After Random dismisses Brita, Ambrose heads back off to his people to start to get them settled in to Xanadu, as much as a bunch of cannibalistic heathen nobles, priests, and peasants can settle in in a city where someone can try to build an electronic sound board. Brita is left alone to catch up on family news and business as best she can. Most of her cousins are no longer in residence, having gone off about their own business, with the major exceptions of Garrett, Martin, and Folly.
A couple of days after her arrival, a page arrives with a note from Martin:
Brita,
When you get a chance, I'd love to catch up on family business. No rush, just whenever it's convenient. Feel free to drop by or let me know when I can visit without disturbing your work.
~M
Brita is at Martin and Folly's suite in about the time it would have taken the page to get back with a response. She knocks on the door briskly.
Martin himself opens the door and seems surprised to see Brita. "Oh. Hey. Thanks for coming; it wasn't a royal summons or anything." He gestures to Brita to come in and closes the door behind her. "I was just catching up on my correspondence--" which is clear from the paper all over the seating area and the ink stains on Martin's hand "--but I can take a break. Should I call for something to eat? If you're making trumps, I know that's hungry work."
Brita smiles, "Food would be Welcome. The Trumps are actually Why I am Here - I was Starting to See Double. I am Working on a Trump of Our New Cousin-Captain Raven and cannot seem to Get His Aspect. I Needed Break." She glances pointed around the seating area. "You Obviously need a Break As Well."
"Correspondence, ugh," Martin says by way of agreement. "And this is just the stuff that I have to sign off on and answer. You should see the pile Violet had to go through to get it down to this." He makes a face and summons one of the pages who seem to hover near the Prince's quarters, waiting for instructions. In a little while, there will be a large lunch, fit for two princes, brought to his chamber.
He gestures to one of the chairs, the only one not covered in papers, and begins straightening the piles and moving them off the table in preparation for the feast to come. "Mostly I wanted to catch up with you, find out how you've been, and maybe--" he doesn't quite look guilty, but Brita can tell he's bothered by it "--if you're up to it, talk about this duel thing."
Brita cocks her head to one side, "I Found Cousin Ambrose, Assisted in Bringing his People Through to Reality Xanadu, Made Trump Sketches of Cousin Edan and Brennan and am Working on One of Cousin Raven, as mentioned. All That while Waiting for Cousin Robin to Return so we can Determine the Best Apology with My Brother's help." She smiles a little, "What did You wish to Speak About of the Honor Duel?"
Martin nods his way through Brita's answers, keeping his expression carefully blank at the mention of Ambrose. "I'm curious about when it's going off for one thing. Do you know where Robin went, or when she's coming back?"
"Hopefully, it isn't Going Off at All. We Hope to avert the actual Honor Duel with the Apology. Cousin Robin went Into the Woods per King Random's Direction. As to When she will Return, I cannot say - when she is Done with her Task, I suppose." Brita smiles slightly, "Why the Curiosity, Cousin Martin? Do you have a Vested Interest in the Outcome?"
"Other than the politics, in which, unfortunately, I have to have an interest, not yet. But I'd like to, mostly in Venesch. I want to make him an offer of service, and I don't think he'll take it without settling the duel, one way or another, first," Martin explains as he finishes up piling the correspondence into haphazard stacks out of the way of their imminent meal. "I could use a man with his talents, and I think he'd be happier with a job, and well away from Amber and Xanadu. There's no hope for him to serve honorably here."
Brita nods in agreement. "I Concur - His Services Could continue to Benefit us All." Brita pauses as the food is wheeled in and waits for Martin to serve himself before taking a small plate (piled about 3 inches deep with food). "I will Consult with My Brother on the Best Wording to Allow This Without Bloodshed. I will Attempt to Expedite the Process. What Else can I do for You?"
Martin makes what passes for a thoughtful frown from him as he assembles a little meat-and-cheese sandwich from the food on the plate. "If I have to go chase Robin down in Broceliande to get this resolved, you can keep an eye on Folly for me. I'm at loose ends other than court business right now; my decks have been cleared so I can be here until our baby is born. If you're looking for something to do, I can always find something, but I think we're in the same boat for now: stuck until we're released from duty.
"We could just catch up, like we used to before Dad came back. I'd tell you what's going on with me, but it's all public: my wife is pregnant, my grandmother just lost her throne to an old friend of mine, and I'm hoping I don't get dragged into the resulting mess." He sticks his tongue out for a moment before taking a bite of his sandwich.
"You were Friends with Queen Khela? I do Not Understand Much about the Watery Rebma culture or Politics. How would You get Dragged in and What do you Consider a Mess?" Brita asks.
"Worst-case, okay, not the worst possible case, but the most personally pain-in-the-ass case for me is one where the little girl Folly and I are about to have ends up in the line of fire. By which I mean the line of succession." Martin moves to rake the blond bangs he no longer possesses out of his face and stops, looking annoyedly at his hand as if the whole thing is its fault.
Brita's eyes sparkle dangerously and her lips firm as Martin mentions the potential for his daughter to be in the line of fire.
