Klybesian Dinner

Her father's castle firmly behind her, Lilly moves along the shore road towards the northernmost part of his island realm, Bishop's Rock, where the fishermen are loyal but distant subjects. Here she should be able to get a boat to investigate the northerly sea lanes.

Brennan's tasks are similar, but run to the west-northwest of the island. Her path may be more likely to encounter those who do not love her father first, but his way should go through more of the unallied islands.

She is past the line her father's troops showed her on the maps--the furthest distance they regularly patrolled. Control out here is, at best, nominal. If the flag is in sight, then this is part of the Protectorate, but people here tend to rely on themselves, or so she was told.

A valley lies before her, with a few farmsteads visible and a few small herds of sheep in the meadows.

Lilly could go through the valley or around it. She's less likely to interact with the locals if she stays out of the valley, but it may be slower going.

Lilly takes a moment to survey the valley below. Any other time or place and she might be tempted to take the long way around. Not today. Today she needs to keep moving at a steady pace. Also, by not avoiding the locals, she may catch pieces of news or gossip that will aid her quest. With a deep breath and a nod of determination, she begins the decent.

She made sure to dress the part of a traveler... a male traveler. Luckily for her, her body type could easily be mistaken for a young man, especially while donning a heavy cloak. Her weapons remain covered but her hand does not stray far from the hilt of her sword. Lilly walks with a casual stride, taking care to blend into the background. She sticks to areas often tread to keep suspicions as bay. All the while, she remains alert to her surroundings. This would not be a good time to be caught off guard.

The valley looks to be a typical farming center, organized around a keep at the far end of the valley. The fertile valley is planted with crops, both for sustenance and for trading. There's a village on the slope near the castle and there are watchtowers to the south, near her position. There's no one in the watchtowers, as far as she can tell without approaching them. That may be normal in times of peace, if the threats all come from the North and the West.

The area doesn't seem to get many travelers, nor so few that her arrival is an event. She passes several shepherds and their flocks, at a distance. The flocks are being tended by younger boys, which may be unusual. It would be in The Tecys.

The path becomes a road as she descends and leads straight into the valley, beside a small river. It goes up to the village on the hillslope and the castle beyond.

As Lilly comes into the cultivated land, she sees a man with a plow in the field ahead of her; He is trying to free a stuck plow from the field he's tilling and hasn't noticed her.

Exiting from his appointment with Benedict, Fletcher asks a guard to escort him to an on-duty officer. Fletcher wastes no time introducing himself to the officer. Explaining that Benedict has asked him to assist Martin in running the fortress in Benedict's absence, Fletcher enacts a plan to shanghai the guard into an impromptu and deluxe inspection of Avalon. With a thoroughness that easily explains how he might have simply been away from Amber on a 1700-year errand he explores from dungeon to tower-top, perimeter to sanctum, asking about troop strength, equipment, and protocols.

Over the course of a long afternoon, Fletcher learns all that can be learned in a single inspection of Avalon Castle. From its perch on the edge of a dizzying cliff more than a half mile above the sea to the outer fortifications, it is a military machine, designed to provide protection and oversight to a large area beyond it. There are wells, and stores, and armories, and troops a plenty, and while it does not seem to have been built for gunpowder wars, it is very strong.

The troops are a mix of mounted and unmounted men, with class differences between the two types of soldiers. They seem well-trained and focused on their jobs. The knights are not, for the most part, resident in the castle during times of peace, although some few stay here year round. The soldiers are mostly farmers, but it is the duty of all man aged 13 and older to defend the realm at the Protector's call.

The soldier attempts to steer clear of anything Benedict might not want discussed, but cannot help but give away many details of the defense of the place by what he says and what he does not say. For instance, it is clear that Avalon does not have a Navy.

Dinner is a plain affair, as befits a monastic house. The stew is hearty and has some basic spice, but its richness is in the quality of the meat and not in the spices or exotic nature of the ingredients. There is beer, alcoholic enough to kill the bugs in the water, if there were any. The bread is crusty, but fresh, and there's even a little butter. At the table when Ossian (and Adreano, who follows in his wake) arrive are Hannibal and one other person: the Valkryie Regenlief, her few injuries bound and healed, wearing a robe of the sort the brothers wear, as if it was what they had to offer her.

She looks pleased to see Ossian. "I'd say well met again, but it's not truly well yet," she says. Hannibal eyes her and Ossian, waiting for his response.

Ossian smiles. "I hope you are not unhappy that I have bargained for your release?"

"I know what bargains here are worth, and how they are made." Regenlief looks sourly at Hannibal, whose smile is probably supposed to be benevolent but works out to be something far less in Ossian's estimation. "I hope you're happier with what you acquire than with what you've given away."

"I hope so, but I guess I will never be certain." "I do think both sides traded fairly.", he says turning half to Hannibal.

Adreano is merely observing for the moment, and Ossian suspects he's gathering material for something like an epic poem to be written after all this is over and he's safely away from the creepy monks.

Hannibal nods. "We are meticulous in abiding by our bargains, and in requiring those we bargain with to keep them as well." The monk pulls a watch from his pocket, looks at it, and frowns.

