Red Tide Rising

Conner stays silent until they are some distance from the chamber they left. "Well cousin, you certainly made an entrance." Conner smiles slightly. "Not quite the impression you intended to make I presume."

"Father would be so proud." Edan shakes his head. "Bad news always causes a stir. I wasn't aware just how strong an impression I would make. I will admit, in my rush to catch Signy here, I did not take the time to consider it."

"Diplomacy and sorcery are similar in that you should really take local conditions into account before acting." Conner comments. "Alas the Third Eye is rarely useful in diplomacy for that purpose." Conner starts leading them towards his own quarters. "I have arranged for a light repast to be served in my rooms for us. I thought you might like your first attempt to eat and drink underwater to not be in front of the wider family." Conner smiles. "It quickly becomes intuitive once you get used to the pressures and surface tensions involved. How is your fiery nature handling this much water?" He asks.

Edan casually glances about, confirming they're alone before answering. "Ah. Well, the temperature is roughly twenty percent below what I would consider comfortable. Pressure-wise, I am standing at the bottom of a column consisting of millions of tons of salt water. I cannot eat, drink, or perform the most basic of bodily functions without assistance. The proximity to a Pattern makes my Sorcery very difficult, and until I learn how your mages are standing around smoking, I would say that here I'm just a blade. A slashing one, at that, so I would conservatively guess at least a quarter-second delay from any movement over three feet. I've seen beluga whales smaller than your guards, and to be honest, I don't know if I could take one in a fight. What's not to like? The warm currents keep me from shivering, which is a good thing, and I calculate the exact psi on my head from moment to moment to distract me from the lethality of the pressure. Despite all that, you could say there is a small part of me that welcomes this place. I love the exoticism, the buoyancy of the water. I would love to dance here."

Conner smiles wide. "So you're fine then." He concludes. "I would arrange a ball so you could dance but you would likely spend the night fending off marriage proposals. I have some protection from such things because the matriarchy decrees that any would be suitors would have to gain the approval of my mother." Conner chuckles. "No one has had the nerve to try yet."

"I saw her, not long ago. Did she tell you?" Edan asks. "We tangled with a company of Moonriders, and I do believe it was a decoy on your mother's part to draw attention away from Father. Later, she showed me how to create a bird of desire- ah, yes, that reminds me to try that here and see what happens." He walks a few steps, says, "Rebman marriage proposals would be flattering, but I believe I am, as you might say, 'taken'. But first, perhaps, we should talk about that new sword on your hip."

"Certainly." Conner smiles. "Ah and here we are." Conner opens the door to his quarters. As promised, several trays of finger foods and drink bulbs await on a low table and Conner waves Edan to a set of chairs and couches around it. Conner takes a few moments to go about his rooms draping mirrors and similar precautions before coming back to the table. "These used to be Random's quarters when he stayed in the palace. The walls were thickened and insulated to baffle the sound of his constant percussion instruments. We are less likely to be overheard here as a result." Conner slowly draws the Pattern Blade of Rebma from her scabbard and displays it for Edan on his open palms. "Her name is Halosydne. What else would you like to know?"

"So, then, you have bound yourself to her?" Edan leans forward, and then winces, as only one who tries to look at a Pattern Blade with the Third Eye would do. "I saw some equations, a long time ago. There is a reinforcing harmonic that builds between the wielder and the sword and the Pattern." He smiles. "I called Father the Knight of Amber when I learned that. As, I suppose, Corwin would be the Knight of Tir-na Nog'th. As you are now the Knight of Rebma."

"According to my knighting ceremony, I am also Duke of the Shallows, Warden of the Nedra Beds, and Defender of Rebma." Conner smiles. "Yes, I am bound to her by blood, by the will of the Queen and by walking the Pattern while bearing her. I don't recommend the last by the way. Your father welcomed me to the fraternity and as per usual offered a mathematical metaphor. I've also impressed every Triton I've met."

"That does not surprise me in the slightest. And it is a nice segue into the only real concern I would have for you right now. Of course the Tritons would respect you and the blade. You protect the Pattern and the new Queen. They have fought against this combination before and lost, neh? But they are not the only concern. Moire is still out there, and she is a former Queen. Binding yourself to this sword, you are fated to eventually face her. What will happen then?"

