When the leaders disperse, Jovian lingers with Kourin. "Want a hand scrubbing the proud beauty?" he offers, in a warm but unsmiling tone.
"I don't think Hoshith will object." Her tone does not match his.
The two of them navigate to the beach, gather supplies, and are met by the largest of the dragons. They settle into a rhythm. "So you want to know why I'm mad at you? It's because all these riders are looking to you to be a leader, a weyrleader for them in a strange land, and you're refusing to lead. Do you know what the worst thing I can think of is? Immortality without Hoshith. And you're doomed to it and J'lin is already there."
Jovian is silent for a handful of scrubbing strokes along the queen's flank. If Kourin is watching, which is doubtful, she will notice that he's consciously controlling his breathing. When he does speak, it is plain he's putting the same effort into keeping his tone even.
"All right. So you want to know why I'm making you mad?
"I had to be away in the castle this past couple days because I have duties there as well. To my father and to the Lord Holder of what had been the most powerful and influential Hold anywhere but which is now balanced on a knife-edge and no one's quite sure what happened to it. Whether I like it or not, I have a place I have to fill up there - just like you have a seat at Conclave - and I have to put in enough of an appearance to get them off my back while I see to what's important. Canareth. The wings. You." His voice becomes just slightly unsteady on the last, but he reins it in quickly.
"Do you imagine I don't feel the mark of doom upon me? Do you imagine it doesn't horrify me? Think again. I have been living under the shadow of this since I was fifteen turns, Kourin. You think there aren't still nights when it wakes me in a cold sweat?
"But I've learned to put up a strong front - to keep the people who depend on me from noticing. Back in Calusa I learned to make myself forget from day to day by throwing myself into the battle. I drew comfort from the fact that no dragonrider during a Pass expects to die in bed!
"Now I'm confronted with it again. I never expected to meet my family until...after." Again, he chokes on the word, takes a moment to rein in. "Figured Canareth and I would live a respectable lifetime, then disappear - him into death, me into wishing I'd joined him, until I was able to heal enough to take my place in that so-called family.
"But I know what to expect from them, and I know I'm dead or worse at the first show of weakness. So I don't show it. So I live under this shadow, and I force myself to shine bright enough to keep anyone from seeing it. And all the while the fucking champagne turns to vinegar in my mouth."
There is a long pause in which, unless she makes some effort, Jovian is very careful not to let Kourin see his face. He is unnaturally silent, barely even breathing.
When he looks at her again, his eyes are red and shining, but his face is once more composed. "I wronged you last night, Kourin, there's no question of that, but not the way you think. I wronged you by treating you like family. I'm sorry."
Kourin snaps. "I've seen the way you treat your family, and I'm sorry, too! How can you know enough about yourself and treat your father, a dragonless man, so badly? Do you think we don't see it? Do you think nobody saw you hit him after the battle? Or shout at him on the trip back? What's wrong with you? Do you care so little for these people who are counting on you that you'll piss away their respect? Shells! Don't you see what you do to him every time you push him? How are you going to lead us if you keep doing that?" Her eyes are wet with frustrated, angry tears and she's not quite scrubbing Hoshith too hard.
"Fine," Jovian snarls back. "I'm an asshole. But before you go putting up statues of my father, get his fardling name right. Julian. NOT J'lin, Valenth's rider. Three syllables! Ju! Li! An! He's so flaming dragonless, I didn't learn his dragon's name until I was a Candidate. And I still don't know what happened to Valenth.
"No, I don't treat him like he's made out of glass. I don't insult him that way! For 150 turns he has been Prince Julian, High Warden of Arden. A Hundred And Fifty, Kourin - three turns here to one in Calusa, got it? Two and a half lifetimes with his hawks and his hounds and that earthquake on legs he calls a horse, and that whole forest is HIS domain, unchallenged. You want his full name on that plinth, it's Julian Of Arden, and be damn sure to spell Arden right. I let him down when I stood for Impression! And I go on disappointing him every time he notices I have thirty-six years' training as a wingrider instead of a hundred and ten as a Ranger. Every time I ask him a question about something he would have taught me if I'd stayed here with him. Every time I try to get closer to understanding what he wants me to be!
"So when he puts a hand on me when I need every shred of concentration to keep the dragons from a suicide charge, I will bat it away. When he's too fardling stiff-necked and remote to admit he doesn't know something when understanding it is the difference between getting home alive and being lost in Chaos, I will take him to task for it. If that makes me unfit to lead, Hoshith had better rise soon."
