Imminent Departure

Having two conversations about Xanadu add up to a restless itch, Celina pads barefoot about the castle admiring a few hallways and more intimate spaces. Mostly she tries to get the circulation down pat. A look at a few paintings reminds her of Ossian's tour offer, but it is not until she sees a page that she actually realizes she has wandered far enough to stop and ask for directions to Merlin's room.

She also sends to page with message for Ossian:

Ossian
While your kind offer about art tours is still in my mind,
I am spending time with my brother, Merlin, today.
Kind regards
Celina

To which Ossian answers

Celina
If nothing unforsen happens we could do the art tour tomorrow, if you want to. I will be leaving Amber after that, but even if I am not present I will arrange something for you when you want it.
Yours,
Ossian.

On the note there is also a small sketch of a bird Celina does not recognize.

And thanking the page, she makes a truer line for her brother's room. Along the way, she's pleased and relieved to feel that she might have gotten here on her own merit. She did have a general idea of where it was after all.

Not really expecting Merlin to still be abed --- she scratches at his door.

The door has a flap in it.

Merlin comes to answer the scratch after a moment, and smiles when he opens the door to see his sister. "Come in," he says, and ushers her in.

Celina's brother is dressed in black, as is his wont, but his hands are paint-stained. "I have been working on a trump. Would you like to see?"

"Certainly I would," Celina responds, "but the gaze of another set of eyes will not disturb the wet clay... I mean the setting up?" She at that moment has the notion that there is a sculpture of a person in the layers of the picture. She shakes her head at herself.

"Not at all," Merlin says. "Come, let me show you."

In another room, by a window, with mirrors all around it for light, he has set up an easel. There is a small card, with a sketched image partially painted in on it. A large piece of parchment with a sketch on it is carefully pinned to the easel; Merlin is using it for a model.

The subject of the Trump is their cousin Jerod.

"What do you think?" he asks. "Jerod agreed to model for me, but I only had time to make this sketch. I am now making the full Trump so our uncle the king can call Jerod when he needs to."

Celina has used the short glide to the easel to assess Merlin's posture, vigor, and the possibility that he got decent rest last night. She decides he looks good in the stark black and makes a note to herself not to tell him until he needs a lift of spirits.

She runs her eyes over the mirror, approves of the geometry that sets them to take the window light and turn it again upon the easel. Her artistic eye notes the sketch first; then looks at the incomplete painting.

Jerod is handsome, darkly brilliant, and not nearly worried enough in the illustration. "He looks splendid. It must have been a good day that you made the sketch. He seems intrigued. Was he in such a good mood?"

"I think he was looking forward to returning home. Also, we were speaking of the differences between Chaosi and humans, and I think that topic interested him," Merlin says. "I made this while we were travelling from Amber to Paris."

She looks at Merlin, taking detailed measure of his expression and responses. She won't leave Amber if he isn't looking better than yesterday. Yet she figures that making a point of taking care of him will not be received well.

Merlin seems quite absorbed in his work. This apparently invigorates him.

The Seaward girl finds comfort in this obvious overlap between Chaosi, humans, and those from under the sea.

Celina moves closer to the Trump work in progress. She sniffs at it; closes her eyes and imagines Jerod in the fumes of paint. Her nose wrinkles.

She straightens. "It's quite interesting. I like the mystery of it. When do you know it is really Art?"

"When it is done. How do you know when a spell is complete?" Merlin asks rhetorically. "I will have to seal it, of course, to really finish it. It could fail in that step of the process. I judge that unlikely, however."

"Good," she finds his answers quite suitable, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. The rhythm of his words tell of his investment and energy in his work.

She turns. "And what are you plans for the next few days? I have a proposal for you."

"I had hoped to spend some time finishing this trump. I promised our cousin Ossian I would work on it for him some time ago, and I have not yet completed it." Merlin frowns thoughtfully, and picks up his brush to add a dab of paint to the emerging trump.

Celina watches the brushwork like a cat being offered a twitching string. She explores a time ahead when the dabs will complete and the Trump will click into place. Then to be sealed. She chews at her lip and her toes grip the floor.

Days. This Trump will take a while.

"Have you made plans? I can set this aside if you need me, sister."

Celina comes back to the present. "Ossian is leaving. I don't suppose you will be done with this before he is gone -- tomorrow, I think. Your work should not be set aside on my whims. In the Seaward, we also are loyal to our promises."

She settles to the floor, using her hands to sweep the material and hems of her Amber gown out around her so that she can sit bare on the chill surface. All of the warm thin air gets a bit heady after a while. The cool strength of the morning's bath is wearing off.

"We have both been invited to go with Martin and Folly to the new city of Xanadu. That is what the King has decided to call the newest realm. It is an interesting word, 'Za-na-doo.' I wonder at its origins. Do you suppose he consciously added another syllable to mark the new city as the next generation? Was there a city before Amber? For example, is the city of Chaos called Ka or something like?"

She watches him at his work and appears prepared to stay for a while.

Merlin resumes laying in tiny dots of color on the Trump of Jerod.

"There is no city of Chaos, Celina. There are merely the courts, and they are named after the lord who is the court. Borel, Madoc, Clarissa. My mother Dara, now. If I were to take affines and make a court, my court would be Merlin."

"Ah," she gives him so he does not have to move his regard from the card.

