Dara

Reunion: Dara & Merlin

A game log from A Grand Affair
includes Dara, Merlin, Martin, Benedict

The Blue Room is a large parlor used for semi-public events, such as the intimate receptions Flora occasionally hosts for All the Right People. Its name comes from the many shades of blue in which it is appointed: from eggshell pale to deep indigo, the room's decor spans the spectrum of blues.

The furniture is Georgian English, primarily from the curvilinear early period. If the chairs at the game table are not original Chippendales, Flora has found indistinguishable reproductions. There are several sitting areas featuring couches and chairs, one of which is near a fireplace and others of which feature spectacular views out the windows of Castle Amber. The walls are dominated by large mirrors which serve to enhance the lighting of the room.

One corner of the room is dominated by a grand piano made of rosewood, which Steward Vent's minions keep in fine tune. There are several photographs of family members in silver frames on the piano.

Dara stands by the piano, one hand touching the smooth wood, looking at the photographs. She is somewhat taller than average and slender, and has that coltish look of someone who has just finished her growth. Her hair is straight, falling just past her shoulders in shades of copper and brown. A faint spray of freckles tint her cheeks. Green eyes sparkle as she lifts the lid over the keys and presses one, listening to the sound with her head cocked, then another key, and another.

She is dressed simply, in a forest green soft cotton top that leaves her midriff bare above black slacks. Brown leather boots are visible beneath the hem of her pants, and a hand tooled leather belt is at her waist.

Benedict concludes, "The fine grain and matching of tensile strengths in the various parts are a tribute to the craftsman's genius. It has a splendid sound as well. At one time, Julian would play on no other instrument---but that was many years ago."

He watches Dara's moves in every particular.

Benedict stands over seventy inches tall, dressed today in a soft brown suede pants and matching silk shirt. Both are cut to a standard that is a century old. His boots are of a mocassin styling that is not found in Amber. Benedict is not handsome, he is lean with strikingly strong features and of any Prince of Amber, seems to be showing his age. There are rare lines of silver in the brown hair, particularly streaked at the left temple.

The door opens and Martin leads Merlin into the room.

Martin is a handsome young man with unruly blond hair, about 5'9" and muscular in a wiry way. He bears a distinct resemblance to his father, King Random, but is taller and a bit thinner. He's currently dressed in a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a flannel overshirt which is untucked and hanging loose. His shoes are black Converse All-Stars that he hasn't bothered to lace up.

Merlin trails slightly behind Martin as they enter. He is a bit taller than his friend, and slightly broader across the shoulder, with a bit more muscle on his frame, narrowing to lean waist. His dark hair is cut in the same style as Martin's and has that same rumpled look. He wears trousers of a dark material, nearly black, and a blue-violet shirt that blouses a bit at the sleeves. His feet bear black boots of middling height, well marked with stirrup scuffs. He turns his blue-grey eyes to the unexpected guest in the room, then nods at Benedict, his murmured 'Honored One' nearly lost beneath Martin's words.

Dara turns when the door opens, and her eyes light up, a broad smile of greeting when she sees Martin. She lowers the lid over the keys again, settling it carefully. She looks with open curiosity at the man with Martin, and starts to step forward.

Then Martin speaks.

"Ah, there you are," says Martin to Benedict and Dara. He turns to Merlin and says, "There's someone I'd like to introduce you to. Dara, this is my friend Merlin. Merlin, this is Dara, with whom I worked during the war. She's been--kept busy for these last few years, but she's come to stay in Amber for a while."

Dara stops where she is, slightly off-balance and rocking back to regain that stability. Her eyes widen, her mouth opened as if she were about to speak. She stares openly at Martin's companion, then darts a glance back at Benedict. Her brow furrows and she turns the same half-annoyed, half-fond, half-accusing look on Martin. "Oh." And then words simply fail her, and she just stands there.

"Welcome, Merlin. The pageantry of the occasion is richer for bringing you back to Amber." Benedict adds as Dara falters to a stop.

Merlin nods again at Benedict as he moves toward the two of them. He holds Benedict's eye for perhaps a fraction of a moment, a moment full of unspoken questions, then turns his gaze to the one they've named Dara. Dara. Perhaps only Benedict will sense the hesitation he works to hide as he smoothly takes up her hand, Amber style, to greet her.

The flinch, as he touches her hand, is barely perceptible. Color slowly drains away from her, leaving her skin marble white, and chilled, the freckles standing out like abrupt dots. Only a moment, then she grasps his fingers lightly, politely, as appropriate.

"It is always a pleasure to meet a friend of Martin's, especially one who keeps company with Benedict," Merlin says, raising her hand to his lips with courtly precision. A kiss, and then with equal grace, he returns her hand to her. "I trust your stay will be a pleasant one, with all the entertainment that is planned for these next days." He steps back, glancing at Martin.

