Prince of chaos tcoa-10

by Roger Joseph Zelazny

  “Take the last sip,” I said, moving away from the cup and groping after my handkerchief. “It’ll have to hold you.”

  He tossed it off as I wrapped my wrist. He knotted it in place for me.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “The vibes are getting bad.”

  “Fine with me,” he replied as a figure appeared at the doorway. It was backlighted, its features lost in shadow.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Pattern ghost,” came an almost-familiar voice.

  I willed the spikard to about 150 watts illumination. It was Borel, showing his teeth in an unfriendly fashion.

  “You are about to become a very large candle, Patterner,” he said to Luke.

  “You’re wrong, Borel,” I said, raising the spikard.

  Suddenly, the Sign of the Logrus swam between us.

  “Borel? The master swordsman?” Luke inquired. “The same,” I answered.

  “Oh, shit!” Luke said.

  Chapter 5

  As I probed forward with two of the more lethal energies of the spikard the Logrus image intercepted them and turned them off.

  “I didn’t save him for you to take him out this easily,” I said, and just then something like the image of the Pattern but not really the same flashed into existence nearby.

  The Sign of the Logrus slid to my left. The new thing — whatever it was — kept pace with it, both of them passing silently through the wall. Almost immediately, there followed a thunderclap that shook the building. Even Borel, who was reaching for his blade, paused in mid-gesture, then moved his hand to catch hold of the doorway. As he did this, another figure appeared at his back and a familiar voice addressed him: “Please excuse me. You’re blocking my way.”

  “Corwin!” I cried. “Dad!”

  Borel turned his head.

  “Corwin, Prince of Amber?” he said.

  “Indeed,” came the reply, “though I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “I am Borel, Duke of Hendrake, Master of Arms of the Ways of Hendrake.”

  “You speak with a lot of capitals, sir, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Corwin said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get through here to see my son.”

  Borel’s hand moved to the hilt of his blade as he turned. I was already moving forward by then, and so was Luke. But there was a movement beyond Borel — a kick, it seemed, low — causing him to expel a lot of air and double forward. Then a fist descended upon the back of his neck and he fell.

  “Come on,” Corwin called, gesturing. “I think we’d better get out of here.”

  Luke and I emerged, stepping over the fallen Master of Arms of the Ways of Hendrake. The ground off to the left was blackened, as if from a recent brushfire, and a light rain had begun to fall. There were other human figures in the distance now, moving toward us.

  “I don’t know whether the force that brought me here can get me out again,” Corwin said, looking about. “It may be otherwise occupied.” Several moments passed, then, “I guess it is,” he said. “Okay, it’s up to you. How do we flee?”

  “This way,” I told him, turning and breaking into a run.

  They followed me up the trails that had brought me to this place. I looked back and saw that six dark figures pursued us.

  I headed uphill, past the markers and monuments, coming at last to the place beside the old stone wall. By then, there were shouts from behind us. Ignoring them, I drew my companions to me and came up with an impromptu couplet that described the situation and my desire in somewhat less than perfect meter. Still, the charm held, and a hurled cobble only missed me because we were already sinking into the earth.

  We emerged from the fairy ring, coming up like mushrooms, and I led my companions across the field, jogging, to the sandbank. As we entered there I heard another shout. We exited the boulder and descended the rocky trail to the gibbet tree. Turning left on the trail, I began to run.

  “Hold up!” Corwin called. “I feel it around here somewhere. There!”

  He left the trail to the right and began running toward the base of a small hill. Luke and I followed. From behind us came the sounds of our pursuers’ emergence from the way at the boulder.

  Ahead, I saw something flickering between two trees. We seemed to be heading toward it. As we drew nearer, its outline became clearer, and I realized that it possessed the contours of that Pattern — like image I had beheld back in the mausoleum.

  Dad did not break stride as he approached, but charged right into the thing. And vanished. Another cry rose up behind us. Luke was next through the shimmering screen, and I was close on his heels.

