As the outdoor ceremony breaks up and groups start heading their various directions, Signy quietly start moving in a determined fashion towards one of the parties. Her relative newness and lack of immediate affiliation with other, more well-known family members lets her speedily move through the throngs until she catches up to her intended target, at which point her pace easily adjusts to match his.
"Your Majesty," she says quietly. "I was told you were one of the ones that knew my mother the best, and was hoping you might have time to talk."
Corwin is a tall, dark man dressed in black and silver. He's walking alongside an elegantly-black clad woman with blonde hair who must be Florimel, the mother of murdered Lucas. He offers Signy his free arm--Florimel has hers through the crook of his other elbow--and nods. "You must be Signy. Have you met your aunt Florimel?"
Signy hesitates for a barely perceptible moment in uncertianty before attempting to mimic Florimel in putting her arm in Corwin's. She somehow manages to avoid any disruption in their pace or positioning while getting herself settled into position.
"No, I haven't. Aunt Florimel," she says, nodding her head respectfully in her direction, nervous about looking towards her for fear of upsetting the group. "I'm sorry for your loss. I would have liked to have been able to meet Lucas and Cambina."
"Thank you," Florimel says regally. Her polish appears effortless and for all her pale skin and the brightness of her eyes, only partly concealed by the dark lace veil. "It is a pleasure to meet you, niece, even on such a sad occasion. Will you be coming to Paris tomorrow?"
Some of the tension goes out of Signy as Flora speaks, and the muscles in her arm lose some of their tension. "Yes, I am," she says simply. Her brow creases slightly in thought for a moment, before she continues. "I'd like to spend some time there as well, and meet a few more family members."
"I am sure you will be welcome in Paris, won't she, Corwin?" There's something slightly knowing in Florimel's smile, which Corwin, turning to look at Signy, misses completely.
Signy's eyebrow twitches ever so slightly, but she refrains from any other reaction to Florimel's smile.
"Of course. We'll let Alice know to make up some rooms for you. Celina and Merlin are currently in residence, and some of the others may stay for a time." They are far enough up the hill that they're out of earshot of the citizens of Xanadu, so he asks, "Have you taken the Pattern yet?"
Signy files away the names, adding to the growing pile of cousins, aunts and uncles.
"Yes, I have. I walked it not too long ago in Xanadu, though I'm afraid I haven't really had much of a chance to learn anything about what that really means. Fiona and Bleys were mentioned as possible teachers, however I haven't yet had a chance to talk with Fiona."
She watches Florimel and Corwin out of the corner of her eye to see if the lack of honorific or title is correct.
Florimel's brows arch slightly at the lack of honorific, but Corwin hardly seems to notice. "Bleys is a rascal. Don't look for a straight answer from him. But he'll generally help you if you're in need. Fiona can be more difficult. Do you mean to spend time in Shadow to get some practical experience of Pattern work?"
Signy nods. "That sounds like it might be the best way to start learning. It certainly was when I learned what I know about smithcraft from my father, or Sorcery from Brother Tomat. Uncle Bleys mentioned examining Ygg as one possible place to start learning."
Corwin's eyebrows rise a little at this, but the group has reached a spot of rough ground and Corwin steers them to a halt. He slides his trump deck out of his pocket. "Why don't you go ahead to Paris?" he suggests to Florimel, offering her what Signy suspects from the glimpse she gets of it is a place trump of a location in Paris.
"I believe I'll take you up on that offer," Florimel says, taking the trump and disengaging. "It's been a pleasure, my dear. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Au revoir." She looks into the trump for a moment, then steps into it and is gone.
Corwin turns back to Signy. "Your sorcery must be reasonably advanced if Bleys is already suggesting you go out to Ygg. I'd start with shadowshifting closer to Paris or Xanadu in your shoes. The shadows run wild close to Ygg and you need either a lot of sorcery or a lot of Pattern." He sounds not so much skeptical that Signy could survive as concerned.
