Up and Out

Lucas opens his eyes ... and closes them again rather rapidly.

'Pounding' is a good word for it. 'Throbbing' is far too mild. Besides, it has overtones of passion - and passion is the last thing Lucas is feeling right now - unless one counts a passionate longing for the pain in his head to stop.

He lifts a careful hand to ascertain the damage ... just above the ear it seems to be ... the left ... ear ...

The scream that Lucas lets out would do credit to the whistle of a small but powerful steam engine trundling coal up and down Welsh hillsides.

"M'sieur called?" says a gloomy voice.

Lucas opens his heavy-lidded eyes and regards the lugubrious face of Gaston, his faithful valet.

"Solace?" Lucas croaks, pulling himself up into a half-sitting position. "The children? My mother?"

"All is well, with them, m'sieur, although your lady wife and her Highness the Princess have been much concerned with your welfare. Lady Solace sat with you throughout the night and morning, and has only been persuaded to rest an hour ago by your Lady Mother."

Lucas nods and regards with distaste a tumbler of a luminously pale green liquid that fizzes faintly which is being held out towards him.

"Your Lady Mother," says Gaston simply, in a tone that carries a wealth of meaning.

Not feeling equal, for once, to the eternal struggle, Lucas accepts the potion with unusual meekness and downs it. His eyes widen slightly in shock ... and then he inclines his head in acknowledgement as the pain actually subsides somewhat. He hands the tumbler back.

"You will refrain, Gaston, from the cries of indignation and dismay that you will indubitably feel bound to utter when you behold the true extent of my injuries."

"Yes, m'sieur," returns the stolid Gaston.

Lucas lies back again, frowning a little. "One presumes that one's mutilation, shocking though it is, was not the only objective of these barbarians."

"Indeed, m'sieur."

"So ... their ... ah ... wider objective. Was it obtained?"

"No-one quite knows, m'sieur."

"I see. As I am here in my bed with you to assist my toilette - I assume that is why you are here, old fox - then I can assume that nothing too catastrophic has occurred - otherwise I would have awoken to find myself bumping along in a cart filled with turnips.

"Believe me, even as an immortal, with a definite reservation made in my name at Hotel Infinity, the turnip cart is an experience that comes with the words 'once in a lifetime' stamped firmly on it."

Lucas does not attempt to sit up again, but one hand lifts to his head, thoughtfully tracing the line of his mutilated ear.

"Perhaps, Gaston, you might find it in yourself to give me a concise resume of the events that transpired after I was ... so unfortunately ... rendered unconscious?"

The faithful Gaston proceeds to relate the events of the masquerade subsequent to the attack on Lucas, who listens attentively, and with growing disapprobation. At last he sighs deeply.

"Yes, well this will look very good in the emergency room of Amber General, won't it?"

"'Hello, Prince Benedict, and what brings you here today?' 'Oh, I was fighting the Moonriders - fifty of them, or thereabouts, fighting them single-handed, despatched them all, of course, but I picked up the veriest scratch - perhaps you could have a look at it.' 'Certainly, your Highness ... and what can we do for you, Prince Julian?' 'Oh, I got into a bit of a tussle with a manticore over Arden. Brought the brute down of course, slew him single-handed and chopped off his head, but his confounded tail caught me a bit of a blow, compressed my armour into my ribs. Grateful if you could take a look.' 'Of course, your Highness ... and here is Lord Lucas. What dangerous conflict have you been in, my Lord?'

"'I was hit on the head. By a playing card.'

"It lacks a certain something, don't you feel? Even when I hastily add that this was a playing card of doom, wielded by a harpy from hell ... "

"It is commonly rumoured that Lady Cambina says you will eventually perish in some incident related to angry women or cards, m'sieur." Gaston says neutrally. "I suppose this counts as both."

Lucas looks at his faithful retainer with his heavy eyelids little more than half open ...

"It lacked the bottle of champagne that should invariably accompany such an end ... " he pointed out.

"M'sieur, has anyone mentioned the demise of Demond Harga'rel?"

"No," says Lucas, interested. "Is he dead then? An accident, a blissful suicide or a poetic murder? And do they know who's responsible?"

"Not yet, m'sieur. He was drowned in the champagne fountain."

