The Dawn of Amber

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “When will I see them?”

  “Tonight at dinner, I’d imagine,” Aber said. “Fresh blood brings them out of the woodwork.”

  “Aber!” Freda gave him a sharp look.

  “Out from under the rugs?” he amended.

  With a sigh, Freda said, “There is Anari.” She raised her hand and beckoned, jeweled fingers glittering, and an elderly man in red-and-white livery hurried to her side.

  “Lady?” he asked.

  “Take Lord Oberon upstairs and find him appropriate rooms,” she said. She fixed me with her brilliant smile. “I am sure he wants to rest and freshen up before dinner.”

  “Yes, please,” I said. Much as I hated leaving the liquor cart, a nap and a wash basin sounded more appealing right now. It sounded like I’d need to be ready for a long evening tonight, with fourteen new-found relatives waiting to inspect my every word and gesture.

  And Freda had called me “Lord Oberon,” I noticed. It was a title I knew I could get used to.

  “This way, Lord,” Anari said, heading toward the door.

  “Until dinner, then.” Giving my four siblings a polite wave, I turned to follow Anari.

  Behind me, I heard Blaise’s tittering laugh and an almost breathless exclamation of, “Isn’t he precious?” that made my cheeks burn. No one had ever called me “precious” before. I wasn’t sure I would have liked it coming from a woman I’d bedded, and I certainly didn’t like it coming from my sister—or half-sister, since we could not possibly have shared the same mother.

  Still, precious or not, I had done my best here. I had been raised a soldier, after all, and I wasn’t used to niceties of polite society or court life, whether they were mine by blood-right or not. As always, I’d do the best I could and they could either accept me, rough edges and all, or not. Either way, we would still be a family.

  “Please follow me, Lord,” said Anari, turning to the left and starting up a wide set of stairs at a slow, deliberate pace.

  “What’s your job here?” I asked.

  “I am chief of the domestics, Lord. I manage the house and servants.”

  I nodded. “How long have you served my father?”

  “All my life, Lord.”

  “No, not my family . . . just my father, Dworkin.”

  “It has been my privilege to serve Lord Dworkin all my seventy-six years, as my father and my father’s father served him before me.”

  “That would make him . . . ” I frowned, trying to add up the years. “More than a hundred and fifty years old!”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  I shivered, suddenly and inexplicably unsettled. I must have misheard, I thought. No one lived a hundred and fifty years. But Anari had said it so matter-of-factly he clearly believed and accepted it as a matter of course.

  Although Dworkin hadn’t looked more than fifty when he first came to Helda’s door, now that I thought about it, he had looked distinctly younger than that when we had fought the hell-creatures.

  More magic, I thought. Would it never end?

  Anari led me up two flights of steps to a wing of the building devoted to, as he said, my family’s private quarters. All around me I saw symbols of great wealth and power. Not just paintings and tapestries of the sort I’d seen below, but intricate mosaics set in the floor, beautifully carved statues of nymphs and nude women in alcoves, crystal chandeliers and wall sconces, and gilded woodwork everywhere. Over the decades—or centuries—of his life, Dworkin had accumulated treasures enough for a dozen kingdoms.

  “These will be your rooms, Lord,” Anari said, stopping before a large double door. “I trust you will find them acceptable.”

  He pushed them open—and I found myself standing before what seemed to me a private palace.

  Rich red-and-gold carpets covered the floors in thick, luxurious layers. Beautiful paintings and hanging tapestries covered the walls, showing fairy tale scenes with mythical creatures. Overhead, gilded columns and crown moldings supported a ceiling painted in pastel blues, with high clouds and even a few swooping hawks in one corner. Three elegantly upholstered chairs clustered around a small table to the far right. To the left, on the other wall, sat a small writing table complete with pens, ink, paper, sealing wax and seals, and a blotter.

  “Your bed chamber is through here,” Anari said, stepping into the room and opening another set of doors set in an arched doorway. Through it I could see a high canopied bed and a full-length looking glass, plus a wash stand with pitcher and basin. “There are two wardrobes and a changing room as well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Lord. Do you have baggage?”