"I expect that Halosydne would strike her down as she would any threat to Rebma." Conner replies. He returns the Pattern Blade to her sheath but Conner's hand lingers on the hilt. "Uncle Bleys described the mandate of a Pattern Blade as protection of the Pattern and by extension, the city, the Queen, and the realm. By all accounts, Morie never walked the Pattern, could not walk the Pattern. She is not part of the equation that binds Pattern, blade and ruler." Conner announces. He pauses to grab a drink bulb and very deliberately goes through the motions of taking a drink so a keen observer can follow the steps. "Having said that, I am concerned that Morie can make use of the other symbols of rulership, particularly Rebma's jewel, to try and protect herself from Halosydne."

Edan raises a similar bulb in a salute before trying it himself. "I didn't realize Rebma had its own jewel, but it makes sense. You make it sound as if these other symbols aren't here, and if that is the case, Moire has really, ah, 'done a number' on Celina. These other symbols, are they more than symbolic? For instance, is there a scepter without which the Queen cannot publicly dispense justice?"

"Much institutional knowledge is lost to us with Moire and the archivist fled and Khela," Conner pauses and finally chokes out, "dead." Conner pauses again to drain his drink bulb and select another. "Here is what we do know. The oath that was used to bind the Tritons into Rebma's service, written in Mabrahoring as it happens, states that they are bound by the power of throne and jewel and the tokens of sword and scepter. Celina has taken the throne and found the scepter. I bear the sword. That leaves the Jewel. We presume that it is in Moire's possession or has been hidden by her so finding her is a rather high priority. Unfortunately, she is quite adept at defeating scrying magics."

"I heard about Khela. I am sorry." Edan looks away for a moment. "When I spoke to the Dragon of Arcadia, She called the tritons 'my sister's children'. Of course the contract of their binding would be in Mabrahoring- dragons are of Chaos, and so, then, are their progeny. Brij wondered aloud if there were intermediate goddesses in Nedra, like there are in Arcadia and Arden." Edan, fidgety, puts down the bulb and tries a bite of food. "Considering how everything else mirrors, they should be there. As far as Moire goes, well, you still hold the castle. You hold the high ground, you have the garrison, you control the flag. She must come to you. Of course, she knows this. Forgive my ignorance...are there rangers in that great kelp forest, keeping order? Or is it a vast unknown?"

"I will answer your question but we will return to the topic of you meeting the Dragon of Arcadia." Conner smiles. "I recently came back from a visit to Nedra and though I know more than I did, we are firmly in the vast unknown category. Not only do we not have a ranger force there, I think the Tritons could be accurately described as the Dragon's Rangers patrolling the kelp beds to keep us at bay." Conner chuckles. "There is that odd form of reflection again. The way the Hierophant of Nedra described things is that there is a core of Chaos at the center of Nedra surrounded by the kelplands and the Tritons which are chaotic enough to interact with that core but ordered enough to deal with us, and then the outer fringes where the Pattern holds firm."

"As bad as that," Edan says, and rubs at his temple. "I envy you, cousin. I do not think I would been able to make the choices you have made. You have set yourself up to be knight-protector of a new reign. You live on the edge of the blade, where everything is fresh and unexplored. You are the Guardian of a realm both ancient and new. Long may you serve." He toasts with the bulb again. "I do not like your circumstances, though- it sounds as if too much is unknown, and your enemies are moving in that darkness. And they have something you need."

Conner chuckles. "I'm hiring you as my public relations officer. You make it sound so exciting and noble."

Edan makes a sort of shivering movement, as if shrugging off that thought. "Well. Things will go as they will go. So. Yes, I met the Dragon of Arcadia, or at least her avatar. We had tea."

"Tea?" Conner repeats. "Not an activity traditionally associated with Dragons. How did you even meet the avatar? Having experienced the power of the Deep Green, I would think approaching the Dragon would be near impossible if it did not wish to meet you."

"It is important," Edan says. "If she was refined enough to offer tea, that means she is willing to talk under the right conditions. Father and I raided a forward camp of the Moonriders. I stole an item which led me directly to the Dragon of Arden. She denied involvement with them, but then, there's no denying the item or where it led. It is what it is."

Conner leans forward. "Do you still have this item?" Conner asks. "Aside from the general curiosity of seeing an item or either Moonrider or Draconic manufacture, I am curious if now that you are below the waves, it would lead you back to Arden or to Nedra."