"Oh what a shame," says Lucas. "Mother went to such trouble to get that special vintage. She must have been livid.

"So," he continues, "are you proposing to wear that funereal face all afternoon as you eke out the casualty list from the party one by one, or could you just give me a swift run down? Or else," he adds, "if it runs to several pages, the printed list."

"The broadsheets have not had time to print a complete list. I imagine that will be in a special edition in the next day or so, m'sieur. I do, however, believe you are the worst injured among the royal family. All the others left the hall under their own power, I'm told."

Lucas nods slowly, absorbing this, his eyes half closed.

"You will see, Gaston, that word is conveyed to the editors of all reputable and disreputable broadsheets - all etchings of Lord Lucas are to show him full face or right profile for the appreciable future." His hand lifts again towards his mutilated left ear. "On pain of my severe displeasure."

"Of course, m'sieur."

"Now ... bring me my silk dressing gown - the one with those rampant little unicorns prancing on the right breast pocket. And a silk stock for my throat - the dark blue. Some cigarillos, and some cognac. And none of that nonsense about being ill."

"If your mother or Lady Solace complain, m'sieur, I shall refer them to you."

"Indeed you may, Gaston," agrees Lucas genially. "Indeed you may. I feel refreshed, Gaston. I feel invigorated. Almost, one might say, a new man."

"Indeed, m'sieur," says Gaston, and goes to fulfill Lucas' commands.

As Gaston departs, Lucas' mind runs back over the events of the evening. He recalls most of the over-dramatic arrival of Dara and her friend, who managed to spoil the perfectly good introduction of waltzing into Amber. The last thing he recalls, and that uncertainly, was speaking with Cambina, and then the screams and cries and a sudden pain in about the place where his ear is missing.

Did he actually throw himself on Cambina to save her life? Or did she pull him down? It's not quite clear in his memory ...

His consideration of the matter distracts him enough that he fails to notice the other presence in the room until she clears her dainty throat to obtain his attention.

"Gaston advised me that you had awakened," says Lucas' mother. She is dressed in a becoming green that sets off her golden hair. If she has been awake all night nursing him, there is no consideration of something as gauche as showing it.

"Maman," says Lucas, deeply appreciative (as ever) of her style. "I trust my indisposition only deferred rather than removed whatever plans you had made for the later stages of the evening ... "

"He also advises me that you have some illusion that you will get up and have a drink and a smoke. Next you'll be wanting to toddle down to Red Mill for a tete-a-tete with Mistress Silken, no doubt. Don't even think of it. You will rest for a day or two, at least until your Uncle Gerard pronounces you fit."

The look of appreciation grows jaundiced. "If I am to rest, Maman, I would rather give the impression that it was my naturally indolent disposition that was the reason, and not the attack at the masquerade." His hand lifts to touch his ear again and he frowns. "You will note that I called for my dressing gown, not my riding boots. I will rest, but not in a recumbrent position. For one thing, it will be less disturbing to the children - well, to Hope. And it will allow visitors to focus on other topics rather than my injuries if I am seen to be sitting up and taking notice."

He watches her face thoughtfully, all too aware that he is reduced to the plea bargaining of the nursery. "If it pleases you, you may rescind the cigars and substitute a suitably coloured energy drink for the brandy. Only I shall insist upon a decanter and a balloon glass. One has appearances to maintain, after all."

"Very well," Flora says and leans over to embrace Lucas. "My poppet. You gave me such a scare. In the future, pray arrange to be out of the way of any sorcerous implements of death that are thrown at you. Or use your cousins for cover instead of letting them use you."

He returns her embrace warmly, inhaling the scent that has been familiar to him since childhood - and which always suggests Maman. "I promise you that I shall do my very best.

"I was hoping to be in a position to put a rather more glamorous twist on the affair - that it was I who for once took the more active role and nobly defended her with my own frail but exquisitely arrayed form. On the whole, my memory being somewhat unclear on the matter, I believe I shall preserve a modest silence on the subject ... I shall need to focus my efforts on confounding the scoffers." His hand lifts again to his ear. "And to devote my energies to devising something as rakish as an eyepatch that can be worn over the ear. I fear that even my considerable abilities are not equal to the task. The only garment that suggests itself is the ear muff, which really must be one of the most unedifying garments aethestically ever devised. And somehow I feel that the Northern Trapper look is just not going to catch on. Besides ... plaid shirts." He shivers.

