd love to hear the full story on that one-- I'm sure there's more than meets the eye." Although, by his tone, he seems to expect that he'd find the details less than palatable.

"Still, I'm with Martin on this one, although for different reasons. I've heard too many references from people I'd expect to know, that they're different creatures. And the Tritons, to my eyes, just didn't seem Ardenic." Brennan shrugs. "If I had longer to examine one, I'd be more confident in that eyeball assessment."

Looking at Martin, he asks, "So, did I get the gist of that 'treaty' Vere mentioned correct? Glorified diplomatic hostages?"

There's a moment of silence while Martin waits for the flames to run out of brandy. Then he starts cutting up the dessert, offering the first piece to Folly. "I would've said 'yes' if you'd asked me before I went to Chaos. Now I'd say it's a binding on external bits of the Mother of Tritons, because I'm not convinced they're all entirely separate beings. Looks to me like Moins affinated some part of the Dragon through a binding involving the blade. Which," he says, handing Folly her plate, "makes her a sorceress with power on the order of our grandfather."

"Close enough for government work," Brennan says, with a wolfish smile. "And it raises a whole host of questions. Some are academic: Why didn't Oberon do the same to the one in Arden? What was Cneve's part in all this? What happens to the Triton essence when one is killed?

"Some are a little more pressing: What happens if Khela frees the things? That's where my diplomatic hostage analogy comes in-- seems to me, if they're freed, they revert back to being remote units of the Nedran Dragon, not unlike the corrupted Green entities in Arden. Or they just revert back to being part of the Dragon and are consumed in its strength. And just as pressing: Whatever we think is going to happen... what does Khela think is going to happen?" Brennan asks.

Folly, heartily enjoying her dessert, looks to Martin to make the first stab at answering that question. Of all of them, he's likely to have the most insight. Or at least the most background knowledge.

"That's assuming that even with the sword and the jewel--if Khela even has the jewel--that she can undo the bindings, which I consider a big if. What Khela thought, a hundred and fifty years ago, was that the Tritons would build a peaceful society that would stand as an example to Rebma. It was what we all thought, with some variation, based on their philosophy. Now I see things a little differently: their philosophy looks like how they cope with being slaves. That doesn't mean they won't revert, or simply be destroyed for the alienness they've taken on, if Khela succeeds in letting them go.

"They think Celina's the key."

Martin cuts another piece of the bombe and offers it to Brennan. "It won't keep, I don't think," he says, which could be directed at either Brennan or Folly, or perhaps both.

Too sweet for his palate or not, Brennan takes the offered dessert and nibbles politely-- he was right, more sweet than he cares for, but better than he'd thought. When he looks up, there's a "W---" question forming on his lips, but...

"Khela has the sword. Moire has the jewel, I'd be willing to bet, based on some things Celina said. Celina has the Pattern. It could be that the only way they can make anything stick is to join together. Like some sort of, you know... mecha-Moins." Folly waves her fork around in vague imitation of a robot-sword before digging into her dessert again.

"What is the triton philosophy?" she adds after a moment.

...But Folly has either answered or asked Brennan's question for him. He looks at Martin for the answer, and takes another less tentative bite.

Martin finishes cutting a third piece of bombe, and takes a seat next to Folly. Taking a bite of the bombe, he clearly finds it too sweet, too, because he concentrates on the berries after that.

"Nothing you haven't heard before if you kick around Shadow enough, for all that it seemed like a revelation when I was a sheltered lad of a hundred or so. Peaceful warrior, great power and great responsibility, and so on and so forth. Combine that with religious ideals of martyrdom and how to suffer slavery nobly and well--which the Rebmans weren't into since we weren't slaves ourselves, plus it seemed disrespectful--and you've got a real coping mechanism for a shit way of life. I got interested in it because my Triton was something of a parent to me and I thought the world of him. Still do, even as I realistically wonder whether unbinding him, which is only just, would kill him or deprive him of what free will he has." He says these cold things phlegmatically; either there's a tight rein on his emotions or he's just not feeling it right now.

"And yes, Moire has to have the jewel. She's not an idiot, even if it seems like she's one at times." Now Martin sighs. "She's also got the key to the Pattern chamber, according to Conner."

Whatever Brennan thinks about the Triton philosophy, and the intersection of universal justice and practical metaphysics, he keeps them to himself for the time being. "Okay, so. Given all that, and given a few more things-- given Khela here seeking access to a Pattern, given growing suspicion that something is up with Rebma's, given Khela probably still wants to undo whatever binding Moins worked. What are your thoughts on Khela's goals and how generally to deal with her?"

Brennan spreads his fingers, and adds, "I'm not asking you to speak for the King, unless you know you can. Just informed opinion from people I respect." He shakes his heads slightly, gives a small smile, and adds, "It would help if I could figure out if she reminds me of Celina, or if Celina reminds me of her."

"I haven't met Khela yet, so I can't speak to that last," Folly says, "but based on what I've learned about her I already have decided opinions on her goals: namely, that they're ill-conceived, and she's approaching them blindly. So far how I've been dealing with that is by planting ideas in Celina's head, with the expectation that she'll carry them to Khela with an appropriate amount of force." She sets aside her plate so she can count off on her fingers: "That Khela should talk to the king -- either one, but I recommended Random -- about her chances on the Pattern; that Amber became untenable as a Pattern realm with the death of the Pattern scribe; that if the Rebman jewel works like the Amber one, that unlocking its full power might necessitate drawing a new Pattern."

She pauses, frowning, and adds, "Celina thinks there's a possibility Moire ate Moins. In the Chaosian sense."

Martin shakes his head, once, decisively and negatively. "No. Not possible. Not successfully, anyhow. It makes no sense."

"It seemed improbable to me, too," Folly agrees. "But then the next logical conclusion is that whoever drew the Rebman pattern must still be out there somewhere, alive. Or else the Rebman pattern is fundamentally different from Amber's." She gestures at Brennan in an 'as we were just talking about' sort of way, never mind that that topic had got abruptly sidelined by her own speculations about the dragon.

"Well, some fundamental assumption in there is wrong," Brennan says. "I don't believe for a minute that Moire ate moins in the way Celina is suggesting. It would be like someone claiming that Eric ate Oberon, back in the interregnum, if the comparison between Oberon and Moins is correct. It's almost incomprehensible. Why Rebma's Pattern survived Moins' death, that I can't say. Moins was well before my time, so I'm willing to speculate she's not really dead. I'm willing to speculate that Amber's fall was caused by something other than Oberon's death. I'm willing to speculate that the Patterns are simply different. But I'd bet it's important, and I hope to find out."

Brennan takes another mouthful of sugar, which turns out not to be overpowering when balanced against the coffee. "How about it, Martin: Any advice, with Khela?"

"Yeah, I've got some. Don't bullshit her. She doesn't take that any better than I do," Martin says flatly.

Brennan takes the rebuke stoically, a feat made easier by the fact that he's got the coffee mug halfway to his lips when Martin speaks. It gives him an extra half moment to think. Some but not all of that is probably the result of Brennan's phrasing, which he can at least fix. The rest, he'll figure out later.

"Well then," Brennan says. "Here is my no BS take for the day: I'm going down there, one way or another. Not because I have some overwhelming desire to meddle in Rebman politics, but because enough strange things have happened recent to give me worries about its Pattern. I shouldn't take that personally, but I do. I have no opinion right now on whether the Triton issue convolves around the Pattern issue, much less how. I'm hoping the answer is 'not connected at all.' I do know Khela doesn't have the Jewel, which is a whole other dose of scary development.

"But while I'm there," he continues, "I can at least try not to make headaches for the Court of Xanadu or its members." Which is a task made easier if Brennan knows what headaches are on peoples' minds.

About halfway through the speech, Brennan is pretty sure he's lost Martin completely. "If you think there's any way you can separate metaphysics and politics in Rebma, you're not going to be able to make use of any guidance I have to offer."

Brennan shrugs slightly enough that it's hard to tell if it really happened. "We all have idle hopes," he says. But knowing that this topic is closed, he'll let someone else pick another one.

"Even if you don't plan to meddle, what are your hopes for how the situation in Rebma resolves itself?" Folly asks. Her tone is calm, soothing. "Beyond trying to make sure that a problematic Pattern doesn't unduly damage the fabric of reality or unleash formerly-bound enemies of the realm, that is."

Martin busies himself with his too-sweet dessert and lets his wife carry the conversation for a while.

Brennan gives Folly a wry smile, and tries to frame an answer that boils it down to the essence: "I'd like the situation to resolve such that Rebma's Monarch is equipped and motivated to do those things. Seems like everyone this side of the Tree is better off, that way. The problem is, the better equipped Khela is to protect the Pattern and such, the better equipped she is to unbind potential enemies of the Realm. The better equipped Moire is to do those things, the better equipped she is to put the place through another war. I can't see a good path to what's best, here."

"I know," Folly agrees ruefully, and sets aside her empty plate. "It's really too bad the whole situation is all wrapped up in metaphysics. As you probably know--- As you'd certainly know if you'd had to put up with me during the Regency---" she smiles and lays a hand lightly on Martin's shoulder "---I'm generally in favor of freeing the oppressed and empowering the downtrodden, and all that. And also, I think Moire is kind of... you know, a righteous bitch. But." She gives a little shrug, letting Brennan fill in that 'but' for himself.

She frowns thoughtfully for a moment, and then adds, "I wonder what it would take to get the two of them actually working together for the good of Rebma? This family has finally managed an uneasy sort of peace, after all. Although speaking of which...." She fixes Brennan with a level look, though her tone is gentle. "I suppose I don't have to warn you not to become the common enemy against which they band together. Even if you think you're right and they're wrong."

"No," Brennan says at some length, "That is not my intent."

He pauses just enough to signify a shift back to the surface conversation. "And in this case, it's the wrong answer in general. They failed to unite against a serious invasion force. So if they can't be united against a common threat, perhaps behind a common love? I don't know Moire at all, so that may be a wrong answer as well. But in that context, Celina springs to mind."

"And here's where I'm afraid my own prejudices may get the better of me: I have a hard time imagining that 'love' is anywhere near the top of the list of things that motivate Moire." Folly flashes a tight smile. "Still, it is something to consider. But I don't envy Celina in any of this."

"It's a shot in the dark, is what it is," Brennan says. "And no, I don't envy Celina. If your opinion of Moire is correct, Moire would agree only if she thinks she can dominate Celina or otherwise turn the situation to her advantage. Not to mention, someone would have to go find her."

The last comment seems to be enough to get Martin's attention. Or maybe he's just finished the slice of the bombe.

"She's around here somewhere. If Grandmother hasn't taken the Pattern herself, and doesn't have an initiate with her, she's by definition limited in the number of places she can go, right? My understand is you can't go somewhere you don't know where is," he adds by way of explanation.

"...which is why we're being extra-careful," Folly adds, nodding to the conspicuously blank spots on the sitting-room walls. "I mean, I did sort of promise I'd visit her, although that was supposed to be later. After I was done being pregnant."

Brennan looks up at the blank spots on the wall again, and nods, once. He'd already seen and noted them.

"Maybe I'm too paranoid. Even if she has gotten her hands on some place-Trumps," Brennan gestures to indicate it's just a convenient example, "she's still not that mobile, and won't go anywhere she can't get back to Rebma from. In which light, yeah, she'll be heard from again sooner rather than later."

"Yes, I'm anxious to be out of Paris before that happens," Folly says, wrinkling her nose, "although I think I've got a thing or two to discuss with Corwin first...."

She brightens suddenly, as if struck by a new thought. "Brennan, I've heard some of the family talk about describing the Pattern -- or Patterns, and how they interact with each other, maybe -- in terms of maths. Do you know how to do that?"

"Some," Brennan says, after a bit of a mental inventory. "My understanding is more in terms of how the Patterns interact with and define Shadows and the local laws, than how Patterns interact with Patterns." He grimaces, obviously not pleased with a gap in his education, no matter how esoteric. "Why? What's your thought?"

Folly stares into space for a long moment, her face scrunched up in thought as she searches for the right way to explain herself. Finally she says, "Have you ever stepped into a room and immediately realized you've left a load of laundry in the dryer because there's stuff missing and it sounds wrong? I'm wondering if it's possible to use maths to do something similar: if you can work out what Rebma should sound like -- or feel like, or whatever -- could it help you notice if something was wrong? Or even better, work backwards to figure out what's missing, or out of place?" She shrugs minutely. "Also, as you can probably tell by the question, I know almost nothing about how one would go about working out something like that -- but I'd like to know more."

Brennan has to think about that, both from first principles, and to think back over a few older conversations.

"Yes, I think so, at least part of that. Dworkin has made offhand comparisons between the Patterns and a musical scale, now that I think about it, and Bleys has used technical language that goes in the same direction," Brennan says. After another moment of thought, he adds, "I can't write down a just-so treatise, among other reasons because I don't think of it in those terms very often. But I can at least write down what I do know, and leave it for you in Xanadu, and we can talk about it when we have more time." Because that doesn't sound like a five minute conversation.

Folly nods as Brennan mentions the comparison between Patterns and scales, as if she has heard or worked out something similar. "If you're willing, I would appreciate it very much," she says, with the earnestness of an eager pupil.

"Not a problem," Brennan says.

"But now that I am thinking about it," he says, "if you compare two of them, there should be a sort of a..." Brennan gestures, trying to conjure the right term, and ultimately comes up with two, "a binaural beat, or an overtone I guess, that might let someone get a better handle on things, unless they're completely identical. Amber's would have been the best to use, but obviously that's out. Would work best with people in multiple locations, though. I think." Brennan's wearing that frown that implies he's just been given a lot to think over, which would be fun if it weren't critically important.

"What about the veils?" Martin asks.

Brennan thinks about that, but isn't sure how Martin means it. "In what sense?" he asks. "As the overtones or interactions? Or as a different way of diagnosing problems?" Or something else entirely, of course. It seems like Brennan might have more to say either way, but doesn't want to ramble on trying to cover all the possibilities.

"I mean when I walked the Rebman Pattern, it had three veils, and the Paris Pattern has four, according to Merlin who walked it, and the Xanadu Pattern has four too." Martin looks to Folly to confirm this point. "You've been in the Rebman Pattern chamber more recently than I have. Does it have four now? And what difference does it make, either way?"

"Tir's had three when I walked that one, but that was a long time ago," Brennan says adding to the general store of knowledge about what Pattern had how many Veils, and when.

"I might," and Brennan's tone makes it clear that he's really not certain about this, "be able to tell without walking, if I had some time to spend and try a few things. I intend to do just that when I'm there. But last time, I had enough time to tell that it still seemed active before I was attacked." It would be clear to a stone that Brennan does not at all enjoy the memory of that episode.

"But going out on a limb, here's what I think: I think it will have four. I had always thought of it as one Veil for each stop around the Faiella-Bionin, which is nice on the surface, but has some annoying questions I've never been able to answer. Are they in order? What order? Does the first one always correspond to Rebma, say? Since Folly started us talking in musical terms, and you asked about the Veils, though... they could be something akin to these supposed overtones. Paris resonating against Xanadu, Rebma, and Tir-na Nog'th would give it three; the Final would either be a resonance with the Primal, or perhaps a self-resonance," Brennan isn't sure, and from his expression, he has some qualms about either interpretation.

"What good does that do us? Not sure," Brennan says. "If I knew I was right about any of those interpretations, we'd see a completely failed Pattern as a missing Veil... but I'd expect Corwin and your father to know about that instantly."

"And didn't Merlin walk the Paris pattern before your father's coronation?" Folly asks Martin. "Which means he walked before there was a Xanadu pattern to resonate against, but after Amber's had stopped working. Which ought to have given the same number of working patterns as before the Sundering."

She chews her lip thoughtfully. "I've been wondering if the veils are somehow generational: the ones drawn by Oberon's children have four veils, the ones drawn by Dworkin's have three. Working backwards, one might expect two for the Primal and one for the Jewel -- as if the Mystical Shit, if I may use the technical term, that allows us to draw Patterns in the first place gets diluted with each successive generation, thereby making our Patterns harder to walk."

For Brennan's benefit, she adds, "I don't know for certain that the patterns in Tir and Rebma were drawn by Dworkin's children, by the way, but when I was off in the desert getting Trump lessons I did ask him whether he and the Unicorn had other children, and he said yes. So right now that's my default assumption."

Martin shrugs. "Could be. I don't plan on writing one to test the theory, thanks." He points a finger at Folly, leaving the associated injunction unspoken.

Folly smirks and holds up her hands in acquiescence.

"That would be extravagent," Brennan agrees. "Also, impractical. Asking Merlin, though, that might be workable. Still," he says, coming back from the theory level to the practical, "I'm not sure how it helps us."

Folly shrugs. "It's another piece of the puzzle to keep in mind, even if it takes quite some time to see where and how it fits. But we've got plenty to poke at in the meantime. Here's hoping it turns up some useful answers."

Brennan gives that wry quirk of his mouth that substitutes for a smile. "Knowledge is always good," he agrees. "It may be of some use only after we understand it."

Brennan stays and talks a bit longer out of politeness, but eventually excuses himself to go meet with Brita and make the transfer over to Xanadu. As he's leaving, he remembers something, and turns back to them: "It's overly dramatic to make the you-know-you-can-call-me-at-need speech, so I won't do that. But in this climate, after Lucas, this much needs to be said: Since you've been studying with Dworkin, you may of course make a Trump of me if you deem it wise or necessary."

Vere tracks Avis down. First, he checks to make certain that she knows their mother is in Paris. He doesn't want to assume that they've already had a chance to talk, although he believes the odds are highly in favour of it.

Then he wants to check on the progress of settling the refugees, and see if there have been any unexpected problems. He'll explain that he is leaving Paris early the next morning, and does not know when he may return. He'll be happy to answer any questions she might have, about Paris, Corwin, the Royal Family of Amber in general, or anything else upon which she might lack information she needs in aiding her in settling in to Paris.

She's glad that mother is doing well, and that she is nearby, but she asks Vere not to discuss the matter in public, because the peace is built on her absence. The men the King has out this far from his capital effectively rule for him, and have done so for generations. They seem happy to have newcomers, although they intend to use the people as a buffer against enemies and because there are not enough men to labor here making the province rich. Not everyone is sure they will continue to be well-treated here.

Vere assures her that he won't mention their mother's presence to anyone else, and that she is planning to leave Paris with his father soon. He also assures her that he plans on checking back on their people from time to time, for several generations, and he will intercede if he sees any signs of unfair treatment.

He inquires, carefully, if the current situation has led her to reconsider the possibility that she might be able to wed to suit her heart, rather than for merely political considerations.

She smiles and tells him that no matter what, he'll always be, at heart, her impractical romantic little brother.

He grins, and does not press the matter.

He'll ask how King Bran, the Witch Queens, and their people are handling things.

King Bran's people are doing quite well, being the most familiar with the ways of inland city people. The Witch Queens are in discussions with the Kings Foresters about areas they might wish to live in, and the people are looking to the coast, where their skill as sailors can be an asset. Others wish to press westward, with the Witch Queens, into the deeper forests.

The Goddess is pleased.

Excellent well. Vere is gratified that things have fallen out so well. He wishes his sister well, and hopes to see her again soon.

If she hasn't anything else, then that concludes his business with her.

Surprisingly, she doesn't. Vere gets the impression that Paris seems distant and unimportant from here.

Vere is very pleased at this. Something seems to be working out.

After he leaves his sister he wants to stop by and see the Chancellor before returning to Paris. Assuming she is available, he asks how things seem to be going to her, will listen to any concerns she has, and answer any questions she might have about Paris and Corwin (if perhaps not as fully as he answered Avis). And then he will bring up the matter of the ocarina that was among the items confiscated from the Lady Robin when she had been taken prisoner in the Isles. Does the Chancellor know what happened to it?

She remembers the whistle, but doesn't know where it is. She doesn't remember if it made it out of Mothersport. If not, then the Lady has it, otherwise she put in the safekeeping of the abbess of the temple college.