Another monk nods. "It is our duty." He introduces himself as Brother Emmanuel. "Will you be needing supplies for your journey? It is some distance to the next friendly outpost, in most directions."

"Food for the four of us for a few days would suffice."

"Would there be anything else of use?" Brother Emmanuel asks, looking at Adreano and Regenlief.

Adreano starts to say something, but Regenlief overrides him. "No. Thank you. I'd like my gear and our horses back, but if we are not being kept as prisoners, that shouldn't be a concern." She looks hard at Brother Hannibal.

There's a bit of a staring contest there that Hannibal can't be said to lose so much as to choose not to participate in any further. He looks away, and Regenlief looks at Ossian with grim satisfaction.

Brother Emmanuel seems to have taken it on himself to smooth matters. "When will you be leaving?" he asks, directing the question to the trio at large.

"As soon as I have shown you have to use the painting and visited Reid's grave." Ossian says. "He was dear to me and my family."

"I will take the lesson in using the painting," Hannibal says, as if there had been any question that he wouldn't grab it first.

Ossian simply nods.

"And I will make arrangements for your supplies," Brother Emmanuel adds agreeably. "And guide you to the grave of your friend. Will you be accompanying Lord Ossian on this visit?" he asks Adreano and Regenlief.

Adreano says, "If Ossian will have me."

"I would be disappointed if you didn't." Ossian says.

Regenlief looks to Ossian. "Someone should check on the supplies."

Ossian nods. "Do so."

Ossian suspects she is indifferent to the prospect of a grave visit, but could be persuaded easily to join him.

Once the meal is finished and Ossian and the company have eaten their fill, Regenlief and Brother Emmanuel depart to see to the matter of supplies for their departure. Adreano is torn between going with them and remaining with Ossian, and eventually settles upon the latter.

Hannibal leads Ossian, with Adreano tagging along, back to one of the study chambers like that where they first bargained for Regenlief. Once they are in the room, he produces the sketch. "Now, if you please, Lord Ossian, show me how we should use this painting to contact you, and anything else you think we should know to store and mantain it."

"Let's hope this does not give you headache. " Ossian says. "Take the card firmly in your right hand, like this, and concentrate on the image of me. Try not to get distracted, that could potentially break the card.

"I will then answer, unless I'm occupied. Don't get startled, you will see me as if I was right here."

Hannibal takes the sketch, and starts to move to the other end of the room as best he can, perhaps to provide some distance. "Should I attempt this now? Or do you think I can perform the magic involved without testing it? I assume it is safe." He thinks about that for a moment and adds, "For me."

"I am not sure it is totally safe. But I have not heard anyone dying either. I get headaches sometimes." Ossian grins "But I do believe you have a strong mind.

"But yeah, you should try it now, I guess."

Hannibal does move to the other end of the room, turning his back on Ossian, and then bends over the sketch, scowling and concentrating, trying to reach through the connection to make a proper contact. Ossian can feel the touch on his mind, tentatively, through the sketch.

Ossian answers, "See, it works."

[OOC: Some things here. You've got a potential trump connection to this guy and he's a normal and you're not, Ossian. Also we need to know now whether the sketch is good and solid or whether it's going to go poof at the end of this contact regardless.]

[Ok: In Ossian's experience, how dangerous is this to either party? The sketch is intended to be quite good and solid.]

[There is no danger in simply using the Trump as intended. However, if you wanted to do something twisty to Hannibal, it's not likely that Hannibal could defend himself. Ossian has no reason to suspect he's secretly an equal or a prince of the blood who was lost, is the point here. If there were any kind of Trump struggle, a la Corwin and Eric, Hannibal's odds would be low.

Given what you said about the sketch, it should survive.]

[No frying of minds now, no.]

Once the contact has been established, Hannibal and Ossian are able to speak briefly through the connection, before Ossian either terminates it or shows Hannibal how to do so by putting his hand over the card, depending on his preferences. Hannibal finds the card a marvel and, Ossian suspects, would wring another out of him if he could figure out a way how.

[Assuming there is no further instruction.]

Once the card is properly secured, Hannibal leads Ossian out into a terrace on the mountainside, with some relatively thick grass that Ossian suspects is magically cultivated. There are stone pathways marked with signs and markings that appear to be words. Hannibal tells Ossian that only outsiders to the Order are buried here; the members of the Order are cremated and their ashes are scattered on the sides of the mountain.

Hannibal leads Ossian to a particular patch of grass, and the pattern resolves as Hannibal shows him where the grave is. "This is where the remains of your kinsman Reid lie."

Ossian does not say anything for a long while. In the end he tears out a page of his sketch book, folds it into a small delicate flower, which he places on the grave. "We will miss you, old man." he says quietly. Then he is quiet again.

After an hour or so he turns around, and faces Adreano. "Time to go home".

Hannibal has left them to their own devices. Adreano has been writing, Ossian suspects, from the sounds of the scratch of the pen on parchment that Ossian has been hearing intermittently while he attends to the grave. When Ossian declares that it's time to leave, Adreano tears out a page and folds it to leave on Reid's grave, in tribute.

