The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

by Roger Zelazny

  He nodded.

  “The events are in order, but the reason is not. We did not want the throne, at least not that abruptly, nor at that time. We formed our group to oppose their group, because it had to be opposed to protect the throne. At first, the most we could persuade Eric to do was to assume a Protectorship. He was afraid he would quickly turn up dead if he saw himself crowned under those conditions. Then you turned up, with your very legitimate claim. We could not afford to let you press it at that time, because Brand’s crowd was threatening out-and-out war. We felt they would be less inclined to make this move if the throne were already occupied. We could not have seated you, because you would have refused to be a puppet, a role you would have had to play since the game was already in progress and you were ignorant on too many fronts. So we persuaded Eric to take the risk and be crowned. That was how it happened.”

  “So when I did arrive he put out my eyes and threw me in the dungeon for laughs.”

  Julian turned away and looked back at the dead manticora.

  “You are a fool,” he finally said. “You were a tool from the very beginning. They used you to force our hand, and either way you lost. If that half-assed attack of Bleys’s had somehow succeeded, you wouldn’t have lasted long enough to draw a deep breath. If it failed, as it did, Bleys disappeared, as he did, leaving you with your life forfeit for attempted usurpation. You had served your purpose and you had to die. They left us small choice m the matter. By rights, we should have killed you—and you know it.”

  I bit my lip. There were many things I might say. But if he was telling something approximating the truth, he did have a point. And I did want to hear more.

  “Eric,” he said, “figured that your eyesight might eventually be restored—knowing the way we regenerate—given time. It was a very delicate situation. If Dad were to return, Eric could step down and justify all of his actions to anyone’s satisfaction—except for killing you. That would have been too patent a move to ensure his own continued reign beyond the troubles of the moment. And I will tell you frankly that he simply wanted to imprison you and forget you.”

  “Then whose idea was the blinding?”

  He was silent again for a long while. Then he spoke very softly, almost a whisper: “Hear me out, please. It was mine, and it may have saved your life. Any action taken against you had to be tantamount to death, or their faction would have tried for the real thing. You were no longer of any use to them, but alive and about you possessed the potentiality of becoming a danger at some future time. They could have used your Trump to contact you and kill you, or they could have used it to free you in order to sacrifice you in yet another move against Eric. Blinded, however, there was no need to slay you and you were of no use for anything else they might have in mind. It saved you by taking you out of the picture for a time, and it saved us from a more egregious act which might one day be held against us. As we saw it, there was no choice. It was the only thing we could do. There could be no show of leniency either, or we might be suspected of having some use for you ourselves. The moment you assumed any such semblance of value you would have been a dead man. The most we could do was look the other way whenever Lord Rein contrived to comfort you. That was all that could be done.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “you saw too soon. No one had guessed you would recover your sight that quickly, nor that you would be able to escape once you did. How did you manage it?”

  “Does Macy’s tell Gimbel’s?” I said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I said—never mind. What do you know of Brand’s imprisonment, then?”

  He regarded me once more.

  “All I know is that there was some sort of falling out within his group. I lack the particulars. For some reason, Bleys and Fiona were afraid to kill him and afraid to let him run loose. When we freed him from their compromise—imprisonment—Fiona was apparently more afraid of having him free.”

  “And you said you feared him enough to have made ready to kill him. Why now, after all this time, when all of this is history and the power has shifted again? He was weak, virtually helpless. What harm could he do now?”

  He sighed.

  “I do not understand the power that he possesses,” he said, “but it is considerable. I know that he can travel through Shadow with his mind, that he can sit in a chair, locate what he seeks in Shadow, and then bring it to him by an act of will without moving from the chair; and he can travel through Shadow physically in a somewhat similar fashion. He lays his mind upon the place he would visit, forms a kind of mental doorway, and simply steps through. For that matter, I believe he can sometimes tell what people are thinking. It is almost as if he has himself become some sort of living Trump. I know these things because I have seen him do them. Near the end, when we had him under surveillance in the palace he had eluded us once in this fashion. This was the time he traveled to the shadow Earth and had you placed in Bedlam. After his recapture, one of us remained with him at all times. We did not yet know that he could summon things through Shadow, however. When he became aware that you had escaped your confinement, he summoned a horrid beast which attacked Caine, who was then his bodyguard. Then he went to you once again. Bleys and Fiona apparently got hold of him shortly after that, before we could, and I did not see him again until that night in the library when we brought him back. I fear him because he has deadly powers which I do not understand.”