Vere will thank her for that information, chat briefly about how everyone is settling in, and then bid her farewell.

His last action before returning to Paris will be to check in with Siege, to inform him that he will be leaving and doesn't know how long it will be before he returns, and to see if there are any questions Siege may have, or any last minute aid Vere can give him.

Siege looks... not worried, but harried. Hartwell is with him, and seems happy enough. They are looking at maps of the river delta and are discussing where a permanent settlement might fit.

Vere will be happy to look over the maps with them and offer suggestions, though he is very careful to make certain that they don't sound like orders. He'll ask whether King Corwin has spoken with them yet about using the Brotherhood as rangers of the forest for the defense of Paris and its surrounding areas.

Siege is inclined towards [Vere's suggested] positions, although Hartwell wants to scout those locations first.

Vere completely agrees with Hartwell, do not make any plans until the areas have been thoroughly scouted.

They haven't heard from the King, but local nobles are interested, and are offering land in exchange for security.

It's not 100% clear that they're offering their land, though...

Vere will chuckle and counsel a great deal of care. They don't want to get pulled into the middle of legal quarrels between nobles, and Vere doesn't know all the ins and outs of Parisian law. He suggests that they seek the advice of the King's advisor and confidant, Bill Roth.

Hartwell thanks him and says that "they" will follow his advice.

In the early evening on the night after the family meeting, Garrett strolls the corridors of Corwin's magnificent palace. The place is so formal and exacting in its balance and detail. So unlike Xanadu, which seems to move and change minute by minute. Glancing around to be sure no one is looking, he tugs at the starched collar of his evening coat and scratches his neck roughly where the seams keep poking his skin. The effort is wasted the moment he lets the collar go.

As he nears a perfectly-right-angled corner of the hallway, he hears a familiar humming and smiles. The voice's pitch-perfect clarity has the ring of a tuning fork as it tests the acoustics of marble and glass. He begins to whistle an old and familiar Dockside tune, in key with her hum, as he rounds the corner.

With a delighted grin, Folly takes up the verse in a clear voice that fills the marbled expanse:

"One misty-moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather,
I chanced to meet a young man a-clothed all in leather,
He was clothed all in leather, with a strap under his chin,
Singin' how d'you do, and how d'you do, and how d'you do again...."

When Garrett draws near, she grins at him with a mischievous twinkle -- and grabs his hands to pull him into a spin worthy of a Thirstday-night ceilidh.

He twirls with her enthusiastically, not surprised in the least that Folly would break into a full-blown reel in the middle of an austere palace. This is Folly.

Her voice on the verge of laughter, she plunges into the next verse:

"This young man was a treasure as on his way he hied,
Bright-burnished was his codpiece, his dagger by his side,
He wore no shirt upon his back, no wool to scratch his skin,
Singin' how d'you do, and how d'you do, and how d'you do again...."

She lets go of Garrett's hands, skips and staggers several steps from the momentum, and then recovers with a comically formal bow of greeting. "How d'you do, Garrett? I, er, may have taken a liberty or two with the lyrics...."

Garrett laughs and bows deeply and with flourish. "Aye, an' it's a right bawdy liberty at that, me lady," he shoots back, letting the accent of his childhood shine through for an unguarded moment.

She beams unapologetically.

He rises and reaches for her hand. "I do well. And you? Look at you!" he exclaims, apprising her up and down with approval. "How are you feeling? When are you due?"

"At about the winter solstice or a little after, Xanadu-time," Folly says, "although it's hard to keep count when we keep moving around. I'm slowly getting used to my shifting center of balance -- and I'm hungry ALL the TIME. This must be what it's like to be a teenaged boy." She looks up at Garrett with twinkling eyes and links her arm companionably through his.

"And, Uncle Garrett, speaking of being a boy -- or more to the point, not being a boy anymore -- I noticed you were at the big family powwow...." Her tone invites him to fill in the details of how he got to that particular milestone.

He grins at her as they start a leisurely walk through the portrait gallery. "I did it," he says simply. "I would've thought Martin would have told you. I was certain Father would've told him. Unless..." He shrugs. "Unless he thought it was my news to tell."

He grins once more, then his expression grows more serious. "I, um, decided to walk it against orders. Things were getting dicey in Amber, what with dragon attacks and whatever else was comin' out of the shadows. I didn't reckon I'd be much use to the realm or the Family without having some control of that ability, and I wasn't about to hide like a timid child if something happened. So I went ahead and did it. Snuck around the basement in Xanadu for what seemed like days trying to find it, an' when I did, I got hit with a spray of bright purple dye. Covered me from head to toe." He smirks over at her. "That wasn't your idea, was it?"

"...The Pattern has its own attack squid?" Folly asks with a smirk of her own. "No, not my idea; I would've suggested a guard-llama."

More seriously, she asks, "What did your father have to say about your clandestine walk? You seem to have managed not to get yourself banished, anyway...." A hint of a frown creases her brow.

"That conversation went better than I expected," Garrett says, still sounding slightly amazed. "In short, he said it was an incredibly stupid thing to do, but he was glad I didn't get myself killed. He asked if I was going to make a habit out of defying him, and I answered that once is not a habit. He dropped it then and gave the impression it should not be spoken of again. You know, it was almost like he expected me to do it behind his back."

Folly can't help but smile at that. "It's like he knows your father or something," she says, and pokes the tip of her tongue out between her teeth.

He laughs as she continues.

"But yes, if you do make a habit of out-and-out defying him, I'm afraid I shall have to be very cross with you. Just so you know." But she gives his arm a gentle squeeze: she doesn't expect it will ever come to that. "Where did you go, after? And have you had much chance to... you know, practice with your newfound power?"

"I wasn't prepared for the fact that it would take me someplace. I was too worried about just getting through it," Garrett admits. "At the end, I saw a herd of wild stallions on a massive grass plain. I tried to follow them and passed out. I woke up to a sword point in the chest. I reckon I stumbled on Signy's old haunts 'cause the sword was held by her old war-band leader, Red Fox Claws. He asked if I was a hero or a wizard."

He grins and shrugs. "I said hero. I'm not, but it seemed the safer answer. I rode with him for a bit and tested out my abilities. Found meself a horse, but it turned out to belong to Brennan's squire. We ran into them a bit later at Signy's father's tower."

"So, your first act after choosing between 'hero' and 'wizard' was to use your magic powers to steal another guy's horse?" Folly gives Garrett a sidelong sparkle-eyed grin. "Ahh, irony. But now that you've got the skills to get invited to the big family meetings, you'll be well on your way to hero-dom soon enough."

She stops in front of a portrait and looks up at it with that look she gets when she's trying to work something out. "Wait, didn't Signy say she's Deirdre's daughter? Who's her father, then?"

"Weyland the Swordmaster, apparently. That's who's tower we ended up at and found Brennan. Signy wasn't there at the time, but Brennan knew about her already. I was only there with him briefly. I came back when Solange trumped him about... Cambina."

He frowns and sighs. It sounds sad. "So Solange has been exiled. That's... man," he says solemnly, shaking his head. "She was good to me. I might not have walked if not for her."

"Oh?" Folly prompts. Her tone is mild, but there's an undercurrent of... something. Worry, maybe.

"No, no, nothing like that," Garrett reassures her, not sure what 'that' might mean to Folly, but hearing the concern. "We just talked about it. All she did was confirm some thoughts I'd been having already. I had spoken with others about it as well. She did offer to witness for me, but in the end the timing didn't work out. I walked it alone." He glances down at her and smiles wryly. "Probably a good thing. She's in enough trouble without that."

A worried look of his own crosses Garrett's face as he remembers Folly's connections. "The offer part is between us, all right? I've already told Dad I walked alone and that's the truth."

"Oh, it's not at all my intention to get Solange into any more trouble," Folly reassures him. "It's just that I'm... concerned. That Solange isn't acting like herself. I mean, certainly it's nothing new for her to do what she thinks is right; but being openly, aggressively defiant?" She shakes her head. "It makes me worry something's happened to her since last I saw her. I know she spent some time travelling -- and didn't Corwin say she'd had a run-in with this Queen of Air and Darkness person?" Her brow creases with worry. "If there's any chance her actions are not entirely her own, we'd best share it with your father."

Garrett's eyes widen as he realizes what she's talking about. "Whoa. I didn't think of anything like that. She seemed like Solange when I last saw her, but that was before she did what she did to get exiled." He chews his lip for a moment, thinking. "I wonder if Kyril knows anything. You know, her boyfriend?"

Folly nods thoughtfully, but she looks confused. "Didn't he go with her?"

"No," Garrett frowns. "Uncle Gerard ordered him imprisoned for helping Solange. In all the mess of funerals and such, I reckon he must be still there."

"Oh, poor guy," Folly says with genuine concern. "But you're right, he's probably a very good person to talk to. I'm encouraged to hear you say that Solange still seemed like herself when you talked to her, but... I still worry. It occurs to me that her run-in with that Queen person wasn't even her only encounter with... spirits, or whatever... before she tried to raise Cambina. Apparently she tried the same thing with her own mother. And... I dunno, maybe I've watched too many horror films or something, but it's easy for me to believe that that's the kind of business that will mess with your head, y'know?" She gives Garrett a weak smile.

Garrett nods grimly.

"Have you decided yet whether you're going to be on Team Moonrider or Team Huon?" Something in Folly's tone suggests the question is not unrelated to the topic at hand.

"It appears I'll be with Team Moonrider for the moment. I was closer to that incident than the other. Edan and Signy and I have already met once on it."

He shoots her an apologetic smile. "I didn't mean to start anything about your... Huon... back at the meeting. I was just considering that if he was able to find unknown relatives once, with Silhouette, he might be able to do it again. I reckon no one knows how many more of us might be out there, perhaps not even knowing what they are."

He pauses, frowning. "Being in that position meself not long ago, and knowing now about what happened to Martin, I reckon I take that a little personally."

Folly smiles gently and takes Garrett's hand in both of hers. "I understand, and I think your comments in the meeting were well-justified. I've been trying to take some comfort from reminding myself that if Huon learns anything about me at all, he will almost certainly know that messing with me is likely to result in a swift and terrible vengeance aimed right at his head, by people who have the power to make it stick. But you're right: there could be others of us out there we don't even know we should be worried about."

He squeezes her hands and nods. "Yeah, I'll be one of those people," he smiles, though Folly knows she shouldn't doubt his seriousness.

She looks up at Garrett. "You said you spent some time with his emissary? What's your take on her?"

Garrett sighs. "Hard to say. It seemed he brought her in for her skills in weaponry and perhaps told her only what he thought she needed to know. Typical of one of us, I reckon. Conner was with me and told her about what happened in Rebma. She seemed genuinely disturbed by some of the things that Huon did, as if she didn't fully realize what he had in mind. Then again, I don't know her well enough to know how good a liar she is. It's quite possible it was an act. That wasn't the impression I got, but I'm not the best judge of character. Yet."

Folly smiles. "Either way, it's good to know, and I'll keep it in mind as I try to figure out how to approach her." Her smile brightens. "Or maybe I can just keep avoiding her altogether. We are headed out of Paris and back to Xanadu soon, probably first thing in the morning -- but we're going the long way round. By ship convoy from Amber."

"Good for you. Paris is a little too... confining," Garrett says, tugging at his stiff collar for emphasis. "I probably won't be here much longer either."

Garrett looks down, meeting Folly's eyes. "Folly? Can I ask you a favor?"

"Of course, sweetheart," she replies. "What do you need?"

"Would you mind drawing a trump of me? Father should probably have one and... I trust you to do it."

She smiles up at him. "I'm honored, Garrett, and I'll be happy to try -- although it might take a while, particularly since you won't be around to lounge about posing for me for days on end. I should get a few study sketches while I have the chance." She rummages in a deep pocket tucked into the folds of her dress and comes up with a small notebook with a pencil poked through its spiral binding. As she thumbs through it looking for a blank page, Garrett catches glimpses of scrawled music notation, writing organized in patterns that look like poetry or lyrics, and sketches -- of people, animals, landscapes, and at least one very feminine-looking bare backside.

"And I've got a favor to ask of you, too, if you make it back to Xanadu before I do." Folly regards Garrett a moment, takes a couple of steps back, and puts pencil to paper to capture the loose lines of his posture and bearing. "You'll probably want to talk to Kyril anyway, since I think he was with Solange when she had her encounter with that Queen person. But would you make sure to ask him what we talked about, whether Solange showed any... worrisome changes... after that encounter, or the encounter with her mother's ghost? And leave me a note to let me know what you find out? And if I get to Xanadu first, I'll do the same for you. Okay?"

Garrett tries to look casual as Folly begins to sketch, but he seems to have the same problem that he did when Paige sketched him. He shifts and fidgets, posing while trying not to pose. He smiles sheepishly at Folly and finally settles against a pillar, the cool marble on his back giving him something else to focus on.

"Okay. I'm glad you reminded me of it. I might have forgotten that question. I hope I don't have any trouble getting to speak with him. Father keeps talking about the 'perogative of princes,' so I was going to lean on that," he says.

Folly nods. "I suspect that'll be an effective tactic."

After a moment of silence broken only by the scratching of Folly's pencil on paper, he muses, "You know, I seem to understand that better since walking the Pattern. The perogative of princes. It's like I feel more... forceful now. More confident. I know I'm still going to make mistakes, but it doesn't matter so much anymore. After a few centuries, who's going to remember, y'know?"

"That's a good point," Folly agrees. "Although when you look at it like that, it might be instructive to examine those mistakes our uncles made that have been remembered for a few centuries." She looks up from the sketchpad, her eyes glinting. "F'rinstance... what would you say have been the top three most memorable oopses of their generation? And does the list change if you eliminate those mistakes that could have been avoided by the judicious application of pants?"

Jerod knocks on the door to Martin's room, waiting patiently as the slight, off-tone sound of the final rap fades. An outside observer might think there to be a bit too much bass for the surroundings. Unless one was used to making themselves heard beneath the waves, or giving advance notice to someone who could understand it.

There's a long pause before the door opens, but open it does, with Martin behind it.

"Come on in," he says, and ushers Jerod into the sitting room of the suite that being a (married or not) couple has earned him and Folly. "Folly's out looking around the palace. She wants to find Corwin's music room or studio or whatever. How're you holding up?"

Jerod enters with a slow, deliberate pace. There is an edge to his movements, a precision that hints at an underlying fragility. Many different forms does that state occupy. Some are ethereal like smoke rings or snowflakes that fade as they fall, others like crystal or hardened metal still untempered. Jerod, his would be the more explosive kind, the point where liquid turns to vapour in a fraction of an instant, expanding in all directions without consideration to anyone or anything around it.

"I am...here." Jerod says in response to Martin's question. He looks around the sitting room, noting the clutter that accompanies all couples, sifting memories to a conversation with Folly, from another life.

"I'm sure she will find the conservatory, though I suspect it will not be to her liking." Jerod replies. "A bit too classical I would think."

He motions to the room's contents. "This suits you."

There's a faint hint of a smile hovering around the edges of Martin's mouth. "She'll be in there playing violin heavy metal, if I know her." He gestures to Jerod to sit down and heads off to the sideboard to get one or both of them a drink. "She gets on with Corwin all right, though." The unspoken thought better her than me is evident in his tone.

When he comes back to offer Jerod his drink, Martin looks around at the random sampling of objects he and Folly have strewn around the room: art gear, musical gear, paper, the remnants of the previous evening's dessert. "Sometimes you have to change the way you're living. It seems to be working out, mostly. At least this part of it." The smile does form fully then, as he settles into his own chair. "Speaking of, I heard Carina was here."

Jerod accepts the drink, settling into a chair only once Martin has done so, the behaviour of court remaining ingrained even here.

"She was for awhile." he says. "After Moire did her vanishing act following Lucas' murder, Carina stepped forward as the target and the explainer of acts. Vere sent her on to Xanadu to his father after questioning her. Whether it was prophetic or calculated, it was the correct thing to do to mollify me.

"She will remain in Xanadu for a time, assuming I can arrange something with Vialle. Officially there is risk from Khela or her supporters. Unofficially, I must determine whether or not Moire sent her forward with a specific mission. There are others more expendable that could be proffered than the Queen's Historian for such a simple task as being the official spokesperson. Logically there may be something else involved, especially since she would know that I would do what I could to keep her far from danger if possible.

"I find myself not wanting to follow that route though." he says, downing half the drink at once, barely noticing it as he hesitates. "I'm...I'm not actually sure what I'm going to do."

"I'm going to be in Xanadu, and there's certainly something Dad can put Carina to doing. What can I do?" Martin asks.

"Cambina." Jerod replies, finishing the remainder of the drink as easily as it started. He fumbles with the glass, looking down for a moment as he tries to focus, to stay deliberate in his thoughts. But the effort is too much and he stands up, needing to walk, to move, to act in some fashion.

"I've got know what happened up there." he says, pacing the room, looking vaguely at things as the words tumble forth. "I've got to know...why. She's all that I had left of home, and she's gone now, just like it is."

He looks over at Martin. "There are so many things that need to get done right now. So many areas that I could be involved in, and I can't focus on any of them. Rebma, Gateway, the Dragon, Tritons, Huon. All of them, I could work on them. But she's sitting there, blocking the way. I need to know why she was going up there. And what Vialle was doing, and why it appeared to some that Vialle was in the lead on this. I need to know who is involved, and why. I need...some sense to it all. Because if I can't, then I'm useless." and he is off, pacing once more.

"I'm not dumb enough to think that I can take on who might be involved with it, especially if it's really Tir and the Queen. I'm impetuous, not suicidal. And I know I can't do it all, or find out everything I need to know. So I need help, someone who if they learn stuff will tell me hard cold truths because that's what is important and who won't hide things or sugarcoat them because they're worried I might run off and do something stupid.

"I need someone I can trust." Jerod says, pointing at Martin. "That's you."

Martin nods, once, decisively. "I can do that. I'm already rolling up what's left of Lucas' network--" and that thought distracts him for a moment "--and let me tell you, all the shit that son of a bitch did is going to take a while to unravel--so I'm already up to my ears in that kind of work. There's stuff I can't do, but I'll do what I can.

"Why she went up there? More like why wouldn't she? She'd been trying to get up there for years and someone went before her. Without her. But the rest I don't know about." Martin lets out a gusty breath that's sort of a sigh.

"Which Queen are we talking about? Vialle or the one Corwin keeps going on about?"

"Both." Jerod says, the pacing continuing. "Corwin's version is mostly because of the possibility she may be involved, given everything that's been mentioned already. As for Vialle, I'm trying to figure out something that Nestor told me, about how Vialle and Cambina are supposed to have gone riding together the day she disappeared and that upon departing the stables it appeared that Vialle was leading the way.

"I know he's the ex-boyfriend and all, but even they can have information that's useful. I'll be arranging an audience to see Vialle when I get back to Xanadu, and I'll be talking to the stablehands to see if anything pops up. I'm sure Gilt won't like that, given that he practically told me it was off-limits, but life is tough. I'm there to ask questions, not to kill anyone. Which leads to another question I wanted to ask you. What's so special about the stables and Garrett, beyond that's where his dad works and the usual turf stuff?"

Martin frowns. "There was a Rebman spy ring running information through the stables for part of the Regency. I don't know all of what they got or where they got it from--something Lucas was supposed to be investigating, but didn't do anything with--but I traced a messenger there and I ended up breaking his leg to make a point to Montage. This was right about the time Garrett outed himself, and he thought it had something to do with him. Of course it didn't, and then Montage offed the spy in front of Lucas' favorite tobacconist, but--"

At this point the frown morphs into a full-fledged scowl. "If it were up to me, the whole lot of them would still be in Amber. No offense, but most of them aren't Dad's people; they were Grandfather's and then they were your father's. I'm p!ssed off at Caine for how he handled the Venesch business, but on the other hand, he was loyal to your father first, and I understand why Dad's not sorry Venesch quit even if I don't think Caine's replacement will be any more loyal to Dad. But if I had to bet how many people who had jobs in Eric's court in Amber have court positions in Xanadu in five years, it's going to be a very short list.

