Trumps of doom tcoa-6

by Roger Zelazny

  An inverted mountain range flowed past us, buckling and rippling. The roaring increased in volume. The light seemed to pulse by us now, in wide bands of color, touching us with a near-physical force. Heat lamps and wind chimes…

  I heard Luke cry out as if he had been struck, but I was unable to turn to his aid. We traversed a region of lightninglike flashes where my hair stood on end and my skin tingled.

  I gripped the packet of cards within my pocket and withdrew it. At this point we were beginning to spin and I was afraid they would be torn from my hand. I held them tightly, fearing to sort through them, keeping them close to my body. I drew them upward slowly, carefully. Whichever one lay on top would have to be our exit.

  Dark bubbles formed and broke about us, discharging noxious fumes.

  I saw, as I raised my hand, that my skin was gray in appearance, sparkling with fluorescent swirls. Luke’s hand upon my arm looked cadaverous, and when I glanced back at him a grinning death’s head met my gaze.

  I looked away, turned my attention back to the cards. It was hard to focus my vision, through the grayness, through a peculiar distancing effect. But it finally came clear: It was the grassy spit of land I had regarded — how long ago? — quiet waters about it, the edge of something — crystalline and bright — jutting into view off toward the right.

  I held it within my attention. Sounds from beyond my shoulder indicated that Luke was trying to address me, but I could not distinguish his words. I continued to regard the Trump and it grew clearer. But slowly, slowly Something struck me hard, below the right side of my rib cage. I forced myself to ignore it and continued to concentrate.

  At last the scene on the card seemed to move toward me, to grow larger. There was a familiar sense of coldness to it now as the scene engulfed me and I it. An almost elegiac feeling of stillness hung over that little lake.

  I fell forward into the grass, my heart pounding, my side throbbing. I was gasping, and the subjective sense of worlds rushing by me was still present, like the afterimages of highways upon closing one’s eyes at the end of a long day’s drive.

  Smelling sweet water, I passed out.

  I was vaguely aware of being dragged, carried, then helped, stumbling along. There followed a spell of full unconsciousness, shading over into sleep and dreaming.

  …I walked the streets of a ruined Amber beneath a lowering sky. A crippled angel with a fiery sword stalked the heights above me, slashing. Wherever its blade fell, smoke, dust, and flame rose up. Its halo was my Ghostwheel, pouring forth mighty winds ridden by abominations that streamed past the angel’s face like a dark, living veil, working disorder and ruin wherever they fell. The palace was half collapsed, and there were gibbets nearby where my relatives hung, twisting in the gusts. I’d a blade in one hand and Frakir dangled from the other. I was climbing now, going up to meet and do battle with the bright-dark nemesis. An awful feeling lay upon me as I mounted my rocky way, as if my imminent failure was a thing foregone. Even so, I decided, the creature was going to leave here with wounds to lick.

  It took note of me as I drew near, turning in my direction. Its face was still hidden as it raised its weapon. I rushed forward, regretting only that I had not had time to envenom my blade. I spun twice as I went in, feinting, to strike somewhere in the vicinity of its left knee.

  There followed a flash of light and I was falling, falling, bits of flame descending about me, like a burning blizzard. I fell so for what seemed an age and a half, coming to rest at last upon my back atop a large stone table marked out like a sundial, its stylus barely missing impaling me — which seemed crazy even in a dream. There were no sundials in the Courts of Chaos, for there is no sun there. I was located at the edge of a courtyard beside a high, dark tower, and I found myself unable to move, let alone rise. Above me, my mother, Dara, stood upon a low balcony in her natural form, looking down at me in her awful power and beauty.

  “Mother!” I cried. “Free me!”

  “I have sent one to help you,” she answered.

  “And what of Amber?”

  “I do not know.”

  “And my father?”

  “Speak not to me of the dead.”

  The stylus turned slowly; positioned itself above my throat; began a gradual but steady descent.

  “Help me!” I cried. “Hurry!”

  “Where are you?” she called out, head turning, eyes daring. “Where have you gone?”

  “I’m still here!” I yelled.

  “Where are you?”

  I felt the stylus touch the side of my neck —

  The vision broke and fell apart.

  My shoulders were propped against something unyielding, my legs were stretched out before me. Someone had just squeezed my shoulder, the hand brushing against my neck.

  “Merle, you okay? Want a drink?” a familiar voice was, asking.

  I took a deep breath and sighed it out. I blinked several times. The light was blue, the world a field of lines and angles. A dipper of water appeared before my mouth.

  “Here.” It was Luke’s voice.

  I drank it all.

  “Want another?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just a minute.”

  I felt his weight shift, heard his footsteps recede. I regarded the diffusely illuminated wall six or seven feet before me.

  I ran my hand along the floor. It seemed to be of the same material.

  Shortly, Luke returned, smiling, and passed me the dipper. I drained it and handed it back.

  “Want more?” he asked.

  “No. Where are we?”

  “In a cave — a big, pretty place.”

  “Where’d you get the water?”

  “In a side cavern, up that way.” He gestured. “Several barrels of it in there. Also lots of food. Want something to eat?”

  “Not yet. Are you okay?”

  “Kind of beat,” he replied, “but intact. You don’t seem to have any broken bones, and that cut on your face has stopped bleeding.”

  “That’s something, anyway,” I said.

  I climbed slowly to my feet; the final strands of dreams withdrawing slowly as I rose. I saw then that Luke had turned and was walking away. I followed him for several paces before I thought to inquire, “Where are you going?”

  “In there,” he answered, pointing with the dipper.

  I followed him through an opening in the wall and into a cold cavern about the size of my old apartment’s living room. Four large wooden barrels stood along the wall to my left, and Luke proceeded to hang the dipper upon the upper edge of the nearest. Against the far wall were great stacks of cartons and piles of sacks.

