March, 15, 2001

The Faux Pattern.

You stare at the image of Brand...

You have established contact with Brand.

To the image of Brand, Lisle says, "Brand. It's Lise."

The image of Brand appears to have just been pacing. A grand piano, the protective cover pushed back from its keys, can be glimpsed behind him. Papers in varied states of ruin are scattered about it. "So it is. Have you come to tell me of your success?"

To the image of Brand, Lisle says, "I have, and to indulge myself in your company." Her eyes are a little sad, in fact.

The image of Brand extends his hand. "So mote it be."

The image of Brand offers to pull you through.

You grasp Brand's hand and he pulls you through.

the razor's edge

Contents:

Brand

Lisle comes through, coat swinging open as she does. "Do you compose Music, Brand? Ihave heard you are an artist."

The room is mostly empty, the single door closed. Little else decorates it, though the wood panelling of the walls is exquisite, as is the carpeting, for all that it is littered with torn pages and ash..

Brand emits a sharp bark of a laugh. "It is said that I have some such talent." He strides back to the piano.

Lisle leans down to pick up a sheaf of paper, regarding it carefully. She straightens, the fall of her hair hiding her face. When she finally does look up at Brand, her face is impassive, expressive eyes hooded.

Brand brings his hands down on the keys. The sound that issues forth is thunder clouds in council, gathered for some base purpose. Abruptly it ceases, as he turns to face Lise once more.

Lisle has walked nearer Brand, heeled boots staccato on the floor. She regards him carefully. The rejected paper is held to her chest, its crinkling unheard over the din of his music. Flash of sapphires at wrists, flash of matching eyes under dark-rooted blonde lashes. "I find you composing. What is in your music, I wonder, Brand."

This area appears to be threaded with powerful magic. This is (more virtually than usual) in the Keep of the Four Winds.

Brand 's eyes narrow fractionally. "What a question to ask. What do you observe then?"

Lisle lifts her hands a moment, as if stretching, when in fact the flutter of her lashes and the lift her her chest implies the advent of her consciousness to this place. The paper flutters down with the motion of a feather. "It just feels different here." Jaw tightens, enjoying it.

Brand says "It should. This is a seat of the sovereign, to those who have the wit to witness." He sits then, on the bench before the piano, like a sword sheathed, and motions to the place beside him. "Tell me of your triumph."

Boots clip twice as she sits next to Brand on the bench, coat slipping off her shoulders to pool on the ground leaving the gleam of white shirt and gems. "I practiced what you taught me, but I'm afraid I wasn't very careful about it. It is, after all, something fine to behold." Her voice holds joy, however, and she adds, "Even in Amber the lights go on in the stable at night, the dance on the walls when I sleep. Fires start and water turns. All little things. I don't think I can manage much more." She stares at the keys of the instrument.

Brand turns his head to regard Lisle. "What would you, then?"

Lisle turns to look right into Brand's eyes. "I would understand /everything/." There's an ache in her voice. "I would know the improbable as well as the probable and everything in between. I would drink it in like ambrosia. I would feel it like the rising of a silver moon." She smiles then, a generous thing from the depths of blue eyes. "That's all."

Brand does not laugh. Rather, he says, "Long ago and far away, there was a king with seven sons -- one a soldier, one a warrior, one a sorcerer, one a diplomat, one a minstrel, one a lady's man. But for the seventh son, there was no place left, for his brothers had taken them all."

Lisle listens, lashes lowered. Almost demur, but for the suggestion of vibrance in a shiver.

Brand says "What could this one do? In the time he took to thwart a threat, the soldier or the diplomat had settled six. He would compose, but it was the minstrel whose songs were sung throughout the halls and hearths of the land. He would speak a lady fair, but in the moment he bowed his respect, the lady's man would charm her aside. And so it was in every other endeavor."

One hand comes up, fingers resting on the ivory, if indeed they are ivory and black, keys. She presses a few slowly, so slowly they make no music at all. Her gaze moves from the keys, back to Brand's face. She does not interrupt.

Brand says "But there was one thing he had alone. Where any ordinary man -- even the son of a king -- would have long resigned himself to a life in the shadow of his brothers, he would not subside. He dreamed, he learned, he dreamed to learn, he learned to dream. And though soon he found that the world was too wide to swallow in a single gulp, he did not break, nor did he falter."