  We were running through a straight, glowing, pearly tunnel now, and when I glanced back I saw that it seemed to be closing in behind me.

  “They can’t follow,” Corwin shouted. “That end’s already closed.”

  “Then why are we running?” I asked.

  “We’re still not safe,” he replied. “We’re cutting through the Logrus’s domain. If we’re spotted there could still be trouble.”

  We raced on through that strange tunnel, and, “We’re running through Shadow?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then it would seem that the farther we go, the better —”

  The whole thing shook, and I had to put out a hand to keep from being thrown down.

  “Oh-oh,” Luke said.

  “Yes,” I agreed as the tunnel began to come apart. Big chunks seemed to be torn out of the walls, the floor. There was only murk behind these rents. We kept going, leaping the openings. Then something struck again, soundlessly, completely shattering the entire passage around us, behind us, before us.

  We fell.

  Well, we didn’t exactly fall. We sort of drifted in a twilit fog. There didn’t seem to be anything underfoot, or in any other direction either. It was a free-fall sensation, with nothing to measure possible movement against.

  “Damn!” I heard Corwin say.

  We hovered, fell, drifted — whatever — for a time, and, “So close,” I heard him mutter.

  “Something that way,” Luke suddenly announced, gesturing to his right.

  A big shape loomed grayly. I moved my mind into the spikard and probed in that direction. Whatever it was, it was inanimate, and I commanded the spike that had touched it to guide us to it.

  I did not feel myself moving, but the thing loomed larger, took on familiar outlines, began to show a reddish complexion. When the fins became apparent, I knew for certain.

  “Looks like that Polly Jackson you have,” Luke remarked. “Even has the snow on it.”

  Yes, it was my red and white ’57 Chevy that we were approaching, there in Limbo.

  “It’s a construct. It’s been pulled from my mind before,” I told him. “Probably because it’s vivid, I’ve studied it so often. Also, it seems very appropriate just now.”

  I reached toward the door handle. We were coming up on the driver’s side. I caught hold and pushed the button. It was, of course, unlocked. The others touched the vehicle in various places and drew themselves along to the other side. I opened the door, slid in behind the wheel, closed the door. Luke and Corwin were entering by then. The keys were in the ignition, as I’d expected.

  When everyone was aboard I tried starting it. The engine caught immediately. I stared out across the bright hood into nothingness. I switched on the headlights and that didn’t help.

  “What now?” Luke asked.

  I shifted into first, released the emergency brake, and let out the clutch. As I gave it the gas, it seemed the wheels were turning. After a few moments I shifted into second. A bit later I put it into third.

  Was there the tiniest feeling of traction, or was it only the power of suggestion?

  I fed it more gas. The foggy prospect seemed to brighten slightly, far ahead, though I supposed this could simply be some effect of my staring in that direction.

  There was no particular feedback from the steering wheel. I pushed
harder on the accelerator.

  Luke reached out suddenly and turned on the radio. “— hazardous driving conditions,” came an announcer’s voice. “So keep your speed to a minimum.” There immediately followed Wynton Marsalis playing “Caravan.”

  Taking it as a personal message, I eased up on the gas. This produced a definite feeling of light traction, as if, perhaps, we were gliding on ice.

  A sensation of forward movement followed, and there did seem a brightening in the distance. Also, it seemed as if I had acquired some weight, was settling more deeply into the seat. Moments later the sensation of a real surface beneath the car became more pronounced. I wondered what would happen if I turned the wheel. I decided not to try it.

  The sound from beneath the tires became more gritty. Dim outlines occurred at either hand, increasing the feeling of movement and direction as we passed them. Far ahead, the world was indeed brighter now.

  I slowed even more because it began feeling as if I were negotiating a real road, with very poor visibility. Shortly thereafter, the headlights did seem to be operating with some effect, as they struck a few of the passing shapes, giving them the momentary appearance of trees and embankments, shrub clusters, rocks. The rearview mirror continued to reflect nothingness, however.