When they return to the mountain monastery, Regenlief has sent word that their supplies and steeds are ready to go, and she is waiting for them to pack their things and assemble. Given how they arrived, it's not as though there's much to pack, but they do gather their things and are ready to go.

Hannibal meets them in the courtyard to say their farewells.

[Oh. Firumbras. Ossian will certainly have him too. He's not a prisoner liek Regenlief, is he?]

[No, he didn't go into the Klybesian stronghold. He's been skulking around outside.]

Ossian will look for Firumbras. He feels Corwin might dislike if Ossian loses his knight.

Firumbras is waiting, camped some ways away from the entrance to the monastery. He greets the threesome with relief, questioning Ossian in particular but all three of them to a certain extent about how they are and what they've done, and what the monks may have done to them. Ossian can tell that while he has a certain trust in Ossian and less in Adreano and Regenlief, he's wary of what influences may have been exerted over them (magically and otherwise) while they were with the Klybesians, and what their gifts, including the supplies, may really be doing.

Ossian will tell Firumbras that he is worried too, although he did not see anyone doing anything strange to him.

He urges Ossian to return straightaway to Paris.

Although it perhaps can't properly be called a routine, Martin and Folly settle into the rhythms of parenting a newborn: the endless cycle of feedings and nappy-changes, getting to know the little one's moods and personality, marveling at her every new accomplishment (however modest), and catching sleep as they're able. Between-times, when she has the energy, Folly spends time sketching and painting. It's the one really useful thing she can do for the family right now -- and perhaps even more importantly, it gives Martin the chance to spend quality time bonding with his daughter.

One afternoon when the paints are put away and Lark is well-settled into a nap, Folly asks Martin, "Are you ready to try trumping Merle?"

Martin purses his lips; if his hair were still long enough, Folly thinks he might be pushing it out of his face, whether he needed to or not. "Not willing to put it off any longer now that you're telling me I shouldn't," He smiles tiredly--not a look Folly is used to seeing on her usually-tireless husband, but one that's become more common since he became father to an infant--and starts to pat himself down for his Trumps the way she's seen his father do a hundred times for cigarettes if she's seen it once.

Folly smiles, kisses him fondly on the cheek and taps his back pocket, where the outline of his trump case is easily visible to her, if not to him. "I think it's time to start trying, anyway," she replies. "If he really is out beyond the inflection point, it could take us a while to get through."

Almost as an afterthought, she runs her fingers through her own hair and checks to make sure the front of her shirt is not too visibly stained with anything. With the way they look, Merlin might think they'd been forced into hard servitude or something. Which, in a way, they have been.

Martin plucks his trumps out of his back pocket, in the position he fondly refers to as "butt tumor", and shuffles through them to find Merlin's card. He submits to Folly's grooming of him, and does a little of his own to Folly, though neither of them can do much about the lack of sleep.

"You know, I don't remember being this beat when I did this for Merle, but he was a decidedly independent little thing even when he was little. I'm not sure I knew him when he was as little as Lark, though. I came in early but not quite that early."

"Well," Folly muses, "for all that he came into being in the Ordered way, he is still partly of Chaos. I suspect he wasn't your typical little baby; it's possible he never properly was as little as Lark."

He has the card in hand to concentrate on it, but then he offers his hand to Folly, so she can be in the connection if she likes.

She takes it and gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Martin accepts the squeeze with a wry smile. Martin is difficult to read, but through the years, Folly has come to know him well. He's nervous. But not so nervous he won't man up and make the contact.

Merlin's face comes into view in the connection. It's all they can see for the moment. "Martin," he says, and adds after a moment, "Folly. How do you fare? Is all well?" He sounds a little worried, perhaps, or maybe that's just Folly feeling him through the connection.

"We're fine. Better than, in fact. Folly has given birth to our daughter. Her name is Lorelei, but everybody calls her Lark, not least because she can sing pretty loudly." Martin quirks up a smile.

"That she can," Folly agrees with a chuckle. More seriously, she adds, "We haven't told very many people yet -- only those who were here in Avalon when she was born. But we wanted you to be among the first to hear the news." She smiles warmly at him through the contact.

Merlin returns her smile, though through the connection, Folly suspects he's feeling mixed emotions about this whole business. "Ah, yes, I knew her time of birth must have come. Congratulations to you both." He falls silent there, as if he doesn't know what to say. Perhaps he doesn't; it's not as if Merlin has a lot of experience with the Ordered social rituals surrounding new life.

"Thanks, Merle," Martin says, and smiles back, though Folly can feel his concern, too. "How have you been?"

"I am well," Merlin says. "I have travelled with Vere, and been beyond the Tree to visit Madoc." He leaves that lying there for all that he has to know it's going to spark a lot of questions.

Folly nods. "Vere was hoping to find something to help with his father's healing, yes? How did that go?" It's a topic she is genuinely deeply interested in -- but both men may also notice she has picked a question that is not quite so personally fraught for either of them, as if to ease them into the conversation.

