As or after her conversation with Tomat and Red Fox Claws breaks up, Brennan walks past Signy. It seems clearly accidental as he was moving somewhat stiffly, but with purpose, somewhere else, but when he notices Signy, he slows and approaches her.
"Cousin. I thought I might find you here. We should talk," he says. He is dressed in very somber black, and moves carefully. He also looks bone-tired.
Tomat and Red Fox Claws look at Signy, waiting to see, perhaps, if they are dismissed so she may talk with her cousin.
Signy nods companionably to the pair as she falls into step with Brennan. "Maybe tonight we can get together at dinner, to catch up further," she inquires to the two of them hopefully.
Tomat looks disturbed, but says nothing. "Yes, Lady," says Red Fox Claws. He takes Tomat by the elbow and leads him away.
Brennan nods cordially to Red Fox Claws. He's not sure if he actually likes the man, but he certainly has sense.
After their replies, she turns her focus back to her cousin. "I understand I have you to thank for getting Red Fox Claws back to me," she notes to him. "Though you look to be maybe some the worse for wear because of it. How did the rest of your time in my father's Tower go?"
"I didn't return to the Tower after I left it with Red Fox Claws and my squire," Brennan says. "I had as much of what I wanted as I was going to get, so I returned to the Dvarts, who by that time were engaged in a full scale war against the Aelfs. One side or the other may have won, by now.
"I assume you know about the time differential, from Red Fox Claws' appearance, if nothing else?" Brennan asks. "A generation or more had passed since we left when I got there. Even more, now. Weyland has been gone, it seems, for much of that time. A highly placed rumor has him heading this way or to Paris."
Signy clearly suppresses a grimace at that last statement. "Oh, how wonderful," she mutters sarcastically. She throws a quick glance back over her shoulder at the general direction of where Tomat and Red Fox Claws would be if they were still in view. "That time change thing may take some getting used to. I take it that for all that we can do, there's now way to go back in time, is there. There's no way to get back to the Band before they all broke apart and went their seperate ways?"
Brennan gives a tired ghost of a lopsided smile, in response to her grimace. "Thought I'd give you some warning," Brennan says. "But if you do track him down, tell him I want to talk to him. Tell him it's a potential business conversation, if you think it'll get his attention.
"As for time," Brennan says, "No, you can't Patternwalk back in time. Certainly I've never heard of it being done, and it's not a thing I could understand under the Pattern's framework. It creates and enforces rules, and one of the ones it does, I think, is time itself. You could walk to a place very like your home, though, and find it populated by people very like the ones you knew, but," and it seems like Brennan is speaking from old, painful experience, "they won't be the same. Not really. No matter how much we want them to be. The little imperceptible differences add up to perceptibility pretty quickly, and it's worse than never having done it at all," he says, with some bitterness.
He wrenches the conversation away from that, and says, "That said, there are places where time runs... very strangely. Out beyond the Tree, closer to the Courts of Chaos than to here. I don't think that helps your case, but it's something to be aware of if you're ever out that way. It's dangerous.
"Now that you've got at least some of your advisors back, what are your plans?" he asks.
Signy shrugs. "I don't know. I've got a lot of questions for my Father, the funerals coming up, and Brother Tomat's order. Oh, and somehow I need to figure out how all this Pattern stuff works." She sounds most certain about the last option.
"Good luck with that," Brennan murmurs.
She gives Brennan a direct stare. "So let me ask you. We rescued the Queen from some realm where some people say that whatever you see there is full of trickery and deceit, and some say it has portents and omens that could be read. What are your thoughts about such things?" She sounds somewhat frustrated at the end of things.
"Tir-na Nog'th," Brennan says, darkly. "What I think is that the place is bloody dangerous, and not a place to be visited casually. I thought that before today's events, too." Even tired, Brennan meets Signy's stare easily. "Someone I loved died there, recently, related to Vialle's disappearance and rescue. Tell me what you saw, and I'll tell you what I think."
Signy frowns, and her focus turns inward as she begins to speak.
"Several of us went there -- Brita, Garrett and I joined Benedict and Random after we got there from the weirdness in Caine's office. Shortly after we seperated from Benedict and his men, we were attacked by a group of people. The King called them 'shadows of Robin and the Rangers', but they quickly turned and fled. They did yell out and call the King the 'Tyrant Brandom'.
"Shortly after that, we came to a bowl-like clearing, where men like the ones that ambushed us and strange men with spurs on their elbows all lying dead. There was a man that looked like the King and this Robin in chains in front of the Queen, sitting on a throne, and the chains were held by someone called the Marshall." She frowns slightly at the memory. "The Queen told the Marshall to kill Robin, at which point the King lead a charge. I landed a blow that should have killed any ordinary man, but the Marshall just...vanished, and we all headed back."
She blinks as she refocuses on the present and Brennan. "We Trumped back, and that was it."
Brennan gives Signy his undiverted attention, and lets her tell her story even though at several points-- many points, actually-- it seems as though he wants to stop her and ask a clarifying question. Even after she tells her story, Brennan thinks about tht for a while, sorting priorities.
"That doesn't sound like Tir-na Nog'th," he says, "but leave that for a moment. Spurs on their elbows? Like this?" Brennan makes spurs out of the fingers of one hand and holds them in an appropriate position on his elbows. "More teeth than strictly necessary? More joints on their fingers, too, with barbs on the knuckles? Shiny white or pale grey skin, tough and hard like leather or a shell? Bloodshot eyes?"
