As Cambina's funeral draws nearer, Brennan turns to more active forms of distraction to keep himself on an even keel. And if distraction doesn't work, then working himself to exhaustion does.
The afternoon finds him in one of Xanadu's gyms, one of the ones outfitted for sparring and training. While it's not likely that any of the castle staff would have sparred with him for long, Brennan is still putting the room to good use. He's wearing only loose black silk pants and a black headband. Although his hair is not long enough to get in the way of anything, it's a wise choice, because he is working himself hard enough to work up a generous sweat.
Anyone familiar with the Family would probably mark out as a member. It's not just the red hair, or the physical resemblance to Bleys, in frame and carriage, although those are enough. It's not just the more abstract resemblance to Fiona, in his concentration, either. It's this: As he runs through exercise after exercise, some with weighted weapons, some barehanded, he displays a level of improvisational precision that few can achieve in a mortal span. Some, but few.
A man of middling years enters, and remains just inside the entry way. He's over six feet tall, wearing a suit jacket over a silk shirt and tie, with matching slacks and shoes. Over one should he carries an longsword in a scabbard. He doesn't interrupt, but waits until Brennan pauses, and then inquires, "Pardon me. Aren't you Sir Brennan? I'm Sir Fletcher. I was looking for Dame Lilly. Rumor has it she's been sneaking off to over-exert herself." His demeanor is casual, and it might seem as if he expects that Brennan will have heard of him.
Brennan works for a few seconds more, until he reaches a natural break in his routine, then turns to look at his visitor. "All things considered, if Lilly's sneaking off to do that, she'll probably be sneaking away from me rather than toward me," Brennan says. "And she probably is.
"Yes, I'm Brennan, although you seem to have the advantage of me, Sir Fletcher." He eyes Fletcher's blade. "You wouldn't be planning on helping her with that over-exertion, would you?"
Fletcher eyes the sword as is he'd quite forgotten it. "Oh, no. Actually, I haven't seen the inside of a practice room in...I don't really know how long. I was just checking up, you know, though I don't know how Lilly would react to the whole 'Big Brother is watching' kind of thing. But please allow me to introduce myself properly. I'm still new to Xanadu and don't really know how fast news travels. I am Fletcher, Knight Commander of the Order of the Unicorn, Defender of the Faith, son of Prince Benedict and Princess Emerald, grandson of King Oberon, and if everything I'm told is correct, you and I are at the very least cousins."
"Brennan, Knight Commander of the Order of the Ruby, son of Brand, grandson of Oberon," Brennan replies formally. "Pleased to meet you, cousin. My guess is that Lilly won't care for the over-protective relatives. And my opinion is that when she's recovered enough to do something about it, she's recovered enough. She's quite good."
Fletcher shrugs and after a moment, nods.
Brennan eyes his cousin, and makes the obvious observation: "You must have been gone a long while, all things considered." It's not quite a question, but an invitation.
"I've seen quite a lot of shadow in the intervening years, at the cost of missing out on getting to know the newer members of the family. I lost touch for a while, and by the time I re-established contact Caine was regent in Amber. I don't expect things to slow down for me to adjust, especially with moonriders and dragons in the mix, but it's going to take a lot of work to get re-acquainted." He tries to maintain a positive smile, but his eyes reflect the incalculable losses of recent years.
Brennan nods in sympathy. "Not the same, but similar. Most of us in this generation are newcomers to the scene in one way or another. And life would have worked out very differently, had I joined the fold even as much as a century earlier. But it's a done thing," he says, "and I can't go back and change it. I can guess what brought you back. What kept you away, if you don't mind the question?"
"I don't mind. There might be a moral to the story. I was confident, perhaps profoundly confident, that the greatness remaining in Amber was equal to any challenge, and that one such as I could consider himself free to explore the deep reaches of Shadow. Believing Amber to be so firmly fixed gave me to liberty to explore, feeling that everything I loved (and those few things I did not) would still be waiting for me when I returned. More practically, I relied on trump contact to keep me up to date and to recall me if I was needed. Sadly, that was not a good bet. The moral there might be that gambling eventually does one in over the course of centuries. I, however, generally prefer activity to guilt." His expression might indicate that Fletcher is quite capable of multi-tasking when it comes to combining guilt with other pastimes.
"It's a good moral for us," Brennan says. "Even immortals face opportunity costs."
Brennan eyes Fletcher's blade again. "If you're looking for therapeutic activity, I'd be happy to engage. I can tell you what I know of our younger cousins, and maybe you can tell me what you know of our older ones."
"Sure, why not? Just for practice though." Fletcher removes his jacket and tie. He eyes his scabbard. "Are there practice swords about?"
Brennan nods, and gestures, "On the other side of the partition, there." He waits for Fletcher to make a selection, then matches it, giving him the effective choice of weapons before taking up a gaurded stance. Then he waits for Fletcher to make an opening, in the sparring and the exchange of history, before he counters with his own. "Practice only."
Propping his sword and scabbard against a nearby wall within sight rather than in the rack behind the screen, Fletcher selects a practice version of his own long sword. He checks the heft and balance of the practice weapon while Brennan chooses one for himself.
