“Well, I did set him up for this thing, and I feel I owe him. I don’t feel I owe him that much, though.”
“Understandable.”
“There would be loss of face for Amber even to approach a second-rate power like Kashfa directly at a time like this.”
“True,” I said, “and for that matter, Luke isn’t officially head of state yet.”
“Arkans would still be enjoying life at his villa if it weren’t for me, though, and Luke really does seem to be a friend of yours — a scheming friend, but a friend.”
“You would like me to mention this during a forthcoming discussion of Tony Price’s atomic sculpture?”
He nodded.
“I feel you should have your art discussion very soon. In fact, it would not be inappropriate for you to attend a friend’s coronation — as a private individual. Your dual heritage will serve us well here, and he will still be honored.”
“Even so, I’ll bet he wants that treaty.”
“Even if we were inclined to grant it, we would not guarantee him Eregnor.”
“I understand.”
“And you are not empowered to commit us to anything.”
“I understand that, too.”
“Then why don’t you clean up a bit and go talk to him about it? Your room is just around the abyss. You can leave through the hole in the wall and shinny down a beam I noticed was intact.”
“Okay, I will,” I answered, moving in that direction. “But one question first, completely off the subject.”
“Yes?”
“Has my father been back recently?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “We’re all pretty good at hiding our comings and goings if we wish, of course. But I think he’d have let me know if he were around.”
“Guess so,” I said, and I turned and exited through the wall, skirting the abyss.
Chapter 11
No.
I hung from the beam, swung, and let go. I landed almost gracefully in the middle of the hallway in an area that would have been located approximately midway between my two doors, save that the first door was missing, also the section of wall through which it had provided entrance (or exit, depending on which side you happened to be), not to mention my favorite chair and a display case which had held seashells I’d picked up from beaches around the world. Pity.
I rubbed my eyes and turned away, for even the prospect of my ruined apartment took second place just now. Hell, I’d had apartments ruined in the past. Usually around April 30…
As in “Niagara Falls,” slowly I turned…
No.
Yes. Across the hall from my rooms, where I had previously faced a blank wall, there was now a hallway running to the north. I’d gotten a glimpse up its sparkling length as I’d dropped from my rafter. Amazing. The gods had just uptempoed my background music yet again. I’d been in that hallway before, in one of its commoner locations up on the fourth floor, running east-west between a couple of storerooms. One of Castle Amber’s intriguing anomalies, the Corridor of Mirrors, in addition to seeming longer in one direction than the other, contained countless mirrors. Literally countless. Try counting them, and you never come up with the same total twice. Tapers flicker in high, standing holders, casting infinities of shadows. There are big mirrors, little mirrors, narrow mirrors, squat mirrors, tinted mirrors, distorting mirrors, mirrors with elaborate frames — cast or carved — plain, simply framed mirrors, and mirrors with no frames at all; there are mirrors in multitudes of sharp-angled geometric shapes, amorphous shapes, curved mirrors.
I had walked the Corridor of Mirrors on several occasions, sniffing the perfumes of scented candles, sometimes feeling subliminal presences among the images, things which faded at an instant’s sharp regard. I had felt the mixed enchantments of the place but had somehow never roused its sleeping genii. Just as well perhaps. One never knew what to expect in that place; at least that’s what Bleys once told me. He was not certain whether the mirrors propelled one into obscure realms of Shadow, hypnotized one and induced bizarre dream states, cast one into purely symbolic realms decorated with the furniture of the psyche, played malicious or harmless head games with the viewer, none of the above, all of the above, or some of the above. Whatever, it was something less than harmless, though, as thieves, servants, and visitors had occasionally been found dead or stunned and mumbling along that sparkling route, ofttimes wearing highly unusual expressions. And generally around the solstices and equinoxes — though it could occur at any season — the corridor moved itself to a new location, sometimes simply departing altogether for a time. Usually it was treated with suspicion, shunned, though it could as often reward as injure one or offer a useful omen or insight as readily as an unnerving experience. It was the uncertainty of it that roused trepidations.
And sometimes, I was told, it was almost as if it came looking for a particular person, bearing its ambiguous gifts. On such occasions it was said to be more dangerous to turn it down than to accept its invitation.
“Aw, come on,” I said. “Now?”
The shadows danced along its length, and I caught a I whiff of those intoxicating tapers. I moved forward. I extended my left hand past its corner and patted the wall. Frakir didn’t stir.
“This is Merlin,” I said, “and I’m kind of busy just now. You sure you wouldn’t rather reflect someone else?”
The nearest flame seemed, for an instant, a fiery hand, beckoning.
“Shit,” I whispered, and I strode forward.
There was no sense of transition as I entered. A long red-patterned runner coveted the floor. Dust motes spun in the lights I passed. I was beside myself in many aspects, flickering flamelight harlequinading my garments, transforming my face within a dance of shadows.
Flicker.
For an instant it seemed that the stern visage of Oberon regarded me from a small high metal-framed oval — as easily a trick of the light as the shade of his late highness, of course.
Flicker.