"Gilt's on that list. I have no idea what he said to you, but if he was warning you off, he wasn't doing it because he was pissed off at you." Martin looks Jerod in the eye. "While we're on the subject of blunt warnings and unpleasant truths, here's one: I don't know what's going on between you and Dad, but sometime between him getting back and now something happened and now you're low on his list of trusted nephews. I told him he needed to tell you whatever you'd done that he didn't like because if nothing else, you were too useful not to use. I don't think it's that you're Eric's. When I said something to that effect, he denied it, and besides, I know he likes--liked--Cambina. But if you go in there questioning Vialle like she did something, like you think she murdered Cambina, you're going to get so far down on Dad's shit list so fast that you'll never get off it. So we need to think about how you can approach her without making things worse."

"Then I suppose it's good for all of us that I'm looking for answers and not to assign blame." Jerod says.

"Vialle's the only one who had any connection to Cambina before she died, that we know of. It's only logical that I'd ask her what happened that day in order to get more information. That doesn't have anything to do with assembling a list of suspects, which personally is a foolish thing to build if you don't have any evidence. You collect your available data, you follow lines of reason and speculation to further validate or disprove evidence that is encountered or anomalies that are detected. If the King is going to assign an actual investigator, then it would fall to them to do just what I'm looking to be part of, but he hasn't done that yet it seems. So, in response to being warned off, if that is going to occur because I'm asking after information that is both logical and reasonable to want to learn about, what am I supposed to think? That everything is fine, nothing to see here, move along?" he asks. Jerod's tone is neutral and in no way heated. He is simply putting forth a truth of reality so that it doesn't get lost in translation.

"I'm not going down that route right now. That's a speculation that appeals to fear and it's not based on any evidence currently. Vialle was the last witness, so that's why I want to talk to her. Did she learn something, did she hear something? She might not even realize she learned something, but I might. We'll see. Maybe she did, or maybe she got caught along on the ride. As for your Dad, I don't recall doing anything to displease him. Though I'm sure he's not too interested in me asking after Vialle, especially given some of what I've heard about what had to be done to recover her. Perhaps he's simply being protective of her. After all, not everyone can handle by my special...charm." he says, a smile gracing his face momentarily, a reminder of better days perhaps.

"As for the rest, that's all to be expected. I'd be highly surprised if your dad used anyone from the old regimes except in the most tertiary of fashions and only for the shortest time frames possible. Too many old allegiances involved. Too many old spy rings or the like sitting waiting. He needs to put his own stamp on things. To do anything else..." and Jerod shakes his head. "Not going to happen."

Something in the earlier part of Jerod's comments clearly twigged Martin, but he lets Jerod finish out patiently before saying anything. "But this is what I'm talking about with being out of favor, Jerod. There is an investigation of what went down with Vialle and Cambina. That's what Bleys and Fiona are working on. You're just low enough on the totem pole right now that nobody bothered to tell you until now."

Jerod listens, then rubs his head as he shakes it. "And your dad didn't mention anything about what he's so pissed off about. Great.

"Let's ask the question, what's the probability he'll actually tell me what he's disliking about me right now, assuming of course he'll agree to an audience?"

"I don't know any reason why he wouldn't. He said he'd alluded to it in your presence and you were oblivious. That was when I told him that this was one errand he needed to run on his own." Martin makes a face. "He and I haven't talked about it since, not that we've had time with the funerals."

"Uh, huh. No offense, but your dad's allusions are not as clear as he might think." Jerod says. "I spoke to him twice in person prior to the funeral. The first was before I went to Rebma to check on what was going on with Khela rumours. The last was just before the funeral when I went to see my sister. If he dropped something on me then, then his timing sucked given the state of mind I was in.

"Do you know when he's back in Xanadu? I'm going to have to get this straightened out before I'm going to be able to do anything else. Assuming it can be straightened out."

"He and Vialle have already gone back." Any opinion Martin might have on his father's timing is well-concealed behind his court face. "I've got his Trump if you want me to send you through. I don't know who else is there."

Jerod shakes his head. "Thanks no. Got his card already. I think I'll take care of it now, before things get any worse.

"Listen. You need anything, you or Folly. Give me a shout. Okay?"

"I will. You do the same." Martin rises to give Jerod a clasp of farewell.

After departing from Martin's company, Jerod heads to his temporary quarters to retrieve what little he is currently carrying with him in preparation for a return to Xanadu, though taking into account that the King might not actually decide to bring him through by Trump.

Once he is ready, which takes no more than a few minutes, he sifts out Random's card from his deck and concentrates on the image.

"Your Majesty. It's Jerod."

Random's immediate response is "bide", and after a moment, his face appears to Jerod. He's quite wet and seems to be bobbing in water. "You're right, it is Jerod. What's up?"

"A matter has been brought to my attention that would suggest I've gotten on to his Majesty's bad side. I would like to arrange a time to discuss this." Jerod says.

Random smiles, but not very sincerely. "I have a bad side? Cool, I've always wanted one. What makes you think you're on it?"

"Something that came up in a conversation that I had recently." Jerod says. "When I found out that Bleys and Fiona were conducting an investigation that included my sister's death, and nobody had mentioned anything. It's kind of hard to avoid stepping on someone's turf if you're not up on all the memos."

Random nods. "Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem. Can you think of anything you might've done to get on my alleged bad side, or am I just that capricious?"

"I do not recall what I would have done to have done this." Jerod says. "I also am not saying you're capricious. I just don't know why. Is it new king and new rules, or old ones? I don't know. That's why I'm going to ask. If I look stupid asking, well, then I'll look stupid. At least I'll know."

Random nods again, shaking some water off his face. If the connection were firmer, Jerod would've gotten wet.

"OK, so don't worry about looking stupid, as long as I'm king, that's practically fashionable. Pull up a pool float and a drink and get comfortable. We'll start from the basics and work at it until you've got it, OK?

"Good," he adds, not waiting for assent. "Now, what is the substance of the oath between a royal vassal and the King?"

"The substance is that you lead, I follow. I give my best service, use what brains I have, pretty much without question and you agree not to screw me around or get me killed unless there's a really damn good reason. Putting me on the North slope with no reserves, as an example, would qualify as a really damn good reason." Jerod says, alluding to his father's decisions during the Battle of Kolvir.

"Technically it's unconditional service, but the vagaries of family mean someone always tries to interpret it. I'm not one of those types, not yet at least. The kingdom comes first. I'm still young and haven't learned all the ins and outs of what it means to be a Prince. Give me a century and we'll see if that changes.

"I might ask questions if I'm unclear on why I'm being asked to do something or how I can accomplish the task, or if I see something that might proof useful in the future and that I might be able to exploit should the opportunity arise, but if I get an answer of No, I'm not going to answer that question, then I'll deal with that. Sometimes life sucks and sometimes it sucks to be me, and sometimes it's both."

Random nods. "Good, good. Pretty much the deal that I expect you had with your dad and I had with mine. The next one is harder; Lots of my siblings had kids, which they hid from everyone. Why didn't Dad hang 'em out to dry for it?"

"Don't know." Jerod says. "I only met Grandfather once and that meeting lasted all of twenty seconds. Wasn't even a meeting, just one of those situations where someone walks by you and they suddenly seem to notice that you're there. It was after Dad died and Corwin figured out that Ganelon was actually Oberon. I recall he looked at me for a few seconds and then nodded once. Didn't say a word, didn't blink, nothing. Then he was gone.

"As to why he didn't do anything, I can only speculate. Hanging them out to dry might have turned them against him so he might have wanted to avoid that. He could have thought that his children's children might serve as hostages against their parent's good behaviour, or seen them as possible pawns or allies for future use. Maybe he actually wanted them to have children but couldn't say it because that might have interfered with something he was doing or trying to get done. For all I know he might have even liked that his kids had offspring, though the official unspoken history would not seem to support it."

Random nods along. "All true, but not what I'm looking for. So, there's a saying in Texorami. 'What the King does not see did not happen.' Let me ask the same thing a different way. Why did Drudge get beaten?"

"Don't know that either." Jerod replies. "There was some speculation about some of his comments concerning the ladies of the Regency that Uncle Gerard took offense to, and about the conflict between Stout and Heap but I never followed up on it. Too many other things were pressing during that time.

"Logically, Drudge pissed off someone. Since the case is unsolved, it's either that he pissed off someone and they're good at covering their tracks, or it was a message to him, from a royal, that he deliberately over-stepped a line."

Random shakes his head once, quickly. "It wasn't a message to him, it was a message to Amber. Why? Because he did something very public that his name was attached to that demanded a reply.

"The message of the reply was 'We will not countenance such affronts.' Amber was reminded of the limits, both of their behavior and how far retribution for transgression might go."

Random holds up a hand, index finger extended. "Why do you think Drudge wasn't left dead in a ditch, or burned to death inside his shop?"

"I'd say that if he was dead, then you'll only got the stick, not the carrot." Jerod says. "If there's no way out, no benefit, the person or group you want to change or control is not going to cooperate even if you threaten them with death. A person who perceives that they have nothing to lose or who believes that they have lost everything already, who sees no benefit in agreeing to something they may think of as being disagreeable, is a dangerous threat. There has to be an out of some sort. In this case, a chance for Drudge to mend his ways. If he mends his ways, then he has the chance to return to good graces - he benefits and society benefits. If he's dead, no one benefits."

Random blinks, quickly. "Because it wouldn't have effectively changed behavior. Next topic. What oath did you and others swear to King Eric? What were the words?"

"The same one I gave to you." Jerod says. "Minus the crossbow bolt."

"I don't think so, not even discounting the crossbow bolt. I am given to understand it was 'I, State-yer-name, do swear that I will be faithful to you and bear you true allegiance, obeying your commands from this hour forward until my death or until the world ends.' That's the oath Gilt sent you and it's the one Eric required.

"Now, Eric's response to someone playing fast and loose with the words would've, necessarily, depended on the circumstances, but I'm given to understand that Corwin's antics were not well appreciated.

"So, if everyone else swore to be faithful to Eric (except Corwin) and then Caine said 'I swear my allegiance to the rightful King of Amber'. What would your analysis of that have been?"

Jerod frowns a moment, chewing on Random's question as he thinks.

"So what's the answer?" Eric asks.

"I don't know." Jerod thinks, sifting the information bits as they float around him.

"He's given you an entire collage to work with." his father says. "But he is still family. He will be focussed on an objective, even when he tries to avoid showing it to you. Your grandfather taught us to mistrust very well...too well. He will be leading towards it, trying for a resolution suitable to his needs and plans. What do you do?"

"Find the point of contact before he believes I will find it. By myself time to examine his motivations, determine if they are a threat or if there is an amicable resolution." Jerod answers. "Deal with the situation before it arises to conflict because of frustration or anger."

"As we taught you." Eric whispers.

Jerod looks at Random, information filtering, fitting into place. An oath, reminders of old days, differences in kingdoms, rules of conduct for rulers and the ruled. "The oath.

"You don't like that I paraphrased my oath," he says, his gaze narrowing as his intellect sharpens on the problem before him, sifting further.

Random nods encouragingly.

"But it's not about the throne. I know that only the creator controls the kingdom, and you know that I know that...that's the missing piece that Dad never knew." There is a hint in his voice Jerod says this, a vast bitterness at something, that but for one small thing the past could have been different.

"So why...why would this be a problem?" he asks half to himself, ticking off pieces of information. "Drudge... Eric... Corwin..." and he stops, pieces clicking into place as he stares at Random.

"It's not about the oath. It's not about loyalty. It's about trust."

Random nods again. "Good! It's about a number of things, but that's a vector into it. What you and I and all your uncles and cousins know is that the recitation of the oath is not important. You don't have to take it to be bound by it and if you say it and rebel, then you rebel.

"Loyalty also is trumped in this family by practicality. I stood at the Abyss and I offered to make things even with my brother. I, who had more reason to want him dead than most, for what he'd done. But I chose the practical route." Random's eyes flash, by some trick of the light.

"So, let's look at trust, because it's a much more interesting subject. All your uncles and aunts went all-in, trusting me to get it right or themselves to be able to fix it if I screwed up. Even if they weren't sure, Benedict and Corwin were in.

"You hedged your bet. You're the highest ranking bet-hedger and you did so publicly. Even if you don't intend to play that hand, I've got to play a certain way in response. What can I expect from you? Initiative, independence, yes, good, but some things I want my way.

"And it's worse. I can't trust anyone who attaches himself to you. Even if you're a complete King's man, your followers and friends may have heard your oath and assume that there is latitude for disloyalty that accrues to them from your choices.

"I'm not sure that Venesch wouldn't have brangled with Robin if things were different, but I'm not sure he would've, if you see what I mean.

"So," he says, blowing water clear from his face. "Now that you know, what are you going to do about it?"

"What do you want done?" Jerod asks.

Random shakes his head. "That's up to you. What do you want to accomplish? Don't tell me, that's why you need to come up with the answer, or answers. There's probably lots of options, it's not like I came to you and had a plan-type thingy all planned out.

He catches his breath and continues. "Look, I'm not trying to play 'Please me if you can', although it is the game of Kings. I just can't begin to tell you how to change things without an idea of what you want to change them to."

"What I want to change them to?" Jerod asks. "Away from that bullshit that we had previously.

"With respect your majesty, let's cut the crap and the game of Kings. I came to you looking to try to solve this situation because I don't know how to. You know why? Because I don't know the rules of what you're running. And for the record, that's why I signed on with you." he says, the tone in his voice firming, the expression focussing.

"I handed you a bolt when you were sitting on that throne and at that moment, I saw an opportunity that had never existed before. You know what I saw? Hope. Dad told me about his dreams for what he wanted Amber to be, and there was no way in hell he was ever going to achieve them. He didn't have a hope in hell of ever doing it. Everything Oberon built saw to that." Jerod says, beginning to pace, the need for movement overriding the normal desire to remain focussed during the contact. "Do you know what Dad saw? What he believe could happen? Change. He saw peace and prosperity. He saw people getting along, and that included us. All the squabbling, pissant, ego-centric opportunists that we are.

"But we both know that didn't go anywhere. Like I said, not a hope in fucking hell of that. So for hopes and dreams he's moldering in the corpse we call Amber. How many times has it been said...those who died for the good of Amber. A useless joke. And then, you come along." he says, pointing at Random through the contact. "With the jewel around your neck and your screw the stuck-ups attitude, and I hear Dad's words again, I see the dreams. And I realized then, that the rules could change. That it didn't have to be the way that it was. That what he believed in didn't have to be a joke. So I made a choice, and I signed on.

"And for the record, I still believe it. With all the crap coming out of the woodwork, the enemies around every corner, with me not knowing what the fuck is going on..." he says, pausing. "...with my sister lying in a grave on top of your mountain. I...still...believe it."

He pulls his hand back, perhaps half realizing he was pointing at the king, pulling the fingers into a fist as he slows his breathing. "That's what I want."

Random nods. "Okay. Good to know you don't want small things. So, we no longer have a matter between us. As people who never mean it are wont to say, 'Let us speak no more of that matter.'

"So now we need to figure out how to rehabilitate you publicly. The traditional methods, I don't think they'll work. You have no firstborn son to foster at court, you don't have a pile of money or an army I need to fix things, and I don't have a crusade to send you on. You can always rat out traitors, but I don't think we've got any serious ones right now.

"What can we do so that I can effectively throw my skirts around you and forgive you?"

"A pity about the crusade part. And the traitors." Jerod says. "Since Bleys and Fiona are investigating the situation with Cambina and the Queen, my involvement there is no more. A public mission to go and pound on something would have been quite convenient, not to mention cathartic. Promise you'll keep me in mind if something comes up on short notice."

He pauses for a moment as things flick through his memory, recalling elements from the family meeting. "Most of the items mentioned during the gathering have been allocated in one way or another. Gateway's a possible but I'm guessing since you mentioned no crusade that you're not looking to hurt them, at least not yet. Rebma's got facets to work for Tritons and Pattern but you've got Llewella and Conner, plus Fletcher's covering the primary one you need for a fresh intelligence approach. My conversation with him previously was interesting to be sure.

"Since Carina is out of the firing line, I could always go chasing Moire for you if you think that's suitable. It would fit with a goal of mine of finding out where mom went, though whether that gives you any benefit is up to you. I'm guessing not though. Moire would seem to be more Corwin's problem right now unless I'm reading it wrong.

"I don't have any experience in the Forest so unless you're looking for a general hound to flush prey, that's a non-starter. Tir's out, assuming permission was even granted and I was silly enough to want to go on a suicide mission. Huon's AWOL and without more information chasing him will be a complete waste.

"The Moonriders also appear to be suitably covered and I'm not sure what I'd be doing with Vere and Merlin on their way outbound. Ambrose is possible, though since I've only ever seen him once, and never talked to him, I'm not sure what I'd do there.

"I'm not sure whether you'd want anything done with Venesch and Robin. I'm trying to get something finished there that'll be quiet, simple and most importantly get him to say he's sorry for calling her a traitor. Robin's nutsy, but not a traitor. Once that's done, he needs to retire.

"What's left? It would need to be something public, with risk. Building trade lines or arranging evacuations are important but they're grunt work - no risk." Jerod says, then mutters. "You don't rehabilitate for saying you're sorry. Doesn't work in my book." and he thinks for another moment.

"What about Martin duty? He's going to be with Folly until the baby's born. There's got to be something you would have sent him to do, something risky. Instead of sending him, you send me."

Random's head moves in and out of shadow, as if he's walking somewhere. "Mmmm. I do have a mission to send a message. Obviously our dear friends in Gateway need some reminding of how not to treat us. I'm sending Robin on that one, though. I was thinking of sending Venesch with her and having her install him as our ambassador, or maybe as our viceroy if she has to conquer it. Don't know if that would work or if sending you both would be a good plan. Still, I'm not always known for good plans.

"And as to Martin, well... Most of how that works is that we discuss the issues of the day over cocktails or dinner, Martin picks the things that need his attention, and he makes it happen. It's a great model as long as he keeps succeeding.

"But talk to him. Mostly he's been dealing with his daughter. Maybe he's got something in that shadow of hers that Huon screwed up."

"If you're sending Robin and Venesch somewhere, then sending me would be a bad idea." Jerod says. "He would defer to me and that would make things very difficult. She might come out of it feeling she was being outnumbered and that's not good if the mission needs coordinated effort between peers. If you do send them together, let them work out their business between themselves. They both have strong opinions but they are polar opposites and need to see a little of the other side's perspective, even if they don't agree with it. If they can do that and learn to respect each other, then Venesch will serve her well.

"As for Absford, I'd heard a few things about it, but not much. Since no one is heading that way, it may prove useful to back track and see what he was up to and left any clues behind, and whether it was Meg who caught his attention or because a gaggle of my cousins dropped in. Reality pit that big would even get my attention. I will speak to Martin and see if he is kosher with it."

Random pulls back. "Good, but don't push it too hard, he may have other plans. Or other ideas. And hey, I've got time, and so do you. It's not like I wouldn't be willing to let you fix things up later. You may not be willing to wait too long, but from my point of view, it's a favor I can call in when I need it."

"So long as it can be considered as fixed." Jerod says. "That said, my calendar has become free and I detest being on the sidelines."

Random bites his lip and continues. "Let's just say I'm willing to let you fix it, and I'm open to anything you come up with to resolve it publicly. For public, you're still not my favorite, for all the reasons related to how this is perceived, and I'll obviously expect you to deal with any actual treason this stirs up.

"So, you didn't volunteer for any of the family-agreed-upon-missions in the family-agreeing-upon-mission meeting. Whatever fills your calendar should be something which is working on those agendae..."