Signy nods at his gesture. "Their skin was white, but we didn't really investigate the bodies. We made our attack rather suddenly, and as everything happened everything but the Queen disappeared." She pauses for a moment. "That's not entirely true. Brita grabbed one of the chains holding the other-King and other-Robin and yanked it, pulling the Marshall off-balance. Once everything vanished, she still had some sort of silver chain in her hands. And the Queen was blind again."
Brennan grunts. "Much that you say is troubling," he says, "but when you tell a version of this tale to Bleys or Fiona-- which you should absolutely do-- you should use the creatures' names. If they are what I think they are, they are called Grackleflints, and I wish someone had told me that before."
Pre-emptively answering the next question or two, he adds, "I'm not sure what I would have done with that information, except make sure that word reached Bleys and Fiona. Questioned someone else differently. I don't have the full history on Grackleflints, but the only person I know who uses them openly is my grandmother... and the last time I encountered them, I encountered the Marshall soon after. All of which makes their appearance in this context troubling."
Brennan looks troubled, then asks, "Tell me as much as you can about where you were, and how you got there. Did anyone use any names, as if they knew where they were?" He looks like he's going to say more, then abruptly changes his mind, adding only, "There's a reason I'm asking."
Signy shakes her head in the negative. "Nobody used names. Benedict said that it had a congruence with Tir Na N'ogth, but we rode there from wherever we met Benedict. Random said that it was 'the other side of Tir,' and referenced the Faiella Bionin."
"Interesting," Brennan says. "You asked about a place of either signs and portents, or trickery and deceit. Let me give some quick background first, and then actually answer that.
"You say Random mentioned the Faiella-Bionin. That's a road, of sorts, connecting the Pattern Cities. It used to run from Rebma under the sea, up through Amber, then up into the sky into Tir-na Nogth. I had never heard of another link from Tir back to Rebma, and always wondered if that was a defect in my knowledge, a defect in the road, or simply how things were. Well. Amber is not on that road any more, and anyone who has the full set of links mapped out is holding it close to his or her chest. But we know Paris and Rebma are connected, and Xanadu and Tir-na Nog'th. So there should be at least one, possibly two more links in that road that no one has bothered to look for yet. Although, it doesn't suprise me that the King would know more than we do, just by thinking about it.
"So. Tir-na Nog'th. Tir is special in ways and for reasons I don't understand. For one thing, it's only visible and reachable at certain times under certain conditions. For another, somewhat like the Trumps, it's considered a place of signs and portents. It's also considered to be haunted. I've been there, once, a long time ago. It was not an enjoyable experience. For a long time, I thought that suppositions about its being haunted, or actively deceptive, were overblown. It's a simpler hypothesis to dismiss the visions in the same way we dismiss dreams, to assume that we're seeing whatever we particularly want or fear to see. I think a lot of us have the same opinion. Now, though... I'm not so sure.
"Probably the person in our generation with the most knowledge about it now," Brennan says, "is my brother Ambrose. I know Brand had a great deal of hidden knowledge and theories about the place, which he put down in coded journals and papers. You could talk to Ambrose, although he might need your help before getting the answers.
"'On the other side of Tir,' though," Brennan muses. "Do you think you could walk there again, with the Pattern?"
Signy sighs. "I don't know. I don't really know where we left from, and haven't really tried to use the Pattern to go anywere. I think I get the theory of it, but...." She shrugs as her voice trails off.
"Presumably, people have checked to see if the road from Tir to Rebma exists under certain times and condions?" From her tone, she clearly doesn't expect to have hit on the answer this quickly or easily.
"Tir-na Nog'th disappears when a cloud passes in front of the moon. The typical mode of going there is to get in, do what you need to do quickly despite the distractions, and get the hell out. I haven't tried it, but since it's a Pattern place, I wouldn't count on Sorcery to save me. And since it's a distracting place, I wouldn't trust Trump, either. The place is dangerous." After a beat, Brennan adds, "But it would be good to know about."
"So, I need to see Ambrose and Bleys or Fiona about the shadow realm, Corwin about my mother, and Pattern I'm still on my own." Signy nods at the end of this. "Oh, and Brother Tomat's Order." She looks back at Brennan. "So, if you don't mind my asking, what exactly happened in my father's Tower?"
"Your father's protective wards were very impressive," Brennan says, "But he apparently did not consider the possibility of a lunatic nephew (and his faithful squire) beating the crap out of his roof with a pair of magic mining hammers acquired from the Dvarts. The Tower still stands, but I think the battle with the Eater broke most of the wards. I don't think Weyland intends to go back there, anyway." At least, Brennan hopes not.
Several emotions flash briefly across Signy's face -- malicious satisfaction, concern and irritation in quick succession, before it settles on a cool detachment. "Did you come across his workshop at all? If his leaving was an orderly one, he would have taken his tools with him." She thinks for a moment, before noting "Given the way time moves, if the Wards are mostly gone and the Eater is too, then someone by now will have moved into it and claimed it for theirs.
"Besides my father, who else knows much about these Pattern blades he made? I asked the King, but he just said that he didn't want the debt of one, and didn't really go into it further. Unless he decides to surface somewhere, it is probably not going to be easy to track him down to ask him...."