He adds, "I suspect the name 'Xanadu' is some sort of wordplay or allusion that I do not understand. I would like to go there and see it for myself, but I think I must finish this Trump first. Would you like to go without me? Martin has a Trump of me, and also one of Amber, so you could return here when you wanted. And I have one of Martin, so I could join you there."

"I think we both should see this Xanadu." She pauses a beat. "Soon is a good idea, but I don't know there is merit in separating us so quickly. You have a Trump to do. I can find something to do nearby. Though you make a good point about the Trump. Martin could return me quickly if need be."

She lets a silence build--mostly thinking. "You and I have a lot in common, Merlin. We think people are important, even if we don't know exactly how we fit with them." She doesn't quite stop, but it might be that she thought to for a moment. "And we are both figures that will be used by those with power and knowledge we can't begin to match.

"I am curious about how I shall solve that dilemma. If you have any ideas, I hope you'll share them." She only lets the smile show in her eyes.

"I will never know how I fit here exactly," Merlin says seriously. "I was taught what it would be like, but even then I was told that it would not be the same as what I was taught, that the doing would not be the same as the learning. It is as if I have learned all the spells that make me behave like a Prince of Amber, but have never cast them."

Merlin frowns at some vague misstep in his pointillism and dips his brush in cleaner.

"I do not want you to depend overmuch on me, Celina. I am a weak reed in this family."

She stares at him while he works for a few moments. Stop. Anger is not the answer. He has been taught that only the strong survive, and all others are subject to weakness. Never is anything braided in Chaos. Friends? No. Not likely.

Celina stifles the impulse to start weeping. She is getting the hang of this air business.

"So here I am a princess of Amber who has never even been taught. Never learned the spells or the behavior. Never cast my shadow upon the worlds. How worthless and weak a reed in this family am I? Is my part of the legend to be a brood mare for strapping young lads of Xanadu? Or will I take my rage back to Rebma and throttle my cool sweet mother so I can sit a throne surrounded by sharks?" She shakes her head to make clear she isn't planning any of those things. "You are right. We have in common that we are weak reeds in this family. If it is important to you, do not depend overmuch on me. But we have potential, Merlin. In the years ahead, few will be able to say what might be our potential to make waves."

"As a child, I was alone. That was a lie. Now I have a brother--a family. Spines! I have strength I haven't even tried yet." She eyes the mirrors around his work. "I just don't want to use that strength first to hurt things, as I struck out at the King of Paris."

"Can we make a pledge then between us that we won't be weak reeds with each other?" She watches his eyes.

As Celina speaks, Merlin is cleaning his brush. He puts it aside as she finishes.

"I do not think you understand me. I am not good with Thari. Martin tried to teach me, but I do not have idiom, just the language of the courts. This is my failing; it is one way I am a weak reed."

He looks at his paint-spattered hands. "You say we should gain strength together. If we only march together, we march one way only." He turns his hands over, palms down, thumbs touching, and then moves the heel of the right hand to touch the fingertips of the left. He repeats the procedure with the other hand, extending his arms forward in a gesture not unlike walking.

Merlin looks at Celina to see whether she is following his metaphor.

She seems riveted--if surprised.

"I say we will be stronger if we march from the same place in many directions." He draws his arms back in and places the heels of his hands together. Then he rolls his wrists so his palms are down and the length of his thumbs are touching. His fingers are spread wide.

"Like a net, yes? To catch the many friends that will come our way?"

The surprise holds her still for a moment more. Then she swooshes up from the floor and crosses the distance to him.

Merlin is very still, as if he doesn't know what to do with this person rushing over to him. His eyes are a little wide.

She takes his 'netted' hands, but she looks from them to his eyes. "I understand. Thank you." She wants to hug him in the best way but knows it is too soon and very selfish. She contents with squeezing his hands. "You are a pretty good teacher yourself."

Even trying to be less physical, she leans closer and adds, "I'm not so good at seeing friend from actor--witness my past, but I really want the same thing you do: to understand these people. Let's try the net. Even if it hurts, let's find the friends that will come our way. A net of weak reeds makes a pretty good tool." She grins. "Good analogy, yes?"

"Yes," Merlin agrees. He smiles too, clearly pleased to have conveyed his meaning.

Then he grows serious. "Remember that the net is also a defense. If one of your apparent friends tries to eat you, then you have the other strands of the net to call on for aid. And later, when we are no longer such weak reeds, for the exchange of favors between our kinsmen. This will be important for us, because we are the son and daughter of the king of Paris, and you also the daughter of the Queen of Rebma."

After a moment, he adds, "I hope you do not think less of me for interjecting with these musings. Among our kind, person and politics are inextricably linked, and so decisions of friendship have implications in politics, as does the choice of an open stance or a closed one. I choose the open stance, but I know that the other is possible and has meaning."

"Not at all," she says with enthusiasm; then sobers a bit. "Even in my culture, we have the words for being eaten by people who said they were your friends. As much as I've been kept out of politics because of my youth and upbringing, still I'm not going to glide about with a closed stance. That would kill me."

She hesitates, realizing the idiom is a bit loose. "Meaning that I would be so constricted as to become an unwelcome variant of myself." She peers at him trying to moderate between delighted energy and sober exchange of their baseline assumptions. "Folly hoped and Martin asked me to go along--so I shall. When I get there, I'll try to suggest that Martin take a moment to let someone here know we are safely arrived. And I'll study hard to learn the shadow-walk on the trip. I'll also take a few things of Amber along with me so that I have a keepsake token for finding this place again."