I’d swear an animalistic travesty of my own face had leered at me for a moment, tongue lolling, from a midlevel rectangle of quicksilver to my left, framed is ceramic flowers, face humanizing as I turned, quickly, to mock me.
Walking. Footsteps muffled. Breathing slightly tight. I wondered whether I should summon my Logrus sight or even try that of the Pattern. I was loath to attempt either, though, memories of the nastier aspects of both Powers still too fresh within me for comfort. Something was about to happen to me, I was certain.
I halted and examined the one I thought must have my number — framed in black metal, with various signs from the magical arts inlaid in silver about it. The glass was murky, as if spirits swam just out of sight within its depths. My face looked leaner, its lines more heavily inscribed, the faintest of purple halos, perhaps, flickering about my head within it. There was something cold and vaguely sinister about that image, but though I studied it for a long while, nothing happened. There were no messages, enlightenments, changes. In fact, the longer I stared, the more all of the dramatic little touches seemed but tricks of the lighting.
I walked on, fast glimpses of unearthly landscapes, exotic creatures, hints of memory, neat subliminals of dead friends and relatives. Something within a pool even waved a rake at me. I waved back. Having so recently survived the traumas of my trek through the land between shadows, I was not as intimidated by these manifestations of strangeness and possible menace as I would likely have been at almost any other time. I thought I had sight of a gibbeted man, swinging as in a strong wind, hands tied behind his back, El Greco sky above him.
“I’ve had a rough couple of days,” I said aloud, “and there’s no sign of any letup. I’m sort of in a hurry, if you know what I mean.”
Something punched me in the right kidney, and I spun around, but there was no one there. Then I felt a hand upon my shoulder, turning me. I cooperated quickly. No one there either.
“I apologize,” I said, �
��if the truth requires it here.”
Invisible hands continued to push and tug at me, moving me past a number of attractive mirrors. I was steered to a cheap-looking mirror in a dark-stained wooden frame. It looked as if it might have come from some discount house. There was a slight imperfection in the glass, in the vicinity of my left eye. Whatever forces had propelled me to this point released me here. It occurred to me that the powers that be here might actually have been attempting to expedite things per my request, rather than simply hustling me in a peevish spirit.
So, “Thanks,” I said, just to be safe, and I continued to stare. I moved my head back and forth and from side to side, producing ripple effects across my image. I repeated the movements while waiting for whatever might occur.
My image remained unchanged, but on the third or fourth ripple my background was altered. It was no longer a wall of dimly lit mirrors that stood behind me. It flowed away and did not return with my next movement. In its place was a stand of dark shrubbery beneath an evening sky. I continued to move my head slightly several times more, but the ripple effect had vanished. The bushes seemed very real, though my peripheral vision showed me that the hallway was intact in both directions and still seemed to possess its right-hand wall at both ends.
I continued to search the seemingly reflected shrubbery, looking for portents, omens, signs, or just a little movement. None of these became apparent, though a very real sensation of depth was there. I could almost feel a cool breeze upon my neck. I must have stared for several minutes, waiting for the mirror to produce something new. But it did not. If this was the best the mirror had to offer, it was time to move on, I decided.
Something seemed to stir in the bushes at my back, then, causing reflex to take over. I turned quickly, raising my hands before me.
It was only the wind that had rustled them, I saw. And then I realized that I was not in the hallway, and I turned again. The mirror and its wall were gone. I now faced a low hill, a line of broken masonry at its top. Light flickered from behind that shattered wall. Both curiosity and my sense of purpose roused, I began climbing slowly, my wariness yet present.
The sky seemed to grow darker even as I climbed and it was cloudless, a profusion of stars pulsing in unfamiliar constellations across it. I moved with some stealth amid stones, grasses, shrubs, broken masonry. From beyond the vine-clad wall I now heard the sounds of voices. Though I could not distinguish the words being spoken, it did not seem conversation that I overheard, but rather a cacophony — as if a number of individuals, of both genders and various ages, were delivering simultaneous monologues.
Coming to the hill’s top, I extended my hand until it made contact with the wall’s irregular surface. I decided against going around it to see what sort of activity was in progress on the other side. It could make me visible to I knew not what. It seemed so much simpler to reach as high as I could, hook my fingers over the top of the nearest depressed area, and draw myself upward — as I did. I even located toeholds as my head neared the top, and I was able to ease some of the strain on my arms by resting part of my weight upon them.
I drew myself carefully up those final few inches, peering past fractured stone and down into the interior of the ruined structure. It appeared to have been some sort of church. The roof was fallen, and the far wall still stood, in much the same condition as the one I clung to. There was an altar in bad repair in a raised area off to my right. Whatever had happened here must have happened long ago, for shrubs and vines grew in the interior as well as without, softening the lines of collapsed pews, fallen pillars, fragments of the roof.