"I came across what might have been his workshop," Brennan says, "but it's hard to be sure. I was keeping an eye out for things like tools, but that wasn't my first or even my second objective. Those were Weyland himself, and the Eater, in that order. But as I said, the place had been left to its own devices for a long, long local amount of time. A mortal span, or most of it. Parts of what I saw were either ransacked or so thoroughly disturbed by... something... that I couldn't get a handle on what had really happened. And once the Eater chose to run away, priorities changed. I didn't have time to stick around and properly case the place.
"So the summary on that is, I didn't see the tools, which may mean he took them with him, or may mean they were destroyed, or stolen, or I just didn't investigate far enough to find them." Brennan shrugs apologetically, but doesn't actually apologize.
"As for the Blades, you're stuck with Bleys again," Brennan says, "since he bears one and as far as I know has made it a goal to know as much about them as possible. There's also Corwin, who bears another one. He's less on the theoretical knowledge by his nature, but like Random has a certain applied insight that would be hard to match. On the other hand, his blade is keyed to Tir-na Nog'th. I believe they'll both be at the funerals, but for the moment I think Bleys is in Xanadu, while Corwin would obviously be in Paris."
Signy nods slowly. "So from what the King said, there were a few places with Patterns that were connected by that road. Who owns the other blades?" she muses.
"Bleys holds Werewindle. Corwin holds Greyswandir. And Khela holds Belagamon. Those are the only three I know of," Brennan says.
"So, now that I've joined this family, now what? Nobody seems too surprised at my appearance, so I assume that there's missing relatives that show up often enough for this to be unremarkable. Do 'we' just walk the Pattern and then go off and do our own thing? Is there any obligation or teaching or...service that's required of us?"
Brennan almost chuckles, and probably would have if he weren't so exhausted. "Most of the cousins you'll meet, myself included, weren't publicly known until a few years ago. Some of us were ignorant of our origins, others stayed away for personal reasons, and many were hidden away by their parents.
"The Black Road war we spoke about previously? That brought a lot of people back into the fold. Those of us who knew what we were, knew that something was happening even if we didn't know what. Even those who didn't got jostled around and set into motion in ways that tended to lead to Amber-- much like yourself. So, yes, newcomers are fairly common.
"As for what to do," Brennan says, "That does tend to be up to you. I'm sure the King would be ecstatic to have a niece or nephew present themselves saying, 'Majesty, I am at loose ends and lack for direction; what problem needs solving?' Those of us who are service minded tend to pick a problem we're interested in. So let me turn the question around: What are your interests and your plans to pursue them?"
Signy shrugs. "Right now, I'd like to figure out more about what I can do now that I've walked the Pattern. I also should try and track down my brother, as I lost track of him after I walked the Pattern. I've still got questions about what I saw at the rescue of the Queen really means, and my father....well....
"And I'm not sure if I need to be worried about Tomat's Order or not."
"Well, your brother is potentially simple, assuming he doesn't pop back up himself before you can properly track him down. He has that knack, really: You wonder where he is and what trouble he's gotten into, and a week later you run across him going in the opposite direction. But, I happen to know there's a Trump of him in the Trump Booth here in Xanadu. That's how I popped into your Shadow after the Eater incident," Brennan explains. "I could show you how they work, but they're pretty intuitive for basic function-- it's a card with your brother's image. You concentrate, and unless something is seriously wrong or he's blocking the call, you'll be in contact. For advanced usage," he shrugs, "talk to any one of a number of people who aren't me. I hate the things. Bleys is already on your list.
"About Tomat's Order, though... I've heard the name, but don't know much about them. Who are they?" Brennan asks.
"I don't know much about them myself. Apparently they deal in favors and knowledge. You go to them, and they strike some sort of bargain."
Brennan has a scowl for all occasions. And for this occasion, the ironic one is required, because that is exactly the reputation that Weyland has.
"My brother got a ring with an inscription in Mahaboring translated that led him to me. Unfortunately, Tomat didn't know what the deal was between the Order and my father."
She stops at this. "Do you think that he'll show up here? If he's been displaced, he could be looking to strike some deal to create more of those swords in return for some sort of safe harbor, perhaps?"
"Well, I really don't think he's been displaced. It sounded to me as though the reason he'd been staying there in the first place was gone. Do I think he's coming here? It seems reasonable enough to me. If not here, then Paris. As to payment, I really don't see Weyland as the type to need more of a safe harbor than he can readily create, much less the type to admit needing it. But," Brennan shrugs, "I only met him the once.
"Mabrahoring, you say? I woudn't mind seeing that, some time," Brennan adds.
Signy offers a helpless shrug. "My father didn't confide much in me at the best of times, and after I escaped from his Tower, I don't know what his plans would have been. I didn't even know about this side of the family, or really anything about my mother."
She sighs wistfully. "You didn't know her, did you?"
"I met her," Brennan says, "but I can't say I knew her. It was at the last battle of the war, when those of us who took part were all assembled. She was impressive, and I have the sense that I would have liked her, but... I can't help you there. Corwin and Caine were her brothers. So was Eric, but I never even met him before he died. Don't feel too singled out by ignorance, though-- not many of our parents' generation were very forthcoming with our plans, and Weyland may not be Family, but he seems cut from the same mold."
Signy sighs. "Unfortunately, I think I've angered Caine somehow, so I don't think I'll be able to ask him about her," she notes sourly. "Any advice on things to maybe avoid with anyone else in the family so I don't dig myself into any deeper holes?"