Her eyes light with inspiration. She reaches up and removes an earring and presents it to him. "This is for you. Anytime we are apart, you can recall this was from me wanting to be remembered by you. And you have my permission to use it as a compass to me at your necessity."

Merlin takes the earring as if it were a living thing, delicate and frail. "I will take care of it," he says, and produces a silk handkerchief to wrap it in from his pocket. "I do not have such a token to offer you now. I have not let things become associated with me in part because they could be used to perform sorcery against me. But I will make a Trump of myself for you when I finish with this work of Jerod. A Trump is useful in all sorts of sorcerous prognostications, and you can use it to contact me as well."

She swallows, realizing how quickly she has come to a dizzying place.

He adds, shyly, "I hope you will pose for me, sister, so I may have a Trump of you, too."

There is a rush of blood spinning outward from her center. Her toes grip the floor. She knows that only days ago she would have said 'no' quite quickly to such an idea. Giving an arcane plaque of herself over to a stranger? Never. Especially the legendary cards of the Amber family? Impossible.

She nods. "I would...ah... like to pose, Merlin. When you think it best." She does not look away or try to pretend she has not offered a part of herself that was larger and more dear than she intended.

There is a joy unexpected in the promise. She stares at the mirrors around Jerod.

Merlin smiles broadly again.

Celina continues. "So I will watch you paint until lunch, then I'll chance the sun and the gardens." She nibbles her lip and straightens her dress. "And I will find Martin at dinner and tell him I go to Xanadu."

"Very well. If your schedule changes--and my experience is that sudden changes are the norm when Martin is involved--you will leave me a note, yes?" Merlin's tone is a cross between fond chiding and mild exasperation with his friend.

"Changes, eh?" She shrugs with a soft roll of shoulders. "He said tomorrow, but if something comes up, I'll remember a note to you." She grins then. "I'd sign it 'Celina Reed' but I think I'll just keep that between the two of us." She leans against a near wall. "Actually, Reed is a much better name than Narhval. "Reed is a much better name than Narhval. I'll think on that a while. If I ever send you anything signed 'Narhval' you'll know I'm in trouble."

She winks at him.

"If I sign my notes 'Borel', then you shall know the same of me."

Merlin considers. "Perhaps we shall be 'Coreys'. That is the name our father took in Shadow. Do you like it?"

"Well, it has the advantage of being something new," she muses aloud. "Something else for me to think on. Does it mean something in the local language or is it just a pleasant sound? Do you know?"

"I think it reminds him of the sound of his own name. He told me that Brand took the name Rand in his Shadow, and Florimel the name Evelyn Flaumel. Random, I am told, uses the name Chance, and Martin has taken that name up now that he has made friends with his father. I thought we might do the same thing."

Merlin moves back to his easel and takes up his brush again to return to work on the proto-Trump.

Celina watches him with mixed feelings of affection, puzzlement, and envy. "Corey," she whispers half to herself. She tests the syllables several times in her mind. Celina Corey. Merlin Corey. She nods. Well, they were something of a pair, and the making of names and bonds felt right.

Everything about today felt right.

How long would that last? At the moment she was glad to believe she didn't care. She smiled and watched him work.

After her breakfast with Marius, Lilly receives a note from Martin. It's probably about the sparring they planned for dawn, but put off by mutual agreement.

When she opens it, it reads as follows:

Cousin,

My plans have changed. I ride for Xanadu by sunset, so I'll have to miss our sparring match--unless you want to ride with us. I have no idea how many of us are coming, so one more will be no trouble.

Let me know if you'd like to join us.

Yours,
Martin

Lilly reads the note a second time, willing its contents to change as she does. They are leaving today. Before Sunset. Damn. Yes, she wants to go. This is not an opportunity she is going to let pass her by. There is much to learn and much to be done. Still she she can not help but wish they were leaving with the break of a new day. There are one or two other things she would like to learn before hand...

She shakes her head. Best to not think about him. Best to not think about the fact that everyone she has begun to get close to since her arrival in Amber has been pulled away from her by one circumstance or another. It is just a coincidence, she reminds herself. The universe has not cursed her. Or so she needed to believe.

With a sigh, she sits and pens two notes. The first is to Martin:

Martin,

Yes, I would very much like to join you. I set about getting ready immediately.

Thank You,
Lilly

It is short and to the point. What else is there to say really? She is certainly not about to try to get him to alter his plans for her. Her reasons were unjustifiably even in her own mind. Those thoughts led to the second note:

Garrett,

I am afraid our study session shall have to be postponed. I ride out with the Crown Prince this evening. I am sorry we have not had more time. I'm not sure when we will be back. Thank you for helping me last night. The fear has definitely subsided. And thank you for providing me with a good reason for returning. We'll take that ride into the mountains as soon as possible.

Wish me luck,
Lilly

She stares at it for a moment and decides that her initial thought of burning it is probably irrational. Why shouldn't she let him know how she is feeling? Surely normal women and normal men did such things on a daily basis. It was scarcely their fault that they were not normal.

Sealing both, she rises up to seek out a paige. Finding one, she again hesitates before handing the note over for Garrett. The instructions she gives are clear, "Both should be delivered directly to their recipients. If Prince Martin is unavailable, you may leave it in his rooms. But the one addressed to the stable hand must be given to he alone. Do not leave it lying anywhere. If you can not find him in the stables, then he should be in the library."