As the two take up starting positions he remarks, "You've probably got the advantage, in that cousins seem so more numerous these days. Probably the logical result of so many more uncles and aunts. There was Cneve and Reid, of course, but they were both gone before I was born." Fletcher opens with a cautious probing of Brennan's defense. "You've probably had more of a chance to know Reid than I have. Finndo's line was somewhat more successful, eventually blending into a couple of different pantheons of Shadow gods. Are you familiar with the idea of Asgard?"
Ordinarily, Brennan uses a long blade and a short blade, but mirroring Fletcher he chooses a single blade, tests it, and takes up his position opposite Fletcher. "I've met Reid, actually, but he's been off on his own again, somewhere. Cneve, we'll get back to. Asgard, yes, in passing. I know enough to suspect that Patternfall probably fit their mythos quite well. One of my cousins," and by inflection, he means full cousins, "is from that region of Shadow, though I don't know that I've ever wandered into the precise one. It's no more than a passing familiarity, though. Why?"
Brennan salutes, and waits for Fletcher to begin.
Fletcher probes Brennan's defenses cautiously, leaving very little in the way of openings at the cost of sacrificing one or two possible opportunities itself.
"Ah, are you referring to Brita then? Yes, I saw that she was descended from Finndo's line as well as Clarissa's. I'm not sure what the crossing of the family branches means. I haven't met Clarissa, but then I only met my sister - not Lilly - once."
Brennan nods, and when the tempo of their sparring permits, he responds, "Yes. You can ask Fiona what it portends, if you wish. She's neither mistake- nor accident-prone. I would proceed with a certain delicacy, though, were I you." Fletcher will find Brennan's style somewhat eclectic. If Benedict or any Prince of Fletcher's familiarity trained him early, it left little trace in his style. Seeing that Fletcher taking the cautious route, Brennan opts for the reverse, and Fletcher can probably see the instant of decision translate into motion-- he presses, not recklessly, but persistently. If there is a flaw in his style, it is that he is unused to facing an opponent comparable skill who is also taller and has the advantage of reach.
"Your sister. You mean Dara," Brennan says.
Fletcher reluctantly gives ground before Brennan's flurry of attacks, occasionally checking Brennan's advance. His style is practical, and might once have been eclectic before the centuries hammered Fletcher's reflexes into their present fluidity.
"Yeah. Dara. I'm told there's more than one now. Or maybe just a new one. Granddad was less than keen on the idea of her conception, but he seems to have adapted. So is Brita your typical reformed Shadow Goddess?"
"I don't know any other reformed Shadow Goddesses," Brennan says, "only orthodox. I find Brita much more pleasant to deal with. She's not just Family, she's family. The rest have ranged from murderous to casually destructive."
Even though Fletcher is gradually giving ground, Brennan finds himself unable to penetrate Fletcher's defenses. At first he fences with a frown of concentration, but a few minutes into the bout he finds himself enjoying the challenge, even if he can't break through.
"I've met the new Dara, too, and wondered about the name," Brennan says. "What was she like?"
In a flat tone Fletcher states, "She was a bitch." He punctuates his sentence by switching to an offensive stance, beginning to press back at Brennan. "Admittedly, I wasn't fully aware of who >exactly she was at the time. But she didn't make a good impression. In retrospect I suppose you could think of her as a combination of the socially darwinistic attitude of Chaos, the chip on her shoulder of being born of two worlds, and the inferiority complex of someone whose very conception may have just been an experiment. But that's just my guess.
"As for Shadow Goddesses, seems like they usually get stuck in their own particular...demesne I guess. Trapped in the whole god paradigm and unable to step out of it enough to embrace existence on a higher level of Order. If you can describe her as 'family' then I'd put her in the reformed category." He smiles at that. "And that's probably healthy."
Brennan nods, understanding Fletcher's description. "Brita's alright. And she's versatile enough in the various Family talents that I don't worry about her trapping herself in that way. I've watched others struggle with it and fail, though." When Fletcher begins to press, Brennan doesn't so much give ground, as force Fletcher to take every step he wants. It's a spirited defense, but it's a defense in withdrawl regardless.
"Our Dara is also a bitch. Her grievances against the Family are two: Borel challenged Corwin during the war, and Corwin killed him for it. And Dara's and Corwin's son Merlin prefers to remain with Corwin in Paris." By tone, Brennan might just as well have tossed in an I-wonder-why clause. "Our grievances against her include various episodes of kidnapping, attempted kidnapping, attacks on public celebrations, and threats to destroy Amber," for whatever the last is worth, now. "Dara the Newer is descended of Borel, who in turn was descended of Dara the Older. I had the strong impression that Borel was spawned, not born, and I'd guess Dara the Newer was, too. It would be... freakish, but not impossible for there to be a strong continuity between Daras."
"One can easily imagine recalcitrance as a trait that would be breed true over the generations." He continues to press patiently, working for each step forward. "Though now that Corwin is responsible for Merlin, I do wonder. Corwin always cut quite a dashing figure. I'm surprised that he has only had two children, given his rather substantial head start. Even my father has had at least three. What are Corwin's descendants like?"
"Very few of us are easy going," Brennan says. "I mentioned Dara and attempted kidnapping? That would be Merlin. If Dara were human, it would be easy to write that off as maternal instinct gone sour. Since she's not, it's just as easy to think that she needs Merlin's power to help settle her newly inherited holdings. Merlin's never said it outright-- not to me-- but his actions are in perfect agreement with that concern. He's very young, and strangely cautious for one so young."
