Seated on the bench, Cyan senses Dorian's approach - it isn't hard, given the strength of his presence.  The fact that Berd's embodied mind glances that way then lays his head down again doesn't hurt, either.  With a small sigh and relaxation of her shoulders, she shifts a little on the bench, making a little room.

But the dark sorcerer, unsurprisingly as well, decides to face her directly; Cyan finishes a small lick of Jonnee Kay's hair with a flourish, then settles her pen, hands clasped, to stare up at the man and his daughter.  A small smile dances on her lips for an instant, and she nods her head at Galatea.  Berd, for his part, opens an eye and offers a tail-flick in response to the wave - not dismissive, but groggy from his gorging.

It does come as a surprise that Dorian begins with poetry - and yet, having touched his spirit, can Cyan truly see it as a shock.  She cocks her head, listening gravely as he offers halting explanation of his meaning, a meaning she grasps intimately.

Another, further shift.  "Please, Dorian," Cyan whispers, glancing at the open bench beside her with blood-ruby eyes.  "Sit for a while, you and your daughter."

She hopes he accepts the invitation.

In silence, Cyan stares directly ahead, almost blindly.  Then the bard finally speaks, but with far less of her customary ease with words.  "Time...we have lost so much in this war.  Heartbeats, moments, weeks even."  She studies her hands, the thin lines of age that have dug into her knuckles since their first separation.  "Years."  No longer barely over a score of years in age, Cyan smiles, the twist of her lips crinkling more lines about her eyes.  "The fault lies with me as well, Dorian.  I am tired.  Desperate to finish this madness.  And there is...."  She shakes her head, knocks the side of her copper-haired head, now minutely flecked with dull rust and even silver in places.  "Something wrong in my head."

The Berd-aspect shifts uneasily, a low hiss of steam rising from his nose.  For an instant, sleepy eyes burn with a pale fury.

Reaching out, Cyan wraps her fingers around Dorian's hand and wrist(standing or seated); her hands are cold.  "I would have been there for you, so long ago.  Would that I never left.  We could have continued to travel together, and perhaps we might have found one another."  For the first time she glances at his eyes, mirth lighting her gaze; one hand rises to gently brush a lock of hair from the side of his hawk-features.  "Or perhaps another cataclysm would have been required."

She settles back, her cold hand returning to his.  "Would haves, could haves...these are things for the lords of Amber to consider and make real.  We must do the best we can."  Leaning against his shoulder, the bard blows out a breath, flipping away a lock of her own hair dangling before her nose.  "And we have time before the end.  For this, I am eternally grateful."

Strange, how something so dark and so forboding might carry so much heat within.  But then, she has touched that as well.

"Dorian...you said once you could put my memories back together, like broken shards of glass or puzzle pieces."  Cyan stares into the far wall, and through it to eternity.  "I believe...I will need you to do the best you can before I meet the Archons.  As much as you can."  Berd tenses on her shoulder, and one hand rises from Dorian's again, but this time to tap the drake on the end of his nose.

"My choice, father."

The drake coils into a ball, hiding his head beneath his wing.

Kallum nods to James, but his eyes never leave the large piece of black metal laying before him, "Yes, another package.  Didn't feel like hauling that one about.  You can fetch the damned thing yourself, you always were stronger than me."

He indicates the weapon, "If that's what I think it is, I hope you're not planning on using it in the palace.  First, because I'd be forced to at least try and stop you, and second, because I've heard they usually don't work here anyway."

Elsewhere in the palace, Cyan and Dorian sit and talk, while Berd and Galatea listen.  Around them, the palace is still.  The ebb and flow of humanity in the corridors seems to be diverting people away from them... around them.  Probably nothing but coincidence.  Yes, that would be it.

Meanwhile, back in the room where Finndo had been summoned, like a demon fetched from its own personal hell, the discussion continues.  There are at least some volunteers to find, or try to find, Dworkin.