"I knew Khela a long time ago. We were involved in--basically a study group. Philosophy. Religion, almost. We studied the Tritons. We thought they should be free. My grandmother, that is, Queen Moire, decided our shop talk was a threat to the realm. She had her people frame the leader of our group for murder and executed her on the trumped-up charges." Which, by the look of Martin, is still deeply upsetting all the way to the present day. "I thought Khela was dead too, but she was put into exile. I was kept prisoner until I managed to get the key to the Pattern chamber and walk.
"Now that Khela's Queen, she'll be looking for ways to shore up her reign. She's got Celina to back her. Jerod's mother and his sisters backed Moire, so they're out. Jerod and Llew--Llewella--are playing the 'for the good of Rebma' card. And I don't want to be involved at all."
"Then We Shall make Sure you Are Not," Brita avers. "I Pledge to Keep Your Daughter, Cousin Folly, and Yourself Free of the Watery Rebma Political Machinations to the Best of My Ability." Brita's clenched fist thumps her heart three times in what is obviously a formal ritual. "Politics," Brita practically spits the word. "Uncle Loki was a Master at Politics." She shakes her head. "It brings out the Worst in People."
Martin is quiet for a moment, the sort of rant he'd been working on stopped dead in its tracks by Brita's oath. "I'm honored," he says, a bit more quietly than Brita might have expected. "I didn't mean--but I'll accept all the help I can get for this. I'm in your debt, Brita."
Brita shakes her head, "No Debt. You are Family. Family Protect each other." She smiles and adds wryly, "Unless it is Uncle Loki - He doesn't Protect or Get Protected. He's That Slippery." The comment obviously triggers some memory as her brow furrows.
"Cousin Martin, what do You Think is Going On with All of This...," she waves a hand and continues, "...Politics? The Oddness with the Queen in the Mirror Tir na Nog'th, Cousin Cambina in Misty Tir na Nog'th, the Return of Uncle Huon and the Demise of Uncle Pinnabello. Are they Tied Together? Messages? Omens? We've Lost Track of Dara and cleph and Now we Add Moonriders to the Weaving. It is a Tangled Destiny we Find ourselves In."
"What I think," Martin says, settling back into his seat again with a bit of the strain draining out of the line of his shoulder, "is that Grandfather had more plates up in the air than anybody knew, even Ben. And that without him to juggle them, they're all coming crashing down.
"He planned for Corwin to marry Dara and take the throne of Amber, and maybe to fix the busted Pattern, and that would have wiped out one avenue of attack. And if you buy that Rebma reflects Amber--which sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn't--you can guess why there would be trouble there after everything that happened. The Moonriders, I don't know so much about, but they were at the funeral so they know whatever deal they had, or whatever defense Grandfather was running, is finished. And Huon and Pinabello--that seems to me to have to do with the weird time shit in Tir. Did anyone tell you about Ben's silver arm that he had for a while during the war?"
"I have Heard Mention of it, But how would Suspended Tir na Nog'th produce Time Ripples in Watery Rebma? Cousin Ossian and I were Under the Waves when we Found our Lost Uncle. Of course, then we Lost him Again." Brita shrugs off the failure.
"I don't know!" Martin taps his head near the temple with his index finger. "I'm not the redhead." He pokes the same finger in Brita's general direction. "But the whole thing with people fading in and out of time reminded me of Corwin bringing the arm down and Ben putting it on and losing it later in a funky duel with what looked like a shadow of Grayswandir. Except it was in Amber before the Pattern completely broke. I think Grandfather managed that but I have no clue how he did it. Maybe with the Jewel."
"I have not Heard of the Funky Duel," Brita notes cocking her head to one side. "Why would it Remind you of People Fading In and Out of Time? Was the Silver Arm Out of Time?"
"Sort of." Martin explains, gesturing throughout to demonstrate the events he's describing: "Corwin's got the sword, Grayswandir? It's a Tir thing. So he went up to Tir and saw a future there with a ghost Dara who was queen and a ghost Ben who was her champion. Ben had the silver arm, which was the only thing that could touch Corwin. Corwin cut it off him and brought it down with him when he trumped out at dawn. Ben liked it--the real Ben, that is--and so he put it on. Then, later, a funky Grayswandir clone appeared in the throne room in Amber, but with nobody attached. The sword cut the arm off Ben and it vanished. I can't prove the sword and the arm were in a time loop, but it sure seemed like one to me."
"Ah! As if Reality Amber Replayed the Moment From Shadowy Tir na Nog'th. So the Silver Arm was Real in Both Realms. I Wonder if the Silver Chain We Found with the Queen is the Same. I Tackled it while it was Stretched between the Moonrider Warden and the Not King. I Wonder How that would Replay in Reality Xanadu." Brita pauses in thought.
"Dara as Queen and Uncle Ben as Champion. That Mirrors My Brother's Position in Watery Rebma now - Champion to an Unexpected Queen. I Wonder if Uncle Corwin saw this Dara Queen on the Reality Amber Throne or a Different one."
"Is it important?" Martin starts rooting around in his paperwork. "I mean, if you think it's the same thing as the chain, obviously it is. I have Corwin's Trump in my deck. You can ask him yourself."
"It Could be Important If it is a potential Danger to My Brother," Brita notes as she waits for Martin to make contact.
