Music Of The Spheres

[Back at the Center, Brennan asks]: "Did you know I have a sister, too? And do the names Huon and Ysabeau mean anything to you?"

Fiona says, "Ysabeau is a full sister to Gerard and Julian. Their mother died bearing her. Father exiled her many years ago for defying his will. I don't know what became of her; one of her brothers may be able to give you better news of her.

"Now Huon," and she frowns. "He was the result of one of Father's many extramarital liaisons. He was even more of a troublemaker than Ysabeau. He was also banished, not long after Corwin went missing. I haven't heard anything of him since then."

"I suspect Brand did. He had Trumps of them both, looked like his hand."

Fiona frowns and looks at Dworkin to see whether he has anything to add. The old wizard shakes his head and shrugs, poking out his lower lip slightly. She turns her attention back to Brennan. "Tell me about your sister. Your father neglected to mention her, too."

Brennan composes his thoughts before giving an answer.

"Chantico, by name. Feisty. It's not clear if the petty godlette that bore her lived to regret it, but she's not allowed in the same Shadow with Daeon. Ever."

One corner of Fiona's mouth quirks up slightly.

Brennan shudders-- just slightly-- for emphasis.

"She was attacking the temple complex with a small army when Ambrose and I returned home, so we put an end to that, but not to her. She doesn't work and play well with others, but since Ambrose is a better Sorceror and I'm a better commander than her, it may now be crossing her mind that negotiating me out of the picture is the better part of valor. Won't that be fun," he says sourly.

"Ambrose has a full plate, right now."

"Yes, yes he does," Fiona says. "You're going to help the boy?"

"We don't trust each other, I think. Hell, I'm not even certain we like each other. But no, I'm not just going to salt him and hang him to cure. I think he's nursing some secret fantasy that he's going to walk through the events of last month without having to pick sides between Amber and the Courts, us and Dara. I think that's nonsense, wishful thinking, but my first try at nudging him here where he belongs...

"It was going about as well as my attempts to give advice to Aisling, so I broke off to consider the wisdom of my approach."

He asks a question on a seemingly unrelated topic, but Fiona's one of the sharpest pencils in the box: "Am I correct in my deduction that Parting the Veil to somewhere you've never been is extremely difficult?"

"Difficult, yes. So is making a trump of a man you've never met," Fiona says.

Dworkin says, "It's a question of whether you go where you think you're going or somewhere very like it. You could lose yourself in strange shadows that way."

Brennan nods. "About what I thought," he says after a moment. Then he exhales and shakes his head, remembering the time, and the conversation he wants to have with Ambrose in Uxmal's morning.

"But I should be going, if I want to be back in Uxmal without a noticeable absence. Before I go, though, what were your impressions of him?"

Fiona smiles slightly. "He reminds me of your father when he was younger. Brilliant and audacious, and not always sure of his limits. And he did help Brita, which stands in his favor with me, at least."

Dworkin eyes Fiona. His expression suggests he's not quite sure how to take her comments.

Brennan catches Dworkin's glance and sends it back with spin, but he says merely, "Perhaps the consequences of his recent audacity will curb youthful exuberance in the future." He doesn't say that like he believes it. "Still, it was a good gamble, wasn't it? Too bad Brand locked down all his Trumps-- everything could have been much more civil."

Dworkin shrugs. If Fiona has anything to say, she's keeping it to herself.

[Brennan] clears his mind with a long exhalation, and begins to fish his Trump of Uxmal out of his pack.

Then he turns to Dworkin, judges carefully, and continues, "Dworkin, I never know when I'm going to see you, but I have to ask before I leave... is Tir-na's Pattern still intact? Do you know?"

"As intact as it has been since before you were born," Dworkin says. "Not a place you want to chance casually."

Fiona looks from Dworkin to Brennan without adding anything to this. The spark in her catlike green eyes suggests she's thinking of something, though.

"And... does Grandfather have a grave, or a final resting place I could visit?"

"I suppose they'll make a memorial in Amber," Dworkin says absently. "Where he is now, you won't want to visit."

"I didn't enter Tir-na casually the first time, either," Brennan says. But it's important to me. And others. Some of us have been trying to get back, but haven't been able to."