Fiona explains, "Dworkin is a law unto himself.  Always has been, at least as long as i can remember.  Not that dad would let us talk to the old man much when we were younger.  Said he was too unpredictable.  There might be a card for him in the deck which was retrieved from Brand's room."

She frowns, "I wouldn't use it to try and contact him, if I were you.  But it might give a feel for where he is."

Dorian stares at the space beside her as if he had just discovered it. Somehow, he had wondered if her reaction might be colder, whether from the business at hand or something else. He nods, accepting the invitation to sit after removing his cloak and folding it in his lap. Underneath, his clothes are plain, with muted colors and simple stitching and cuts.

Galatea remains standing, floating. A soft smile remains as she watches them.

"I'm glad you understand. I had thought maybe the distance between had grown too much to span easily."

Foolishness. But his self-admonishment is lost in her words that something within her is broken. They had spoken before, but he had never been sure of the extent or true nature of the damage done to her mind, damage inflicted by the enemy. He brushes away the dark thoughts that threaten to encroach. Those are the thoughts that once led to the destruction of a world.

Mystic powers control the circle of fear
silently the monster dictates its flow
to where hope becomes nothing
and hate alters everything

come forth, bringer of pain and evil
and uphold my ring of fire
take leave, seeker of flesh and death
thy are the dwellers of endless mire

weakling, your cries mean nothing to me
why do you challenge my infinite strength
for I have become death
the destroyer of worlds

bound are the hands to grasp you near
silenced is the tongue that speaks the words
you need to hear

our spirits will carry
the memories of truth
our spirits will fade
in moments of time

So long ago, yet still so much a part of him. The only difference now was that he chose to reject the pull, the power-spawned rage, the urge to crush any who stood in his way.

Her hand may be cold, but it is like fire on his skin. He expects silky softness, but no ... she is a warrior--once the general even--and yet, there is still softness both in her words and her touch. It is somehow alien to his senses.

"I am grateful as well," he says.

He takes a deep breath and looks away for a moment, then at his daughter.

"Galatea's mind was broken for a long time," he says. "Though she, somehow, managed to do most of the work pulling herself together. It was a different circumstance, though. Like any process of welding pieces back together, the repaired version will never be as strong as the original. I will do everything I can, both to ensure the repair and to ensure the ... accuracy ... of the repairs. Still, I imagine there might be fraying, blurring or jumps in places. But better than what you have now, leagues better."

A soft smile creases his face as he turns back to her. "How could I say no? It will mean more time with you. I can leave Galatea here with some clones to support Amber, and then, if you're willing, I can travel with you and work as we travel. Short sessions will be best, so you and I can both gauge the progress."

Clones. Just like he is, himself. The original Dorian still hides out there, receiving periodic updates to his memories. He is the original, but just a copy.

At the mention of being left in charge of an army of clones, Galatea's features change. She's eager to do something useful and happy to be trusted in such a way, but at the same time sad to hear she might be separated from Cyan and her father. She can cast her own spells now, no longer merely drawing from Dorian's preparations. Her mind has grown in power, too. She is ready. If left behind to defend Amber, she'll see to it the place stands when they return. After all, in a weird sort of way, she is an Amberite too. If only an incorporeal one.

"No distance is too vast."  Cyan smiles, her amethyst eyes still unfocused.  Staring, perhaps, into the void between worlds.  Or simply into memories - such as they are.  For a heartbeat, her smile quirks.  "I am an artist of palanquet, you remember?"  Then amusement fades as the bard grows more solemn.  "In truth, I feared as much myself, but now..."

A shake of her head, still against his shoulder.

"I like you in these clothes.  They suit you."

Clothes may not make the man, but they certainly say something about him.  And these, for all of their simple pattern and colours, speak volumes.

She feels tension, glances up to see a shadow in his eyes.  This life - no, these lives he has lived have been hard on him, as well.  She can only imagine, but it is a clearer envisioning than one might think; much of Dorian passed to her in the instant of her reawakening.

She would spare him pain, but fears there is more yet to come.