Kourin lets him go on, and seems to be working towards an angry reply, when Jovian mentions Hoshith rising. At this last, the color drains from her face and she closes in and leans against her golden partner, not replying at all.
The anger does not drain so much as drop from Jovian at this. "What is it?" he asks soberly, worried. His probing stare goes from Kourin's face to the great queen's and back again.
//Canareth, is something wrong with Hoshith?//
Kourin turns to him, her eyes glistening but still holding back the tears in her eyes "She'll rise soon. It's got to be you! Nobody else can lead us here. They know it, too. They know that they're a long way from their own weyr and only you know the local landmarks, but they also know what it is to be a weyrleader. You've got to be here for us, or you'll break them. We need you. I need you, you big idiot!"
Jovian's jaw works a bit, as he rejects some untold number of possible replies in the span of a heartbeat or two. Then he gathers Kourin in his arms and holds her for a longer moment, breathing deliberately, imposing calm upon at least himself.
//She wishes you to finish bathing her. She does not wish to be patchy, because it itches. When is it my turn?//, the dragon says into Jovian's mind, unflapped by the recent conversation.
//When we're done with her. Maybe we should import a fair of firelizards to attend to Your Lordship?//
In a moment more he finds his voice again. "We're not the people you thought we were, Kourin. My father or me. But I'm trying to be the person you need."
//I would be pleased to see small ones. They are good, even scrubbers and not easily distracted from that task.//
She lets him hold her. "I feel like I'm between and I'm not coming out. They all want to be so strong, but everybody's overextended. It's like we've been cross-timing-it too long.
"I keep getting the feeling we should be somewhere else."
"We probably should be," Jovian half whispers into her hair, stroking her back. "I want the wings out of Arden as soon as we can manage, and Dad's the least part of the reason."
"We can camp in caves and on beaches. We've done it before. But that's not what I meant. It's something about here in general. Nobody's sleeping well." She pauses for a moment, her eyes not focused on the here and now. "We are not, Weyrleader J'rim, scrubbing adequately. We are instructed to stop leaning and resume oiling."
"Canareth's getting impatient too; he wants me to import a fair of firelizards to tend to him," the wingleader chuckles as he moves to obey.
"But caves and beaches aren't going to cut it if you're going to rise soon, me proud beauty. We'll need a hatching ground. Room to expand. Candidates! Shards, what are we going to do with weyrlings in the middle of a war...how much time do we have, Kourin, do you know?"
The Weyrwoman frowns a moment, considering. "If she rises in the next month, or if any of the others do, we'll still have three months before she lays, and then another five weeks while the eggs are on the ground. We won't need candidates for four months after the flight. How long a war are we anticipating? And do we plan on having the queens here or in the isles?"
"A lot of that depends on Vere and how soon he gets back from his recruiting trip," J'rim admits, scrubbing carefully at a rough patch of hide. "But he's got a good head to plan with and resources beyond the usual limits. Once the fighting starts, I can't see it being months rather than weeks. Still, we could overrun our limit; Vere can't steal time like we can. We need to find someplace suitable to return to, before we go back to the Isles. It's tempting to move us out into Shadow sooner rather than later, but with the usual paths disrupted...." He trails off, uncomfortably. "And I don't like leaving you or any of the queens alone, nearly as much as I don't like having an egg-heavy queen in a fight."
"You may not have a choice. That's what I'm afraid of. We're not really at full fighting strength."
"I know. Without the queens we have 26 fighting dragons, assuming all the injured have time to heal, against opponents who may or may not be fire-proof. I don't know how much of an army Vianis has, or how many witch-queens there are. Or what it means that my aunt's grave has been opened. Dad took the news...oddly."
"I wouldn't want to leave a lone junior queen behind while the rest of us fought, either."
J'rim shakes his head decisively. "Out of the question. If a queen is left behind in Amber, at least two fighting dragons stay with her. Unless the three of you stay behind together."
"Which just gives us that much less strength in the fight. Plus if we have weyrlings, we'll need to watch them..."
Canareth's rider squeezes his eyes shut against a headache coming on. "Vere had better hurry back. If this fight doesn't happen before one of the queens clutches, we may have no choice but to stay out of it." Plainly the words are ash in his mouth.
"They won't like that. You'll get arguments to go back and recruit more riders."
"Fardling enchanting," J'rim groans half-seriously. "I'm already in the shite with T'bor for you coming along, I'm certain. If I go back to Calusa before the Isles, it'll be as a last resort to leave an egg-heavy queen somewhere safe."
"You know," Kourin considers, "various factors affect when they rise. It might not be such a good idea to find a semi-permanent weyr. The dragons may decide it's home."