"The agreed upon missions would all appear to be well staffed so far." Jerod says. "What's not filled yet?"

After her talk with Garrett, Folly continues her search through Corwin's palace for a proper music room. Paris is not like Xanadu, where she can find just about anything she's looking for simply by letting her intuition guide her to wherever Random would have put it. But after a long meander through ornate rooms that start to look so similar she's sure she must be going in circles, she finds a beautiful piano in a quiet room that to her eye and ear seems obviously designed for chamber music.

She moves to the piano and lightly touches a few keys to make sure it's in tune; but rather than sitting down to play, she moves to the side of the instrument, props the lid open as wide as she can, and reaches inside to touch the strings.

It's not a lyre, but it will have to do.

Her fingers softly pluck out a haunting accompaniment as she sings:

"Down by the river Dhafnos,
By the dense rose bushes,
There three partridges are singing.
But one partridge isn't singing.
'My little partridge, why aren't you singing?'
'Why should I sing? What should I say?
I abandoned my mother,
Without any solace.
Don't cry, my sweet mother.
Don't have a heavy heart.
Our fate has written,
That we must be parted.
Go home, mother.
Farewell!'"

She lifts her hands from the strings and stands motionless as the final notes decay into nothingness. Then she slowly turns to gaze around the room, as if she expects Lucas himself to come out of the woodwork to express his disapproval. Or amusement.

Lucas doesn't appear to join her, or at least if he joins her, he doesn't appear. Instead the person whose slow claps Folly hears turns out to be Corwin.

"I shouldn't ask what that's about, should I?" he says, coming to lean on the piano like he owns it.

Folly smiles. "That was me keeping a promise a friend made -- although we may have taken the liberty of stripping the mischief and malice out of the original request. Underneath, it's not a bad song -- and this is a gorgeous instrument to play it on, even if I was doing it the wrong way round." She lays her fingertips lightly against the curving wooden side of the piano, the tentative touch of a would-be lover, then takes a half-step back out of due respect for another man's instrument.

The piano is a grand, not the shorter baby grand that Folly has seen in concert halls in Texorami, but the full article. The maker's name is unfamiliar, but recognizably French. "I can hardly complain about you making beautiful music with my instrument," Corwin says, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards in amusement, "but we'll keep it between the two of us. Who's the composer?"

Folly inclines her head in acknowledgment of his jest, her eyes twinkling; but she grows more serious as she answers his question. "I suspect it's a trad tune, though it's not one I knew and it's not from Amber. The girl that claims to be Flora's daughter requested that it be sung at Lucas's funeral." Her lips press together in a thin line that reflects a certain displeasure at the request -- or the requester.

"I appreciate your discretion, and so, if she has any sense, will the girl. Although if she had any sense, she wouldn't be twisting Flora's tail in the first place." Corwin shakes his head and glances in the direction of the highly decorated ceiling for a moment. "Should I expect her to come storming in looking for revenge on Moire, too?"

"I haven't met her yet to know for sure -- but given her alliance with Huon and her actions so far, I'm beginning to suspect that she will naturally choose the course of action that causes the most annoyance." Folly regards Corwin with a wry smile. "Do you have an official position on revenge-on-Moire? Not that I'm adding myself to the list, mind you. But I do find myself navigating a bit of a minefield, and I wouldn't mind a little insight into who's likely to blow up at whom."

"My position in that particular catfight is 'out of the way', to the extent that I can make it so." Corwin's expression can't quite be described as an eyeroll, but his tone carries some of that with it. "I'd rather none of the parties involved kill her, for any number of reasons, but I'm not foolish enough to think there will be no consequences. Lucas overstepped and counted on his status to preserve him. Moire did the same. It's not the first time this kind of thing has happened and it won't be the last.

"But," he says by way of changing the subject a little, "that's a grim topic. Please, sit down--" he gestures around to the seating area designed for those who might wish to enjoy the pianist's performance "--and I can send for something for you to eat if you like."

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary: your kitchen staff have already done a commendable job keeping up with my prandial whims," Folly demurs. "I'm quite well-fed. However, a drink might not go amiss. Particularly as we're likely to continue treading into grim topics." She gives Corwin an encouraging sort of smile, perhaps to reassure him that she's not squeamish about the subject matter at hand -- in fact, it's likely that the suggestion of a drink was at least as much for his comfort as her own -- and moves to take a seat at one end of a sofa.

There's a sideboard, and Corwin goes to it to fetch something for himself, and perhaps for Folly as well. He picks up a decanter and gestures to her to ask if she'd like some of the contents, which she can see is amber colored.

Folly holds up a thumb-and-forefinger spaced somewhere between 'just a sip or two to be social' and 'taking the edge off'.

"Anything that involves Random and Flora is a minefield. Anything that involved Random and Moire is a minefield. Now anything that involves Flora and Moire is going to be a minefield. I don't blame you for wanting a map." Corwin fixes himself a glass of the whiskey before preparing Folly's drink. "Did you know Lucas well? What was he like?"

"I got to know him a bit during the Regency," Folly replies as she watches Corwin fix the drinks. "He gave me lessons in proper manners, deportment, and fashion when I first came to Amber -- though I should hasten to add that to the extent I get them wrong, it's down to my own eccentricities and stubbornness rather than his teaching. He wielded those things the way an actor wields props and costumes, all to turn himself into whatever character would be most well-suited to get what he wanted -- and he had the wit to make the whole act seem like just another instance of the fop playing dress-up, rather than the calculated manipulation it actually was. He was quite ambitious, but he preferred to let people underestimate him so they wouldn't notice. Which I suppose explains why almost no one knew he could draw trumps. Or what he was doing with them," she adds with a grimace.

"Nobody knew Brand could make them either." Corwin says, leaving the rest of the comparison for Folly to make. "Lucas sounds a lot like his mother. Except that of course she doesn't know how to make trumps." He turns back to Folly, a wry twist of a smile on his lips, and offers her a glass.

She takes it, raises it to him in thanks, and takes a small sip.

"Do you know where he learned that trick? It used to be almost nobody knew how to make the cards--nobody except Dworkin--and now it seems like half of my nieces and nephews, not to mention half of my own children, can."

"I don't know for certain," Folly replies, "but I can deduce. We know Merlin learned from Paige, who learned from Brand, as did Ossian. Brita learned from Reid, who I think learned from Dworkin, as did I. When Reid and Brita arrived in Amber during the Regency, they and Lucas gave no sign of having known one another prior. And Paige isn't the sort of woman to have failed to mention Lucas was her pupil. Which just leaves Dworkin and Brand -- unless my departed cousin's mother really does secretly know how to make trumps." Her wry smile reflects Corwin's. "And of those two, I know which association seems far more likely to have been kept intentionally secret."

Folly hesitates, and when she speaks again she seems to be choosing her words carefully: "To be honest, when I first heard what had happened, before I knew that at least one of my cousins was aware of his ability...." She stares into her glass for a moment. "Well, I thought.... I thought it must be a lie. A pretty falsehood contrived and staged by Moire so that she could take out someone who inconvenienced her while making it look as though he'd been the aggressor, and she'd acted in self-defense."

She meets Corwin's gaze and waits for his reaction or response before she says any more.

Corwin nods, slowly, a slow bobbing motion. His expression is impassive; Folly is pretty sure she doesn't want to play poker opposite him. "That sounds like something my sister would have said." He gestures to her to go on.

Folly smiles just a little, perhaps honored -- or amused -- by the comparison. For a moment, she scrutinizes his features as she might the brushstrokes and minute details of a fine painting, searching for hidden clues and hinted-at meanings with an interest that shows in her eyes. He might be wearing his poker face, but for her part, she has no cause but to be frank with him.

"If you are aware of the company I keep, you might deduce -- correctly -- that the things I have learnt about Moire from those who have known her best give me little cause to love her, and many reasons to mistrust her. As I think you may also know, Moire contacted me some weeks ago and extended an invitation to visit her in Rebma. At the time I was inclined, albeit with some misgivings, to acquiesce, in the interest of promoting amicable relations among our several realms -- a fresh start for all of us, if you will. But that was before Moire's exile from Rebma and the subsequent business with Lucas."

She hesitates again, sorting her thoughts. "That she has evidently murdered my cousin does nothing to ease my mistrust, and makes me more inclined to stand against her -- in her conflict with Flora, her contest with Khela, or any such matter for which I am called on to declare a side. At the same time, I recognize that my view of her is through a dark glass distorted by the biases of those she has used and abused. I want to see more clearly, to the extent I am able: to temper my passion with wisdom."

She fixes Corwin with a direct and earnest look. "By outward appearances, you and she have held one another in some measure of mutual regard, and perhaps still do. Your view of her may also be biased, but at least it's differently-biased from the picture I've seen so far. I know I may be treading dangerously close to none-of-my-business here, but I welcome any insights you are willing to offer to help me understand her motives and methods -- and whether I am right, or at least prudent, to mistrust her as deeply as I do."

"Mistrust her in what respect, though?" Corwin says, shifting slightly in his seat without dropping his gaze. "I can't speak for her, but I can say that coming to terms with my responsibilities here in Paris have given me a new appreciation for what Dad went through with us. I thought Dad was a right bastard at the time, but I can see now why he might have done some of the things he did. It's possible to be both trustworthy and untrustworthy is what I guess I'm trying to say.

"You say she murdered Lucas. After what happened to Martin, what do you think Random would've done about somebody secretly making trumps of him? Someone he didn't know could do it at all?"

Between bouts of sight-seeing in Paris and asking Corwin's staff about Rebman-Parisian relations, Fletcher takes the time to draft a note to Corwin and have it delivered to His Majesty's secretary.

In Fletcher's well-practiced formal script it reads:

Your Majesty,

I thank you for your hospitality in this time of familial tragedy. Circumstances require that I must soon journey to Xanadu to confer with King Random. I hope that before I must go I will have the opportunity to take you up on your offer to show off your handiwork here in Paris.

I await your convenience.

Fletcher, KCOU

The return note offers a time the next afternoon; it's sealed with Corwin's rose seal in silver wax. Corwin and Fletcher will meet at the great temple of Notre Dame in the early evening, after the people of Paris have completed their day's labors but before the hour in which dinner is normally served at the Louvre.

The reference to the temple is the first time Fletcher can recall hearing anything like a religious reference since his return to Amber's environs.

Fletcher accepts the invitation and spends the next day putting together a map of Paris and its environs and assembling his notes about Paris in a number of small leather-bound notebooks he's purchased.

Fletcher, of course, arrives at the temple fifteen minutes early so as to minimize the risk of keeping the king waiting. He studies the architecture, sculpture, and symbols, learning what he can of the faith that Corwin has created here in Paris.

The artistic language is different to what Fletcher recalls from his youth in Amber, in that he doesn't think the creatures mean the same things for the most part, but there is one unsurprisingly familiar icon in the temple's windows and numbered among its grotesques: the unicorn, whose portrait appears in the great rose window on the north face of the temple.

Corwin arrives perhaps five minutes after the appointed hour in something that reminds Fletcher of a hansom cab. "Sorry I'm late. I was tied up with Lance," he says, without explaining who Lance is, as if he expects Fletcher to know. "Let's go in." He gestures to the main door and strides onward, expecting Fletcher to follow in his wake.

Fletcher follows. While doing so he comments, "Given what I'd seen of the current family thinking so far I'm somewhat surprised we aren't deep beneath the Louvre. Your design and so your choice I presume?"

"You haven't seen where we're going yet. I'm not sure I chose this consciously, but apparently I liked it," Corwin says. "It was this way when I got back."

The temple itself is empty of worshippers. Wooden screens block off portions of its interior and the side aisles. Corwin opens a gate in the one that bars their way. Passing through it, Fletcher follows him through the building, to the semicircular protrusion at the far end. Given its height, the temple is remarkably well-lit, something to do with the quality of the windows, although at this time of the evening the sunlight is beginning to fade. Instead, there are side altars through the length of the building, with beeswax candles presented in iron racks. Their small flames twinkle like starlight in the lengthening shadows.

At the far end of the building, in that semicircle, is a heavy stone block with reliefs of groves and pools in gold on the sides. Fletcher recognizes it as the altar. At the rear of the altar, standing atop it, is a life-sized statue of a unicorn in white stone.

"I hope I haven't misremembered your strength. I'll need a hand with this." Corwin moves to stand by one end of the altar, and gestures to Fletcher to join him. If they have to move the altar aside somehow, and it seems they do, it'll take both of them to do it.

Fletcher is a bit surprised by the compliment. When they were younger Fletcher was accustomed to being on the weaker end of the family spectrum. Still, he doesn't consider himself a pushover. He follows Corwin's lead, hoping he won't let Corwin down. Or hurt himself in the process. "So the city was just here when you arrived?"

They put their shoulders to the altar and, when they both throw all their effort into it for a few minutes, manage to slide the heavy block aside. The empty space reveals a stairwell down into the depths under the city, beneath the sewers and catacombs. The whole place seems impossibly ancient to Fletcher for something that can't have been here more than a few years, as if it came into being with history full-fledged.

"The city was here when I got back, afterwards," Corwin explains, taking a candle from a nearby altar and lighting their way down the stairs. "I was a little too busy preventing the end of the universe to hang around and watch it grow."

Fletcher picks up a second candle and follows Corwin down the stairs. "Of course. Still, it's a remarkable. From what I heard you didn't take that long to save the universe. Though some accounts do vary by up to six years. But even if shadow time varies, Pattern time is remarkably steady. Is timing actually in sync with Paris, Xanadu, and Rebma?"

"It seems to be between Paris and Xanadu, as best I can judge. Random thinks the same. I haven't been to Rebma since I wrote the Pattern here, so I can't vouch for that. Nor has Random, not since he scribed Xanadu's Pattern." Corwin says this so definitely that it seems either he and Random have discussed the subject or he has some other source of knowledge about Random's schedule.

"We'll be on the stairs for a while. It's not quite as far down as the chamber in Amber was, but I hope you didn't have a late night date planned after this."

Robin arrives at the castle gate with Silhouette, who is turned over to Random's medical personnel. She isn't quite out of sight when one of Random's functionaries comes around a corner.

Robin frowns slightly. She wanted to take care of her dark sorceress of a cousin herself, but has to grant that Random's medical team probably has the right priorities and safety training in place So, reluctantly, she hands Silhouette over.

"Lady Robin, the King will see you now." He turns, expecting her to follow.

"Oh, good!" Robin chirps, immediately perking up. Maybe she can get out of this place and back to Arden sooner rather than later. So off she goes, bouncing eagerly after the functionary, completely oblivious to the blood smears on both her pant legs and the delicate crimson fingerprint on her cheek.

The functionary leads Robin straight to the kitchen, where Random is filling a large tray with plenty of food from the larder. The kitchen staff is trying and failing to be helpful, or perhaps to protect their domain from the unusual intruder.

"Hi, Robin, grab a platter if you're hungry." Hr slices off a significant chunk of something related to ham and balances it on the other food.

"Thanks, sire." The girl responds cheerfully. While grabbing the platter, Robin manages a thank you smile to the functionary and a blushing head-bob to the kitchen staff. Here she is, bothering them again.

As quickly as feasible, Robin gathers up a largish bowl of raw stew-bits meat, a dozen or so fresh rolls and several seeping slabs of something red-blooded and hearty to create her own balancing act.

"So, did you go looking for specific trouble, general trouble, or did you just win the trouble lottery tonight?"

Hmmmm. Robin tilts her head as she considers. Interesting building blocks. But can she construct an answer out of them?

"Iiiiiii was looking for general trouble that woooouulldd specifically not harm the citizenry or the architecture too much." Robin rolls her words as she builds but finishes with a smile. She thinks that worked.

"And Ash and Viper were great at keeping the 'too much' to a bare minimum." Her head bobs in a satisfied nod.

Random nods. "Ash is a special case. He's a royalist because he believes that it maximizes freedom for everyone but the King, and he's willing to throw me under the bus, for the good of everyone."

Robin's lips quirk in a wry appreciate smile.

The King picks up his king-sized sandwich and take an enormous bite. It disappears quickly. "You're a sub-set of that. You can't get arrested in this town, but my son could murder you in the city square in broad daylight wearing a nametag that said 'Hi, My name is Garrett' and I'd get a request to ask him not to get blood on the fountains.

"I'm a little sad that you mashed their investigation, but not enough to mention it to you or anything. Once they messed with you, even if you started it, they were yours to kill or spare." Another quarter of the sandwich disappears. The man may be half fire-lizard, the way he eats.

"That's part of your oath, more or less. You remember that, right?"

Robin looks at Random, her face growing pale with shock and horror. As her heart sinks, so to does her form, until she ends up on one knee before the King. "M-majesty." Robin licks her lips and tries again. "Sire. I will not seek trouble within your city again. And should your son murder me in the city square, I shall endeavor not to bleed on the fountains. I... Sire, I am sure to be one of your most... difficult subjects. But I do remember my oath and hold it very strongly within me. If I have said or done anything that would give you doubt..." Robin winces, she can think of a lot that would do just that, "then I beg you, tell me what I can do to... fix it."

She finishes with a befuddled, hapless fluttering of her hands and expression. Shit! And she was trying so hard!

Random waves his hand. "This isn't about Venesch. Don't forget, he was my jailor for about five years, and he had my brother in the basement, with his eyes burned out. Not that it was his choice, or he had any ability to do anything about it, but still, not a way to become the King's best pal..." The King grabs his sandwich again, and almost gets it to his mouth.

"Venesch is loyal to Eric, then Jerod, Amber because of them, then me. He won't break his oath, but he's a relic of the past. I'm just sorry he didn't tender his resignation to me."

He shakes his head. "That's politics. It's also politics when you don't show up for mandatory fun. Now, you weren't the only one, but I knew where Paige and Hannah and Lilly were and Solange is still banished. You, on the other hand, didn't so much as say yes, no, or 'kiss my butt', and that put Julian in a bad spot. Not that he's not up to it, but he had to decide to either pretend you were not a full adult who could come to our counsels or else that you were rebellious.

"That's between you and him, but don't be surprised if he's not real happy with you. As it is, you missed the part of the conference proceedings where we talked through what threats we were facing the collective realms. And the part where we got to pick which assignment we were most interested in pursuing.

"But there's plenty to do, so don't worry that you'll miss out going forward. Are you ready to accept an assignment of a task dealing with the family's long-term problems?"

As Random waves his hand, Robin regains her feet. Giving the King her full attention, she listens carefully to what he has to say. When he finishes, she nods, relief and solemn sincerity in her expression. "Yes, sire. Gladly. Thank you."

"Good. Now sit down, you're not done eating. You'd've thought I'd've planned this out for 'what if she say yes, sire,' but maybe not. I'm not so plannerly as all that."

Robin nods in understanding; she's not that plannerly herself. Seating herself on her stool once more, Robin dutifully whips out her eatin' knife, splits a roll and plops a slab of meat into it. The first bite may be perfunctory, but the second is not as the Ranger's instincts kick in and she starts to tank up while she can.

"Let me think," he says, eating another third of his sandwich. "OK, so have you heard about Marius? There's a shadow, and they held Marius in a cell and let Huon do dark magics on him. That needs to be answered. I need to send an ... aggressive embassy to it. If things go badly, it will involve burning the city to the ground and salting the earth upon which it was built."

At the King's question, Robin shakes her head, her mouth full with her second roll-slab. As the description continues, Robin's expression gets darker and darker, affront and anger being the primary components. Shadow doesn't get to do that to Scions of Amber. It's obvious that while Robin considers the King the King, she also completely agrees with him on this front. She nods as she swallows.

"But it shouldn't come to that. Can you let them know the extreme unwisdom of capturing my kinfolk for purposes of using their blood to unmake the realm of Rebma?"

A bark of surprised laughter erupts from the girl. Really!?! She really is going to be an ambassador to places Random doesn't like? Funny.