Brennan makes a concerted effort to halt Fletcher's progress, even if it is just long enough to be called a halt before he has to take another step back. "Then there is Celina. Moire's girl. I don't know her very well, and she came across as rather naive, but that was a while ago. I gather she had been raised in some level of ignorance concerning her heritage, so that's understandable. But, with Rebma coming out of a civil war, and her mother having murdered one of our cousins, she's going to have to learn very quickly."
"But Rebma's troubles bring to mind another name that hasn't been heard until very recently: Cneve." The momentary halt ends, and Brennan reluctantly takes another step back.
"I never knew him. He was always something of a cautionary tale to me." Fletcher's forward press dissipates and he begins probing the extreme left, right, top, and bottom of Brennan's defense to little avail. "His father was famous, of course. He died for the good of Amber. I always had the impression that his son dying for the good of Rebma didn't carry quite the same prestige."
Pressing the outside of the defenses is something else Brennan often does, rather than has done to him, because of the typical height differential. Sparring with Martin alone has shown him a number ways that the strategy can work, and a few ways that it can be defended against. He adapts one of those methods, now, with some measure of temporary success.
"Osric's son, I assume," Brennan says, "Since Finndo's taste in partners seems clear, and I'd never heard any hint of that in the spare tales I've heard of Cneve. 'Dying for the good of Amber,' has a distinct connotation, these days, of circumstances best left understood but not spoken aloud. Does dying for the good of Rebma carry that connotation, or is it just a good turn of phrase?"
Finding his first adaptation of Martin's defense against tall people unsatisfactory, Brennan takes a step and a half back to gain some space while he shifts into a second adaptation.
Fletcher grins as if enjoying a private joke, and then speaks. "I think the connotation has remained the same for a very long time. Rebma has a certain familiarity and danger that our family finds alluring. As a reflection the whole thing is imperfect enough that I've been suspicious. But we have more than one Rebman cousin, don't we? I've been reading up on Rebman relations." He smiles again, and his momentary distraction at the unexpected humor he apparently finds in his own words affords Brennan the opportunity to push Fletcher back a step or two. "I'm to go there as an emissary of the King, you see. To meet our cousin Khela. I understand you've met her?"
"Llewella's girl," Brennan says, and he takes as much advantage of Fletcher's momentary lapse as he can. "Yes, I've met her. She is in the process of claiming the throne of Rebma, having chased Moire out of it and defended it against the depredations of an unsavory uncle. With a certain amount of help from spare cousins."
Brennan fences for a long moment, choosing his words carefully. "I like her, personally, but I'm not sure that's a wise reaction. I am not convinced she knows the things that are necessary to truly claim the throne, and I am not convinced her policies will be wise. Still, she's gathered Cneve's little heirloom. What I'd like to know is where she got it... and how he got it in the first place."
Fletcher's response is immediate. "What sort of heirloom is that? It is possible that if she and I can come to an arrangement that Random's recognition might help cement her throne."
Brennan's response is as brief as Fletcher's was swift: "Belagamon."
Fletcher appears shocked but not distracted. His pace slows somewhat. "I would have thought that by now someone else would have taken up the responsibility. For such a thing to have remained idle this long is...unexpected. It is curious that her predecessor allowed this."
"Predecessors, if I have the timing right. Legend has it, it was buried with Cneve and lost since that time. Meaning, both Moire and Moins let it lie there for quite some time. Makes you wonder why it-- oh," Brennan says, clearly making some connection he hadn't made before. There's a fraction of a second lapse, before his fencing recovers from the self-distraction.
Fletcher neglects to press the advantage in Brennan's lapse and instead poses the question, "Do you think the predecessors weren't the rightful monarchs and the sword was kept from them? Or kept away by them to stave off legends of their eventual undoing?"
Brennan notices that Fletcher doesn't press. It's not clear what he thinks of that, though.
"From everything I've heard, Moins at least was a rightful ruler. If so, I have no doubt at all that she could find it if she so desired. That implies to me that she either actively kept it out of circulation, or at least allowed circulation to lapse. My thought, though, was that it came bubbling to the surface at the same time as most of the cousins came out of the cold, and probably for the same reason," Brennan says.
"Order was calling its own to defend it?" Fletcher seems, if anything, depressed at this notion, and his swordplay reflects that. "Or to renew the defense of Order?" Fletcher might seem, if anything, older at this point.
"I try not to anthropomorphize Order or the Pattern," Brennan says. "I'm not convinced, philosophically, that something so fixed could actually exhibit intelligence. I was thinking that the events in Amber changed the metaphysical landscape-- everyone Real has had the ground move underneath them, and been shaken loose and set in motion, gravitating toward each other.
"I never thought about it until now, but the same might hold for Real objects as well as Real people. Such as the only masterless Pattern blade. It's a less romantic description, but the effect is the same," he says. "Is your experience different?"
"Intelligence? Maybe not. But affinity and sympathy? Quite possibly." Fletcher remembers to maintain the obligatory motions of his practice sword. "Intelligence may not be in the cards, but then again, your description assumes that Order is the deepest level of our way of life. That might be represented by the Pattern. However, at some point there was an Inspiration for Order. Something that brought it forth into this adventure of ours. It might be the Unicorn, but whatever you may call it, it seems to exist. And it seems to enjoy being mysterious."
