The Hand Of Oberon

Yes, I believe Brand is somewhat mad. Looking back over the years, recalling his personality changes, his cycles of moods, it seems there was something of a schizoid pattern there.

“Why does he want so badly to attune it? So he can raise a few storms? Hell, he could take a walk in Shadow and make all the weather he wants.”

“How serious is this, Corwin?”
“It could be the end of everything,” I said. “I have to go now.”

“Mind if I ask why you put it there?”
“I’d be dead now if I hadn’t.”
“Pretty good reason.”

“Thanks, Julian. I — You are a difficult man to understand.”
“Not so. I think the Corwin I hated must have died centuries ago. Ride now, man! If Brand shows up around here, I’ll nail his hide to a tree!”

This thing with my moods, my thoughts — it comes and it goes. Even now, I feel some of my control slipping away.

The enemy of the moment is not as important as our own inner weakness.

“How did you know?” I asked him.

I wish that some time, long ago, something had not been said that was said, or something done that was not done. Something, had we known, which might have let him grow differently, something which would have seen him become another man than the bitter, bent thing I saw up there. It is best now if he is dead. But it is a waste of something that might have been.

Like most such questions, the benefit of these was in the asking, not the answering