"You think she'll put it off as long as she doesn't have a hatching ground?"
Her brow creases doubtfully. "We could ask a harper, if we could find one, but I don't think there's any recorded historical precedent in all the hides in all the dusty storage rooms in Calusa. I don't know. I'm thinking about how dragons change behaviors before a pass, but I'm not sure how they work if they don't have a weyr to live in. Feral dragon queens are unknown in the wild."
J'rim gives her a pointed look and doesn't bother to mention that dragons of any kind are unknown in the wild. "Maybe, but if we make that bet, we'd better have a plan in case we lose it."
"I'm more concerned about losing it badly and having three queens genetically determined to repopulate a weyr."
The bronze rider pales visibly at the thought. "Right. Safe location, out of Arden, not too comfortable. Got it."
"Hoshith might not rise first. The three queens we have weren't weyrmates. They're not in sync yet."
"We're not an independent weyr here; orders of precedence can't be affected by that. I trust Janel and Markyta, love, but I need you as much as you need me. And logistically, one of the queens rising is as good or bad as another."
"They'll be fine with that, I think. It's the candidates and sands I'm worried about."
"We're caught between two possible disasters. The only way to hedge our bets against both involves psyching out the queens. And I don't know how much we can expect to hide from our bondmates," J'rim adds, with a hint of disgust at the thought.
"A month is too short and too long," she agrees. "Scrub to your left, please."
He shifts as directed, using the pause to ponder. "That sense of not belonging you've been feeling," he says at last, with a little trepidation. "Is it about here, or about now?" She looks over at Jovian and shakes her head, unable to tell him any more about that. "I'm just thinking," he continues, "that there might be worse ideas than skipping over this month entirely."
"So, you'd stay here without us, and skip back a month and bring us forward? It would buy us time."
"It would. I could scout for a place to move us, be here to take care of family issues up the hill - and not neglect you." It is not clear whether the 'you' he means is individual or collective.
"You'll need to leave, because if you're coming back here, you can't be here when you come back." She apparently thinks this is a perfectly comprehensible sentence.
The wingleader nods, comprehending perfectly. "After dinner. We'll give everybody time to pack up that way. And if I try to cheat Canareth out of his bath and oiling one more day, he's apt to sit on me. Oh, wait," he amends, "make that in the morning. That way you and T'lon can get me supply lists and I can see about having the stuff ready when I bring you forward."
She nods and resumes her scrubbing. Jovian nods back, the weight on his shoulder feeling much lighter.
At some point after the wingleaders' meeting, probably on the beach while washing Canareth if Ossian isn't off flirting with the queen riders, Jovian would be interested in striking up a conversation about art generally and the Trumps in particular, both technical and theoretical aspects. He shows definite interest, but he's as much interested in seeing where Ossian takes the questions and how his mind works. It's clear he's comfortable with listening to someone other than himself for long stretches, and he pays attention even when he's physically at something else. Olof, if you want to run this conversation, we surely can at your convenience, but for game-flow purposes I suggest we do it offlist and cc the GMs rather than bog things down.
Hm. If Jovian is interested in how Ossian's mind works I think it's best to play things out. Although I don't think on-list or off-list makes much difference. The timing rules still apply. I suggest we run it half summary, half played; I've started below. What questions about Trumps does Jovian have? (this should of course be a O/J thread without any need of GM participation)
The first and most obvious thing he'd ask is: How is the Trump creation process different from creating other art? From your point of view that is, how you experience it.
Ossian answers that he thinks a normal painting could be seen as a failed Trump. But also that it matters that you are not fully free when you create a Trump; after all, the subject is given. It's somewhat like singing using sheet music; you still have a lot to play with; the phrasing and the quality of the tone.
He continues the music analogy: If other art is improvisation, then Trump is careful composition with a really good given theme.
Weighing this, Jovian infers aloud that there must be hyper-realist movements among artists out in Shadow that could, in a limited way, be seen as the shadows of Trump artists. But he wonders about calling normal paintings failed Trumps; do abstract and impressionist approaches have their place in Ossian's artistic vision as well?
Ossian certainly thinks impressionist Trumps could work; after all, he uses some impressioneist techniques himself. Ossian thinks abstract art is redundant and somewhat silly, and could be replaced by good architecture and design in almost all cases.
Jovian can understand why Ossian would say 'silly,' but the notion of art being 'redundant' gives him somethig to ponder.
It is at a sensible point in this conversation that [Jovian will] ask two questions of procedural (i.e. game-flow) interest: How long do Trump sketches take?
