The Dawn of Amber

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “Yes. But Aber doesn’t think he’s the traitor.”

  “Locke is guilty of many things, but he wouldn’t plot with our enemies. They planted that card for us to find.”

  “That’s what Aber said, too. But if not Locke, then who?”

  “I think I know.”

  “Tell me!”

  Blaise shook her head as she rose. “Not yet,” she said firmly. “I have no proof. We must see Father first. This cannot wait.”

  She hurried me out and down a series of back staircases and plainly furnished corridors through which a constant stream of servants moved until I had quite lost all sense of direction. Juniper was big. But when we pushed out into a main hallway, I realized we’d taken a shortcut and reached Dad’s workshop in about half the time it normally would have taken from my suite.

  Now that she had a purpose, she moved with a speed and determination that surprised me. Who did she suspect? As Aber had said, there was more to her than I’d thought.

  She swept past the two guards, with me still trailing, and knocked on our father’s workshop door.

  Dworkin opened it after a heartbeat, peered up at the two of us, then stood back for us to enter,

  “This is an odd pairing, I would say. What brings you here together?”

  “Tell him,” Blaise said, looking at me.

  So, for the third time that afternoon, I repeated my story, leaving nothing out. Then I told him our conclusions, down to our having a traitor in the family,

  “I know I should have come to you sooner,” I said, “and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know who I should trust . . . so I trusted no one.”

  “You thought you were doing the right thing,” Dworkin said. “We will get to the bottom of this matter.”

  “Blaise thinks she knows who the traitor is,” I added.

  “Oh?” He looked at her, surprised and pleased.

  “That’s right, Father. It can only be Freda.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Freda!” he and I said as one. I couldn’t believe it.

  “That’s right.”

  “But—why?” I said.

  “Who else could it possibly be?” Blaise said. “She has more Trumps than any of us except Aber. She’s said several times that we cannot win the coming battle. And she refuses to name those who have set themselves against us.”

  “I am not sure refuses is the correct word,” Dworkin said. “She cannot see who they are.”

  “She has named the guilty often enough before,” Blaise said, folding her arms stubbornly. “Why not this time . . . unless she is helping them?”

  “No,” Dworkin said. “I cannot believe it. Wild accusations prove nothing.”

  “Then how about proof.” She leaned forward. “Freda went into Oberon’s rooms yesterday morning . . . after he went downstairs to see you. She went in alone, and she didn’t come out.”

  “How do you know this?” Dworkin demanded.

  “One of the scrubwomen told me.”

  “A spy?” I said.

  She smiled at me. “Not at all. I simply asked some of the servants to keep an eye on you, in case you needed help. She noticed Freda going in after you had left, and when Freda didn’t come out, it struck her as odd. She mentioned it to me this morning.”

  Dworkin turned away, and when he spoke again, his voice shook. “Summon Locke,” he said. “And Freda.”

  We had quite a little gathering in Dad’s workshop: Locke arrived with Davin in tow, and Freda came with Aber. No reason had been given, just that our father wanted them.

  I had to repeat my story a fourth time for Locke’s benefit, and I went through the details quickly and surely. When I mentioned finding his Trump hidden in the bedroll, he leaped to his feet.

  “I had nothing to do with them!” he said.

  “Sit down,” our father said. “We know that. They clearly planted the card there, hoping to discredit you.” He looked at me. “Continue, Oberon.”

  I finished up with the discussion Aber and I had, where we agreed that the hell-creatures were trying to get Locke removed.

  “See?” Davin said to him in a whisper. “They fear you.”

  Then Blaise told how Freda had been seen entering my rooms . . . and how she hadn’t come out.

  I stepped forward. “Unfortunately, eyewitnesses don’t prove anything,” I said. “Remember, the hell-creatures are shape-shifters. One of them could easily have disguised himself as Freda.”

  “How could they—” Blaise began.

  I said, “Look!”