Edan touches his fingers to his forehead, and brings a sextant out from his robes. "I have done what I can do with it. I would say the Gheneshi would want it back, but they would have to be desperate to come after you to get it. Especially here." He passes it over. "Truly, as far as the Moonriders are concerned, it is their move. They still search for a path through Shadow. I could not even slow them down, even with an army. They have contacted the Queen of Air and Darkness, so their will is now hers. The next meeting may well be settled with warfare."

Conner accepts the sextant and proceeds to examine it with his Third Eye. "Have you fought against the Moonriders?" Conner asks. "If there is to be war, I would know what I face."

It’s a well-made wooden and brass device, etched with silver filigree. It seems real, but it’s hard to use the third eye in Rebma proper, due to proximity to the Pattern.

It’s definitely something special.

"I have. They can be killed. Their reactions are quick, as if their future selves are around to give them warning. They are...unstuck in Time, which is both the source of their power and their disadvantage. I tried to explain some of this to Vere, but he hasn't yet studied the principle. Have you worked with Time?"

"Extensively." Conner replies. "It was the second principle I tackled. It would have been the first but Mother wanted some experience under my belt before I had the potential to warp sapce-time. So, they are not a fixed point in time as we are. They are more fluid?"

"'Un-anchored' was the term I've used. They can do amazing things. They are incredibly fast. If they survive a thing, it may be because their future selves went back and warned them. I have seen them ride on air, on something similar to a flimsy. They seem to not know fear, and every one I've met has been skilled with the blade. But...they can be killed. I have killed one with fire, another by aging parts of his body at different speeds. I created a Void of Space-Time that sucked charging Riders into nothingness. Father said a competent Rider could age your saddle or horse to dust under you, or blast you with microvibrations of splintered time. If you quiet those oscillations on your end, by the way, it will feedback on them." Edan glances around. "I tried to show that to Vere, but he hadn't learned Time yet. I will not disrupt the peace of this place by trying it here."

"That is wise. I have attempted to manipulate time twice in the presence of a Pattern and that is two times more than I should have." Conner pauses slightly and then takes a pull from his bulb. "So then, how would the Moonriders react to the stasis that Pattern energies would bring." Conner gestures with the Pattern Blade. "I would imagine an anchoring effect would unpleasant to say the least."

Edan glances at Halosydne, then smiles back at Conner. "And he shall carry Death Eternal to those who stand against righteousness," he says, as if quoting something. "I've not tried Pattern against them, nor juggled Pattern and Sorcery in their presence. I imagine it would undo them. Does the influence of that thing extend more than a few feet beyond your arm? You may be unstoppable as an individual, but I should say these Riders don't have a large sense of self-preservation. A crowd of them might be sent to keep you busy while others follow some other nefarious end."

"I am uncertain how far Halosydne's influence spreads." Conner admits. "Such experimentation needs to be done outside of a Pattern's influence and circumstances have kept me close to Rebma of late. I really must ask My Sister to take the time to make a permanent Trump of me. If I had a swift way of being called back in case of emergency, I could take the time both for experimentation and seeking out Moire. No doubt Celina could reach out to me via her mirrors but so can Moire so that is a risky stratagem at best.

"Switching gears for a moment, how conversant are you with the languages of Chaos?" Conner asks.

Edan looks surprised. "There are so many," he says. "And there's a lot of telepathic and empathic communication, you know. But I suppose you mean Mabrahoring. I...know enough to get by. Father taught me a smattering, but I insisted on more. My Sorcerous studies had completely stalled out at the time."

Conner nods and floats up from his chair. "When Brita and I visited the Kelplands, we found a rather ornate, and very Real structure." Conner floats across the room and picks up a slate and a piece of chalk. Edan can see the the slate is already covered with a variety of symbols. "It was a temple to the Mother Dragon in fact and the walls were covered in glyphs and runes and language that I took to be Mabrahoring. I've been trying to recreate them here with the intention of asking Ambrose and any other familiar with Chaos and Sorcery to see if you can make any more sense out of them than I." Conner settles back in his chair and starts drawing with the chalk. "I have a bit of a disadvantage in my recall of these runes though. Ever since I bonded with Halosydne, the language of Chaos is like nails on a chalkboard. It feels wrong." Conner shivers. "A most unpleasant and unwelcome change but I suppose I'll get used to it in time."

"You have to juggle them, Order and Sorcery. Remind me to tell you about the time Father showed me the technique and I ran his sloop into Xanadu harbor at about a hundred knots." Edan cranes his neck to look at the symbols. "Perhaps he would have some pointers on how to do it with a Pattern Blade at your side. Juggle them, I mean. Not speed up a boat."