  “Nothing but my sword and the clothes on my back.”

  He stepped back and looked me over critically. “I believe I can find you suitable garments for tonight,” he said. “I will make an appointment for one of the castle tailors to measure you tomorrow morning. We cannot have a man of your stature improperly furnished, after all.”

  “Indeed,” I said agreeably, as if I had this sort of conversation every day. “I’ll leave the appointment up to you. Schedule it as late in the morning as possible.”

  “Thank you, Lord.” He bowed slightly. “I will endeavor to live up to your faith in my abilities. In the meantime, with your permission, I will order a bath drawn and heated.”

  “Please.”

  “Is there anything else you require at this time?”

  I almost laughed. Anything else? I needed everything else, starting with explanations to dozens of questions about my newly discovered family. But I merely smiled and shook my head.

  “The bath will do,” I said. “Now, where—?”

  “A boy will summon you when the water is ready.”

  “All right. That will be all.”

  “Very good, Lord.” He shut the doors on his way out, and as he did, I noticed how the heavy old hinges gave a faint squeak. At least nobody would be able to sneak up on me, I thought, the soldier inside taking over for the moment.

  Unbuckling my swordbelt, I draped it across the back of the nearest chair, then sat down and pulled off my boots. It felt good to be alone. I tossed my boots into the corner by the door, then wandered through the suite, admiring all the little decorations, the gilding on the moldings and woodwork, the paintings and tapestries on the walls. Finally I flopped onto the bed, spreading my arms and feeling the goosedown yield beneath me. Soft . . . softer than I had felt in a long time. Not even Helda’s bed had been this comfortable.

  I just needed a woman’s warmth beside me, I decided while stifling a yawn, and I could easily call this place home. But a trace of guilt crept into my pleasant thoughts.

  King Elnar and Ilerium remained besieged, and I remembered Dworkin’s promise that he could help end the attacks. I would have to press him for an explanation the next time we met. Duty called.

  An hour and a half later, after a long hot bath had soaked many of the day’s accumulated aches from my bones, I returned to my rooms for a quick nap.

  The castle’s staff had been busy in my absence, I discovered. My boots had been cleaned and polished to a shine that would have made my orderly green with envy. Not even my sword had escaped their attention—the gold and silver inlay on the hilt had been polished to perfection. When I pulled half the blade’s length from its scabbard, I discovered it had been freshly oiled. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.

  I could definitely get used to this sort of life, I thought, yawning widely.

  The bath attendants had made off with the blood-and-sweat stained clothing I’d been wearing, replacing it with the long black robe I now wore. Anari had not yet produced the clothes he’d promised . . . not that I found fault—he hadn’t had much notice, after all.

  With nothing to wear and nothing to do before dinner, I crawled into bed. Almost immediately I grew dead to the world.

  Some time later, when the afternoon light had begun to fade, I came awake with a start.

  I’d heard a nois
e. Something just wrong enough to sound an alarm and wake me.

  A light knock sounded again from the other room, so softly I almost missed it. Then the hinges squeaked slightly as the door opened slowly . . . stealthily.

  Someone trying to sneak up on me? No hell-creatures could possibly get in here, I thought.

  I sat up, instinctively reaching for my sword. It was gone—I had left it on one of the chairs in the next room, I realized.

  “Lord?” I heard an old man’s voice call. It wasn’t Anari. “Lord Oberon?”

  “I’m here.” Rising, I found I still wore the robe I’d donned after my bath. I tightened the belt and wandered out into the main room of my suite, stretching the kinks from my muscles. “What is it?”

  A man in his late years, dressed in castle livery, stood in the doorway to the hall. He held a large silver tray laden with towels in his age-spotted hands. He had to be at least seventy years old, I guessed. Undoubtedly, he had been serving my father as long as Anari. He had a warm, gentle smile.

  “Your pardon, Lord Oberon,” he said. His voice quavered slightly. “I am Ivinius, the barber. Lady Freda said you required a shave and haircut before dinner.”

  I ran my fingers over the thick stubble on my chin. “Thoughtful of her.”

