The Dawn of Amber

by John Gregory Betancourt

  He called, “Enter at your own risk!” in cheerful tones.

  I went in and found him sitting at a drafting table by the windows. Small bottles of colored pigments sat all around him, and he held a tiny horsehair brush in one hand.

  He paused in his work. “What news from the woods, brother?” he asked.

  “Nothing more than we already heard,” I said with a shrug. “The hell-creatures were long gone.”

  “A pity,” he said.

  I came closer, looking at the half-dozen Trumps sitting out on the table. “What are you doing?”

  “Making a Trump.”

  He picked it up and turned it so I could see . . . and though only half finished, it clearly showed a man standing with feet spread and sword raised, ready for battle. He was dressed all in deep blues with black trim, and his cloak ruffled faintly as though from a steady breeze. In the white spaces of the unfinished background, ever so faintly, I noticed a lacework pattern of thin black lines . . . curves and angles that seemed to reach deep into the card, somehow, like a three-dimensional puzzle. A representation of the Logrus? I suspected so.

  Aber had just begun coloring the face when I walked in. With some surprise. I realized it was a miniature portrait of me.

  “What do you think of this one?” he asked. “I’m making it for Freda. She told me she wanted it last night, after dinner.”

  “No more candles?”

  He chuckled. “Actually, that one was supposed to be Mattus. I finished it up this morning with your face.” He shrugged apologetically. “I was in a hurry.”

  “And a good thing you were. You probably saved my life.”

  “Ah, how ironic! The artist saves the warrior.”

  I laughed. “It was still a good likeness, even if it started out as a picture of Mattus. And I’m even more flattered by this one.”

  “Really?” He seemed honestly delighted. “You know, I think you’re the first person who’s ever said that to me!”

  I regarded his new card carefully. “Blue is not really my color, though,” I said. “How about red next time?”

  “The colors don’t matter, it’s the person and how the image is drawn.” He set it back in the last of the dying sunlight. “Have to let it dry now, anyway,” he said. “So, what brings you here?”

  I hesitated. Trust no one, Freda had said. But this was something I couldn’t do alone. I needed an ally . . . and of all my family, I liked Aber most of all. If I had to trust someone, it had to be him . . . for no other reason than he was the one most likely to recognize the Trump I’d found. It wasn’t an easy decision, but once made, I knew it was the right one.

  “I want you to look at something.” I pulled out the Locke’s Trump and handed it to him. “I found it. Is it yours?”

  “Well, I made it.” He turned it over and pointed to the rampant lion painted in gold on the back. “I put a lion on all of mine. Dad never bothered with such niceties when he made Trumps.”

  “Do you know who you made it for?”

  He shrugged. “Why not ask at dinner? I’m sure whoever’s lost it wants it back.”

  “I . . . do have a reason.”

  “But you’re not going to say.”

  “No. Not right now.”

  “Hmm.” He studied me thoughtfully, then raised the Trump for a second, studying it more carefully. “Honestly, I’m not sure who I made it for,” he admitted. “I’ve done at least twenty of Locke over the years, and I always copy my original. They all look pretty much the same.”

  He opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a small teak box similar to the one he’d given me, but with polished brass corners. He swung back the lid and pulled out a set of perhaps fifty or sixty cards, fanned them open, and pulled one out.

  When he set it beside the Trump I had found, they appeared identical. I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. No wonder it had looked like Freda’s—he really had been copying his original card over and over. And with twenty of them out there . . . this Trump could belong to anyone.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Like I told you, ask at dinner. That’s your best bet.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t do that. Do you think it might be Locke’s?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I never give anyone their own Trump. It’s a waste of my time. Why would you want to contact yourself?”

  It made sense. And yet, when I thought back to my carriage ride, envisioning the Trumps I’d seen on the table, I was pretty sure Freda had one of herself.

