It occurs to Garrett suddenly in the middle of dinner that he's never been assigned rooms in Castle Amber. Back on that first day - the one that he's so often wished he could do over - he and the King agreed that he would live at... _home_. The word reverberates up and down Garrett's spine. It takes all his effort to cover his reaction. He manages it by concentrating on the main course.
_HOME!_ He's home. Garrett had trumped directly to the funeral from Xanadu with the King and Queen. When he accompanied Martin back to the castle, they'd been in a heated discussion. It is only now, over dinner, that he's finally been relaxed enough to think about it. Garrett suppresses a shiver of excitement. _HOME!_
He knows what he needs to do. He's felt guilty about it since the moment he rode out of the stables without saying goodbye. And he's begun to question the reason why he shouldn't do it - that contacting his family would put them in danger. It made sense at first, but later, when he was in his own rooms thinking about it, there was one glaring error in the logic. His mother had already made her relationship to Garrett and Random clear. Loudly, publicly, _embarrassingly_ clear. Obviously any Rebman spy worth his salt now had that information as well. Visiting his mother could not possibly put Garrett's family in any more danger than it was already in.
After dinner, Garrett engages briefly in the expected small talk with family members, using his best "holding-a-royal-flush" poker manner to keep from fidgeting. Gradually, he backs out of the conversations and works his way toward the door. Once there, he exits, with a vague explanation of "long day, turning in" if anyone asks.
In the hallway, Garrett strides quickly toward the rear entrance of the palace. He exits with a Martin-like wave to the guards on duty, who had snapped to attention at his approach. He descends the wide, curving stair and passes the familiar fountain on his way toward the southern end of the gardens. There he finds the trail that leads toward the stables.
Garrett knows this trail well. Even in the dark without a moon, he finds it easily. He could walk it in his sleep. In his years growing up at the castle, he had seen many a Prince of Amber use the trail to avoid prying eyes on their way to and from the stables. He never imagined he'd one day be one of them.
[For reference, see Chapter 1 of _Sign of the Unicorn._ :)]
Before reaching the exercise area near the stables, Garrett takes a smaller path off to the right. Best not to be seen about the stables. That could get difficult. This cut-off path leads directly to the Quarters. Again, he knows it like he knows his own name.
Near the end of the path but still concealed by the underbrush, Garrett stops. Before him lay the small community of thatched cottages and row-buildings where he spent most of his youth. The servants' quarters. At this time of the evening, well after supper, these early-rising working folk are usually settling in for the night. There's generally not much activity, but Garrett decides not to take any chances.
Thankful that he's already wearing black, Garrett removes his cloak and turns it inside-out, so anyone who happens to notice him will see the drab side, not the velvety one. He scuffs up his shiny new boots with dirt from the path and messes up his hair. Then he waits.
Once the dirt paths around the buildings are empty, Garrett leaves the cover of the bushes and follows the edge of the clearing to the point where he can finally see his parents' cottage.
Everything looks normal.
Garrett can no longer suppress his grin. He strides across the clearing purposefully, but with his head low and shoulders hunched to hide his face in case anyone comes outside. At his parents' door, he stomps the dirt off his feet out of habit and almost walks right in, but stops himself. A quiver of uncertainty grips him. What if Dad was demoted...or worse? No. Lucas's note said the "Master of Horse" and his family were fine. They should still be here. Garrett raps on the door and calls softly, "Mum? Dad? It's me. Garrett."
The door opens, and his mother's face appears. She starts crying, and drags him in, shutting the door behind him before she pulls him into a fierce maternal hug. He can hear his sisters squealing his name excitedly before they almost bowl him and his mother over.
No dragging is necessary - Garrett almost bounds through the door. Once inside, he hugs his mum with the same strength that used to make her arch her shoulders to get him to loosen up. Joyful tears stream freely down his cheeks. All the while, he comforts her. "It's all right, Mum. I'm fine. No one ever hurt me."
When he releases her, she holds him at arm's length for a moment to see how he's been.
And indeed he is fine. He's dressed in new black garments and riding boots. A dark green, velvety cloak is draped inside-out around his shoulders, half-concealing the sparkling short sword that hangs at his hip. There's no sign that he's been harmed in any way. If anything, he's put on a little weight since he left. His shoulders and arms feel firmer.
He releases his mother and turns to Faith, lifting her clear off the ground for an airborne hug.