He finally sorts out Corwin's card and passes it to her face down. "Here, you talk to him. He's nicer to pretty girls than he'll ever be to me," Martin says.
Brita's eyebrow raises as she accepts the card, although it is unclear at what. She lifts the card and examines the image of her uncle - noting the style of painting first and briefly wondering at the artist before concentrating more fully on Corwin's features.
[Assuming she is not put on hold, to be answered in the next millennium]
Corwin answers. It seems to be either late morning or early afternoon in Paris based on the lighting (and perhaps Corwin's clothing, although Brita probably doesn't know the intricacies of Parisian fashion well enough to say).
"Uncle? Cousin Martin and I have a Question about Your Experiences with the Silver Arm, the Misty Throne, and Its Champion." A thought seems to occur to Brita in the request, and she adds, "And the Mirroring of Queens on Thrones around The Ring."
Corwin frowns, but in the contact, Brita feels like it's more an I'm-thinking kind of frown than an unhappy kind of frown. "What's the question?"
"What Was your Vision? Was it Obviously Reality Amber's Throne on which Dara Sat or could it have been Other Thrones - Watery or Misty Thrones?"
"Tir has always reflected Amber for me. I saw Dara and Benedict in Amber's throne room in Tir, and I saw Ben fight Grayswandir in the throne room in Castle Amber." Corwin's answer is direct, clear, and as far as Brita can tell through the Trump connection, honest. (Corwin is hard to read, but it's not like he's being evasive.) "What brought this line of questioning on, Brita?"
"Cousin Martin and I were Speculating on All the Odd Happenings - Uncle Huon, Uncle Pinabello, the Queen in the Mirror Tir na Nog'th, the Moonriders. The Silver Arm was Mentioned and its Oddness in Time. It made me Wonder if the Silver Chain I Kept from the Mirror Tir na Nog'th. It also Brought a Concern over the Similarity of Queen and Champion with My Brother's Situation."
There's a pause in which Brita can read some hesitation in Corwin through the trump connection. "Yes. Be careful with that. If you get to a point where you think the circumstances where you got it are repeating, be prepared to lose it the way Benedict did the arm." His eyes narrow slightly. "Which part of your brother's situation do you see as similar?"
"Consort to a Queen. The Potential to Capture an Uncle and Cousin." Brita shrugs, "I do not See if it Will Match My Weaving, but it is Possible." She glances at Martin for his input.
Martin shrugs, but holds out his hand so Brita can pull him into the conversation if she wants to.
[Brita takes his hand so he is in the conversation - rude of her not to do it earlier, but this Family must be pretty good at determining the gist of conversations when only hearing one side.]
[Martin was perfectly happy to stay out of this conversation until it became obvious it was necessary.]
There's a long moment of confusion through the trump connection, though it fades as Corwin sorts out what Brita is talking about. "If it's the same kind of temporal paradox--maybe. I didn't think Conner was--" he doesn't finish that sentence. "If that's how it is, I think you'll find yourself in Rebma with the chain. But things out of time are more like Tir than they ever were Rebma. Watch yourself when you face the Moonriders."
"The Silver Arm was Out of Time in Reality Amber after starting in Misty Tir na N'ogth. The Silver Chain Began its time in a Mirror Tir na N'ogth and Mirror Rebma Completes the Similtude." Brita pauses then asks, "Do you Think the Moonriders will be Faced Soon, Uncle?"
"Someone will. And if your guess is right, it will be whoever holds that chain. You can't let them go up to Tir, and particularly not if they get the chain. Martin, you need to tell your father that," Corwin says,
In the connection, Brita can feel Martin's annoyance, all the more strongly because her hand in his. "I'll remind Dad you said so," he tells Corwin. "Tir's supposed to be closed and as far as I know Dad hasn't opened it to anyone since Cambina died."
Corwin's satisfaction is almost tanglible to Brita. "He needs to keep it that way. What do you plan to do with the chain, Brita?"
Brita looks briefly sheepish, "Actually, I have Given it to Cousin Signy. She, Cousin Edan, and I Think Master Brennan were going to Examine it Further." The sorcerous implication of 'examine' is clear.
Corwin thinks about that for a moment. "Ask them to include me in whatever report they make to Random or Fiona. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
With her hand in Martin's, Brita can sense some combination of curiosity and frustration. Whatever question he has, he doesn't seem inclined to ask. He shakes his head once in the negative.
Brita does not betray any emotion of question through to her Uncle, but notes, "I have Nothing Further at This Moment, Uncle. Thank You for Your Time." she waits for Corwin to offer a dismissal before breaking the connection by flipping the card and offering back to Martin. She has not released his hand yet when she asks, "What More Was there, Cousin? What did I Miss?"
"I was just wondering if he'd heard from Merlin. I'm sure Merle's fine, but it's been a while since anyone has mentioned talking to him." Martin sounds a little sheepish at the admission. "It's probably just that he's been busy teaching Vere shapeshifting. It's not like I ever call and check in when I'm busy."