Brennan nods briefly, unwilling to argue the deeper metaphysics at this point-- not while fencing, at any rate. Now that they're both recovered from their respective falters, Brennan re-engages in earnest. But he keeps up the conversation. "Agreed, although it has been known to reveal itself. It appeared after the battle."
Fletcher's wistful look is followed by a flurry of movement aimed at holding off Brennan's advance. "Speaking of masterless Pattern blades, I don't suppose any new ones were provided as complimentary accessories to the new Patterns, were they?"
"Hah," Brennan says, as he advances and then slows unwillingly against Fletcher's defense. "No. Pattern blades aren't simply provided, they're paid for, and I gather at least some of that price comes from the sovereign in question, as well as the bearer. Not many have been willing to even open the dialogue."
"I'm sure someone will get around to it. As for Cneve, one wonders if he has more than one modern counterpart. Beyond Martin and Celina I've heard a number of other relations have involved themselves in Rebman affairs of late. So much so that the King suggested I would be a good 'neutral' emissary." Making air quotes while fencing is something like eating soup in Rebma. It's best explained later. "What do you know of family interests under the sea?"
"As little as possible," Brennan says, "which is still more than I want to. Martin, Jerod, Celina, Khela all claim some or all of their heritage from the place. Given the friction between Red and Green from our parents' generation, I've done my best not to get involved with the place. Conner seems to have done the opposite, leading the defending army against Huon."
If Brennan were the type to roll his eyes while fencing, he would-- although he is a bit hard pressed to do so right now. "The place is a nest of serpents, and I don't envy you your task. You like Tritons?"
"I prefer Sirens. But I've never had a serious disagreement with a Triton. I understand they're confined to the sea, which kept them low on the list of potential threats to Amber. What's going on with them?" Finding few openings in Brennan's defense at the moment, Fletcher tries to shift directions, reorienting the line of encounter ninety degrees around Brennan.
Brennan decides that he can't prevent this, and tries to make it look as though he's permitting it. "So far, they are. What are your thoughts on freeing them from their service to the Royal Family of Rebma?"
"It sounds like it'll be a good thing in the long run. Situations like that just cry out for agitators to tear down the status quo. Now at least Rebma has a shot at coming to a truly lasting arrangement. It'll probably be a rough couple of hundred years first though and I'm not a huge fan of unstable governments sitting on top of a Pattern. What's your take on Khela? Is she the real deal or just the pinnacle of Rebman opportunism?"
"My take on Khela is that her desire to rule Rebma is predicated largely on her desire to free a pillar of its strength: the aforementioned Tritons. This seems self-contradictory to me. It remains to be seen whether she has any idea what is required to truly rule the realm, or the consequences of freeing the Tritons. I myself would know more than I do about them before setting them free," Brennan says.
"Ouch." Fletcher declares, falling back a step before pressing his next inquiry. "So she's either enlightened and about to bring about a prouder age of Rebma or about to go down as one of history's mistakes? It sounds like she at least has her convictions, even if the strength of them is yet to be tested. How can Xanadu-slash-Amber compete for the loyalty of idealists while Rebma claims that kind of moral superiority?" His manner and his sword seem to expect a realistic answer.
"Something like that," Brennan says. "Note that I'm not pushing one over the other. She's not a fool. But we all have our philosophical blind spots. I will tell you one thing I know with my own eyes: The Tritons are of Chaos. I would make no hasty judgements concerning them."
Brennan's fencing is especially strong when discussing statecraft. Clear edges, no over-extensions, and a solid, integrated technique. "I'm not convinced you do compete for loyalty in such a situation. Which is going to make the maintenance of a common culture somewhat difficult. What was it like under Moins?"
"The Rebma of old was a bit more isolated. The stairway was not always reliable. Trade was irregular at best but relations were cordial. I'm not sure about a common culture. Perhaps the two royal courts are somewhat similar, but the overall character of the two nations has always seemed different. Probably because most contact was at higher levels of society. Do you think that's changed?"
Brennan raises an eyebrow at the notion of the stairway not being stable. "Hard to say, but since I'd never heard of the route being blocked-- and most of us seemed a bit taken aback by Amber's new place no longer on the Faiella-Bionin, I'd say it must have. They were always separate realms, and people didn't waltz up or down the stair for a long weekend, but, yes, there was some awareness of common culture.
"If Xanadu and Paris are connected directly, I'd expect them to end up about the same," Brennan says.
"That's an 'if' I'm interested in checking out. But assuming a connection, being next-door neighbors doesn't make people the same, even with leaders who are brothers. Are the Parisians originally from Amber, as the residents of Xanadu are?"
"Let's not take the metaphor too far," Brennan says. "I didn't say the people were the same. But Rebmans and Xanadhavians are a lot more like each other, than they are like... Uxmali, say. They're more alike, I think, even than the Aelfs and Dvarts, who come from the same place.
"But, to answer your question, I say: Good question. Wish I knew. I'm sure Corwin does, but I never thought to ask," Brennan says. Having satisfied himself that Fletcher is good enough that, on this day, Brennan isn't going to penetrate his defenses-- and runs the risk of having his punctured first-- begins to disengage.
Fletcher, not one to prolong engagements, begins to draw back as well. "Thank you for the exercise. And the conversation. Duty may make us busy in the coming days, but I would welcome further discussions."
Brennan notes to himself that his expectations have changed-- from expecting to win, to being somewhat pleased that no touch was scored against him. "Let's not let it wait for a thousand years," he says. "I'd give you a Trump, but most of us don't have copies of ourselves to give away." On the other hand, if Brennan needs to be in touch, he probably will be.