Dworkin says, "Follow the road. I haven't seen where the new way to Tir comes from, but there will be a way there."

Brennan's lips twitch. They've already established that he doesn't know how to follow the great road... but he accepts that for the moment. And then he asks, "And... where is Grandfather, if I may?"

"His body was given to Primal Chaos," Dworkin replies. "It was his wish."

Brennan thinks about that for a moment, then nods. He doesn't know enough to ask a good question after that, so he won't. Instead, "Thank you."

He gives Dworkin a smile, and says, "Why is it we only meet when I'm pressed for time? We'll meet again, some time, I hope?"

"Oh, count on it, young man." Dworkin gives him a cheery grin.

"All right, then. Maybe next time, with space enough for a long chat."

He turns to his favorite Aunt. "Fiona. Thank you." He bends to kiss her on the cheek.

She accepts his kiss with a smile. "It's my pleasure. Good luck with your brother."

"Thanks. I'll need it. I'll catch up with you in Amber?" Brennan asks.

"Probably. I may have other errands first. If you see Bleys before I do, either in Amber, or elsewhere, give him my regards." Fiona's expression grows feline. Brennan suspect she enjoys the idea that she knew first.

"I'll... do that," Brennan says, guardedly. "And now, it's time to go."

Brennan takes a few steps of polite distance away from Fiona and Dworkin, concentrates on the Trump of Uxmal, and steps through.

Brennan steps through the Trump into the warm night air of Uxmal. He looks up, scans the sky, finds the moon, and determines that he's been lucky-- he's returned on the same night he departed, and there are still many hours until dawn. Most of the night, in fact.

Rather than frivolously sleep, though, Brennan sets out for an area he knew only too well as a child: A place in the inner temples that was often used to educate the high priests and the occasional son of Smoking Mirror. It's a large stone chamber with a generous skylight, decorated with friezes showing scenes of Uxmali myth and legend above, and with the intricate glyphs of Uxmali religious canticles below. Only the accumulated masterworks of centuries were carved here, but those were then set with precious stones. By daylight, they dazzled; by moonlight, they haunted.

Despite himself, Brennan spent a few long minutes in admiration. There was the finest example of serpent chant of known composition, wending its way outward, hinting at the typical interconnectedness of Uxmali language rather than drawing it outright. There were the sonnets, in their strict, rigid balance and radial symmetry; there were the mirror-haiku, small tight pairs of compositions, where one played the glyphs of the other reflected on one axis or another; there are many others in all the styles of Uxmali poetry.

It would be as good a place as any for inspiration.

Brennan sits at one of the polished copying tables by the light of the moon and a few torches, and begins to work. The first hour or so is easy, and the words flow easily from the quill as he distills and organizes what insights he'd gained from Brand's cryptic manuscript in the past. Then he spends some time, inspired by the language around him, remembering the dream he'd had last night. This section is harder, filled with meditations around the glyph of sacrifice.

But finally, when the moon is almost perfectly overhead, Brennan abandons that line and puts the stack of papers to the side. Instead, he considers that he is writing these notes to Ambrose, whose toolkit will include code wheels of effectively infinite lifespan. Slowly, at first, and then with more confidence, Brennan begins to work through the techniques he would use, if he had ready access to the same tools. He switches to the more precise Thari for the mathematics, and begins to investigate measures of glyph connectivity and sentence diameter and others. He works steadily, but carefully, leaving the blind alleys of thought but explaining briefly why they are dead ends, and summarizing the results he thinks are worthwhile, moving from the kernel of specificity to the full form of generality.

The moon is sinking in the west when Brennan begins work on the special cases, both of which are more important than he expects. The first is the null glyph, which would be a trivial case to disregard, if they weren't so often stivved into sentences as poetic emphasis. The other is the sentence of infinite diameter, which he almost disregards as pathological. But, sitting where he is, the idea tugs at him. Despite the absurdity, the mathematics don't break down no matter how hard Brennan abuses them.

The sky is pinking to morning in the east when the inspiration hits: A sentence of infinite diameter... of infinite diameter... A sentence of infinite diameter could be thought of as a finite one wrapped onto the surface of a sphere. It hit hard enough that he couldn't do much else for a few minutes but turn the idea over in his head, like a sphere: A sentence of infinite diameter could be thought of as a finite one wrapped onto the surface of a sphere.

