One

	...I was running, out, full speed, across the green hills of an
Ireland that was not my Ireland, but no less real to me because of
it...away from the army, away from the fort, away from the children, away
from my mother's questions, away from the shards of shattered dishes, away
most of all from the two men wounded by my faithlessness.

	I ran for timeless time, booted feet flying over the grass, until
my boots began to give me a blister at the heel.  That's when I fell, a
pratfall, a stage fall, a fencer's fall, and rolled a few times, onto my
back, and tugged off my boots, and left my socks there beside them to
molder in the mists on the green hills of an Ireland in a Shadow far from
anywhere.  I ran barefoot, through verdant valleys and rippling streams,
and stones cut my feet, and the cuts healed when I thought about them, and
bled when I didn't.  I ran through mists and a herd of cattle.  I ran
until my breasts ached with the strange ache of motherhood.  I crossed my
arms over my chest and ran on, hugging myself, holding myself.  I ran
until I fell again, less gracefully this time, my feet stained by grass. I
turned my face to the mountain I was on, and breathed in its scent, and
wondered, for the first time, if it would have made any difference if Ahab
were still alive.

	I began to cry then, into the mountain, as I had cried so much
since the day my king had fallen, but not this time for Driscoll, or
Foster, or my child.  This time for myself, and all that I had lost -- my
faith, my god, and my king.


Two

	Iseult, Foster says, is a carbon copy of Laughter.  I pointed out
she seems more intense than the original.  She loves nothing so well as a
sword, and if I could make an accurate guess as to her future height, I
would gladly forge one of Sequence's quality and Return's conscience to
keep her out of trouble.  Foster and I have our hands full with that one
-- but she looks up at me with liquid eyes of violet-blue and pansy-brown,
and I can't actually be angry with her.  Firm, yes, but not angry.  She is
a lesson to me in how I get away with so much.  She struts around with one
hand on the dwarf-sized, dulled shortsword as though she can defend the
Rath against all comers.  I almost believe it.  She is nothing like the
frail and tender lady in the story that she was named for; she is a young
Boudicea.

	I'm almost frightened to let her grow up, seeing what a muddle
I've made of my life.


Three

	My thoughts turn to Amber, and my family there.  Beauty is
concerned for Nicholas -- he does not appear to think of Ahab at all,
where Kimdyl thinks only of Ahab.  Neither of them are talking much. 
Beauty is rather caught in the middle.  Her soft heart serves her well,
for though she is not yet in love with Nicholas, she loves him somewhat,
and she is overwhelmed by how much he loves her.

	It's a lot to go through at age fourteen.  Maybe I let her grow up
too soon.  But I think...  I was out and doing things at that age, I was
not quite yet living by my sword, but I was in training to do so; I had
left my home and my siblings.

	But nothing so bad happened to me.  That is the difference.  My
poor, darling girl.


Four

	Foster and Driscoll came to me and said they were going to spend
the afternoon together, and that they swore there would be no bloodshed. 
If I didn't trust them, they said, I was welcome to come watch.  "Watch
what?" I wondered, but told them that they would either come to blows or
they wouldn't, and it wouldn't be stopped or started by my presence.  I
sent them off, and paced the afternoon through.

	They came back, seeming to have no bruises and all the blood they
left with.  But...Driscoll sat uneasily at dinner.  A weight seemed gone
from them both, but I kept getting the strangest looks...honestly, if
Driscoll had been able to sit still, I wouldn't have been all *that*
suspicious, I would have just let them have their secrets.  But it was the
way Driscoll looked, and the intimate knowledge I have of Foster's
fondness for a certain riding crop...

	I called them up on the carpet, as if I were the Dean of Students
and they were misguided undergrads.  I bade Driscoll sit, sternly.  He
looked reluctant, and just barely managed not to wince when he did so.  I
looked crossly at them both.  Though I asked many direct questions at that
moment, I didn't get many direct answers.  But the situation eventually
became clear; Foster had punished Driscoll for transgressing against our
marriage vows.  But it wasn't a simple matter of beating each other
senseless, which they had done; Foster apparently demanded of Driscoll
some gesture that would seal forever and always Driscoll's respect for
Foster's dominance.  That's the word that was used, in fact.  Dominance
over me was meant.