The page nods and takes the notes on his way.

Garrett's day passes uneventfully. Too uneventfully, in fact. Donovan's absence casts a pall over the staff, and the stables are unnaturally quiet. By midafternoon, Donovan has not returned from the keep.

Garrett goes about his work furiously, ignoring the comments about his sudden burst of strength and energy. He tells himself it's to make up for the time he lost this morning. Mostly, though, it's to keep his mind off everything else. As the day wears on, Garrett's pace becomes more and more frantic as his worry increases.

Just as Garrett starts to consider going back to the King to ask about Donovan, something strange catches his eye.

Because Garrett is watching closely for Donovan's return, he happens to see his brother come down from the keep. Martin is silent and oddly difficult to keep an eye on; it's almost as if Garrett's vision tends to slide off him, although Garrett can counter this effect by concentrating.

Instead of coming into the stable through the main entrance, which the royals normally use, Martin begins to circle the building, as if he's looking for something.

Strange. Garrett squints as he watches the Prince closely, trying to minimize the odd visual effect. He wonders if it has something to do with those cards Martin had yesterday, the ones that he pulled horses and people out of. They looked kind of fuzzy and sparkly as they came through. Perhaps this was related.

He approaches the Prince cautiously, still holding his pitchfork (tines down of course).

Martin turns to face Garrett when the younger man is about four or five feet away. Garrett is pretty sure Martin knew he was there long before that.

Garrett stops when Martin turns around.

"Your Highness, may I help you? Did you lose something?" Garrett asks hesitantly.

"Garrett," Martin says, as if he were answering a question he didn't ask.

"I was wondering if Sprite was out in the paddock. Folly and I are riding out tonight, and I came down to fetch saddlebags to pack. I thought I'd see whether Sprite was going to be up for the journey."

"She was out earlier, Your Highness, but Horn just brought her in to be fed." Talking about the horses relaxes Garrett a bit. "She seemed much better when Lady Folly rode her yesterday, so I reckon the Lady was right. She was prob'ly just fishing for more apples," Garrett reports with a smile. "I don't see why she couldn't handle a journey."

Noticing that Martin is not carrying anything, Garrett asks, "Would you like me to fetch you the saddlebags, Your Highness?"

Martin nods, once. "Yes. That would be great. In fact, it would be great if you took them up to the castle for me. Can you do that? And I'll look in on Sprite for Folly."

"Certainly, Your Highness," Garrett responds with a bow. He turns to leave, then stops as if he's forgotten something. He turns back to Martin. No harm in asking. "Begging your pardon, Your Highness, did you happen to see Horsemaster Bailey when you were up at the Keep? His Majesty called him up to his office early this morning. He hasn't come back yet," Garrett asks, concerned.

Martin says, "No."

Garrett bites the inside of his lip and nods once. "Thank you, Your Highness," he says with disappointment. "I'll have those bags up to your quarters directly." Garrett bows and departs toward the tack building.

As Garrett picks out saddlebags to fit Sprite and Bolt, he ponders the situation. The curtness of the Prince's reply doesn't bode well for Donovan. Not that Martin would have told me if he _had_ seen him, Garrett thinks. He shakes his head, wondering, not for the first time, what Lady Folly sees in Martin. If he ever hurts her, I'll... Garrett's thoughts trail off. Right. What could _he_ do against a prince?

Deciding on his course of action, Garrett realizes he's not going to have time to go home before his library shift starts. He's already late and he has a couple of other stops to make at the castle first. On the way to the main stable, Garrett stops by the well. He pulls up a bucket, rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands and face as best he can without soap. Then he tosses the saddlebags over his shoulder and enters the stable, going directly to the groom closet. Smoothing out and brushing off his clothes as best he can, he dons the livery and combs his hair.

As he passes the stable office, Garrett thinks guiltily of his mother. She's gonna worry herself sick if they _both_ don't come home on time. He turns back and enters the office. He finds the supplies and writes a short note:

Mum,

Dad and I will be late. Stable stuff.
Dont hold supper.
Ill explane later.

Garrett

Once past the kitchens, Garrett looks for a page to either lead him to Prince Martin's quarters or take the saddlebags up for him.

The page he finds is one of the younger ones, and he has an errand of his own, but he gives Garrett directions to the entrance to the wing where Prince Martin lives. It's deep into the castle, deeper than Garrett has ever been, in a wing that was closed for a long time.

When Garrett arrives at the entrance to the new Royal Wing with the saddlebags, he finds two guards. "State your business," one of them says to Garrett. He sounds more bored than hostile.

"His Royal Highness ordered these saddlebags to be brought to his quarters, sir," Garrett answers officially.

"Third door on the right. The one with the funny hole in it." The guard gestures back down the hall.

"Thank you, sir," Garrett nods to the guards and strides down the hall to the indicated door. He peeks curiously at the "funny hole," wondering at its purpose, then knocks loudly on the door.

It's low and in the center of the door: a square hole that has a hinged piece of wood in it, like a little door in the door.

Garrett doesn't really expect anyone to answer, since he just left Martin in the stables, but with the royals, you never know. Considering how strange Martin looked when he came down, Garrett is quite sure he could have magically transported himself back here.

Assuming there is no answer, Garrett cautiously opens the door, calling "Anyone here?" as he does so.

There is no answer.