Brand had always been going on about thinking in higher octaves and dimensions-- what else could he have meant? So obvious, after the thunderbolt.

Brennan looked down and realized that his survey of crypto-kithe methods was the special case. This changed... everything. Almost every form of poetry Brennan could think of was a special case of a higher form written on a sphere. There were more tricks of symmetry, more tricks of rotation, more tricks of reflection. Reverberations and inflection points were more than hinted at, now. Canticles could truly have more than one center, couldn't they, not just a center and demi-centers? How many could one sentence have? Now there was the ratio of glyph size to sphere size to consider, and other new limitations....

This was all... so beautiful. The bastard.

And he was never going to finish.

He lost track of time, then, as he wrote feverishly, trying to keep some order to his thoughts, balancing depth with breadth, hoping that he was developing each thought just enough for Ambrose to follow if it became useful.

After some time, the sun rises, and it becomes easier to work in the light. Some time after that, a servant arrives and asks whether the son of the god would break his fast with his brother.

Brennan does not immediately look up, but the man can tell by Brennan's posture that he heard him. He's writing quickly in mixed Uxmali and Thari and evidently wants to complete a thought before it leaves him.

A long moment and half a paragraph of Thari later, he looks up, looks around, then nods. He puts sand over the drying ink, then gathers up the strewn papers into order, and proceeds to breakfast.

Perhaps Tayanna will have reminded the kitchen of his preferences.

Breakfast, it appears, will be taken quietly in the private areas of the temple complex. The table is set in what would be the solar in a castle like Amber's, although, of course, the architecture is all wrong. The table is set for two, and from the serving dishes laid out, some care has been taken to serve Brennan's favorites.

Ambrose is waiting. "Good morning, Brennan. I trust you slept well?"

"Good morning. As it turns out, I didn't." He places the thick sheaf of papers on the table near Ambrose before sitting down. "I spent the night recreating some of the work I'd done in trying to decipher Brand's papers, and then laying out what I would do if I could keep a code wheel running in Amber for long enough to matter."

He gestures to the papers.

"A rough draft, but it's what I've got."

Ambrose takes them up and scans the top page. "You do good work," he says after a moment. "Apparently Uxmali is difficult to forget." He smiles drily at Brennan.

"It keeps the mind sharp. It teaches planning of thought and penstroke. The idea has to be ordered before it can be expressed. I missed speaking it while I was away. Even if the language has gone vernacular on me in my absence."

"We live in degraded times, my brother." The sentence spirals out from the word 'degraded'.

"But we can discuss work after we eat."

Brennan was going to make a serious reply, but he saves it, and nods. Instead, he tucks into his breakfast, substituting Uxmali comfort food for sleep.

Ambrose tucks in as well.

There is small talk, mostly about their mother.

After they finish their breakfast, Brennan pushes his plate away and leans back, falling as much into his typical sprawl as is possible in the chair available. But his face falls serious.

"I didn't ask anyone's permission, Ambrose. I couldn't."

Ambrose nods. This does not come as a surprise to him. "You saw your chance and took it. You have a history of doing that, I gather."

Brennan gives him a bitter smile. "That's where it started. I gather he kept a very tight hand on his Trumps? That's why."

The younger man nods again.

Brennan sighs. "So. I pissed you off pretty good yesterday, didn't I? Not my intent. I'm new at this." Which is as close to an apology as Brennan is physically capable of delivering.

Ambrose waves his hand casually. "No one except our mother expects this to be easy."

Brennan snorts his amusement. "Well, let's not disillusion her just yet."

"No. Best not to." Ambrose sits up a little in his chair, as if acknowledging that they've reached a more serious part of the discussion. "I don't really see what I have to offer any of them right now beyond an assurance that I have no intention of dealing with Dara any more. I assumed that went without saying, because any man so foolish as to do it again is too foolish to survive. But I can't gainsay her easily, particularly not if she brings Cleph by, unless I have some way to stand up to her."

"Yes, there is definitely that." Brennan steeples his fingers in thought, trying again to approach this from the right angle. "I don't know that there's anything in my direct power I can give you that would help. I've already said I'd take your request to Corwin, though, and I will. So there's that.

