The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

by Roger Zelazny

  I held it and looked down at her. She smiled. She touched the rim of my cup with her own. We drank.

  “Come to my pavilion now,” she said, taking my hand, “where we will wile pleasurably the hours that remain.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Another time and that wiling would have been a fine dessert to a grand meal. Unfortunately, I must be on my way. Duty nags, time rushes. I’ve a mission.”

  “All right,” she said. “It is not that important. And I know all about your mission. It is not all that important either, now.”

  “Oh? I must confess that I fully expected you to invite me to a private party which would result in me alone and palely loitering on the cold side of some hill sometime hence if I were to accept.”

  She laughed.

  “And I must confess that it was my intention to so use you, Corwin. No longer, though.”

  “Why not?”

  She gestured toward the advancing line of disruption.

  “There is no need to delay you now. I see by this that the Courts have won. There is nothing anyone can do to halt the advance of the Chaos.”

  I shuddered briefly and she refilled our cups.

  “But I would rather you did not leave me at this time,” she went on. “It will reach us here in a matter of hours. What better way to spend this final time than in one another’s company? There is no need even to go as far as my pavilion.”

  I bowed my head, and she drew up close against me. What the hell. A woman and a bottle—that was how I had always said I wanted to end my days. I took a sip of the wine. She was probably right. Yet, I thought of the woman-thing which had trapped me on the black road as I was leaving Avalon. I had gone at first to aid her, succumbed quickly to her unnatural charms—then, when her mask was removed, saw that there was nothing at all behind it. Damned frightening, at the time. But, not to get too philosophical, everybody has a whole rack of masks for different occasions. I have heard pop psychologists inveigh against them for years. Still, I have met people who impressed me favorably at first, people whom I came to hate when I learned what they were like underneath. And sometimes they were like that woman-thing—with nothing much really there. I have found that the mask is often far more acceptable than its alternative. So . . . This girl I held to me might really be a monster inside. Probably was. Aren’t most of us? I could think of worse ways to go if I wanted to give up at this point. I liked her.

  I finished my wine. She moved to pour me more and I stayed her hand.

  She looked up at me. I smiled.

  “You almost persuaded me,” I said.

  Then I closed her eyes with kisses four, so as not to break the charm, and I went and mounted Star. The sedge was not withered, but he was right about the no birds. Hell of a way to run a railroad, though.

  “Good-bye, Lady”

  I headed south as the storm boiled its way down into the valley. There were more mountains before me, and the trail led toward them. The sky was still streaked, black and white, and these lines seemed to move about a bit; the over-all effect was still that of twilight, though no stars shone within the black areas. Still the breeze, still the perfume about me—and the silence, and the twisted monoliths and the silvery foliage, still dew-damp and glistening. Rag ends of mist blew before me. I tried to work with the stuff of Shadow, but it was difficult and I was tired. Nothing happened. I drew strength from the Jewel, trying to transmit some of it to Star, also. We moved at a steady pace until finally the land tilled upward before us, and we were climbing toward another pass, a more jagged thing than the one by which we had entered. I halted to look back, and perhaps a third of the valley now lay behind the shimmering screen of that advancing stormthing. I wondered about Lady and her lake, her pavilion. I shook my head and continued.

  The way steepened as we neared the pass, and we were slowed. Overhead, the white rivers in the sky took on a reddish cast which deepened as we rode. By the time I reached the entrance, the whole world seemed tinged with blood. Passing within that wide, rocky avenue, I was struck by a heavy wind. Pushing on against it, the ground grew more level beneath us, though we continued to climb and I still could not see beyond the pass.

  As I rode, something rattled in the rocks to my left. I glanced that way, but saw nothing. I dismissed it as a falling stone. Half a minute later. Star jerked beneath me, let out a terrible neigh, turned sharply to the right, then began to topple, leftward.

  I leaped clear, and as we both fell I saw that an arrow protruded from behind Star’s right shoulder, low. I hit the ground rolling, and when I halted I looked up in the direction from which it must have come.

  A figure with a crossbow stood atop the ridge to my right, about ten meters above me. He was already cranking the weapon back to prepare for another shot.

  I knew that I could not reach him in time to stop him. So I cast about for a stone the size of a baseball, found one at the foot of the escarpment to my rear, hefted it and tried not to let my rage interfere with the accuracy of my throw. It did not, but it may have contributed some extra force.

  The blow caught him on the left arm, and he let out a cry, dropping the crossbow. The weapon clattered down the rocks and landed on the other side of the trail, almost directly across from me.

  “You son of a bitch!” I cried. “You killed my horse! I’m going to have your head for it!”

  As I crossed the trail, I looked for the fastest way up to him and saw it off to my left. I hurried to it and commenced climbing. An instant later, the light and the angle were proper and I had a better view of the man, bent nearly double, massaging his arm. It was Brand, his hair even redder in the sanguine light.

  “This is it. Brand,” I said. “I only wish someone had done it a long time ago.”

  He straightened and watched me climb for a moment. He did not reach for his blade. Just as I got to the top, perhaps seven meters away from him, he crossed his arms on his breast and lowered his head.

  I drew Grayswandir and advanced. I admit that I was prepared to kill him in that or any other position. The red light had deepened until we seemed bathed in blood. The wind howled about us, and from the valley below came a rumble of thunder.