Then her expression shifts over to respect for the acumen of the man sitting across from her. What do you do with Scions too... unruly for the house? You send them on missions far away, where they can be useful without harming the Family. And are not exiled or made to feel like bad dogs. Verde, she's been kicked out of Arden often enough to recognize the practice by now. And to have outgrown any resentment at it.

At the thought of Arden, Robin's expression saddens. Her land is dying, her friends are disbanding and she won't be there to help. Again. But if she and her Father are being tense with each other right now, maybe it's best to not try and work too closely with him for a while. Besides, her Father brought her to King. So now she's a King's man, a Scion of Amber and no longer, first and foremost, a Ranger of Arden. She's just going to have to deal with that.

And her talents other than Rangering? Eyes of dark green flick back to the King's. Even in places she likes, Robin's destructive. In Shadows that have caged and bled a cousin to carve away a bit of Reality? Weeeellll... a corner of Robin's mouth ticks briefly upward in a dark smile and in the back corners of her mind, the Thunderbird stirs.

"It would be my pleasure, Sire. Thank you."

Random raises his eyebrows. "It won't be a stroll in the park. Every one of them is some sort of magician, and they know he got away. Also, you're sort of an insult to them, since I'm not sending a son or a brother. I know you can't leave yet because you have to defend your honor, so figure out what you need to do this. Oh, and Caine has one of their people prisoner. She's definitely the one who helped Marius escape and may be the one who captured him. You can talk to her in Amber."

He pushes back his chair. "I've got an idea who to send with you, but that can wait until things clarify."

"Okay." Robin nods her understanding. Don't just fly in there. Have some sort of an idea. Do some planning for the time before it all goes cluster as usual. Yep, Robin nods again. She can do this. "Can I talk to Marius, too?

"Oh, and..." Robin shifts in her seat as she realizes the interview is coming to a close. "Sire? I realize this may not be the best time, but may I ask three questions before I'm dismissed?"

Random nods. "Probably. I suppose it depends on the questions. If the first one is 'Why don't you die when I stab you repeatedly?', then I'm not gonna stick around for the next two..."

Robin raises her own eyebrows, not really sure how to respond to that. After a heartbeat, she decides on, "Weeeellll, since I'm not usually talking in those kinds of situations, I think you're safe from that one," she finishes with a wry smile.

"Okay, number one. May I please have your permission to marry Vere once he's ready?" Despite her own uncertainty, Robin is suddenly soaring with lightness at the very thought and has to fight the impulse to blush and giggle. Gaaaahh! You'd think it'd get easier by the fourth time, but noooooo. Ferociously, she fights to stay serious and earnest.

"Number two," Robin glances around at the kitchen staff and obfuscates for all she's worth, "Iiiiiii have heard rumors of aaaa... permanent collection of... small family portraits, but don't know if such of a thing exists. In case it did, may I have your permission to... view it on occasion?

"Number three," she looks around again. And sighs. Even harder. She casts her eyes upward, trying to herd her thoughts into words. But even as she's thinking, a fond smile drifts across her face. "Siiillllhouette." She hums the name. "Uh, she's named me her friend. And I have named her mine. And she seems to have nooooo idea of what she is. Bbbuuuutttt, I also can't quite shake the impression she gives me of... well, a certain red-headed cousin of Uncle Corwin's particular acquaintance. Majesty? I ask your advice. How much should I explain to her?"

"Hmm. OK, let's try them in reverse order. Third, Hmm. It depends. If she reminds you of Paige, explain to her not to try sleeping with Martin. If she reminds you of Brita, explain to her to use fewer capital letters, because it excites people. If she reminds you of Edan, explain to her not to burn things down. Ditto, Ossian. No volcanos. Conner, tell her to be careful who she dates. And If she reminds you of Brennan ... Nope, I can't imagine it, so no idea. You'll have to field that one on your own."

Robin tilts her head and blinks. Sounds like she might have obfuscated herself right off the trail with one.

Ooorrrr maybe she didn't. She is on her own with this one and all of the King's advice tends to the lessening of destruction and excitement. Okay. Though coming from her? Robin snorts softly. Ah well, she has to try.

"Second, yes, you all already have that."

"Thank you, Sire." Robin nods and continues to listen intently.

"First, you're asking me to lift the ban on inter-family marriages. While I haven't spoken to either of your fathers, the ban is ancient and I left it in place on purpose. You'll have to live in sin." He smiles. "I always liked shadows with sins in them. Makes transgressing so much more exciting."

Robin freezes as her world goes white with shock. Green eyes stare blindly and it feels as though her heart has stopped along with her breath. At length, a deep shuddering racks the girl and she drops eyes filling with tears to the food piled up before like so much ash.

"I... I will abide by your word, Sire." Robin's voice is so broken as to be near-inaudble. "May I be excused, please?"

He nods, aware of her state but deliberately ignoring it, in the way of Kings.

Robin is out of the kitchen so fast the stool spins wildly behind her. Near blind with tears, the girl makes her way out of te Castle in the most direct path possible -- through windows, over walls, however.

Once in the clear, she cries out an agonized call to her flying friends and stalwart anchors, even as her own feet wing her toward Broceliande. Though she knows that Forest is Paige's and not her Father's, still Robin seeks the Green when she needs to scream her throat raw or cry herself sick. Both of which are on her immediate agenda.

Though Robin does not note the passage of time in her flight, the Green is closer to Xanadu that it was to Amber. She flies headlong into the Green, her fire lizards flying over and around her, worried and angry.

Nothing is unwise enough to disturb her in her flight, and soon enough she has run as far as she can from everything except herself.

Once alone with only her friends and herself, Robin screams her despair and disappointment out into the air, over and over until she is in danger of blacking out. There is no denial or defiance in Robin's calls, only bewildered sorrow that eventually drops her into a sobbing, moaning huddle of girl and firelizard.

It's the feel of Peep's rough tongue on her chin that finally penetrates Robin's miasma. That and the warm weight of Chirrup and Ooot on her shoulder, the worry in her friends' hearts, the rough leathery texture of their wings and bodies surrounding her, protecting her. Poor little ones, to be saddled with such a thing as Robin. She nuzzles them apologetically, whistling her sorrow for causing them pain.

As she does so, it's as though she can feel Him settle around her. Her invisible Vere -- the calm and patient voice of reason that balances her passions. They are not forbidden to each other. In fact, the King practically encouraged them to mate. It is only the marriage that was denied. Since when did a wild being such as Robin need ceremonies or words like 'marriage' 'husband' or 'spouse.' Vere and she are what they are, and will be what they are forever, regardless of the words. And besides, she can always ask again. Later. Over and over again.

A wry chuckle ripples through the girl at that thought and she starts cleaning herself up, looking around to see where she's ended up this time.

After a time, Robin becomes more aware of her surroundings. The first thing she notices is the deepness of the eternal Green. The second thing she notices is the man crouched down on a tree limb behind her. He's not moving, and more silent than even her Rangers ever could be.

Catching the scent and color of Deep Green, Robin both smiles and makes sure she knows where her weapons are. While the Deep Green has always sang to her, recently she's stolen away minions and worn Dragon blood. Best to be cautious, even more so than usual.

Robin doesn't startle as her eyes settle on the man on the limb. Instead, she nods slowly in acknowledgment before quickly inspecting the rest of her surroundings. Some part of her is looking for a stalking sister of tree-croucher.

Tree-croucher isn't moving, at all. He doesn't seem to be dead, but he doesn't seem to be breathing.

A little puff of curiosity lifts Robin's bangs off her brow momentarily. Cocking her head, she approaches Tree-croucher. The Ranger keeps alert for traps, ambushes, poisons, hungry trees with particularly effective lures, chrono-temporal whatever that Bleys and Brennan were so excited about during their encounter with the dragons, etc. Could really be anything at this point.

No evidence of any of those threats materializes.

If nothing happens by the time she's near Tree-croucher, she does things the Robin way. She pokes him with a gauntleted finger.

He teeters once and falls off the low branch, and is now lying on the ground in the same position that he was crouched in the tree, except on his side.

He seemed very solid, if precariously balanced.

Huhn. Robin looks around at the Green once more, just to be sure. Then crouches down next to the man. She proceeds to do a very quick, very thorough investigation. Is he alive? Can she tell how got in this condition? How old is he? Where's he from? Etc.

The most striking detail about the young man is not his curly hair nor his forest leathers, nor his striking resemblance to Daeon. It is that he is solid stone.

Robin croons sadly. Missed one. With a gentle finger, she softly strokes the cheek of what was (and may some day again be) her nephew. Her mouth twists wryly. It's a good thing she's not planning on any children of her own, 'cause it looks like she's going to be spending her eternity taking care of Daeon's. Ah well, her Father probably feels the same way about her.

With a snort at that thought, Robin rises to her feet. And starts a search pattern, starting from the fallen Tree-croucher and spiraling outward. She's looking for tracks, other victims, disturbances in the brush, anything that will help her end the threat that took her nephew.

A good search takes a bit, but turns up several things. The man climbed the tree under his own power, probably more than half a day ago. Something else was here, probably a cockatrice. It left in a hurry and didn't eat its meal.

Robin's lips cock in a wry grin. Cockatrice, hunh? The memory of The Cockatrice Reversed showing up in Vere's Reading darts through her mind. Yep, it's definitely getting cockatricey in her life right now. 'Course that Reading was far away and on a different subject.

There are also signs that someone else has been here. Someone who is a far better woodsman than Tree-croucher. It's hard to tell much, except that he (they?) left to the north, towards the mountain in the distance.

Robin sighs as she straightens up from her tracking and gazes wsitfully toward the distant mountains. Were this her Forest and her duty, she'd be off in an instant. But it's not. She has a King expecting a shopping list for terrorizing an uppity Shadow and an Honor Duel to show up for. Bleah.

The Scion of Am... Xanadu wrinkles her nose in disappointment. And carefully marks in her mind the tracks and tell-tales of what might have been here. Then she heads back to where she left Tree-croucher to see if she can figure out a way to get him back to Xanadu Castle.

Paige enters her command tent, freshly returned from talking to the leaders of Lalal's people. Bleys' negotiated settlement is holding, but it is easy to see how the five daughters of Artemis ended up in a five-way war. They are a prickly people.

On her camp table is a map, woefully incomplete, of the forest. Mostly it's a series of notes on observations about where to plan Ranger posts. Paige doesn't believe that a line on it won't need to be redrawn many times. The important thing is they've started.

Arthur Elm comes in. "Lady Paige, it's your children. They've gone off into the forest again."

"Unicorn's Teat!" she barks, pinching the bridge of her nose. "As if I haven't had enough this morning. I still need to apologize to my uncle and an aunt for missing a funeral, to say nothing of the cousin for which it was held." She reaches to the chair she obviously will not get a chance to sit upon and lifts the sword belt from it. "Have they left a trail or word or anything?" Paige asks as she belts on the blade, settling it on her hip.

[Unless he answers something outrageous...]

The redhead nods to the flap that serves as a door, indicating that Elm should follow as she exits. Pippin is still picketed outside, deserving a good brushing, but still she checks the girth and mounts. She holds up a hand for silence as she concentrates on the twins and just listens to Broceliande, their new home, wishing that they weren't so well suited to it and pleased that they are.

Outside the tent Iron-Eye is waiting. The young man Hannah said was her father has been acting as a tutor to the children while waiting for Hannah to arrange for them to go to Rebma. "They went after rumors, Warden. Something deep in the forest and an overdue patrol."

Paige nods, climbs into the saddle and looks to Arthur Elm with an expectant look, expecting him to have some news if there's an overdue patrol. She understands that she'll have to concentrate with less distraction to actually sense something from the twins, hoping that they're human thoughts.

"When was the patrol due and which sector were they sweeping?" she asks.

Arthur looks at Iron Eye, who answers for him. "They were due yestereven'. It was a spike. One of the patrols had spotted a mountain deep in the woods, and they wanted to go back and see if it was a good vantage point to scout from."

Iron Eye smiles, grimly. "Maybe it was. For someone."

The redhead settles Pippin with a pat on her neck. "So, less than a day overdue on an unknown trail, but with no noticably unpleasant weather or obstacles, so the officer of the day felt it was an understandable delay, I expect?"

"Will you ride with me?" she asks Iron Eye. "Feel no obligation, but I always felt it better to travel in groups of three."

"That way someone can ride for help while the other watches the body," Paige explains without prompting. "We'll find a third on our way, or I'll find a second and third if you're occupied."

Paige nods to Elm, "Unless you're game as well?"

Arthur Elm nods. "Always, Lady, but I fear I am only useful if you need a soldier who can fire a rifle. I have not Iron Eye's skill or knowledge."

Paige stifles a smile for the always game youngster.

"If you can learn, you should, Arthur..." begins Iron Eye. He's interrupted by the arrival of the twin's proctors, Couth and Vanguard.

Couth is leading two horses, small, sure-footed forest animals. "Lady, I hear my charges koshed their tutor and went for the green, after Cotter. Are we going after them?"

Paige nods, sitting stiffer before Couth. "We'll need mounts for Arthur Elm and Eagle Eye, as well."

Once they're all mounted and started out, she asks, "I know our numbers are still low, but you're not telling me that Cotter was on this patrol alone, are you?"

Couth nods, then whistles a nearly-intelligible bit of cadence.

"No, Cotter was leading it. Three Arcadians, Cotter, Poach, and String. Hope they're safe, they were pretty good, for Arcadians." He grins. "They let me give them proper names."

"Good enough," Paige allows. "What's the intelligence on this mountain? Anything at all to go on?"

"Nothing. Cotter wanted to go there. Wanted to see what was on the other side, and get a good look back from above."

[OOC: Barring objection, I'm going to move this along...]

The five riders continue for some time, going most quickly over the close-in parts of the forest which has been explored.

Hours later, Couth pulls up to a halt on the top of a rise. He looks down into a broad basin and points. In the middle of it are two people, underneath a large tree.

Paige reaches into her saddlebag, producing a spyglass, but even as she surveys the basin, she's reaching out through her connection to the children, looking for identification, worried as any mother of shape-shifting demigods should be.

Paige sees her cousin Robin standing over one of Lalal's men. He's not moving and she's got a sword out and her eyes are closed. She whistles something, but it's not Cadence. It's possibly the most threatening whistle Paige has ever heard.

Paige raises a hand, whistling in return, a bit of Cadence, "Searching, patrol overdue."

To those accompanying her she explains, handing Couth the spyglass, "It's Robin, and she appears to have one of the patrol at sword's point. That Cotter, Poach, or String under the tree? He definitely has the look of one of Lalal's."

The Warden kicks Pippin into a trot down toward her cousin.

Robin smells them first. Horses. She spots them immediately, on a low rise just a good distance away from her. Her Lizards, sitting on the branches above her, hiss.

Thinking with her gut, Robin immediately closes her eyes. And Listens, and smells around for what her friends are hissing at. Perhaps a cockatrice who's missed its meal?

Drawing her sword, she whistles out a warning to the riders. Just in case.

It could just be strangers. The fire-lizards can read Robin's state pretty well and are agitated.

Robin doesn't hear anything that she doesn't expect from a group of city-folks on horses in the forest and the forest trying to pretend they aren't here. Smells match that also.

When she opens her eyes, Robin can see that one of them is using some sort of telescope to look at her.

Resisting the urge to gesture sharply and obscenely toward the telescope user, Robin concentrates on calming herself and her lizards down. Three city folk aren't a threat if all they're aiming is a telescope. 'Course if bows come out, it's a different story. Robin experiences a brief sharp pang as she remembers that she's left her own bow squirreled away on the Castle grounds.

Sooooo, time to see what developes. Robin keeps her sword, her senses open and her eyes on the riders.

The lead rider whistles in rough but serviceable Ranger Cadance: "Searching, patrol overdue."

The other riders follow her. A second rider taps out "Couth here, new Warden here."

New Warden? Dung, busted again. Robin sighs, sheathes her sword and whistles back in Cadence, "Robin here. Ranger down. No immediate danger."

The redhead at Couth's side visibly relaxes at that news.

Weeeellll, other than herself. Lifting her arms up to the tree, she whistles for her friends to join her. The girl doesn't want there to be any... misunderstandings regarding the allegiance of the flying hissing firelizards.

They all come down. Peep scolds her, while wrapping her tail tightly around Robin's neck.

With a fine mixture of chagrin and frustration on her face and in her posture, she sets her back to the tree trunk and waits.

Paige doesn't waste time once she sees Robin's not threatening the new Ranger with the sword. She leads her band to those in the valley and dismounts without preamble. She offers her cousin a short nod in greeting before kneeling at the other Ranger's side. Even as she scans him for injuries, she asks, "What can you report?" She doesn't name either of those under the tree, but her green eyes find Robin's face first, before actually noticing the small dragons on her shoulders.

Couth is beside her, a first aid bag at his side. He stops digging almost immediately.

The man on the ground has been turned to stone.

"Cotter," he says, looking up at the tree branch. "He fell afterwards. Knocked off his thumb when he landed."

Robin returns Paige's nod.

"Got here some time ago." She reports while stroking Peep gently on the eye-ridge. "Became aware of a figure crouching there." She nods toward the branch. "No vital signs. Poked him. He fell off the branch. Scouted around. Cockatrice sign but no sighting. Trail of someone-s fairly wood-saavy heading that way." She gestures off toward the mountain. "Coming back for the body when sighted you, Warden."

Couth looks at Paige then back at Robin. "Could it be the twin ter--. The twins?"

Robin manfully represses the smirk, but can't keep the delighted twinkle out of her eyes, having been a ter-- herself.

"Or Poach and String," Paige allows. "Lalal's people wouldn't be as clumsy as some of the newer Rangers.

"Brooke and Leif took it uppon themselves to go hunting Cotter's overdue patrol this morning," their mother explains to Robin without a hint of concern in her tone.

"Either way, that's the trail we follow." She stands and returns to the horses.

"You have a destination in mind for Cotter, Warden?" Robin says as she squats down to pick up the stone thumb. If Paige is going to be concern-free then Robin can honor her wishes.

Paige resists suggesting mounting him in the middle of a fountain bank at the compound and making him an object lesson to others new Rangers. "Settle him on his side so there won't be any other damage," she suggests. "With the plethora of sorcerers that visit up the waterfall, perhaps there's something to be done for him, but we'll focus on the un-petrified first.

"Couth, Robin, you've any experience with cockatrice?" she asks, wishing it were just triple its vulgar root. That she could deal with.

Couth shrugs and spits. "Black road monster. Bad sign that it's here. Never heard of no one getting better."

The Warden shrugs. "Can't hurt to ask."

Iron Eye looks around the clearing. "The children would hunt it down, out of curiosity at the least."

Well, of course, says Robin's expression. Who wouldn't?

"They would at that," their mother agrees. "At least it means that both of our objectives lie upon the same path, for now."

Arthur Elm and Van put put the body down and cover it with a blanket. Van puts a blaze on the tree to make it easy to find later.

Paige appreciates the efficiency of her men, nodding to Robin. "Any suggestions?"

Whereas Robin seems a little... perplexed by both blanket and blaze. But she turns her attention to the Warden when addressed.

"Cockatrice are corruptors. You might smell it or its business before you see it. Pay attention to your wind. Don't look in its eyes. Don't touch it with anything you're fond of." She shrugs. "Hopefully, it's the same one I met on the waterfront last night and the kids'll find something else to poke at."

Couth looks alarmed. "Those things got into town? I don't know iffen I'm more scared of one that got from here to the city or that they're two of them around."

Iron Eye shakes his head. "Where there are two birds, there are twenty. A colony would be very bad."

"Only one in town." Robin shakes her head, not willing to catastrophize at this early juncture. "And it got there against its will. Part of an entrepenurial enterprise. Your Poach and String business types?"

Van and Arthur bring up the horses, including one that Robin could ride if she wanted. Van looks at them. "We could lose them out there, but we need to move fast to catch it."

Iron Eye nods. "Perhaps we should try to find their spirit world guardians and ask them to move elsewhere."