"I am not certain." Merlin's expression matches the sense of confusion Folly feels through the connection. "I believe he was convinced that shapeshifting was less valuable to his purpose than sorcery, but I am not convinced that he has achieved all that he desires. Still, he has had a basic grounding in the principles from myself and my teacher." Which at least is something of a relief to Merlin.

He continues with less-reassuring news. "Also we encountered Saeth. She has left Madoc and was planning to travel beyond the Tree. Like her parent, I believe she may be seeking the Pattern."

It's hard to get a sense of where Merlin is or what he's doing. He hasn't yet released the close focus on his person.

"Ah. Well." Folly's concern at that news is evident in her voice, and in the small crease that appears between her brows. "Do we know which ones she knows about?" That question is directed as much at Martin -- who has probably already thought much on it and related topics in regards to Aisling -- as at Merlin.

"Assume she knows or at least can guess about Amber, Rebma, and Tir," Martin says. "And if she's picked up the pattern there--of Patterns, that is--she'll figure out Xanadu and Paris pretty quickly too." Folly can hear the sigh there and Merlin can probably feel it, even if he can't hear it with his ears.

"I concur with Martin's analysis, although I suspect Saeth is driven as much by curiosity as by any other motive. I would not," Merlin says, "assume she comes to destroy."

"We can't assume she doesn't, though, either," Martin replies drily.

"No," Folly agrees with a wry smile, "but I would prefer to remain cautiously optimistic, with perhaps an extra dose of caution."

To Merlin she asks, "Do you know what means of travel she is using or planning to use? I know Aisling had some skill with shapeshifting, but didn't get the sense she possessed the kind of sorcery she'd need to make that journey without the benefit of Trumps or Pattern-based shadow-shifting."

Merlin shakes his head. "In the absence of the Black Road, I cannot say. And I do not know whether she could have taken advantage of the Road as she was created, much less as she is now."

"She could hit the natural paths," Martin offers, but he doesn't sound sanguine. "Maybe she's got Trumps? Do you think she could make them, Merle?"

Though the contact is tightly framed, still, Folly can see that Merlin is shaking his head in the negative. "Not to my knowledge. She might have acquired a trump from someone else. Not me; all mine are intact. But perhaps she acquired one from one of Madoc's other guests."

"Oh? Who else was a guest there?" Folly asks. For the moment she sits on her deep curiosity about where Merle is right now; perhaps the rest of his tale of what happened at Madoc will provide additional clues.

"Weyland Smith was at Madoc, and before you ask, to what purpose he was visting my old teacher, I do not know. But Vere and I both spoke with him before he departed Madoc. Nor do I know by what manner he came or departed, or maintained himself. But he is a being of power, and Real in his own right, based on those things alone, never mind the collected power that he may have obtained if the legends of him are true. You can imagine why," Merlin says, "I might think he had a Trump to give to Saeth."

Martin, ever the voice of caution, asks, "Yeah, but what would it cost her?"

"That is a very good question," Merlin replies.

"As I recall," Folly says, "her progenitor was not always as concerned with cost and consequence as she perhaps should have been." She offers a tight, sad smile, shakes her head minutely, and continues, "If he did have a trump to offer, and we assume it was of his own hand, that at least limits where she might go next to places or people Weyland knew well enough to draw. The holders of Weyland's swords I would expect to have enough power and sense to know how to deal with a call from an unexpected source." She does not add '...unless Saeth has picked up some feminine wiles somewhere and tries to use them on Corwin,' if only because that particular tactic didn't seem to have been in Aisling's wheelhouse. Well, and she doesn't want to offend Merlin by taking a jab at his father, however good-naturedly, either.

"Deirdre's children, on the other hand...." She frowns thoughtfully. "It might be worth warning them if we think Weyland could have pointed Saeth toward one of them. And Celina and Caine, in case she's wound up with a trump of Amber or Rebma or thereabouts." She peers through the trump contact at Merlin. "Merle, where are you now?"

From the impatient feel of Martin's mind in the contact, Folly can tell that he's got some ideas he's considering, but he defers to her question and leaves an expectant space for Merlin to answer.

"I am on my way to the shadow known as Abford, where Huon once reigned, to make a Trump of that place, at Random's request. I understand there are some people he would like to see returned here, and he wishes it to be done by a Trump. Otherwise our cousin Hannah might have to travel here in person, and Random prefers that she not, for some reason." Merlin seems uncertain of the whys and wherefores, but not of the task.

"That's where Meg's from," Martin reminds Folly. "And Ossian."

Folly nods. "I guess Ossian is indisposed, then? He may already have a working sketch of Abford, or could probably put one together from memory." She pauses and glances at Martin, to give him a chance to give voice to those concerns she can feel itching away in his mind.

"I had not thought of that," Merlin admits, shamefaced, like a puppy caught making a mess. "But in any case I should not like to deprive Ossian of his sketch. I will go and make a full trump, and when it is done, I can give it to him as a gift if he wishes it. I can imagine that he would like a Trump of the place where he matured."