"They will be fashionable now that Prince Martin sets the tone for the younger set, I am told. But I trust you not to follow his guidance in matters sartorial," Flora says.

"I will be kind, Maman," says Lucas, with a look that is decidedly frosty, "and assume that only the strains of nursing your only son through the long night and dismal morning could so distract you as to cause you to believe for one moment that I might defer to Martin in matter of style and taste. Unless, of course, it were to be the taste of Heerat cigars.

"But perhaps you can tell me something more of the attack and the implications," he adds. "Gaston is graphic - but rather in the manner of a penny dreadful. Something like this positively lifts him into Grand Guignol, which is highly entertaining, but a little sketchy on the political cut and thrust. I rely on you to fill me in.

"For example, is there any word on Brita? What steps is the King proposing to take?"

Flora sighs and seats herself on the edge of the bed. "The King is already gone, although after which miscreant I'm not certain. In fact, there's already been quite the exodus. Your friend Martin and his purple-tressed amour have also left. Corwin departed at noon with his son, Jerod, and Gerard's boy in tow. I'm sure the redheads will be gone within a day or so, and I'm told Random's order of knights was bustling about this morning, although that probably has more to do with the impending duel. There's no word on Brita yet, nor of when the King expects to return. Vialle holds the seal until then. What else would you like to know, my poppet?"

Lucas is quiet for a moment, his heavy lids drooping over his eyes. But only someone who knowa Lucas very little would assume this was because he was sleepy.

"I must admit I didn't expect flocks of anxious relatives to be clustered around the door, awaiting hourly bulletins from stern doctors on my start of health," he says at last, "but this abrupt departure does argue a certain reluctance to help with the washing up in the wake of the party that is almost ... uncouth."

Flora nods in agreement. "Random always was a bit of a shirker. At least some of the others have had the good grace to protest their sadness at leaving."

He is silent again for a moment. "Perhaps you would do better to tell me who is remaining," he says.

"None of the redheads, elder or younger, have left yet," Flora says, with an emphasis on the last word. She begins ticking off various family members on her fingers. "Of my siblings, Caine, Llewella, myself, and Gerard. Julian is slated to take his rangers and his little hoodlum of a daughter back to Arden this afternoon. Random's new knights are all still here. Benedict's daughter will remain to guard the Queen, but the disposition of the others is uncertain. Of your Regency colleagues, Reid appears to be investigating the Harga'rel murder, Cambina is holding the fort for her brother and recovering from a lump on the head, Gerard's dutiful daughter has remained with her father, and that charming young artist Ossian has stayed behind as well."

Lucas shoots a quick, speculative look at his mother at the adjective.

"Contemplating yet another portrait, Maman?" he says. "Or another dalliance?"

"A lady never tells," says Flora with a hint of a smile.

"Vialle holds the seal, you say? Then Random showed some sense before his departure. I must see her ... Yes, yes, when I am stronger. And she will be quicker to read any weakness in my voice than anyone else. Apart from you, of course, most perspicacious of mothers." He allows her a smile, the little boy one that is reserved for a very few people (and almost entirely female).

Flora accepts the compliment as her due.

"Tell me about this impending duel," he adds. "I trust I did nothing so vulgar as to become involved with it? I do hope I can assume that I am not expected to be one of the participants, Maman."

"Not so far as I know, unless Martin is likely to call on you for the role of second," Flora says. "Apparently there's some squabble between him and that creature my brother dragged back from Chaos. He was in the process of calling her out when someone noticed he was injured, and his father dragged him out," Flora explains. "So the matter is left hanging for the moment."

Lucas hauls himself up in bed, and regards Flora with disfavour. "Maman, have you ever bothered to learn anything of the ettiquette of duelling, beyond considering how prettily the kerchief flaps in the wind when it drops? There is a reason for the name 'second' you know. It's not just doing the stern faced meetings, booking the doctor and trying to rig the weapons in your side's favour. It means if the favourite drops in the traps, the noble second steps up to take his place. And if Martin has done that to me and skipped out to Shadow ... "

"My poppet," says Flora patiently, "I know that rather unsightly bandage over one ear renders it difficult to hear me with it, so I hope you will do me the courtesy of giving me your complete attention with the other. The challenge was not, according to my sources, completed. Hence, there is no need for a second."