Conner floats over closer to Edan so he can see the symbols drawn already. "Uncle Bleys declined to give pointers actually." Conner comments. "Both the binding to the blade and the ways of sorcerers are too personal and idiosyncratic for any but the most general advice to be given. He concurred with my intention to find a quiet spot in shadow and practice. I just need to find the opportunity." Conner finishes off another glyph.

"No easy solutions," Edan mumbles. He looks over what's drawn to see if he can get a gist of what's being written.

Conner's symbols are rough and wrong, and they don't even seem to want to move in the fluid way Mabrahoring needed to, in order to be a language suitable for bridging all the myriad chaoses it served. But the dragon was entwined around order, that was clear.

Edan would need to see the original symbols in their location to really get the message, but whatever it was, the messages were short.

Edan is shaking his head within seconds. "This is not right. I didn't realize the sword would affect you this much. I am sorry- I would have to see the original to make sense of it. But it is not a long message, whatever it is."

"You think it is because of my perception rather than my drawing skills?" Conner says incredulously then purses his lips as he ponders the notion. "Well I suppose that is a possibility. Perhaps Brita with a clearer mind and artistic skill can provide a better rendering. Once she is in a mental place to ask of course."

"Of course." Edan borrows the slate and chalk and begins to draw. "The symbols, they should flow, like this. Writing is like an exercise in Sorcery." He writes, 'the dragon is entwined around order'.

Conner produces another piece of chalk from somewhere and attempts to duplicate the symbols Edan drew. "I remember sitting at Mother's side like this for many a drawing lesson." Conner comments. "Two dimensions are not really enough for this language, is it?"

Edan smiles. "It depends on the artist. You are only limited by your imagination and the number of dimensions you would wish to affect." The smile becomes a grin. "And there would be those who could read everything you write. And have their own opinion of the writing. I'm beginning to understand what Ossian was trying to tell me. I need to apply more of the love I have for Sorcery into my sculpture."

"Well Sorcery as an art form is a common analogy. I see no reason why one could not be an inspiration for the other." Conner nods. "When did you last speak with Ossian? I've had no news of him since the last family gathering."

"It was in Xanadu, some time ago," Edan says. "We did some barre work, talked about sculpture, and eventually discussed the basics of art and inspiration."

"That certainly sounds like Ossian." Conner nods. "Down here the latest excitement has been the arrival of Huon. He has settled in almost too comfortably. I find it unnerves me to find him so reasonable."

"I think he knows the lesson that many of us younger Princes should learn," Edan says. "We have all the time in the world. We are eternal. If nothing else, we can outlast transient punishments."

Brita drops Ambrose's hand as they enter the air chamber and paces a distance away and then back. As she moves, she is digging through pockets, drawing out pencils and a small wax wrapped notebook. She unwraps and flips open the notebook. "It Has to be Big," she mutters, "but Subtle - Powerful and Elegant." She is sketching rapidly as she paces around.

Ambrose has been following Brita with a concerned expression but a closed mouth. "What has to be big?" he asks. "What are you sketching?"

"Memorial," Brita angles the pad and Ambrose can see rocky cliff with cascading water. "Should It be a Normal Trump or One to Endure Watery Rebma's Natural Element like my Shell Sketch?"

Ambrose just stands there for a moment, looking at Brita. "I don't understand," he says. "A memorial--wouldn't that be something you'd put in Rebma, or where you met him and knew him? How does a giant Trump make a memorial? You can't contact him with it, unless you think--unless it's like my father and you think he's really not dead, as he suspected Huon wasn't, or Ysabeau, or--others." Whom Ambrose chooses not to name.

Ambrose startles a small smile out of Brita and her pacing stops, "I am sketching The Memorial for Master-Cousin Reid. The Questions were About Queen Celina's Trump." She pauses as the rest of Ambrose's words catch up to her brain. With an almost desperately hopeful tone she says as she flips over to a blank page, "A Trump as Proof - I had Not Thought...." Her sketch now is obviously of a person... Male or Female is not yet obvious.

"I was wondering." Ambrose makes a noise that might be a nervous, unhappy laugh.

"A trump can only be proof one way: if someone responds, or you can sense them through it. If they're silent, it can mean any number of things. But I don't want to give you false hope. The most likely answer is that Edan's story was right in the only important particular." He reaches out toward Brita, but since she's sketching, and he knows better than to break her concentration and effort, he stops short of actually touching her unless she encourages him. “I’m sorry."