Martin is watching the two of them with some nervousness, apparent only because all those present know him reasonably well. He gives an encouraging smile that could be directed at either or both of Merlin or Dara.

Merlin's eyes widen. Surprise? Apprehension? He returns his gaze to meet Dara's briefly. His eyes flick back to Benendict.

Benedict's stance might be called 'honored and attentive.'

Dara stares at Merlin's face. The color has yet to return to her own skin, and she stands statue still as if she has become marble in truth. There is something in her gaze... pain and hunger... for just a moment before her expression shutters rapidly, and she glances away. Anywhere but at Merlin. When she looks back, she is smiling, barely -- a faint upward quirk of her lips. "I suspect my time in Amber will be entertaining. Thank you."

Under her breath, not really intended for anyone else, she mutters, "or else a part of the entertainment." She glances at Benedict. "Are there any more surprises planned?" Her smile is wry.

Benedict seems to have no answer to this but an idle finger tapping twice on his belt. His face is so relaxed that it can only be supposed to be his answer.

Then his gaze shifts and nods to Merlin over Dara's shoulder. "I think this surprise will do nicely. Nothing too dramatic."

Merlin looks uncomfortable at this.

Dara is slowly relaxing, shifting forward on the balls of her feet, breathing more deeply. She turns, shifting her weight to spin slowly in place until she faces the fireplace, before she moves in that direction.

"I'm going to sit down. Would you... like to join me?" There is a faint uncertain hesitation, almost unnoticeable, in the question. She doesn't sit, just yet, one hand on the arm of the chair as she looks back at Merlin. "I should have realized who you were. You have some of the look of your father."

Martin starts to move towards Dara, but hesitates, and then the moment is lost.

Martin's almost-movement is not entirely lost on Dara. The quick glance she shoots him is a quick *please* as she taps the arm of the chair with her fingertips.

Merlin gives his friend a fierce look entirely different from the last. One that says *don't you _go_ anywhere*, as he walks to the seating at the fireplace. He moves toward one of the wingbacked chairs that face an ample settee, and sets himself down, looking uncomfortable. He eyes the woman named Dara warily, and nods. "You know Corwin." It is almost a question.

Dara turns as Merlin approaches, facing him the entire time. She nods in response to his question, forgoing the chair she is leaning on in favor of the settee, on the end further from where Merlin now sits.

Benedict moves to the sidebar. "Martin, can I get you anything? Merlin? Dara? Any refreshment?"

Merlin glances at Benedict, "No, but thank you for offering." His gaze returns to the woman who is generating so much tension in the room, passing Martin's again in passing.

"Please. Anything." Dara sits, still a bit stiffly, on the settee. After a moment, she draws her feet up, sitting cross-legged. "I knew Corwin." There is a faint emphasis on the word 'knew'. "I haven't seen him since the end of the war. Since he killed someone I cared about." She stops, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. She starts to speak, stops, taking a deep breath of frustration. She shakes her head. "I could sit here all night trading pleasantries with you, but I think I'd really far rather be blunt. If you're ready to handle a surprise or two of your own, Merlin."

"Something stiff, Uncle Ben. I think we could all use it," Martin says. He comes to lean on the wall by the fireplace, watching Dara and Merlin without interfering.

Merlin's eyes widen slightly and he gives her a tight smile. "The woman named Dara wishes to surprise me." He gives a small huff of near laughter. "You have no idea what that sounds like." He swallows, and seems determined to remain at pleasantries. "I have found no real delight in them in the past, m'lady, but perhaps yours will be different. Do go on. What do you wish to surprise me with?"

For a moment, Dara looks as if she has swallowed something sour, and she glances at Martin, then Benedict, hopeful for that drink. With nothing in her hands, she intertwines her fingers, knotting them together. One more deep breath, letting it out slowly, before she begins.

"I can't say whether you'll find it a good surprise or not, but it's the truth, and that's more than you've gotten from her," Dara says firmly. There is a definite emphasis on the 'her' and it isn't a pleasant sound. "But it's long past the time for honesty. Obviously, I'm not the Dara you know, nor the Dara who raised you. But I *am* the Dara who knew Corwin, and the Dara who gave birth to you." She smiles tightly. "I've been looking forward to meeting you." She bites her lip. "Not to mention terrified of the same."

She stops then, watching Merlin's reaction warily. She leans back into the couch, drawing her knees up, bent in front of her, her arms around her legs like they are some sort of a shield.

There is no visible reaction from Merlin. He seems to be carved from stone, his eyes looking inward...

Dara just stares back, equally still. Her skin is gray -- pale and worn -- and her eyes are wide and watching.

Benedict crosses the small room with a glass in each hand. He stops at Martin first. No words, but the offer of the glass tumbler with several fingers of deep red liquor in it.