Robin looks at Iron Eye and lifts a shoulder non-chalantly. "I'd be leery of the spirit world guardians of corruptors. And Xanadu's the end of all roads these days. So they might not want to or be capable of moving along. But it's not my area of expertise."

Paige nods agreement. "My last spiritwalk here with your daughter didn't result in much more than more questions and a haircut, but I'll take it under advisement," she explains to Iron Eye.

Robin eyes the spare horse suspiciously. "Warden? Can I talk to you privately for a sec?"

"Of course," Paige agrees. She hands Pip's reins to Arthur Elm and steps away from her entourage to speak with her cousin.

"First off, the Warden shite's going to get old. In front of the young Rangers is one thing, in front of Couth and Van, it seems more facetious, Robin," Paige begins.

"Second, I think he might've been discussing the twins' totems, not the possible cockatrices.. cockatrixes... cockatrii, or whatever you call them in flocks," the redhead grins. "But enough about my insecurities. What can I do for you?"

"Weellll," Robin muses deciding to answer the question first, "if you'd like my assistance tracking the twins, I'd... really like that. But I'm on a short jess with the King right now, and have to check in before I go anywhere unexpected."

Paige nods. "Its just a Trump call." She's obviously interested in the story behind the restriction but isn't going to ask.

Robin lifts her hands in a 'don't got one of those' gestures.

"In my saddlebag if you want it, or on my Orders if you'd prefer," Paige offers.

Robin wrinkles her brow in slight confusion but shrugs it off. One of those word-talking things again.

"If I could borrow the Card briefly, I'd appreciate it, Paige. Thanks."

"With regards to the 'Warden' thing, I'll call you anything you'd like, Paige. But trust me, it's not the puppies who need to see me acknowledging your authority, it is exactly the old dogs who need to know how the trail lies."

"Agreed. But Couth isn't going to accept a title as proof. Actions over words seem his style."

"Okay, then. What do you want me to call you in the woods?"

"I suppose Warden will have to be it, but lets down play it, OK?" Paige allows. "We're cousins first and foremost, and I know you love the twins almost as much as I do. Not to mention that you're ten times the Ranger I expect to be for decades." Paige grins.

"I'd very much like you along to find the twins. For all my years, I've never seen a cockatrice."

"Thanks, Paige." Robin grins back. "'Sides, it's okay. I went shopping with Silhouette yesterday. Saw a lot of things I've never seen in all my years." She smiles wryly, bewildered at thought of entire shops devoted to... things. "We all have our areas of expertise."

The Warden sighs, gently. "Yes, but it's been observed, I can't just screw it into submission.

"Can I?" she chuckles.

Robin snorts indelicately. "Fair be it from me to state your limits, cousin. But, I... wouldn't recommend it." She finishes with a twinkle in her eye.

Paige puts on a straighter face and nods. "Noted, Ranger. Shall we find my children and the patrol before we lose more of them?" Robin can hear the worry now.

Robin straightens to professional as well. "I must ask my King first."

The next afternoon, while Silhouette is resting in the infirmary, she receives a note:

Dear Silhouette,

I was very sorry to hear of your recent injuries from the Lord Mayor. When you are well enough for company, I hope to visit you and make your acquaintance. Recent illness of my own has kept me remiss in my duties, but now that I am recuperating, I look forward to resuming my duties to family and the court.

Please let me me know when you are able to receive visitors.

In hopes of your swift recovery,
Vialle, Queen of Xanadu
(by the hand of Ember her secretary)

Silhouette requests that the messenger remain while she writes a reply - a painful endeavor thanks to her bruised and torn knuckles.

My Queen,

You honor me with your compassion. The extent of my injuries - mostly to my pride - will not prevent me from accepting visitors at this time. If it is your wish, please meet me for afternoon tea today. I would cherish the opportunity to speak with you at length.

Your dutiful servant,

Silhouette

Once the message has been sent, Silhouette requests that an afternoon tea service be provided - loose tea accompanied by smoked salmon sandwiches and scones with clotted cream and jam.

[A bit later], the Queen arrives, escorted by one of the guards and a woman whom Silhouette may guess is her secretary. The guard announces her as Queen Vialle, and the woman with her as Ember.

Vialle is a moderately tall woman, almost as tall as Random, with light hair and a graceful, if slow, way of moving. She has an easy smile, but her face seems a bit careworn, or perhaps tired. The reason that a secretary answers her correspondence becomes clear almost immediately: the Queen is blind.

Ember guides Vialle close to the bed so she can greet Silhouette. "Silhouette. How are you today? I hope you're feeling better."

Silhouette reaches out to lightly touch the Queen's hand - allowing the blind woman to gain her spatial awareness. "Thank you, My Queen. I am on the mend, but still incapacitated enough to deeply regret my foolish and coarse actions. Forgive me for the inauspiciousness of our first meeting. Please sit."

She guides Vialle to the bed, if allowed. "And are you feeling better, My Queen?"

Ember moves back and lets Vialle seat herself, with whatever assistance she seems to need to take from Silhouette. As for the Queen, she allows herself to be helped to a seat on the edge of the bed. "I've recovered from my injuries," she says. "Thank you for asking. And don't worry about our first meeting. I've had many meetings with family members that have been less--" she pauses and settles on "--auspicious."

Vialle moves her head, with its unseeing eyes, in a way that Silhouette would describe as 'looking at' the tea service. "Is the tea from Karime? Their afternoon blend is my favorite of the surface teas."

"I fear we must trust the chef's prerogative, as I am still learning the teas of this realm. And I am certain that the bitter coffees of my home would be displeasing to the normal palate," Silhouette chuckles.

She leans over and prepares the tea - leaving a thumb's space between liquid and lip for Vialle's cup. "If I might ask, were you in Rebma during all the unpleasantness, My Queen?" Vialle can likely hear the discomfort in the woman's voice.

Ember watches the preparation of the tea, but does not interfere.

"I was not, no, although I have heard accounts from those who were. When Random left Rebma, I followed him, and have not returned in the intervening years," Vialle explains. "Rebma is the land of my birth, but Xanadu is my home now. I gather you haven't visited Rebma yet." She does not make this a question.

Silhouette gives a dark laugh, "To put it simply: no. Nor - considering my current affiliations - would such a visit be advisable. That does not preclude my intense curiosity of the realm, of course. Perhaps, once I am associated with the King's name rather than Prince Huon's, I shall venture there. Until then, however, I have enough enemies to contend with."

She serves the queen with a steady and careful hand; her fingers lingering against Vialle's until she is certain the woman has the cup and saucer. "If it is not too private, may I ask how you came to be wounded? Hopefully, it was under more respectable circumstances than I."

For all that Vialle's grasp is not as strong as Silhouette might expect, she seems quite able to handle the cup on her own once it's in her hand. "My illness is a long story, and one not suited to a pleasant afternoon. Suffice it to say that that the Princess Fiona has acted as my physician and nurse, and that she expects a complete recovery for me in due time. Have you met her? Most of the family is not in Xanadu; I doubt she has returned yet."

"If there is any aid I might provide, you have but to ask, my Queen. Although my skills at the forge have taken precedence, my studies of Draig-Talamh included healing and medicinal remedies," Silhouette offers. "As for the Princess Fiona, I have been eager to meet with her. However, my experience with the Family remains limited to only a few cousins and my Uncles Caine and Random. And, of course, Lord Huon."

She sips her tea, studying the Queen and Ember. "Have you ever dealt with my mother, by chance?"

"Many times. She was at court in Amber for part of Eric's reign. I assume you have many questions about her." The last sentence is definitely not a question, but Vialle's tone invites continuance of Silhouette's line of thought.

"That I do, my Queen," Silhouette says; refreshing their tea if necessary. "Apart from her intense desire to, at best, deny my existence or, at worse, have me executed, can you tell me of her life here? Did she remarry? Was Lucas a recent child? Until his death has she been happy? Forgive my flurry of questions, but despite my abandonment, I have worried for her."

"I never heard that she had married at all, at least not that Oberon recognized," Vialle says thoughtfully, and takes a slow sip of her tea, careful not to spill it. "She brought Lucas to Amber at the beginning of the late war; he was already grown, and had taken the Pattern, by then. He remained in Amber through the Regency, and only recently went to Paris. I think Paris is very like the shadow in which he was raised."

Silhouette grows introspective until she recalls Vialle cannot read her facial expressions. Unwilling to be rude, she touches the woman's knee to reassure her that she is indeed listening. "Yes, I was told I could not attend his funeral in Paris. Nor did I wish to press the issue with Uncle Corwin. But it does make I wonder if he is my elder or I am his. Or 'was,' I should say. Such a strange thing this distortion of Time."

She exchanges her tea for a sandwich, "May I offer something to eat, my Queen?" If she agrees, she fixes the woman a plate. "Once my duties for Lord Huon are fulfilled, I'd hoped to stay here and serve you. However, if you believe this would cause you difficulties with my mother, I shall return to Shadow. Your husband, the King, thought not, but I suspect a female perspective would have a better grasp of the potential consequences."

Vialle moves to set her cup aside, and Ember steps forward to take it from her in a kind of well-choreographed motion that suggests years of service together.

With her hands free, Vialle takes the offered plate and picks up a sandwich. Clearly she knows the food from her own kitchen. "My husband is not close to Florimel," she says, a statement that could cover many different kinds of meaning. "I'm sure he wouldn't exile a member of the family simply because his sister was unlikely to be pleased. But I understand that she believes her daughter was killed many years ago."

"By all accounts, I did die," Silhouette replies, taking bird-like nibbles from her sandwich. "Soldiers murdered my family and left me for dead. Slavers found me and then took into Shadow. At least, that is what I can surmise. However, from what I have learned, my mother still should have possessed the ability to locate me.

"And yet, she did not."

She allows the Queen a moment to reply before changing the subject, "Has your husband spoken to you regarding Lord Huon's amnesty?"

Vialle chooses to let Silhouette change the subject. "We have spoken of it, yes, and he has had my counsel." She lets that stand by way of inviting Silhouette to continue.

"Then I hope you see the potential benefits presented to you should the King choose to follow the Second Law and honor his request," Silhouette says. "Lord Huon could be a useful ally in the times to come, a valuable resource that can be utilized as you see fit. One that will be both gracious and eager to please, unlike former malcontents this Family has known. But, if he is chased like a rabid dog, he will continue to be a powerful enemy; one no longer eager to negotiate. Is it not better to have him on a leash, rather than roaming free?

"True, his offense to Rebma is severe. But further bloodshed will serve no one. I believe he should be incarcerated here and be put to good use, rather than simply executed -- and possibly inciting a Blood Curse. By honoring the previous agreement, it would also show King Random's solidarity with the Family, rather than reveal weakness to his peers. For if he is easily swayed by outside influences at the expense of the Blood, his siblings will be unwilling to serve him faithfully. By pulling one weed, he will inspire more to grow in his Eden.

"I understand if you would disagree, considering your Rebman origins, my Queen."

Vialle takes a slow sip of her tea during Silhouette's recitation, and sets it down on her plate--the one stable surface she controls, when Silhouette has finished. The act of drinking serves to mask her facial expressions as Silhouette speaks. "I am certain that the King will take all these matters into consideration when he decides how best to deal with Huon."

Silhouette sets her empty plate down - her bruised ribs evoking a pained sigh. "And now I fear I have sullied our pleasant conversation," she says. "Shall I refill your cup while you handle our discussion with a finer grace, my Queen?"

Vialle does offer the cup to Silhouette. "You haven't sullied the conversation. But if I could not keep my own counsel, I should make a very bad Queen." Her tone sounds more amused than in any way offended.

A soft laugh touches Silhouette's lips as she steadies Vialle's hand with her own, refilling the Queen's cup. She allows her supportive fingers to linger once again until she is confident in Vialle's grip. "Something tells me that I shall most enjoy serving you in the future."

She takes another sip from her cup, "Do you play music, my Queen? Are you part of your good husband's band?"

"I have not learned a surface instrument," Vialle says. "It is something I haven't had the luxury of spending my time on since I left Rebma. In Rebma, of course, music is very different. No woodwinds and no strings." A smile crosses her face at that last. "Music is sometimes more of a man's accomplishment in Rebma. At least you can perform on percussion instruments."

"You must have had such an intriguing life, my Queen," Silhouette replies, unconsciously mirroring Vialle's smile. "I would most like to travel to Rebma some day. Studying the realm's effect on supercavitation alone could occupy me for years. And ultrasonics, my goodness. The possibilities for my work are staggering."

She chuckles over her cup, "Of course, I doubt the deep waters would be amiable to my overly warm blood. Swimming in the bay by itself was enough to set my teeth chattering. Do you - as a Rebman - find it too warm on the surface, I wonder?"

"Too chilly, rather, The waters of Xanadu are much cooler than Rebma. And, of course, there's no question of getting out into the cold air in Rebma," Vialle explains. "But I would say the waters are simply warmer, closer to the temperature of the tea--" and she holds up her cup "--than to the temperature of the bay."

Silhouette actually purrs, "Oh, my Queen, you tempt me far too much. I find the constant chill here utterly exhausting. So to be warm again, if only for a moment, would be bliss. How funny that I could find beneath the waves the relief I normally seek within the flames. When we are mended and I've sworn myself to Xanadu, we must travel to this watery realm, you and I. If only to improve our constitutions, yes?"

After refilling cups and plates once again, she asks in an innocent tone, "May I ask what influence Amber - and thus now Xanadu - have over Rebma? Forgive my ignorance, but if the realm is a reflection of the True City, does it not owe fealty to you? Or is it a separate entity, entirely?"

"That's a matter of complex metaphysics that I don't claim to understand entirely. But Rebma has never formally offered fealty to Amber and even when Oberon was king, Amber never demanded it. And I don't expect that to change even with the regime change in Rebma. Random is not so well-loved there that he would be accepted as an ultimate power, were Rebma minded to let any man take that role," Vialle says, as if none of that requires explanation.

"A regime change?" Silhouette asks, holding off on questions of a more personal nature. For now.

"Did Lord Huon's recent attack cause a power shift in Rebman politics?"

Vialle laughs and shakes her head. "Oh, no, this was already happening before Huon came on the scene. If Rebma were a reflection, one might say that this trouble reflected events already past in Amber. The seeds of it were sown some years ago."

"I see," Silhouette says, setting her cup aside. "But if these realms are a triune, could not Amber's recent fall into Stagnation be similarly reflected in Rebma? Say an endless civil war that throws it into darkness? And, therefore, could not that unrest also be reflected in Tir-a-Nogth?

"Or are the realms triadic in nature? Where the destruction of one would require one or both of the others to assimilate the former entity's role in their inter-connecting relationship? Or can they even survive its undoing at all?"

Silhouette folds her hands together, "I suppose I am curious, with Amber's image fading into obscurity, will Rebma or Tir-a-Nogth fade as well... or cast reflections of their own."

"I don't think they'll fade," Vialle says with a certainty that seems to surprise her a moment later, her blind face registering a moment of confusion that she doesn't know how to hide. "But there's no way to know, of course."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," Silhouette says with a slight smile; the Queen's expression intriguing her deeply. She decides to bait the waters and see if this beautiful fish will nibble.

"I have read about the Ghost City, my Queen. About its past. And its future. Prophesy suggests that a time of tumult approaches. A Doom. One that could resonate through its counterparts; Rebma, included. I wonder if this Doom has been sparked by the Fall of Amber. And would very much like to investigate this further.

"For the Greater Good."

"Unfortunately that is impossible," Vialle says firmly. "Random and Corwin have forbidden anyone to enter Tir until they decree otherwise. You should take your concerns to them. Corwin is considered the greatest living expert on the city; perhaps he will know of this doom and what it portends."

"How unfortunately, indeed," Silhouette replies. "But I would never defy the rulings of my King. Perhaps - if my mother's colorful words have not completely poisoned Uncle Corwin against me - we might discuss the matter and explore new avenues."

She finishes off the tea pot, refilling their cups as best she can. She sighs faintly, "I should not keep you much longer, my Queen. But may I ask a boon of you? Might you inform the King of my embarrassment with regards to the incident that led to my incapacitation?"

"Your embarrassment?" Vialle says, as if she's unsure exactly what Silhouette means.

Silhouette regards the woman for a moment. After a time, a cheerless exhale crosses her teeth. She gently takes Vialle's hand and (if allowed) guides it up to her swollen face. Although blind to the dark purple stains, the Queen's touch can easily distinguish the violent bruising.

"Perhaps you have not heard the inglorious circumstances of my injuries," she says. "I became involved in an altercation with a man twice my size. The consequences of following my cousin into a bit of tomfoolery. Fisticuffs and bloodshed do not fall under the purview of an emissary. Forgive me."

Vialle's fingers pull away from the bruises as soon as she discerns what they are. "Ahhh. I suggest that you not worry about it. Random will understand a certain amount of high spirits."

"Yes," Silhouette smiles, allowing Vialle's fingers to slip away. "I suppose he just might at that."

She pauses, then changes the subject entirely with a feline abruptness. "Can you make use of the Trumps, my Queen? Specifically that of Prince Caine."

"I have never tried. I am told," Vialle says with quiet dignity, "that one must be able to see."

"Truly?" Silhouette replies without a hint of ridicule. "They appear to open a sympathetic contact with the subject depicted through the Law of Contagion. Initially, one might suspect the image itself initiates the Correspondence. However, I believe the Law of Similarity goes much deeper. After all, what is an image but the artist's personal interpretation of the subject? An exegesis, of sorts. And, thus, can be flawed. Contagion requires an intimate understanding of the subject. As such, the visual itself is irrelevant.

"Indeed, I believe a sighted artist would lack your insight. I suspect you can 'see' the true person behind the mask. Through the inflection of their voice. Their touch. Their smell. Their very essence. Your image would be unfettered by visual encumbrances. So, yes, my Queen, I believe you could utilize the Trumps. If not better than anyone in the Family."

"You are kind to say so. In any case, I have never tested any ability I might have with them, so I cannot say that I can use them." Vialle turns her head aside, and over the Queen's shoulder, Silhouette can see Ember's slight silent frown.

Silhouette locks eyes with the woman, quirking an eyebrow, but saying nothing. Her attention soon returns to the Queen. "Well, not to worry then. I am certain one of my cousins can relay a missive to Prince Caine on my behalf," she says.

Her hand pats the Queen's knee, "I worry that I have kept you far too long. And although I find your company most enjoyable, my Queen, perhaps I should allow you to return to your duties. Otherwise, I might pester you with questions all day."

"And I should not tire you." Vialle moves to come to her feet and Ember steps forward to touch her shoulder and offer whatever guidance Vialle needs. The Queen seems to have matters in hand, because she rises without assistance. "Good afternoon, Silhouette. I wish you a swift recovery. If there is anything I can do to make it easier, please let me know."

"Perhaps we can stroll beside the lagoon over the next few days," Silhouette suggests. "I believe it might be beneficial to our constitutions. And I would most enjoy the company. Good afternoon, my Queen."

"Make time in my schedule for it," Vialle suggests to Ember. "We will walk together then," she says to Silhouette.

Ember closes the door behind them when they leave.

After he excuses himself from Martin and Folly, Brennan finds Brita and effects the transfer to Xanadu. If Random and Corwin are keeping Xanadu and Paris in synch, then it's late when he arrives, and later after he finds his way back to his quarters. But he doesn't feel like sleeping.

Instead, he turns to his writing desk. The first note is a brief but formal one to the King, requesting an audience to correct one error and seek advice on avoiding another, at a time and place of the King's choosing. The second is a brief note to Paige, expressing regret that their duties do not allow them to meet. However, in the wake of recent events with Lucas, Brennan wants there to be no doubt-- if Paige feels the need to make a Trump of him, she should feel free to do so.

Those notes are sent immediately with whatever King Random has set up as a page network.

