Vere has dressed for this occasion in a loose robe of dark blue velvet. He is barefoot, and wears no adornment of any kind, save for two feathers braided into his hair just behind his right ear.
He walks forward and stops just before the Pattern, resting a hand briefly against the bark of the tree that guards its beginning. He gazes out at the glowing lines, so many emotions in his heart that even he would not try to catalog them all. Not at this particular point in time, at any rate. Maybe later he will look back and try to decide exactly what he was feeling at this crucial point in his life.
With a sudden nod of his head he steps forward decisively, right foot coming down firmly on the glowing line of force.
The sudden feeling of power flowing through his body comes as no surprise, it is exactly what he has been told to expect. As are the shimmering silver sparks that leap from the Pattern with each step he takes. He accepts these things, and does not let them distract him as he walks. Nor does he allow the apparent ease with which these first few steps occur mislead him. He knows full well this will be a trial, and he is prepared for it.
He walks the outer circle of Corwin's Pattern, feeling the power flow through him, and within a few steps he begins to feel the resistance of the First Veil. It's a resistance he was expecting, and he pushes through it. He is Vere, Prince Royal of the Isles, Son of the Lady, Son of Gerard of Amber. This is his birthright, and he will not be denied.
And the resistance parts around him, with a sudden feeling of release. Like surfacing suddenly after swimming underwater for too long, like dawn breaking after a too long night. The relief from the pressure is so sudden that, had Gerard not told him of it, he might well have stumbled.
And with that release comes a flood of memories. Playing in the nursery with Siege, laughing and running around the room trying to keep from being caught by Souldu. Being snuck a book by an amused Avis. "Here," she says. "But don't ruin those pretty eyes of yours, all right?" Still a boy, being taken on his first trip through shadow by Gerard. "This is your birthright, lad. When you walk the Pattern, all reality will be yours for the seeing." Vianis, talking to the Lady as though he were not even in the room, as was her wont. "I confess myself somewhat favourably impressed by the child, Your Majesty. Let us hope he lives up to his promise." 14 years old, and watching the sun rise over the Grove of the Stag after sitting vigil all night. The sense of pride at knowing that he has earned his place in the Brotherhood. 18, and seeing his mother nod her approval as the baldric of Lord Commander is laid over his shoulder. All those memories come rushing back. And still he walks. One foot after the other. Do not pause, do not consider. Accept, and walk.
He has completed a circuit of the Pattern, and he notices the tree and those standing behind it and watching his progress out of the corner of his eye. Do not pay attention to them. Pay attention only to the walk. A turn, as the Pattern reverses back on itself. The memories continue to come, faster and faster. Let them wash over you, but don't let them distract you. Time to consider later. For now, there is only walking. A second circuit is completed, and an arc begins. He is a child with a wooden sword, a young man on horseback in a race with his fellows in the Brotherhood, a sailor on a warship crashing alongside a foe and leaping across the gap between, blade in hand.
Resistance begins to build up again. Vere nods slightly, he was expecting it. The Second Veil, just as he has been told. The resistance is more gradual this time, but also stronger. And with it comes a wave of confusion, a sudden indecision. Why is he doing this? What is this effort for? With the stubborn determination he has inherited from his father Vere forces these questions down. He is a scion of Amber, and this is his heritage. He walks the Pattern because that is who he is, what he is. Forward, always forward. Each step more difficult than the last, the resistance growing with every gain, but his determination remaining fixed. Questions always remain, he tells himself. But answers can only be gained by advancing. Onward.
And the Second Veil parts for him. His foot comes down, and the power moves through him, becomes a part of him. With a gasp, he feels for the first time what it is to be connected to the Pattern, and begins to understand what those with mastery over shadow have tried to tell him. And he realizes in that instant that this is another trial, a temptation to try to understand this knowledge immediately. That distraction would be as fatal as having failed to pierce the Second Veil. Accept and continue, full understanding must wait for later. It is an effort for Vere, but the warnings have been dire enough, and his determination is strong enough, and he continues.
One step after another, tighter and tighter curves. Well over halfway now. A turn, an angle. Onward.
And then the resistance is back, stronger than before. Each step becomes a struggle, each movement a battle. The memories become darker, their order jumbled, and it becomes harder to ignore them. The Lady, her mouth a firm line of anger, listening to his swordmaster discussing his lack of devotion to his training. Chancellor Vianis appearing out of nowhere as he sits reading, and staring down at him with disapproval. His first duel, at 15, with a boy two years his senior who publicly claimed that Vere feared death. The long nights spent with that boy's ghost, which didn't completely fade away until nearly a year after his death at Vere's hands, and never learned peace in all that time. The twisted thing from the Black Forest that killed nearly a dozen of his men before he and Siege finally stood over its body, exhausted, bloodied, and with no sense of triumph. Because they knew there were more of them to come. More that must be fought, more that must be killed.
There are always more to kill. And the killing will never end, until finally you give up, and lay down your burden.
The whisper is faint, and it is his own voice. The resistance is stronger, his steps slower. Why continue? he wonders. It grows no easier. It only grows harder. And with every triumph, all you win is the right to fight again. Against a more difficult foe. Why continue? Why accept the pain, the fear? What is life, but despair?
The descent of his foot slows, the pressure pushing upwards against it. It is as though he were forcing it downward into thick mud, mud that grows thicker the harder one presses against it. And the doubts grow. If this step succeeds there will only be another step, even more difficult. And another, and another.
And through the cloud of despair comes a sudden pain, an intense heat along the right side of his head. The scent of burning feathers and hair fills his nostrils, and his mind clears.
I am Vere, he thinks. I am master of my own life, and I will fight for it.
And his foot comes down on the Pattern. And the Veil parts.
The relief is so great that he almost staggers. But he recovers, and with a shake of his head he continues.
Later for consideration. Now is not the time to think. Now is the time to walk.
And walk he does. Through the ever tightening inner circles. Sudden twists, and sharp angles. One step at a time. That is the way to walk, that is the secret of how to live. Take it all one step at a time.
The center is within sight. And now, abruptly, without any warning, his vision fails and his hearing dims. The world is dark, silent, and without either heat or cold. He is alone in emptiness.
It is the Fourth Veil. Had he not been warned, he fears the shock of its existence would have been enough to doom him.
Alone, he stands in a place that doesn't exist. Alone he faces his life. The Lady, Gerard, Lady Robin. All are taken from him. You have always lived for others, the voice that is his own says. Duty has been your life. But without duty, without the others to give you your purpose, what are you? And for an instant, his heart answers, "Nothing." The emptiness that surrounds him is nothing but the emptiness that fills him. He is, he has always been, a reflection of those he loved. Without them to reflect, he has no image of his own. Without them to give him a sense of duty, he has no goal of his own. Without them, he is not.
For that instant that is an eternity he is lost, and he cares not.
But in the heart of that instant of absolute emptiness there is a flare of light. If I am nothing but duty, why did I defy my mother's plan for me? If I am but a reflection, why has my father accepted my differences, and cherished me despite them? And if I am empty, how could Robin love me?
And from that empty timelessness Vere strides, and is remade.
The Fourth Veil parts, and Vere steps into the center of Corwin's Pattern.