  “What about Freda?” I asked. “Doesn’t she . . . ”

  “Oh, that’s different.” He laughed. “She reads patterns from them, so she needs one of everyone in the family, including herself. That’s what you get for growing up in the Courts. People are . . . different there. They think and teach and learn things that the rest of us, who grew up in Shadows, can only long for.”

  I nodded. It all fit. “So Locke wouldn’t need it. He couldn’t use it. But Davin . . . ”

  “Yes, it might be his.” Aber’s eyes narrowed a bit with sudden suspicion. “Why are you asking all these questions? Something’s wrong. Where did you really get it . . . in the enemy’s camp?”

  I hesitated. If I could trust one family member, somehow I thought it would be Aber. Should I tell him? I needed an ally . . . someone in whom I could confide and seek advice . . . someone who knew Juniper. And if anything happened to me, if another hell-creature managed to assassinate me, I wanted the truth known. He had just guessed where the card had come from, after all. What could it hurt to tell him the truth . . . or as much of it as he needed to know?

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” He took my silence for confirmation. “So . . . they have our Trumps.”

  I took a deep breath. Against my instincts for secrecy, I told him how I had found the Trump, hidden it from Locke and Davin, and brought it back with me.

  Then I told him my suspicions about a traitor in Juniper.

  “And you thought these spies had been talking to Locke,” he said, folding his hands together under his chin thoughtfully. “You thought Locke might betray us.”

  “That was the general idea,” I admitted. “He’s been the most, ah, hostile, after all.”

  “You’re wrong,” Aber said bluntly. He looked me straight in the eye. “Locke doesn’t have the imagination or the ambition to betray anyone. He and Davin spent the last year training the army for Dad. They will both fight to the death, if necessary, to protect us.”

  “Maybe he thinks we’re going to lose and wants to be on the winning side.”

  “They are trying to wipe out our bloodline. Why would they let him live?”

  “Deals have been made before.”

  “Not with Locke.”

  “Then how do you explain this?” I tapped the Trump with my finger. “Maybe they agreed to let him live out his years in exile. It’s a small price it he can deliver Juniper . . . all of us.”

  “I don’t know.” His brow furrowed again. “There are at least four sets of Trumps missing . . . Mattus, Alanar, Taine, and Clay all carried them. This card could easily be one of theirs.”

  “Then why Locke?” I demanded. “Why would hell-creatures carry his card and no others?”

  “And why would they forget it when they left?” Aber countered. “It’s not the sort of thing you’d accidentally leave behind when you clear out camp. And, for that matter, it’s not the sort of thing a routine scout would carry.”

  “I see your point,” I admitted.

  “What if they wanted us to find it,” he went on. “What if they planned the whole thing, right down to hiding that card in the bedroll?”

  The idea hadn’t occurred to me. It was devious . . . exactly the sort of trick a hell-creature might try.

  Aber went on, “If Dad stripped Locke of his command, it would do us real damage. The men love him and will follow him to the seven hells and back, if he asks. Davin isn’t half the leader Locke is. And t
he men don’t know you well enough to follow you. Losing Locke would be a terrible blow.”

  “You have a good point,” I admitted

  “So, what are you going to do?” he asked. “Tell Dad or keep it to yourself?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “If only you recognized the Trump!”

  I began to pace, thinking. Everything had seemed much clearer before I’d talked to Aber, when Locke looked guilty. Now, according to Aber, finding the Trump meant the traitor could be anyone except Locke.

  Who?

  I sighed. “Plots and schemes have never come easily to me,” I told him.

  “Nor to me,” he said. “It takes a lot more patience than I have. You’d be better off talking to Blaise, if you want that sort of advice.”

  “Blaise?” His suggestion left me faintly baffled. “Why her? I would’ve thought you’d send me to Freda.”

  “Freda is no amateur, but Blaise is the true master when it comes to intrigue. Nothing happens in Juniper without her hearing about it.”

  “Blaise?” I said again. “Our sister Blaise?”