Folly has spent the last couple of days cooped up in the castle, alternating mostly between playing in the studio and working on trumps -- of herself, of Garrett, of Random. It's been pleasant enough work, but after two days of it she's more than ready for a bit of fresh air and exercise; so, in the late afternoon, she grabs her sketchbook and sets out on a little stroll beyond the castle gates.
She doesn't have a particular destination in mind... and yet she's not surprised when she finds herself overlooking a cliff from which jut two broad steps, stairs to nowhere, that seem to have been rough-hewn from the living rock....
...Huh.
She stoops to examine the steps with all her senses -- even going so far as to press her ear to the top step and even to touch the tip of her tongue to it -- and also makes a careful examination of the surrounding ground (although that, she feels less inclined to lick). She's not sure what she's looking for: details that might help her understand the nature of this place, perhaps, or any insights into what happened here a month ago.
The stones seem ancient and solid and uninvolved in the events of the present, as if they have been asleep for millennia. The only thing Folly is utterly sure of is that they belong here.
They mark a boundary as much as they do anything.
After a thorough investigation of the ground, she looks at the sky. She has a half-hour, maybe less, before the sun sets and the moon rises.
She settles herself a bit up the slope and pulls out her sketchbook. She has no intention of mounting the stairs, but she's interested to examine with her artist's eye and her musician's soul the differences in this place in sunlight and in moonlight.
She keeps Martin's trump very close-at-hand, just in case.
It's quite dark and the moon has not yet risen high enough to reach the steps. Since the steps overlook the harbor, Folly can see tiny electric lights far below. The stars and the sea and the forest are impenetrably dark.
Folly notices that Xanadu is more like Texorami than Amber. It's mid Huntress, but the nights are still warm. In Texorami, this would be hurricane season.
Folly waits, and the steps and the town below and the castle are like a painting; a moment captured in time. Even something as simple as her breathing seems out of place. Stillness seems to be called for. Slowly the moonbeam nears the stone, creeping across the grass with a kind of stately indifference to her attention.
When it touches the stone, it looks to Folly as if it reflects the light. The moonbeam is mirrored up towards a cloud. She blinks and it looks like steps continuing upwards. They are, if they are not an illusion, frail things. Walking up them would be an exercise in willpower, with nothing but the uncaring sea below and only a wisp of a cloud between.
"The mighty Faiella-Bionin," says a voice from the treeline, "is not so mighty a pathway on a night like tonight." The voice is unmistakably that of Prince Bleys. He's coming out of the forest towards her. "Pardon my intrusion on your solitude, Lady Folly."
"No, please, join me," Folly says warmly, and gestures to the ground beside her, cushioned with buffalo grass and the last of the late-summer wildflowers. "I just wanted to see what it looked like, and this is my first chance in... six years?" She returns her gaze to the shimmering stair and falls silent for a long moment before adding, "Have you climbed them?"
He nods in the moonlight, and it's clear that he's wearing Werewindle. "There are any number of reasons to do so. The first times I went for curiosity, later to humor others who were curious. The last time I ascended the stair was the most interesting: I went up to learn about Tir, not about Amber. It takes great discipline to bring nothing of yourself to a mirror."
He shudders. "I dislike the place. I always felt as if it were too interested in me. Sometimes one does not appreciate even the most flattering of attention."
Folly's eyebrows arch. "That sounds rather like how Martin describes the realms on the other side of Ygg. You mean interested like that?"
Bleys nods. "Somewhat. Martin experienced the external reflections of a Lord of Chaos' internal dislike for him. It was as if Martin was Harmony Vesper and eveyone in the castle below Gerard was the household goods. No thing wanted him there.
"Tir, however, reflects her mistress. I've heard tell that she has been seen, and is looking for something, or someone."
"So it seems." Folly gazes at the pale stairway, and at the misty city in the sky that is its destination. "But what? Something she's lost, or has noticed is missing? Oberon? The connection to Amber?" She pauses a moment in thought. "...and I was going to ask, 'Why now?', but is she even bound to regular, linear, forward-moving time? Corwin told me a little of what he understands about the Moonriders' powers," she adds.
"We contained them close to Amber in order to dampen those powers. While Corwin and I have observed them, I am unconvinced that we understand them. Rest assured that they do die when you slice them open." He smiles.
"I think we know why now, though, at least in part. We have undone so many constraints. My father did not prepare well for the time after he was gone. 'When I am gone, you children will be the custodians of my legacy' and it has turned out to be true--we find ourselves cleaning up after him."
Folly gives a wry smile at his jest.
The stairs are fully real, or as fully real as they are going to be. They sparkle in the moonlight and the ground and the sea can be seen through them. The prospect of climbing is daunting.
Folly plucks a foxtail from the grass before her, holds it a scant few inches in front of her, and blows out a slow breath. She watches its seed-head vibrate away from her at the gentle rush of air -- the constraint -- and then spring back up when she stops.
The seeds spread out before Folly and form a ring, like smoke. They drift over the stairs and up and out of sight.
She thinks for a moment and then asks, "The Moonriders and their Queen haven't actually been at Tir for many years, then? They've been stuck somewhere near Amber since... That was Jones Falls, right? Military history has never really been my strong suit."
Bleys nods. "The falls was where we fought. The river makes a gap in the mountains and it was the best way out of the valley. Benedict kept them penned in and Oberon hit them from the flank. Against any normal army, it would have been a massacre.