Martin's still on the question of the need this trump. "This is for Hannah because ... is she in charge of removing all the shadow-dwellers in Huon's army?" He frowns. "Somebody needs to go out there and remake their myth cycle so Huon can't pull the same trick again in a generation or three."

"Perhaps," Merlin replies, but he doesn't sound certain.

"Maybe THAT would be a good assignment for Ossian," Folly suggests. "Re-writing myths would suit both his artistic temperament and his sense of mischief -- and he would know enough about the old myths of that place to weave something consonant.

"As to why Hannah is going...." Folly gives a little shrug. "I know some of her people joined up with Huon's army, but I'd gotten the sense they were planning to settle near Xanadu. Perhaps not all of them are staying." She doesn't sound so certain about that, though.

"I'll ask Dad if I really need to know." Martin dismisses that concern for the moment. "Anyhow, be careful. That place has had enough people go through it that it's got some heft to it now. It may draw people in on its own, and that's always worth keeping an eye on."

Merlin nods, and his agreement comes through the connection. "And where are you? Perhaps when I finish, I should come to see my newest cousin."

There's hesitation from Martin through the connection, and Folly senses that Martin would rather let her field that question. Or maybe just not answer it.

"You should come visit, but perhaps not here. We don't expect to be in our uncle's realm much longer." Folly hopes that Merlin catches the inclusive 'our', the hint that they are neither in his father's city or Random's. She's not certain what instinct keeps her from saying Benedict's name aloud; some transferred paranoia of being overheard by those who shouldn't know where they are, perhaps. At the very least, she remembers Merlin's experience of his Patternwalk and would spare him those unpleasant memories as much as she can, while giving him the clues to work out where they are. "Our plan after this is to spend a little time farther away from Family influences -- that generation's, anyway -- while we get used to being our own family."

"Yeah, if you want to come meet Lark, you should drop us a Trump, or we can Trump you again once we get settled in where we're going." Martin doesn't seem inclined to say where he means for them to go either.

"I believe I would like that," Merlin says, finally unbending a little. He doesn't seem to be prodding at Martin's mental defenses as best as Folly can tell, but maybe he's getting something from Martin she's not, or maybe he reads something from him that she doesn't through long experience. "Do you know when you will be arriving at the new location?"

"Difficult to say," Folly replies. "I'm eager for us to be on our way, but our host has taken off on a brief errand and our presence here may be useful until he returns. I don't think he means to be gone long." She glances at Martin to see if his understanding matches hers.

Martin nods, once. "Once he gets back and things settle down, we should be on our way. Apparently there's some local skirmishing going on--you know how our uncle likes that--" a comment which should clarify which uncle it is "--and once he gets that whipped into shape, and Folly and Lark are ready to travel, we'll be moving on. We don't know how long that'll be yet, because Folly's never travelled with a baby before." He half-smirks fondly in Folly's general direction and lets her answer that in case she has an opinion.

"No, but you have, and I can always improvise," Folly say with a grin. To Merlin she says, "We'll plan to trump you when we get to the new place, or to let you know if it looks like we'll be detained here longer than expected. Or of course you're always welcome to trump us if you need to or want to," she adds with a friendly smile.

Silhouette spends her first day in Paris basking like a lizard in the sun in her hotel's jardin sur le toit. The open air and warm sun are a blessed relief after Rebma's intolerable cold and darkness. A soft breeze drifts over her skin, rich with perfumed scents; magnolias, hawthorns, hibiscus, and lilies. Beyond the polished stone railings, the city stretches out in an exquisite landscape of charcoal blue roofs, statuary, and glimmering glass. Streets sounds echo like distant music, lulling her to the edge of slumber. It is a paradise.

And she indulges herself guiltlessly, shamelessly -- despite the pressing matters at hand.

Paris. A dangerous place to travel, considering her mother's ever-presence. Yet, it was for her mother's sake she'd come. As well as her own. Llewella had been correct. The embers of treachery needed to be extinguished, lest they spark to life again.

She'd written Corwin before ascending the Great Stairs, requesting a meeting with him to discuss family matters -- in a place and time of his choosing. The trip itself remained under the pretense of trade -- specifically to expand her burgeoning garment industry. Parisian haute couture certain did provide her with inspiration, as well as opportunity.

Silhouette. Perceptor of the Grand Design. Murderer of Worlds.

Fashion Designer.

Silhouette laughs to herself. That irony remains as deliciously amusing as the first time she'd tasted it on her tongue. Mother would be so pleased. Hah.

The white French doors behind her quietly open quietly -- announcing someone's arrival on the rooftop. She does not look to see her visitor. This sanctuary is private. Their purpose -- for good or ill -- is fated. One must trust in the Grand Design and the Inevitable. And welcome them freely.

She raises her glass, "Kali mera."

Corwin, King of Paris, is a Power. Not like Celina, not even like Huon, who carries himself with a solidity that even Celina can aspire to. Huon should hope to be such a manner of being as this man. He's dressed in black, black as his hair, in some form of military uniform adapted for fancy dress, all chased in silver. The emblem is that of silver roses. At his side hangs a silvery blade that, to Silhouette's eyes, is also a Power.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he returns in the language of Paris. Then he switches to Thari. "Welcome to Paris, kinswoman. What can Paris do for you?"