Possibly Florimel left to avoid this kind of boring metaphysical discussion.
As Florimel heads out, Signy raises her hand in farewell.
Signy offers an indifferent shrug to Corwin's question. "I never met anyone on the Plane that was better than me," she states in a bored, matter-of-fact voice. "But I don't know how I stack up to things outside of that. When I was fighting Hob, I didn't seem to be able to do much damage."
Corwin seems to be about to ask her a question, but ...
She offers a slight smile, and her expression brightens slightly. "But now that Brother Tomat and Red Fox Claws is here, I have some people I can trust to accompany me."
"Those are friends of yours from your shadow? It's good to have a few with you. I've recruited a number of my companions from my travels to work for me in Paris." Corwin returns Signy's smile. "Tell me about them."
Signy's smile grows slightly broader. "Marius was responsible for reuniting me with Brother Tomat -- he had gone to his order for help in finding me, and Brother Tomat was the one that he ran into." If she finds this to be at all a stretching of coincidence, she doesn't show any outward sign of it. "And Sir Brennan ran across Red Fox Claws when he went back to my father's Tower, and brought him back with him. The one that taught me Sorcery for my father, and the man that guarded my back and helped lead the Band."
Corwin doesn't seem to find this too much of a coincidence either, for whatever reason. "They'll be welcome in Paris, then, for your sake."
Then he frowns, not from the concentration it's taking for them to get up the hill without tripping. "I didn't know that Marius had gone looking for you; he didn't mention it before he left. I'm concerned that he wasn't here today, in fact. I would have thought that Cambina's death would have drawn him home. Or perhaps it's too soon after your mother's memorial for Marius to attend another."
At the mention of her mother, the constrained happiness in her bearing melts away. "How long ago was...it?" she asks. "She left when I was just a few years old," she murmurs, her shoulders tightening slightly with tension.
"She died in the war, in the last battle." Corwin looks away, his own expression having begun to tighten when he speaks of it. "Brand was holding her and the Jewel at the edge threatening her. She bit him and was trying to fight free when Caine shot him through the throat. He pulled her with him by the hair when he fell into the Abyss.
"Marius was there when it happened. Brand almost killed him. He's recovered from his physical injuries. But Caine, who knew him best, says he's changed. Or it's changed him, however you want to count it."
All this is provided with no explanation, as if Corwin expects Signy to know all the names and places mentioned, not just Marius' and Deirdre's.
Signy nods once, her expression tight. "How..." She swallows once, tries to gather her thoughts and continue. "What was she like?"
"That's a long explanation," says Corwin, "and probably one best suited for an extended stay in Paris. But the short version is that she was beautiful and brilliant, and a serious player in the old family game. It was a real loss when Brand took her with him." Corwin is still looking away, and his voice is a bit thick.
A look of weary loneliness plays on Signy's face for a moment, leaking out past her self control before trickling away into a forced calm. "Were Marius and I her only children," she asks, her voice chilled with enforced control over her emotions.
"I don't know," Corwin confesses. "I was--away from Amber for a few centuries. Lost in Shadow and unable to get back because I'd lost my memories. But before I left, the only nephew most of us had heard of was Martin, and I'd never met him. Deirdre never mentioned either of you. But I think you must have been born while I was lost in Shadow." This assumption may be as much prescriptive as descriptive.
A silence stretches out after Corwin stops speaking, Signy looking back across time. "What about my father, Weyland? Did you know him very well?"
It's clear from the uncertainty in her tone that Signy is very much undecided about what her answer to that question would be.
"I knew of him, but I don't think I knew him. He never spent time in Amber that I can recall," Corwin says. "I had no idea that Deirdre even knew how to find him, much less that she was--close to him. Close enough to bear him children."
A look of frustration crosses Signy's face. Another attempt to learn more, and still trapped in the same maze of mirrors, no closer to any sort of understanding.
"Bleys showed me the blade that my father made for him. It almost seems like he is part of the family as well, after seeing just what that blade is." Notes of bitterness ring out, "Yet he seems unknown to everyone."