"When do you think she might come calling?" If anything, Brennan has sunk deeper into the chair, but even after a day's acquaintance, Ambrose should be able to tell that's when he's his most alert.

"I don't know," Ambrose admits. "It could be today. It could be in a week. It could be years. It depends on when she next hatches a scheme in which she thinks I'll be useful. I don't think she's done with Amber, so I don't think she's done with me."

"She won't be done with Amber until she has Merlin, I think," Brennan says, looking at Ambrose, "Or until she's dead."

Ambrose meets Brennan's gaze. "I thought that was the one unforgivable sin."

"Other than giving her Merlin, do you know a better way?" Brennan asks.

"No. But I am about to ask a rather large favor of her child's father. I hope he isn't still carrying a torch for her. How does the boy feel about this? Do you know?" Ambrose seems unaware of or unconcerned by the incongruity of him calling Merlin a boy.

"No," Brennan admits. "I have not, in fact, asked Merlin how he might feel about the execution of his mother. Corwin either. But I know Merlin is absolutely terrified of her."

"Let's hope your luck holds, Brennan. I don't have any objection to removing Dara from the picture in a theoretical sense, but I don't want to make my situation worse. If I stop Dara and Cleph from baying for my head, only to replace them with my uncles, I will not consider it a good exchange." Ambrose sets his elbows on the table and laces his fingers, waiting for Brennan's answer to that.

"I don't think you'd have to worry about many of them. Fiona and Bleys were elbow deep in events that led to Eric's, Deirdre's, and even Grandfather's deaths. The unforgivable sin seems to have been... overlooked in exchange for more recent service to Amber." Brennan says, "But, I can feel things out back in Amber and with Corwin and Merlin. The boy and I are at least cordial."

"You do that," Ambrose says. Then he perks back up again. "What about Random? What will he have to say about this?"

"She declared war on Amber. What does he think his Knights are for?"

The corners of Ambrose's mouth curl up. "I guess we'll find out. "If this scheme goes anywhere, and I can get Chantico under control again, I'm in. If that's their price, I'll pay it."

"It's a start, anyway." Brennan says, "It's something to offer, after I make sure it's not just going to make them angry. I don't think I'll have any problems finding cousins who are interested. Robin, Brita, the Knights."

He flashes a grin: "She's even better at irritating people than I am."

The half-formed grin on Ambrose's face completes itself in response. "Oh, you're not so bad." Then he pauses, awkwardly, as if he doesn't quite know what to say next.

"Give it a few hundred years, then tell me what you think of me," Brennan quips.

"Let's hope we all last that long," Ambrose says, deliberately stepping back from the awkwardness. He changes the subject. "I don't suppose you've had a chance to look at our mother."

"Last night. Does she know she's dying?" Brennan asks.

Ambrose shakes his head in the negative. "She worries about who will succeed our father. She expects to end up short a head, I think, if it goes wrong. But she doesn't understand that I can't save her if I win." His jaw sets, and he drops his gaze.

"Pattern," Brennan says. "Don't give up just yet."

"I haven't. I'm just realistic about my current capabilities."

Brennan has the grace not to smirk at that. "There's always asking Fiona, but she tends to exact a price for her assistance." The glyph of 'price' looms very large in that sentence.

"I'll take my chances with her brother, thanks," Ambrose replies, a bit sharply, then glances up at Brennan. He shrugs slightly, and offers the slightest of smiles.

Brennan returns the smile, and nods. No point rubbing it in.

"Ambrose? Do you really just want to be left alone? Or do you want to be part of the family?"

Ambrose pauses before answering Brennan. "Before I went to Amber, I didn't know that there was a family to be part of." The sentence is anchored on the words 'family' and 'part' more than 'Amber'.

"I know the feeling. Until a few months ago, I didn't know there was anyone of my generation. At all. Only the few faces on the Trumps Brand showed to me."

"And the stories our father told you," Ambrose says in a tone that leaves Brennan no doubt as to the general tenor of such tales told to him.

"Yeah. Were you there long enough get a feel for them?" Brennan asks.

"Not really. But I did speak with Conner and Brita while we were in Clarissa." His expression loses a bit of its grimness.