  “Her ladyship is most kind,” he murmured. “I’ve known her since she was a babe in her mother’s arms, bless her.”

  He set his tray down on the table. In addition to the towels, I saw that it held two small blocks of shaving soap, plus several cutthroat razors of varying lengths and a selection of tiny glass bottles: probably lotions and perfumes. Without asking, he began to drag one of the armchairs toward the window.

  “I’ll get that,” I said, starting forward to help. He looked too frail to be moving furniture.

  “No need, Lord,” he said. He gave the chair one final tug and swung it into the last of the afternoon sunlight, exactly where he wanted it. “Please sit, Lord.”

  As I did so, he went into my bedroom, picked up the small table with the wash basin and pitcher of water, and lugged them slowly over to my chair.

  “Do you need help?” I asked, half rising.

  “No, Lord.” He gave a low chuckle. “It is kind of you to ask, but I have been doing my job since before you were born. Please relax. I will be ready for you in a moment.”

  He might look doddering, I thought, settling back in my seat, but he obviously had his pride. And he obviously knew his own strength. With a slight grunt, he set the table down beside the chair. He hadn’t spilled so much as a single drop of water from the pitcher.

  I loosened my robe around my neck and took a deep contented breath, stretching out my feet and clenching and unclenching my toes. It would be nice to get a decent shave and haircut, I thought. I’d made do with battlefield barbering for most of the last year, and I’m afraid it showed.

  With deft hands, Ivinius poured a small measure of water into the basin, took a block of shaving soap from his tray, and expertly lathered it with a brush. He spread towels across my chest and shoulders, then liberally foamed my chin, cheeks, and neck. While my beard softened, he selected the longest straight-edge razor from his tray—one almost as long as his forearm—and began stropping it across a long piece of leather tied to his belt.

  To my surprise, I realized I could easily have gone back to sleep. I half closed my eyes, the clean scent of the shaving soap in my nostrils, the shup-shup-shup of the stropping blade a lullaby to my ears. The joys of civilization . . . yes, I could easily get used to life in Juniper, I thought with a half smile.

  Silently, I gave thanks to Freda’s thoughtfulness for sending Ivinius. The closest thing to a real barber I’d seen in the last year of campaigning against the hell-creatures had been my own orderly, who had more thumbs than fingers. He managed to trim my hair with a minimum of blood loss, but after his first stab—and that was the word—at shaving my face, I told him to get out and reclaimed my razor. My instincts for self-preservation demanded it.

  In a near monotone, Ivinius kept up a steady murmur about his years in the service of Lord Dworkin. He mentioned his wife of sixty-two years, a cook in the kitchens; his five boys, who all served as valets in the castle; and his twenty-six grandchildren and great-grandchildren, one of whom would soon be of age to join the army. I made appropriate noises whenever he paused—“uh-huh,” “yes,” “go on”—but really I heard only every second or third sentence.

  When I turned my head slightly, I could see us both in the looking glass. At that moment I knew why Freda had sent him: my hair was a wild tangle that not even a dunking in bathwater could tame. Dark circles lined my eyes, and I looked ten years older than my actual age. Everyone had been too polite to tell me I was a mess . . . certainly unsuitable to bring to dinner without being cleaned up.

  Ivinius finished working on his razor and turned to me once more. Gently touching the bridge of my nose with two fingers, he tilted my head to the side. He didn’t realize I could see our reflection, and with sudden alarm I noticed how he shifted his grip on the razor’s handle. Now he held it like a butcher’s knife poised to joint a leg of lamb.

  With my right hand I caught his wrist barely an inch from my throat.

  “That’s not how you hold a razor,” I said, voice hard, turning to look at him.

  “Lord,” he said in the calm tones one uses to gentle a spooked horse, “I am a barber. I know my job. Let me do it.”

  “I’d rather shave myself, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” he snarled.

  I pushed back the hand holding the razor. Or tried to—for he suddenly bore down on me with all his weight and strength. Much, much more strength than an old man deserved.

  Chapter Seven

  I am a strong man—stronger than any human I’ve ever fought. It should have been an easy thing for me to push an old man’s arm away from my throat.