Faith shrieks with delight and glee.
Then it's Maggie's turn. He squats down to her level and takes a moment to look deeply into his baby sister's eyes. "It's all right, love. None of this was your fault," he smiles comfortingly. Then he whisks her off her feet and tosses her a foot or so into the air in the game that always made Maggie squeal gleefully and Anna cringe.
If Anna is cringing, Maggie's cries make it all better.
After a couple of tosses, he holds his sister on his hip like a seasoned big brother and looks around at the cottage. "Is Dad here, too?" he asks, then adds with a hopeful grin, "And is there any dessert?" Mum always did make the best berry pies.
"Faith, go get your brother the last of the pie. Maggie, you go help her."
As Maggie starts to wriggle out of his grasp, Garrett puts her down.
The two girls run across the room squealing as Anna continues, "Your father's helping with foalwatch tonight. He won't be home until very late, if at all. He said he might sleep at the stables."
She stops and looks Garrett over again, pressing her lips together. Glancing at the girls, she lowers her voice. "It's just as well. He won't approve."
Garrett looks briefly surprised, then concerned. "Why not? What did he tell you?" he asks quietly.
"Not of you. Of this," Anna says, hesitating for a moment and then taking the plunge.
"I have all my things packed up. I'm ready to go. You and I can leave here now, and then that son of a bitch who sired you can't steal you again. It's a sacrifice, but it's what I have to do to keep the family together , so I will. Are you ready, Garrett?" she asks breathlessly.
For a moment, Garrett is simply stunned. He blinks and opens his mouth to speak, but the words just don't come. Finally, he holds up his hands and shakes his head in disbelief. "Whoa! Whoa! Hold on."
He glances frantically back to the girls, then takes his mother by the shoulders firmly. "What are you, daft?" he hisses. "You can't leave Dad and the girls. And you can't go with me. 'Least not yet."
The girls are preoccupied with getting pie for the moment, but they'll be back soon enough.
Anna wriggles out of Garrett's grasp.
Physically restraining his mother is something Garrett would rather do only as a last resort. Instead, he lets her wriggle free, but steps over to place himself between her and the door.
Anna continues to argue.
"They'll come with us. Your father will know where we've gone. We don't have a lot of time, Garrett. Someone will notice you're gone." Her tone has taken on urgency, and Faith looks over at the two of them.
"Is it time to go yet?" she calls over to Garrett and Anna.
"No one's going anywhere," he tells his sister in the authoritative tone he's heard Donovan use many times before. To emphasize that fact, he drops the bar on the door with a loud thud and steps back against it. Anyone wanting to leave will have to bodily move a strong, young Amberite.
The girls stop what they're doing at the noise of the bar falling into place.
Turning back to his mother, he says in the same tone, "I'm gonna explain some things to you. First, he didn't _steal_ me. I was working. Second, if you'll just be _patient,_ it's likely you'll _all_ be coming to Xanadu once the place is readied. And third, I'm not a child anymore." His voice softens a bit. "I'm old enough to make me own choices, Mum, and I _want_ to go back."
Anna looks stricken as she steps back toward the girls. Sensing something is wrong, Maggie toddles to her mother, with Faith hot on her heels. Anna gathers the girls into her skirts as she says bitterly, "I should have known. It's too late. He's turned your head with all his fancy talk. You've gone up the hill for good."
Garrett sighs and his shoulders sag. He knew she'd take it the wrong way. He shakes his head and gives her a small smile. "Mum, if that was true, I wouldn't be here," he reassures her calmly. "I missed you like you wouldn't believe. But it's a job. That's how I'm lookin' at it. It's no diff'rent than if I became a Ranger and went off to Arden. I'd still be gone."
"It's not just a job," she says. Freeing one hand from Faith's hair, she gestures up and down at Garrett's garb. "Look at you. You've got more money on your back than your father sees in half a year. No job dresses you like that. I've seen what the Rangers wear; it's no different from what your father wears. This--this is how he's taking you away from us. With fine things that the likes of me can't give you." Her shoulders sag slightly and she draws Faith and Maggie in closer.
Garrett scrunches up his nose as he glances down at his outfit. "This? It's just fancy livery. It's not even comfortable," he lies.