  “In such a case, I wonder how they managed to confine him at all?”

  “Fiona has similar strengths, and I believe Bleys did also. Between the two of them, they could apparently annul most of Brand’s power while they created a place where it would be inoperative.”

  “Not totally,” I said. “He got a message to Random. In fact, he reached me once, weakly.”

  “Obviously not totally, then,” he said. “Sufficiently, however. Until we broke through the defenses.”

  “What do you know of all their byplay with me—confining me, trying to kill me, saving me.”

  “That I do not understand,” he said, “except that it was part of the power struggle within their own group. They had had a falling out amongst themselves, and one side or the other had some use for you. So, naturally, one side was trying to kill you while the other fought to preserve you. Ultimately, of course, Bleys got the most mileage out of you, in that attack he launched.”

  “But he was the one who tried to kill me, back on the shadow Earth,” I said. "He was the one who shot out my tires.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, that is what Brand told me, but it jibes with all sorts of secondary evidence.”

  He shrugged.

  “I cannot help you on that,” he said. “I simply do not know what was going on among them at that time.”

  “Yet you countenance Fiona in Amber,” I said. “In fact, you are more than a little cordial to her whenever she is about.”

  “Of course,” he said, smiling. “I have always been very fond of Fiona. She is certainly the loveliest, most civilized of us all. Pity Dad was always so dead-set against brother-sister marriages, as well you know. It bothered me that we had to be adversaries for so long as we were. Things returned pretty much to normal after Bleys’s death, your imprisonment, and Eric’s coronation, though. She accepted their defeat gracefully, and that was that. She was obviously as frightened at the prospect of Brand’s return as I was.”

  “Brand told things differently,” I said, “but then, of course, he would. For one thing, he claims that Bleys is still living, that he hunted him down with his Trump and knows that he is off in Shadow, training another force for another strike at Amber.”

  “I suppose this is possible,” Julian said. “But we are more than adequately prepared, are we not?”

  “He claims further that the strike will be a feint,” I continued, “and that the real attack will then come direct from the Courts of Chaos, over the black road. He says that Fiona is off preparing the way for
this right now.”

  He scowled.

  “I hope he was simply lying,” he said. “I would hate to see their group resurrected and at us again, this time with help from the dark direction. And I would hate to see Fiona involved.”

  “Brand claimed he was out of it himself, that he had seen the error of his ways—and suchlike penitent noises.”

  “Ha! I’d sooner trust that beast I just slew than take Brand at his word. I hope you’ve had the sense to keep him well guarded—though this might not be of much avail if he has his old powers back.”

  “But what game could he be playing now?”

  “Either he has revived the old triumvirate, a thought I like not at all, or he has a new plan all his own. But mark me, he has a plan. He has never been satisfied to be a mere spectator at anything. He is always scheming. I’d take an oath he even plots in his sleep.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” I said. “You see, there has been a new development, whether for good or ill, I cannot yet tell. I just had a fight with Gerard. He thinks I have done Brand some mischief. This is not the case, but I was in no position to prove my innocence. I was the last person I know of to see Brand, earlier today. Gerard visited his quarters a short time ago. He says the place is broken up, there are blood smears here and there, and Brand is missing. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Neither do I. But I hope it means someone has done the job properly this time.”

  “Lord,” I said, “it’s tangled. I wish I had known all of these things before.”