Brita's shoulder dips for a second at his words, but she looks back at him and gives him a small smile of thanks. "It is Worth a Try, Just In Case, but I Will Consult Other Artists as well." Her sketch is starting to look more feminine. She starts a smaller facial sketch to one side.

"I only know because father kept Trumps just in case. I didn't know why until much later." Ambrose seems to be saying that as much to say something as because he thinks it will help.

He is silent for a few minutes, watching the two sketches take form under Brita's talented hands, before speaking up again. "Is there anything I can send for, to help you? Something to eat, in a bit, or something to drink, or some supplies for your Art? Or something else I can do?"

Brita shakes her head at his list but says, "You Can Help Me. How do We Keep Dying? What can We Do to Prevent Further Deaths? I See Connections - Interwoven Threads tying All Acts Together; My Brother postulates Random Events. What are Your Thoughts on What has Happened to Our Cousins?"

"I see the hands of the Klybesians everywhere, whether or not they were directly responsible for Reid's death. Perhaps I should review more of my father's papers to see if I can find anything about them. They seem to like--" Ambrose pauses and comes up with "--outlying Princes. Princes who are alone and appear to be abandoned. My father would have appeared as one such. My brother might have appeared to be another.

"Your mother's guardianship, and Reid's presence, might have insulated you from whatever intentions they might have had for you. But they approached Wayland to get at Signy, and they dealt with Huon, and they had Reid's body. Three times is not a coincidence."

Brita nods in agreement, her sketching detailing Celina's face with a look Celina wears when under her crown. "There is Cousin Lucas, As Well; it is Still Unclear if His Death is Tied. I am Worried by Dara's Seeming Disappearance. She Could Easily be Assisting These Klybesians - an Outlier Assisting in the Destruction of Outliers." She switches gears and pages in her sketchbook, "How goes the Decryption of Your Father's Papers?"

A touch of frustration leaks into Ambrose's voice. "Not well. I need to be in S hadow to do the best work, I think, and the smaller code wheels aren't entirely functional in Rebma even though it's more hospitable to magic. Signy is coming out to your mother's tower with me to see if she can duplicate the code wheels because some of them are decaying even under your mother's protection. If anyone in the family can do it, she can. Or maybe her father, but I don't like his prices."

Reid takes form on Brita's page - strong but with a hint of laughter on his face. "Cousin Signy has Master Weyland's Skill? Hopefully, She will Create Appropriate Replacements that Will Function Well. I Would Accompany You - it would be Easier to Work on These at Mother's Laboratory than Watery Rebma and I would Talk with Mother."

"Of course you're welcome." Ambrose's expression brightens visibly. "I'll be glad of your company and I'm sure Signy will too.

"As for Signy's skill: she's a sorceress and she learned some of his secrets. I'm hoping that's enough." Ambrose takes a moment to ponder exactly what to say for the next bit, and finally settles on, "I've seen some of her work. The thing she made wasn't perfect, but that she came so close in working with the materials and magics she did speaks highly of her skill. If she can't do it, I'm not sure it can be done."

"I am Certain she Will Succeed. What have you Learned from Your Father's Writings so far? Anything of Use in These Times?" Brita has focused back on her sketch but the tension in her shoulders is obvious.

Ambrose's tone takes on some annoyance. "The thing about my father's papers is that he was half a poet and half a metaphysicist, and it's impossible for me to tell sometimes which half is which. The beauty of glyphs is one thing, but sometimes I wish he'd just written in Thari like a normal prince of Amber. I suppose he didn't want anyone else to know what he'd written.

"But," and his tone shifts to contain a little more satisfaction, "I have learned a few things. I confirmed one of the old suspicions, about why he started his project. He was trying to solve whatever he thought was wrong with Dworkin."

"Something is Wrong with Grandfather?" Brita has focused more on the Sketch of Reid - working on the details of his face.

Ambrose nods. "My father believed that there was. Something to do with Tir-na Nóg'th, the city in the sky. Whatever he found in his research--which I hope is in his surviving notes--was enough to set him on the path that drove him utterly mad and ultimately ended his life. I haven’t asked Dworkin to confirm his suspicions."

His restlessness is evident in the way he's started pacing the chamber, stopping when he reaches Brita's side to examine her work.