That gets the closest thing Brennan can offer to a laugh. "Everyone is on Caine's list, that just proves you're human. I can pretty much guarantee you, unless you've spit in his coffee since dinner, you're not the one at the top.
"Most of our aunts and uncles are easier to deal with than Caine, so you've already faced the the worst, there. I think the general rule for most of them is a certain measure of deference while you're in their eyesight. Some are more overt about it, like Caine. Others are more relaxed, like the King, but still expect it in some form," Brennan says.
Signy snorts. "I didn't spit in his coffee, but I ended up in his office after my Patternwalk. And was there when his office got flooded from that thing with Pinobello."
Brennan snorts in return. "Caine doesn't like surprises. Or most of his nieces or nephews. By inference, a niece surprising him was probably not on his list for the day. I'm surprised he didn't knife you on principle. More advice for dealing with the aunts and uncles is to generally have something they might want in exchange for what you might want. Problem with trying that on Caine is, he mostly wants his nieces and nephews to leave him alone."
Signy's face goes carefully blank, though she does rub briefly at her shoulder.
Brennan politely does not notice that, nor does he press the point.
"You were part of this Pinobello thing?" Brennan asks, focusing in like a hawk. "What happened, exactly?"
Brita and Ossian brought him in from Rebma through a Trump. Caine was nearly pulled in, but once we pulled the three of them through we seemed to be...stuck somehow." She winces slightly at the memory. "Everything seemed...flat, outside of the room we were in. I looked at things with my Third Eye, but was nearly blinded. Paige and Brita created a pair of Trump sketches, and we joined the King through Paige's sketch, but Brita was able to contact her mother through hers."
She pauses here for a moment.
"I don't think we knew really what happened. When we went through the Trump, Pinobello just...disappeared, and it felt like everything in Caine's office was just disintegrating. Paige thought we were somehow inside a Trump."
Brennan listens to all that and then says, "Well. I am the very last person in the Family to be considered an expert on Trumps. So I've got nothing useful at all on that. I heard some of Ossian's story, too, and I don't understand any of it. I should ask for Brita's version, too, but I still don't expect it to make any sense."
Signy rubs the nape of her neck. "It seems that living with a great many mysteries is par for the course with this family," she notes. "I think I may go and talk to Bleys or Fiona -- thank you for the advice."
"Advice is free. Good advice still costs a small favor," Brennan says. He doesn't clarify which he considers the preceding chat. "Say hellow to Bleys and Fiona for me, and consider this: Now that you've met Family, you at least know what the real mysteries are. So you've got a chance of solving them."
Signy nods, before taking her final leave and striding off down the hallway.
Brennan gets directions and heads off to the Chapel. It is located deep inside the rock of the palace, in the parts that are built into the cliffside.
The room itself is large and octagonal, and there are large blank black spaces on the walls, as if for paintings to be hung. Or perhaps these are the paintings.
The two guards, who are armed and do not seem ornamental, respond as if they expected Brennan. He is let in and they explain that they will be outside the door.
Brennan thanks the guards and, as they don't intend to intrude, doesn't try to dismiss them or otherwise put them in a bad position by trying to get rid of them. He enters the chapel.
Near the edge of the room is a table, and on that table Cambina's body is laid out. They've done a good job. From the door, she looks as if she is asleep.
When Brennan finally sees Cambina's body, he falters, then forces himself to approach the table. He pauses and forces himself view the body through the Astral Window. It should be a simple act, a mental tool that Brennan has used for centuries, but this is the first time he finds himself unwilling to accept what the tool might tell him. He does it anyway, and after the moment convinces him that it is Cambina-- his Cambina, not a Shadow-- he looks away and closes the Window.
Until now, a small but fierce and imperishable piece of his mind had whispered to the rest of him that there could be some mistake, some deception or gamble on her part or somone else's, some version of Caine's Gambit with the real Cambina sitting safe and warm somewhere else. But that slice of Brennan's heart, called hope, dies. Unconsciously, blindly, Brennan holds onto the table for support, and a low moan runs through a howl and into a wail of rage and despair. He can do a lot, but he can't fix this, nor bring her back.
He weeps, apologizing through the tears for everything and nothing, and even when he is wept out is content for a long time just to sit there. Besides, there isn't anywhere to go, any more. Everywhere he'd gone since meeting her was either away from her or toward her. Now, one place is much the same as another. He hasn't bothered to ask what the guards are there protect against, but in exhaustion and grief he hopes it shows up. He is far more qualified to deal with anything that may arise than the two guards outside, and far more likely to deal with it *permanently*.
Eventually, completely exhausted, Brennan nods off to sleep against his will. Sleep is dark and writhing, like a nest of angry snakes. If untwisted and held to length, it would be about thirteen hours long.
He found himself in the midst of a summer night's storm, the skies clouded, but pouring with rain and lightning. He looked around. Visibility was almost zero, except when the lightning flashed, but off in the distance and below him, the wavering lights of the City were a landmark. His destination was somewhere above him. Far above him.
(No. Not this dream. Not now.)
So far, it didn't look as though anyone was following him from the Castle. That much was good news. And he didn't think he'd be looking for him just yet. But if there was a silver lining behind the clouds, it was that at least all the hot summer rain would make him that much harder to track as he guessed his way up the slopes on the basis of old stories from Bleys and Fiona.
A brief moment and several hours later, he found himself under an overhang soaked to the skin in water as warm as blood, his hands torn and bloody from the climb. But the rain was letting up, and the sky was clearing as the sun came up. He took the chance to rest for a few hours and eat something, but not to build a fire. No point making himself visible.