He takes a cautious step toward her. "Mum, I don't care about _things_," he explains earnestly. "He can't give me what you did. He never held me when I was scared, or patched me up when I got hurt. _You_ did. Even if I'm not with you, he'll never take you away from me. Not really. He can't." He holds out a hand to her, trying to breach the impasse as he gazes at her encouragingly.
His mother looks like she's about to cry. But Garrett's words seem to reassure her. "Then you'll come with me?" she asks hopefully, letting go of Maggie's hair to extend a hand toward him.
Garrett takes her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. His smile is more apologetic than acquiescent, though. "I would if I could, Mum, but it's not that simple. I've got things to do here. Important things - that are gonna keep people safe. I can't skip out when I'm needed here." For all that Garrett's spent the last two weeks in the company of the enemy, Anna notices how much he still sounds like Donovan when he speaks of duty.
Tears begin to leak from the corners of his mother's eyes. "The girls and I need you too, Garrett, and so does your father."
Garrett wraps his mother lovingly in his arms, and includes his sisters in the embrace if they wish to be. "I know," he murmurs into her hair as she weeps. "I know."
[Assuming Anna doesn't pull away and the girls just cling and cry]
Garrett is silent for a moment, and as he rests his chin against her hair, Anna feels the slight jaw clench that her son always used to control his own feelings. When Garrett speaks again, he takes a different approach. "Mum?" he asks gently as he continues to hold her. "What were you gonna do when I grew up? How would you have let go then?"
Anna pulls away enough to look up. She looks angry as she wipes stray tears from her eyes, but her voice doesn't betray it when she speaks. "If you'd gone to sea or something, that would be different. The sea wouldn't try to take you away like he's done."
His small sigh betrays his exasperation, but Garrett keeps his voice level. With one arm still around her shoulders supportively, he responds, "But Random hasn't really _done_ anything. Why does it matter so much? It'd be different if he'd taken me when I was small, before I had a life with you and Dad."
He releases her to look her in the eye. "But he didn't. You _won_, Mum. Don't you see? You did what you set out to do. You and Dad raised me to be a strong and decent man. One who can be as stubborn as me mother." He flashes her a mischievous grin. "And now it's MY job, or at least it will be when it's time to go, to help shape this new kingdom. Your fingerprints are gonna be all over Random's shiny new realm - because _mine_ will be." The boyish grin and impish gleam in Garrett's eye reveal that he thinks this would be her ultimate revenge.
Anna's brow narrows and her jaw clenches. "What do I care about his new kingdom? I want my son back! His new kingdom can jump off Kolvir for all I care!"
The impish grin vanishes but Garrett lets her anger roll off. Best not to go head to head with her. Arguing with his mother has always been like trying to move the bailey with your bare hands. Avoidance is usually the best policy, but Garrett doesn't have time for that. With a wry smile, he shakes his head in wonder. "I love you, Mum," he says with an amused chuckle.
['Cause, ya know, sometimes you've just gotta laugh or you'll wring her neck!]
As she responds to that [if she does], he strides off to where the girls were working and comes back immediately with the pie plate and a fork. He plunks himself down at the head of the table, but before he eats, he looks at the girls and says, "So you two wanna hear what I did when I was gone? I reckon Mum doesn't wanna know." It sounds like story time - or a flanking maneuver.
The girls are clearly confused by the change of subject, but Maggie quickly recovers. "Tell me, tell me!" she commands, ready for her story, as Faith fetches more pie for herself and their mother.
Garrett slides his seat sideways and extends his left hand to invite her to sit on his lap. With his right, he begins eating the pie.
As Garrett starts to take a bite of the pie, her realizes how crude it is compared to the fine pastries prepared by the chef for dinner earlier this evening. The food he ate on the road with his brother didn't seem so much different from what he ate growing up, but the food in the castles themselves was very different in texture and taste. Perhaps it was the ingredients or perhaps the dedicated kitchen staff. But he thinks of it, looking at the crust of his mother's pie that once seemed so flaky but seems a bit leaden now compared to the pastries he was served up the hill as part of his dinner.
"Well, we left here quickly because it was a long ride and daylight was fading..." he begins between bites of pie. He does not outwardly react to the difference in quality. It would only set his mother off again.
He goes on to describe the journey - the different places they saw, where they stayed, how they spent their evenings. There is no mention of shadow-shifting, confrontations on riverbanks or nude bathing with girls. As he talks to his sister, he watches his mother's reaction periodically out of the corner of his eye.