"It depends on how well the artist knows the subject. And how fast the artist is, of course." Ossian says, grinning "Making a sketch of you will take me a few days if nothing goes wrong. A sketch of myself could be made much faster; I seem to know myself pretty well. Hm."
"As much as any of us ever does," Jovian smiles back, perhaps reading more into the 'hm' than meant - or perhaps not.
[My intent was that Ossian should sound ironic with the 'Hm.' Should have written that, though.]
"What I meant... You know it's not only what is visible that matters... I try to catch much more in the trump paintings."
"Really..." Jovian considers aloud, intrigued. "What catches your attention first about a person, when you're doing a Trump?"
"I guess it's the eyes. They are also the hardest part to capture, as they change so much. But I don't think that's all. There's something else I try to get into the first sketches. I must say I cannot describe it verbally; I can show you though, although most of those sketches are back at the castle."
Ossian shows the first sketches of Jovian; when Jovian looks straight at them they don't seem to be portraits of him at all, but when he sees them near the edges of his visual area he notes that they look like what he sees when he quickly passes a mirror. Ossian also shows another such sketch that must show Jerod.
The effect both fascinates and confuses Jovian. He freely admits he has no idea what he's looking at - he can't define the quality or understand how it is achieved, and wonders aloud if it's a talent rather than a skill. But there's a sense that he rather hopes it's a skill.
Ossian smiles "Brand taught me how to do it, so I guess it can be learned. Of course talent is important as well, as in all artistic ventures. I couldn't really say how I do them, though." This is said matter-of-factly, Ossian does not brag.
Jovian nods the nod of acceptance of that which one does not understand. "I suppose," he reflects, "there must be as many different ways of learning Trump painting as of learning any other sort of art."
"Maybe." Ossian smiles again. "It's not like all have been tried at least. Lack of teachers, and students, you know."
"And never enough time," Jovian muses, dismissing a thought with a shake of his head.
"I could use a couple of students, you know." Ossian says with a grin.
"Talk to me about it again when there's world enough and time," Jovian grins right back.
...and what would it take to persuade Ossian to do [other Trumps] besides the Trumpbooth entry?
"I was about to ask you for permission to make more than one, myself. I'd like to have a copy of my own work. How many do you need?"
The dragonman nods, beaming. "I give it freely, cousin. Would it be an imposition to do three - for my father, my sister and Kourin? I would be most grateful."
"That makes it a total of five." Ossian counts on his fingers, probably more for show than anything else. "I'll make them. It will take a few days though. And I will need a second sitting with you. When do you have time for that?"
"You'll need, what, another half-day? I should be able to do that sometime this week. Thank you."
"Well, it's hard to say how much time I need. Painting Trumps isn't very predictible. Half a day might be enough, but if I am doing five sketches it might be hard. I think we should allot at least one whole day, otherwise we might need a third sittting also."
Sometime while talking to Ossian, Brennan's morning started an unrecoverable slide southward. Even minor irritations began to get to him.
Ossian.
The Aisling Issue.
Jerod.
Clarissa.
But, knowing that he was going to see Cambina after lunch, he drew a sharp mental border between the morning and the afternoon, resolving firmly that if he had to bring her a certain amount of weariness at other people, he would not bring the entirety of his bad day with him.
Sometime ducking between one meeting and the next, he hopefully made it known to her when he would be stopping by: Early afternoon, with as much or as little of the rest of the daylight hours as she wanted, at a place of her choosing.
The stables. Dress for riding.
Actually, that suits Brennan just fine. A wind in the face afternoon is perfect for him.
After lunch with Bleys, Fiona, and crew, he judges that he's still a bit early by a good bell, at least.
So he heads up to the highest point of the castle battlements he can reasonably get to, to pace around a little bit, feel the wind in his hair and let it carry the frustrations away. He briefly considers letting loose a bellow, because it will make him feel better, but he thinks better of it. A reputation as the stony redhead who heads up to pace the battlements is acceptable. A reputation as the crazy redhead who shrieks off the battlements a little after Sext... not so much.
He does give an unobserved grin, though, thinking what, if any reaction the reputation would get him. And that does make him feel a little better, and stop taking himself quite so seriously.
A little while later, his boots carry him to his rendezvous with Cambina looking forward to a better afternoon. He knocks on the door (or approaches her in neutral territory such as the library, if she had preferred.) When she answers, he gives her his smile and asks, "How are you feeling?"
"I'm feeling fine, and I'm hoping the floor is no worse for the wear."
This gets a genuine smile. He'd have had to go beat up on the floor if it had done her serious injury, and that would just look silly.