He regards his mother for a second in fulminating silence.

"Oh very good, Maman," he says drily. "Very good. You can put it down to my frail state of health that you managed to get the fish to rise to the fly."

Flora gives Lucas an indulgent smile.

"But the Chaosian creature ... what has happened to her ... it? Them? One is so unsure of the niceties of grammar in such circumstances. Let alone the social niceties. Would an invitation to tea necessitate calling in the food taster? Poor Gouteur still regards me with a jaundiced eye ever since those mushrooms in that rather sweet little Shadow along that Path from Kashfa. Well, unsurprisingly jaundiced when the effect of the antidote was to make him turn that rather bilious shade of yellow. It became quite an embarrassment taking him along to banquets.

"Still," he said musingly, "a real life Chaosian sitting beside my bed of pain. Or at least my chaise longue of pain. It seems delightfully perverse. I'll issue an invitation forthwith."

"I would have expected you to want the Queen to visit first, my poppet." Flora's smile takes on a tinge of wickedness.

Lucas moves his hand in a slightly dismissive gesture. "Bien sur."

"But in any case, you should wait until Solace has seen you. It would be quite declasse for your wife to rise to nurse you in your sickbed and find you with another woman."

"Cela va sans dire. Really, Maman!"

"Or perhaps it will be wearing a man's body today. It has the servants quite upset."

Lucas's dark eyebrows lift. "How ... intriguing. One has, after all, had lovers who were both male and female - do you recollect that rather lovely willowy hermaphrodite in the Cygnus Shadow who used the 'it' pronoun? It was unbelievably fantastic in bed ... And it had this really stupid code of honour - it believed it could redeem the disgrace of its family by dying bravely. Such a waste ...

"But anyway, one could always be reasonably sure that what one went to bed with was what one was going to wake up with - only somewhat more tousled and infinitely more satisfied, of course. This .... Chaosite does open some rather intriguing possibilities ... "

The heavy lids droop over his eyes once more.

Flora adds, "It did--something--to help you after you were injured. You should probably mention that in your note."

"And you should certainly mention that in your conversation," says Lucas uneasily. "Do you have any notion of what this - something - was? I would have thought, Maman, that after I had been so grievously wounded by the Playing Card of Death, the last thing you would want would be some Chaosite playing Mr Sawbones with the helpless form of your beloved son. Or did 'Let's see if we can help Lucas' become some kind of party game to end the proceedings, like 'Stick the tail on the donkey' with all present lining up to take turns at curing me?"

"No, of course not. I don't know exactly what it did," Flora admits, adding "although I would certainly have stopped it if I believed it were anything but a boon to you, my poppet. But your uncle Gerard seemed to have some idea, and as he is Amber's chief physician, I did not see fit to argue with him. You may expect a visit from him sometime today as well."

"These treats you are holding out, Maman." murmurs Lucas. "The joys of being poked and prodded by Uncle Gerard ... "

"I suppose you would prefer to remain in bed?" says Flora.

Lucas half-smiles.

"As an invalid," she adds, lest Lucas get the wrong idea.

"Spoilsport," murmurs Lucas.

He catches sight of Gaston, hovering at a safe distance (in other words, slightly out of throwing range, as Lucas' valet possesses the well-honed instincts of a cat who knows precisely how far the dog's leash will reach, and sits down to pull faces at him just beyond its limits).

"There you are!" Lucas says. "You can fetch me a pen - properly sharpened, please, and two pieces of note paper. One must certainly have my monogram."

"Of course, M'sieur, at once," says Gaston, leaving the tray with the decanter and glass on the dressing table.

Flora moves to pour some of the beverage for Lucas. It's brightly colored, somewhat translucent, and looks altogether too healthy for Lucas' taste.

He regards it with marked disfavour.

"A note to the Chaosite," he explains to Flora. "The message to the Queen I must ask you to deliver yourself, if you would be so infinitely kind. That I would be delighted to have her visit me later today, at a time of her convenience. If you can tactfully navigate that into being before tea, I would be infinitely obliged."