  “Canned goods,” he announced. “Fruit; vegetables, ham, salmon, biscuits, sweets. Several cases of wine. A Coleman stove. Plenty of Stereo. Even a bottle or two of cognac.”

  He turned and brushed quickly past me, headed on up the hall again.

  “Now where?” I asked.

  But he was moving fast and did not reply. I had to hurry to catch up. We passed several branches and openings before he halted at another, nodding.

  “Latrine in there. Just a hole with some boards over it. Good idea to keep it covered, I’d say.”

  “What the hell is this?” I asked.

  He raised his hand. “It will all become clear in a minute. This way.”

  He swung around a sapphire corner and vanished. Almost completely disoriented, I moved in that direction. After several turns and one cutback, I felt totally lost. Luke was nowhere in sight.

  I halted and listened. Not a sound except for my own breathing.

  “Luke! Where are you?” I called.

  “Up here,” he answered.

  The voice seemed to be coming from overhead and somewhere off to my right. I ducked beneath a low arch and came into a bright blue chamber of the same crystalline substance as the rest of the place. I saw a sleeping bag and a pillow in one corner. Light streamed in from a small opening about eight feet overhead.

 
“Luke?” I asked again.

  “Here,” came his reply.

  I moved to position myself beneath the hole, squinting against the brightness as I stared upward. Finally, I shaded my eyes. Luke’s head and shoulders was limned above me, his hair a crown of coppery flame in what could be the light of early morning or of evening. He was smiling again.

  “That, I take it, is the way out,” I said.

  “For me,” he answered.

  “What do you mean?”

  There followed a grating noise and the view was partly occluded by the edge of a large boulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Moving this stone into a position where I can block the opening quickly,” he replied, “and stick in a few wedges afterward.”

  “Why?”

  “There are sufficient tiny openings for air so that you shan’t suffocate,” he went on.

  “Great. Why am I here, anyway?”

  “Let’s not get existential just now,” he said. “This isn’t a philosophy seminar.”

  “Luke! Damn it! What’s going on?”

  “It should be obvious that I’m making you a prisoner,” he said. “The blue crystal, by the way, will block any Trump sendings and negate your magical abilities that rely on things beyond the walls. I need you alive and fangless for now, in a place where I can get to you in a hurry.”

  I studied the opening and the nearby walls.

  “Don’t try it,” he said. “I have the advantage of position.”

  “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”

  He stared at me for a moment, then nodded.

  “I have to go back,” he said finally, “and try to get control of the Ghostwheel. Any suggestions?”

  I laughed. “It’s not on the best of terms with me at the moment. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  He nodded again. “I’ll just have to see what I can do. God, what a weapon! If I can’t swing it myself I’ll have to come back and pick your brains for some ideas. You be thinking about it, okay?”

  “I’ll be thinking about a lot of things, Luke. You’re not going to like some of them.”

  “You’re not in a position to do much.”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  He caught hold of the boulder, began to move it.

  “Luke!” I cried.

  He paused, studied me, his expression changing to one I had never seen before.

  “That’s not really my name,” he stated, after a moment.

  “What, then?”

  “I am your cousin Rinaldo,” he said slowly. “I killed Caine, and I came close with Bleys. I missed with the bomb at the funeral, though. Someone spotted me. I will destroy the House of Amber with or without your Ghostwheel — but it would make things a lot easier if I had that kind of power.”

  “What’s your bitch, Luke?… Rinaldo? Why the vendetta?”

  “I went after Caine first,” he continued, “because he’s the one who actually killed my father.”

  “I — didn’t know.” I stared at the flash of the Phoenix clasp upon his breast. “I didn’t know that Brand had a son,” I finally said.

  “You do now, old buddy. That’s another reason why I can’t let you go, and why I have to keep you in a place like this. Don’t want you warning the others.”

  “You’re not going to be able to pull this off.”

  He was silent for several seconds, then he shrugged.

  “Win or lose, I have to try.”

  “Why April 30?” I said suddenly. “Tell me that.”

  “It was the day I got the news of my dad’s death.”

  He drew upon the boulder and it slid into the hole, blocking it fully. There followed some brief hammerings.

  “Luke!”

  He did not answer. I could see his shadow through the translucent stone. After a while it straightened, then dropped from sight. I heard his boots strike the ground outside. “Rinaldo!”

  He did not answer and I heard his retreating footsteps.

  I count the days by the lightening and darkening of the blue crystal walls. It has been over a month since my imprisonment, though I do not know how slowly or rapidly time flows here in relation to other shadows. I have paced every hall and chamber of this great cave, but I have found no way out. My Trumps do not work here, not even the Trumps of Doom. My magic is useless to me, limited as it is by walls the color of Luke’s ring. I begin to feel that I might enjoy even the escape of temporary insanity, but my reason refuses to surrender to it, there being too many puzzles to trouble me: Dan Martinez, Meg Devlin, my Lady of the Lake… Why? And why did he spend all of that time in my company, Luke, Rinaldo, my enemy? I have to find a way to warn the others. If he succeeds in turning Ghostwheel upon them then Brand’s dream — my nightmare of vengeance — will be realized. I see now that I have made many mistakes… Forgive me, Julia… I will pace the measure of my confinement yet again. Somewhere there must be a gap in the icy blue logic that surrounds me, against which I hurl my mind, my cries, my bitter laughter. Up this hall, down the tunnel. The blue is everywhere. The shadows will not bear me away, for there are no shadows here. I am Merlin the pent, son of Corwin the lost, and my dream of light has been turned against me. I stalk my prison like my own ghost. I cannot let it end this way. Perhaps the next tunnel, or the next…

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