Martin takes it and swirls it a little in the glass, taking a slow sip as Benedict moves on to Dara.

Once Martin has his drink in hand, Benedict moves to Dara. A nod to Merlin (perhaps unseen by him) as Benedict leans down to the seated lady and touches the glass to her hand--encouraging the reflex action of those fingers to take it and use it.

Her hand opens, then curls around the glass, and she breaks from staring at Merlin to look up at Benedict. She smiles then, if a bit wan still. "Thank you." Her voice is a rusty gate drawn over a stone walkway, and she winces at the sound of it.

She makes a conscious effort, her feet sliding down to the floor, her back straightening, lifting away from where she has curled against the back of the settee. She slides down to the other end, her gaze back upon Merlin, watching if his gaze follows her.

It does not.

Once she is closer to Merlin, she leans forward slightly, but doesn't reach out to touch him. "It would help if you stopped staring at me and started talking."

Her voice in near proximity startles him. As he jumps, his left hand twitches in an incomplete gesture, and a small shower of sparks dance away, ... "Ah," he says...

She shrugs, then sighs. "I've had a long time to think recently, and a long time to wish I'd done things differently. But fact is, I didn't, and this is the way things fell out."

Merlin's look is still oddly distant, as if he has not quite fully returned from wherever he has been... "I am sure... that you had your reasons." He comes fully into the room. "I suppose she is *your* mother, then."

Merlin draws a deep breath, turns his head. "Benedict, I believe I will take you up on that offer... have they any Sithian Lava?"

"If there's not any, I'll send for some," Martin says.

That will earn him a faint look from Merlin. 'Fetching' some of *this* stuff might take a while.

Merlin's question seems to startle Dara, and she sits back, looking down at the glass cradled in one hand. She lifts the glass to her lips, tastes the liquid inside, and then gulps it down. She swallows hard, and lets it sort of sit there for a moment before she responds to Merlin. She sets the glass down on the settee next to her, not really looking at where she's putting it.

"Yes, she is my mother." The word holds no fondness whatsoever. "For what that is worth. She raised me as a tool, to do exactly what I did, and when I rebelled," a quick glance at Martin and then Benedict, "she put me away. It's been a long decade. I hope she raised you better than she raised me. If..." she pauses. "If you want the story, it's yours. You know some of it, I'm certain, just not quite entirely the right way. But... if you don't want it, then we can just let this lie."

She shrugs again. "I suppose it is enough to know the truth is said." Again she sits cross-legged upon the settee, and leans back against it. From her tone, it is nowhere near enough. But her chin set, still watching, she is quite obviously too proud to admit that this is *that* important to her.

"If you _knew_..." Merlin blurts before he curbs his tongue. He holds up a hand, forestalling a similar reaction from her.

Dara recoils before he completes the gesture, pressing her body into the back of the settee, drawing her knees up, skin graying further, green eyes shifting to bleak gray. When he stops, she holds that wary position, staring.

"Pardon, that was ... uncouth of me." Some wry thought, unexpressed, twists his lips. He composes himself, leans forward to focus on her, arms folded across his chest. "Tell me your tale."

She wilts, the tension not quite leaving her body but somehow trying to. She nods. She glances at Benedict as he checks the bar, taking that time to compose herself again.

Benedict moves back to the sidebar only a moment then returns to Martin's side. "We have not the Sithian in these precincts. I have the T'core Red or the T'surb Evets in my room not far from here. They are both equally toxic as these things go. Vent may have the Sithian in the cellars, for it was a favorite of old Dworkin. If so, I say only Vent will know where it is. The stuff will incapacitate the unwary or ill-informed."

Martin will recognize two compliments in Benedictine style. One for Merlin, and one for Vent.

His uncle nods to Martin. "You may as well ask Vent if he has it still. I could use a taste myself."

Merlin shifts in his seat to look at the two of them. "At the moment I am less interested in the toxicity and more interested in the heat. If the bottles have grown cold, let them lie." He then returns his attention to Dara.

Martin puts his own tumbler down on the mantel of the fireplace. "I'll send a page to find out," he says, walking with studious nonchalance that in no way hides his interest in the conversation from the others in the room over to a large secretary against an interior wall of the room. He opens the doors and looks for some paper and pen.

Dara is once again sitting upright, in a half-lotus position, breathing deeply and calmly. She has allowed the instinctive shaping to take place, rather than spend the effort trying to keep it at bay, and she now sits, more stone than human, a physical reaction to a mental state. Obsidian eyes with flecks of emerald green watch Merlin carefully.