She lapses back into silence, running through one of Brother Tomat's quick mental exercises to calm and focus her emotions.
"My brother found me through a ring of my mother's -- were there any other possessions of hers left behind?" If there were clues to her hidden on a ring, maybe there were additional clues hidden on other things. And maybe there were clues for her that she could find, after reclaiming her father's Tower from whomever may have moved in.
"We can look, and ask. But when the earthquake that damaged Castle Amber struck, when Dad died, it destroyed the tower most of us had our rooms in. They probably gave Marius most of what they were able to salvage of hers." Corwin moves to take Signy's hand and squeeze it reassuringly.
"I could show you Greyswandir, but if you've seen Werewindle, you may not find much new in it about your father or his skill."
Signy straightens up slightly at this. "Has anyone compared them, to see if there are any differences? If they're tied to Patterns, are all Patterns the same?"
"We've never systematically compared them, or at least I haven't, but there are some obvious differences in the--" Corwin pauses, considering the right word "--inflections, you might say, of the blades. I'm probably stronger in my ability to use Greyswandir than he is with Werewindle, but I've had Greyswandir longer. There are also some differences in how each blade behaves with each wielder. Caine had a different repertoire of tricks with it than Bleys."
Signy's eyes narrow in thought.
"When we're in Paris, would I be able to compare the two blades against each other?"
"Compare them how?" Corwin asks. "I don't mind letting you examine Greyswandir, but to understand what I'm talking about, I think you'd need to see them in action. I don't think Bleys can be spared from his current work, and I need to stay in Paris for a time, so it's not like we can take you adventuring."
Signy nods, her shoulders slumping slightly in defeat.
"Maybe I'll take you up on that in Paris, Uncle. I appreciate the time you've spent answering questions, and while I doubt that there's anything you'd want to ask of me in return...?"
"Not now, I think. Perhaps later. I'm not sure you can answer the questions I have just now anyway." Corwin's smile is very tired. "But thank you for offering."
The room is not large, certainly not a sprawling space like the Salle or Random's studio, but it does look larger than it really is; the walls and ceiling are mirrored, and a permanent barre stretches around three-fourths of the room. An electric chandelier hangs from the center, reflected as hundreds of points of light all around. There is also a cranked-up phonograph in the corner, whose record is currently playing the Prelude to Bach's Cello Suite No.1. Edan is near one corner, dressed in a silk dancing uniform tied at the ankles and wrists (the same one in which he rode out to the forest with Paige), and is dancing ballet d'action style in time to the music. For the moment, his eyes are closed in what could be either intense concentration or rapture, it's hard to tell.
Ossian quietly opens the door. He seemingly does not stop to assess the situation, just quietly starts dancing too. Only the slow tap of Ossian's feet might alert Edan to Ossian's presence.
Perhaps it's the change in air pressure, or perhaps Edan actually managed to pick out Ossian's steps in between all the music and his own dancing, but his eyes open almost as soon as Ossian enters. The gold of Edan's eyes is muted somewhat in all this light, not the near-demonic glow of the funeral speech. He doesn't say a word, not yet; he just smiles a little and moves to right-of-center in the room, ceding Ossian a similar position to mirror him. Edan's dance changes, too, from d'action to more languid and extended movements, giving Ossian time to stretch. The exception to this is when the cello moves down into the lower notes, the music slows and becomes more intense, and Edan stretches out his working leg and pivots into an arabesque penchee', a move that would have made anyone with less than Amberite muscles drop their jaw and shake their head. His aplomb and ballon are perfect, almost scary.
Ossian's dance is not exceptionally athletic, but elegant. The play of the shadows on the walls is spectacular.
Only after the last chord is played, and there is a pause before the Allemande, is when Edan raises his arms in a grande pose and says, "You are Ossian, yes? I have long since wanted to meet you."