Lisle's expression is defined by her mouth, a straight and serious line. Hand lifts from the keys, quiet in her lap. "I suppose he came to some bad end." Sad eyes.

Brand's mouth curves. It is nearly a smile. "His story is not over yet. Nor shall it be, while fire hungers and breath denies. You, too, will find that the world is too wide to swallow in a single gulp, but do not break, and do not falter."

Lisle smiles more warmly. "I won't break. A gift from my father, a will of iron. The world may be too big, Brand, but I will have what I can of it, in the end. All I want is to understand everything. You know my own Aunt thinks that I listen to others too easily?" She shakes her head, sad about it. Fingers play an innocent tune on her end of the piano. "I like coming here. You give me hope."

Lisle amends, "I like coming to you."

Brand says "Verily, verily, a potent gift, hope. In word or in deed?"

Lisle replies, "Both. That you teach me implies you think I'm worth teaching. That you told me that tale is word -- that my dreams are worth pursuing. It isn't that others don't. It's that they're used to the sword, I think, and the strength of a man's body.

Brand says "There are other kinds of strength, undervalued but undiminished. The aesthetic for these is rare but deserving of cultivation."

Lisle says, "Well," dimples showing, "~I~ think so. I hope to understand all these better, too, after I take the pattern."

Brand's expression darkens as if a cloud had passed over him, his posture straightening. His brusque motion causes his elbow to strike a dissonant chord on the piano. "The Pattern. I suppose you would."

This response makes Lise blink a moment in surprise. "Why wouldn't I? There are secrets there that need to be understood. Yes?" There is a fine line between blonde brows.

Brand springs up from the bench, his foot crushing a page. "It could murder you. But here is more to it, as you no doubt have surmised from my reaction. It *will* alter you."

Lisle does not stand but her eyes stalk Brand as he moves. "Murder me? As for altering me, that I know. But Brand, knowing you will alter me. Already I am a sorceress, albeit a relatively harmless one. Do you mean something different?"

Brand takes a few tense steps away as if that narrow expenditure of energy were the only way he might contain some force, then spins to face Lise. "Tell me what you know of the Pattern."

Lisle's voice velvets as she speaks, almost as if she has something memorized, "The pattern is the stuff that Amber is made of. It marks those of Oberon's blood. With it we have power to traverse shadow." Her eyes have never left Brand.

Brand's voice is low, but carries. "No one has ever told you of the peril. Of the sacrifice. Of the price. How soon the dead are forgotten."

Lisle says, "My father told me it would change me forever. That I would be like I am, only more so. Of what do you speak, Brand?"

Brand says "Aye, it will change you, for as long as you live. If it accepts you. If you allow it to bend you to its will. Or else you will surely die."

Lisle pauses, breathless, "Are you telling me its sentient?"

Brand says "Aware? To some degree. There is a will behind it that cares little for your interests."

Lisle says, "A will. Is it God?" Her body has gone very very still. And then a little pause, "Did you take the pattern?"

Brand says "A god? Only if I, too, am a god." He does not seem to consider this out of the question. "I did, but long before I came to realize what it was, what it meant. At that time, I was not close to understanding everything, though the drive and the desire were there."

Lisle is riveted. "Do you feel it in your blood then? Does whatever it is watch you? Us? Is the kind of thing that brings the passion of art and music? Or does it restrict?" She turns then, on the piano bench, to better regard him.

Brand hunches over slightly, unconsciously, perhaps. "It is no muse. No. It is an authority subtle and singular, but when its demands are announced, no dispensation is available."

It's Brand's hunch that actually alarms Lise into her posture going stiff. "Tell me. What would you be, today, without this pattern? Is it a two-edged sword s so many things are?"

Brand says "You have no conception." He laughs bitterly. "Is not a single edge sufficient to separate the breath from the body? We all stand upon an edge."

Lisle stands up, "I don't have any conception." She smoothes down her trousers, an elegant gesture that belies concern. "But I need to know which edge of the blade is mine to wield, to understand, and which belongs to this, this God."

Brand says "You must know that this is not a wholly unselfish confession. I have set myself against the Pattern's tyranny, and I have suffered for it. You are not the first to whom I have revealed these things. The others, your cousins, are dead now or dead to me."