Anna busies herself with cleaning the dinner dishes, loudly. Her expression is tight and she's clearly listening, but she doesn't add anything except mutters that Garrett can't make out.
He goes on to describe Xanadu - the wide, warm beach, the cascading waterfall, the deep harbor and bustling town, the long hike up the hill and the new castle with its magical electricity. Again, he leaves out touchy subjects like lethal disintegrating swords, scuffles with French cousins and warm stolen kisses at sunset. He describes the King as "all right, but hard to understand," the Queen as "nice, but not as nice as Mum," and Prince Martin as "someone you want to avoid if you can."
Faith pouts and looks disappointed at that last bit. She does ask if any of his lady cousins are pretty and listens closely to Garrett's answer.
"Yeah, a few," he responds with his poker face mostly in place. His eyes do twinkle a bit, but he doesn't elaborate.
"Oooh, tell me!" Faith exclaims. "Do they take baths in milk for their skin? I've always heard rich ladies do that for their complexion," she adds.
The banging noises from the hearth get louder as Faith pursues this subject.
Garrett winces. He shrugs at Faith indignantly. "Faith, *I* don't know how ladies bathe!" he scowls, all big-brother annoyance with the dumb questions of starry-eyed little sisters. "It sounds pretty disgusting to me."
Garrett winces. He shrugs at Faith indignantly. "Faith, I don't know how ladies bathe!" he scowls, all big-brother annoyance with the dumb questions of starry-eyed little sisters. "It sounds pretty disgusting to me."
"You should ask," Faith tells him firmly. "I want to know."
Garrett snorts as amusement trounces annoyance. His eyes twinkle mirthfully as he tries in vain to suppress a smirk. "Yes, ma'am!" he answers the order in his best former-servant voice.
Finally, he delicately approaches the subject of moving. "Xanadu is what Amber used to be back when I was little. Back before the Troubles. Most of the servants are going to be moving there to set up the new castle. Prob'ly most of the stablehands too, 'cause we'll need to build a stable closer than the one in town." He glances at his mother, then looks back at Maggie. "We're gonna need a horsemaster, too. And his family," he smiles at his sister.
"So I reckon it's good that you're already packed," Garrett concludes brightly, unable to resist the teasing poke at his mum.
"We are not going to any Xanadu," Anna says firmly. That's the end of the subject for now, and Garrett knows it. Any change of decision will have to come from his father.
Garrett grins at his mum and shrugs playfully at Maggie. "Oh, well," he smiles as he scoots her off his lap. "I reckon that's the end of that. Bedtime, girls."
As they hustle off to get ready for bed [or moan about it like my girls do], Garrett brings his plate in to his mother.
There's a lot of moaning and complaining.
After she takes it, he wraps his arms around her waist from behind - just like he always used to - and rests his chin on her shoulder. "I was gonna sleep here while I'm in Amber. If that's still all right with you." Though his voice doesn't rise like a question, Anna can hear the inquiry anyway. It's her choice.
Anna's body is stiff and angry. "Do you think the King will approve of his son sleeping on a straw mattress in a servant's house now?"
"Dunno. I didn't ask him," Garrett shrugs. "I reckon princes can sleep anywhere they want, though, and he _did_ say I should cherish my mother. So I'm askin' you. Will you still have me?"
"I want nothing that brings the King's anger on your father," Anna tells Garrett through gritted teeth.
"And running off with me wouldn't have done that?" Garrett asks rhetorically as he lets her go and comes around to lean against the fireplace, facing her. He looks into her eyes and all joking is aside. "Mum, I haven't talked to Dad yet. What has he told you about all this?" he asks gently.
"That's between me and him," Anna says firmly. "But if we're staying here, we're for certain dependent on the King's goodwill. And having his precious boy sleep on a hay mattress in the loft will by no means make that man happy with him." She glares at Garrett, daring him to prove her wrong.
Garrett emits a small sigh as he considers her concerns. There's too much he doesn't know about what happened after he was hauled off to Xanadu for him to argue. The King had kept Donovan at the keep for most of that awful day. It's quite possible he had given him some kind of warning, like "Stay away from my son or else..."
Gods, I wish Dad was here, Garrett thinks. Good or bad, Donovan would've told it like it is. None of this trying to read through the smoke of his mother's smouldering rage. Even on the best days, her reliability was suspect. Now, when she's as upset as Garrett has ever seen her, relying on anything she says could be downright hazardous. Perhaps it's best to err on the side of caution.