"And you must be Paige's brother?" Ossian says with a smile "I'm curious as to why I have tickled your curiosity."
"Because I sculpt," Edan says as the music begins for the second movement. "Mostly in glass. I've seen your work, and it is awe-inspiring. I feel as though I am in the presence of a true master." A change of foot position, and they are across the floor: three steps then balancing en pointe, three steps then a balance, and so on. "Sculpture should be like dance. Effortless. Flowing. Not at all like the effort I have to put into a piece."
A coin in Ossian's hand lets a little point of light dance along the wall in a quite subtle manner. He smiles "Flattery.
"Don't you think the effort makes the art better?"
"I would, if I liked the end result better." Edan begins to stretch out in his movements, assume positions that are more demanding. "Perhaps it is just a matter of time. I spent most of my life training for dance. Not quite so long for sculpture. Dance generally is free and uninhibited for me. Sculpture is more difficult. When I see your work, I see the same kind of... confidence? Expression? Passion? That is what I think I lack."
Ossian nods "Practise. If made right. With lust. Takes you closer to the art form. As you are with the dance. And I guess I am with paper.
"Talent helps of course.
"I'd much like to look at your sculpture."
"Oh. Ah, of course. After this piece, yes?" They turn, and pivot, and start back across the room. "I should mention that we may speak freely here, if such a thing would worry you. Sorcery is difficult here because of the Pattern, but not impossible. A little Multiplicity goes a long way to blind someone with light and overload the ears with Bach, if a spy uses the mirrors. In case I wanted to ask how Lilly was doing, for instance."
Ossian nods. "I have not yet aquired the full family paranoia. Which I guess will cost me dearly one day soon. But Lilly seems to be doing fine. But I'd like to hear Uncle Ambrose's version of that story too."
Edan blinks. "Ah, Uncle, yes. I heard something to that effect. I also heard that you were an artist of Trump, like my sister. Heh... that is why we Trumped you. Glorious confusion! I wish I had been there to see it. I hope that we did not ruin your dinner."
Ossian grins "Oh no! The timing was excellent. There are some cousins who should thank Lilly for breaking a sort of awkward situation.
"You were there at the other end? What happened?"
"Lilly and I happened upon cousin Ambrose and his people about to be wiped out by his sister Chantico and her army. With a retinue of gods from Uxmal, to boot. Lilly fought a duel with Chantico, who cheated by not being fully there to lose in the first place. Or, that she was manifesting herself in the Shadow as she normally would, depending on who you talk to. I retaliated by yanking her and all her pet gods into the Shadow and then rained fire and burning metal on them." He pauses as they execute a series of dance postures to the music. "Or, I was offended by the color of the grass and was attempting to change it. Depending on who you talk to."
Ossian tilts his head slightly to the left for a moment "That awful green. Yes.
"Wait. Ambrose's sister... I have to talk with Br...my father about that. Did she survive?"
"I think so," Edan says. "In fact, I know so. She and I have similar... talents. I can't imagine her perishing in a sodium explosion. I wouldn't. My hope is that I caused her enough pain and embarassment that she will, ah, 'cross to the other side of the street when she sees me coming'. Yes. That is the expression." He gives Ossian a glance as they twirl, the last minuet movement in full swing. "A friendly warning- she appears to be well-immersed in the blood-sorcery and sacrificial mindset of Uxmal. If you foresee a scenario where you walk up to her and say, 'Hello, Aunt,' she might decide to try and tie you to an altar."
Ossian smiles "Don't worry. I was not planning to. Human sacrifice, though. Why did Brand choose such a cliché place? I mean, there are more subtle ways of doing evil, if that is the effect you want. Anyway. Where were you during the war? We could have had use for you in Amber, I think." That last is not said with any malice. Ossian seems oblivious to the abrupt change of subject.
"At that time, I was not easy to find," Edan says. "I had adopted the tribes of the deep desert as my own people. They were ruthlessly being exploited by those of the cities. Then, when our efforts were nearing success, the desert was invaded by creatures of Chaos known as the hamaaj. My hands were... full. My father chose to let me complete what I was doing, rather than waste time trying to find me and then convince me to leave."