Lisle approaches. "Brand. Do you tell me you are against the pattern? Do you tell me if I go to the castle and walk upon it to its end, I will be dead to you?" Lise's voice hushed.

Brand says, solemnly, "Opposed to the Pattern, I am, and I remain, my lone voice in the wilderness unheard. I cannot say what changes it will wreak upon you -- if you will emerge, if you will harken to me no longer. I fear for you. I fear for what makes you what you are."

"You realize, of course, all my plans -- what I want to understand. This I cannot do without first understanding the pattern." Lise's brows are now fully together. Both hands come out, palms up, almost beseeching.

Brand cups Lisle's hands in his own, the touch of his skin cool, but not quite cold. "And if it should destroy you?"

Lisle's heart is in her eyes, "Did you ever feel like you must do something even if you knew it could destroy you? I feel I must try even if it might destroy me. What kind of life is worth living with the heavy burden of regret, of thinking you are not living the life you were born to lead?" Her own hands are warm, body slender, vulnerable.

Brand's hands close around Lisle's, firm but not crushing. His eyes search hers. He draws a slow breath before he says, tonelessly, "Though you know not the cost, I see you will not be dissuaded." Life, fire, creeps back into his voice as he continues. "Then, by my breath and by my blood, by my strength and by my sight, I will strive to prepare you to survive."

"I'll do my best to listen and understand. I must do this thing. Otherwise I'll never know why anything the way it is." She smiles at this, not sorrowful, not gleeful. But with purpose and determination. As if Brand would understand, or she thinks to deep in her bones.

Brand says "It is not only a matter of understanding. I pray it will prove sufficient. I have attempted force. I have attempted cunning. Neither alone ensures success. I must find a fresh formula. How much time do we have?"

Lisle's hands turn so she clasps Brand's hands. "I think not much time. I make take it soon. As soon my father can arrange it." Still, there is steely stubbornness in her eyes, and she adds, "Do you mean to prepare me in some other way than my father has?"

Brand says "Indeed. What has he done for you?"

Lisle says, "He sat with me one morning and described to me everything I should not not do, and should do, once I stepped on the pattern."

Brand says "Words. They might suffice to carry some part of you to the far side, but how can they preserve your essence?" He brings the weight of his full attention upon her, that gaze which seems to dissect and reduce.

Lisle says, "That I do not know. His words were designed to preserve my life."

Lisle does not flinch under his attention, his gaze.

The world seems to shrink: first, there is a loss of peripheral vision; next, the light appears to dim. Brand's hands can still be felt clasping hers, even as darkness descends and a pressure more sensed than felt makes itself known.

Perhaps Lise should be afraid. She is apprehensive, anyway, Brand can tell this because of the way her hands tighten in his. "What is this? Are we going somewhere?" Her voice is hushed and ghostly.

Brand's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, but does not echo. "I am with you here, but I can not when you walk the Pattern. You must find your way to the end." There is light that brings no sight, only the sense of vastness and constraint. A burden presses in a more than physical sense as the first mild shocks begin.

"Finding the end on the pattern means walking to its end. Doesn't it?" At the feeling of the shocks, though, she is clearly startled, maybe even afraid. He'll hear her inhale a sharp breath, then a gasp. It is her iron will that keeps her from panic. That, and the feel of Brand's presence, his hands, his voice. "What is this?" There's a lump in her throat.

Brand's voice says "An exercise. Not precisely a simulation, but a complementary experience. Take a step."

Lisle will let go of one of Brand's hands, but not the other. She takes a step forward, one foot, at least. Very tentative. Her eyes look down to see the path, if there is one, blonde hair silking in front of her shoulder.

There is some resistance, even as there is the sense of forward motion. Nothing can be seen, still. Somehow, Brand's presence remains, though he is not visible, and his hand can be felt. "Continue, as if you were on the Pattern."

One step forward, then another. Her head tilts upward to look more forward, into the future. "So I step, like so, and there will be resistance, but go forward. And how do I do this and guard myself? You said there would be a way?" Her voice holds interest, if not confidence.