He reaches out and gives his mum a hug because he wants to. "I don't know him well enough to say for certain," he responds glumly. "But if you'd be more comfortable, I'll go. I've caused enough trouble."
He releases her reluctantly. "I'll just grab me things," he says with a nod toward the loft.
Anna still isn't looking at him. "Fine. Then you do that."
Garrett nods, tight-lipped, and climbs the ladder to the loft. It doesn't take long to pack. Servants don't have many possessions. He stuffs his entire life - his battered practice blade, the bow he used to hunt squirrels with, clothing, boots, comb, razor - into an old grain sack that was stuffed in the corner. He carefully folds a smallish rag quilt his grandmother, foster-grandmother now, made for him when he was a boy and places it atop the other items, then pulls the drawstring closed. After a quick look around to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything, and that he won't forget, he descends the ladder.
At the bottom, Garrett turns to Faith with a sad smile. "I reckon it's all yours now if you want it," he offers, nodding at the loft. "Watch out for the loose board in the corner." He gives her a big-brotherly hug with one arm.
He leans down to hug Maggie and says, "Be good for Mum, love." Then he hefts the sack over his shoulder and moves to the door. As he passes Anna, he says, "I'll prob'ly be in Amber for another day or so. If you need me, you know where I'll be." He does not try to hug her again, letting goodbyes, if there are to be any, be on her terms.
Anna lets him go by without speaking, then, as Garrett is about to head out the door, she runs over and squeezes him tight. "Don't you go away again without sending word, you hear!" she orders him.
He drops his sack and embraces her fiercely, a wide grin of relief lighting his face. "I won't. One way or another, I'll let you know," he promises.
He lets her go then and picks up his sack. To keep himself from getting maudlin, Garrett teases, "And don't worry. I'll eat me greens and mind me manners." He leans over to give her a quick peck on the cheek. "Love you, Mum," he says a bit huskily, then scoots out the door, closing it before he can change his mind.
Ossian turns to Brennan. "We could go to my room, or do you prefer somewhere else?"
"Perhaps my office," Brennan says, in regard to locations. Brennan angles for a place where he is confident they won't be overheard or disturbed, but at no point does he suggest either his own or Ossian's chambers. Brennan's office has the virtues that, while people might come in and bother him during the day, it's fairly quiet in the evening and nearly dead at this late hour. And there are flat surfaces and good light, which Brennan thinks might be useful.
"Sure." Ossian says. Not that he has been in Brennan's office before, but it should suffice.
Brennan nods, and steers them in that general direction.
As they walk, Brennan defers whatever he really wants to say until they reach their destination. He fills the intervening space with his equivalent of small talk. "This Meg person you've found-- I don't think I got her full story, but it didn't sound like a good time to interrogate her. Family, obviously."
He realizes he's still wearing the black armband, reaches down and takes it off, puts it into an internal pocket. Ossian can see a thin packet of papers there.
Ossian shrugs "We guess so, yes. She could very well be my sister, even. She and I grew up in the same orphanage. Why Brand got me out of there, but not her, I don't know.
"She's pretty upset, and I can't blame her for that. We were going to explain things to her but this Huon guy attacked first.
"So I decided to get her and me out of there."
At the mention of potential sisterhood, Brennan shoots him a sharp look. "Sister? Any idea on the lineage? At any rate, I'd be careful around this Huon fellow. He has a very bad reputation, and I don't know where he fell in the birth order but he's been banished long enough that I'd aim older rather than younger."
"I don't _know_ anything of her linage. Or mine. But I find it unlikely that we should end up in the same orphanage by mere coincidence. And even more unlikely that this Huon should attack the place.
"Do you know anything more of him? It's not like Uncle Caine was very informative."
"Very little," Brennan says. "Research is difficult, since he apparently not simply bannished, but struck from the formal histories. You need to know enough of the small details to even read about the right period of time, much less read between the lines, and I don't. Appaerntly, he killed a brother by shoving him out onto the Pattern."
Brennan frowns, replaying a past conversation in his mind. "I may need to take back that speculation about being early in the birth order, though. Track down how many people have personal memories of him and you'll at least know when he was banished."
Ossian nods. "I wonder how many uncles and aunts there are out there. Erased from the histories."