Brita notes over her shoulder, "I Must Concentrate on this Next Part. Do you Wish to Go Get Food?" She glances up at him, "Or is there Something Else Making you Nervous as one who just saw Uncle Loki's Smile?"

"Nothing about this situation is good. I'm anxious to be doing something. And yet," Ambrose offers wryly, with a wry smile, "anxiety to do something now, even if it's not the right thing, seems like it's exactly what got my father in trouble.

"If I'm disturbing you, and keeping you from your work, I can leave you be. I wouldn't want to slow you in responding to a royal command."

"I Cannot Work on the Queen's Trump without a Bit More Observation, but I would Like to Complete This Sketch of Master Reid," Brita smiles ruefully up at Ambrose. "Food in a Watch from Now would be Appreciated."

Ambrose looks like he is about to say something, but nods and departs.

It’s longer than a watch, but Ambrose arrives just as Brita is finishing her sketch. It is cool to the touch as it should be, and the energies seem right.

The tray Brennan’s brother provides is stacked high with meats and cheeses, and a pitcher of something hearty to drink.

“How did your efforts fare?” It’s always possible to tell when Ambrose has been thinking about Uxmali code wheels. It shows in his syntax.

Brita is holding the page with Reid's image and staring off into space just above it. "It is Cool," she says in a small, wondering voice. She waits three heartbeats, reaches for Ambrose's hand, and glances down at the card - starting to concentrate on the familiar stern visage of her Teacher, Uncle, and Friend.

Ambrose sets the tray down quickly when he realizes what Brita is doing. He watches her for a time but does not interfere.

There is no answer, and no feeling of response in the Trump.

Brita closes her eyes. "It...it was worth a Try," she says in a mostly flat voice not quite like her usual tone. After several beats, she opens her eyes - the green a little shinier than normal. She takes a deep breath and lets it go. "It would be Interesting to Ask Grandfather Why the Sketch would Still Be Cool." She carefully slides the sketch back between the pages of her notebook and rewraps the book securely in the oilskin. "I must ask Our Cousin if She Would Like a Trump suited to This Environ or The One Above. But First - some Sustenance." She smiles firmly at Ambrose as she moves to the tray he has brought.

Ambrose waits for Brita to select something to eat and takes some himself. “In Uxmali, there's a saying that each character is a morsel in the mouth of a glyph—you might say that words are the food of sentences. As with all Uxmali proverbs, you can unpack it in different ways. One meaning is that no matter how profound the work or abstract the thought, it is built with the application of the basic tools.

“It applies in reverse, as well. If the trump is painted on a card-shaped rock, would that suit? My father was always experimenting with the medium, but he never taught me the practicalities of it."

"I Used a Shell for The Fire Gate Trump. It Seemed to Work Well. A Rock Might be Sufficient, but it Might be Too Much of Both Worlds and definitely Heavier than a Shell. I will Speak to Our Cousin," Brita says. "When Will you Leave to Continue Your Work?"

Ambrose shrugs and shakes his head, scattering a few errant droplets from his damp hair. "I don't know yet. I had thought to leave as soon as possible, but that's up to Signy. If she has to stay here to deal with her man, the who was once a monk, our departure may be delayed for some time. Perhaps you'll be finished with your work for the Queen by then."

"Perhaps," Brita acknowledges. "Whenever you are Ready, I will Be Available." She turns back to the tray and continues to eat. "I will Likely be Here or My Rooms or With the Queen. Let me Know if We Need to Gather or Bring Anything Specific."

Celina moves from an extremely early TaKhi workout and tiny breakfast to Aunt Llewella's quarters.

She is unsettled by the news of Reid's death and the various Cousin's reactions. It brings back too much, too soon. Funerals and inadequate words mix with memories of her own failures. She is not sure why it should haunt her so, since she did not know Reid, or Adonis, or Cambina, or Lucas, or..... Khela nearly well enough to feel this empty.

Or did she? Does the Pattern that lived in them sorrow inside of her? She worries she is coming apart from the inside.

Scratching at the door, she arranges the apology in her head for disturbing her Aunt at this hour. Yes, she needs to Trump her Father. Perhaps Random as well, but later.

And of course she needs a Trump to do this, but it could wait until lunch. After all, Tomat has not commented yet. Something may come of that ....though she doesn't think it will. Celina puts her hands up over her eyes and takes a deep breath. It's all too much. It has to get better.