	"I am NOT property," I remember saying, slamming my hands down on
my desk.

	They both looked mildly at me, unimpressed, far more indoctrinated
by the laws of Chaos than they'll ever admit.  No, you aren't property,
they agreed, but it's so much easier to think of things that way.

	This issue aside -- I've argued it before, more times than I can
count, and in situations where it mattered more -- the fact of the matter
is that Foster "punished" Driscoll in a manner that Foster knew
intimately.

	I can't believe Vetch used that sort of punishment on Foster. 
"It's humiliating," he said matter-of-factly.  Good God, is it
humiliating.  I always knew Vetch for a ruthless bastard, but somehow I
had the picture of a tough but benevolent patriarch looming large over the
house of assassins, whose drive to destroy never included those he loved. 
Love.  That would be the key, now wouldn't it?  Foster says he's never
seen Riftvan love anyone until Ariana.  He sure as hell never loved
Foster.

	I sit in my study some nights, unable to sleep, thinking about
what harm we all do to each other.  The biggest crime is not loving.  No
wonder Foster is so afraid to lose me.  I'm the first thing that loved him
back since his mother.  Poor Tamaryn.  Poor Foster.  I almost wish Tamaryn
had killed the rat bastard.  I am, ultimately, hopeful for Vetch's
redemption at Ariana's hands.

	I have to wonder whatever became of the first Haris, the man in
Chaos who taught Foster that there was more to life than being an
assassin.  I think, and I have no way of knowing, short of asking, that
Vetch killed him.  I think that is what Vetch would do if he found someone
messing with his perfect assassin.  I also suspect, now, after this event,
that perhaps Haris was Foster's lover.  But I'm never going to ask about
that, either.  One would presume that if he were alive, this Haris who
changed Foster's view on the world would have been brought to meet his
namesake, just once.  That is why I think he is dead.

	Foster feels that now he has asserted his dominance over Driscoll,
he can trust us to be in the same room alone together.  "What does this
mean?" I asked, perplexed.

	"I have first dibs."


Five

	Apparently, the deal was this:  if Driscoll proved -- by doing
this thing, by getting on his knees before Foster, quite literally -- that
he was willing to suffer this sort of humiliation, then Foster would
promise to reconsider Driscoll's place in our family.  "It was a chance to
be more than just Pax's father," he told me.

	And as Foster put it to me:  "I thought this was what you wanted. 
This was your ideal..."

	How do I say, "But in my mixed-up memories, it was because of your
mutual regard, because you two came to love each other, that we were all
three *together*.  Not because you wanted the same woman."


Six

	I brought Felix through today, to spend some time with the
children.  He began to harangue me, saying that he knew he had been
brought through so the grown-ups could go off and do something fun...as if
there is anything fun to do in an army camp, except the things we do every
day?  He was mostly kidding, I know, but it occurred to me that this
two-year sojourn into purgatory was probably a very bad idea after all.

	Hindsight is eagle-sight.

	Hary and Iseult were very, very glad to see him, and Pax smiled as
though he knew this was the man who guided him into the world when his
mother and fathers couldn't think straight for the stupidity they were
wrapped up in.

	I think, though he is not technically Pax's grandfather, he should
be his godfather.  There are few better to guide a child through life than
Felix.  Watching Felix with Foster was proof of that.  Felix certainly
couldn't help it that Foster was twice his age and merely playing at being
a child.  He was--is--otherwise an inestimable parent.


Seven

	Random, Vialle and Martin.  I watched as Driscoll pulled them
through, and sped up the Shadow as soon as they entered.  Random is a hard
one to figure out; perhaps the only man in the family who could wear the
Crown, have it taken away from him, and still serve Amber.  I think,
empirically, that I like him.  In spite, that is, of his behavior towards
his son.  He seems to think Driscoll has gotten off easy for touching me,
and deserves far worse at Foster's hands.  Oh.

	With Vialle, on the other hand, there is no question about liking. 
She's a green- haired Tamaryn, and because her eyes can't see your body,
they look through you into your soul.  I feel silly saying that, but it's
amazingly true.