Flora hands Lucas his drink. "I shall handle the matter for you. The Queen is quite worried about you, and will be pleased to hear that you're already recovered enough to receive visitors."

He holds the drink in his hand as thought weighing it, lifts it to the light and squints through it critically, rolls the glass slightly, and then holds it to his nose to savout the bouquet.

He winces.

"I shall, of course, be delighted if the Queen will visit me," he says. "Convey, if you will, my apologies for troubling her - even in such a minor capacity when she has so much else to tax her mind."

With a fant shudder he drains the glass and hands it back to Flora.

Flora takes the glass, saying, "I am sure seeing you better will relieve her of one of one of her worries."

"The other piece - I will sketch some designs for a piece of apparel I have in mind - a loose cap that should disguise this rather unsightly wound, and draw gasps of admiration from all beholders. Flat, loose, a little ruched perhaps. Velvet, I think. With a tassel - a long tassel to fall on the other side of my head and distract attention. But I shall show you - and you will have it made up for me, kindest of Mamans!"

"Of course, Lucas," Flora says. She moves to the sideboard and sets the glass down on it.

His face softens a little. "Let Solace have her sleep out," he says. "She shall be my first visitor, of course. But she is still not strong - and seeing me injured, and the aftermath, will have tired her terribly."

"It has," says Flora. "When will you want to see the children? They're terribly worried. Well, Hope, at least--Philippe is hardly old enough to know what has happened other than that his mother is dreadfully upset."

"Let her help with the cap," he says. "Let her add a feather or some such thing, sufficient to give her a stake in the eventual object. Then, when she sees me wearing it, to her it will not be a sign that I've been injured, but that Daddy is wearing her gift. She can come to me once it's in place ... I think while Solace is with me. It will help her to see us together, too - with Mummy no longer upset."

"Bien sur," says Flora, taking up the decanter and pouring another glass of the health drink.

He takes the pen and paper that Gaston has brought, and begins to write in a bold, confident hand.

"Most worthy Aisling,

Rumour leads me to believe that your intervention last night was of great benefit to me in ensuring that that injuries I have sustained were not considerably worse. Perhaps, later todays, at a time of your convenience - but after tea, you would care to visit me that I might express my gratitude in person."

He signs, with a flourish, Lucas St Cyr.

"There," he says to Gaston. "See that delivered ... and try not to wear that funereal expression, or the Chaosian will think you come to deliver Martin's challenge in person."

"Of course," says Gaston, with the sort of expressionless expression servants wear to signal their disapprobation. He takes the note with a flourish, and is about to depart when Flora stops him. "Have a note sent to my brother Gerard to advise him that Lucas is awake."

Gaston says, "Madam," and then he does leave.

[OOC: the note will arrive at Aisling's chamber in the early afternoon.]

Flora brings Lucas the second glass of the health drink and hands it to him. "What did you have in mind for the cap? Velvet might be a bit much, since it is spring now. You'll want more than one cap. If you plan to wear it until the top of your ear regrows, you may be waiting quite some time."

She adds, "I remember when Julian sliced part of Brand's earlobe off in a sparring match. It took him a few months to regrow it, but that was just soft tissue. At least your ear doesn't have a bone in it."

"How very reassuring you are, Maman," says Lucas. "My plan is to wear a cap until my hair has grown long enough to cover the worst of the defiency. That shouldn't take too long - at least no-one was barbrous enough to shave my hair away when treating the wound. Clearly people reckoned that even if I did expire, such a solecism would drag me back from the grave, or the pyre ... Much better to leave the Lucan locks unshorn and enjoy peaceful nights without the horrid rattling of chains and gibbering which, I understand, is almost obligatory for the vengeful spirit ...

"And certainly I shall need more than one cap - would you have me wear a blue cap with green hose? I predict the early sixteenth century look is about to make something of a comeback ... "

He shows his mother the sketch - something a little like the cap worn by the boy king Edward VI.

"There," he says. "That - with a nice fur trimmed robe shall be the new in-chamber apparel. By the time my vile gaolers see fit to let me pass these portals, I should be able to manage the complete outfit." He consider the effect on the sheet of vellum with a critical eyes. "I can see I am going to have to look into codpieces. That should keep me amused while I convalsce."