Ossian nods. "I understand. What I don't understand is where your madness lies? All of us are mad in one way or the other. Especially the red-haired ones. Maybe your sculpture will reveal..."
Edan's raised eyebrow isn't Julianic, but it does indicate he's had some experience doing it. "Strange... I've heard the same thing about 'artists'. Directed at me, of course. Does that count as twice the evidence?" He gives the mirrored room a cheery wave, and, draping a towel around his neck, leads Ossian back towards the residential area of the castle.
Ossian grins "But of course."
"Blood-magic rituals are strong," he says on the way, almost as an afterthought. "and Uxmal would have been a fine place to practice. Are you aware of the cause of the Black Road?"
"No, not really." Ossian says. "I encountered it, of course, but didn't come to Amber until after it was gone."
"Ahh, hmm." Edan is silent a moment. "Well, I think Brand was responsible. And his time at Uxmal was part of his plan, one that spanned centuries. And that a sacrificial ritual was involved. The perfect training."
Ossian nods "That sacrifice I know about. Brennan. Became Martin. Didn't know the Black road was due to that though. Or that the sacrifice was ritualistic, rather than simple slaughter."
"Brennan," Edan says. "Of course." He shakes his head. "If I were one to wager, I would do so. I would bet that the injuries to Martin exactly matched one of Brand's sacrificial Uxmali rituals. A slow death, starting with the belly and then up towards the heart." He pauses. "I will not ask Martin to raise his shirt and verify my theory."
Ossian nods, but then shakes his head "I don't see that a ritual should be essential to Brand's plans. I mean, did Huon do the same thing for his blood bomb?"
Edan smiles, immediately, and not a pleasant smile, either. "Didn't he? But not the same ritual. And not the same place. You see which one worked."
The tight smile softens. "It's just a theory. I don't have enough data to cross the threshold into 'presumptive'. But I am aware that Brand had many ties to Chaos at that point, and Sorcery is a natural function on the other side of the Tree. Like breathing."
Ossian nods again. "So... you say that the Black Road was an intended effect of Brand's blood ritual, and not just a side effect of him tring to erase the Pattern? Maybe even the intended effect?"
Edan doesn't have to look at Ossian to smile. "So, you did know about that after all. Maybe it was a planned effect, maybe not. Maybe a planned consequence. But not an unplanned one. Would you leave details to chance? Where on the Pattern was Brand? What direction was he facing? What stroke did he use? What was the length of the weapon? With so long a time to prepare, I submit that all these details, and many more, were meticulously planned in advance. Ahh, here we are." Edan stops at a door, unlocks it, and ushers Ossian in; as before, Edan's rooms are covered with silks and tapestries, the floor covered in rugs and pillows, to appear like the inside of a bedouin tent. "A moment, and I will find a few pieces."
"I know about a lot of things. Not just how they are connected." Ossian looks around the room. "Seems I impersonated you on the disastrous masquarades" he says with a grin.
"Did you? I'd say that was the highest form of compliment, but you didn't know about me," Edan says, rummaging around. "I had to work hard to get all these- not a matter of having the funds, of course, but the sheer effort of going from ship to ship to ship as I led them back and forth from Amber to Xanadu. Talking to crew, begging to see the manifests, making offers on silk and tapestry... had I known you even a few weeks ago, I might have had an easier time of it- I understand that you have a number of connections with the bohemian set." He smiles. "As for the coronation- strange, isn't it, how things work out. Lilly and I stuck up for Ambrose mainly because of his vows to Random. You would never have thought something like that would happen, considering what he did at the masquerade."
Ossian nods "Ambrose did save cousin Brita. That helps. And Brennan seems to have accepted him too. I haven't had the opportunity for a private talk with Ambrose yet. Would be interesting.