Silhouette rises from her chair, curtsying. The sunlight shimmers through her sheer dress, outlining her every curve.

"Your Highness," she says, smiling warmly. "Thank you for seeing me today. Please, share some wine with me? I can have food brought, if you've not eaten yet." She gestures to the lawn chair beside her, and waits until he joins her.

Corwin settles in after a moment. His ease with the blade he wears is remarkable, even in a difficult seating situation. It's almost as if the blade conforms to his needs.

Silhouette takes note of the blade, but reserves her interest – lest she be distracted from her current Purpose.

"I have a few questions regarding the Family, which my aunt suggested you may be able to answer," she explains. "Specifically. My mother. While she denies my identity, this belief does not alter the past. Someone -- perhaps close to her -- attempted to harm her by destroying her family. Whether they chose for me to be hidden as a slave remains to be determined. In either case, this hostile action required considerable influence -- and likely skill with Pattern-manipulation. Such skills are... exclusive."

She tilts her head, "Who would possess such skills, as well as the desire to turn them against my mother?"

"Any of our brothers or sisters, now living or dead, could have done it," Corwin says at once, "as, depending on the timing, could a number of your cousins. Opportunity is a function of age. Means is a function of the family gifts. Motive is trickier. Of my generation, Dee got along worst with her of the girls. She's gone now." And a brief shadow passes over his face there before he rsumes speaking. "Of my brothers, the one who had the least use for her was Random. That doesn't make either of them guilty. Finding the culprit on motive would be the hardest part."

"Indeed," Silhouette says. "Regrettably, I lack the background information to formulate a working hypothesis on motivation. This puts me at a distinct disadvantage, in many regards."

She pours him a glass of wine, "Would Random or Deirdre have hated my mother to the point of committing familicide? Or your Father? It had been suggested he might have tried to control my mother by eliminating a... distraction. She was called away just before the attack. I've always wondered why."

"Hard to say. We've all done terrible things, but that seems extreme even for Random." Of Deirdre, Corwin has nothing to say. "Now Dad, Dad had reasons for doing things I still don't entirely understand. But in my experience, he's acted to preserve the younger generations: Martin and Merlin to start with.

"But he's--he was--bitterly ruthless. He might not have had you killed, but he might've had you toughened up for something he never got around to finishing. And he wouldn't have explained it to anyone else, either, if he did it that way. Does Macy's tell Gimbel's?" he asks, but it was clearly a rhetorical question, because he continues: "So motive isn't obvious. And they could have been waiting for a moment when your protector was called away."

Silhouette raises a brow at this, "Your sister mentioned Oberon may have been involved. One might temper a weapon in the fires. But a weapon must possess Purpose. To what end might he have used me? I know little of the Before."

She frowns, "However, she also hinted that this person might remain in the Eternal Game. And remain a threat to my Mother. It is to this end I came to you."

Corwin ponders that for a few moments. "I like to think that changed after the war. Dad's gone and Brand--whom I could have believed it of because of other things he did--is gone. But if he'd gone after you to use you, given his history, things would have worked out a little differently. I can't discount that someone in the family is still plotting against you, or against Flora--" whom Corwin seems to be willing to at least concede is whom Silhouette means, whether he's acknowledging her as a parent or not "--but supposedly when the Unicorn chose Random, that put all the quarrels to the death among the family at an end.

"There were some people who weren't present, either at the end or at Random's coronation. I can't say they were formally excluded from the family pact, particularly the ones who took oath at the coronation. But Huon, and some of my other missing siblings? But most of them are dead."

Silhouette gives a slight nod. "The first option troubles me more than a conscious enemy. Perhaps, Oberon set something into motion prior to his death. Now, untended, the Machinery continues to run -- moving toward its dire conclusion. He may have placed agents of that Design in Shadow, who are unaware of his demise. They will fulfill their Purpose without ever knowing they have been discharged of their Duty. Such an enemy cannot be disposed of easily. And the only Player aware of this Design is unavailable for comment."

A sip from her glass, then she continues. "Huon discovered me for my talents, not my ancestry. With his Pattern abilities, he could have located another Artificer. It seems unlikely he would bother himself with a Vendetta, simply to hone me into a useful tool for his plans. Had that been so, he'd more likely have turned me against Bleys than my mother. Still, he plays games within games. I will not underestimate him.

"You said 'most of them are dead.' May I ask which still live and might have animosity toward Mother?"

Corwin nods. "You may ask. The answer is 'unknown' on both counts. On the former, most of us thought Huon was dead. Most of us thought Ben was dead. Most of us--not your mother--thought I was dead for a long time. Assume none of us are dead unless you've not only seen the body, but watched whoever it was die." He smiles, and it's not particularly nice. "I saw Caine's body, but he still managed to turn up afterwards.

"For those of us who took oath to Random, the new dispensation should, in theory, wipe out old sins. But that wouldn't apply any of my brothers or sisters who didn't take oath to Random. Until they do, they wouldn't necessarily consider Random's wishes binding."