Still, when those short tasks are finished, he doesn't feel like sleeping. And he might be leaving Xanadu before the end of the next day, which means he only has a short time to set his thoughts in order on Folly's project of "listening" to the Patterns as a way of diagnosing them. It's an interesting idea. More than just interesting, it's something Brennan would probably never have thought of, even though he's heard Bleys and Fiona make offhand comments about frequencies and harmonics.

No time like the present. Brennan can go without a night of sleep.

It is a slow process-- a very slow process. If Brennan were writing only for himself, or for another redhead, it might go a little faster, but not by much. Most of the time Brennan engages in this process, he's thinking about Sorcery, rather than the Pattern. Then compounding that, Brennan wants to write something that is useful for Folly. And just the nature of the questions she was asking indicates that she's a more intuitive thinker than Brennan is.

By the time the sun comes up, Brennan feels like he's spent the night locked in a furious debate with someone he keeps misunderstanding, but he does have some solid pages that he thinks will be useful: In order for there to be sound, or something like it, something usually has to vibrate. As is often the way of these things, the starting assumptions are everything. In this case, Brennan makes two: Either the Patterns are vibrating, or the Patterns are completely still, and the universe is vibrating around them.

He follows both cases out as well as he can, keeping the analogies more musical when possible, instead of mathematical. When math is necessary, Brennan tries to keep it in terms of music theory, not the mathematics of vibrations. So the vibrating Pattern analogizes to a violin string; the stable Pattern to a flute which shapes the vibrations around it. Brennan tries not to indicate it, but he favors the second, even though in many cases it takes more effort to tease the meanings out of it that he wants.

He touches on what he thinks these things mean for the Veils, and for people Walking them, and for various ways to indicate that either, or both, interpretation is correct-- invariably, these techniques are easier with access to Real objects. When Brennan has a thought that a Pattern Blade might convert the flute interpretation into a more clarinet interpretation, he puts the pencil down, and rubs the bridge of his nose. There's inspiration, and there's taking the inspiration too far. He's probably already done that, but it also probably happened before the reed instruments showed up in his thinking.

It's almost dawn at that point, anyway. He signs it, puts a note to Folly with it, and sends it off by page.

Then a hearty breakfast, and hopefully off to talk with the King.

Random walks in on Brennan's hearty breakfast, carrying a tray of his own. "Morning," he says.

...Or we'll talk to the King over breakfast, Brennan thinks. "Majesty," Brennan greets him, and waits for him to get situated before charging immediately into business. But once he is situated, he says: "I gather that the page delivered my note; thank you for seeing me. Which would you like to hear first-- the error I've already made, or my asking advice on how to avoid another one?"

Brennan doesn't look thrilled to be mentioning errors he's made, but it's got to be done.

Random eats some bacon while he's considering, gravely, how to answer Brennan. "Hmm. I say lead with your second best material. Save the funniest one for the closer."

Brennan knows perfectly well which topic he considers less funny. He nods, "All right. The error already committed: At the Family meeting a few nights ago in Paris, it was mentioned that Ambrose was making his way toward Xanadu. It was not mentioned that Ambrose is making his way toward Xanadu with a substantial number of people. There is a substantial difference between Ambrose coming to town, and Ambrose coming to down with a large group of settlers."

Brennan clearly does not like admitting basic errors-- it makes him feel like an idiot-- but he's not going to pretend there was some justification, or way to point fingers or share blame. He shifts from passive voice to first person, singular, active. "I have no excuse. I simply failed to realize that not everyone knew what I had recently learned. I failed my brother and my King by not relaying the information promptly."

With the band-aid ripped off, Brennan waits for the response.

"Hmmm. Are they ... musical?" Random asks.

"I'm not sure I've ever been to a shadow whose people weren't, unless they had no ears or no mouths," Brennan says. "Yes, there's a musical tradition, mostly whistles, pipes, and percussion, but not entirely." Brennan stares off into the distance for a moment, dredging up a tune he hasn't heard for a long, long time-- a tune he had always liked, and Brand had always hated. Once he's captured the better part of it in his mind, he puts his lips together, and whistles for a few minutes, keeping time with his thumb against the rim of the table.

Unbidden, the words come back to him, too. He doesn't sing, because he's already whistling, and because the translation from Uxmali to Thari would do badly anyway. With the words in mind as an adult, now, Brennan understands more why Brand hated it: It's a mockery, a subtle subversion of the religious serpent chants to which the Uxmali people would meditate. After long enough to get a feel for it-- a true serpent chant goes on for hours, spiraling in on the object of its meditation-- Brennan stops.

Random's head bobs along with the music, and his hands move, as if hitting a goatskin drum. He makes no sounds, but seems to be playing along in silence.

"Well, if they've got nothing else, they can sing for their supper. My biggest concern is that they'll arrive here and not acclimate well to a moderately technical society that prospers by being a trading hub. If they're gonna integrate and in four generations they're a source of quaint ethnic customs, that's a thing. If they want us to provide for them while they build temples and pray to Brand, that's another entirely.

"Best would be if they were fishermen or sailors. We need those."

"Ah," Brennan says, suddenly understanding where the King is coming from. "Fishermen, yes, to a degree. Mostly coastal and shallows, for shellfish, crab, and the like, but in some degree, yes. Sailing, less so," he frowns. "I'm not sure why, less so. They have most of the obvious skills that would make them good at it-- they're a sky- and star-watching culture, there's a tradition of mathematics from careful calendar making, they're familiar with water transport in general..." Brennan shakes his head-- he just doesn't know why it never caught on. "Maybe it will, here. As another thought, they're familiar with jungle warfare and living off the land in such environments. If Broceliande turns hot, Paige might find them helpful.

"I can't say much to whether they'll acclimate in a few generations, or if they'll be clinging to their old ways. I suspect acclimation. Like a lot of folks, the people living now will be remembered in legend as the generation that Ambrose led into a promised land, wherever that land ends up being. Seems like that could change a people. And if it doesn't..." Brennan looks up at Random, then around at the physical environs of Xanadu. "They have even less chance contesting your will than Brand's, no?"

"Yeah, but I'm lazy. I prefer to win conflicts with my subjects by not having them. Summoning lightning to display my wrath attracts the chicks, sure, but not the ones that are, strictly speaking, my type. There are reasons why I don't allow Corwin to date anymore."

That's not what Brennan meant, but he's not going to waste Random's time quibbling over it.

Random shakes his head. "Anyway, we'll cope with that when it arrives. What else?"

"Thank you, Majesty," he says-- and means it, since Random could just as easily have given him a flat no to carry back to Ambrose.

"Next is easier, because it's not yet happened, and it's avoidable if I know your will. I mentioned that I had a notion of how to get into Rebma's Pattern chamber without taking the hard route. This is still true: The notion is to go to Amber, make a key from Amber's chamber, and then make various types of mirror images of it," Brennan explains.

"If this doesn't work, then what happens is, I march down to Rebma, try to use the key, fail, look stupid, and the go back and do it the hard way." Brennan shrugs. "Let's say it does work, though. Clever Brennan marches down to Rebma, unlocks the chamber door... and Khela puts her hand out for the key and says, 'Thank you.'"

Brennan pauses very briefly to let Random think about that before continuing. "But it's not really my key to give, is it? That was the realization I had after I left the Family Council-- it's not my key to give, and it may not suit your plans for her to have it."

"So. Rebma, under Good Queen Moire, had me under sentence of death for a couple of hundred years. I'm not really her number one fan, as you might imagine.

"My plans are to not have that relationship with Rebma anymore. It was a lot like having Flora as a sister, except with more threat of actual cutting rather than social cutting."

He grins madly. "Might've been very, very similar, if Flora'd had a daughter, really. Including the real cutting. Too bad her real daughter is still so young. We could make my dear sister crazy..."

Random takes a deep breath. "Anyway, first I'd rather Khela was my friend than my enemy, and if we could've and didn't the latter is more likely than the former. Second, I'm curious as to how you're going to make a key so strong that Gerard could not break it in the lock. If it were me, I'd just find one of the other copies, but that's a matter of personal style..."

Brennan adopts as aggrieved an air of offended pride as he can, without making it obviously fake. "Majesty," he says, "you take the fun out of everything. Besides, I don't know where any other copies are, Amber's or Rebma's."

Random nods, and touches the side of his nose. "Good, good. The key, which is to say the key to the key, is not to know, but to be certain," he says, grinning.

On the surface, it's obvious to any initiate what Random is talking about. But the implications run counter to what Brennan thought were the limits of that ability.

"It never occurred to me to try that in Rebma," he says, thinking about the various differences between the Pattern and former Pattern realms, none of which he's really had the chance to experiment with. "Although I suppose...." Brennan starts to get that slightly faraway look he gets when he's chasing an idea down, but then snaps back to this time and this place.

"My understanding is that if I tried that right here, right now, that it wouldn't work. But that actually brings to mind a different question, since etiquette has been much discussed lately. This place has different rules than Amber had, but it has definite rules. Rules that you decided on. Is there an etiquette to the exercise, or even the attempt to exercise, whatever Family gifts we've mastered? In some sense, it seems as though we're pitting our will or cleverness against your rules," Brennan says.

Random cocks his head, thinking for a moment. "There are rules and there are rules. It's more like you know how it works, and the universe makes itself accommodate you. I don't think, for instance, I could have made a pattern in a place where there was no charge on electrons, for a couple of reasons. First of all, I couldn't survive there and second of all I couldn't imagine it.

"Making a pattern is more like painting a trump, I think. Except on a different level. I don't set up the rules, I make it the way I want it to be and the rules that that implies follow. When you make a trump, you don't know what's behind the trump frame, but it's something that fits, somehow, with what you do see.

"Anyway, it's not like I said 'Rule #456, paragraph 12, subsection zed omega: If your name starts with B and so did your father's, you may not use pattern on the cliff face.'

"While that's true, it's true for nearly everyone."

"So, some things have a uniqueness to them that makes it hard to manipulate the pattern to find them, but there's more that can be done than most people think. Not many people know that I found Greyswandir for Corwin using this method, but I did."

Finding Greyswandir through Pattern manipulation gets both eyebrows raised, but does not get an interruption.

"It's a matter of making the non-unique place the unique thing is more probable, until it is. I have no idea of that makes any sense. It's half probability manipulation and half shadow travel and half balls. Also, it takes imagination and luck. And booze. Booze can help."

He smiles. "Does that clear it up?"

"Mostly," Brennan says. "What I just heard was: For Khela, you desire her to have the key, as a gesture of friendship between Xanadu and Rebma. For the key itself, there are easier ways to get it, even if they are less fun than my proposal. For the metaphysics of Pattern, it probably won't work here, but it's not an insult to try it... which I suppose stands to reason, since Pattern doesn't really change rules, just exploits them, in a way."

Brennan waits to see if Random corrects him on any of those points.

"There's another case of rules and rules-breaking, though. Sorcery. Which, the way I learned it, is exactly about ignoring rules, changing rules, and sometimes tying them in pretzels to get impossible results. I've not pushed it in Xanadu or Paris, because it seemed like an offense. Besides, it shouldn't work." He frowns. "What we did in Rebma was desperation," he adds, "but it shouldn't have worked, either."

Random nods, but not in agreement. "Yeah, I'm the wrong kind of redhead to ask about that. My guess is that in the same way Tir isn't right in the head, neither is Rebma. Maybe the will of the creator is weakened a few centuries after her death, maybe it's possible to push it when she'd secretly approve. That was my guess about Dad and Corwin's Avalonian Rifles.

"Who knows? Maybe electricity used to work in Amber until Finndo came to town with Tasers and Lightning Cannons and Dad said 'that shouldn't work' and now it doesn't. It's beyond anything but speculation.

"Oh, yeah. Maybe you did something that wasn't really Sorcery. I know they have magicians in Rebma. Smarmy bastards were always smoking and didn't like to share.

"My guess is you can't do serious sorcery here for the same reasons you can't do serious pattern here. There's no head room to operate in. Make sense?"

"Mostly," Brennan says, then changes topics. "As long as you're here, though, and it looks like I'll end up there one way or the other: Anything you particularly want done or not done while I'm in Rebma?"

Random shakes his head. "No, nothing major. Try not to give it to Huon, or let him get the sword from Conner. Don't start a war, or let someone else start one. You know, basic stuff like that."

Random frowns. "I guess I'll need an ambassador. Gotta think about that. A permanent one, I mean. Not your cousin."

Brennan looks quizzical for a moment, then, "Oh. The Sword?"

Back in Xanadu, Ossian will first go check that nothing bad has happened to his Trump gateway project.

The project is intact, just as Ossian left it. It doesn't appear to have been damaged by his time away from it.

Then he will go looking for Fiona, if she is in town?

Fiona is expected in the morning. Other members of the royal family in residence are the King and Queen, and the Lady Silhouette is in the infirmary.

I think we can move on to the next day.

Ossian knocks on Fiona's door.

Fiona answers it herself; unsurprising, since the staff is probably terrified of touching her things the way they are in Amber. "Come in," she says, gesturing to Ossian to seat himself on one of her couches. She has either bought some things in Paris or arranged to have some brought from Amber, because there's more color in her suite than there was before.

Ossian steps in, and sits down. "Nice", he says.

"Let us get to the point immediately. I was wondering when it would suit you to do the test on my daughter?"

"Sooner rather than later. I have some other work for Random that I'll need my concentration for, and I'd prefer to deal with this, and any histrionics Florimel is inclined to have, before I start that," There's some tension lurking about the corners of Fiona's mouth and the edges of her eyes.

Ossian's eyes gleam. "I will try to get my girl then. And my father. Do we need to make any preparations?"

Fiona shakes her head. "If we had something of Lucas' to test the alternative hypothesis, it would be best, but we can do without."

"I could possibly get something, but if can survive without, it would be better. How long will we be away?"

"There's some dilation. Tell the girl's mother we'll be away for a couple of days. I do know how to mother small children, contrary to popular belief. I have had two of my own." The dryness of Fiona's tone is not, Ossian suspects, aimed at him. "As for Lucas--we cannot prove negatives, only positives. If the answer is not what you hope, what then?"

Ossian sighs "I will eventually have to let Florimel know. Alone I don't have all that much to offer. And I doubt Brennan will want a non-grand-daughter. It will come down to negotiations with Florimel."

"She does seem a bit possessive about her grandchildren, despite despising the way they came about. Why?"

Fiona purses her lips. "That's a long story that has to do with people who are long dead, not all of whom are your grandfather. How much have you picked up about this girl who claims to be Florimel's daughter?"

"For being eternal all of you seem to have very little patience for telling long stories." Ossian says with a smile "But I like mysteries. Silhouette is one of them. My sort, I guess. Very intellectual. I don't think she cares if her mother accepts her or not."

"If you wanted long stories, you should have asked your uncle, and not me," Fiona says, but the hint of a smile around the corners of her mouth makes it less of a rebuke than the words might have sounded on their own.

Ossian just smiles.

"I do wonder how Florimel might have borne the woman you describe, but I suppose her father might have been different. Or perhaps she's just been told the history. If she's someone else's bastard, I suppose it will turn out, but in case she's not, I recommend a certain detachment." Fiona looks meaningfully at Ossian, as if to be sure he understands.

"I will keep a low profile. Women... it's a weakness of mine, that I will have to pay for. She intrigues me, but not in a dangerous manner I think."

"Florimel lost that child, as she said. She was enjoying a sojourn in Shadow as all of us have done on one occasion or another, and she consented to marry for a time, and she bore a child. Father recalled her to Amber, and when she returned, her home had been sacked and her husband and child were dead. There were bodies, badly burned, but recognizable all the same. You'll understand, then, why Lucas' death, even though she disapproved of his dealings with your grandfather, has made her a little--overprotective of her grandchildren."

Ossian nods, somberly. "Then I understand. Thank you for telling me. It will help a lot, however this turns out. I will use it carefully. And not in a hurtful way."

Fiona nods. "That will be for the best, for all of you."

Like clockwork, the librarian's grey figure - as rigid as a shark's fin - passes by the sitting room again; the fourteenth time today. Beady eyes peer over wire-rimmed glasses in unashamed disapproval, her condemnation focused solely upon Brennan's offending coffee pot. When her penetrating stare fails to dismiss this java-based intruder, the woman gives a sharp exhale and strides from view.

Brennan now had another ten minutes of solitude before she returns to silently chastise him once more.

However, a figure intrudes upon his peripheral vision only a moment later.

Despite the book in her hand, this woman could never pass for a frumpish librarian. All alluring curves and sculpted features, she radiates elegance and poise as she drifts inexorably closer to the sitting room. Her flowing dress accents the faint bruises clinging to her cheeks and eyes, as if the wounds were themselves bizarre accessories. Even the manner in which she wets her finger to turn a page exudes an undercurrent of sensuality.

She closes the distance with feline grace, sweeping into the sitting room.

Only then does she glance over her book, taking notice of the man already present. Dispassionate eyes of smoky topaz regard Brennan. "I believe one of us is in the wrong room."

If Brennan even notices the assistant librarian that Nestor has sent to harass him, he doesn't deign to show it by looking up, pausing in his reading or concentration, or any other outward sign. This would be impressive if the assistant librarian did anything more than sigh in frustration.

After Silhouette sweeps into the room and speaks, Brennan does look up, sweeps a glance up and down her, and says, "I'm not." If he recognizes her by description or reputation, he doesn't say anything. The red gemstone on his ring catches the light as he turns the page and prepares to go back to his studies.

A wry smile touches Silhouette's lips, but otherwise she appears unaffected by the brisk reception. "Then I shall leave you to your reading. But might you assist me first? I am seeking literature on Rebman politics and culture. I wish to be Illuminated for my daily meetings with the Queen. But thus far, all I have located is this. Oh Wet Pet: A Collection of Rebman Love Poems by Millicent Siltbottom. Not exactly appropriate subject matter for deep discussions. And I suspect the accompanying fish-faces would be lost on her majesty.

"I would ask the librarian, but she appears. . . preoccupied."

"I might," Brennan says. "But we haven't been introduced."

"Of course," she says bowing her head. "I am Kabeiro ap Cadmilus, daughter of the Princess Florimel. However, I would caution you in repeating that name within earshot of my mother. You may call me Silhouette."

She touches her chin with an elegant finger, "And you are my cousin, Prince Brennan, are you not? Your performance at the Cambina's funeral was very moving."

"Only if I've been promoted without notification," Brennan says, acknowledging the name but not the title. "I understand there is some tension between you and Florimel," he says, inviting her to give her side of the story.

Silhouette gives a brisk nod, "Yes, this is correct." She settles into a chair across from him, rather than continuing to rudely hover.

"My mother believes that I am a doppelganger, summoned by Lord Huon to cause her mischief. You see, I was sold into slavery not long after I last saw her. I was eleven at the time. Either she could not locate me in Shadow afterwards. Or she chose not to liberate me from my captivity.

"Perhaps guilt prevents her from acknowledging my existence. But I suspect that is wishful thinking."

"'Guilt' is not a natural emotion among our parents' generation," Brennan says. "Still, what motive would she have for fabrication or willful deceit?"

Silhouette touches her chin again, thinking. "She has recently lost another child to violence. She will need to settle debts with whoever robbed her of Lucas. My presence could complicate this, if she claims me to be her long-lost daughter. Indeed, my death twenty-five years ago may have been the first part of a larger scheme. Denial now separates us and, therefore, diminishes the chance someone will utilize me as a potential playing piece in her Vendetta. At least, this is the path I would choose.

"But you have known her much longer than I. What is your opinion, Lord Brennan?"

Still not the right title, but close enough that Brennan isn't required to correct her. He shakes his head, though: "Your history twenty five years back and Lucas' recent demise are unconnected. Lucas was killed as a direct result of his own very recent actions. And if Flora were trying to provide protection, she could easily have asked Corwin to make a public pronouncement on your behalf."

Then, "Sold into slavery, you say? To whom? For that matter, by whom?"