He leaned back and looked for long moments, suddenly beginning to realize what he was about to do. A sensible boy would have turned around and gone somewhere else. But somewhere else, behind him, his father was waiting for him or already raging at his deception and absence. It was too late to be sensible. There was only Tir-na Nog'th, and someone to meet. He started up the spectral stairs.
After a time that he couldn't possibly have judged, he came to the halfway point of the stairs, then to the next halfway point, and the third and the fourth. After an uncountable sequence of halfway points all at the midpoint of the span, he found himself at the top, tired, even exhausted, but not winded.
He stopped for a moment and turned around to face where he had come from, looking down on the sacrificial fires of the City below, his face lit by the great lava fall below him.
(Lava fall?)
No, he was definitely not happy, was he? But there was someone to meet.
As enchanting as the image was, though, he hadn't time to waste. You can never waste time if you have a deadline-- daybreak-- but can't judge the passage of time. So he turned again and faced inward and saw it before him almost immediately.
His heart almost stopped with the majesty of it, and the power of it, calling him and pushing him back like tides washing against his soul. It was perfectly beautiful, shining in the moonlight. From below, it seemed that the place took its light from the moon, but from here he could see that the red moon was only reflecting the light of this, the Pattern.
His heart was racing, racing now, centuries per beat.
This was it. This was his bloodright. This was what Brand told him would kill him if he set foot on it. This was why Brand told him he was born. This was the only way to be free of Brand, truly free.
There was nothing for it but to move forward, approach it. He willed his legs to move, and they moved. He new the start of it instinctively, like he knew the start of one of those old Uxmali serpent hymns, but there was something unknown and obscured at the center of it. Someone?
(That can't be good.)
He took a deep breath for each of the Veils he'd heard Bleys and Fiona speak of, then stepped forward. It sparked red at his footstep and he worked his way forward through the Pattern, as red as the lava fall still visible through the bulk of the spectral city below him, as red as the stars above. He came to the Final Veil, and threw himself forward.
A step. A hundred heartbearts.
A step. A thousand heartbeats.
A final, agonizing step. Ten thousand terrifying heartbeats.
And he was through, stumbling, almost falling to his knees in the center of the Pattern. Through the Final Veil, and he had pierced the obscurement to see a woman in a throne at the center of the Pattern, hair curly and red framing an angular face. She bore a sword and as Brennan went to his knee, the woman brought the sword down to his shoulders as if to knight him. Is this who he was here to meet?
(I've seen this, somewhere.)
He looked up and was taken with a shock of recognition, and then a shock of horror as he saw a cloud passing over the moon, dissolving Tir-na Nog'th around him. He dropped, just as the sword would have touched his shoulders. He fell exponentially fast, then faster, and the last ten feet took only a lifetime to pass, and he hit the sea than anyone could possibly survive, then fell even faster through the water.
The world re-formed around him in the shape of another Pattern chamber, this one dark from enclosure and faintly lit with the green tracery of the Pattern around him. Warm seawater entered his mouth, and his lungs. He was still on his knees, looking up at a woman on a throne, bearing a sword, but this time the pale woman's face was framed in black hair. Brennan's heart leapt.
[Cambina!]
The woman stood up from the throne, then leaned forward as though to whisper something confidential, something conspiratorial in Brennan's ear, a familiar quirk at her lips. Brennan strains to hear, but can't make out the words behind the whispering. He looks to her in confusion, and tries to ask her what she said, but his vision is clouded, and now he can see that the woman is not a woman, only a thing with the superficial features of a woman. It's made of some dark, blank, almost featureless substance that flows almost like liquid.
[This is not seawater.]
The woman figure is still leaning over him, a hand-like appendage on his shoulder, keeping him on his knees. Brennan tries to stand, but cannot.
[This is not seawater!!]
The other hand is not a hand, but a blade-like appendage. He tries to speak, he cannot. He gathers a breath to scream, but gags on the dark, salty liquid. Without seawater in his lungs he can't even scream as the blood woman drives the blade toward his heart.
[Blood.]
Brennan's eyes snap open, and he sucks in a lung full of air. He holds it, holds still, and forces calm by sheer force of will. Only when he's calm does he let the breath go, crubs his hair and face with his hands, and stands up.
As he comes to his feet, Brennan hears someone clear his throat nearby, safely out of arm's reach.
Brennan turns quickly, half out of embarassment at something and half because of all the signs and mentions of security around the chapel. Perhaps its for the best that he didn't dismiss the guards.
It's Gerard, who apparently wheeled into the room during his long period of sleep.
Even so, it can't possibly be Gerard that they're guarding against.
Brennan's body has already begun ridding itself of his bruises and injuries, but they're still there. Still, between the restless, nightmare-ridden sleep on an unforgiving chair, he doesn't feel appreciably better. He runs another hand through his hair, trying to make himself more presentable. Thinks about stretching the stiffness out, but doesn't bother.
"She's really gone," he says. No hope also means no doubt. "Why are we guarding her?"
"It's an honor guard," Gerard says. "At least now it is; I dinna reckon anyone will be so foolish as to disturb her again."
Brennan lets that statement hang uncomfortably, like a horse thief on a rope too short, as he tries to figure out what Gerard might be talking about. After trying, and failing, to form a reasonable conjecture, he says, "Uncle, please tell me what is going on, here."