He treats his mother to his most lizard-like smile.

"Bleys will be amused, at least. He thinks he cuts an excellent figure in doublet and hose. And your cousin Jovian was showing quite a leg here and there last night, mostly at Fiona. The boy takes after his father," Flora says with a touch of disapproval.

"Do drink up," she adds.

At midday, a party assembles in the outer courtyard for the departure to Paris. Some of the worthies in the party are:

- Corwin
- Merlin
- Lord Rein
- Kaia, the Rebman ambassador, and three members of her staff

There are also a number of riders who accompany them as guards.

Who else joins them?

Vere is there, dressed in durable travelling clothes of dark blue and grey. He is unarmed, and wears two feathers braided into his hair.

Jerod arrives as the party is being assembled. He is equipped for reasonable fast travel, including hellriding (meaning he's not loaded down with trunks). Jerod makes note of which of Kaia's staff members are attending with her, as well as the apparent absence of Bend and Montage. He also makes suitable greetings to the various individuals.

Shortly before the scheduled departure time, Robin comes pelting out of a side door. The Ranger screeches to a halt upon seeing the bustle in the courtyard and discretely side-steps to an out-of-the-way spot. She too is dressed for travel, trail gear and weapons, but it's obvious from the way she hangs back from the crowd that it isn't this trip she's going on.

After a quick glance at Corwin to ascertain that he isn't planning on leaving within the next few moments, Vere approaches Robin. "My lady," he says, holding out his hands to her.

With her eyes alight, the girl skips forward. Grasping both of Vere's hands in her own gauntleted ones, she leans into him, resting her forehead against his chin. When she speaks, it is a quiet murmur, meant only for the two of them. "I... I wasn't going to come."

She looks up into his eyes. "We've already said good-bye so much. But... it's a Patternwalk, Vere. And I had to come and see you off." She smiles, putting a brave face on her worry.

Vere slips his arms around her and smiles down. "I carry my father's strength," he says with conviction. "There is no cause for concern. The only difficulty I will face will be to not have the Pattern transport me instantly to your side once I have reached the center."

"I know." Robin slides her hands up behind Vere's shoulder-blades, pressing herself against him. "I wish you could do that too.

"And I know that you are certainly strong enough." She hugs him fiercely. "I... oh, I don't know. I wish there was something I could do to help."

Vere reaches up and lightly touches the feathers in his hair. "You already have, my love."

Thrill tingles through Robin's eyes as the Danu indicates her token. "My Vere." She murmurs in wonder and love. A wriggle of happiness runs through the girl, followed by a bright laugh. "Oo! I just love seeing that there." And she kisses him brightly once.

And since he always knows what to say, she kisses him again, lingeringly and deeply, wanting to etch the taste of him into her soul for all time.

Vere returns the kiss, holding her tightly for a long while before relaxing his grip. "I will think of you every moment that we are apart," he says. "Take care of yourself."

Robin nods, not trusting herself to speak as she slowly lets go of Vere.

As she steps back from him, she squeezes one hand strongly in comfort and love. And even though she knows the brave little smile is a cliche beyond all bearing, the girl still finds it on her lips as she watches Vere leave her.

Vere does not look back, but just before riding out of the courtyard he reaches up and lightly strokes the feathers in his hair.

More than a minute or two late, Marius rushes up to Corwin. There is no luggage or anything with him. He will bow more deeply than he ought, and then address him as, "Uncle."

(It's easy to get Marius to say, "Uncle"; all he has to be doing is talking to one of them... erm...)

"Uncle, I fear I cannot in all clear conscience make this journey with you. My heart is still burdened with duty here," he says. "I hope that the invitation remains open for when my responsibilities are met."

"Of course," says Corwin. He looks a touch disappointed. "If you have your mother's cards, you can contact me by trump. If not, ask any of my brothers and sisters who remain in Amber. I'll be glad to bring you through when your duties are done."

"I shall do so, with haste, when I have unburdened myself honourably," he says. It's the kind of thing Jerod can pull off without even thinking about it, so it seems a little clunky in the fit for Marius, but he seems to be sincere, and _that_'s worth something, even in the devalued Amber. "Thank you, Uncle. I hope your journey is a pleasant and safe one."