"I'm beginning to wonder if any trumps of me still exist. Maybe the King will want me to sit for one. I'm sure I'll be reachable anyway. Caine warned me that things were much too busy for one to expect idle time for travel."
It's still early in the morning when Robin lets herself out of the kitchen storage room. She wears the happy smile of someone who's accomplished the first step of a project she's looking forward to. In her hand is a worn canvas bag occasionally that twitches, rustles or squeaks. And on her shoulders are three firelizards with hungry looks, rapidly spinning eyes, and whose attention is riveted on the bag that she carries.
With a jaunt to her step and a cheerful whistle on her lips, Robin exits the kitchens quickly and heads for an open courtyard. Somewhere where there's not too many folks about, but is still open enough to give little wings room to maneuver.
Around and to the back, beyond the herb gardens utilized by the kitchen staff, she finds a suitable open space, tucked neatly between a rocky ledge and a grassy downward slope. A small, clear pool has formed where a mountain brook has paused before making its way downward to join with the bay below. At the pool, looking much more boyish than when she last saw him, Prince Garrett carefully selects a rock and skips it on the pool's surface. He is obviously a very experienced rock-skipper.
He looks up when he hears her approach and grins, his unkempt hair dropping into his bright blue eyes before he brushes it away. "Good morning, Lady Robin. I didn't expect to see anyone this early." He does not appear bleary-eyed at all. Apparently, the lad is used to rising early.
"Mornin', Highness. Nice throw." Robin answers with the evil smile of a fellow dawn lover. "I was just looking for somewhere that me and the little ones could get some hunting practice in."
Her green eyes take in the sward and open air.
"Would we be bothering you too much here?" she asks politely. The girl obviously remembers the unfortunate meeting of Prince and firelizards during that... unfortunate dinner. Oh, and the horses vs. dragons thing.
"No, that's fine," he answers easily. He leaves the edge of the pool and ventures closer, his curiosity about her winged companions getting the better of his wariness now that everyone is calm.
"Thank you kindly." Robin nods with a smile and carefully picks a spot away from the pool and any other nearby obstructions.
As she shifts her grip on the bag to a looser hold with the lip of the bag open, one of the little bronzes starts edging down her arm, mischief in his spinning eyes.
"Ah, ah, ah, Ooot. Wait for it." Robin chirps to her friend.
"There's kinda cute," Garrett allows after a moment of watching Robin handle the preliminaries. "Do they get as big as... you know, the ones that came to the Coronation?"
"Probably not without some tinkering." She grins to Garrett. Complimenting the firelizards is obviously an excellent way to get into Robin's good graces. "The Dragonriders said that these little guys only get about as big as a good-sized housecat But they share a lot of other characteristics with their larger cousins, so I figure," she shrugs, "if someone had a mind to, they could probably be bred up to that real quick.
"Okay, my beauties," she addresses her little lovelies, "you get a flying start. Up ya go." The Ranger ruffles her shoulders and arms, and the fair lifts skyward dancing and glittering in the morning sun. The sound of excited saurian peeps and chirps mingles with the morning birdsong.
Checking to make sure that the Prince is not too close, Robin then gently spins in a couple of slow careful circles, building up some momentum. On the last spin, with a practiced -- if not very experienced -- hand, she lets the lip of the bag open outward seeding a small tumbling spray of squeaking & startled brown kitchen mice out into the sward.
Garrett laughs as he watches the firelizards whirl and dive after their breakfast. He seems to truly be enjoying this moment of unstructured fun. At one point, he reaches down to snatch up a skittering mouse and tosses it back up toward the little flying beasts.
Robin's laughter joins the Prince's along with excited peeps and chirps of her own.
After a moment, Garrett speaks. "Hey. I'm sorry you got caught up in my first judgment. That was... rather awkward. I'm not very good at this court stuff yet," he says with a grimace.
Green faintly-surprised eyes turn toward to Garrett. There is a slight but noticeable pause, then, almost visibly, Robin's words 'click' back into use. A warm, sympathetic smile spreads across her face. "No need for worries or apologies, Highness. You did great.
"Venesch and I were caught in a deadlock of opposing wills. And I brought us to Court hoping someone could help with that. Which you did." She claps the young man on the shoulder fondly. "It doesn't matter if a solution was arrived at awkwardly. It matters very much that a solution was arrived at. So you succeeded admirably at the real purpose of any arbitration or judgment."
"Thanks," he replies, blushing.
"Besides, 'court stuff'?" Robin wrinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue as she looks back to the darting firelizards. "Not my forte either. But though I don't like it or respect its intricacies, I understand the need for it."
Garrett nods. He's coming to understand that himself.
"See, it's another of Grandfather's heritages. It's a place and a way for arbitration and judgment and communication to occur without us killing each other or the general populace. And it's been a really viable solution for a long time.
"But," she looks back to Garrett with serious eyes, "I think, it's important to remember that court stuff is not a be-all, end-all standalone rightness. It's just the way things were done in the center of the all realty for a very long time. I suspect some of our relatives might disagree with me on that. Or may not even notice that they are using court stuff as their basis for the-whole-of-reality conceptualization.
She shrugs, "Up to you how you'll think. But I'll bet," an evil grin lights up her face, "that in a hundred years' time, Paris will be a model of courtly behavior but court stuff will be a fading memory in Xanadu." She chuckles.