"I'll try and keep it as succinct as I can." A slight hand motion admits that that might not be so easy as it sounds. "I was born to Dara and whisked away to a place outside the Courts." A soft wry smile that admits that that part might well sound familiar. "I was raised to do exactly what I did, and taught that that was what I had to do. Brainwashed, for lack of a better word. I knew the Courts because I was taught to know the Courts, but I wasn't necessarily a part of it. It's in my blood... it always will be. I am still, in many ways, more that than Amberite. But I couldn't ever truly be that either. Not anymore." An expression, perhaps, of disappointment, but it is hard to tell much besides tone of voice in this form.

A deep breath for another pause, a gathering of thoughts. "I was raised without a chance of friendship. I had tutors, I had instructors... I didn't have much of anyone I cared about." A soft laugh. "Liaisons were nothing more than more lessons to me. The one thing I truly loved was fencing. Lord Borel was my instructor, and when we sparred I came alive. I was taught because it was part of the plan, but it was the one thing I took to be my own. I missed Borel when I left.

"That part of the plan... the beginnings of the war... came when I was 16 or 17 or so. At first, in the suddenness of freedom without being watched every moment, I simply celebrated that freedom. In retrospect, I'm sure I was watched, even if I couldn't tell. And it didn't last long -- they'd trained me too well for that. I had a prince to seduce and a child to get and a kingdom to topple. So I went on." She stops, reaching to her side to find the glass and noticing that it is, indeed, empty. "Benedict, please?" She holds it out, hopefully.

He is there before she speaks, with the bottle of red in hand. From the hip Benedict tilts the bottle above her glass and it is filled moreso than the first time. All this smoothly, but Benedict's hazel eyes, placid and deep, are on Merlin.

Merlin turns his head to meet that gaze with eyes gone the color of a deep twilight sky. He is as expressionless as Dara, but he meets that gaze, holds it a long moment, then returns to watching her.

About this time Martin completes his note and moves over to the door, where he uses the bell-pull to summon a page.

A sudden smile bursts through the granite, warming her expression as it falls on Martin. "Somewhere between celebrating freedom and searching for Corwin, I found one of my first friends. It didn't change my mission just then, but it was important later on." Her gaze slides back to stone as she sighs. "The part with Corwin... I did what I was supposed to do. I slept with him. I conceived you. I went home in order to bear you."

Her voice drops low, and she stares at a point somewhere past Merlin. "Things changed then. Almost too subtly for me to really notice. Planning on giving up a child when it is all still just a plan is one thing. Giving up a child that has been born in human fashion, kicking in one's womb... it hurts. But I was still theirs. I didn't have anything else I could do. The plan wasn't done yet. So I gave you into her keeping and left. But the wedge was there, in my heart, and I don't think they knew it. I don't think they knew yet that I'd started to break away. Because if they knew then, they'd have never let me leave." This is said with complete certainty, as someone who knows. Truly knows.

She risks a glance at Merlin.

He nods. She would not have survived.

Then slowly her gaze drifts back to the point she stares at on the wall. "Oberon found me then, and we talked. I was unhappy. He had a plan. And at the end of it, I should have had my son back, and a place in Amber. I was furious with Chaos, furious with what had happened. And I had a reason to care about Amber. So... I took him up on it and changed sides in the middle of the war." Another flash of a smile for Martin and Benedict.

Martin, engaged in conversation with the page at the door, misses Dara's expression.

"In the end, though, Corwin killed Borel." Her tone goes hollow, echoing through the stone. "I was furious. There were only two things I had cared about in Chaos, and Lord Borel was one of them. I didn't know what I thought of Corwin then. I was angry, mixed up, and impatient. I didn't want to work with Amber just then, nor continue the plan to get you out. So I acted on my own and went home, thinking I could do it all myself and leave with you then. It was a huge mistake.

"I found out the extremes Dara had gone to. That you knew nothing about me. They knew, of course, that I had changed sides. And they sure as hell didn't want me back. I was stupid and naive. I ended up in prison. Like I said, I've had a lot of time to think." She stops abruptly, then laughs softly, water rippling over stone. "That wasn't terribly succinct. I hope... when I gave you to her, I didn't really think about it. It was how I was raised. In retrospect... like I said before... I hope to hell she was better to you than she was to me."

Merlin merely shakes his head, his left hand making the simple ward against evil. "She is what she is."

A sniff and dry laugh from Dara. Disappointment.

Merlin looks up as Martin rejoins the group by the fireplace. "If there's any warm Sithian left, Vent will bring it up in a little while," he reports.

'Warm' was not what Merlin was thinking, but he nods, his expression carefully grateful. He turns back to Dara. "Corwin," he starts, then pauses.

Her expression goes blank as she echoes, "Corwin..." and waits for something more, head cocked.

A short moment passes, then he continues, watching her face, "Corwin has a habit of killing. Javen was a Waymaster. My tutor, in many things. We were on a field trip, discussing geologies. I returned without him. I... recognized Corwin. She keeps a... an image of him."

Dara's stone eyebrows lift in surprise, narrow in some confusion.