Brennan's office is dark when they get there, as it should be. As offices go, it's simple enough-- there's a desk with a nominally comfortable chair behind it, and several more chairs pushed to the side of the room. Brennan gestures at them while he busies himself with lighting the lamps. There are several, since Brennan doesn't appear to like mirrors very much.
The room is large enough, just, that Brennan can keep three or four visitors there without packing them in like cattle. There's no additional table, but the desk is big enough to serve that purpose if need be. There's clutter on the desk, but it's organized clutter-- a few stacks of papers, rather than a disorganized heap. There are a few charts and maps hanging at various locations on the walls, which give every indication of being the kernel of some larger array... someday. There is a low bookshelf, too, where Brennan keeps some references he considers essential, and a locked cabinet where he probably keeps more important papers and objects.
There's also a large, but very fine wooden plaque, set with engraved golden tags. If Ossian cares to look, he'll see that each tag bears the name of a Knight of the Ruby, along with a date. Dame Aisling's tag has two. Brennan reaches out and touches Sir Daeon's briefly-- soon, that will have two, as well.
Ossian looks around before seating himself. He reads the plaque, but seems more interested in the maps. Someone who knows Ossian well would realise that he is more interested in the maps as artwork, than as exact projections of the landscape.
Before Brennan is finished lighting lamps Ossian sits down. "So." he says, smiling slightly "What have I done to deserve your attention tonight?"
Once he's got the lamps lit, Brennan hangs up his cloak on a peg, and fishes the packet of papers out of the internal pocket. The pages are covered with writing that doesn't look like Thari, and probably some illustrations of some sort, but the packet is folded neatly and crisply, and bound at either end with ribbons to keep it in order.
He's obviously decided not to speak before he's ready, and the last bit of preparation is to open one of the cabinets, take two glasses and a dusty bottle out and transfer them to the desk, pushing an errant stack of papers out of the way. He perches on the edge of his desk rather than occupying the chair behind it.
He hesitates, then holds up the packet, and says, "You asked to know what I found in Brand's papers. This is what Ambrose and I found pertaining to you. Directly to you." He flips Ossian the pages, and if he looks through them he'll find what Brennan hopes is a reasonable introduction to the Uxmali language-- even if it's practically useless without the breadth of glyphs a native-trained writer would have-- and some translations of relavent passages.
Ossian takes the pages, and starts to leaf through them.
He pours two stiff drinks, then forces through it.
"Brand was your grandfather."
He hands one to Ossian.
Looking up from the papers, Ossian takes the glass. His face shows disbelief and maybe some shock.
"Son."
[Brennan] lifts the glass, and drinks. All of it.
"Y...!" Ossian begins to say something, but decides against it.
"Only Ambrose and I know right now. You deserved to know first."
Ossian is quiet for a while after this.
"Damn" he says.
Then he is quiet again. He has not tried his drink yet.
"He really keeps f*cking with your life even after he's dead." Ossian says and takes a long drink. "How did this happen?"
Brennan turns the acts of pouring himself another drink, offering to top off Ossian's, and then drinking again into a good excuse not to blurt out the first stupid things that come to mind.
Ossian nods and lets Brennan fill up the glass.
"He didn't do very well by you, either. How long were you there, and he never bothered to tell you? Did you ask if he knew your parents? Who they were?" It's hard to tell if the questions are rhetorical; the punctuating sigh easily leaves enough time to speak.
"Of course I asked him." Ossian snaps back, but then his voice softens a bit "Many times. But he always answered something like 'That's for you to find out, Ossian', and then he found some way to distract me. He was very good at that."
"He was," Brennan agrees. "Even easier if he was pulling periodic disappearing acts."
"After a while it didn't feel so important anymore. When you live at an orphanage it is the central question. But when Brand took me away from there and I grew older ...well, there were other things to think about. New worlds, girls, ...Art."
Ossian drinks.
"I did ask him the last time I saw him. 'Not now.' was all he said. He was very hurried then."
"And this Meg girl. You really think she's possibly--" Brennan rarely changes his sentence direction in mid-flow so jaggedly, "--a sister?"
Ossian shrugs. "Really, you should have a better idea about that than I have. Which brings us to the question of my mother."