A shudder passes through her at his description of the process by which he might patch together her mind.  For a long moment, she hovers on the verge of rejection - it will leave her different than what she is, an altered creature, something that once drove Cyan close to madness, enabling Harbonah to sink his talons into her soul.  Patches are not necessarily the reality of the material.

But needs must.  If her plan is to succeed, she requires full coherency of thought, something denied her.

"Berd can assist."  The drake shuffles again on her shoulder, coming to rest with his back to the two of them in silent disapproval.  But he does not refuse.  "Not in the process, but in sharing what he recalls of me."  Cyan swallows fear.  "Only...it must be done close to the end of things, Dorian.  Please?"  A great favour to ask, requiring much more effort on his part to complete in a shorter time.  And yet, Cyan would remain herself as long as possible.

She knows full well that 'self' is far too easily compromised.

Her fingers trace the edges of his - the callouses are different, those of a traveller and his walking staff rather than of a swordsmaster.  And yet, the contact is like the water of a hot spring to her icy fingers: a smooth, warm balm to her frayed nerves.  "Please, Dorian.  Bring your daughter."  Her gaze falls upon the girl, floating nearby.  "You have been too long apart."  Her fingers tighten upon his, then.  "Please," she quietly implores.

I would not have you end this alone.  A brilliant, strong man, but hard - harder than granite, hard as a diamond.  And yet diamonds broke when struck precisely on their weak points.  It had happened before to Dorian, could very well happen again, and Cyan would not see that.  Berd, she knows, would be cold comfort; perhaps Galatea might give some ease to the dark sorcerer's heart.

A light rain begins to patter against the beautiful stained glass of the windows.

"It is." James says simply.

"I will not use it in the palace, but I will need to find out how close to Amber it will work, and soon."  James picks up the gun, cradling its bulk in the crook of one arm so that it points safely down.

He stands and turns back to Kallum.  "Lead the way, then.  Let's see the rest."

Kallum leads the way, taking James by a route which avoids most of the more populated areas of the palace.  "I've heard of them working in a couple of the Circle Lands, but not reliably, and usually with little effect.  I've also heard that a few years ago one of the Princes, Corwin I think, managed to get them to work in Amber by using a special powder of some sort.  As a result, I know certain materials can't be imported into the city."

Cyan and Dorian continue their talk in an equally deserted area of the palace.  Planning, discussing, considering...

Back in the room, Aaron leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him, and subjecting his old boots to a critical inspection.  "I'll help.  Down in the dungeons, I mean.  I need to go down there anyway.  There's something I have to find, so while I'm taking care of my own business, I can help find Dworkin."

Random nods his thanks, "There is an ambassador from the Courts here, in the palace.  I can have a word with him, I suppose.  See if I can persuade him to put in a good word for us at home."  The king looks at Roman, "At the very least, your people might be able to coordinate their own efforts against the Archons with ours, if need be.  Force them to fight both of us at the same time."

Meanwhile Kallum leads James down a tightly spiralling staircase where each step is inches deep in dust.  Finally he stops, and pushes against a section of wall.  The whole section swings aside, giving access to what appears to be a storeroom.  From there, he moves through another door into a second storeroom, and finally into what James recognises as the guardroom closest to the gate where he had entered the palace a short while ago.

Apart from James and Kallum, the room is empty.  On the table, usually used for playing cards, sits a package, similar to the one James had already received,  But much larger.

They speak of the end, as if it is the end of everything. Perhaps it is. They've been on this quest for so long that it is hard to think of anything else. Is it possible that there might be some kind of existence after all of this. Dare to dream, he thinks.

"I will do it when you ask," he says. "Of course."

It goes without saying. It is a delicate matter, though. It is good to be clear about such things like this. He watches the rain form and reform patterns as it taps against the window across from them. Rain always reminds him of Samhain. It always rained there. No on asked the weather sages if it would rain tomorrow, only how much it would rain tomorrow. So the joke went. Still, to remember things almost always damp and cold.

It was raining when he stood on the edge of the cliff in communion with the great drake.