Llewella’s triton lets Celina in and goes to fetch his mistress. There are a number of voices from behind the door, and shortly Llewella comes out. She’s wearing standard Rebman garb: scaled shorts and crossed suspenders--all metallic, but not reflective. Her hair is up.

“Your Highness, how may I serve?”, she asks. There are sounds of the triton (or someone) tidying up in the rooms behind the Princess.

“Of course, let’s go up to my air room.” The princess of Amber gestures up the spiral stairs, but swims up herself. Once they have both alighted, Llewella looks over at her Queen. “Are you ready for this, or do you need something fortifying to drink?”

Celina makes a small apology pointing off towards the unknown guest that Llewella has left below. She smiles. "Drink, no. This is bringing Father current with news. It should not be stressful. He's a warrior. He won't be shaken as I am."

Llewella laughs. “He’s a poet, and therefore unpredictable. Or perhaps vice-versa. Don’t let his reaction throw you, whatever it is.” The princess hands the key to her niece and queen.

Celina laughs, as her Father has thrown her a bit each time they talk. "It is worthy to remember he is considered an artist." She takes the card and studies it, running a thumb edge along the brow and black hair.

"Father," she begins to see a shift of lighting in his face, "it is Celina and I bring sad news."

Corwin is in the a garden somewhere in Paris, among his citizens. "Let me get somewhere private," he says, and makes his way into a building that appears to the a part of the Louvre.

"What news?" he asks, concern etching into his expression.

"News direct from Xanadu that Cousin Reid is dead and in the hands of the Klybesian Order. Random has sent Family to ask questions and retrieve the body," Celina says. "Edan brought me the news. The manner of Reid's death or involvement with the Klybesians is unknown to me as it was unknown at Xanadu. In the face of so many Family tragedies, I'm asking Brita to make a Trump of me so all Pattern realms can stay in closer contact. I'll see you get one soon."

"That's much appreciated. Do you have a card of me besides the one Llewella has? I should arrange to have one made for you." Corwin pauses, thinks about it--Celina can almost feel the gears turning--then continues: "I knew about Reid. Random told me. He sent Jerod and Ossian to retrieve the body and look into the matter of Reid's death. He was with a Parisian, Papillon, when he left--Reid, that is--and I don't know what happened to her, but perhaps they'll find her and she'll have a better idea of how he died."

He does not say and what further measures to take, but the implication is there.

Celina nods. "Papillon. I shall remember. Many here are mourning for Reid." Celina continues. "No, I do not have a card for you, Father. Or one of Random. I appreciate your help in changing that." Celina's voice changes in tone, as it would if she were standing much closer to Corwin. "Is there news of Merlin. With all this, I'm stressed that he is alone in the shadows."

Corwin frowns, but there's no sense of distress or worry in the contact to follow through on the expression. "I haven't talked to him in the last few days, but he seemed well the last time we spoke. If it would be easier, I can offer you a Trump of him, at least as a loaner. He's out in the far shadows where time runs a little mad, so Trump contact isn't easy to make or hold."

Celina considers 'easier'. Then she smiles. "You've spoken to him and I think that is enough for now. Having his card will have me wanting to talk to him every week. Neither of us needs the distraction and both of us are busy with tomorrow in important ways. When he is ready for rest, Rebma will be here."

Celina moves to wrap up. "My regards to all of Paris. I'll call Random next. If you have any other news for us or Xanadu, I'll carry it. We have no word on Moire's movements. I share that there is a cult among the Tritons that believes the path of peace between Nedra and Rebma a false path. A cult of the Dark Mother that claims only blood can restore the corrupt worship to wholeness, and the Dark Mother to her rightful power. These cultists, like the Klybesians, need to answer some questions for our safety. The Tritons plan to deal with it and we watch for now."

"Let's hope Macy's isn't telling Gimbel's, or we're all in trouble." The words are light, but Corwin's tone has an underlying serious note. "Don't worry about conveying news to Random; he and I are in touch. I'm also talking to Benedict as needed, and I'll pass your news along there as well. Be safe, Celina."

Celina grins, "Just a little thing, Father. Are Macy and Gimbel ladies or gents? I think it would help me with the analogy."

Corwin's eyebrows arch through the fading contact. "They're department stores," he explains, and then he's gone.

Celina voices a small, "Huh." And turns back to find her Aunt.

Celina offers the Corwin Trump back to Llewella face down. "So department stores are some sort of powerful Trade Shell? They rarely cooperate and if they do they're holding a lot back. Father seems to like Trade analogies. I suppose it reminds him of Family business."