Merlin continues. "Mother did not let me out of her demesne for long years after. I was, as reckoned here, about fourteen."

He stops, takes a deep breath, goes on. "I'm sorry," he meets Dara's eyes, "It is best for both of us if I keep that habit. She is Mother."

"Understood." Dara's tone is soft, a bit hoarse. The gaze Merlin meets is still obsidian set into granite, the emerald flecks nearly vanished. She looks like she is about to say something else, but after two false starts she stops, unable to find the words.

He waits until it is clear she will not speak. "She thinks I have not yet taken the draught of free will." He turns his left hand, and a ring there catches and reflects the light.

It reflects in the dark obsidian of Dara's gaze as well as she tracks it's path.

"She would be wrong." He has retreated a bit in the face of Dara's hardness. "They do not understand the nature of the process the Pattern puts you through. How it strips you down..." his voice trails off. "So they think their loss of you was an anomaly. And you had served your purpose." His head tilts. "Someone is protecting you there. You were imprisoned. That surprises me."

"Oberon offered me Amber's protection in exchange for my aid in the war. If they knew... then killing me would be a violation of the peace now held. And I don't think they're ready to take a risk that might result in war again." A shrug. A slight smile. "Personally, I'm rather glad they had hoped to forget me, instead of kill me. And grateful to Benedict for getting me out of that hell."

"Yet Oberon is no more, and the others..." his gaze also drifts to Benedict, "... never mentioned you." He blinks reflectively at that one before returning his attention to her. "You walk with the Lady Luck."

Merlin pauses, then... "Dara. Have you borne others?"

Eyebrows fly wide open and she sits up straight, shaking her head. "No." The word comes quickly. And just as quickly she relaxes, still shaking her head. "No. You're my only child. Who knows..." her voice trails off, an she glances around aimlessly for a moment, expression suddenly helpless.

"So the Sawall brothers are my uncles. Great uncles. Huh." He finds a joke there, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

Whatever that joke is, Dara just looks confused.

He grins a boyish and lopsided grin and says, "They certainly weren't great brothers."

She almosts laugh as her gaze comes back to her son, her expression wry, "I'm not so sure I'm mother material." The tone is flat, something hidden behind the stones.

He just gives her a small smile. "Free will. You are free of them now. Things would be different." He watches her, his face expressionless again. "Although the time is past for mothering me, I'm afraid. Mentor, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Dara allows. "Although I know there are things you know better than I by now."

He looks somewhat dismayed at her reaction, "No matter. There is always more to learn, some new viewpoint to share..." his voice trails off and he gives her a sad smile.

Her mouth opens slightly, this almost startling her out of her stone retreat. A quick smile, pleasure, hope... hunger of some sort, flitting into fear and wariness. Her gaze darts to Benedict and Martin in time to see...

Benedict eyes Martin somewhat wryly at this exchange, but it passes quickly.

Martin catches the look and gives Benedict the slightest of nods. The old wound may be healed, mostly, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know it in another when he sees it.

Merlin misses this interaction, as it goes on behind him.

"Oh." The smile returns, fleeting and with hope and hunger again. "Well... maybe then... we should talk." A stop as she realizes that's exactly what they are doing, if in a rather stilted manner. "Again. More." A quick grin slashing the stone for a moment.

His eyes lighten at her words, and he visibly relaxes. The small smile returns, and he nods.

She looks down at the glass in her hands, the fact that Benedict did indeed refill it finally catching up with her, and again, it is emptied in a swift gulp. Then she stares down at the glass in her hands. "She keeps an image of him? Have they met... Dara and Corwin? I'd like to know if there is anything else I need to know before he is surprised by my presence here in Amber."

"Met? I think not. But they are always finding out new things about us. Like the celebrities of the minor shadows, they follow news, what little intelligence they get, and the most outrageous gossip. The crown has condemned the fascination, which makes it all the more popular."

Then he regards her, somewhat quizzically. "Corwin has been kind to me," he says quietly. "How do you intend to surprise him?"

She stops again, and looks up. Her internal struggle is evident as she pushes the stone away, melting back into humanity.

It takes a moment for her to figure out what to say. "Just by being here. By not being who he thinks I am... but then, he never really took the time to find that out anyway. It's been a long time since I last saw him. I'm not happy with him, but I'm not planning anything malicious." She shrugs, running out of words for that. She looks at Benedict, then looks at Martin, then just looks around the room. There is a sense of repressed motion in her, a coiled spring moving past the point of tension. She shifts her position again, leaning on one hip, her knees bent and her feet tucked under her.

"He..." Merlin stops, thinks a moment, starts again, "You made quite an impression on him, Dara. He remembers you. Quite fondly. It..." A large gust of expressed air leaves him as he laughs silently. At her confused look, he tries to explain, "This explains much. I could never understand his fascination with 'Dara' ." His laughing eyes meet hers, inviting her to share the joke.