Silhouette's hand falls away from her chin like an autumn leaf. "By whom? In truth, I am not certain. My memories of that time are clouded by childhood denial and terror. Mercenaries or war-vultures, perhaps? They discovered me in the ruins of my home not long after soldiers had burned my family and I alive.

"I fetched them a good price in Babilu - the Iron Lands. That is where I served as a foundry-slave for much of my youth. The Overseers eventually recognized my affinity to Draig Talamh and released me from bondage."

"And this sort of thing was common, where you came from?" Brennan asks.

Silhouette tilts her head, "Did you refer to my fate? Cruelty is a lex naturalis - and certainly not exclusive to my homelands. But if you refer to my affinity with Earth and Fire, then no. It is a rare gift."

"I refer to your fate," Brennan says. "Your precise, specific fate. Cruelty may be a law of nature or it may not, but it takes many forms. I've been places where slavery exists as a regulated, peaceful trade, without the burning and the warfare. Places where the burning and the warfare exist without the slavery. Some without either. Thus the question: Is being captured in a slave raid a hazard of daily life in your home?"

"The Indentured were not uncommon in my home, but always by choice or circumstance," Silhouette replies in a frank tone. "My tormentors were an abnormality, even in war. I suspect they were hunting through Shadow when they discovered me. I did not travel as a child, but I had never heard of Babilu until I was taken there. Does this answer your question?"

"Yes, but it raises several more," Brennan says. "Such as, 'Hunting through Shadow... how, exactly?'"

A slight frown twitches at the corner of her mouth. "That, cousin, is a puzzle I intend to unlock in the near future. For I wish to know if chance or providence were at work."

The frown fades, "But enough about my past. Will you tell me what you know of Rebma?"

"It's humid," Brennan says. "And it's been through a civil war and an invasion in the recent past. What sort of information were you looking for?"

"Did the civil war break out before Lord Huon invaded or as a result thereof?" Silhouette asks. "And who are the leaders of the opposing factions? Are either of them affiliated with Her Majesty?"

"I have not had cause to question whether Vialle has sympathies with either Moire or Khela. And Huon did not cause the civil war, he exploited it," Brennan says. "How is Uncle Huey, anyway?"

"Restocked, rearmed, and in good health, last I saw of him," Silhouette says. Then a smile. "And your son? How is he doing? I've not seen him for a few days." She does not hide the disappointment in her voice.

Ossian finds Brennan in a corridor. While Ossian is not winded, there is some sweat on his brow, he has been looking all over the place.

"Brennan." he says.

Hearing his name, Brennan turns. Seeing the sweat, he asks, "What's wrong?"

Ossian shrugs. "Nothing is wrong. I just really wanted to find you. Fiona is prepared to examine Jasmine as soon as possible. So I went looking for you before fetching her. Will you come with us?"

"Depends on where we're going, and for how long," Brennan says. "I offered Brita my help in putting her in touch with Ambrose, after this Robin business is concluded." Stop. Pause. Think. "You don't happen to have a Trump of him, do you? That would be a whole lot easier than the alternatives."

Ossian shakes his head, maybe looking a bit disappointed. "I could paint a sketch in a few days, I think. But given the latest discussion, it might not be wise. If you could get me permission from Random, I would be willing to try.

"Doesn't Brita have one? That surprises me.

"We are going to Fiona's lab. We will be away for a few says, I think. Of course, Brita could always Trump her, I guess?"

"That's what I told Brita, actually-- get permission from the King to paint one of Ambrose. We need to put one in the booth, anyway." Brennan considers for a moment. Brita can use or make a Trump of him. Fiona has one of Brita. They can both get to Amber, which is where they're supposed to meet anyway....

"Let me send a page to Brita, and we'll go, with the understanding that I might get interrupted," he says. Then he collars a page and sends to Brita the message that she should Trump him, or that he might Trump her. And that she should Trump him even if she obtains Random's permission to make a Trump of Ambrose.

Ossian nods. "I will go fetch Jasmine alone. As to not intimidate the mother."

Ossian looks straight at Brennan "I do wonder though. If we find out that she is not mine, I will have to negotiate with Flora. Will you still support me then?

"I do understand if you won't."

"Negotiate," Brennan says, with all the inflection that a lesser man would need air-quotes to impart. "You think Flora will be willing to negotiate over a child she believes is her grandchild? Or is that a euphemism."

Vere spends his last evening in Paris with his parents, quietly reminiscing about the past and discussing how his mother has found life in Xanadu. He determinedly does not discuss the future with them, preferring their last memories of each other before their separation to be free of any possible contention. Afterwards he retires to his room and sleeps soundly, rising early and bathing, then dressing in sturdy and nondescript travelling clothes. He leaves the sword and dagger that he has carried for so long upon the bed, along with a note, "Please have these returned to the armoury of Paris, and extend my thanks for their loan to King Corwin."

He leaves the living quarters them, and has an immense breakfast while waiting for Merlin.

Merlin arrives exactly on time, which is more orderly than one might expect from a being born in Chaos. On the other hand, he's also in the heart of his own father's Pattern realm, which means things are ordered exactly as he wishes in many ways. Merlin is dressed in black, and for all that Vere wouldn't call what he's wearing finery, Merlin's clothes are well-cut and made from fine fabrics.

He's not at all nondescript. By Parisian standards, he'd be remembered because he's wearing a sword belt, which is remarkably old-fashioned.

"Good morning, Vere," he says as he enters the parlor where Vere's breakfast has been brought to him. "May I join you?"

"Please do," Vere says, standing as Merlin approaches. He waits until the prince is seated before sitting again himself. "I am ready to leave as soon as you are," he says, "Although there is certainly time for a good breakfast first."

"Yes, I believe sustenance before travel is wise, always. I do not anticipate our travel to be difficult close to Paris, but one never knows." Having been invited to break his fast, Merlin proceeds to load up his plate with a breakfast well-suited to a Prince of Paris. "Have you hellridden, cousin?"

Vere shakes his head. "I have not. I am familiar with the theory, that instead of slowly changing one aspect of the environment at a time, one instead focuses intently upon a single item or quality, and allows everything else to shift while one seeks the destination."

"Since you have not made a hellride, it will be faster if we travel by sorcery. I know places close to Ygg, and it will be faster travelling with two to Part the Veil. I am told it takes close to a week to hellride to Ygg, even with experience, which we both lack." Merlin's expression and tone are phlegmatic. "For us the subjective travel times will be shorter, but I will require rest and sustenance after the transit."

"I am unfamiliar with true Sorcery," Vere says, "If there is anything I can do to assist in your castings, let me know. Can you Part the Veil from Paris, or do we need to move further away from the Pattern before you can easily do so?"

"It may or may not be possible, but I prefer not to test matters. It will be simpler, and less tiring, to Part the Veil well outside of Paris' influence. For me to obtain the maximum distance with a single spell, you will need to perform the necessary shadowshifting," Merlin explains. "Can you do this?" he asks.

"I can," Vere answers. "Are there any specific parameters you would prefer me to seek out while shifting, or is 'away from Paris' sufficient?"

Merlin frowns thoughtfully. "Away from Paris and Xanadu would be best. I prefer magical realms over technological ones, as they tend to be easier for me to acquire additional supplies in, but the preference is not significant if you are more interested in the technological realms. Do you have a shadow in mind? That will make it simpler."

"The shadow I know best, and can reach most reliably, is my homeland of the Isles," Vere answers. "And I would not mind having a last look at it before departing to Chaos, to see whether the damage to it has worsened, or if it shows signs of healing upon its own. It was a land of magic, and has a long association with the royal family."

"Then that is where we shall go," Merlin says with a decisiveness that Vere might not have previously expected from him. "After we have finished our breakfast, that is."

"Excellent well," Vere answers. "And before I forget, let me tell you that in case of problems I have my father's trump, as I told you, and in addition I have a trump for one of the ranger stations in Arden. Send a message through, and a ranger there will be certain to get it to Robin ere long. In addition, I have a journal on my person. Should anything untoward happen to me, please see to it that it is given to Robin."

The two royals quickly polish off their immense breakfasts, and depart the palace. Vere asks Merlin's opinion on whether it is acceptable to take two horses from Corwin's stables, knowing that they will eventually have to be abandoned on the journey somewhere, or whether it would be better for them to walk, and he abides by the prince's opinion.

Merlin advises horses. That is what they are for.

Soon they are on their way out of Paris, Vere leading them in a direction that avoids both the areas where his people have settled and the way to Rebma. Vere enjoys the simple pleasures of the first part of the journey, delighting in the pure physical joy of travelling without a need for undue haste or any followers who must be watched over. He waits until Paris has fallen below the horizon before he begins to shift shadows towards the Isles.

Vere and Merlin head south out of Paris, avoiding the Rebman water cave and the river leading towards the sea to the northwest.

The rolling land continues for miles but once Paris is left behind Vere can begin to shift. First the small items change--a leaf just so on a branch behind a rock, a view down a ravine after a turn in the forest road.

There are people at first, then signs of people, then trees. The sun moves erratically in the sky as Vere casts for shadows and sunlight, but eventually, he has the light. The trees change next growing taller and looking frailer. Vere finds a place that he cannot tell from somewhere in the isles. He looks out into the rain and it smells like home.

[Where in the Isles are you going? The ride took a bit, but it's hard to say how long.]

[Vere did not have a location in mind, per se, rather, while keeping the Isles in his mind and shifting he was also concentrating on his memories of Robin's ocarina. His talk with the Chancellor has convinced him that she didn't keep it, so he's focusing strongly on the high probabilty, no, the certainty, that it was lost somewhere in the Isles. Right where he is going to be, when he finally arrives, in fact.]

Merlin looks across at Vere, through the rain, as if considering how to say what he thinks. "Perhaps, Cousin, we should rest the horses. They do not seem to be making as much headway as they were when we left Paris."

The sounds of distant music come from the forest, and perhaps the smell Vere noticed was roast venison.

Vere nods, and dismounts. He walks around to the front of his horse and pulls her head adown gently, then leans his forehead against hers. "Tired, girl?" he asks softly. He releases her, and pats her gently on the side of the neck. "Yes, let us rest them, Cousin. I would like to see who is in this forest, and what they have to tell me." He walks towards the music, leading his horse through the rain.

The music is some sort of simple flute or pipes, the kind a shepherd might play in a cave on a rainy day to entertain himself while staying dry.

The horses come reluctantly into the woods, until Merlin takes hold of his mare's head and whispers something in her ear. Then they are easy to lead.

After a short walk, Vere and Merlin come upon a young man resting against a rock wall. He's under a blanket, but naked from the waist up. His hair is wiry and his frame is slight, and he has the whisps of a beard and little more hair on his body. He's got a set of pipes in his hand, and plays a measure or two at a time. A shepherd's crook lies nearby.

One of the horses makes a slight whinny, and he turns and scrambles to his feet. To his hooves, to be precise. His bottom half is that of a goat.

"My Lords," he says, bowing.

Vere nods to him. "Well met," he says. "Has it been raining long?"

He tries to feel the flow of the Pattern in this place as he speaks, to see if it is wounded in the same way the Isles were when he left them.

It's hard to Vere to tell. There are legends of such forest beings, but he knows no one who ever saw one. And if the world was wounded, it was a long time ago.

"My Lords? Only the Gods know how long it has been raining. Are you here for the celebration?" He smiles and lifts his pipes to his lips and plays a few notes.

Vere smiles in response. "What is your name, child of the forest?" he asks.

The creature smiles back, encouraged. "Faunus," he replies, getting his hooves under him.

"I think we have time to stay for the celebration," Vere tells him. "Perhaps I will play, as well." He looks at Merlin to see if the prince has any objection to them staying.

Merlin makes no obvious gesture to indicate any.

"Tell me of the celebration, Faunus," [Vere] says. "Who will attend, and what do you celebrate?"

"Springtime. We celebrate the return of springtime, and our God, Adaeonysis. Everyone would be pleased if you played for us!"

Faunus is, perhaps, 4 feet tall. He walks a few feet towards a cave entrance that was not obvious a few moments ago, and turns back and waves at the two Princes.

Merlin glances at Vere to get an idea of what to do next. He looks a bit uncertain.

"Adaeonysis?" Vere says. "Indeed. I shall be most pleased to be present for the celebration of his return." Vere nods to Merlin, then follows Faunus.

As he enters the cave he reaches out to his right without looking, fully expecting that there is a small naturally occurring cavity in the cave wall, and that a flute lies waiting within it. In his mind's eye, it is made of bone and silver.

His hand closes around the desired object. It seems to be made from a hollowed out bone and have a few flashes of silver on it.

Vere smiles, and examines the flute with pleasure as he continues to follow Faunus.

It is indeed made from a bone (or perhaps an antler), with silver around the mouthpiece and the finger holes. The scale is unusual, but Vere is sure he could master it quite quickly.

Merlin comes up close behind him. "Cousin, is this Adaeonysis a god with whom you are previously acquainted?"

Before Vere can answer, they turn a corner and see a large banquet hall laid out before them. The banquet is well underway. There must be hundreds of guests, but not one of them is human. There is a high table at the front, and the two guest chairs there are empty.

Faunus is waving at another satyr, who is heading towards the entrance.

"It seems nearly certain to me that he is a shadow of our cousin Deon, who was also called Adonis," Vere answeres quietly, casting his eyes over the assembly. "You met him, did you not, before his murder by the Dragon? He was a god of rebirth and renewal, and I am most interested indeed to see what we have come upon. If you feel we can not spare the time, or if you sense a trap that I do not, then I will of course be happy to depart. But if not, I would like to stay."

"I did meet him, indeed. I wonder why his shadow is here, near to your home? Was he not of the forest?" Merlin pauses, frowning slightly. "I suspect there is a purpose to our encounter, but I am not sure if it is our purpose."

"There were legends of such creatures as these in my homeland, and I had long conjectured an association between our Goddess and Deon's mother and aunts," Vere answers, watching as the satyrs approach. "Whatever purpose this meeting serves, I would know more of it."

The two satyrs approach, their hooves clipping sharply on the wooden floor.

"Well!," says the older (or at least grayer) one. "Faunus tells me that he has new guests, but not that they were so exotic. What creatures are you?" He seems pleasant, if a bit unsteady on his hooves.

"Travelers," Vere answers easily. "My home is quite near, yet withal distant indeed. We would celebrate the return of Adaeonysis, and hear the songs and stories of your people." He raises the flute and sounds a couple of experimental notes. "And perhaps I might join with you in making music to honour the god."

"That would be magnificent! Forgive my travelers, I am remiss. I am called Silenius." He stops a nymph who is carrying a clay jug and drinks from it. He holds it out to Vere.

"I am known as Earraigh," Vere tells him, accepting the jug and sniffing it with apparent pleasure, and a smile for the nymph (What does it smell like?). "My companion is Prince Myrddin."

Silenius laughs. "Then your timing is excellent, for we are celebrating your arrival, Earraigh."

The dark liquid within the jug smells of honey and berries, sweet and pleasant. The nymph smiles and looks back over her shoulder as she departs.

Merlin looks around the room taking it all in. He nods when his name is mentioned.

"Such apparent coincidence is the very nature of the divine," Vere says with a nod. He takes a large quaff from the jug and sighs loudly in pleasure. "Excellent," he exclaims, as he passes the jug to Merlin. "Tell me, Silenius, of your people and your land."

"Ours is a land that once was touched by the Gods, but is now tranquil. A place of harsh beauty and exquisite natural savagery. It is a place where seasons turn orderly from one to the next and life blooms and dies back in turn.

"It has been a lonely country of late, since we ate the last of the humans. We did not anticipate that that would cause the Gods to fade away."

The cavern seems slightly darker than it did a moment ago. Perhaps the rain has become heavier outside.

Vere listens carefully as Silenius speaks, listening not only to the words but for the thoughts and motivations behind the words.

"The Law of Unintended Consequences," Vere says soberly, once Silenius has stopped speaking. "One should not undertake an irrevocable act without carefully considering the possible consequences."

He raises the flute to his lips and begins to play. While he plays he is acutely aware of everyone in the cave that he can see, where their attention is focused, their gestures and their postures, absorbing everything he can about what is going on around him.

The tune he plays is a lament, a sweet and sad tune of mourning for that which is lost forever. Yet, subtly, a thread of menace snakes its way through the tune, a thread that is at once an integral part of the lament, and apart from it. A warning, perhaps, that not all that is dead is gone, and that the mourned-for dead may not remember the mourners as fondly...

The tune ends, and Vere lowers the flute, and smiles at Silenius and Faunus.

From the smoke-covered far end of the room, a flute answers, first echoing Vere's tune and then embellishing it. A second joins in, and another, creating and warping the tune into a minor key.

The echoed theme of threat is much more pronounced.

"Beautiful," replies Silenius. "We are who the Gods made, and we were never very good at considering consequences."

Vere feels weakened, and cannot see the entrance through the haze.

"Cousin," replies Merlin. "There seems to be something in the wine..."

Merlin's voice fades and grows distant. He may have wandered off into the haze.

"So you are," Vere answers, bringing his will to bear in a struggle to keep himself from falling any further under the effects of whatever was in the wine. He brings the flute back up to his lips. "Let us celebrate," he says, his eyes meeting those of Silenius. "Let us dance." And he matches the tune the players have turned his tune into, capturing their changes and taking them further, into a wild bacchanalia that demands they dance, that will not allow them to remain still, that reaches to the very core of their wild, savage natures and compels them to give in to its siren call.

The parting formalities have all been made, the court, Kings, and embassy left, and Khela and Celina and their party part from their Parisian escort and begin their travels back to Rebma. The small escort is made of two minor noble's sons from the embassy, providing an honor guard and bringing personal messages from those in Paris to their mothers and sisters below. One carries a torch, the other a trident.

Khela follows, her sword by her side. They are not far into the caves when she begins shedding surface clothing.

Celina is discarding the Parisian layers. She sets the red leather boots aside because they make her smile and she enjoys wearing them. It may be a long time before she gets to wear them again.

"Your father is a fascinating man, Starfish. Moire underestimates him. I hope I do not as well."

Celina nods. "He has a son of the Extreme Lands and a daughter of Rebman Intrigue. I do not envy him but I feel he is on watch for Moire. Tell me your impression. What makes you admire him? What have you learned? He and I throw whirlpools off each other."

Khela laughs. "I did not say I admired him, but that he fascinates me. He combines childishness with the wisdom of hundreds of decades, and I have not yet learned how to read him. He will be my neighbor forever, so I consider him a fit subject to study.

She steps between two cave columns, not because it is necessary, but because she can. She swings herself around so that she faces Celina. "I learned he likes to be flattered, but knows when he is being flattered and does not let it affect him. Unless he wants to let it."

Celina laughs at the image. She quickly puts a hand over her mouth...even as she was taught in Seaward. A habit that Rebmans find strange. "Fascination. My family is truly that." She lets her eyes run the line of Khela's body, giving her that compliment again.

Celina finds the column framing device around Khela something that she should mention to Merlin. Khela will need a trump. A queen has to be included in the Family gossip of necessity. The waters reflect dangerously in Khela's eyes.

"He is certainly wise. I just have not the reading of it. I cannot claim to wisdom yet. I cannot find myself through his eyes. They are closed to me." It comes out much sadder than she wished.

So she does not stop there but quickly adds, "Who we see first in Rebma has great bearing on what follows. Let us see the people first, then the Legions that toiled including Tritons before taking on the private meetings? I plan on forgiving Loreena in some small public way. Who do you have to forgive, my love?"

Khela swings around the column and heads down the next bit, not quite catching up to the guards ahead. "Not Loreena, you've got that covered. There are limits, of course. Not Huon, not Moire. Not some people who helped them. Support is fine, I think. We need to move past this war. Do you have someone in mind?"

It's not clear which suggestion she's asking about.

Celina answers in equally murky fashion. "Your friends from decades ago who will be shocked you are alive? Who were young and escaped the severity of your punishment? Youthful allies and lovers who did not rescue you?"