Out of the corner of his eye, Marius notices that Caine is passing through the courtyard. Surely it's just a coincidence.

Alas, Marius suspects on an intuitive level that Caine's 0-point flaw is "that it's never a coincidence." Once he's finished with the pleasantries, he will see to following Caine in a blatant, "curious" fashion.

As Vere returns, he will notice Jerod has been keeping an eye on his...endeavours. It would appear he has a slight smile on his face as he secures a couple of packages to his horse's saddle.

"Vere..." Jerod says, making a point of looking at him, then Robin, then back to Vere. "So...how goes it?"

Robin meets Jerod's eye deliberately and raises one Julianic eyebrow. A wry smile tugs one corner of her mouth. Jerod... is definitely one of the hurdles that she and Vere will have to face if they want to continue in an open relationship. And the Ranger is completely confident that her Vere can make the right impression with the son of Eric and Amber's junior spymaster.

Vere smiles without answering for a moment, checking his saddle once more before mounting. He rides next to Jerod, and as the party begins to move out of the courtyard he says, "Very well, indeed." He reaches up and lightly strokes the two feathers braided into his hair.

Behind them in a stone courtyard which sounds to the fading echo of hoofbeats, a thrill shivers through Robin as Vere brushes her token. She smiles through vision suddenly blurry and wet and she stands frozen until the last whisking tail of the last horse is no longer visible.

Then, with an enormous ruffling, the Ranger shakes her blonde head and practically stamps her way to the stables to see if there is any useful horse left for her journey to Arden.

"You're looking remarkably chipper for a morning after hell almost broke lose." Jerod says [to Vere], having climbed into the saddle, settling his sword. "One might almost suspect you're not your usual quiet self. Were I concerned I might even suspect you of being a plant." and he smiles a bit.

"You wouldn't want to refute that, would you?"

Vere chuckles softly. "I fear that I cannot, Your Highness," he replies. "In point of fact, I feel that I am a different being to the one I was yesterday. How swiftly things can change..." He trails off thoughtfully, then glances at Jerod with a rueful grin. "We have not been extremely subtle, I fear."

"About as subtle as her brother's dragons bellowing for their dinner." Jerod replies with a dry smile. "I'm wondering how many people might have been yelling get a room, only to give up with hoarse voices."

He turns slightly to look back before settling back in the saddle. "Serious?"

"Very," Vere replies. He smiles again, and does not elaborate.

Jerod nods. "Julian come talk to you yet? Or did you decide to get to him first?"

Vere winces slightly. "I had intended to speak with him," he says. "But time was short, and other matters intervened." He rides in silence for a few moments, then adds, "Lady Robin has already informed him of the matter, and she seems to feel that he is not opposed. That should be sufficient, for the moment." The final sentence sounds more hopeful than definite.

"Julian's not here so one might take that as a good sign." Jerod says. "Based on my experience, if he thought you were a problem, he wouldn't have waited til you got back."

Vere nods seriously. "I am much comforted by Prince Julian's concern for her," he says. "I have spoken no more than a handful of words to his Highness, but I am impressed by what I have heard of him." He looks at Jerod speculatively. "You must know him fairly well?" he ventures.

"Nobody knows Julian except Julian." Jerod says, riding for a short distance while collecting his thoughts.

"I know bits and pieces about him. Nothing of great significance I suspect. Your father would know more by leaps and bounds. Julian's very protective of what he sees as his own, whether that be people or property. I know he didn't get along well with Corwin for a long while. They had some nasty times together I gather. And he supported my father in his bid for the throne against the redheads.

"He's never been cruel to me. I've been honoured enough to be allowed into Arden without escorts in the past and not to have to worry about his hell hounds too much. Whether that is because he liked me or because he was doing it because of my father is another matter. But I've always liked the times I've been there. He even invited me to hunt a couple of times. He taught me to hawk and to treat animals correctly. He even gave me a few tips before I picked out this one." he says, gesturing to his horse, an Arabian style bred with shadow influences for endurance and strength.

"Hopefully," Vere says, "I will have a chance to get to know him. I suspect it will be worth the time and effort it will take."