And she does, green eyes sparkling with humor. A soft laugh. But there are shadows in her eyes as well, and something left unsaid. That at this moment, she doesn't even try to say.

She bites her lip. "And... would you tell me about yourself? Or is that too much to ask, too soon?"

Merlin pauses, obviously thinking about his life, and what he might say that will describe it shortly.

Benedict moves to the door, just before there is a tapping. He opens it to find Vent outside with a center-handled wooden tray holding four ceramic jars. A nod is exchanged. Benedict takes the tray and moves back to the sidebar.

His actions there have no impact on the conversation in progress. Martin can see that he makes elaborate preparations of the jars before breaking their seals. His hands balance the jars, first rocking them one way, then rolling them back to other. Satisfied at last, a small knife appears in his left hand and he breaks the sealing with one blow. A small intense hiss escapes the Sithian. A few moments later, Benedict brings a mug for Martin, then crosses to Merlin with one.

Martin takes his mug from Benedict with a nod. The likeness between the older man and the younger in gesture would be clear to the others, were they not distracted with their own affairs.

He takes a single sip from the mug, then nods, satisfied, and leans against the wall by the fireplace again.

Merlin receives the small ceramic vessel with a look of intense pleasure. "Ah." He cups the straight-sided mug carefully in two hands, savouring the warmth given off, as he brings it up to smell the fragrant stream of steam. He smiles up at Benedict, "Thank you." He inhales another deep breath before bringing it to his lips to drink. A wash of the steam slightly obscures his face, but not his soft "mmmm." He takes another sip, then brings the mug back down, still cupping it between his hands as if warming them on a cold day.

He returns to the sidebar directly, preparing a third dose for himself.

"Of myself," he says. "What is there to say? I too, was driven toward a goal, one they have not yet made clear. I too, was freed from their influence when I came here. I try hard to maintain the illusion that they control me, in order to guard against whatever this next step in their plan might be. I am certain that when I have achieved their goal, they will discard me as casually as they discarded you."

He looks thoughtful, "I was raised, as were my brothers, to be the epitome of a Chaosian Lord. Mandor was much used as an example. I did well in most things. Better than my brothers, and that was a cause of much contention between us. And I was given more to do, more to learn, than they. That too, was somehow a bone of contention."

"And then came the war. I had seen my father, but at the end of that battle I was to meet him, and we talked long hours. He told me of his journey. How he had come to be at the edge of the Abyss, with a son he never knew standing at his side."

Merlin shrugs, "After visiting Argent, I came here. And I have learned much again." He has been leaning forward as he speaks. Now he realizes this, and gives a somewhat embarrassed smile.

Dara sits as she was, still a bundle of barely repressed energy, staring at Merlin, caught somewhere between startled and wary. Her nose wrinkles slightly in confusion at the mention of Argent, but other than that, she remains still.

"There is /always/ more to learn." He leans across the space between them and offers her the mug.

One hand comes up, cautiously as if this might cause the spring to be sprung, and she meets him halfway. As one hand starts to curl around the mug, she realizes that two would be better as that one hand is shaking. She uncurls her feet, placing them carefully upon the floor, and reaches out with the second hand as well. Her fingers cradle the mug a millimeter below Merlin's as she takes it from him.

She peers into it, letting the steam wash over her face, tasting the scent with every pore. She lifts it to her lips to sip, holding the heat in her mouth before swallowing and savoring the heat, taste and texture. Then she smiles, her eyes crinkling, her teeth showing in the grin as the expression breaks through in sudden sunshine. She takes another quick sip, savoring it again, and then holds the cup out. "Thank you. For sharing."

He takes the mug, shrugs. "Little enough to share, at this point." He focuses his attention on the drink, swirling it in the mug to allow more oxygen to interact with the fluid, and watching the steam thicken in response. He takes a long draught.

There is wonder in her gaze, staring at him again. And for a long moment she does just look at him as if she cannot believe that he is there. Slowly the glee in the smile fades away, but she remains leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. "It'll all take a while... getting to know each other. I'm just... I'm glad you're here. And I'm here. And neither of us has run screaming from the room although I suppose they weren't going to let us do that."

He gives Martin a glance that speaks of volumes to come. "No. Not likely."

Martin quaffs the steaming beverage in his mug and offers a smile to his cousins.

A quick impish smile as she glances at Benedict and Martin. "At least, I hope you're not planning to do that as soon as they look the other direction." For a moment it looks as if she is going to lean forward, close the distance between them, but she hesitates and stays where she is, watching Merlin. The wariness is gone... it is now as if she is learning his actions and reactions, and trying to fit them into her own worldview.

Merlin in turn watches her, his demeanor quiet. He doesn't look about to bolt, but like her, something in the line of his body suggests that some tension remains. A wry smile twists his mouth at her comment, and he shakes his head slightly.