"A score of millennia," the drake said, its voice resounding in Dorian's mind. "And finally one of you thinks to commune with us. What does that say about your people?"

"Are they my people?" Dorian thought back. "They feel so alien to me. So small."

"Indeed," the great drake, banked and circled back towards Dorian. "You speak the truth. There is a part of you that feels different, not of this world. It's in your aura, your soul. Human, yet decidedly not human."

"Then what am I? Where am I from?"

The drake beat its wings and climbed high above Dorian, who remained on the edge of the cliff, assaulted by wind and rain. Below him, the waters churned black and foamy white.

"Foolish mortal. You are from whereever you decide to be from. When you understand this, you will understand the power of the many worlds. Just as my people once decided to be dragons rather than mere mortals, it is up to you to decide who you are and what you are."

"You speak in riddles, ancient one. If you were not dragons, what were you."

Now, the drake landed. Its wingspan could engulf a mansion. It was the largest of its kind any mortal had ever recorded--save in myth and old tales. It lowered its head until it was mere arm's length from Dorian. "You know, mortal. You have studied our history your whole life."

"Progons?"

A ripple of laughter-like energy flowed through the Emperor's mind. "Is that what you call us? You butcher the old language with your limp tongue. Do not speak it again. You have the means to leave this world and walk through an endless sea of others. Begin your journey. difficult as it may be. Only, don't lose sight of what it is you truly seek."

An image flared in Dorian's mind and pulled the old compass from his robes. The orphan keepers had said it was in his basket when they found him. Until now, it had never been nothing more than a trinket. Now, it sparked in his mind endless possibilities, like a single path with infinite destinations. He turned his back to the cliff and lifted the compass before him.

"Home."

He took a testing step. Then another. Then more. Eventually, around him, the world began to change subtly.

The drake's voice rang in his mind one last time. "Walk well, mortal."

The rain stopped.

Galatea still floated before them. He realized her eyes watched him with an expression of hope and expectation. He realized a question had been left hanging.

"The clones do not need her guidance. They will act as I would. She will come."

His daughter's face brightened with a grin and she floated a few inches higher.

Berd was there, at Galatea's rebirth. A psychic blossoming of a seed that had lain dormant in his soul for centuries. The seed had been a final grasp of a father to preserve a piece of his child--so desperate was the move that Dorian had never realized that the tiny shard resided in his psyche, buried under a roiling ocean of hate and despair. It had begun his own rebirth too, in so many ways.

"You are right. We have been apart too long."

He could say more, perhaps, but he lets the moment happen so he can merely enjoy it. He pushes aside thoughts of the great struggle. There will be time enough to dwell on stratagem later. For now, he desires nothing more than to just be there, with her leaning on his shoulder. Things feel good, only he doesn't fight it this time. He doesn't let himself grow restless and busy himself. He doesn't let battle plans distract him. He just enjoys whatever time they have.

Pleased by both of Dorian's decisions, Cyan smiles and nods almost sleepily, the warmth of the man's cloak and body leaving her sluggish with pleasure.  She is cold so often now, it is only in baths she can recall what it means to be warm.  Berd's fault, the bard suspects - always he had heated her, warmed her with his presence.  This one aspect of him cannot, its attention focused upon other things, and so outside of the Warrior's armor she grows chilled.

Others never seem to suffer, a fact that occasionally saddens her.  A hint of mortality, like the dulling of her hair.

"Please join us however is comfortable, Galatea," she whispers, staying close to Dorian.  The drake on her shoulders shoots a quick glance at the spirit, his tongue tasting the air; satisfied, Berd droops back into near-slumber, his thoughts dark and shuttered.  After a long moment, Cyan's pen begins to scratch across the paper again, etching out the little details of Jonnee's face and hair.