  Closing my eyes, I envisioned Freda’s face in my mind, her long hair, the thin lines around her eyes, the shape of her jaws and cheeks. I held that image, made it my own, and then I opened my eyes.

  “See?” I said with Freda’s voice. From the shocked faces of everyone around me, I knew my old childhood trick still worked. My face now looked exactly like Freda’s. “Anyone can do it.”

  “How—” Blaise breathed.

  Dworkin chuckled. “A simple enough trick. You have never tried to change your face, have you, my girl?”

  Blaise looked from Freda to me and back again. Then, when she opened her mouth, no words came out.

  “I have something to say,” Freda said, standing. She glared at Blaise. “First, my comings and goings are of no concern to anyone but myself. I don’t need your spies peeking at me from behind every wash-bucket in the castle. Second, I did go to Oberon’s rooms yesterday. He wasn’t there, so I left. And I used a Trump—we all do.”

  “Where did you go?” Blaise countered. “Off to hide the body?”

  “If you must know, I returned to my room,” Freda said coolly.

  “What did you want with me?” I asked her.

  “I wanted to read your cards. Just like this afternoon . . . only I didn’t get a chance then, either.”

  “See?” Dworkin said. “A simple explanation.”

  “Then who removed the body?” Locke said.

  Nobody had an answer.

  Then, for the second time that day, a distant bell began to sound an alarm.

  Locke led the way out to the audience hall, where a man dressed as a lieutenant stood waiting with two other men. They were panting and soaked in sweat.

  “General!” he gasped, saluting Locke, “they’re doing something to the sky!”

  “What?” Locke demanded.

  “I don’t know!”

  As one, we ran to the windows and peered up at the sky.

  Directly over Juniper, immense black clouds now boiled and seethed. A strange bluish lightning flickered. The cloud grew larger as we watched, and slowly it began to move, swirling, spiraling inward.

  “What is it, Dad?” I asked Dworkin.

  “I have never seen its like before,” he admitted. “Freda?”

  “No. But I do not like it.”

  “Nor I,” said Locke.

  “Where is Anari?” Dworkin said.

  “Here, Prince.” He had been standing to the back of our little crowd, also staring up at the sky.

  “I want everyone out of the top floors,” Dworkin said firmly. “Bring the beds downstairs to the ballroom, dining hall, and audience chambers. No one is to go above ground level.”

  “I’m going to pull some of our troops away from Juniper,” Locke said, starting for the door. “I don’t know how, but that cloud means ill for us.” To Dworkin he said, “You and Freda need to find something to stop it. If you need to swallow your pride and ask for help at the Courts of Chaos, do it!”

  Turning, he ran for the door, with Davin and the lieutenant close behind.

  “Oberon, come with me,” Dworkin said, turning and heading back toward his workshop.

  I hesitated. Part of me wanted to join Locke in the field, getting the army camp moved farther from Juniper. There was something about those clouds that made me more than a little bit afraid. But a good soldier—and a dutiful son—obeys orders, and I followed him back to his workshop.

  Inside,
he bolted the door, then turned and went to a large wooden chest pushed up against the wall. He opened the top and drew out a blue velvet bag with its drawstring pulled closed.

  He opened it slowly, carefully, and pulled out a set of Trumps similar to Aber’s. Looking at them over his shoulder, I saw portraits of men and women in strange costumes. I didn’t recognize any of them as part of our family.

  He flipped past these people quickly, then drew out an image I did recognize . . . a gloomy castle almost lost in night and storm, with strange patterns of lightning around the silver-limned towers and battlements: The Grand Plaza of the Courts of Chaos, drawn almost exactly as it had been on Freda’s card.

  “You’re going to the Courts of Chaos?” I asked slowly. Just looking at the Trump sent my skin crawling.

  “Yes. Locke is right—I have avoided it too long. This fight has gotten out of hand. I must petition King Uthor to intercede. It is a disgrace . . . but it must be done. You will accompany me.”