Dara smiles slightly, and stands, crossing the few steps necessary to bring her next to the chair where Merlin sits. She drops one hand down to his shoulder, making contact for the first time.

He watches her approach, eyes darkening, muscles tightening. His body is tense as her hand drops down and rests. He sits, looking up at her silently.

She still stands as if she is about to pass by him, staring at him, still smiling. Her touch is light, almost tentative, and then she steps away, light on the balls of her feet, the wound energy even more apparent now. "What d'you do to blow off steam, Merlin?" The question is thoughtful, curious. "Don't know about you, but I'm about ready to jump out of my skin..." She looks back at him then, and includes Benedict and Martin behind him in the look.

Martin has turned his attention back to the tumbler of red Benedict poured for him earlier. He lifts it in a salute to the lady and tosses the rest of it back.

It's a tribute to his paternal heritage of debauchery that he's still standing upright after all that, but he is. Martin sets the tumbler down on the mantel with a firm thump and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. Then he looks at the shirtsleeve to be sure none of it melted away.

"I forgive them the surprise." Her smile is filled with wry humor. "I'm not sure I would've survived seeing you, for the first time, with everyone else surrounding me. When I get stressed I..." she waves a hand. "Eh, it gets obvious. Did the same thing happen to you when you walked the Pattern?"

She stops again, looking surprisingly young and vaguely embarrassed. "I'm so wound up I've reached the point of babbling."

Merlin's mouth opens, but nothing has managed to find it's way out when...

Benedict sips again from his Sithian. "Babbling? It is a tribute to your years of isolation that you are so 'wound', I would think. Regardless, a half-dozen sprints on the kitchen stair from roof to cellars would fix that." Benedict raises an eyebrow. "It always worked for me."

Merlin gives Benedict a grateful look.

Dara's expression clearly says that there things she'd far rather be doing than sprinting, but she doesn't say a word. A faint nod allows that maybe that would be a better application of her energy than just about anything she could come up with anyway.

Martin wears the practiced non-expression that a Prince of Amber necessarily develops for such moments.

Benedict steps closer to Martin. "What was your first Patternwalk like, Merlin? Who prepared you for the ordeal?"

Martin gives Benedict a tight grin.

"Huh. If I had known what was going to happen I should have been terrified. Father didn't realize... " Merlin stops to collect his scattered thoughts.

"Corwin told me the basics. To start and not stop. To not get distracted. What to expect at certain points of the journey." His eyes darken to near black. "I don't recall if I shifted as I walked; if I did it was outside of my concerns. I had a distraction almost immediately."

Dara's gaze grows curious, and she slowly drifts back towards where Merlin sits. She does not sit again, hovering slightly behind the settee, her hands upon the top edge of the back, as if the furniture were a shield between herself and the others in the room.

He takes off his ring and looks at both sides of his hand, at the red and angry looking scar that circles the place on his finger where the ring rests. "The ring my mother had given me was of magic antithetical to that of Pattern. It burned off before the first veil. This scar has never faded. Pattern damage, I've guessed. Once I pulled my focus through the eye of that needle, the rest of the trip was, I suspect, as they all are. Corwin never mentioned that I shifted, although he may have expected it." He glances at Dara as he returns the ring to the middle finger of his hand. It is a large cabochon cut of some dark stone, set in silver.

"I shifted. He wouldn't have been surprised." Dara's gaze is fixed on the scar, then on the ring.

"After, Corwin apologized. Apparently there is a tradition of wearing or bearing objects on that path. He thought I knew of this." Merlin shakes his head, "To walk without it I would have had to remove my finger. It was spelled quite tightly." His eyes flick round the group. "I took the opportunity of my sudden freedom to go off in shadow and replicate the ring. I had worn it long enough; the spells left plenty of traces to emulate. But I turned this one towards my own purposes, not theirs."

The corners of Dara's mouth quirk up in a faint smile of pride.

He quirks an eyebrow at her expression and continues:

"The original was Mandor's work. I have managed to avoid seeing him, since then. I do not wish him to know I am free, and my counterfeit will not fool him for a moment."

He remembers the steaming mug and takes another long swallow. After a moment, his gaze rises from contemplating the dregs and he adds, "I must have been shifting. Those spells were seated deep. I would have died as they burned had I not shifted. Ordeal." His eyes meet Benedict's. "Corwin never used that term. It is most apt."

Martin, who has remained silent through the proceedings, nods at the last statement.

"Is there more of this?" He raises the now empty mug.

Benedict nods and moves back to the sidebar.

"How long ago did you take the Pattern?" Dara asks, her voice soft. There is a faint cracking sound, and she winces and smoothes a hand along the wooden embellishment at the top of the settee.