"Forgive me for speaking of 'work', but it is something to consider for later."  Cyan taps the pen on the side of her nose, leaving a dark red smear without realizing it.  "We shall need armies capable of fighting archons.  The britizzi, certain.  Prime's people - you have never met them."  Another smile brightens her features, her sapphire eyes sparkling at the memory.  "It is an experience.  The nephillim.  Perhaps the sencathi of which Berd speaks.  And others; enough that if we succeed, we can at least do battle with those who remain Seraphim."

She does not speak of failure - it carries too high a price for all.  There is no army she can muster that would stand a chance against the massed power of the Host.

Her eyes rise to Dorian, then follow his gaze to the rain, without.  A sigh escapes Cyan, and she reaches up to rub Berd's eye-ridges.  The drake stirs, but does not fully wake.

"What do you think of all of this, Galatea?" the bard inquires as she returns to her palanquet.

James stops momentarily in the doorway.  "Sturdy table" he observes with a wry smile, "Even I thought that lot was heavy."

He walks over and places his gun down beside the unopened package.  He repeats his careful attention to the packaging, untying the cord and carefully unfolding the canvas.

This package contains armour, as James had known it would.  A heavy composite fabric body suit, with breastplate, backplate, pauldrons, vambrace, gauntlets and greaves.  All is rendered in a green/grey camoflage scheme, so dark it is nearly black.  Sitting atop the pile is a helm, which James picks up and turns carefully in his hands until it faces him.

Many who had seen the helm had assumed it was fashioned in the likeness of a great wolf's head with an aventail like the ruff of fur in a wolf's winter coat.  James knew better.  Physiologically there was little difference between wolves and many breeds of dog.  Temperamentally, wild dogs could be worse in any number of ways.

"Havoc." James says to no-one in particular.  The eyes of the helm glow red and a disembodied voice answers, "Voice code confirmed." There is a slight click and the visor comes clear of the helm.  James lifts it out of the way, turns the helm and slips it on.  He lowers the visor.  "Iris scan confirmed, systems active."

James removes the helm and sets it down with the other pieces.  He grins apologetically at Kallum, "Sorry 'bout that.  I was much younger when this was made.  I liked my dramatic moments.  Seems a little childish now."

James grin disappears and he is serious once more.  "If ever there was any doubt that war has come to Amber, there's none now."

"This lot can wait an hour more.  I really need a drink."

Roman muses, rubbing his beard, thinking on how to reply to Amber's king. "While some of the Chaos Lords might relish the opportunity to take part in a huge, doomed battle, others may not find it so attractive.  Might I borrow Finndo for a while, too help convince the representatives of the Courts ?"

Yes, a good idea.  If Finndo has anything more to offer, perhaps he will come out with it in return for asylum.

.

Galatea's eyes shimmer and widen, pleased to be spoken to directly. It doesn't happen often. (At the same time, she doesn't speak much herself, so it is understandable.)

"It is a serious business," she says.

Her eyes flick to Dorian who watches her with a soft smile. "Long ago, my father and I had a conversation. I asked him why no one had ever conquered the drakes. He told me the drakes would die if enslaved, and I thought he was foolish. I thought that a lot back then, though. Mother seemed much stronger. It wasn't until much later that I learned. Strength isn't always best. Dorian is cunning. He seeks to understand the enemy, and his allies."

The eyes flick to her father again. She smiles. Then they return to Cyan. "But there is  a secret, that only Father and I know. He has communed with the Drakes of Samhain, and they are intelligent. They are the remnents of an ancient people that willingly took upon them the shape of the drakes. We don't fully understand the reasons, or the methods. It was a sort of philosophical ascension, giving up of lesser things for greater things."

Her brow scrunches and her nose wrinkles. She gives her head a little shake to clear away the confusion. "Anyway, for whatever the reason, they are drakes now, and they are intelligent. They would be mighty allies. Their wisdom is great, and they are aware of other worlds--though I don't think they leave Samhain often. Perhaps they cannot of their own will. I don't know, but we think they will defend the myriad worlds. And then, there are the people of Samhain. Not as wise ... but powerful, if they would help. And if Mother will help, they will help."