A thin smile forms -- like ice upon a dark pond. "If such a person is unbound, does this mean they also remain without the King's protection? Would Random simply turn a blind eye to familial... indiscretions? If they could be justified, of course." The chill deepens. "My brother was murdered with little protestation. I desire to be more proactive in my self-preservation."

"The thing about family murders," Corwin explains, "is that they're generally committed by family members. Dad was picky about that kind of thing. He exiled Huon, and we've seen what good that did him. Eric just lost an edge in the succession." He smirks. "And he didn't even kill me, as it turned out.

"I wouldn't say Lucas' death has gone unremarked or unprotested. Moire will never be allowed to regain her throne. Killing her might be a problem as my daughter might protest, since she is, after all, my daughter's mother. Random has his own reasons to hate her, but she's his son's grandmother. There has been pursuit of her meant to bring her to justice, such as it is. And exile from the center of things is its own punishment."

At this information, Silhouette blinks. Then frowns. Anger or frustration? Maybe both. This connection had never been made known to her until now. But it Illuminated certain discrepancies that had been nagging her of late.

"But yes, be proactive. Not murderously so. Random may not avenge murder with fire and sword, but he's made his position clear. If you think you're a target, though--" and Corwin smiles as he relaxes a little in his seat, crossing his legs "--you'd be a fool not to."

Silhouette nods in reply, then steeples her fingers against her angular chin -- contemplating in statuelike silence. It doesn't last long; her eyes capturing his once again. "There are two targets at this point -- myself and Mother. However, only one of us recognizes this connection. Or chooses to recognize it. This threat would be more easily countered if she -- at the very least -- allowed for the possibility of our mutual bond in her reasoning."

She tilts her head, "I hold no love for her. But she is my mother. Is there no chance of reconciliation? Even in the face of mutual destruction?"

Corwin shrugs. "I never say never. But the universe is a funny place. She's very convinced you're not who you think you are." He shifts to lean forward in his chair a little, and there's a slight sound of the blade moving as he does. "People tend to give my sister too little credit for her cleverness. Maybe someone has lied to you.

"The thing is, there's only one real test of who and what you are. But it proves that you're Family, or not. It couldn't prove that you're a particular person's daughter. And if you're wrong, or if you fail it, Silhouette, there's no second chance. It's fatal."

"The Pattern," Silhouette says -- a hint of reverence echoing in her voice. "Yes, I desire to traverse its pathways. For many reasons, not the least of which is to better serve your daughter. And, perhaps, I shall discover Enlightenment in the process. Answers that elude me." She tightens her grip on the chair's arm. "And remove Doubt of who or what I am."

She lifts her chin, meeting her uncle's gaze. "I am fully aware that true Enlightenment can come at the greatest Cost. I will pay it, if necessary."

Corwin draws in a breath to answer Silhouette, but then holds up a hand. "Bide," he tells her, and then, "Who calls?"

To the far end of the contact, Ossian can sense that Corwin has accepted the contact, and see some of the background. He is on a rooftop garden, sitting at a table; Ossian cannot see whom he is across the table from.

"Ossian, with companions."

"Ah, Ossian. How are you? What have you learned?"

"Could you pull us through? I am not sure we are not overheard here. There's four of us."

Silhouette leans back, sipping her drink. A faint smile warms her lips. It has been some time since she spoke with her cousin.

Corwin comes to his feet and steps away from the table. "As long as you're not bringing any horses. We're on a rooftop here. I'm hoping you've got Sir Firumbras and your friend the poet. Is Reid the fourth of your number? What about the girl who was travelling with him?" But Corwin's already reaching to bring Ossian and his companions through to join him and Silhouette.

"None of them. A woman with ties to our family, and to Asgard." Then he starts to send his friends through.

Arriving on Ossian's trump are three others. First, there's a man of some slightly demihuman background, accoutered as a knight from a technological era that is much less sophisticated than Corwin's Paris to Silhouette's eye. Corwin greets him as Firumbras. Second, there's a woman, dressed and armed somewhat similarly to Firumbras, whom he introduces as Regenlief. She is clearly unknown to Corwin. Third is a young man whom Corwin greets with a friendly demeanor as Adreano. He is armed lightly, with a fencing blade, and not armored at all. Then Ossian steps though.

When he comes through, he will bow to Corwin and smile widely at the sight of Silhouette.

"Cousin. This is a pleasant surprise."

Silhouette stands, draping a silk pareo around her. She smiles at her cousin -- her chilly disposition warming. "Ossian. It has been too long. I hope you are well. Forgive me for not contacting you earlier."

Ossian shakes his head. "It might be that we were lucky not having more competence."

She examines the others before offering each a reserved smile in kind.

Firumbras bows, Adreano bows, and Regenlief nods politely.

Corwin speaks to Firumbras. "Would you like to take Regenlief and Adreano to the Louvre, Firumbras? Alice can get them settled for the moment." He glances sidewise at Ossian to be sure this is all right with him.