"Afterwards, they surrendered. The survivors did. They weren't imprisoned, they were banished, and each had to submit to Oberon."
Bleys shakes his head and looks at the stair. "To us, they seem mad, but they think profoundly differently than we do. Even Paige's Van, and he is the least like them of any."
"Van is a Moonrider?" Folly asks with surprise. "I never heard Paige mention it. Does he have the time-disruption power, then? Mostly the special power I've actually seen him use is Looking Surly. Which isn't quite the same thing as madness, but I suppose it could be related."
"Rides in the Vanguard is a Knight of Altamar, which is where we helped a number of Gheneshi settle who did not want to follow the path of the moon. That turned out to be quite fortuitous for us. They fought with us at Jones Falls and again in Chaos, most effectively."
Bleys finally sits down beside Folly. He politely doesn't look at her sketchbook, but Folly thinks he would like to.
"Van is also Conner's nephew. His father was Conner's half-brother."
"Interesting," Folly says, drawing out the first syllable, as she fits that new tidbit into her mental family tree. After a moment, she adds, "You said they think very differently than we do. What's the nature of that difference, if you can characterize it?"
"Hmm", hmms Bleys, stroking his chin. "Not well. I can provide you examples and they may help you to imperfectly characterize the differences as poorly as I do."
He settles in. "To start with, let us assume that for the purposes of this conversation, that thought is mirrored by language and anything that cannot be expressed in language cannot be thought. This ignores the development of thought prior to the acquisition of language and treats a culture as a machine rather than a colonial organism, but it will suffice for this discussion. Individuals who create add to the language, which is the record of the knowledge of a culture.
"Thari has language for shadows and shadow-walking, and so do other language that has thought of the concept. English from Flora's shadows does, probably because Corwin sat there long enough to make it become more like him. Chaos is, in that place indescribable. Literally. We cannot bend the language to do it. Most languages are like that.
"Does that make sense?"
"I think so," Folly says. "So, anything we have the power to capture reasonably in the language of an Ordered place must not be sufficiently chaotic to be Chaotic. And by extention, any being of Chaos would have a language, and corresponding thought-processes, that are not well-suited to encompass the Ordered world, yes?"
He smiles, Wolf-like. "Hmm, yes and no. There are, naturally, multiple Chaoses. True Chaos, Primal Chaos, is a living void, and is beyond our comprehension becuase we've had Order. What we, and our cousins from there, call Chaos is a weak relation of the real Chaos. Language is inherently ordered and ordering. Mabrahoring is the language of Ordered Chaos.
"I don't know if Father's Father explained any of this to you, but you can think of order and chaos as ice and water, with primal chaos being steam. Different rules for each state, and a transitional boundary between each.
"Now, there are edge conditions, because it's a complete spectrum of ordered influence, with inflection points, like the freezing point of water, but different. The freezing point of water isn't marked by an omnipresent tree, for one thing.
"Moonriders think more like Chaosians. Cause and Effect are not necessarily linked for them. Time is not a constant and doesn't always have the same sign in the equation. This isn't an inherent thing; they learned it near Chaos, or from their Queen and her Chaosian influences." Bleys shrugs.
"Altamarean Knights were exposed to this and rejected it, but the concepts exist for them, and it shapes how they think."
He looks at the stairs, and watches a cloud drift towards it. "To be fair, I think one of the reasons Father had us save them was to provide a stock of the People of Tir in case it was ever restored and needed to be repopulated."
Folly, who has been quietly taking in these explanations, now cocks her head and asks, "Restored? As in, to permanence? Or just to some former glory?"
Bleys nods. "It once was like Amber. The stories Benedict told of the day the people fell into the sea haunted me as a child. They said you could walk from one side of Amber's Great Harbor to the other on the backs of the floating corpses." He looks up at the city in the air. "I imagine it was worse for those who survived and became the ancestors of the moonriders."
Despite the warmth of the early-autumn evening, Folly shivers. "Do we know what happened to cause it to become... unstuck? Impermanent? It seems odd that its Pattern should remain, but the realm itself go all out-of-phase.... Or was the Pattern itself altered in some way?"
Bleys waves his hand vaguely in the air, and it's clear that he is Syd's brother. "No one who was there is talking, and while our speculation many years afterwards was informed speculation, it was still just speculation. It affected the Queen as well. The Queen of Air and Darkness, as her subjects call her. My favorite theory is that she did something that so broke herself and her pattern that it half-unmade itself, and dragged some of reality with it."
He pauses. "Tir became Brand's obsession, and I think it drove him mad. Once upon a time, he set out to fix it."
"But was he really fixing Tir, or just unsticking everything else so it would all fall back into time with each other?" Folly muses, half to herself. She flips a page on her sketchbook and hastily traces several closely-spaced lines spiraling out from a center point. "Because the more I hear about Tir, the more it seems to me that its displacement is temporal rather than spatial." She adds dots to the lines, and it suddenly becomes obvious that she's jotting down musical notation, all scrolled in on itself. She adds bar lines radiating from the center point like the spokes of a wheel, turning the single spiraling melody into something more like a canon. "Or maybe we're just facing the wrong direction to see it the right way round. Are you familiar with the Paresh?"