  “There was never a proper time to tell you,” he said, “until now. Certainly not when you were a prisoner and could still be reached, and after that you were gone for a long while. When you returned with your troops and your new weapons, I was uncertain as to your full intentions. Then things happened quickly and Brand was back again. It was too late. I had to get out to save my skin. I am strong here in Arden. Here, I can take anything he can throw at me. I have been maintaining the patrols at full battle force and awaiting word of Brand’s death. I wanted to inquire of one of you whether he was still around. But I could not decide whom to ask, thinking myself still suspect should he have died. As soon as I did get word, though, should it prove he was still living, I was resolved to have a try at him myself. Now this . . . state of affairs . . . What are you going to do now, Corwin?”

  “I am off to fetch the Jewel of Judgment from a place where I cached it in Shadow. There is a way it can be used to destroy the black road. I intend to try it.”

  “How can this be done?”

  “That is too long a story, for a horrible thought has just occurred to me.”

  “What is that?”

  “Brand wants the Jewel. He was asking about it, and now—This power of his to find things in Shadow and fetch them back. How good is it?”

  Julian looked thoughtful.

  “He is hardly omniscient, if that is what you mean. You can find anything you want in Shadow the normal way we go about it—by traveling to it. According to Fiona, he just cuts out the footwork. It is therefore an object, not a particular object that he summons. Besides, that Jewel is a very strange item from everything Eric told me about it. I think Brand would have to go after it in person, once he finds out where it is.”

  “Then I must get on with my hellride. I have to beat him to it.”

  “I see you are riding Drum,” Julian observed. “He is a good beast, a sturdy fellow. Been through many a hellride.”

  “Glad to hear that,” I said. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Get in touch with someone in Amber and get up to date on everything we haven’t had a chance to talk about—Benedict, probably.”

  “No good,” I said. “You will not be able to reach him. He is off to the Courts of Chaos. Try Gerard, and convince him I am an honorable man while you are about it.”

  “The redheads are the only magicians in this family, but I will try. . . . You did say the Courts of Chaos?”

  “Yes, but again, the time is too valuable now.”

  “Of course. Get you gone. We will have our leisure later—I trust.”

  He reached out and clasped my arm. I glanced at the manticora, at the dogs seated in a circle about it.

  “Thanks, Julian. I—You are a difficult man to understand.”

  “Not so. I think the Corwin I hated must have died centuries ago. Ride now, man! If Brand shows up around here, I’ll nail his hide to a tree!”

  He shouted an order to his dogs as I mounted, and they fell upon the carcass of the manticora, lapping at its blood and tearing out huge chunks and strips of flesh. As I rode past that strange, massive, manlike face, I saw that its eyes were still open, though glazed. They were blue, and death had not robbed them of a certain preternatural innocence. Either that, or the look was death’s final gift—a senseless way of passing out ironies, if it was.

  I took Drum back to the trail and began my hellride.

  10

  Moving along the trail at a gentle pace, clouds darkening the sky and Drum’s whinny of memory or anticipation. . . . A turn to the left, and uphill. . . . The ground is brown, yellow, back to brown again. . . . The trees squat down, draw apart. . . . Grasses wave between them in the cool and rising breeze. . . . A quick fire in the sky. . . . A rumble shakes loose raindrops. . . .

  Steep and rocky now. . . . The wind tugs at my cloak. . . . Up. . . . Up to where the rocks are streaked with silver and the trees have drawn their line. . . . The grasses, green fires, die down in the rain. . . . Up, to the craggy, sparkling, rain-washed heights, where the clouds rush and boil like a mud-gorged river at flood crest. . . . The rain stings like buckshot and the wind clears its throat to sing. . . . We rise and rise and the crest comes into view, like the head of a startled bull, horns guarding the trail. . . . Lightnings twist about their tips, dance between them. . . . The smell of ozone as we reach that place and rush on through, the rain suddenly blocked, the wind shunted away. . . .