  “Just like old times,” Luke said. “Goin’ out for pizza on a bad evening.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “I hope the other me has someone open a pizza parlor in Kashfa. Could use one there, you know?”

  “I’ll come by and try it, if he does.”

  “Where do you think this whole business is going to leave me, anyway?”

  “I don’t know, Luke.”

  “I mean, I can’t keep drinking your blood. And what about the other me?”

  “I think I can offer you a job that will take care of the problem,” Corwin said to him. “For a while, anyway.”

  The trees were definitely trees now, the fog real fog — moving about a bit. Beads of moisture began to form on the windshield.

  “What do you mean?” Luke asked.

  “In a minute.”

  There were breaks in the fog now, real landscape visible through them. Abruptly, I became aware that it was not a real road surface on which I was driving, but rather a fairly level piece of ground. I slowed even more to accommodate this.

  A big section of haze dissolved or blew away then revealing the presence of an enormous tree. Also, a section of the ground seemed to be glowing. There was a familiar feeling to this partial tableau…

  “This is the place of your Pattern, isn’t it?” I asked, as our way grew even clearer. “Fiona brought me here once.”

  “Yes,” came the reply.

  “And its image — That’s the thing I saw confronting the Sign of the Logrus back in the graveyard — the same thing that led us into the tunnel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then — It’s sentient, too. Like Amber’s, like the Logrus —”

  “True. Park it over there, in that clear area by the tree.”

  I turned the wheel and headed toward the level spot he had indicated. Fog still hung about the place, but nowhere near as heavy and all-encompassing as on the trail we had taken. It might have been twilight, from the shading of the mist, but the glow from that eccentric Pattern brightened our cup-shaped world beyond a day’s end dimness.

  As we climbed out Corwin said to Luke, “Pattern ghosts tend not to last long.”

  “So I understand,” Luke replied. “You know any tricks for someone in this position?”

  “I know them all, sir. It takes one to know, as they say.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dad…?” I said. “You mean…”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I do not know where the first version of myself might be.”

  “You are the one I encountered a while back? The one who might have been present in Amber recently, also?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Yet, you don’t seem exactly like others I’ve encountered.”

  He reached out and clasped my shoulder.

  “I’m not,” he said, and he glanced toward the Pattern. “I drew that thing,” he went on, a little later, “and I’m the only person ever to have walked it. Consequently, I’m the only ghost it can summon. Also, it seems to regard me with something other than utilitarian attention. We can communicate, in a way, and it seems to have been willing to devote the energy needed to keep me stable — for a long while now. We have our own plans, and our relationship seems almost symbiotic. I gather that those of Amber’s Pattern and those of the Logrus are more in the nature of ephemera.”

  “That’s been my experience,” I said.

  “— except for one, to whom you ministered, for which I am grateful. She is under my protection now, for so long as it shall last.”

  He released my shoulder.

  “I haven’t been properly introduced to your friend yet,” he said then.

  “Excuse me. A bit of extenuation there,” I said. “Luke, I’d like you to meet my father, Corwin of Amber. Sir, Luke is properly known as Rinaldo, son of your brother Brand.”

  Corwin’s eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed as he extended his hand, studying Luke’s face.

  “Good to meet a friend of my son’s, as well as a relative,” he said.

  “Glad to know you, too, sir.”

  “I’d wondered what it was that seemed so familiar about you.”

  “It kind of slows down with appearances, if that’s what you’re getting at. Maybe even stops there.”

  Dad laughed.

  “Where’d you two meet?”

  “In school,” Luke replied. “Berkeley.”

  “Where else might a pair of us come together? Not in Amber, of course,” he said, turning away then to face his Pattern fully. “I’ll get your story yet. But come with me now. I want to do an introduction myself.”