Keeping the guards in sight (so they can keep an eye on _him_), Garrett takes the bags off his shoulder. He reaches through the partially open door and sets them against the wall just inside it. Then he closes the door carefully, actually resisting the urge to gawk at the room.

Even with the glimpse through the half-open door, Garrett can see that his brother lives in luxury. The room is large, almost as big as his parents' whole house, and there are other rooms beyond which must also be given over to Martin alone.

He can see that the room is well-furnished, and that there are papers scattered around casually. He also catches sight of several musical instruments, and several weapons.

Garrett nods to the guards as he leaves the Royal Wing and retraces his steps back to familiar territory. Once he has his bearings, Garrett makes his way back to the King's office, hoping all the way that Volume is now off-duty.

Sadly, he is not. Volume looks him up and down. "Yes?", he asks, drawing out the sibilant at the end of the question.

Garrett forces a tight-lipped half-smile over gritted teeth. Standing at near-military attention, he asks formally, "Beg pardon, sir. His Majesty called Horsemaster Bailey up here this morning. A situation has arisen and the horsemaster is needed at the stables. Is he still in with His Majesty, sir?" Garrett uses all of Grandpa Hewn's poker training to keep his face impassive.

Volume looks down his rather long nose at Garrett. "It is not customary to tell anyone who wanders by the details of His Majesty's schedule. If the horsemaster is in with His Majesty, the stables will have to do without him for a while."

A slight smirk appears on Garrett's face. Typical. There's a reason the outdoor servants rarely come inside. Something about the stuffiness that makes the indoor servants' noses grow overly long. Garrett wants to know what happened to Donovan, but he won't beg before this scarecrow. There are other ways to find out.

"Thank you, sir," Garrett hisses contemptuously. He comes to attention, clicking his heels together before turning sharply and leaving the office - disrespect through exaggerated respect. Go ahead, report me to the king, Garrett silently dares as he stalks down the hall, listening for movement behind him.

He strides purposefully back down to the kitchens, but instead of going right out, he walks over to the prep area where Mistress Pitcher is chopping vegetables, as usual. "Afternoon, ma'am," he greets her with a genuine boyish grin. "You didn't happen to see me dad come through here recently, did you?"

Mistress Pitcher smiles at the young lad and produces a large carrot for him to munch on. "Why yes, he just went through here going back down to the stables a few minutes ago. It's a wonder you two didn't see each other. You must have just missed him."

Garrett releases the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "I must've come from a different direction. Thanks, ma'am," he smiles. As he scoots around a butcher block on his way to the exit, he adds, "And thanks for the carrot."

Once outside, Garrett breaks into a run. He slows as he nears the stables, and heads directly for the office, chewing the carrot down to nothing on his way. When he enters, though, he sees the office just as empty as when he left it earlier. He goes out the other door into the main stable and looks around.

The stable is still too quiet, except for a soft groaning noise coming from the tack room and a susurrus, perhaps of reaction to the groaning.

Garrett trots over to the tack room on the opposite side of the stable. He passes Colt, the youngest stableboy, hovering outside the doorway, his eyes wide with fear.

When Garrett enters, he sees his father and several of the other stable workers standing or kneeling around a prone figure on the floor of the stable.

Lunging's left leg has been snapped cleanly in two. When he sees Garrett, he scrambles back slightly, which makes him moan in pain again.

Garrett pales at the sight of Lunging's injury. His eyes widen in confusion at Lunging's reaction to him, but he takes a step backward to avoid causing him any more distress.

Donovan catches sight of his son and rises from Lunging's side. He looks drawn and a bit pale. "Garrett," he says calmly, "Lunging had an accident. I've sent Cheval for Saffron, but they're not back yet. I need someone to watch things for me. If anyone comes down from the keep, you deal with them. Get them their horses, whatever they need. Can you do that?"

[Saffron is the veterinarian. She also serves as a midwife and doctor/herbalist for the stable staff.]

Garrett stands next to Donovan, listening but watching Lunging with great concern. He nods absently at the instructions, but at that last question, Garrett suddenly jerks his head to look at him, his eyes narrowed. Something about the question causes the hair on the back of Garrett's neck to prickle.

"Yeah, Dad. Sure," Garrett answers warily. On impulse, he casually but quickly slaps his hand on the back of Donovan's shoulder in a gesture that would be seen as supportive - if things are as they seem.

"And where are you gonna be?" Garrett asks.

Donovan starts nervously when Garrett touches him, but relaxes almost immediately. "Right here helping splint up Lunging's leg," he answers Garrett. "I'm done at the keep for now. Your ma--" he says and then breaks off, listening.

Out in the stables, Garrett can hear someone coming in. Colt runs in and says quietly, "There's a lady here from the keep!"

Garrett looks over his shoulder at Colt and curses under his breath. He turns to leave, but looks at Donovan intently, pointing his finger for emphasis. "I still want to hear the rest of it," he says quietly.

Donovan gestures toward the door. He looks at Garrett, who can see a momentary panic in his eyes, and then composes himself and moves back toward Lunging.

The panicked look makes Garrett pause, but then he quickly goes out the door. He has his orders.

"Colt, close the door," Garrett growls over his shoulder as he continues into the stable. The lad does as he's told.

It's late in the afternoon when Martin arrives at Folly's chamber door and knocks. When she opens it, she can tell at once that something is wrong. He slides in and closes the door behind him before putting his arms around Folly.

"I'm ready to get out of here. How soon can you be ready?"