Brennan nods. "I'll let you make your own opinion of the rest of them. I won't claim I like them all-- I can't do that with a straight face. And I won't claim you'll fall into the Family's open, waiting arms. But we're your peers. Even in moments of opposition." There's a thought unspoken there, emphasized by the gaping hole in the sentence structure.

"That's my pitch." Brennan says.

Ambrose nods slowly. "When do you plan to go back to Amber?" Clearly he's not ready to answer the pitch just yet--but he doesn't seem to have rejected it out of hand.

"Today. I've been away far, far too long. I don't expect you to pick up and leave this moment, either. That's just an excuse for Chantico to come and vandalize the place again. I'm just thinking down the line."

Ambrose nods again. "We should keep in touch," he says. "Our mother will be distressed if you leave without promising another visit."

"I was thinking about that, too. I don't have a Trump of myself... but I'm going to have to fix that, soon. I can come here at will, though, and I gather that now you can come to Amber as well?" Brennan asks?

"There are some places in the castle I can find, yes. Hell of a security hole, you know. Random should talk to an expert about that." The corner of Ambrose's mouth quirks up.

"Yeah, we know," Brennan says a bit sourly. "That doesn't solve the problem of communication, just visits. Although the idea of using the Basement as a message drop is weird enough that Random would probably love it. I'll see if I can call in a few favors that no one owes me yet, and get a pair made." He grins again. "I bet Paige can make one of you."

"I gather Brita is a talented artist," Ambrose parries. "You should see the sketches on the wall of the room she stayed in."

"Talented girl, yes." Getting Ambrose to parry is sufficient victory for Brennan. "But Chanty, though... she's going to be a handful, isn't she. Is there any vector to get her to settle down? Does she even know what she is?"

"No. And I'm not sure telling her would help." Ambrose shakes his head. "She already thinks she's a goddess. Telling her that her power could be brought to bear in spheres beyond Uxmal would only encourage her. She reminds me on her good days of our father on his bad days."

Brennan looks as appalled as he sounds. "Well that's a comforting thought." After a moment, "Is the mother still alive?"

"No. If I'd had that kind of rein on her, I'd have used it." Ambrose looks mildly disgusted.

"So much for avoiding the unforgivable sin," Brennan says. "Here's a comforting thought in return-- does Dara know about her?"

"No, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm not casual about death, Brennan, but defense of my own life is a different matter."

"I feel quite the same way about Dara, believe me." Brennan is as serious as a heart attack. "No, those two can never meet. There's so much potential for mischief I don't even know where to begin."

"And Chantico is so ambitious and so confident of her own power that a betrayal of the sort I anticipated would never occur to her." Ambrose is equally serious. "She'd be a lamb for the slaughter."

"That's a good place to start with the mischief, yes," Brennan agrees. "You never did tell me what your back-up plan was."

"Our father left me with a few useful items. One of them is a conditional spell container." Ambrose smiles. It's not very nice.

Brennan mirrors the smile, and nods. "That could come in handy," he says lightly.

"Yes," Ambrose says. "It could."

"All right, then. I don't want to turn into a bad guest, and as I said, I've been away for far too long."

Ambrose rises, and offers Brennan a clasp that he feels is probably warmer than the one he would have gotten from Ambrose yesterday.

Brennan returns it, with feeling. "Any messages I should carry?"

"Thanks, but just the one to Corwin, I think, for now. If I need to send you further word, I'll leave it in the ballroom of the castle for the nonce. I think the Pattern chamber is a bit out of the way, don't you?

"Are you going to say goodbye to our mother, or shall I tell her you were called away?"

"No, I'll make a proper goodbye." Then Brennan adds, "And 'out of the way' was the point. The natives probably won't take well to finding letters in the ballroom. Use sparingly, if you would, and I'll add that stroll to a page's daily duties."

"I'll try not to abuse the privilege," Ambrose replies drily. "When we have Trumps, coordination will be easier."

"Infinitely. All right, then. I'll be in touch. If you'll excuse me, I'll go say good bye to Tayanna."

"Of course. Good luck, Brennan."

"You too. Feel free to threaten Chanty with my return if you think it will do any good." He pauses. "Might not be wise to call her that to her face, though."

With that, Brennan departs in search of Tayanna.