  He headed off toward the shining design and we followed him, a few wisps of fog drifting past us. Save for our short footfalls, the place was silent.

  When we came up to the edge of his Pattern we halted and stared out across it. It was a graceful design, too big to take in at a glance; and a feeling of power seemed to pulse outward from it.

  “Hi,” he said. “I want you to meet my son and my nephew, Merlin and Rinaldo — though I believe you met Merlin once before. Rinaldo has a problem.” There followed a long silence. Then he said, “Yes, that’s right,” and after a time, “You really think so?” and, “Okay. Sure, I’ll tell them.”

  He stretched and sighed and took a few paces away from the Pattern’s edge. Then he extended his arms and put them around both our shoulders.

  “Men,” he said then, “I’ve got an answer of sorts. But it means we’re all going to have to walk this Pattern, for different reasons.”

  “I’m game,” Luke said. “But what’s the reason?”

  “It’s going to adopt you,” Corwin said, “and sustain you as it does me. There’s a price, though. The time’s getting nearer when it will want to be guarded full-time. We can spell each other.”

  “Sounds fine,” Luke said. “This place is kind of peaceful. And I didn’t really want to go back to Kashfa and try to depose myself.”

  “Okay. I’ll lead, and you hold on to my shoulder in case there are any funny vibes to deal with. Merlin, you come last and maintain contact with Luke, for the same reason. All right?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  He released us and moved to the place where the line of the design began. We followed, and Luke’s hand was on his shoulder as he took the first step. Soon we were all of us on the Pattern, struggling the familiar struggle. Even when the sparks began to rise, though, this one seemed a little easier than I recalled from Pattern walks in the past, possibly because someone else was leading the way.

  Images of avenues lined with ancient chestnut trees filled my mind as we trudged along and fought our way through the First Veil. By then, the sparks came h
igher about us and I felt the forces of the Pattern beating about me, penetrating me, body and mind. I recalled my days in school, remembered my greatest efforts on the athletic field. The resistance continued to rise, and we leaned into it. Moving my feet became a great effort, and I realized that — somehow — the effort was more important than the movement. I felt my hair beginning to rise as a current passed entirely through my body. Still, this had not to it the maddening quality of the Logrus the time I had negotiated it, nor the adversarial feeling I had felt upon Amber’s Pattern. It was almost as if I traversed the interior of a mind, one not unkindly disposed toward me. There was a feeling of encouragement, almost — as I struggled along a curve, executed a turn. The resistance was as strong, the sparks came as high as on the other at about this point, yet I somehow knew that this Pattern held me in a different fashion. We pushed our way along the lines. We turned, we burned… Penetrating the Second Veil was a slow-motion exercise in stamina and will. Our way eased for a time after that, and images from all over my life came to frighten and console me.

  Walking. One, two… Three. I felt that if I were able to take ten more steps I would have a chance to win through. Four… I was drenched with perspiration. Five. The resistance was awful. It took all the effort of running a hundred meters just to inch my foot ahead… My lungs were working like a bellows. Six. The sparks reached my face, passed my eyes, enveloped me completely. I felt as if I had been transformed into an immortal blue flame and that I must, somehow, burn my way through a block of marble. I burned and I burned and the stone remained unchanged. I could spend all of eternity this way. Perhaps I already had. Seven. And the images were gone. All of memory had fled. Even my identity was on vacation. I was stripped to a thing of pure will. I was an act, an act of striving against resistance. Eight… I no longer felt my body. Time was an alien concept. The striving was no longer striving, but a form of elemental movement now, beside which glaciers rushed. Nine. Now I was only movement — infinitesimal, a constant…

  Ten.

  There came an easing. It would become difficult again at the center end, but I knew that the rest of the walk was anticlimax. Something like a slow, low music buoyed me as I trudged ahead, turned, trudged. It was with me through the Final Veil, and as I passed the midpoint of that final stride, it became something like “Caravan.”