"Now-ish, if you need me to be." She slides her arms around his waist and looks up at him with concern. "What's happened?"

"A bunch of things," Martin replies. "Most of them not good. Solace collapsed again, and there's something funny about it. Gerard and Hannah are taking care of her. And ...there are other things. I want you out of here, now." He squeezes Folly and releases her.

"Let me write a couple of notes while you grab some things. I had saddlebags sent up to my chambers; we'll throw our clothes in them and be on our way. Mmmkay?"

"Yeah, I was just...." Folly gestures at her desk, cluttered with papers, but doesn't bother to complete the sentence. The news of Solace has obviously unsettled her.

She shakes her head as if to clear it. "Is anyone else coming?" she asks as she moves to the desk to gather up the drying papers. "I ran into Celina this morning and invited her to come with us -- and Merlin, too, if he's interested -- but I don't even know if she's had a chance to talk to him yet...." Grabbing a fountain pen from a cup on the desk, she plops cross-legged onto the floor and begins hastily folding and addressing her letters.

"I don't think Merle's coming," Martin says. "He was busy with Jerod's Trump. They're hard to make when the subject isn't there." He offers Folly a bitter smile as he takes a seat at her desk. "Lilly is definitely coming, though. Kills our original plan, but Celina and Merle would have put a damper on that anyway."

He begins pulling out paper to write some brief notes of his own. A few minutes later, he has a neat stack of notes, which he begins to seal with wax. Some, she notes, he seals with his signet. Others he seals with his thumb. When he's finished with that, he rises and moves to the door to call a page to deliver the notes.

"Hold up a sec," Folly says, gathering up her notes and moving back to the desk to seal them. A few moments later, she brings him the stack to add to his own.

"You know that I love you and I trust your judgement?"

Folly looks up at him with a faint smile, deeply affectionate but edged in concern. She nods and lays a hand on his arm.

He returns her smile. "If I didn't, I'd be handling this very differently." He rings for the page, and when the fellow arrives at Folly's door a moment later, instructs the youth on where to take the letters: Lilly, Celina, Lucas, Cambina, Merlin, Brennan (or his quarters), Steward Vent, several others.

Folly's letters are addressed to Lucas, Gerard, and Jovian. She has helpfully addressed Lucas's letter in a flowery script and drawn a dragon next to Jovian's name, so they will be easier for the page to keep straight.

The page takes the letters and is on his way.

Martin turns back to look at Folly as he closes the door again. "You love me," he says, and it's half-statement, half-question.

"I do," she says, and takes his hand. He can feel the tension in hers. "No matter what."

Martin smiles, almost in spite of himself. "You trust me," he continues, holding her hand, not tightly, but as if it's his anchor against the storm.

She nods and gives his fingers a gentle squeeze. There's a tiny crease of concern between her brows.

"I think--I think it'll all work out. But there's still a tiny chance that I'm wrong. That, that what I'm doing will go south. If that happens, it could be really dangerous."

He returns the finger squeeze.

"I'll need you to back my play if it comes to that. Or more likely to run for it."

Folly hesitates for half a beat, then looks up at Martin with a small, rueful smile. "I'll do whatever I need to do to keep us both safe," she says.

"The thing you can do to keep me safe is keep you safe," Martin replies without even a moment's hesitation. "I told Grandfather I'd keep you safe. Don't make me break my last promise to him, OK?" And he draws her into his arms and kisses her gently.

Folly wraps her arms around him and holds him close. She returns the kiss with gentle urgency.

After a moment, she pulls back just far enough to answer him. "I won't," she says quietly.

Martin lets out a breath he probably didn't realize he was holding. "Good," he says quietly.

Folly smiles and kisses him again.

"Mmm," he says, and kisses her back. After a moment, he pulls away, and says ruefully, "We do have to get out of here."

Folly sighs, but she's smiling. "Oh, yeah. That. Well..." She takes his hand and pulls him gently toward her bedroom. "...then come tell me what's happened while I grab my stuff and pull on my boots. Or can you tell me anything yet?" The question is calm and without judgement, as if she's accepted the potential freaky of the situation and moved past it into pragmatism.

Martin follows Folly into the bedroom and sits down her the bed while she chooses what to bring along. "How much do you want to know?" he asks as a pair of jeans lands on his lap.

Folly thinks for a moment as a couple of shirts and some lacy underthings follow the jeans. Then, "Everything," she says. "Or as much as you can tell me."

"There are no rules for this," Martin explains. He keeps a pair of unmentionables from sliding off the growing pile of clothes and grins for a moment before turning his attention back to Folly.

"The Rebman thing--I got a name on that. I followed up and got another name. But someone made me."

"Made you?" Folly says, pausing in her drawer-rummaging.

"Saw me. While I was getting set up to get the information I needed from the person whose name I got from my sources." Martin clutches the pile of clothes a little more closely.

"Oh." Folly slides the drawer shut and turns to him with a concerned frown. "What happened?"

"I ditched him. I'm a Prince, I can do that." He looks up at her. "Are you sure you want to hear the rest of this?"

Folly hesitates, bites her bottom lip, but after a moment she nods.

"All right." He gathers the bundle of clothing up and stands. "Then I shook the guy who was running the messages down to the Rebman embassy down for the name of his contact. And I broke his leg so Montage will know I'm not f**king around with him."

Folly takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Yeah, you're right," she says. "Now would be a good time to leave."