  I swallowed. “All right.”

  He raised the card and stared at it. I took a deep breath, held it, expecting to be whisked off to the world on the card at any second.

  But nothing happened.

  I let out my breath. Still Dworkin stared. And still we stayed in his workshop, unmoving.

  “Uh, Dad . . . ” I began.

  He lowered the card and looked at me. I saw tears glistening in his eyes.

  “I can’t do it,” he said.

  “Want me to try?”

  Silently, he handed me the card. I raised it, saw the courtyard, concentrated on the image . . . and nothing happened. I stared harder. Still nothing.

  Rubbing my eyes, I turned the card over and looked at the back—plain white—then at the front again. I remembered how other Trumps had seemed to come to life as I stared at them, and I tried once more, willing it to work.

  Nothing.

  Was I doing something wrong?

  Dworkin took the card out of my hand.

  “I thought so,” he said softly, returning it to the bag and tightening the drawstring. “Now we know what the clouds are for. Somehow, they are interfering with the Logrus. We are cut off.”

  “Perhaps it’s just the cloud,” I said. “If we ride out from under it . . . ”

  “No,” he said, eyes distant. “They are here, now, and they are close. Now that we cannot retreat, cannot run, they will march on us . . . and they will kill us all.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I swallowed. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

  “Why not?” I had no answer.

  “I’ll tell Freda,” I said, starting for the door. “Perhaps she’ll know what to do.” He gave a curt nod.

  I left him there, seated at one of his work tables, just staring into space. I had never seen him like this before, and it tore me up inside. How could he have let it come to this? How could he have become so helpless so suddenly? It didn’t take me long to find Freda; she still stood at one of the windows in the audience hall, staring up at the sky. Aber and most of the others were still there as well.

  The black cloud, I saw, had doubled in size, and it swirled faster than before. Blue flashes and the constant flicker of lightning gave it a sinister appearance.

  I touched Freda’s arm and motioned for her to follow me. She gave one last look at the sky, then we went off to the side, where we could talk without being heard.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Is he gone?”

  “No.” Quickly I told her what we had discovered. “I thought you might be able to do something.”

  She shook her head. “I have not been able to use my Trumps since this morning. I started to tell you when we were in your room. I wanted you to shuffle them . . . I thought I had done something to cause the problem.”

  “It had begun even then?” I said. “Before the cloud?”

  “Apparently. Why?”

  “Then maybe the cloud isn’t the cause. Maybe it’s something else.”

  “Like what?”

  I shrugged. “You and Dad are the experts. Is there a device that could cause it? If so, could it be hidden here, inside the castle?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said.

  I sighed. “So much for that idea. I thought Ivinius or our unknown traitor might have smuggled something into Juniper.”

  “Still . . . it is possible, I suppose. I will organize a search, just to make sure.”

  “Why don’t you ask Blaise to do it?”

  She looked at me in surprise. “Why?”

  “She’s already in charge of the servants. She can put them to work.”

  “You ask her, then. I cannot, after what she accused me of.”

  I looked into her eyes. “Trust none of them, but love them all?”

  She sighed and looked away. “Advice is easier when given than taken,” she said. “Very well, I will talk to her.”

  Turning, she headed back to the window. I saw her pull Blaise aside, and they began to talk in low voices. Since no blows were exchanged, I assumed the best. In a life-or-death situation, even bitter enemies would work together to save themselves.

  I went outside, into the main courtyard. The cloud had grown large enough to blot out the sun and most of its light, and a hazy sort of twilight settled over everything. Guards hurried across the courtyard, lighting torches. I knew without doubt that something huge and terrible was about to break over us. I think we all did.

  Well, let it come. I gave a silent toast to inevitability. The sooner it came, the sooner we could act against it.