Now her expression falls and she swallows. Her eyes waver as they dart to her father one more time. "Dorian will deal with her. I will be somewhere else. The place where I died is her throne. It would not be a pleasant reunion."

Her features darken further. Her hair floats off her shoulders. "There would be ... conflict." She chooses the last word carefully.

"Of course.  Finndo will be pleased to assist." Random responds to Roman, "At least while he expects to take advantage of the comparative safety of my court.  A war has been brought to our doors.  Everybody must play their part in defending the city.  Finndo's part now involves diplomatic contact with the Courts."

"For those seeking Dworkin," Fiona says, "the place to start would be in the cellars.  The last time he was seen was in the kitchens.  There is an entrance to the cellars from there, and Dworkin has been known to lurk down there, below the palace.  Be careful if you find him.  People say he can be tricky, and his mind is, by all appearances, not entirely sound."  That last warning is accompanied by a concerned look, "Try to keep him away from sources of real Power when you confront him.  Pattern, Trumps, Logrus tendrils... all of them could be dangerous in his hands."

"Hell!  For that matter, a spoon is dangerous in his hands." Random interjects, earning a glare from his sister.

Kallum chuckles at James' showy inspection of his armour, and then grows sober again, "It's that serious then?  In that case, I agree, we need a drink.  I've just been granted a vision, of sorts, a reminder of my own mortality, as it were, in the shape of yonder hound of ill omen.  I need something to pry this cold hand from round my heart."

He crosses the room to a cabinet in the corner, and returns a few moments later with a bottle of brandy and two glasses.  "Sit and drink with me James.  I have a sudden premonition that this might be our last chance to talk about old times.  A nagging suspicion that, if things go awry, there might soon be no old times to recall."

And in the oddly deserted area of the ancient structure, the conversation continues between four entirely disimilar creatues: a man, a ghost, a small, tired drake, and a being constructed of light and shadows and loneliness...

 

•• Okeli dokeli • but we are just to find him • yes • and then let perhaps someone else • ah • get him back here • yes ••

The curious blonde first confirmed the instructions and then asked her questions, smiling all along.

•• No spoons •• What about salt shakers ••

A brilliant grin was flashed at Random even as Banglen-Yp got prepared to duck any incoming glares.

 

"It'd be a pleasure."  James takes a seat at the table without waiting on ceremony.

"Brandy?  That's rather better than I expected in a guardroom.  Is that yours?"  James waits until Kallum sits and the drinks have been poured.  Taking his glass he raises it in a toast.

"Here's to old times and old soldiers.  May the one live long in the memory and the other live long to do the remembering."  James drinks a fair measure of his brandy.  He's not crass enough to gulp his drink but he's not being shy about it either.

James had meant to ask Kallum to put together a half company for the ambush at Tir-na Nog'th but he didn't have the heart to hound his friend despite having an uneasy feeling that time might soon be very short indeed.

"Do you remember when I was newly arrived in Amber and you bet that that big bruiser from the second gate watch - what was his name? - could beat me in an arm wrestle?"

"Brandy, yes.  Wouldn't normally have it here, but somebody tried to bribe me with it last week.  Damned merchant wanted an audience with the King, or any of the Family.  I checked, and found out that he'd already asked for one, and they planned on granting it, but because it didn't seem important, they were still deciding when, and they hadn't told him yet." Kallum chuckles, and shakes his head, "He was too impatient, though, and thought they weren't going to let him in.  So I took his brandy, and a day or two later he probably got his invitation to come and speak to royalty.  And he thinks it's all my doing.  I must find out what he deals in, maybe he'll give me a discount.  Or offer me his daughter's hand in marriage."

He raises his glass, in response to James' toast, "Though not so long that they feel the need to remember the old times in long, boring, rambling tales."

"I remember that, yes.  What was his name?  Farren?  Darrel?  No... Farrel!  Farrel, that was it.  The man was built like an ox and you, no bigger than his finger, damn near pulled his arm off.  He couldn't stand watch for a week."