"I hear you're another one for the battlements. Did you know that there are rooms in this castle that can only be reached by free climbing from the battlements? Or flying, of course."
"I was debating the virtue of reputations: Pacing battlements, bellowing from battlements, pitching bodies from the battlements.... Pacing was the least effort, though."
"Pity. I can help you pick out bodies, if you don't have specific people in mind."
"Unfortunately, Dara can fly. I have others, though. Who's on your list of people that would not be missed?"
She smiles. "A girl should be allowed to have some surprises."
"I'm sure those perishing of deceleration trauma will be most surprised," he allows.
"And no, I didn't [know about the rooms]. I now have to consider being known as the Redhead that climbs the battlements," he says with a straight face.
She nods. "Yes, there's room for a redhead. I don't think we have any of Gerard's or Julian's children in the climbing camp."
"I didn't know it was a club, but the lack of Julian's children is shocking. I thought certain either Jovian or Robin would be represented."
"Really. Hard to imagine Robin doing anything but running away from the castle by choice. And Jovian? Perhaps you know him better than I do."
"It's not always her choice, though," he says, with a grin, "And from there, she can at least see Arden. As for Jovian," he shrugs, "he flies. Altitude, wind in the face, all that."
"Her? Perhaps. But the interesting parts involve looking into the crevices and poking them with a stick to see what gets troubled. Hmm. I wouldn't have thought of it, but perhaps there is a similarity in their external foci." She shrugs.
"How has your day been, so far?"
"Well, so far no one has shown up to murder us in our own castle, but the day is young."
"Day ain't over yet," he agrees. "Be interesting to see if anyone even needs to. Between the mass scattering and the current sniping, on top of all the wreckage of the War, we might just finish the job ourselves."
"One hopes it would take more than six ambitious midshipmen and an aggressive hound dog to topple the Pearl of Cities."
Brennan stifles a grin, but not very hard. "How... nautical," he murmurs.
She turns her horse's head so that the two riders are heading around the wooded north face of Kolvir. "Are there gallant knights prepared to ride to the rescue?" It's hard to decide if her tone is gently mocking or not.
Brennan is going to consciously assume not, for the moment. "A-yuh. Some to go chasing after those FireLillies, too. And this one," he says, "is going to gallantly ride forth and help fetch Brita, at some unspecified point in the future. We've established that she's alive. This is the good news."
Pause.
"We've established that she's in Grandmother's custody."
Pause.
"That would be the bad news."
He visibly shudders.
"She wants a family reunion."
She grins at his discomfort.
Well, good. Because while the discomfort is quite genuine, Brennan's not above playing it up for the right grin. Big strong warrior type dreading nothing so much as a picnic with Grandmother.
"Sounds ghastly, although not unlike Jerod going to Paris with Corwin and Merlin. I might say that I'd like to meet her, but I think it would be untrue. I would like to pick her brain for stories of Amber before the Moonriders, though.
"Still, a family reunion is a small price to pay for the return of Brita. At least Julian isn't raising an expeditionary force..."
Brennan supresses the shudder that goes along with the image of Julian leading a cavalry charge against Clarissa. Mostly because Brennan is pretty sure Julian is smarter than that.
"I asked you of Grandfather, once," he remembers. "'The largest tree in the forest has fallen,' you said. I've been thinking about that since Bleys dropped the news about Brita, Ambrose, and Clarissa. If the rest of us are saplings, weathering the years away, Clarissa is... weather.
"It's not that I bear her no affection. But, she is Power. She is Chaos, and the power she can bring to bear on a whim almost defies description. Even when she is in high humor and affection, she is dangerous. There are parts of which do not comprehend the difference in her power and so many others... and parts which can not care. I have never been the target of her ill humor, but I can only think of a typhoon."
He looks up, the devil in his eyes.
"I suggested Bleys tell her that Dara had killed me, and solve both problems at once. Spoilsport wasn't having it, though."
"I have yet to determine what Oberon was looking for in a wife. It's clear he tried many diverse strategies. Some of what I have read indicates that Clarissa was both the best and worst wife he had. Best for him, worst for Amber is one interpretation, with the conflict that he also loved Amber. I didn't even know she was still alive until I heard about it after you all got back from the funeral. We'd probably have to ask Paige, but she still may have some legal rights as dowager Queen."
Brennan's eyes widen. He had not considered that at all.
"Is she Amber's enemy?"
"I don't think so. At least, I don't think she thinks so. I don't know, really. She doesn't have our purposes at heart, and even if she claimed to have our best interests... I think most of us might disagree with that. Strenuously. If Oberon was looking for a challenge, even an equal-- well, I didn't know Oberon, so I can't judge the equality. I don't know where else I'd go looking, though.