"Hmmm," hmms the Prince. "Not very familiar, no. Some group of shadow religionists who migrated to Amber and didn't take Father's not-very-subtle hints. Fiona has some dealings with them, or perhaps their church."
Folly makes a mental note: Fiona. Paresh.
Bleys presses down on the steps to Tir. "From this end of events, it's easy to assume that Brand planned every step of his path and that he wanted to be in the position he was in. The truth is more complex, and he set out to do something both selfless and amazing. Were we foolish enough to conjure his ghost, I'm sure he'd tell the Tale of Brand with himself as a tragic hero, driven by circumstances and his flaws to more and more desperate acts until his final doom.
"It was a shame that he wasn't able to live up to his ideals." Bleys pauses. "Of course, you could say either of those last two things about Father as well."
"Did you have enough faith in your brother's ideals to let him gut you over a Pattern?" Folly asks mildly. In the moonlight it's difficult to see the slight narrowing of her eyes.
Bleys doesn't need to see her to catch the change in mood. "That was after I lost my faith in his sanity. In fact, we thought we'd dissuaded him from that particular plan when we encouraged Brennan to run away from home. We had to lock him up and keep Mother from finding out about it." Bleys shakes his head, none too pleased with how that went.
Folly, relaxing visibly, gives a grimly sympathetic nod.
"I was glad that Martin took up with Paige, even though I knew Father set them up. Not only was it necessary for the rapprochement between father and Fiona and I, but also because I think that it did them both some good. They'd've had a much harder time without each other."
He pauses, briefly. "This is how family conversations turn from current events to metaphysics to philosophy to history to gossip. We are a very talented family, but it never has extended to staying on topic."
Folly grins. "I've found one can overcome a seemingly aimless ramble by working one's way back around to the chorus -- which in this case I think is: now that we do have our generation trying to work together to make this newly-arranged reality livable and sustainable, do you think fixing Tir ought to be one of our priorities, in either the near- or the longer-term? Or is it enough to shore up the other True Realms to try to keep Tir's wrongness from... I dunno, pulling other things out of whack...?" She pauses, tapping her bottom lip with one finger as she thinks. "Dworkin gave me an answer to that, obliquely -- well, I suppose that goes without saying -- but I'm interested to hear your take."
Bleys looks interested. "I hope you'll tell me what he said. I'd be interested to know what his opinion is now. There are quite a few options when dealing with damage to organic systems. Some things you leave alone and they get better, some things you exercise, some things you treat and some things you simply excise. We know the first approach isn't working, and the last would have consequences that we can only speculate on, but which might well include a suicidal attack by Moonriders.
"That leaves various forms of meddling. We know it's dangerous. Something about Tir drove the Queen of that place mad, and Brand, and we don't really know what happened to Eric's daughter, Cambina.
"My pragmatic intent, at this moment, is not to stir that hornet's nest until we've dealt with our current crop of hornets."
"That does seem prudent," Folly agrees.
He smiles. "I find my faith in your generation is justified, in that one person finds my advice 'prudent'. It's a novel experience for me, amongst our kindred.
"Do you have intentions towards the floating city of the Queen of Air and Darkness, otherwise known as the Land of the Curse of Eternal Youth?"
"Intentions?" Folly thinks about that for a moment before she replies, "I don't suppose you'd call it intentions, really, so much as a gnawing curiosity about what it is and how it works -- like wanting to figure out a bass line that's way too low in the mix so you can cover that song at Battle of the Bands, because if you lose some other band is going to materialize out of Shadow and wage actual war on your rhythm section. I'm quite fond of my rhythm section, you know?" She gives Bleys a lopsided smile. "So I guess my intentions are to learn more so I can figure out what my intentions are."
Bleys nods, possibly not exactly understanding who the rhythm section is, but getting the gist of the comment. "I see. How important is this to you, compared to other pressing matters? And what if merely learning more might be the trigger to cause the war band to materialize?"
"The latter isn't necessarily a deal-breaker," Folly replies thoughtfully, adding, "I'm optimistic enough -- or perhaps naive enough -- to believe that there's always a diplomatic solution, even when the problem is an angry mob on your doorstep. Of course, who among those with a long and antagonistic history with this family would believe that a scion of Amber really has their best interests at heart? So, diplomacy with a longtime foe whose thought-processes are almost tangential to our own would be damnably tricky. But not impossible.
"As to how important it is for me to pursue this now...." Folly trails off, and her eyes focus toward, but not really on, the city in the sky. After a moment she continues, "What I'm trying to figure out isn't really just The Problem Of Tir, but is of a piece with some of our other, perhaps more pressing problems: Why did Amber's Pattern cease functioning with your father's death, but Rebma's seems to have endured beyond Moins's? What is the... causality, I guess... in the deterioration, or not, of these three Pattern realms? Are they related to some common root cause? Does a shift in one really ripple out to cause shifts in the others? From that standpoint... it does seem rather important, yes. Although it could be that Tir itself isn't the best starting point." She returns her gaze to Bleys to see if he has any advice or insights.