  Emerging on the farther side. . . . There is no rain, the air is still, the sky smoothed and darkened to a proper star-filled black. . . . Meteors cut and burn, cut and burn, cauterizing to afterimage scars, fading, fading. . . . Moons, cast like a handful of coins. . . . Three bright dimes, a dull quarter, a pair of pennies, one of them tarnished and scarred. . . . Down then, that long, winding way. . . . Hoof clops clear and metallic in the night air. . . . Somewhere, a catlike cough. . . . A dark shape crossing a lesser moon, ragged and swift. . . .

  Downward. . . . The land drops away at either hand. . . . Darkness below. . . . Moving along the top of an infinitely high, curved wall, the way itself bright with moonlight. . . . The trail buckles, folds, grows transparent. . . . Soon it drifts, gauzy, filamentous, stars beneath as well as above. . . . Stars below on either side. . . . There is no land. . . . There is only the night, night and the thin, translucent trail I had to try to ride, to learn how it felt, against some future use. . . .

  It is absolutely silent now, and the illusion of slowness attaches to every movement. . . . Shortly, the trail falls away, and we move as if swimming underwater at some enormous depth, the stars bright fish. . . . It is freedom, it is the power of the hellride that brings an elation, like yet unlike the recklessness that sometimes comes in battle, the boldness of a risky feat well learned, the rush of rightness following the finding of the poem’s proper word. . . . It is these and the prospect itself, riding, riding, riding, from nowhere to nowhere perhaps, across and among the minerals and fires of the void, free of earth and air and water. . . .

  We race a great meteor, we touch upon its bulk. . . . Speeding across its pitted surface, down, around, then up again. . . . It stretches into a great plain, it lightens, it yellows. . . .

  It is sand, sand now beneath our movement. . . . The stars fade out as the darkness is diluted to a morning full of sunrise. . . . Swaths of shade ahead, desert trees within them. . . . Ride for the dark. . . . Crashing through. . . . Bright birds burst forth, complain, resettl
e. . . .

  Among the thickening trees. . . . Darker the ground, narrower the way. . . . Palm fronds shrink to hand size, barks darken. . . . A twist to the right, a widening of the way. . . . Our hoofs striking sparks from cobblestones. . . . The lane enlarges, becomes a tree-lined street. . . . Tiny row houses flash by. . . . Bright shutters, marble steps, painted screens, set back beyond flagged walks. . . . Passing, a horse-drawn cart, loaded with fresh vegetables. . . . Human pedestrians turning to stare. . . . A small buzz of voices. . . .

  On. . . . Passing beneath a bridge. . . . Coursing the stream till it widens to river, taking it down to the sea . . ..

  Thudding along the beach beneath a lemon sky, blue clouds scudding. . . . The salt, the wrack, the shells, the smooth anatomy of driftwood. . . . White spray off the lime-colored sea. . . .

  Racing, to where the place of waters ends at a terrace. . . . Mounting, each step crumbling and roaring down behind, losing its identity, joined with the boom of the surf. . . . Up, up to the flattopped, tree-grown plain, a golden city shimmering, miragelike, at its end. . . .

  The city grows, darkens beneath a shadowy umbrella, its gray towers stretch upward, glass and metal flashing light through the murk. . . . The towers begin to sway. . . .

  The city falls in upon itself, soundlessly, as we pass. . . . Towers topple, dust boils, rises, is pinked by some lower glow. . . . A gentle noise, as of a snuffed candle, drifting by. . . .

  A dust storm, quickly falling, giving place to fog. . . . Through it, the sounds of automobile horns. . . . A drift, a brief lift, a break in the gray-white, pearlwhite, shifting. . . . Our hoofprints on a shoulder of highway. . . . To the right, endless rows of unmoving vehicles. . . . Pearl-white, gray-white, drifting again. . . .

  Directionless shrieks and wailings. . . . Random flashes of light. . . .

  Rising once more. . . . The fogs lower and ebb. . . . Grass, grass, grass. . . . Clear now the sky, and delicate blue. . . . A sun racing to set. . . . Birds. . . . A cow in the field, chewing, staring and chewing. . . .