Random gives Banglen-Yp an odd look, and then answers her first question, "I'd hope that you, and anybody else who finds him, could, perhaps, have a talk with him.  See if he knows why the the Trumps might suddenly be damaged.  Or a way to repair them.  There is no need to bring him back, unless he really wants to come here.  In which case it might be best to play along - it's likely to be less confusing for everybody."

Her second question, he assumes, is some sort of odd joke, so he ignores it for the moment, save to smile back at her.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:02, Tue 13 Apr 2010.

Tahirah quietly begins putting the chairs back where they belong, and asks what might be a more pertinent question.  With a small gesture towards the table where the Trump Decks from Brand's room were spread out, she asks, "Which one?"

Cyan leans back, content to listen while soaking up the heat Dorian radiates.  She nods along with Galatea's story, interested in the past of the father and daughter's country.  "I remember drakes," Cyan whispers as another shard of memory cracks, falling free.

...a hot wind blasting above, the screams and cries of conflict, Kirilindë a burning silver wheel in the air, and a roar as dark forms drop low over the battlefield....

The images are chaotic, of the sort she has come to associate with her baresark fury.  Berd stirs uneasily on her shoulder and she scratches his nose; the little dragon settles quickly.

But a shadow crosses her face as Galatea finishes, evidently greatly disturbed.  "The drakes would be great assistance," she murmurs.  "But your mother..."  A glance to Dorian follows.  "I am uncertain as to our needs.  Too many enemies gathered, and the Archons will not come in ranks - they will simply attack, or bypass us completely.  Not enough, and however many of the Seraphim do not turn will overwhelm us.  I think..."  She ponders, closing her eyes.  When they open again, they gleam topaz in the dim light.  "I think less is more."

Shifting forward, she puts her hands on her knees, her drawing left unattended for a moment.  "Galatea, you should never have to face her again.  Some relations should be left to fade and be gone, forever, and this is one.  That woman was no true mother to you."

The ghost girl nods. Some of the hardness bleeds out of her features. Her small lips curl into a smile. Good, she thinks. She knows Drusilla is out there, and a powerful ally, but that doesn't make her a good one. Sure, Mother would work to preserve herself. She's nothing if not predictable in that regard. After all, she sacrificed one--if not both--of her children in the name of self-preservation. Why stop now?

She studies Cyan. The woman looks so content, perhaps even happy, leaning on Galatea's father. In all her memories, she never saw that kind of closeness in her real parents. Matters between Father and Mother were always verbal contests, a constant war for position and advantage.

Her father, on the other hand.... she tilts her head. He looks a little uncomfortable, still. He's probably never known this kind of closeness. In his thousand years, has he ever had this kind of contact? Uncomfortable, but relaxed more than she thought the man capable until now. And content. And perhaps even happy.

"Maybe someday," she says, "I'll have a new mother."

She feels a panicked thought from her father, but she cuts him off this time.

She smiles and fades away, leaving them alone.

Dorian straightens at the comment. His features harden as the ghost child fades from view, off to some other location that he never quite understood. She wasn't so much a ghost as a manifestation of his psyche--one that he obviously had no control over anymore.

He mutters a quick apology.

Nothing can be done for it now. The words were spoken, the brash hopefulness of a child long deprived of a mother. A child long deprived of actually growing up. Forever a child. Galatea will always be as old as she sees herself, and for now, she only understands herself as an eleven-year-old girl.

He knows that to try to say anything more in response would only lure him into verbal territory that he wouldn't be able to extricate himself from with any grace, so he remains silent. He forces himself to relax and not think about it anymore. Cyan knows how children are. She understands Galatea's history, if only in part. He trusts her to think nothing more of it. He has to.

"As for her mother," he says. "I would only contact her if the need were dire, but Samhain is hers now. I doubt I could call on the Drakes for assistance without some contact with Drusilla. She sees all within her realm. I will leave the drakes as an option, should we need them. There is no need to consider Drusilla an ally, though."

He sighs. He's had enough of tactical discussion. I never thought, he thinks, my return to Amber would be like this. He had imagined queries about his Amberite mother, tense moments.