Merlin blinks at the cracking noise, "It was before we came here to attend the coronation. Time was moving oddly for a while there. I don't really know how long before." He shrugs as he gives her a quizzical look.

Dara is thoughtful, her hands now resting much more loosely on top of the settee. She glances at the bar, where Benedict is, to watch...

Another of the ceramic jars is treated to the ritual of twisting and rocking. In Benedict's hands, the ritual dance of the container is completed quickly and silently. Then a strike against the seal and it is open. He refreshes his drink, and this time brings the jar to Merlin for another steaming measure of the Sithian.

Merlin stands to offer his mug, inclining his body in a short but respectful bow as he does so. He takes a long swallow as he moves toward the sidebar, and leans there, briefly glancing at Martin, before looking toward Dara for her next question.

A slight blink as she realizes that now all of the men are arrayed along the wall together, with the settee between her and them. She glances down, blinks again, and decides to stay where she is. "One of the things I thought about... during the war and after... was wondering how much of your life I was missing. That's why I was curious how long ago..." her voice trails off. Her hands tighten upon the settee, and she looks down and quickly lifts her hands, looking vaguely embarrassed, and puts them behind her back.

"Cracked it," she mutters, by way of soft explanation, with a nod at the wood trim. "Those stair runs might not be such a bad idea."

She gathers herself together. "I've actually run out of things to say." She shrugs, a little lost. "Not completely, not really... but in any manner that makes sense..." She shrugs again, the motion substituting for the end of the sentence. "I want, more than anything, to know you. I know that takes time. And effort. Which I want to put into it..." her expression shows the depth of that... a flash of near desperate wanting. "I just don't know what to ask without poking my nose where it doesn't belong. And this is all strange for you. And me, really. Everything I've thought about just pales in the face of reality." She sighs, her gaze flitting around the room, seeking inspiration.

Her gaze finally settles back on the three men in the room. "So... Merlin... " She throws a look at Benedict and Martin, very clearly a help me out here, as she stumbles to a stop.

Benedict winks at Dara, this impossible to be seen by the two gentleman more removed.

A flicker of a smile graces her features.

"So Merlin," the warmaster picks up the opening gambit and eases himself en garde to Merlin, with his mug in hand, his profile equally narrow to Dara, "do you engage in relaxation? Perhaps a game of whist, or that one so favored of Sawall, 'Dare Picket'? I find that sprinting raises the threshold of conversation too much, while cards seems to lower it a whisker. Would you care to name your sport?"

For a moment Dara looks as if she is going to move... backwards... but her gaze falls on Merlin again and she stays right where she is.

Merlin looks a bit blank, then nods. There is the merest hint of resignation in his voice as he says, "Haven't played Picket in a while." As he looks at Martin and states, "You'll remember that one," his mouth quirks up in the corner.

Martin nods to Merlin. "I do." He turns back to Benedict. "I don't know if I have time for a full game, though. I've been told I may have family greeting duties. Sand and Delwin are supposed to be arriving sometime today."

Dara's stance eases slightly.

Benedict nods. "'Tis so. And Random may want me there as the unrattled saber, though I would 'spect not. As well we all have a chance to shake out this air before such pageantry. So I ask for a consideration later and release you to your sprints." Benedict moves closer to Merlin. Easily, moving plainly, he touches the edge of his mug to Merlin's with a small click of ceramic to same. "Well done. Enjoy your stay. Ask Vent to find me if you have need." And he then finishes his drink as if that were a toast.

Merlin echoes his gestures with mug and with drink. He points mutely at the two remaining jars on the sideboard, picking up the partially full one and draining it into his mug. He obviously expects Benedict to take the unopened jars for his stock.

And perhaps it is--Benedict nods to Dara and Martin and moves out of the room.

Gaze fixed, Dara watches as Benedict moves to Merlin, then watches again as he leaves, nodding when she is nodded to. The look is reminiscent of a rabbit watching those around it, wondering if anyone will notice if it bolts.

Left alone with Martin and Merlin, a sudden fluid rush of expressions, too fast to capture, slips over Dara's face. The blitz ends with tired and retreating, and perhaps a little sad. "I think..." she falters, "I'm going to go exploring. If you want to find me later..." She stops again, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. "I'm here. When you want me." She smiles wryly. "I'll give you time now to get used to that."

Merlin pauses from his drink as she speaks. He nods. "Time is needed, Lady." His eyes lighten to their normal grey, "I will be taking lunch tomorrow at eleven, in the solarium." It is an invitation, and a question.

A soft quick smile, and she nods, returning her expression to solemnity. "It sounds like a good time, and place, for lunch. I hope I will see you then."

Her glance flickers to Martin, more tired than annoyed, as if the after-effects of the suckerpunch are just catching up to her now. She nods.

And she will turn and head for the door, walking with coltish grace, her back straight. She closes the door behind her and is gone.