Garrett chuckles along with her. "One can hope, I reckon."
He ducks a stray wing and continues, looking at the firelizards rather than Robin as he speaks, "I saw your point, you know. It seemed to me that honor was going a bit extreme there, but in his shadow, who knows?" The prince shrugs. "I just don't want anybody dead. There's too much of that lately with Cambina and Lucas. And with Dragons attacking Amber a while back and Moonriders gettin' antsy, we need all hands on deck."
Robin nods her gratitude to Garrett. If she was able to get that point across, well then maybe there was some hope for her after all in the arbitration/judgment arena.
His face clouds a little as this subject sparks other questions. "Lady Robin, do you know anything about Moonriders?"
"Oh. Ummmm...." Robin swallows nervously. "That... that's a tricky question for me to answer, Highness. I will. Don't get me wrong. But maaaayybbbe we should move a little ways away from breakfast."
"Uh... sure," he agrees. He begins walking toward a rocky section of the cliff face.
"It's not anything specific," Garrett attempts to reassure Robin as they walk. "But like I said, they seem to be getting more active and I reckon I should know more about them. Everything I know I learned as a lad on my Grandda's knee, and Grandda was known for making tall tales even bigger. Your education was a bit more practical, I'm guessing."
"Thing is, Highness, I don't know if I know anything about Moonriders." Robin strolls alongside the Prince as she speaks. "I wasn't around the last time they came through. And Dad's never mentioned them in any meaningful way.
"Buuuuuttt, while I've never had anything walk up to me and say 'Hi, there. I'm a Moonrider', there've been some th-things th-that" Shit! Robin shakes her head once fiercely to clear it. She looks ruefully over to Garret. "Maybe not practical. But there."
"It's all right," Garrett reassures her. "Anything you know is likely more than I do."
As the two come to a tumble of stones, the Ranger seats herself and gestures for Garrett to make himself comfortable as he will. Though Robin looks less like she's making herself comfortable and more like she's bracing herself for a possible loss of consciousness. And she can't stop an involuntary glance upward to make sure there's no stone over her head.
"Funny," a quick smile is sent to Garrett, "after that awful dinner, I asked Brennan the same question. He said they were at the King's Funeral. And that he & Bleys met one -- the High Marshall -- on the way back. He knows quite a bit actually, and conjectures more. If you don't mind, Highness, I'll ask you to speak to him about that. Brennan-thought translated through Robin-speech is likely to come out a hash. And I really don't want to misquote him on this."
He nods in understanding.
"But I'll try and t-talk as best as I can about Maybe-Moonriders, if you want."
Garrett chuckles. "Yeah, I reckon Brennan's not too happy with me right now. I owe him more detail about the Queen's rescue, but things have been moving so fast I haven't been able to catch him up. And he's... occupied anyway," the young prince frowns.
Robin nods sadly in agreement.
"But yeah, I should talk to him," he concludes, shaking off the passing cloud. He regards Robin for a moment, noting her discomfort. "Would it be easier if I tell you what happened to us and have you fill in what you know?"
Her head tilts as she thinks about it. "Yeah," she allows with growing certainty. "It might."
Robin flashes a quick, if weak, smile. "One of my... difficulties is an... absolute lack of context. No meaning. No connection. Or maybe too much, too many meanings. I... can't grasp what happened. Can't hold it." She makes a frustrated clutching gesture with her hands.
"So, please. Please tell me what you saw. What you heard. What you experienced." Maybe it will help her orient in the windstorm of uncertainty.
"All right," he agrees, though his voice is a little edgy. He shifts uncomfortably before adding, "First, let me tell you that we were in Shadow. What we saw was not Real, I'm told, and no one has any hard feelings. I just want to understand it better."
Robin nods in wry understanding. While she was very upset at dinner, she did hear -- and believe -- both Garrett's and Brita's assurances. Though it's nice to hear again.
He gives her a moment to acknowledge this, then plows forward. "We began our search for the Queen from Benedict's realm. Father said we had to go at night, for that was the only way to get where we needed to go. He said it was 'the other side of Tir,' on a ring road of the Faiella-Bionin. It did seem rather dreamy. The trees were all sparkly and tall, like silent, still waterfalls glistening in the dark.
"Along the way, we were ambushed by a group of men that looked like Rangers, but the badges on their vests were different - a crown pierced by a sword. They were led by a shadow of... you." Garrett winces slightly. "The Shadow Robin called out to the 'Traitor Brandom' to surrender. We didn't. We killed a few of them and continued on. The Shadow Robin escaped." He pauses to see how she's reacting to all this.
The Ranger pales and her eyes unfocus as she stares off into the past. Unconsciously, her lips form the word "Brandom." Almost spasmodically, the fingers of one hand tap against her thigh.
For a moment, she hangs there -- still. Then, her fingers tap again.
Robin shivers and looks down at her hand in surprise. "Laurel," she whispers. A quick rhythm answers her.
She looks back up to Garrett in surprise. "Laurel." More firmly this time. "W-when I met... her, she named herself Laurel."
"Laurel? Laurel. Huh," Garrett says, immediately downgrading his surprise at this revelation so as not to flush Robin into flight. "No one ever referred to her by name, but we did see her again later."
Robin startles a little at Garrett's surprise but keeps herself calm...ish and on task. She listens.