"I don't know if my contacts have moved here yet, or ever will. But in Amber... "
"We'll talk," Edan says, his voice warm. "Here we are." He sets three glass sculptures on the floor (there being no chairs, and the tables already covered with stuff): one of a cat ready to leap, one of a cityscape with tall fairylike minarets and towers, and a multicolored piece that looks like a bonfire. Each is about two to three feet tall. The cat sculpture looks astonishingly like Folly's cat Thelonius; in fact, all three pieces look detailed and exact, with little imagination.
Ossian examines the glass sculptures thoroughly, not only with his eyes, but also with his hands, stroking the cat gently. "Fine craftsmanship" he says. "Very realistic. But I see you have problems with this.
"Are you familiar with the art of photography?
"Photo... the silver thing? Er, images captured on glass or paper? With a solution of silver halides that resolve the image? I have seen it done," Edan says, of course describing a rather primitive version of monochrome photography.
Ossian nods "In many shadows it works like that, yes. I never bothered to look into the technicalities. Anyway, where the phototechnology is perfected, it loses the aspect of art. A photograph is merely an almost perfect image. You have to manipulate it to make art out of it.
"Of course, the image is only perfect in the optical sense. It has nothing to do with the photographer, other than the choice of what to take a picture of.
"You sculptures. The image must pass through your heart on the way to the glass. I suggest you try working with abstract shapes for a while. Maybe without any clear idea to start with. Sort of doodling.
"As for these, they are good starting points for interesting art." Ossian is unconciously flexing his fingers.
Edan smiles slightly. "Would you like to take one, Cousin? Work with it yourself, show it to me later as an example of what you are saying?"
"Oh, one is quite quick, if it works. " Ossian says. He gently lays the ciyscape on its side, draws his dagger, and strikes the underside of the sculpture with the hilt. A cracking sound is heard, and a branching tree of fine cracks spread from the strike point. The sculpture still holds together when Ossian tilts it back. He proceeds by twisting the towers in the cityscape making the cracks spread even more. As it happens the cracks originate from one small building near the center of the city.
"Hm." Ossian says.
Edan has things figured out about the time Ossian draws his dagger and has turned his head slightly, wincing, as Ossian smacks the bottom of the sculpture.
"You know, Cousin, when I said work with it yourself-" he begins.
Ossians grin is not quite sane "Conserve that feeling. Sculpture is less immediate than dancing. You need to be able to recall a feeling throughout the process. Start practising with this one.
"Breathe. We can discuss what I did in a minute." Ossian turns quiet, just standing there, looking from the sculpture, to Edan and back.
Hesitantly, Edan reaches out to one of the spires; under the touch of his fingers, the glass warps and melts, and as he stretches it outward and upward the cracks extend and follow with soft ping! sounds. At first, they don't follow the pattern of the other cracks.
"Why... why did you pick that particular spot for your blow?" he asks.
Ossian smiles when Edan starts playing with the sculpture. When he gets the question he does not answer immedeately.
"Not all places would work, due to the tiny bubbles in the glass. But you know that. I could have chosen one of the towers...I was looking for a place that could provide a story for the viewer...
"...I have not decided on exactly which story. And I don't think I need to."
"I also felt the need to make a fast decision." he adds with a grin.
Edan's return smile is a little forced. "Oh, but you see," he says, "that place has a story already."
"Oh." Ossian says. "I'm sorry.
"You had a particular story in mind, I take it? Would you care to elaborate?"
"This," Edan says, indicating the sculpture, "this is the City of Brass. This is the place where I came into my power, where my father's teachings finally made sense. I crossed over from the Land of Peace to this place, to my mother's... people... the afriti. And when I met my mother's father, this was the spot where I was taken, where I studied, where I... endured."
"Oh, Edan. Did you intend to show this piece of art to anyone?" Ossian says "I mean, it seems you made it for yourself, which is all fine."