  He gave a chuckle at my bewildered expression.

  “Don’t let her fool you,” he said. “She’s got a regular network of spies. Half the staff is in her pay.”

  “And the other half?”

  “Sleeping with her.”

  I snorted. “Well, it saves money, I suppose,” I said.

  Blaise . . .

  It was something to think about. I hadn’t even considered her. From our first meeting, I’d gotten the impression she knew little beyond what jewelry to wear with which clothes to such-and-such a court function—an important skill in its way, I’m sure, but not one I’d ever found particularly useful. Perhaps I had been too quick to dismiss her.

  And then, just when Aber had me half believing I’d been fooled into believing we had a spy among us by the planted Trump, I remembered Ivinius the barber, who had tried to kill me in my rooms. He’d been smuggled into the castle for the sole purpose of killing me, and by someone who knew who I was and what I needed to hear to put me off my guard.

  So who had sent Ivinius to kill me? And how had he or she gotten the body out of my rooms without being seen?

  “But I do know—without any doubt—that we have a traitor in Juniper,” I continued,

  He blinked in surprise. “What! Who?”

  “I don’t know—yet.”

  Then I told him how Ivinius had tried to slit my throat in my room. It felt good to share this secret, too.

  “So that’s why you jumped at me when I Trumped in,” he said. “You thought I’d come to check on your murder!”

  “Or to finish the job.” I sighed and shook my head. “If it had only been Locke instead of you . . . things would certainly be a lot simpler right now.”

  “You were lucky,” he said slowly, “If it had been Locke, you’d be dead. He’s the best swordsman among us,”

  “You’ve never seen me fight.”

  He shrugged. “I concede the point. But Locke’s the best swordsman I’ve ever seen. He was schooled by a dozen weapons-masters in the Courts of Chaos. He grew up with blades in both hands. His mother, after all—”

  “Freda mentioned her,” I said. “Some sort of hell-creature?”

  “The Lady Ryassa de Lyor ab Sytalla is hardly a hell-creature.”

  “Then you’ve met her?”

  “Not formally, no . . . but I’ve seen her half a dozen times.”

  I shrugged. “You’re probably right. Father never would have married her otherwise.”

  “True.”

  “And,” I said, “if you say Locke’s a great swordsman, I’ll accept that, even though I’ve never seen him fight.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s just that I made the mistake of letting down my guard, thinking I was safe here. It won’t happen again. Not with anyone.”

  He pursed his lips again. “A traitor . . . that’s something none of us has ever talked about before. Yet it makes a lot of sense. This Shadow is very, very far from the Courts. About as far as you can get and still use the Logrus. We should have been safe here . . . and yet they found us fairly quickly.”

  I spread my hands in a half shrug. “So . . . what now?”

  “Blaise . . . ” he hesitated.

  “The same qualities that make her a likely ally also make her a likely suspect. She could have gotten Ivinius into the castle and sent him to my room.”

  “True. She saw what you looked like when we had drinks, so she knew you needed a shave and a haircut. But you could say the same for Pella, Freda, and me, too. Or Dad, for that matter. Or anyone you passed in the corridor.”

  “Or anyone who saw me get out of the carriage when we got here,” I said, remembering the crowd that had surrounded Dad. Locke and Davin had been among them . . . plus several dozen others, any one of whom could have said the wrong word to the wrong person and set me up.

  I sighed. Clearly we weren’t getting anywhere.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “Tell Blaise about the Trump you found,” he said, “and your suspicions. The more I think about it, the more I believe she’ll be able to help you. I’ll tell Freda. Perhaps one of them will have an answer.”

  “Don’t tell them about the hell-creature barber yet,” I said. “I don’t want to tip my hand.”

  “No . . . you’re right, of course. Save that. It may be important later.”