"She made contact with Bleys late last night. She has Brita because Ambrose brought Brita to her, ostensibly for protection. Ambrose was the redhead in Dara's entourage."
He takes a breath, since he still hasn't worked out how he feels about this one.
"This Ambrose turns out to be my brother."
"So when you said 'no' when I asked if there were any more at home like you, you weren't being completely accurate."
"Don't look at me. Bleys told me they broke the mold after they made me." He pauses, searches his memory. "No, wait, that was after they made him, he said. Darn.
"Seriously, never even heard of the boy before last night."
It was Cambina's idea to go riding, so if she seems to have a destination in mind, Brennan is following her lead.
She seems to be riding up a lazily traversable spur of Kolvir. The only thing you know of that's up here are, eventually, three steps.
Brennan gives a smile as he realizes where they're heading.
It is an isolated spot on the edge of a precipice overlooking the sea. The way up here is seldom-trod and less so during the day and a week from the full of the moon. Still, the meadow has an indefinitely unearthly quality to it.
"I've never seen it by sunlight, before."
She dismounts and takes care of her horse.
"The city above isn't a perfect image of Amber, really. More like Rebma, with...correspondences. As in our dream we see patterns and match them. Did we ever tell you about the set of steps we found in shadow? Over a cliff, looking just like that."
"You started to, but each time we were interrupted by someone or something."
He gives her all of his attention.
"I prefer somethings to someones." She shrugs. "Reid, Paige, and I. We went looking for a place he'd been. It felt like a stage set in an empty theater. Or a painting without the subject, just a background. And three steps led up over a cliff and stopped. These steps, or their shadow twin. But not this ledge. I really don't understand the metaphysics of the pattern, I don't think anyone does. But it was decidedly not a normal shadow. It's an important place. Or was. Or will be."
Brennan nods, "I remember. I'm not going to pretend I understand the metaphysics, either. I could thump your description around to fit some pet theories, but I could just as easily thump it around the other direction."
She nods.
"Ossian had pulled some papers of Brand's from his the wreckage of his quarters. They're written in Uxmali-- coded Uxmali, yet-- so he hadn't a prayer of deciphering them on his own. Made the mistake of showing them to Fiona, who thought they might have something to do with Tir. I have them now, but there's no way I can just spot-read them," [Brennan] muses.
"Dad wouldn't talk about the Tir. He didn't really approve of me going there."
"I think it's safe to assume that Brand didn't approve of my trip, either. Even aside from that, though, I think the place bothered him. I don't think he understood the place at all. He must have hated that."
"Father thought it was part of what warped him. Apparently he was quite fascinated with it when he was younger. It was why he discouraged my interest. It was one of our...points of disagreement."
"Brand had the ability to be quite fascinated by any number of things. It was part of his nature that was more constant than most. Why Tir and not, say, creating Trump?"
"I never found that out."
"Can you take us there from here? Do you want to?"
She looks at him for a long moment, as if considering several answers. "No. And Yes."
She sighs. "Getting there is important. Not just for Amber, but for me. It's... It's unfinished business."
He nods. "How can I help?"
It's possible-- just possible, mind you-- that that sentence had another word or two on the end of it, at least as Brennan originally conceived it.
"Do you have a pattern in your saddlebags?" She smiles, not unkindly, and turns to stare at the steps.
"I left mine in the basement," he says. "But you never know. Reid found it once, as I recall. Should be findable again."
In a deeper voice than usual, she says "the great road has been remade to match the current reality, which does not include Amber."
Brennan regards her silently for a long moment, more than half admiring who she is, more than half wondering at the gulf between them at moments like this.
"And what troubles me deeply is the thought that everything in motion, and everything to come, is just a prologue to settling that very issue."
"What issue?" She sounds confused, as if she thinks you changed mental horses in mid-thought.
When she turns around (or if, I suppose) he's looking just a touch sadly at both her and the three steps behind her. But he smiles, and says, "You were talking about the great road, and Amber's exclusion from reality," because he thinks she might not remember saying it, "and then I lapsed into my own musing."
Her brow creases. "No, we were talking about the pattern. It's not a road. " She hesitates. "Do you think that? That Amber isn't real?"
He looks at her, not at all unkindly, until she realizes. "You go so far when you do that," he says softly. If she still hasn't realized what happened, he'll quote back her words, and somewhere in there move closer to her.