The resistance increases in small increments, as does the pressure, the burden, the shocks. "The Pattern evokes memory. You must cling to that which you know is true,"

And now there is a presence beneath the pressure that multiplies and impinges, as if it wished to reach into Lisle to tear her asunder, then those pieces into smaller pieces.

Tremors come down the slender length of Lise's back, her spine, and to her legs, but she presses forward, still stepping slow but even, "So you mean I should focus on," she must pause, jaw tensing, "My past, not my future."

Brand's voice says "No. On the present. On who you are. On what is important to you. On your progress. Do not allow the physical to distract you from the mental, nor the mental from the physical. Either lapse is fatal, if not in body, then in soul."

The shocks are almost a constant current now, and the malevolent presence continues to seek some manner of ingress.

Tendrils of Lise's hair creep upward as the shocks continue. But Lise does not let go of Brand's hand. The tightness of her fingers decreases, at least. Her free hand comes up, as if testing the waters in front of her. "It oppresses like this? I mean, the pattern."

Brand's disembodied voice says "It is not so overt, unless you know what to look for. The Pattern has three Veils: one toward the beginning, one toward the center, and one at the end. At these points, travel is considerably more difficult." As if to underscore his words, the pressure sharply gains an order of magnitude or more, as does the resistance.

"And are these," she pauses, gasping at the resistance. She doesn't say anything, pushing her way through this with determination. She finally let's go of Brand's hand, too, mostly so she can throw the weight of her body into it. But once she does this she suffers a moment of disorientation, slowing.

Brand's voice sounds farther away. "'ware, Lisle! Not only the body, but the will you must exercise."

A vise seems to clamp down on her, within and without, or perhaps the beginning of a vile cocoon.

Each word comes punctuated by deep breaths, "Veils Mark you?" A steely stubbornness jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. But still, she puts one foot in front of the other, as if by her will she can get away from what tries to oppress her.

Brand's voice says "The veils are but a part and portion. The Pattern entire marks you."

There hardly seems to be progress; even the rate of what progress there is seems to be slowing, fossilizing, and Lisle with it.

(This is a lot like the real pattern, but the flavor is somewhat different. The actual Pattern doesn't feel so nasty; on the other hand, this isn't the same kind of transformative experience that the Pattern is. What is extremely similar is the will necessary to push through it, though in some ways this is actually harder than the will necessary to push through the Pattern, because Brand is trying to teach Lisle more than what is needed to just make the physical crossing. Or so he hopes, anyway. :)

Lise, mindful of Brand's words and her father, presses forward anyway. Even when she feels sick to her stomach. Hands move to her midriff, nauseated.

Long distance to Brand: Lisle wonders if there will be some effect on Lise from this.

There's the barest of motions, then nothing further is gained. For all the impression of vastness, there may arise claustrophobia from the cessation of forward motion. Worse than that is the destructive presence coupled with the intensifying pressure, already intimately near, and growing near still.

Lisle is near to doubling over, face contorted. She says, sharply, "Brand!" The oppressiveness is enough to make her vomit, her usually elegant features twisted as spasm ripple through her body.

With no warning, vision and color return to the world in an explosion of sensation, the carpet plush and real beneath Lisle's feet, the air fresh and sweet, and then the solidity of the touch of Brand's hand on her shoulder.

Lise trembles as if she's cold, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Fine blue eyes look to her side, at Brand. "That was," eyes close, "awful."

Brand's face is concerned, but his voice is soothing. "Breathe deeply. Slowly. That was barely a third," he says, but there is no chastisement in his revelation. "Rest. Build your strength. I will give you lesser exercises, and then we will essay this again."

Lisle inclines her head, "All right. Will the real pattern be so much like this?" Hand fishes in her pocket for a handkerchief. With this she wipes her mouth, her chin, the front of her shirt. But when she looks back into his eyes, there is hope, and determination.

Brand says "Like and unlike, as one brother to another. Now rest."

(Brand finds a guest room in the Keep of the Four rooms for Lise to sleep before she trumps back to the Folly. During other times, a day later, Lise finally succeeds in going the gauntlet. Brand asks for her starburst necklace, her emblem, that she wears around her neck. He returns it a bit later, before she essays the pattern. This effort to save Lise from the perils of the pattern has another effect, nightmares about it, and the feeling of nausea, at the veils.)