Ossian nods. When Firumbras has left, he sits down. "Reid is dead. At least that is what the Klybesian monks say."

Silhouette frowns slightly at this revelation. She casts a glance in Corwin's direction. At least she didn't have to deliver the bad news.

Corwin's face falls a little. Even though he must have expected it, he seems not to have expected it. "Did we have any witnesses? Are we sure it was Reid, and not a shadow of him? What about the girl who was with him? Did you talk to her?" The rush of questions stops there, though, and Corwin bows his head, shaking it slowly, beore looking back at Ossian. "I'm sorry. I know you've done the best you can. And I know he was your friend as well. Tell me what happened, and what you know."

When Corwin bows his head, Silhouette reaches over and lightly touches her uncle's shoulder. She might be a creature of clockwork sympathies, but even she realizes it is the human thing to do. A soft smile and nod follow.

She turns to Ossian, "Might I pour you a drink, cousin?"

"Yes, please. Not something too strong. " Ossian says.

"He was already in the earth when I got there, so we do not know for sure. But the Klybesians seem rather knowledgeable. It's harder to know if they are lying. They have the woman, although I did not get to talk to her. Have you been to that place?" Ossian asks.

Silhouette remains silent, hovering at the periphery of the conversation unobtrusively. She pours Ossian a glass of dry wine -- its bouquet carrying a hint of summer.

Ossian nods. "Thanks, cousin."

Corwin glances at Silhouette as she offers him her consolatory caress.

"No, I haven't, and it would be unwise for me to go." His eyes narrow then, and he straightens. "But someone else may have to go. I want that girl back, as she is a citizen of Paris and the friend of my nephew. I'll need to consult with Random about this and we'll need to have a memorial at some point. And if he comes back, afterwards, it wouldn't be the first time. Reid seems like the sort who'd enjoy sitting on his own cenotaph and composing." Corwin says that last with a tight smile.

Silhouette dips her head, and then returns to her chair. "Has it been stated how he came to his end? Is it even known? I believe he intended to return to his Grandmother's homeland. Did he, at least, succeed in that beforehand?"

"All knowledge I have is from what the Klybesians told me. Since their business is the trade of information I do however think that they would not stray too far from the truth." Ossian sighs. "They said someone murdered him, they don't know who. I think this Pappilon, who is in their custody maybe knows more.

"I did not think I could afford to bargain for her release at that time. I felt honour demanded that I get Regenlief out. She was in our company, and seems to be the mother of an Amberite, although I have not interrogated her about that yet. I'm not sure she's trustworthy."

"Even if they're telling the truth as they know it, that doesn't mean they know for certain the man in the grave is Reid. I've made that mistake once myself." Corwin is still looking grim, but less than he was.

"Now let's talk about Regenlief, the mother of an Amberite, or so you say." He glances sideways at Silhouette for a moment before turning his attention back to Ossian. "Tell me about her. Whose mother do you think she is?" He seems to expect that his other questions may be answered in the story of that one.

Ossian smiles, "Most mothers are accounted for. Silhouette's denies, or has that changed? Mine is unknown. But I would be surprised if we have seen all Amberites yet.

"According to the monks she is a Valkyrie out of Asgard."

Silhouette shakes her head, "Oh, she denies still. Most vehemently from what I am told." She idly brushes some hair from her cheek.

"Another Youngling murdered. This is becoming a trend," she says, looking over at Corwin.

"The universe is a dangerous place," Corwin answers Silhouette. "I did mention that the family thought I was dead. They even put up a cenotaph. Ben, Huon, now Reid, who might be my nephew but has lived longer than many of my brothers. And we still don't know how he got there, if that's even really him. It's something to worry about, but not to lay blame or plan a vendetta over: not yet, anyway."

He turns his attention back to Ossian. "Florimel is still convinced her child died. She could be wrong--or, Silhouette, you could be. You wouldn't be the first one to be misled by stories about an Amberite who proved not to be the woman the speaker thought she was. That doesn't solve the question of who Regenlief's child was--other than not Silhouette." Corwin is looking at Ossian now, to see what he has to say to that.

Ossian nods. "I will ask her what she knows about her offspring, now that we are here. Needless to say: I don't trust her, for some reason I find her a bit dodgy."

Silhouette raises a brow at this, "I am willing to entertain that I am somehow cuckoo-born, as unlikely as the case may be. And any supporting proof was likely lost during my rebirth." A faint pause. "As we discussed, the Pattern may reveal that which is hidden to all. But until then..."

She turns to Ossian, "For a woman to unsettle you, cousin, she must be cagey indeed. At least your heart will be guarded to her charms." A playful smile curls the corners of her mouth.

Corwin is still giving Ossian that considering look. "Well, if she's a relative, even just on the maternal side, you probably don't want to get too closely involved with her anyhow." If he's thinking of Bleys and Folly's mother, he doesn't have anything to say on that specific point. "It doesn't tend to end well."

He doesn't ask why Ossian doesn't trust her, but perhaps that's not something he wants to ask just now, or in present company.

Ossian grins. "Don't worry. She is not my type."