Shen was tired, despite how soundly he'd slept. He sat at the breakfast table eating heartily, but with something of a glassy haze about him. He followed the conversation a bit, and actually felt himself more concerned about the Pattern than ever, but could only devote so much energy to thinking about it.

Here they were in Amber, kingdom that defined the universe, eating gruel. In Shen's lack of context, this was only barely odd, but some of the others had apparently thought it was the most sure sign that things were truly desperate. Prince Matthias had explained that he knew very little about the Pattern, and that the only person who did in Amber was his father, the current Regent, Prince Gerard. Out of this had come the plan to try to use the Pattern to restore Random's memory, which was now being discussed somewhere in the distant fog that was the other side of table. Shen recalled offering to help Random through the Pattern physically, if necessary, though his own walking it had drained him in a way he'd never before known, and assisting Random would likely require another day's rest at least.

Apparently Fletcher had walked the Pattern, too, but unlike Shen, had disappeared when he reached the center. The winds only knew where he was now, but if Shen remembered correctly, he went in knowing of the catch that thinking of a place or person at the center of the Pattern would bring you to it. Perhaps his journey was purposeful, but where would he go without yet knowing how to get back? Then again, there was always the chance that he DID know how to get back, but, in usual Fletcher style, hadn't shared that with anyone. No doubt he'd await some sort of bargain or exchange before offering away such valuable information, regardless of whatever danger into which this might place the others, particularly Harry. Shen sighed at himself, trying to release his growing frustration with the human shortsightedness that Fletcher seemed to incarnate.

Despite this, Shen felt an odd sort of responsibility for those who walked the Pattern after him, and that included some for Fletcher. He had done it himself somewhat impulsively, a result of a directed parhen in whose augury he had felt a telling that he was ready. Shortly afterward, however, he felt himself overcome by a fear that perhaps that others would take it as a sign to proceed and in so doing harm themselves, or worse, be destroyed. He did what he could to warn them, but he could barely remember how direly he did, or how well. The span of time between reaching the Pattern's center and awakening this morning was now a blur, just images of Griffin and Cecily, a few bits of conversation, and lots of sleep.

Shen thought he had dreamt vividly, but now couldn't remember much of it if he had. He remembered feelings of flying over high mountain Eyries, suckling at Salome's breast, running through grasses as high as he, and then other, darker thoughts: battles with demons, huddling away from cold winter rains, and a mother kissing him goodbye...

Some of this had been the Pattern, he recalled. Such washes of early memories, images of his own and of Leiko's interlaced without apparent order, had filled his mind at each of two particular points along the strenuous journey. Now what had been the Pattern and what had come in the night was far from clear, as was its relevance to how best to proceed.

What also seemed odd was that he didn't feel any different. Here was he, Shenrakari, blood of Amber and of shadow, of human and of inhuman, stretched between worlds like the strongweaver drawing bamboo spires together high above the ground, a conflict by definition, a contradiction by blood. He had done it now. He had come to Amber and walked the Pattern, setting foot before foot to carry his strange form through the weave of the winds that brought order to the Ni, but nothing had happened. He hadn't fallen though the fabric of the material beneath his feet, as a part of him had feared, his path of motion acting like a loose string unravelling a rug. Nor had he remembered the Pattern as a pattern, as he had thought he might, somehow giving him the knowings to discern and reweave the frozen winds that made up worlds.

Then again, what should he expect? What comes of tracing the fingers along the dancing blade of grass within the hanging mat? What can one count on finding from only learning the song of a lashing, even in a village full of lashings? Only the beginnings of understanding, thought Shen, only the knowledge of the seed of a crystal, not the entirety of all it might grow to be.

Still, this was different. This was not merely a lashing, of which there were perhaps a hundred or a thousand in the whole of all the huts and implements of his home. This was the twist of tightened winds that made up the grass, the twine, the bamboo, and the earth from which it all came. This was the rhyme the spirits used to make all of shadow, from sun to sky to water to blood to stone. Surely there would be some recognition of this shape in the world around him. Surely the walk should bring something more than a fatigue that had felt like the edge of death.

Shen thought long on this as he slowly pressed his tongue against the luke warm weave of wet and heavy winds that was his gruel. What made this gruel and not sand? How was the pattern unique? How differed the supple bedding blanket from the tightly sealed water basket?

Shen closed his eyes for a moment. How human was this, his tired mind grasping at understanding like a feverish cub gasps for breath after a nightmare. A child can easily trace his fingers along a single strip of bamboo as it dives in and out of the sea of its bretheren in the longhouse wall. The same child can hum to himself as he does so, echoing the song of the weave in his mind, turning playful childhood music into the image of a lattice that will hold steadfast against rain and wind. He could, if we wished, walk such a lattice on the ground.

But the child cannot manage the tangle of softened split stalks that the elder works into the longhouse wall. He cannot layer, fold and merge the many lattices that become the perfect lining of the water basket.

This child, of course, need first learn, practice and grow. Before that, he needs patience enough to do so.

And before even that, thought Shen, he needs to eat, drink and sleep.

He rested his mind, opened his heavy eyes to the bright room, and finished his breakfast.