"Ye hae not been told, then." Gerard's expression shifts. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell ye, but it's only meet, since it happened under my watch." He sighs deeply.
"When we found Cambina, the Queen was still missing, and the question arose of whether Cambina had seen anything that might help us find her, and if so whether that information could be learnt through speaking with the dead. My daughter Solange was convinced she did, and against my orders as Regent, she took Cambina into Shadow. For her crime, I banished her from Xanadu until it be the King's pleasure she return, which pleasure he hae not until she make restitution and peace with those still living wronged by her, among which ye are numbered."
Gerard's posture shifts so he can take whatever blow Brennan may aim his way without his wheelchair rolling wildly.
When Gerard says it, it seems so utterly, perfectly, insanely logical that Brennan really should have thought of it himself. Still, Gerard's words suck the oxygen right out of Brennan's soul, and what what rushes in to fill the void is a fury. That volcanic fury, driven by the smallest whispers of black, coiling words, words which could only be spoken once with meaning that would probably damage the world around him. It rises so fast, so strong, that it's actually frightening, and the only thing Brennan can do is try to freeze it, bury it, freeze it, contain it, freeze it, kill it, freeze it, freeze it, freeze it, freeze it....
When the war of fire and ice is over, the fire contained but not destroyed, and Brennan can see again, he looks down at his hands. He is surprised not to see a blade in one or both.
He asks, in a voice inhumanly flat and level, "Does Jerod know? Tell him that she shall not be attending the funeral." Then, "What of Vere?"
Gerard shakes his head. "I hae not spoken to Jerod yet. I am recently returned from Amber and speaking to Solange. As for Vere--he is in Paris, with Corwin. I willna speak for him, but when he was reminded of his oath, he repented of his part in the business."
"Then I will speak with Vere at the funeral," Brennan says.
With an effort, he discards the perfect icy calm, sighs, and speaks to Gerard as though they were both human. "Thank you, Gerard. Thank you for telling me direct. I know you love your daughter, and banishing her could not have been easy for you."
He sits back down, probably more heavily than he'd intended, but still controlled. He then makes a rare physical gesture for him: He reaches out and squeezes Gerard's shoulder, briefly. "I bear you no grudge or malice, Uncle."
Gerard nods slowly, but doesn't say anything.
"But she had to have known I'd disapprove," Brennan scowls. "She mentioned none of it when she broke the news by Trump."
"I dinna know when Solange conceived the idea, but it was fixed firm in her head by the time she argued wi' me and Corwin. For all that Corwin and I both forbade it, she went right back to it after he walked out of the room. But to be fair, that was after she spoke with you."
Brennan raises his head in surprise. "Corwin, too? So she's also unwelcome in Paris, I gather." He shakes his head again, in a gesture that's getting to be all too familiar, lately. "I see no need to dwell on this, Gerard, so I'll just ask: Aside from Solange's action and Vere's involvement, is there anything else I should know about the details?"
Gerard sighs. "Aye, there's one more thing. Solange brought some lad she knew in Shadow back from her travels a while ago. He's a doctor of some sort and I've been using him to help wi' things better done by a man who can walk. He was drawn into this plan o'Solange's and helped her wi' it. He's under arrest at the King's pleasure, and we hae been waiting to see what Solange did before deciding his punishment."
He pauses there to wait for Brennan's reaction.
Brennan chews that over, and reaches some sort of internal conclusion-- whether he's got too many people to be angry at and doesn't want to add Kyril, or whether Kyril is so insignificant it's not worth wasting his time, both thought processes lead to the same place: "Tell him to stay the hell out of my way," Brennan mutters. He does not make the reciprocal promise to stay out of Kyril's way, though.
Brennan is silent for a little while, growing somewhat awkwardly aware of the fact that he just questioned an Uncle like a younger cousin about things that happened on his watch as Regent of Xanadu. Which might possibly be considered a breach of Family protocol. And much less satisfying than he always thought it might be. He's not quite sure how to flail his way out of that without making it worse, so he just bows his head, then says, "Can we talk... elsewhere?" It's as much a chance for a definitive break in location, posture, and stance-- and therefore topic-- as it is discomfort at talking in the presence of Cambina's remains.
Brennan will stay or accompany Gerard as bid, but waits for Gerard to set the topic of the conversation.
Gerard nods. "Aye. I think both of us need a drink about now." He reverses his wheelchair and makes a k-turn so he can wheel himself out without waiting to see whether Brennan follows him.
They end up settled in a sitting room with a flask of whiskey and two tumblers. "Caine told me a bit about what happened in Rebma," he offers as a different subject of conversation. "I reckon Random has heard by now as well," which is said neutrally enough that it doesn't seem to be a question about Brennan's reporting. "After the funerals, we should have a better idea of what Random means to do about that."
Brennan has the glass in his hand, and when Gerard brings up the subject of Rebma, his fingers tighten and knuckles whiten until he realizes what he's doing and forces his grip to relax. No point breaking glassware. He takes a healthy drink of the whiskey to frame his response, and keeps the glass in his hand while he gives it.
"I briefed the King personally. I was there for as much of it as anyone else was, and more than most," he says. "If what you heard from Caine is that Huon threatened, and credibly attempted to, destroy the Pattern under Rebma, then what you heard is accurate. As to what the King will do, I cannot say. I can report that what he desires is for Huon to be dragged before him in chains. Alive," Brennan concedes. "Did you know him well?"