"We came upon a place that Brita called the Grove of the Unicorn. Or someplace like it," Garrett explained. "The pool was full of corpses wearing Amber livery, but they had whitish skin and hooks on their elbows. Around the edge of the pool were two people, Shadows of my father and you, er, Laurel, in chains. Also, a tall, gaunt-looking man that Father said was a Moonrider, and the Queen. The Queen was sitting on a throne and the Moonrider was serving her like she was his own royalty.
"Once we disturbed them, they began to move and speak. The Queen appeared to be able to see." This part seems to unnerve Garrett more than the rest, but he continues, "The Moonrider asked what should be done with the prisoners. She said told him to... er... kill Shadow-Laurel and she would question Shadow-Random. Father attacked just then. When he entered the clearing, the air took on a reddish haze. Vialle called for the guards, but we never saw them arrive. The Queen recognized me, but when she touched my face, she fainted.
"Meanwhile, Signy and Brita went after the Moonrider, who I've since heard called 'The Marshall.' When they attacked, he and the rest of them, except the queen, turned misty and disappeared. Once they did, the queen woke up, blind again. We trumped Gerard and came home."
"Hunh." Robin's bangs lift in fluff of outburst air. "Not the same."
And she visibly relaxes a little. Then her green eyes turn to Garrett with no little trepidation. She knows she owes him the tale of her own experience now.
"Please. Patience with me. I have t-trouble talking about this." She waves ruefully at her mouth.
The Ranger looks around at clear crisp morning of Xanadu, smells the clean open sea air, hears the excited chirping of her friends, feels the syncopated heartbeat of this very Real, very vibrant Place. She returns her gaze to the young man before her, not judging, not threatening. There was only one way it could get better than this and He was not here now. She takes a deep breath and pushes forward.
"I will be... translating. If I get too c-close, remmmmember too clearly. Words. Fail." She gestures at her mouth in frustration. And then purposefully positions her hand on her thigh.
"That's all right," Garrett says calmly. He cocks his head as an idea begins forming. "Hrmm... why don't you try shifting your position a little. Lean back against the rock face and talk to the sea and the sunrise. Perhaps it'll be easier than talking to me," he suggests.
Robin's brow rises. That's a great idea. She's fine with talking to the sea and the sunrise, though usually they don't require any words at all. She nods gratefully to Garrett and leans back, making herself more comfortable and less wedged in. The Ranger looks out over the sea and takes a deep breath.
Garrett settles himself similarly so that he is turned slightly away from Robin and also looking out over the landscape.
There's a frozen moment as her head cocks and her eyes unfocus. Then her fingers begin to tap in distinct, measured rhythms.
"Robin, Ranger, Black Road Scout." A quick satisfied smile darts across her lips. No stuttering, this might work. She carries on translating the Cadence her fingers report.
"Solo. Do not follow. Fatal environment. Warden, Robin only. Poison fog. Visibility compromised..." her face bunches, that's not quite right, but the closest Cadence can get.
"Contact. Laurel, Un-Ranger, Black Road Scout. Communication established. Royal? Uncertain." Robin hesitates as her hand gathers its thoughts.
"Hostile contact. Laurel Uncle. Un-Robin Uncle. Corwin-Benedict-Other mix. Mutual visibility... uneven." She frowns again; this medium definitely has its limits. "Weapons ineffective. Clothes effective. Hands effective. Opponent defeated. Opponent escape in fog.
"Robin, Laurel alliance versus Un-Uncles. Un-Uncles alliance Black Roaders. Attack Un-Uncles camp. On Black Road. Corwiner firearms ineffective to Robin flesh. Effective to Robin clothes. Firearms much effective on Corwiners." A not-so-pretty smile crosses Robin's as she gazes at the waves but sees the fall of her enemies before her auto-fire barrages.
Unseen by Robin, Garrett's face squirms into an expression of confusion as she reports. Once he catches her rhythm though, he starts to understand.
"I think I follow you," he says softly in an almost sing-song voice, trying not to break to mood too badly.
"Sent along the Black Road as a scout,
Met up with a look-alike, fog drowned out
Uncles from the Shadows took a shot
Bullets pierced the Corwiners but Robin not.
"Go on," he encourages.
Robin frowns slightly as she is pulled back from her vision by the Prince's words. That's... not quite right. Then she hears the rhythm beneath his words and chuckles quietly. Maybe not, but it's close, a parallel path that will work. They both belong to a Family of musicians and Garrett's other language is a sister to Cadence.
Keeping her eyes turned outward, she nods. Her brow furrows as the effort to translate becomes more difficult. Tap, tap, tapptiy, taptap.
"Far side of camp. Carrion field. Corpses, men, horses, hounds, Caine, Dione. M-morganstern." Robin stops for a moment to calm her voice. Then continues. "Dispersal odd. Rainfall pattern.
"Devant, mound, throne of Amber, crown of Amber. Droit, wet prisoner in cage. De'gauche, over pit, Warden captured! Interrogation underway. One hostile. Laurel call father. Laurel charge pit. R-robin charge throne. Robin grab c-crown."
On her thigh, the girl's hand begins to convulse spasmodically. Robin's eyes widen open and her pupils dilate suddenly. "What? W-what? Madness. M-m-mad... no. No. Blood. Fire. C-candles. Ssstairsssss..." she moans. Then her voice begins to rise in panic. "Ranger down. Ranger down! Ranger... Lost!"