	Martin looked uncomfortable as soon as he entered the Shadow.  One
only had to take Pax close to him to see that children were not his forte. 
I plucked Pax out of his arms as he held his nephew like a sleeping, rabid
squirrel -- don't disturb it, it might do unmentionable things to me if it
wakes.  Rather than laugh at his expression, I introduced him to Hary, and
pointed out that if he's not used to dealing with children, Hary is as
durable as they come.  Hary was game.  By the end of the visit, Martin was
quite, quite comfortable with the kids.

	I sometimes look into that good-natured little face and think I
must have done something quite amazing to deserve Haris.  Then I look into
his eyes, bleached by the Pattern, and wonder what the color hides...


Eight

	I wasn't going to let things ride forever, and they had to have
known that.  So, I called them up on the carpet again -- I'm getting quite
good at it.  And when I asked them what we are going to do, Driscoll and
Foster exchanged glances, and Driscoll left.

	"Laughter, I know how much he loves you, and I know you have
feelings for him.  I also know now how much you love me.  I won't forget
that again.  If you want the three of us to handfast, that would be okay,
but I know Driscoll would never intentionally hurt you, not again, anyway,
so it might not be necessary.  I want those violet eyes to be happy,
forever."

	It's amazing to me how men just *are*.  You can't even hope to
understand them.  I took a deep breath, and launched into the speech I had
been preparing for days.

	"What I'm trying to ask is this:  I pretty much stole two years of
Driscoll's life in bringing him here.  I need to know if, when we get back
to Amber, if we have to try to give him his life back, or if he wants --
and *you* want -- to keep working on whatever we're not admitting to
building here.  His thread is always going to run close to our threads
because of Pax.  But I swear, if he just wants to go on with his life
otherwise, and not try to forge himself a place with us, I will let him
go.  No pining, no regrets, no lingering looks, and I'll dance with light
feet at his wedding, whoever he marries.

	"You and I have a marriage.  In spite of what's in the past, our
bond is set; if you and I are both willing, there is room for another in
it, but whatever happens, that other is going to feel like an outsider
unless we throw our whole hearts and minds into making it work.  It's
pointless cruelty to Driscoll to give him half a life in the shadows of
our marriage; we either bring him into it wholeheartedly, as an equal
partner, or we let him go, and go on to something that can promise that
equality.  I love him too much to torture him any longer, either way.

	"It's a binary switch, it's either on or off.  This is the choice
I'm offering you, and from that point, we either tell Driscoll to move on,
or we offer him the same choice.  The formalities of it -- marriage,
handfasting, whatnot, those aren't important to me.  It's what we know and
do.  I want it settled before we get back to Amber -- you don't have to
make a decision before then."

	I stood up and went on tip-toe to kiss his cheek, and to say to
him in a low voice:  "And for the sake of God and the Lady, don't make
this a completely sacrificial maneuver.  I love you, and you're more than
enough to make me happy."  I stood down.  "Though I will leave you with
one of Caitt's maxims:  'Joy shared is joy doubled.' Think about how much
doubling goes on when you share with more than one person."

	I told him that was all, and headed for the door, where I paused
and told him to think it over as long as he likes...and if he needed to
Trump anyone, I'd happily slow the Shadow down for him.

	He gave me such a look then, very loving, warm and soft.  I
couldn't quite fathom the reason behind it, as he told me the person he
needed to talk to was in the Shadow.

	I nodded, and went downstairs to talk to my mum, and I sat in her
warm kitchen while she baked cookies, and it was almost like being a
little kid again.

	Except I never had this feeling when I was a little kid.  I hope I
did the right thing -- that putting this decision in Foster's hands was
the right plan.  I meant it -- I will let Driscoll go, if that's what
Foster wants.  And I will try, harder than I've ever tried anything
before, to do it with grace.  But I have loved him so long, it's hard to
imagine doing that.  As unimaginable as giving up Foster, in some ways. 
But I swear, this is the best course.  I can't live halfway anymore, and I
don't know how either of them can.

	I used to think:  as long as I have my sword and can still fight
the good fight, nothing can really get me down.  I know a little better
now.  But the requisites aren't so different.  As long as I have my sword,
and can fight the good fight, and my loved ones are healthy and happy --
if that's all fine, I will be happy too.

	I think.