"He was Dad's bastard. I knew of him more than knew him. He was never a Prince and he never lived in the Castle. This was a mistake on Dad's part, I thought, because he turned out so sour."
That train of thought is not one Gerard really wants to board, so he changes the subject slightly. "Are ye askin' me if I think he was working with yer da, or someone who worked with him, to come up with the way to do what he did?"
Brennan frowns in thought, "No, not really, although that's a good question, too. The King has agreed to consider any plan I put before him which will cause his desire to come true, so of course I'm looking for any insight I can find.
"As to any involvement with Brand," Brennan says, "Ambrose and I found a trump of Huon, in Brand's hand, among his effects back in Uxmal. I didn't read that as cooperation between them, though. I read that as Huon being someone who would not be missed. But that's speculation. I've no idea if it was ever used, if they ever came into contact, or if Brand just considered that option too risky." Brennan makes a gesture with his glass indicating he doesn't have enough information... and which invites any speculation Gerard would care to make.
Gerard shakes his head. "I dinna know about all that. Yer da was moody, but we never thought him vicious the way we thought Huon was until the end. But clearly we didna know enough about yer da, or we'd never have let him go on the way he did for so long. I'd think Bleys and Fiona more likely to know what he was up to than ever I would."
"Moody," Brennan says. "I think he must have done a good job hiding what he really was. I've heard other people describe him and his various moods," Brennan tries not to give that word the emphasis he thinks it deserves, "but I only ever saw a few that were more than emphemeral glimpses and hints."
He takes another sip of the whisky, saying, "When I was young, I overheard Bleys and Fiona talking about the Pattern, enough to know it was important. I made the mistake of asking Brand about it, because my mother either didn't know anything or was too afraid to say anything. He told me what it was, at least a part of it. Then he told me I would die over it. With descriptions of what happened to those who tried walking but couldn't. I was ten, maybe eleven years old. That was before I knew what he was really planning.
"But then, I didn't really help, did I? I didn't tell anyone, I just vanished," Brennan says, flatly. "I don't know if Huon is like that, or just an opportunist with a new trick he picked up somewhere. And I don't know if that makes him better, or worse."
"Random was ready to forgive yer da for the sake o' family unity, but yer da wouldna take it. We canna know whether Huon's want for Bleys's head, or Dad's, is as strong as yer da's was for whatever it was he wanted." Gerard gives another headshake and a sort of shrug.
"I reckon ye'd have to want something pretty bad to do what either one of them tried. Something harder to take than Bleys's head, even."
Brennan clearly does not, at this moment in time, share Gerard's better view of human nature. But he tries to pass it off with dark humor: "While it would probably be good for Bleys to know that he is actually not the central obsession of anyone's current schemes, I cannot fathom what other goal he'd have. If the blade is a means to some end other than Bleys' head, I don't understand it. Its uses that I know of involve binding one's loyalties to a Pattern, and defenses against Chaos and Sorcery... and that leads back fairly obviously to Bleys, too.
"Actually, it would be a service to figure out his goal, just so we know if it's something we need to add to the expanding list of things to fret about," Brennan says, in a way that invites speculation without actually asking for it.
"Ye reckon he knows what he wants, or what price he'd pay for the blade," Gerard points out. "He's got a history o'misunderstanding with such."
Brennan's eyes lose their immediate focus as he thinks back to a conversation he had had with Ossian, recently, and whether or not to share it, and how to share it. "You're referring to incident with his brother? Gerard, don't take this as a defense of that murderous lunatic, but, most of the Family seems convinced that he's a complete incompetent, or near to it. However, I spoke with my son shortly after we captured and lost Huon. Ossian told me a story, many parts of which I can't begin to explain, but the salient points are these: He and Brita were in Rebma, looking for Meg-- don't ask me why. While in Rebma, near its Pattern chamber, they encountered... Huon and Pinabello as the latter was trying to walk the Pattern. Many of the details of this encounter made it sound as though they were having a conversation across time."
Brennan gives a shrug and a half-shake of his head to forestall questions that, even as the ranking Redhead present, he can't answer. "Apparently they spoke with this vision of Huon while watching Pinabello's walk, who claimed that his brother was also his nephew... in so many words. He may be a murderous thug, but he may not be as confused as everyone has been painting him."
"Ye say that, but power does not equal knowledge or judgement. Eric learned enough to draw on the power of the Jewel of Judgement to fight Corwin and Bleys. Eric died wielding the Jewel o' wounds that weren't enow to kill him or me," Gerard reminds him.
"Perhaps Huon's learnt more since he claimed to our faces that ye didn't need to be o' the blood to walk the Pattern. It seems likely. But what I don't reckon he's gained is the wisdom to use his learning well, from what you've said. We use the Pattern, 'tis true, but even Bleys and Fiona know the limits o' their knowledge. Huon doesna know what he doesna know, and his reach exceeds his grasp. If he keeps on so, he'll likely die as Eric did, or worse, as your da."
"I'm not trying to make him out to be a genius, either," Brennan says. "Merely raising the possibility that we're underestimating him." Brennan swirls his glass in a way that implies a greater 'we' than just he and Gerard in that place at that time-- possibly even a greater 'we' that does not include Gerard at all.
"Maybe we are. But ye don't learn about the Pattern and the Jewel and so on in exile in Shadow. So if Huon knows so much more than he used to, where did he learn it?" Gerard asks.