Below me, in a cleared area, a large pentagram was drawn. At each of the star’s points stood a figure, facing outward. Inward from them, at the five points where the lines crossed, flared a torch, its butt driven into the earth. This seemed a somewhat peculiar variation on the rituals with which I was familiar, and I wondered at the summoning and why the five were not better protected and why they were not about the work in concert, rather than each seeming off on a personal trip and ignoring the others. The three whom I could see clearly had their backs to me. The two who faced in my direction were barely within my line of sight, their faces covered over with shadows. Some of the voices were male; some, female. One was singing; two were chanting; the other two seemed merely to be speaking, though in stagy, artificial tones.
I drew myself higher, trying for a glimpse of the faces of the nearer two. This because there was something familiar about the entire ensemble, and I felt that if I were to identify one, I might well realize all of their identities.
Another question high on my list was, What was it they were summoning? Was I safe up here on the wall, this close to the operation, if something unusual put in an appearance? It did not seem that the proper constraints were in place below. I drew myself higher still. I felt my center of gravity shifting just as my view of affairs improved yet again. Then I realized that I was moving forward without effort. An instant later I knew that the wall was toppling, carrying me forward and down right into the midst of their oddly choreographed ritual. I tried to push myself away from the wall, hoping to hit the ground rolling and run like hell. But it was already too late. My abrupt push-up raised me into the air but did not really halt my forward momentum.
No one beneath me stirred, though rubble rained about them all, and I finally caught some recognizable words as I fell.
“… summon thee, Merlin, to fall into my power now!” one of the women was chanting.
A very effective ritual after all, I decided, as I landed on my back upon the pentagram, arms flopping out to my sides at shoulder level, legs spread. I was able to tuck my chin, protecting my head, and the slapping of my arms seemed to produce a break-fall effect so that I was not badly stunned by the impact. The five high towers of fire danced wildly about me for several seconds, then settled once again into steadier blazing. The five figures still faced outward. I attempted to rise and found that I could not. It was as if I were staked out in that position.
Frakir had warned me too late, as I was falling, and now I was uncertain to what employment I might put her. I could send her creeping off to any of the figures with orders to work her way upward and commence choking. But so far I had no way of knowing which one, if any, might deserve such treatment.
“I hate dropping in without notice,” I said, “and I can see this is a private party. If someone will be good enough to turn me loose, I’ll be on my way —”
The figure in the vicinity of my left foot did an aboutface and stood staring down at me. She wore a blue robe, but there was no mask upon her fire-reddened face. There was only a tight smile, which went away when she licked her lips. It was Julia, and there was a knife in her right hand.
“Always the smartass,” she said. “Ready with a flippant answer to any situation. It’s a cover for your unvillingness to commit yourself to anything or anyone. Even those who love you.”
“It could just be a sense of humor, too,” I said, “a thing I’m beginning to realise you never possessed.”
She shook her head slowly.
“You keep everyone at arms distance. There is no trust in you.”
“Runs in the family,” I said. “But prudence does not preclude affection.”
She had begun raising the blade, but she faltered for a second.
“Are you saying that you still care about me?” she asked.
“I never stopped,” I said. “It’s just that you came on too strong all of a sudden. You wanted more of me than I was willing to give just then.”
“You lie,” she said, “because I hold your life in my hand.”
“I could think of a lot worse reasons for lying,” I said. “But, unfortunately, I’m telling the truth.”
There came another familiar voice then, from off to my right.
“It was too early for us to speak of such things,” she said, “but I begrudge her your affection.”
Turning my head, I saw that this figure, t
oo, now faced inward, and it was Coral and her right eye was covered by a black patch and she, too, held a knife in her right hand. Then I saw what was in her left hand, and I shot a glance back at Julia. Yes, they both held forks as well as knives.
“Et tu,” I said.
“I told you I don’t speak English,” Coral replied.
“Et by two,” Julia responded, raising her utensils. “Who says I don’t have a sense of humor?”
They spit at each other across me, some of the spittle not quite going the distance.
Luke, it occurred to me, might have tried settling matters by proposing to both of them on the spot. I’d a feeling it wouldn’t work for me, so I didn’t.
“This is an objectification of marriage neurosis,” I said. “It’s a projective experience. It’s a vivid dream. It’s —”
Julia dropped to one knee, and her right hand flashed downward. I felt the blade enter my left thigh.
My scream was interrupted when Coral drove her fork into my right shoulder.
“This is ridiculous!” I cried as the other utensils flashed in their hands and I felt fresh stabs of pain.
Then the figure at the star’s point near my right foot turned slowly, gracefully. She was wrapped in a dark brown cloak with a yellow border, her arms crossed before her holding it closed up to her eye level.
“Stop, you bitches!” she ordered, flinging the garment wide and resembling nothing so much as a mourning cloak butterfly. It was, of course, Dara, my mother.
Julia and Coral had already raised their forks to their mouths and were chewing. There was a tiny bead of blood beside Julia’s lip. The cloak continued to flow outward from my mother’s fingertips as if it were alive, as if it were a part of her. Its wings blocked Julia and Coral completely from my sight, falling upon them as she continued to spread her arms, covering them, bearing them over backward to become body-size lumps upon the ground, growing smaller and smaller until the garment simply hung naturally and they were gone from their points of the star.
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