  I found Blaise’s rooms on the floor above, and her serving girl showed me into a sitting room done in bright colors, with fresh cut flowers in intricate arrangements all around. My sister reclined on a small sofa, a glass of red wine in one hand and a pretty young man in the other. He kissed her fingers, rose with a sideways glance at me, and slipped out the side door. I watched him go without comment, thinking of Aber’s jibe that she slept with half the serving staff. An exaggeration, of course . . . at least, I hoped so.

  “Oberon,” she said, rising.

  I kissed the cheek she offered.

  “Blaise,” I said. “You’re looking lovely.”

  “Thank you.” She wore that wide, predatory smile again, and all my mistrust came flooding back. “I’m glad you’ve come to see me,” she said, “May I offer you some wine?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s time we had a talk. But I certainly hadn’t expected to see you so soon.”

  Glancing pointedly at her serving girl, I said, “This isn’t really a social call.”

  “No?”

  “Aber thought I should seek your advice.”

  “Interesting.” She smiled. “Go on.”

  “Alone, if you don’t mind.”

  She made a little motion with one hand, and her serving girl curtsied and withdrew, shutting the door. Only then did I turn back to my half sister.

  “I’m listening,” she said, more businesslike than before. She set down her glass, folded her hands in her lap, and looked up at me curiously.

  I took a deep breath. What did I have to lose at this point? I didn’t know who to trust and who to suspect, so I might as well put all the evidence out in the open. Perhaps she would have more insight than Aber and I did.

  Quickly, before I could change my mind, I told her everything, starting with Ivinius trying to slit my throat and ending with the Trump I’d found in the hell-creature’s camp. A little to my surprise, she neither interrupted nor showed the slightest concern. She merely looked thoughtful.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “That you are a damned fool,” she said sharply. “You should not have hidden an assassination attempt. This isn’t a game, Oberon. If we are in danger in Juniper, we all have a right to know!”

  I bristled at that, but did not reply. Unfortunately, I thought she might be right. I had handled it wrong. I should have gone straight to Dad as soon as I’d killed Ivinius.

  “What’s done is done,” I finally said, “and cannot be changed. I thought I made the ri
ght decision at the time.”

  “And now you’ve come to me?”

  “Aber seems to think you might have a certain . . . insight into whatever plots are going on around us.”

  “Hmm.” She leaned back on the couch, drumming her fingers on its arm, eyes distant. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted. There has never been much love between Aber and me, you know.”

  “We don’t need love. We need cooperation.”

  She looked me in the eye. “You are quite right, Oberon. This is not a petty squabble among siblings. We are all involved, and we are all in mortal danger. If we are not careful, we will all end up dead.”

  “Do you know anything about Ivinius?” I asked.

  “He performed his job well and faithfully for many years. He was married. I believe his wife died about a week ago.”

  “Murdered?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “When a woman of seventy-odd years dies in her sleep, who questions it? Not I.”

  “I suppose not.” I sat on the chair opposite her. “Of course, Ivinius’s wife would have known immediately if someone began impersonating him, I bet they killed her to keep her quiet.”

  “A hell-creature impersonating Ivinius would need help. A stranger could never sneak into Juniper, replace a skilled tradesman, and impersonate him perfectly without some assistance. It had to be someone with a knowledge of the castle’s routine, who brought him here and coached him on what to say and what to do.”

  I reminded her that the body had been removed from my rooms.

  “That narrows down our list of suspects.”

  “Not really,” I said. “The door wasn’t locked. Anyone could have walked in, found Ivinius’s body, and escaped with it.”

  “Anybody might have slipped in,” she said, “but no one saw a body being carried out. I would have heard. You cannot hide a death here . . . which means whoever took the body used a Trump.”

  “A family member?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what I concluded,” I said. “Someone who knew I arrived in need of a shave and a haircut. You, Freda, Aber, Pella, Davin, and Locke all saw me. I don’t know whether any of the others did.”

  “And then you found Locke’s Trump in the hell-creatures’ camp,” she said, frowning.