It's a serious question.
"We ran down the list of the usual suspects at dinner last night-- Dara, the Moonriders, their Queen, various Rebman factions, various old time religious cults that I've no direct experience of," Brennan says. "Of those, if we're looking for one single source of information and motive, I'd have to offer up Dara. Even the gun motif fit, when we thought he was marching on Amber with versions of Corwin's powder-- but we tested that, and he wasn't. That would have clinched it, since I know for a fact that Dara took Aisling's notes on the subject, back in the day." Brennan rubs his chin, "I suppose it's possible he had a second stash of different powder, somewhere, but that's assuming facts not in evidence. Still, I believe Dara has the knowledge about blood on the Pattern and would be happy to cause that kind of devastation. It's not a far stretch to imagine she knew something about the Eater's history as well."
Brennan pauses to see if Gerard had enough of a brief from Caine to understand the Eater reference, and if necessary, pauses to explain why that's relevant.
"Still, since I am still a Redhead, I have to also offer up the notion that Huon had multiple sources and was walking the tightrope to use, abuse, and betray them all. It's not in Moire's interests, for example, to destroy Rebma's Pattern. But it would be in her interests to give Huon an asset like the Eater to better have Huon and Khela grind each other down, then swoop in and recover later. I can easily see Huon learning of the blood angle from Dara independently, and using the information for his own purposes. It wouldn't be the first time that one of your brothers, or even one of your nephews, turned a little bit of sketchy information into a dangerous bluff," Brennan says.
"If we still had him, we could just ask him. But if there's a simple, obvious explanation, then I'm missing it," Brennan finishes.
"I canna believe he'd've tried to destroy the Pattern if he had a real understanding of what he's doing. Not because I think Huon's such a fine man, but because I dinna think he's suicidally stupid."
Gerard adds by way of clarification: "Homicidally stupid, yes; suicidally stupid, not sae much. And clever enough to find his way into trouble from a few clues, very much so."
Brennan accepts the clarification without contest. It wasn't really necessary, anwyay. "'Sunder the Pattern, as Amber's Pattern is sundered,' he said. Those words, exactly. He described it as a way to collapse the magic allowing everyone in Rebma to breathe, which added a certain personal urgency to stopping his plan, but the words he used were precise, and his knowledge of current events and slang was strong. He had to have help with that, and knowing who that is is just as important as having stopped Huon in the first place."
That triggers a memory, and Brennan's face registers irritation and disgust. "What was left of the Eater claimed it was there when the blood golem was created. It probably knows more. Which, I suppose, means I'll have to talk to it before destroying it, if I run into it again."
Gerard still seems stuck on the first part of Brennan's commentary. "To collapse the magic of water breathing? And not all the other things like the Black Road? So whoever told him how to do that either didn't know what all yer da did or didn't tell Huon." The conclusion doesn't sound solid to either Brennan, or from the tone, Gerard.
Brennan mulls that over, making a point to re-examine as many of the things he thought were facts as possible. He almost starts to speak twice, but only the third time has him say anything.
"Conceivable," Brennan says. "To be honest, I wondered at the back of my mind if that were even true, any more than Amber's sundered Pattern makes it impossible to breathe air. I was more worried about the Pattern itself than getting crushed and drowning, so I didn't waste any time analyzing it. I'm a little bit skeptical of his claims that he and his armies were protected, too. Him, maybe. But his armies? That's an impressive piece of Sorcery to have in effect that close to Rebman.
"Still, he might just have thrown out there whatever he thought would be the big motivating factor," Brennan says.
There's another shrug and a headshake from Gerard, gestures that are all too common in this conversation for him. "I dinna know enough about Rebma's inner workings to say how the water is breathable, whether that's done by magic or no. So we're into wild speculations here. But what he said doesna match with what happened in Amber, for sure, and this I know because I was there, both for the Black Road and for the Sundering. Somebody lied, either to him or him to us. Or Rebma is vastly more different to Amber than any of us imagined.
"I still reckon Huon did what he did blind to the full consequence of his action. And someone still made that blood golem. If it was truly of Huon's blood, then he seems more fool than sorcerer. D'ye reckon Bleys or Fiona would do so with their own blood?"
Brennan snorts. "Leaving aside Bleys' claims that losing the battle up the side of Kolvir was intentional, no. No, I think they would not, unless there was some other additional benefit that I haven't thought of. I never even considered, going in, that it was his own blood-- my best guess was that it was this mysterious brother of his, or some other Family member we hadn't heard of.
"I hear you, Uncle. I am strongly inclined to agree with you that lies were told, by him, to him, or very likely both. I absolutely agree that he had help with this. I just don't know that we have the full picture yet-- for instance, I wasn't there for the Sundering, but I travelled along the Black Road before coming out in the open, and I had always heard that was the result of activities at the Primal, and of Corwin's curse. Would something similar happen with Rebma's or Amber's Pattern? Without a curse? I have no idea. It's not the sort of question Brand's son wants to be heard asking about... but I can pursue it with Bleys and Fiona. And I think finding Huon's helper or helpers will turn out to be vital," Brennan says.
"I dinna reckon we have the full picture. But any picture that makes Huon suddenly a redhead is one I suspect," Gerard says, which seems to be his way of agreeing. He leaves the comments about Brand's son alone.
"Huon is many things," Brennan agrees, "but he is not a redhead."
Last modified: 18 February 2010