Martin swallows once. "Yeah. Let's go."

He gathers up the bundle and rolls it up so it fits under one arm. Then he takes Folly's hand and leads her out into the halls and down to his suite.

Martin's suite is still the scattered mess it always is. There are two sets of saddlebags leaned against the wall on one side of the door as they come in. Martin nods, once, and puts the load of Folly's clothing down on a clear spot on the couch.

Before he can get any further, Folly lays a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, look, I know I've always made a big deal about using nonviolent means to solve problems." Gently, she turns him toward her and looks into his eyes. "But I know I've been given the luxury of those beliefs in part because I've always had friends who weren't afraid to... to do what it took, every now and then... to keep me safe. You know?"

Martin meets her gaze. He nods solemnly to her question, but adds, "Folly, you don't need to, to compromise your principles for me."

Folly's smile is tinged with melancholy. "I will always prefer nonviolence if I have the choice. But I know in my heart what I'm capable of, what I'd do if---" She reaches up and touches his cheek tenderly.

He moves into her hand almost like an attention-seeking feline. "It won't come to that. I won't let it."

Folly draws his face down towards hers. "I love you so much," she says, and kisses him again.

As Folly kisses him, Martin pulls her close, fiercely, and holds her tight. When he breaks the kiss, he murmurs, "Christ. I wish it didn't have to be like this."

"I know, sweetheart," she replies softly, holding him close.

Martin closes his eyes and just breathes for a moment, forcing himself to relax.

"I think after this I may have to step back from local field ops. I'm starting to slip, and I can't afford that. I'm too well known to make any slipups. And in Xanadu, I'll have even less of a margin of error. It'll be smaller and I can't use the Pattern to fudge like I do here."

He opens his eyes again and looks down at Folly. "What do you think?"

"I absolutely agree you've gotten too high-profile for it," she replies without hesitation. "I am acutely, viscerally aware of the rapt attention just about everyone pays you these days, and the crimp it puts in one's plans of stealth and secrecy." Her smile is wry but affectionate.

"But I also think that you---" She pauses, frowns, and starts again. "I want what's best for you, and for us, and for Xanadu and Amber. And I can see arguments both ways in all cases."

She pauses again, and looks deep into Martin's eyes. Gently, she asks, "Would stepping back like that be better or worse for your peace of mind?"

"I don't know," Martin says after a moment. "I don't think it matters much, either. We're not talking about what I want. We're talking about what I can do, which is a separate matter. I doubt I'll ever break all the habits of thinking, and even of doing, that come from my work with Grandfather--but I may have to move up to the executive suite, as it were. I doubt Caine does his own fieldwork anymore, except for things like--" and he cuts that thought off, his eyes darkening.

Folly strokes his shoulder soothingly, but her expression betrays some of her own fears.

After a moment he forces a bitter smile and adds, "Of course, you never know when something will turn out to be like that."

"I suppose not," Folly agrees with a touch of trepidation. "But I hope---"

She pauses, looks at Martin, and smiles. "But I hope."

"I do too, my heart. I do too."

Martin reluctantly relinquishes his hold on Folly and goes into his dressing chamber to choose his clothes for the journey. After a couple of minutes of opening and closing drawers and clothespress doors, he comes back with clothes for the journey.

He packs both their saddlebags himself. When he has Folly's saddlebag almost full, he stops, glances around at the weapons in the room, and adds a sword belt with a short, sheathed blade to her gear. Then he looks up at Folly, glances around the room again, and tosses in a recorder next to the sword before closing the saddlebag.

When he finishes packing his own bag, which contains several knives of various types, Martin belts on a handsome blade of his own. "Gotta get the other back from San Lucien sometime," he tells Folly.

"Let's go. We'll pick up some food in the kitchens on the way down." Martin allows Folly a moment to say goodbye to Fathom before closing the door behind them.

Late in the afternoon, [Lilly] gets a second note from Martin.

Lilly,

We're leaving immediately. Grab your things and head down to the stables and we'll meet you there.

Martin

Late in the afternoon, Celina gets a note from Martin.

Cousin Celina,

Folly and I about to leave for Xanadu. I'm sorry this is so abrupt, but our plans have been moved up for reasons I'll explain once we're on the road. If you would like to join us, grab a couple of days' worth of things and meet us at the stables; if you can't, you can join us when we get there.

Your kinsman,
Martin

Celina reads the note again. She looks about her borrowed suite with raised eyebrows. "A couple days' worth of what?"

She considers the formal and other gowns that she packed to impress at Paris. Certainly not.

Looking about the room, her fingers fold and refold the note, finally she moves to a bureau where she knows a tidy stack of silk handkerchiefs resides. Pulling out a pale cloth, she hides the note within it and tucks the whole into her decolletage.

Xanadu. Frontier city. Few people about. One gown. One simple dress. One bedspread. Brush. Pins. Jewelry. She starts a search of the room, looking for a few more things. Tossing most of the items she packed in Rebma aside, she begins to arrange a small valise.

Not much later, a knife is strapped high on her calf.

A note is composed for a page to carry:

Merlin
Changes. Imagine that.
Leaving now.
Take care, please.
Celina

Very shortly thereafter, in a black dress slightly large and wearing her red Parisian boots, she exits the castle and walks to the stables. The travel bag is slung over her shoulder. She smiles at grooms and follows the smell of the horses.