Brennan answers that with a long, uncomfortable silence, at first, undisguised by any pouring or drinking. He looks up from the glass: "If I knew, Ossian, I would tell you. I don't even know long you've lived, although that's not much help in some of the places I've been..." He trails off, then starts again. "And I haven't exactly been a monk. I had no notion I'd even fathered a child. I would never have abandoned a child."
Ossian's expression is blank. Maybe he is trying to tread carefully.
"Tell me about this orphanage."
Ossian smiles a little, and pulls out his sketch book and a pencil and starts sketching. "The orphanage. Run by nuns and dedicated to a St Trista of the Tears. I can't say I have a firm grip of the religion. Anyway, when I was there it was the usual run-down corrupt orphanage. Now, when I came back it seemed much more well-kept. No doubt Meg has had a hand in that.
"Anyway, it is in a small town, called Abford. The town is situated on a river, and looks like this" Ossian shows Brennan a rough (but good) sketch of Abford in the river valley. "It has about the same technological level as Amber. I guess I could make more detailed sketches of the church for instance, if that would be of any help."
Ossian furrows his brow, thinking "As for the my age, I'd guess maximum a hundred years, in Amber time. I think Meg is around fifty, local time, and she came to the orphanage before me. We have been gone for three nights. How much time has passed here? A week?"
"I've been in and out of Amber myself, in Xanadu and then in Uxmal fetching," again, the quick redirect in speech, "your uncle, to meet the King. But I think it's been about seven days, perhaps eight. I wouldn't bet anything precious on the notion that the time deltas have remained fixed, but if they did.... fifty years there would be a little more than a hundred there?" Brennan scowls. "Not that it matters much-- Brand didn't bring you here, did he? And he didn't bring you to Uxmal. Where did he take you, anyway?"
Ossian takes a second to process the word 'uncle'.
"We travelled for a while. To different places. I guess that many of them are well beyond the tree, although he never showed me the tree itself. It is probably more fruitful to try to link your timeline to Abford's than to mine."
Brennan gives him a raised eyebrow. "I spent a lot of time on the other side of the Tree, too. Or not, as the case might be, but I spent some time there, which is enough to complicate that process quite a bit," he says, with resignation.
While talking Ossian continues to sketch things in his sketchbook. He does not look up at Brennan.
"Anyway, he took me to the strange places a kid age five or six would like. And to places suitable for teaching the rudiments of Trump painting. We spent several weeks just on sky colours, I think. Brand was not a bad teacher."
Whatever Brennan is initially going to say to that gets swallowed in a jaw-clench. What he ends up with is, "He never taught me anything. Only ever tried once."
Ossian looks up for a second, smiling sadly.
Brennan does not smile.
"In the end he put me at a good boarding school. Visited me at very irregular intervals. Moved me to another school. I could probably find some of the places he took me to again. But I don't think..."
Brennan looks at the sketches Ossian makes, and says, "I think the architecture would help more than the terrain. Monuments, state buildings, anything that exemplifies their culture." As Ossian describes, and probably sketches, Brennan closes his eyes, sifting old memories.
Ossian nods and looks at Brennan and tears out the page from the sketch book, handing it over.
"This is Abford's largest church. And one of the windows from it, in more detail. Of course, I would need more colors to do it real justice."
Brennan takes the book, decides against patronizing Ossian with a superfluous compliment on the quality of the sketch. He studies it.
"Maybe you avoid churches?" Ossian is once again working on a new sketch.
"Only the insides," Brennan mutters. Then, louder, "In Uxmal, Brand, my brother and I are all considered gods. Tayanna-- your grandmother-- was descended of their local gods, so they're not actually wrong, I guess. But the upbringing did not endear me to the practices and I think I have a better view of reality than any of Uxmal's petty godlings. Bad taste, lasting impressions, all that."
Ossian smiles a little. "If whatever little I have heard about Uxmal is true, you are probably right. I guess Abford has a milder religion. As long as you are not a witch or something."
Brennan shrugs. "Most places do," he admits.
[He will do the city gates, complete with guards, and some streets and buildings from the city. Also Ossian will describe the things he knows about Abford, more focusing on habits, ways of speech etc than on governmental structure and such.]
[Brennan asks a series of good questions, trying to narrow down the conversation to details that an adult Ossian would remember from childhood, that would have stood out in a younger Brennan's mind. His thoughts on that run to architecture, and the more formal, ceremonial style armors and weapons that might have been worn. Both of these, Brennan reasons, blend art and pragmatism.]