"Don't lie to him." Jerod says, sniffing at the air for a moment, trying to identify scents here and there, unconscious as Julian once taught him to do. "Don't even think it. I have my suspicions that he possesses an animal's perception of fear where people are concerned. I suspect he could even smell it under the right circumstances."

"I never lie," Vere says blandly.

"There are many ways to lie." Jerod says. "Very few involving talking." Vere's smart enough to figure that out so Jerod does not continue.

"What would you hope to learn from him?"

Vere tilts his head to one side. "He had the raising of Robin," he replies. "Is that not enough to warrant my intense interest?"

"That depends. Might he consider it an intrusion into his personal space?" Jerod asks. "If I were interested in the raising of his daughter, I would go to the daughter. The end product of the process should be sufficient to learn this."

Then Jerod smiles archly. "Unless maybe you're looking for tips on raising your own?"

Vere's eyes grow distant at this, and he rides along in silence for a few minutes. When he speaks again he appears to have changed the subject. "When you walked the Pattern, and thus had absolute freedom, did you find that it in any way released you from previous obligations? You are as much a creature of duty as I, I believe. Were you still as bound afterwards, when you had the power to free yourself, as you had been before?"

Jerod notes the change in subject, appraising Vere for a moment. Obsession for details does not make for complexity or depth in an individual - something Jerod knows very well. For some reason, Vere's change of topic seems to please Jerod, but he does not explain why.

"What do you think?" Jerod asks, letting Vere ponder the question for a moment. "I walked the Pattern six months after my father brought me up from the waves. Before, he taught me how to survive the Pattern. Afterwards, he taught me about reality.

"Have you ever experienced Shadow? Not the power of travel, but the essence of what Shadow is?" Jerod appears to be waiting for Vere's reply before continuing. He would seem to be in the process of answering Vere's question.

Vere frowns. "I have travelled it," he says slowly. "And Father told me of it. I have listened to all those who have spoken of the Pattern, I have watched them as they use the powers it grants. I have a solid theoretical knowledge. But to experience it, to know what it is..." he pauses. "No," he says finally. "I do not think I can claim that understanding. Can anyone, who has not yet Walked?"

"Ever watch Folly when she sings?" Jerod asks. "She knows it, even if she has not yet walked it.

"Each of us defines it differently. For her it's music. Artistic endeavours are similar, treating it like the molding of modeller's clay. For some, they treat it as metaphysics, the occult. Some could use it mathematically."

"But I think we find the same thing regardless of how we come to understand it. Shadow, for all our ability to traverse it and find what we desire, is empty. It's the only explanation I have for why all of our uncles and aunts returned to Amber. If you could truly find what your heart's desire is, would you not do so? Most I think did, only to find that it wasn't real.

"In my long-winded way, that is how I would answer you. I think Pattern gives you the freedom to escape. To hide from reality, if you so choose. But does that release you from your obligations? Only you can answer that. It didn't for me. Nor would I have wanted it to. It would be a hollow freedom."

Vere nods. "I have heard a theory," he says, "That the Pattern makes us more what we already are, that it makes the core truth of our being more accessible, more real." He smiles. "Before I came to Amber, freedom was what I wanted. Freedom from the marriage my mother would eventually decide was politically advantageous, freedom from the expectations I believed my parents had for me, freedom from the limitations that my homeland placed upon what I could be. Now, as I face the prospect of gaining the power to give me that freedom, I find that those obligations have all been replaced by equally binding ones that I have chosen." He pauses and considers for a few moments before continuing, "And I find that I have no regrets. Strange, is it not?"

"That depends. Strange that you have no regrets, or that you have chosen obligations of your own choosing?" Jerod asks. "I would find neither strange. Rather it is your reality, chosen by you. Just as mine have been chosen by me, now that Amber is in many ways no more. I have the freedom to make my own mistakes, and garner my own rewards. I consider it part of growing up.

"I would advise you to be careful as to how many freedoms you think you might try to escape from or what you think might have been replaced. I once thought the same way. I return home knowing that all those options still await me. The difference is that it is my choice as to how I face those circumstances. If that is how freedom can be defined, by making your own choices about your future then perhaps you will achieve a freedom of sorts."

"Mmmm," Vere says. It sounds vaguely like agreement.