"I did make it for myself, but I didn't mind showing it," Edan says. "I wouldn't have brought it if I wanted to keep it secret. The City of Brass itself is fairly well-known, too. It's just... what a coincidence."
"The house here? What happened there?" Ossian points to the little house the cracks extend from. "And what is the significance of the cracks you made?"
"Not... I was just extending the cracks, stretching the glass," Edan says. "Nothing special. The house... it is hard to describe. Forty days and forty nights, I stayed in that place. I did not sleep. I learned. There were times that I wondered if I had been given a hallucinogen. I became fire. I drew that power from myself. Time stretched..."
Ossian furrows his brow suspiciously for a moment. "So. If I get this right, the sculpture was more of an illustration than a separate piece of art. But maybe of the city, rather than your part there? An interesting point is if the cracks fits in there somewhere?"
"An... illustration, yes," Edan says. "My hands fashioning a memory out of sand. The cracks... well, it was not the most pleasant of times, and I remember causing quite a bit of destruction as I learned. But I didn't destroy the city." He looks closer, humming, then is silent a long moment; when he finally speaks, he says, "Politically, maybe. My mother's... father... was the Padishah of this place. That isn't saying much; every afrit you meet is likely to say that he's a king or a prince of something. But he really was the most powerful of afrits, and I caused quite a stir, a human living in the City of Brass."
Another moment of silence. "Mostly human."
"Maybe the sculpture was better than both I and you give it credit for? If I chose the right house. Or in some respects, the wrong one.
"You were the only human there?
"These other sculptures." Ossian gestures "What was your thought behind them."
Ossian gets a faint smile after the first question, and a bob of Edan's head at the second. "There was considerable ill-feeling, and contempt. The Padishah lost face, surely. At least until I learned, and grew strong, and the afriti saw glimpses of the power a Prince of Amber can show in his fury." Edan shakes his head. "The cat is Folly's... and the flame, it was a bonfire I walked through in Chaos, once."
Ossian nods. "The cat is a good portrait. But I think we have established the problem here. You are a good sculptor, but you have to work on the art part.
"I have a suggestion; go abstract for a while. Or make bowls, glasses and the like."
For just a second, Edan looks shocked; but he smiles a little and bows. "Back to first principles, yes? It is something that I can do. Perhaps you would be interested in seeing my progress as time passes?"
"Of course" Ossian says. "Do not unterestimate the possibility for art in kitchenware. Beauty in things used. Slowly worn down.
"But many art teachers would call the things you have done first principles. Portraits. Copies. As the first things to work on."
"I see," Edan says. "I shall. Yes. And find you when I'm... ready, I suppose is the best word. Will you be around here? Xanadu and Amber and Paris?"
Ossian smiles and nods "Mostly Xanadu the weeks after the coronation. Later in Amber, hopefully. I'm looking forward to our meetings."
In whichever castle Jerod finds himself staying overnight, he finds the following note when he returns to his chamber.
My dear nephew,
In the instructions Lucas left us for his funeral, he requested that you be among his pallbearers. I hope you will be able to perform this role at the service tomorrow. Please let me know whether you can accept the last honor that Lucas could bestow on you.
Your aunt,
Florimel
Jerod reads the note over, unconsciously comparing the handwriting on the note to his memory of Florimel's work. That Lucas would ask him does not seem to come as much of a surprise. That Jerod wonders why Lucas would have asked is also not a surprise. For all his foppishness, Lucas was not someone that Jerod underestimated. Both offered the world the face that seemed most reasonable to deflect attention and to ensure that the viewer filled in any gaps with their own biases. There is no better way to move unhindered.
He does not give serious consideration to refusing Florimel's request, knowing that to do so would garner him no benefit. Even if there is a risk, it is better to be part of it and thus be on hand to defuse it than to be a passive spectator. Besides, even if she might have been a bitch to others she never did him any harm and he always did like her, even if Dad didn't. On that thought, he sifts out his trump deck and draw out Florimel's card to advise her of his acceptance.