There are no grooms in the main body of the stable, although a young stableboy sees her and runs off into the back of the stable. Celina can hear a faint moan from that direction, although it's not loud.

A few moments later, Martin and Folly enter. Martin is carrying two bulging saddlebags, and he's armed. With his free hand, he's carrying an apple which has several bites taken out of it.

He looks around and calls, "Hello?"

Celina helpfully points in the direction of the faint moan.

From the same direction, the group hears, "Colt, close the door," growled by a young man's voice, followed by a slamming door. At that moment, the groom Celina saw yesterday trots out from around a corner of a stall. "Can I help y..." he starts to say, then freezes, looking not at Celina, but at Martin.

To Folly's eyes, Garrett looks pale and harried. The stare at Martin lasts a bit too long and is laced with fear and...something else - anger, perhaps, or defensiveness. He looks for a moment like a cornered animal ready to fight. Then, with a quick breath and a set of his jaw, he covers it. "May I help you, Your Highness? Ladies?" he asks ultra-professionally, his eyes not leaving Martin.

"Garrett." Folly fixes her gaze on the stableboy's eyes and takes a small step forward. "We're all of us on our way out of Amber and need horses." Her voice is gentle and smooth and soothing as warm milk. "Possibly another for Lilly, as well." She takes another small step forward, which brings her even with Martin. Her sonorous tones and body language seem designed to draw Garrett's attention and calm his nerves, as if he were a spooked horse and she were leading him away from danger.

Celina is somewhat at a loss...

...her brows twitch inquiry at the stablehand and his reaction to Martin. She even glances at Martin as there might be something in his face to mirror the survival instinct in the boy's expression.

There's nothing betraying in Martin's face, but Celina's experience of TaKhi allows her to see that Martin is, if not poised for action, in a stance where he could easily drop the bags and the apple and move to interpose.

But Folly's calm words seem timed just right and the cadence has some magic to it.

The Seaward girl remembers Merlin's words about sudden changes around Martin and settles her mind to think the best outcome of Folly's gambit. She eases a half-step back towards a stall, taking herself into a lower visual prominence.

Garrett responds to Folly's magic. His stance remains defensive, but his eyes soften with cautious trust as he looks at Folly, much like a young boy at his big sister on his first day of school.

A new voice calls answers Folly's words. "Yes. I shall be needing Susan," Lilly says as she comes up behind the group. Her eyes linger on Garrett as she speaks. Why did he have to be here? A few moments ago she was fine with leaving. In fact she was actually looking forward to her upcoming journey once again. Now even she can hear the slight bit of reluctance that has crept into her voice. She really needed to return to her indifferent state with regards to men, she thought to herself.

Lilly's voice catches Garrett's attention, and even though she is at first hidden behind the group, his shoulders start to relax. He glances at her briefly, acknowledging her gaze, then turns his attention back to Martin and Folly.

Martin glances over his shoulder at Lilly as she enters the stable and smiles at her. Lilly can see that Martin is in a stance for an easy draw if he clears his hands. But at her words, he relaxes slightly.

"Five horses," Martin says to Garrett. He takes two steps forward and puts the saddlebags down with a heavy thunk. Martin makes a loose circular motion with his wrist on the side nearer to Folly, which means in their own personal stage parlance that he's about to abandon the set list.

"Five, Your Highness?" Garrett asks, then, almost to himself, "Oh. A pack horse," he adds, answering his own question.

[Martin] calls to the young lad peeking around the corner of a stall behind Garrett, "Colt, tell Horsemaster Bailey that Garrett here is coming with us. We'll need a groom for the horses where we're going. He should be back in a few days."

Colt says, "Y-yes, Your Highness!" and scurries off to do Martin's bidding.

Lilly's gaze abruptly shifts to Martin. What did he know? And who gave him the information?

Just as Garrett had started to recover, he freezes again incredulously. "Me, Your Highness?!" he exclaims, his voice cracking with surprise.

Standing to the side, Celina eyes Lilly. The boy reacted to the sound of her voice.

Martin nods once, abruptly.

"Oh, yes!" Folly agrees, as if she'd just remembered something. "The king suggested we might oughtta take a groom with us, and your name came up...." She gives Garrett a small, reassuring smile. "I do hope you're up for it, because it appears you're stuck with us."

Now Lilly's gaze shifts to Folly. She was certain Folly knew the truth. She was just going to have to trust that they knew what they were doing. A reassuring, or perhaps pleased, smile crosses her lips as well as she turns once more to Garrett. "Think of it as a chance for adventure," she says to him the warmth in her voice undeniable.

Martin's gaze flicks back to Lilly and then to Folly, but his expression doesn't change.

Garrett looks nervously from Folly to Lilly and a small smile starts to appear. "Well, I reckon I have me orders then," he says and trots off to grab his box of grooming tools. He reappears in a moment and begins readying the horses.

From the thunk of Martin's travel bag, Celina realizes she has probably brought all the wrong things. No matter. In a larger group, she'll learn more and perhaps faster. Four teachers. Even the groom can tell her things about the surface world.

For instance, why a horse would name itself 'Susan.' That doesn't sound right.

Celina gives a waving roll of her chin to Lilly. "Celina. We met at breakfast."

Lilly nods at her. "Lilly. It appears we shall have time to get to know one another. This expedition seems to be getting more interesting by the moment."

"That's one way of putting it," Martin murmurs sotto voce to Folly.