Robin throws herself away from the cliffside violently.
Startled, Garrett leaps to his feet and flanks her, placing himself between Robin and the steep embankment ahead of them, trying to herd her back to safety as he might a spooked filly. "Whoa, whoa," he soothes in his calmest spooked-filly voice. "Come back, Robin. You're not lost. You're here. You're safe."
Robin's unreasoning fear of the standing rock is enough to drive her blindly toward the embankment and it's a good thing that Garrett got between her and the edge. Still very much wild-eyed she shies back from the young prince, sparing herself a nasty tumble.
As Garrett's voice reaches her ears, Robin's head cocks raptor-like. Her lips part and the anguished scream of a lost and injured hawk lifts from her throat toward the sky.
Her call is answered from the meadow they just left. Three little streaks of saurian speed zip past Garrett to coil around Robin, peeping and crooning and calling. As her fair settles itself on shoulders and arms, the terror leaves Robin's face and the humanity returns to it. She collapses to a sitting position clutching her brave, wonderful anchors to herself. They can fight the Bad Thing. They will fight the Bad Thing. Together.
Garrett freezes at Robin's pained cry and braces for the impact of three protective firelizards tearing into his back. When they fly past him without incident, he releases the breath he was holding and sinks to his knees into the grass nearby, watching warily and keeping a safe, non-threatening distance. He gives Robin a few moments to recover under the caring ministrations of her brood before asking quietly, "Are you all right?"
There's a nod of her blonde head from inside the lizard pile. "S-sorry."
Robin lifts her green eyes to meet Garrett's and they are wet with shame. "We... won't hurt you again, H-highness. They, they didn't understand. W-where the enemy was. Sorry."
"It's all right. No harm done," he assures her gently.
"I... despite this," Robin waves her hand at the state she's in, "I can still fight. And I will never never betray your father, Garrett. It only gets this bad when I poke at it." She swaps at her thighs angrily.
"Then let's not poke at it," Garrett says with finality.
He smiles and rises, extending his hand to her. "For what it's worth, I never had a doubt you could still fight. Your reputation's well known. It's why I'm glad you're on our side," he grins.
Robin accepts his hand and unfolds herself upward. The firelizards watch warily but don't make any aggressive moves toward the young Prince. With a wry chuckle, Robin says, "Vere said the King could always use me as an ambassador to places he doesn't like."
She releases his hand rub roughly at her eyes.
"There's an idea," Garrett laughs. "How is Vere, by the way? Our paths haven't crossed in ages."
Her eyes reappear with a wry twinkle in them. She recognizes and appreciates Garrett's technique. Yep, there is probably nothing that's going to stabilize the wild Robin faster than thinking and talking about Vere.
"He was good the last time I saw him." Robin face breaks into an unconscious smile. "Taking charge and making decisions. Not something he normally does with his home folks, but I think it's doing him good.
"Of course, he's as beautiful as ever. And as reasonable, patient and tolerant. Gotta love him." By the time, Robin's done speaking she's starting to glow. And the firelizards' eyes have changed from a rapidly spinning red to a calmly swirling sparkle.
Garrett smiles knowingly, like there might be something similarly special in his own life, but he doesn't expound on it. "I'm happy for you, Robin. I hope you get to spend some time together between... obligations here." Based on the slight grimace and the word change, it seems the prince is tired of talking about funerals. "This life seems to take a toll on the chance to just 'be.'" he finishes somewhat wistfully.
"Unasked for advice from your reckless cousin? Grab what you can, when you can. Life is never going to arrange itself to your convenience. And there'll be plenty of time to be an older wiser man in a few centuries. And if by some chance you or your friend doesn't make it that far, at least neither of you will have to deal with 'would've, could've, should've.'"
Garrett grins and nods. "Good advice. Thank you."
Robin scratches Peep over one eye-ridge fondly as she continues. "See, I figure that the best gift I can give Vere is the knowledge that not only is he worthy of being loved, he is also capable of loving in return. For me, that's worth the risk. That's worth any risk. And something I would loooove to see our Family expressing out into the universe more."
"As would I," Garrett agrees. "I was raised very differently than many of our generation. Caring about people was considered a strength, not a liability in my family. No matter what I've been told since, I aim to hold tight to that part. It's too important to let go."
Robin nods emphatically. "For me, the whole loving/trusting thing is really new. And ssoooo scary! But we were dying under the old ways. So it's time to try something else. And so far, the prize has been definitely worth the hunt." She grins happily.
Garrett nods, returning her grin.
During the conversation, Ooot has been getting more and more disconcerted until he finally nudges up into Robin's face and whine plaintively. Robin looks down at him in surprise, "What? You swallowed it whole?"
The eyes she turns back to Garrett are filled with sympathy underlaid with glimmering green amusement. "Uh, Highness? If you could excuse us, please? We seem to have a gastronomic situation on our hands."
"Of course. Good luck," Garrett says, excusing her.
Robin nods her thanks (and her hopes that they will meet up again) to the young Prince. Turning, she skims across the sward toward the former stone-skipping pond, hugging the distressed firelizard to herself and crooning comfortingly. "Don't worry, Ooot. We'll get it out of there."
"Don't get burned," Garrett calls after her before turning away himself, muttering gratitude for well-placed ponds.
Last modified: 16 May 2010