Bleys nods. "From a theoretical point of view, it can't. Three possible conclusions can be drawn. One, the equations are wrong. Two, she isn't dead. Three, there is something else holding it together. I am inclined to suspect two or three. But I would be.
"I'm not even sure the patterns we know know are the first generation of patterns. I haven't found evidence of this, but it's both mathematically possible and has not been denied by Dworkin."
Bleys grins. "On my more cynical days, I tend to think of the pattern as a virus that uses our family as a method of reproduction. It seems to be largely successful at it, but I worry that the host population is so small..."
"Yes, and that brings up another interesting point of difference: why is it that Oberon's children can master the Pattern, and some have shown that they can create their own, but the scions Rebma and of Tir have thus far not proved able?" Folly frowns in thought. "What do you know about Dworkin's other children?"
Bleys leans in towards her. "What do I know? Very little. They were tied to the symbolism of the Minor Arcana, if Brand's theories were right. And the veils of the Pattern. It may not be more than a coincidence, or both may be reflections of some higher order thing.
"But, as many a scholar will when confronted with evidence of his own ignorance, I will change the subject and return your first question back to you. Some people who are clearly descended from Dworkin cannot walk the pattern. Some whose blood would seem to be quite remote, such as Dara, were able to. Assume there are simple rules. What do you need to know to resolve the problem?"
If he had glasses on, he would be looking over the top of them.
"Well, then the question becomes: what else do those who can walk the pattern have in common besides their Dworkinian ancestry -- and specifically, what traits do they have that those who cannot walk the pattern lack? I've been inclined to view Dara as a special case, because despite her apparent distance down the family tree, she's a Chaosian who's had some opportunity to... ah, let's say _absorb_... a bit of Amberite influence---"
It suddenly occurs to Folly that the same might be said of her -- except for the Chaosian bit, of course. She decides not to dwell too deeply on that at present, though; so after the briefest hesitation she continues:
"Who else do we know so far removed who's successfully managed the Pattern? The only other one I can think of is Ossian, who's presumably a generation further down than I am, unless his mum turns out to have been one of us, too...."
Bleys thinks for a moment. "Dara's father is my mother's brother, so all redheads are in that special case, including Ossian. He has Benedict and Brand in his lineage. Speaking of Brennan's son, do you know anything about his mother? Do you know anything else that is qualitatively different between us and everyone else? Surely we can't test our theories by throwing people on the pattern and seeing if they survive..."
"As I recall, Ossian spent much of his childhood in an orphanage and only has the haziest memories, if any, of his mother. And I'm not sure any of us have been so bold as to enquire after Brennan's... romantic history, let's call it... to have any sense of the likely candidates. It does suddenly occur to me, though, that Ossian's orphanage is also where Meg ended up. That could be a clue to his maternity -- or not; maybe one just attracted the other, the way we sometimes do in Shadow...." Folly frowns a little, wondering how much it might squick Brennan to have it suggested to him that his former paramour might have been a shapeshifted Dara.
"As to what's qualitatively different about us... I'm told Brita thinks we smell different, but I'm not sure that extends to being able to distinguish walkers from non-walkers. Your point about Ossian having both Brand and Benedict in his lineage is an interesting one, though: do we know for certain Oberon's other wives weren't also his decendents several generations removed? Perhaps his prohibition against his decendents having children together was due to the family tree already being too much of a bush...."
Bleys looks skeptical. "I always had the impression that it was a practical rule, put in place following some long-forgotten incident where it had been violated to father's displeasure. However, I wasn't given special instruction in that particular rule, as I never showed any inclination to chase after my sisters. You could ask Julian or Corwin, but I would advise a great deal of caution if you do so."
Folly barely represses a smirk.
"As to father's wives, he tended to be secretive. It would not have been wise to have a thorough investigation while he was alive. After Mother was Dybele. She was odd--one of Mother's Ladies-in-Waiting, and mother always thought there was something amusing about her marriage to Oberon. No one knew much about Rilga, and Paulette died so young. Oh, and you may want to investigate Huon's mother, and both her sons, if you're on this path.
"Mm, yes," Folly replies, "that should probably be on my agenda for a whole host of reasons. What can you tell me about them? I don't even know where they fall in the chronology of your father's dalliances and offspring...." She looks thoughtful for a moment before adding, "And then I'll tell you what Dworkin said about patterns, before we wander too much further afield."
"I look forward to the last. As to chronology, it is a shoe that does not fit well on the royal foot of Amber. Some like to say 'it becomes confused after Rilga', but those who do not use the passive voice would more accurately say 'King Oberon allowed matters to appear confused'. We are on the side of the tree where effects have causes. 'Sequence and order, time and stress', as Dworkin used to say." He sounds as if he's reciting a mantra.
"I believe Huon happened between Gerard and Ysabeau, since we're speaking of the unspoken-of. Definitely before Paulette. I think Father might have even considered marrying her, if she hadn't gotten Pinabello off another man."
Bleys smiles, lightly. "You know the pleasant thing about a new generation is that three hundred year old court gossip is useful again. I used to think of us as a family of sequential only children. You all must have a very different experience of it all than any of us did."