"And... I think it's different, which is disturbing enough. My first Trip to Amber didn't last long," he says. "Long enough to run like Hell from where I arrived, tracking away from the city, up here... up there. I didn't stay long enough to taste the flavors of reality. But even so... different. I don't know."
"I wish I knew what the Great Road meant," he says. "The only obvious thing that springs to mind are the Stairs-- from Rebma; up Kolvir; up to the Tir. And two of those are closed to us, now."
"Don't forget, Valeria went to Paris from Rebma. Do you think it replaced Amber?"
Brennan nods, solemnly.
"I'd been thinking in that direction for a while-- Amber has moved from its place of pride, somehow. The details aren't clear to me," he says, "Whether it's because Oberon failed, or because of Corwin's success, or if Amber and this Paris place can both be along the Great Road at the same time...."
He pauses, and considers the wisdom of making his own prophesy before Cambina, of all people, then decides to continue, "...But it can't end in anything but grief and strife, if there can be only one." It's a prophesy based on nothing more than politics and the human nature epitomized by Amber's ruling family-- saddening, but, to Brennan, unavoidable.
But, having spoke the nagging doubt to someone who (hopefully) will take him seriously, he can at least move to a planning mode.
"Damn," he says softly. "So damn much to do."
But somewhere back in the depths of his eyes, something-- not enough to be called a plan, more than idle speculation, and entirely too wild to be spoken aloud just yet-- is beginning to glimmer.
"Will you help me with Brand's papers?"
"So you're his literary executor? Of course, what girl wouldn't die for an opportunity to help translate the rantings of a dead megalomanic uncle?" She's smiling, though.
"Something like that," he says. "Call it an inheritance-- the part that Ossian was so very kind to watch over for me until I arrived.
"Fi thinks it might have something to do with the Tir, or something she called the Tir Project, and I think you qualify as the expert in that regard.
"Besides," he smiles back, "If you're helping me, then you're close to me, no? Two birds, one stone; wheels within wheels; the means of a master strategist... or something like that."
"I'm not much of a theory person, but I'd like to learn. If the road of knowledge leads through Brand's writing, we should follow it."
The afternoon after the coronation, Reid receives an invitation for afternoon tea from Vialle.
Vialle awaits him in the sitting room of her office. She is seated on the couch, with the tea service on the table before her. She is dressed simply, in a gown of dark green that shows the hint of auburn in her hair to Reid's sensitive eye. Her Royal status is marked by a thin gold circlet, not unlike the one Cymnea used to wear, although Reid is sure in his own mind it can't be the same one.
Lilly is present as well. She is dressed in simple black trousers, high black boots, and a deep crimson colored jacket that is trimmed in gold. It is a far cry from the lady in waiting look she has been wearing in the Queen's presence. Dressed as she is she radiates confidence and seems far more at ease.
As Reid enters Lilly is standing off to the side of the room doing her best to be unobtrusive. Her sword is at her side. She offers him a nod in greeting when their eyes meet. For the moment though she remains silent.
Reid arrives on time. An appointment with a blind queen allows him to dress a little sloppier than he would if he were expecting an audience of dignitaries. He lets his presence be known, but allows the Queen to address him when she is ready.
The servants bring tea and a plate of finger sandwiches. It's very civilized. If Reid didn't know any better, he'd wonder if he weren't being poisoned.
After tea and some conversational pleasantries, in which Lilly is welcome to join, Vialle circles around to the point of the conversation.
"I understand," she says, "that you are looking into the matter of Demond Harga'rel's death. I had hoped to ask you to undertake the matter because of your success in similar investigations during the Regency. May I hear what you have learned so far?"
Lilly perks up a bit at this. New pieces for her seemingly infinite puzzle were always of interest. She sips her tea gently and maintains her silence.
"Harga'rel had a lot of enemies. I've been advised to look at Bend, Montage, various merchants including Jewell, Carver & Octave, Thalia, the Ambassador, Gatewaygeans, Rebmans, the list goes on. I'm afraid none looks better or worse than the others." Reid confides.
Curiosity getting the better of her, Lilly speaks up. "I suppose you have considered the possibility that Demond Haga'rel was simply a tool. That the suspect was not so concerned with his demise as it was chain of events it would bring about?" The question was born of her interest in how these sorts of investigations worked. Nothing more and nothing less. She fully expected that Reid had already followed all the paths her mind was journeying.
"That is not impossible. It is early yet. We are only in the shallows of this matter; what lies in the deeps may only be caught by the strongest and tightest of nets," Vialle says. "The Crown will need to appoint an investigator. A member of the family would be best, to show we take the matter seriously. Will you take the position, Reid?"