In whichever castle Garrett finds himself staying overnight (presumably Xanadu), he finds the following note when he returns to his chamber.
My dear nephew,
In the instructions Lucas left us for his funeral, he requested that you be among his pallbearers. I hope you will be able to perform this role at the service tomorrow. Please let me know whether you can accept the last honor that Lucas could bestow on you.
Your aunt,
Florimel
Feeling that this request warrants a personal reply, Garrett foregoes a written response in favor of a visit. He seeks out Florimel's quarters and speaks with whatever personal assistant the princess has on staff. He will either wait or return at a specified time if she is busy.
Florimel doesn't have permanent staff in Xanadu, as she is in residence in Paris full-time, acting as Corwin's chatelaine. The request will get kicked upstairs to Gilt, who can tell Garrett that Florimel has already returned to Paris.
All right then. Trump is the next best thing. Garrett thanks Gilt and finds himself a quiet corner to initiate a trump call to his aunt.
After a moment, a voice comes, but the image of Florimel does not form yet. "Who is it?" Florimel's voice asks.
"It's Prince Garrett, Your Highness," he says with a slight hesitation. Deciding that his aunt must be doing some sort of trump-trick that he doesn't know yet to block his view, he continues. "I hope I'm not calling at a bad time. I wanted to tell you I received your note and would be honored to serve as a pallbearer for Lord Lucas. I was surprised that he thought of me."
On hearing his name, Florimel's image resolves. She is still in the dark clothes she was wearing to Cambina's funeral, but the room she is in doesn't appear to be in either Amber or Xanadu based on Garrett's memory and the style of the furnishings.
"Oh, he was quite specific. I'm given to understand that it had something to do with your help in getting him to Amber during the emergency when your cousin Daeon died," Florimel explains. "There will only be four of you, but the coffin isn't that heavy. Have you ever been a pallbearer? The custom of Paris is different to the customs of Amber."
"Not exactly, no," Garrett says, deciding this is not the time to bore her with accounts of stablehand funerals after the Sundering. "What is the custom of Paris? And who are the other pallbearers, if I might ask? Perhaps I should confer with them?" Garrett notices that something about talking with Florimel makes him speak more formally. And improves his posture as well.
Florimel answers his first question first. "There will be four pallbearers. You and your brother, and Merlin and Jerod, and I doubt they will be much better prepared than you. You'll only have to carry the coffin in and out of the cathedral to be placed into the hearse for transport to the cemetery in Montmartre, and then from the hearse to the gravesite for the burial. You'll be in a pew in the front of the cathedral together, and then in a coach to the cemetary. Just dress in the dark suit I've sent along for you and you should be fine," she reassures him.
"Very well," Garrett nods politely. "Thank you. I am sure you are busy so I'll keep you no longer, but there is one thing I wished you to know."
He exhales, gathering his words. "Lucas did right by me, even before anyone knew my status. He was a good man and I shall miss him," Garrett says sincerely. "If his family needs anything, I will always be happy to help."
Florimel smiles at him. She may be the most beautiful woman Garrett has ever seen. "That's very kind of you, Garrett. I'll tell Solace you said so. I'm sure knowing that Lucas' family is thinking of her will be a great reassurance."
"Thank you, Highness," Garrett smiles back. "I will see you in Paris soon." He closes the contact.
Celina leaves Llewella pondering a great many things, but feeling lighter in spirit than before.
She returns to find what the arrangements are for the trip back to Paris and how many cousins will be in tow. She realizes something and hurriedly pens a note:
Folly
You may not be going to Paris...which would be a shame because we need a tub together. Consider yourself invited to join me in very hot water. French hot water is better than anywhere else. Bring your cat if you like. Suffice to say, I have much to tell you, none of it really very comfy.Celina
ps: I'm in love with the new Queen of Rebma. She's mad, I think. I expect you to have advice on this.
Celina finds a page to deliver her note and gets to the business of helping with logistics and travel.
Last modified: 14 June 2010