[Ossian tries to answer everything as well as can.]
"What about you, Ossian? Do I have young grandchildren, somewhere?" It's hard to tell, but Brennan might be hoping for a yes.
Ossian is quiet for a long time, then says slowly: "I have not considered it. I guess the right word for it is denial. It is of course possible that I have children somewhere in shadow. I don't know.
"But there is a woman here in Amber... I could very well be the father of her child, I guess."
There are an awful, awful lot of things Brennan could say to that in response. After considering all of them carefully, he selects, quietly: "Maybe we should find out about that, yes? Who's the girl?"
There is a flash of irritation in Ossian's eyes, but taking after his father he holds back. He says: "Unless you have a good method to really determine if a child is of our blood, I'd prefer to tell you after I have found out if it's my child or not."
Like father, like son, indeed; now it's Brennan that can't resist something that might be taken for a smile. Or maybe a grimace. "The King seemed to be pretty certain of Meg's heritage. Likely Corwin has the same faculty. And I've heard it theorized that Trump artistry can be used to make that determination, but that's much more your specialty than mine."
Ossian shakes his head. "None of those are viable options at the moment, Brennan...father."
There is a long pause. Then Ossian continues as if he didn't notice what he just said.
"We have tried using Trumps for just that purpose. While it works, it might also kill the child, or at least hurt it."
Brennan grunts his understanding. "That would put a kink in that plan," he admits. "You may have no better alternatives than the Kings. On which subject," he continues after a brief pause, "I see no sense in not letting this be known. Ambrose hasn't told anyone because I asked him not to... because you deserved to hear it from me and hear it first, not learn about it in the broadsheets. After tonight," he spreads his hands, letting the information go. "I'll have a chance to speak with King Random tomorrow, when Ambrose is Walking. I can ask his assistance with this. Or not."
His voice softens a bit, and he adds, "You don't have to call me 'father' if you don't want to." Brennan, after all, only refers to Brand as his father when it's directly relevant and necessary to the conversation at hand.
Ossian nods "Tell the king about me, but not about my possible child." he says "I'd prefer to talk with the woman first. The king does not trust me."
Brennan nods assent, but his eyes narrow fractionally at the mention of distrust.
"As for calling you 'father', I haven't decided yet." Ossian drinks "Actually, I could think of a lot of people that would have been much worse. Maybe I even like you."
Ossian's eyes narrow a bit "But I'd really like to know what you think about me."
Brennan is quiet for a long moment, first looking at Ossian just as intently as he was during the audience with King Random. And then a longer moment turning inward toward some internal landscape without ever moving a muscle. He might not like what he sees.
"I think you're a very talented Artist," he gets out, "more talented than I could ever have become."
Ossian shakes his head. "That was the diplomatic answer." he says "That's not what I'm asking for. Why don't you tell me what you really think?"
He quickly changes tone, though "No. That's unfair of me. You don't need to answer now. You are as new to this as I am. Think about it. Write me a letter or something."
Brennan's chin lifts fractionally as his eyes narrow and glint-- and Ossian almost gets what he asked for. But his other statement wards that off and he can hear Brennan's molars click together inside his mouth. "We barely know each other, Ossian. Which, on balance, has to be more my fault than yours, doesn't it? And Brand... he never said a d@mned thing, did he? To anyone." He ponders the implications of that for about as long as it takes to breathe out.
"But it's late. And we're not going to figure out..." he ends up shrugging, "Much of anything over just a few glasses of scotch. Including your mother's identity. I just don't know, Ossian."
"I know that." Ossian says. He drains his glass. "And I don't blame you. For anything. This is as far as we will come tonight.
"Unless you have any good fatherly advice about our little trip back to Abford." Ossian says with a grin.
"Don't get killed," Brennan says. "Everything else is commentary."
"I'll try to remember that." Ossian says, still grinning, as he rises from his chair. "Have a good night, Brennan."
Ossian turns to go but stops at the door turning back. His voice now has a tinge of tenderness in it "Thanks for telling me. You could have kept it secret, you know.
"Things will work out. You are not Brand, and neither am I. But I'm not you either. Remember that."
Brennan looks up to acknowledge that with a nod, but no words, as Ossian departs. He remains in his office for quite a while after that, thinking deeply, before returning to his quarters to sleep.
Last modified: 30 November 2005