"If it pleases Your Majesty. It is my personal belief that if one has a sufficient stock of enemies, the minutia of who their actual assassin is becomes rather academic. And while I appreciate the need for a good revenge from time to time, dispensing justice in the name of diplomacy has never been high on my list before. I will accept your appointment as investigator in this matter, but considering the list of potential witnesses is only slightly longer than that of suspects, I am afraid that I cannot promise the Crown a swift resolution." Reid is not unduly put out by the prospect ahead of him, but neither is he particularly eager to face it, and that is clear to all present.
Lilly offers Reid a somewhat sympathetic look. She was glad this job was his and not hers. It would require far too much diplomacy. Something that was definitely not, in her own mind, one of her strong suits. Still she could not completely abandon him. She rather liked Reid after all. "If there is anything I can do to be of aid, let me know. I can not make promises as to my availability but I will do what I can."
Vialle says, "I hope Random's return will soon free you from some of your duties, Lilly. But I agree that this is a difficult task that will not soon be resolved. I know that Valeria wants to put her own man, Montage, to work on the matter." Her voice betrays some tension at that thought.
She adds: "I had thought of asking Ossian to aid you in the investigation, if that suits you."
"At this stage I'm more than willing to consider employing all of the resources the Castle has not otherwise engaged. With the number of leads currently before me for investigation, I may, in fact, serve your majesties better codifying information collected by a team of others." Reid considers.
Lilly listens in polite silence. She found the investigation interesting but at the moment had nothing to add to the discussion. There were far too many facts that she did not, at the moment, have.
"Your efforts as a coordinator would be invaluable. In fact, it is in part those connections that you used to expose the arsonist at Heap's that make you such an excellent choice."
Vialle considers for a moment, and then says, as if bringing up a rather touchy subject, "I understand that there may be some ... expenses ... involved in an investigation such as this. The treasury will bear any reasonable costs without inquiry. Apply to Ember or Gilt for any funds you may need."
Reid nods, audibly.
He was most definitely related to her father, Lilly thought to herself. Never did it occur to her though that she often did this same thing in the presence of the queen.
With relief [Vialle] closes that topic. "As for Ossian, I will ask him to help you. Didn't you two work together on the food hoarding question? I'm sure he'll be happy to help. Is there anyone else I can ask to help you, or release from other duties to aid you?"
"Cousins Lilly and Ossian will be a good front as far as family and the position of the Castle goes. We've got a variety of connections at all social levels throughout the region that can aid us as necessary."
Reid resists the urge to pace. He wants to think things through, but pacing in front of the queen is not how he was raised.
Lilly vaguely wondered if that we referred to her. She did not believe she had social connections of any sort. None that could be of aid anyway. On top of that any connections she had were certainly shared by others. Still she did not wish to argue. Let Reid believe what he wanted for the moment.
[Reid]
"Your majesty, if all goes well -- our sources lead to a suspect, and
that suspect is found and apprehended -- how would you like me to
proceed? I'm fairly certain that I could extract a confession, should
that be required. Do we want this to go through the courts? Or is this
a matter of state that should be handled privately?"
Vialle considers the question for a moment. "I think it would best if the suspect were taken into royal custody to await the King's pleasure. Given the royal connections involved, the murder may be a political crime as much as a breach of the King's peace. If Random has returned by then, he will certainly want to decide how the matter is to be handled himself."
Or, equally likely, Vialle would prefer to let him handle it, given her connections with Rebma.
"So I think we must not act hastily, or make plans that Random may change once he is aware of the situation."
This was the answer Lilly expected, if not the one she preferred. She saw the wisdom behind it but at the same time she did not wish the regent to appear weak. Arguing it now though was a bit of a wasted effort. It was not known whether the perpetrator would be uncovered. If that did happen the next question was when. With the complexity of the investigation things may not be fully resolved until Random's return anyway. Should Reid succeed before then, well she could always choose then to speak to Vialle if need be.
"Lilly?" Vialle says. "Have you something to suggest? Please, don't hesitate to speak up."
"I suggest that when the perpetrator is caught, her majesty should perhaps consider acting. However that depends up who the person is and when he or she is found. For the moment I believe it be wisest to simply take them into custody and do nothing until you are consulted. That will allow you many options including waiting for the King without locking you into something that may or may not be appropriate." Lilly answers.
Vialle nods slowly. "Perhaps you are correct, Lilly. I worry that too strong an approach to these matters will brand me inappropriately lacking in deference to my husband's commands. We shall take the culprit into custody, then act as the situation warrants."
Last modified: 19 November 2003