He leans back, rests his arm on the back of the bench behind Cyan, and gazes at the window. He lets his mind empty of thoughts, of tactics and logistics, of words spoken in child-like hope, of everything.

And he feels hope. He bathes in it, letting it warm his heart in a way it hasn't felt warm in centuries. The cosmos balances on the edge of a knife. All life as they know it could be shattered into oblivion soon, but he finds a way to feel hope in the simplicity of the moment, in merely being here with Cyan, and enjoying the moment for what it is--no thought of tomorrow or yesterday. It is good.

He smiles--not the smirking half-smile he's known for, or the sly play of the lips, but a real smile, an honest smile.

 

•• Talk to • do not bring back • understood ••

Banglen-Yp nodded in confirmation and left it at that.

He had not reacted as she had expected to her jocular comment.  Perhaps she did not understand humour yet or perhaps he had not been joking at all.

 

"Farrel, that's it!  It was his own fault, you know.  He was stronger than I gave him credit for.  I had to exert more strength than I thought, but when he gave way, he went in a hurry.  I didn't mean to twist his arm like that."

James takes another mouthful of brandy.  "That's good.  Your merchant friend must have been very keen."

Fiona steps closer to the table, but not too close.  She cranes her neck to view the cards.  "There, that's him.  Very old man, the hunchback with long hair and beard.  Six, no seven cards in from the right on the second row.  But you should be aware that he might not look like that when you find him - he was born in the Courts, and like all who live there, his shape is... maleable."

Kallum nods and laughs, "You don't know your own strength, that's always been your problem.  And it's why you always get lumbered with the hard work around here"  He takes another drag at the brandy, "It's not bad is it.  Yes, the merchant, Chalk is his name, really wanted to see Random, or any other family member for that matter.  Says he has a gift that needs to be delivered before it dies, or rots, or goes flat, or something."

"Do you know if you'll be taking part in the defence of the city, James?  Or will they send you away on some other secret mission?"

Roman stands, nodding to Prince Finndo.  "If you would please come with me, Your Highness, I am sure that the ambassadors from Chaos will be only too willing to see us."

He does hope that the Prince will not be awkward, but given how he feels about his relatives, maybe he'll jump at the opportunity to get away.  And when they are away from the other Amber Royals maybe he can ask a question that has been on his mind...

Cyan's offers the girl a smile that shades toward sorrow after Galatea vanishes.  Her hand grips Dorian's for an instant as he apologizes, squeezing.  "Think nothing of it," she breathes.  "I understand the need for a mother."  How much has the child suffered, has her father suffered?  How lonely must Galatea be?  How betrayed, how in search of another to take the place of soft comfort in her spirit-life?

How painful that Cyan will never be able to fulfill that need.

Her emerald gaze drops to her hand - once smooth, save for weapon and harp callouses, now thinner, dryer.  Not old, not yet, but aging; time marches on, more quickly for some than others.  She was not made for forever, and the quest has pushed Cyan hard, forced her to grow far too strong.  The taper burns now at both ends.

"Well, we will perhaps only ask for the Drakes in extremis."  Cyan leans back, still holding Dorian's hand.  "Drusilla does not strike me as the sort to blindly throw herself into danger without planning.  If we wait until the last before summoning their help, I suspect she would be content to watch from the sidelines...but enough of that."

She smiles up at him, watching the lines smooth slightly from his harsh visage.  A smile of his own grows - one she has never before seen, and yet so very natural, so very Dorian.  The truth behind the bitter mask, Cyan suspects, honoured as she is by the gift of his pleasure on this cool, rainy day.  "Every moment a blessing," she whispers.

Her pen continues to scratch on the paper, more slowly now that she must perforce hold the book steady with the palm of the same hand.  Silence falls in the corridor, no servant disturbing them as they sit, she working with absent care, Dorian for once merely being.  "Keeping things private, father?" Cyan asks; Berd stirs on her shoulder but does not wake.