Celina adds, "I know you have company, can we talk later about Your Mother? Relics and funerals and burials are a significant part of Family respect. So I'm more than curious where Moins bones lie."

Llewella smiles back. "A breakfast meeting with an old friend, but nothing that cannot be rescheduled. My guest will have departed." She sighs. "Mother’s remains... that’s a difficult question."

She stands, and walks around the room, her hair flowing silently behind her. "Under the Waves, time rapidly recycles our bodies. We have no elaborate grave yards or fields dedicated to bodies. Imagine trying to dig a grave, as they do in some shadows. Even a rocky tomb would allow time and tide to destroy the body.

"So we don't value them the same as, for instance, shadow desert water-control empires do. We're not pyramid builders here. We're too practical. Land needs to be used for work. So do the bodies of the dead.

"Mother was a special case. She died at war, and was returned here, and was kept in state for a long time because there was no one to order such a thing to be stopped.

"Moire had a state funeral and ordered her body to be buried beneath the castle, which is to say in the chambers between the stairs and the pattern.

Llewella shakes her head. "No one knows where, or what conditions might be down there now. It was never a tame place, but it has been quiet so far."

She takes a deep breath. "Does that satisfy your curiously? I wouldn't recommend seeking her out. I don't know what you might disturb."

Celina nods twice through the explanation, as this is almost exactly like the Seaward rites of death. Nothing like that ever happened when she was a girl. But then the Trench War had generated battalions of dead and most of the bodies never came home. She imagines a long public viewing of a fallen queen. Days of sadness and despair and confusion. "It almost satisfies my curiosity, yes. A long time in state. Then enshrined. Without seeming morbid ....she was poisoned? Felled by lightning? Or something more ordinary?" Celina opens her hands and adds, "Did anyone from the front speak of her death curse?"

Llewella crosses the room to the window casement, and holds it. "I was in Amber, and forbidden by father to interfere. All I know, I know second-hand. But I can assure you there there was no death-curse. Mother had explained at length to us that women were by nature creators and protectors, and that we should plan for a Death Boon or Blessing. 'Each her own Bionin,' she would say." Llewella twitches slightly as she quotes her mother.

"I like her more and more," Celina comments.

"I do not know who witnessed her death. You'll want to talk to the Tritons for that."

"I shall. Thank you for sharing your memories." Celina studies the grip Llewella has on the window frame. She holds herself from going to her Aunt and sympathetically touching her shoulder. Llewella would not have walked away if she wanted sympathy. "I suppose the burial was performed by Tritons as well?"

The princess looks thoughtful. "Possibly. Possibly not. Pall-bearer to the Queen is an honor, and Mother was more stand-offish from Tritons than we are. It was one the things she wished to correct in my behavior.

"Mera was just like her, but she wasn't around long enough to matter." She smiles, ferally. "If I could rip up the Pattern under Rebma, I would. It's killed so many of us, I think of it as 'the murderer in the basement.'"

Celina stares at this woman who is unknowable and so formidable. So angry. So much a mirror of my own passion. Mother of my love, she would have been closer than my foster aunts or canny Mother. Or maybe it has been too many centuries and being close is not really possible in that generation. No. I won't go there. She has 'old friends' and she pulled strings to keep Khela free. Celina nods slowly. "Then I shall talk to the Archivists and find out what families held the honor of Moins' last journey. Thank you my aunt. I'm sorry these things I ask rake over bitter embers."

Celina goes to take her leave, but stops. Without turning around, she says to her aunt. "If it means anything to ease your pain. I'm sick of death. I have no plans to take such steps with my mother or enemies unless they spill blood in my City. In that at least, I am grateful to Random and Corwin."

Llewella’s voice is low and calm. She is still on the far side of the room. “Death is a side-effect of life, Niece. We shall not be done with it until it is done with us. The people of your city live their lives in the knowledge that everyone eventually dies. It doesn’t matter if they are good or careful, it happens eventually.

"It is a blessing and a curse. Every one of us who dies, dies because they made a mistake. Don’t make a mistake, Celina. We are too few as it is."

Celina manages a sliver of smile. She's getting good at smiling when things are grim. "Just for you, my lovely Aunt. No mistakes." She looks back over her shoulder.

Llewella stands framed by the window, looking out at the waking city.

Celina takes her leave.