  Without warning, a tremendous flash lit the courtyard, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Tiny bits of rock rained down on me, followed by a choking cloud of dust. Then a block of stone as big as my head hit the paving stones ten feet from where I stood, shattering. I reeled back, coughing and choking, eyes stinging and tearing.

  Screams sounded from inside the castle. It took me a second to realize what had happened—lightning had struck the top floor.

  I ran for the steps to the battlements, knowing I’d be safer there than out in the open. The real danger lay in falling stones, not being struck by lightning. Somehow, I had a feeling this one had been the first of many to come.

  Gaining the top of the battlements, I looked out across the army camp. Men by the thousands worked frantically, packing gear, pulling up wooden stakes and folding tents, herding animals. I spotted Locke on horseback, directing their movements. He seemed to be directing everyone within two hundred yards of the castle away to the empty fields by the forest where the hell-creatures had been spying on us.

  Another blast of lightning came, then a third. Each struck the castle’s highest tower, cracking stone blocks and roof tiles. Debris rained down. Luckily no one was injured or killed.

  “Close the gates!” I called down to the guards on duty. “Don’t let anyone in except Locke or Davin! It’s too dangerous!”

  “Yes, Lord!” one of them called up, and two of them began to swing the heavy gates shut.

  I went back down to the courtyard, waited for the next bolts of lightning to strike and the debris to fall, then sprinted across the courtyard and into the audience hall.

  It was deserted. Two of the windows had broken, and I saw blood on the floor—someone had been cut by flying glass, I thought.

  I spotted servants moving in the hallway, and I hurried to see what they were doing. Anari, it turned out, had taken Dworkin’s orders to heart and had begun moving all the castle’s beds and bedding to the ground floor. Servants would sleep in the grand ballroom. My sisters would share the dining hall. My brothers and I would have one of the lesser halls—one with no windows. Hopefully the lightning would stop or the castle would withstand its blasts through the morning.

  I caught sight of Aber, who was supervising two servants as they carried an immense wooden chest down the stairs, and I strode over to join him.

  “Who got hurt in the audience hall?” I asked.

  “Conn
er,” he said. “A section of the glass fell in on him. His face and hands are cut up, but he’ll live.”

  “That’s good news,” I said. “What’s in the trunk?”

  “My set of Trumps. And a few other precious items I don’t want to lose. I thought I’d store them down here until we leave. We are leaving, aren’t we?”

  I smiled bleakly. “What happened to your faith in Dad, Locke, and me? I thought you planned to sit tight until we killed everyone.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “No offense, brother, but have you noticed what we’re up against? We won’t be alive to fight if we don’t get out of here, and soon. They’re bringing the castle down on our heads!”

  A particularly loud crack! sounded outside as if to underscore his words. The castle shook, and I heard the low rumble of falling stones.

  He might have a point, I thought. But the castle walls grew stronger the closer you got to the foundations. It wouldn’t be easy to destroy Juniper.

  “In case you missed it,” I told him, “our Trumps aren’t working anymore. We can’t go anywhere. It’s time to stand and fight.”

  “What?” He paled. “You’re wrong! The Trumps always work!”

  “Try one,” I said, “and you’ll see. Neither Freda, Dad, nor I could get them to work.”

  The servants carrying the trunk had reached the bottom of the stairs, and he motioned for them to set it down. They did so, and he flipped open its lid. I peered over his shoulder and saw stacks of cards . . . there had to be hundreds of them.

  He picked up the top one, which showed me . . . it was the same card he’d been painting in his room earlier.

  “Do you mind?” he asked me.

  “Go ahead.”

  He stared at it intently, frowning, but I felt no sense of contact. From his frustrated expression, I knew it wasn’t working for him, either.

  With a low moan, he dropped his arm and looked at me. His face had gone ashen; his hand trembled.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I felt a little guilty for having him try the Trump when I’d known it wouldn’t work. Making Trumps seemed to be his one great talent, and it had been rendered useless right now.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said.