  But it wasn’t.

  Ivinius, despite his age, was at least as strong as me—certainly stronger than any seventy-year-old servant ought to be.

  It became a struggle of wills and brute force. I felt my bones start to creak; the muscles in my arm stood out like bands of iron. Grunting from the strain, I gave my every effort to throw him off.

  It wasn’t enough. Standing, he had the better position. He threw not only his strength but his full weight against me, and steadily the razor drew closer to my throat. I gulped, suddenly realizing I couldn’t win.

  Out of desperation, I kicked off against the floor with both feet, throwing my shoulders back as hard as I could and rolling. The chair tipped and went over backwards. Instead of pushing, I tightened my grip on Ivinius’s hand and pulled to the side. The razor’s blade sliced air just beyond the tip of my nose, then went past my right ear. I heard the dry snap of a bone.

  Ivinius howled with pain and dropped the razor, clutching his wrist. I released him and continued my backwards roll. Coming up on my feet, legs spread, arms and fists ready, I began to back away, looking for a weapon—anything. Unfortunately, my sword lay on the other side of the room, still draped across the back of the chair where I had left it.

  “Get out,” I said to him, stalling for time, “Run. You might make it out alive. I’ll give you fifteen seconds before I raise the alarm.”

  Glaring, Ivinius bent and scooped the razor up with his good left hand.

  “It would have been an easy death for you,” he said in a low growl. Then he rushed at me.

  I bumped into the writing desk. It would have to do, I thought.

  Seizing it, muscles straining, I lifted it and threw it at him. Paper, blotter, inkpot, and quills went flying in all directions. Ivinius couldn’t quite duck in time, and one of the legs struck him across the forehead and sent him sprawling. Luckily he lost his grip on the razor, which clattered on the floor.

  I threw myself on him, fingers closing around his throat, and noticed that the blood gushing from his forehead wasn’t red. It was a sickly yellow, the color of a sq
uashed bug, the color of vomit. He wasn’t human, despite his appearance. That explained his extraordinary strength.

  “Hell-creature!” I snarled.

  I saw no human emotion in his eyes, no regret, no wish for mercy. Just a cold hatred.

  I felt no desire for mercy, either. His kind had killed Helda. His kind has destroyed Ilerium with a year of war and terror.

  “Die!” I said.

  I squeezed his throat shut. His eyes began to bulge; he made a desperate gurgle. Still I tightened my grip, pouring a year’s worth of hate and anger toward the hell-creatures against this assassin sent to murder me in my own room.

  Then he began to struggle desperately, trying to buck me off, but with a broken wrist he could do nothing to stop me. Finally, with a sudden wrenching motion, I broke his neck.

  His body seemed to sag, like a wineskin whose contents had suddenly run out. His skin changed, turning a mottled yellow-gray. In a few heartbeats, he was a man no more, but something else . . . something hideous and distorted, with solid black eyes that continued to sink deep into sharp, bony cheeks. Talons had replaced those age-spotted fingers, and two rows of narrow, slivered teeth suddenly lined a tiny round mouth at the end of a pointed jaw.

  Magic.

  Whatever he was, this thing who had looked so much like a man, he had been cleverly disguised. And he had known enough about life in Juniper Castle to get to my rooms and nearly kill me.

  Of course, I was a stranger here, but nothing he had said in all that old-man prattle had put me on my guard. If it hadn’t been for the looking glass, I felt certain, I would now be dead. I swallowed and touched my throat.

  Still his transformation continued, as whatever sorcery had disguised him unraveled. His prominent nose dwindled to mere nostril slits. His skin shimmered with faint iridescent scales. And then his transformation seemed to be complete.

  I beheld a monster like none I had ever seen before. Clearly this wasn’t one of the hell-creatures I had fought in Ilerium . . . so what was it? And why would it want me dead enough to risk murdering me in my own rooms?

  My battle-rage had begun to fade, and I took a deep cleansing breath, muscles suddenly weak. I felt like I’d lost control of my life, and I didn’t like the sensation.