Folly returns the smile. "I can only speak for myself, but it has been quite gratifying to discover quite suddenly that one has a family of cousins mostly willing to throw in and work together. After three decades as an only child myself, I've appreciated getting to step into a sororal role with some of my younger cousins especially. I hope the next generation gets on at least as well as we do -- and I'm grateful many of them will have an opportunity to grow up together.
"It was actually our growing number of offspring I was musing on when Dworkin made his Pattern comments. I had asked if the reason it was allegedly bad for us to breed was that we're too 'dense' in a metaphysical sense and tend to, I dunno, warp shadow around us. Dworkin described the Patterns and Shadows as 'like a pearl' in that they 'protect Chaos from the irritant of Order', and vice versa, and said that although I'd need more maths for him to be able to explain it properly, that 'worst case we just need more Patterns -- and better ones.' Which struck me at the time as potentially an effective solution, but not necessarily the most elegant one -- sort of like trying to mask the fact that your bassist can only change notes about once a measure by piling on more cowbell, or something."
Bleys nods. "Perhaps the cowbells should be left to the cows, if that's the case. It does sound like something the old wizard would say, although he didn't formerly advocate the creation of more patterns. I always thought he wasn't telling the whole truth when he said there were three first-order patterns because he wanted three first-order patterns. I always wondered what it would mean if he wanted something else next week."
He strokes his chin. "Paris is an interesting case. It would make sense if Corwin's pattern causes shadows to be cast that remembered a long history for the city, but there are documents in Amber that mention it. Documents that shouldn't have changed after the fact, even if Amber lost her pattern." He looks off at Tir, and a cloud that approaches it, then back at Folly.
"Dworkin flat out told us that there was a 'correct' number of us, and wanted to know if we could find it in the fundamental equations. He also told us it had been a long time since we'd had that few relatives. The interesting thing you bring up is that it's related to the number of patterns and some quality of them. I shall have to put pen to paper for this one."
"I'm sure I'm not the only one who will be interested in what you find out," Folly says, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Although in the meantime, are there any books you can recommend that would help me with the sorts of maths I'd need for understanding Pattern equations? My natural inclination is to try to think of it in terms of acoustics, but perhaps that's not the most efficient model...."
Folly is quiet a moment, still pondering some of the other things Bleys said. Then, "Did Paris start out on the other side of the tree? Or... I guess the better way to put that is, where was Corwin when he drew his Pattern? I mean, you were all headed toward Chaos then, right? And could that have messed with Paris's causality?"
"By definition, it is on this side of the tree. But was it germinated here? Hard to tell. From Corwin's story, he planted a branch he took from Ygg just before it. So, since Ygg is defined as being where Ygg is, I suppose he made the pattern at Ygg." Bleys frowns. "I wonder what became of it. I suspect it stayed where it was and the pattern moved, or relatively, it returned to the inflection point. The equations changed and Ygg is an artifact of them.
"But that aside, I don't think Corwin had gone far from Ygg. The additional effort required to continue to breathe and have surface tension and such in Chaos come naturally if we are not busy, but writing a pattern would take one's entire concentration." He smiles ruefully.
"It's not a feat I hope to complete myself anytime soon. However, we have an ideal subject and a control. If Xanadhavians start having centuries-long pedigrees and history books, we'll know that the act of pattern-creation causes the area around it to create a city that comes complete with an ancient history. Otherwise, there is something special about Paris."
"...And potentially moreso than simply 'The guy who scribed its Pattern is exactly the sort of bloke whose ideal city comes with its own ancient history'," Folly adds.
"Hmm. No reason for it not to be both, of course." Bleys continues:
"As to lessons, I am afraid our family has not put together a curriculum for learning the higher maths. Probably my best advice to you is to find some shadow where math or physics are a working on obscure cosmological questions, learn enough to confound the practitioners, there, and then you'll have enough of a basis to really begin learning. There are probably only three tutors who can help once you get there, although Brennan, Edan, or Conner could help. Oh, and Paige knows more than she tells, but that's a given." He raises his eyebrows slightly at the last.
Folly smiles. "Indeed, but I imagine she already has her hands more than full educating her newborn teenagers." She does not add that she rather suspects her own soon-to-be-newborn is still something of a sore spot for Paige that Folly does not want to irritate unnecessarily. "Still, that gives me a good place to start -- and a lot to think about -- so thank you for that."
She stands, stretches, shakes out her skirt, and closes the short distance to the glimmering stairway. She steps up on the stone and bends down to lay her palm on the first moon-revealed step, the way she might touch the top of a speaker to feel the music coming out of it.
After a long moment's concentration, she straightens again, hops down from the steps, and says, "And now I'm afraid the wee nubbin is demanding dinner, so it's back to the pleasure dome for me. Are you headed that way?"
"I am. I'm leaving after court tomorrow. Things have come up that require my attention. I have a horse, if you'd like to ride back."
"Oh, yes, if you don't mind, I would certainly appreciate it," Folly replies with a wide smile. "And the little one thanks you, too, as this will hasten the acquisition of dinner."
And after a few more pleasantries on the ride down and wishing Bleys luck with his errands, Folly is off to do just that.
Last modified: 26 July 2011