  He simply faded before me. His outline grew less distinct, and by the time I reached the place where he had been standing he had vanished entirely.

  I stood for a moment, cursing, remembering the story that he had somehow been transformed into a living Trump, capable of transporting himself anywhere in a very brief time.

  I heard a noise from below. . ..

  I rushed to the edge and looked down. Star was still kicking and blowing blood, and it tore my heart to see it. But that was not the only distressing sight.

  Brand was below. He had picked up the crossbow and begun preparing it once more.

  I looked about for another stone, but there was nothing at hand. Then I spotted one farther back, in the direction from which I had come. I hurried to it, resheathed my blade and raised the thing. It was about the size of a watermelon. I returned with it to the edge and sought Brand. He was nowhere in sight.

  Suddenly, I felt very exposed. He could have transported himself to any vantage and be sighting in on me at that instant. I dropped to the ground, falling across my rock. A moment later, I heard the bolt strike to my right. The sound was followed by Brand’s chuckle.

  I stood again, knowing it would take him at least a little while to recock his weapon. Looking in the direction of the laughter, I saw him, atop the ledge across the pass from me—about five meters higher than I was, and about twenty meters distant.

  “Sorry about the horse,” he said. “I was aiming for you. But those damned winds . . .”

  By then I had spotted a niche and I made for it, taking the rock with me for a shield. From that wedge-shaped fissure, I watched him fit the bolt.

  “A difficult shot,” he called out, raising the weapon, “a challenge to my marksmanship. But certainly worth the effort. I’ve plenty more quarrels.”

 
He chuckled, sighted and fired.

  I bent low, holding the rock before my middle, but the bolt struck about two feet to my right.

  “I had sort of guessed that might happen,” he said, beginning to prepare his weapon once again. “Had to learn the windage, though.”

  I looked about for smaller stones to use for ammunition as I had earlier. There were none nearby. I wondered about the Jewel then. It was supposed to act to save me in the presence of immediate peril. But I had a funny feeling that this involved close proximity, and that Brand was aware of this and was taking advantage of the phenomenon. Still, mightn’t there be something else I could do with the Jewel to thwart him? He seemed too far away for the paralysis trick, but I had beaten him once before by controlling the weather. I wondered how far off the storm was. I reached for it. I saw that it would take minutes I did not possess in order to set up the conditions necessary to draw lightning upon him. But the winds were another matter. I reached out for them, felt them. . . .

  Brand was almost ready to shoot again. The wind began to scream through the pass.

  I do not know where his next-shot landed. Nowhere near me, though. He fell to readying his weapon again. I began setting up the factors for a lightningstroke. . . .

  When he was ready, when he raised the weapon this time, I raised the winds once more. I saw him sight, I saw him draw a breath and hold it. Then he lowered the bow and stared at me.

  “It just occurred to me,” he called out, “you’ve got that wind in your pocket, haven’t you? That is cheating, Corwin.”

  He looked all about.

  “I should be able to find a footing where it will not matter, though. Aha!”

  I kept working to set things up to blast him, but conditions were not ready yet. I looked up at that red-and black-streaked sky, something cloud-like forming above us. . . Soon, but not yet. . .

  Brand faded and vanished again. Wildly, I sought him everywhere.

  Then he faced me. He had come over to my side of the pass. He stood about ten meters to the south of me, with the wind at his back, I knew that I could not shift it in time. I wondered about throwing my rock. He would probably duck and I would be throwing away my shield. On the other hand . . .

  He raised the weapon to his shoulder.

  Stall! cried my own voice within my mind, while I continued to tamper with the heavens.

  “Before you shoot. Brand, tell me one thing. All right?”

  He hesitated, then lowered the weapon a few inches.

  “What?”

  “Were you telling me the truth about what happened—with Dad, the Pattern, the coming of Chaos?”

  He threw back his head and laughed, a series of short barks.

  “Corwin,” he stated then, “it pleases me more than I can say to see you die not knowing something that means that much to you.”

  He laughed again and began to raise the weapon. I had just moved to hurl my rock and rush him. But neither of us completed either action.

  There came a great shriek from overhead, and a piece of the sky seemed to detach itself and fall upon Brand’s head. He screamed and dropped the crossbow. He raised his hands to tear at the thing that assailed him. The red bird, the Jewel bearer, born of my blood from my father’s hand, had returned, to defend me.

  I let go the rock and advanced upon him, drawing my blade as I went. Brand struck the bird and it flapped away, gaining altitude, circling for another dive. He raised both arms to cover his face and head, but not before I saw the blood that flowed from his left eye socket.

  He began to fade again even as I rushed toward him. But the bird descended like a bomb and its talons struck Brand about the head once again. Then the bird, too, began to fade. Brand was reaching for his ruddy assailant and being slashed by it as they both disappeared.

  When I reached the place of the action the only thing that remained was the fallen crossbow, and I smashed it with my boot.

  Not yet, not yet the end, damn it! How long will you plague me, brother? How far must I go to bring it to an end between us?

  I climbed back down to the trail. Star was not yet dead and I had to finish the job. Sometimes I think I’m in the wrong business.

  7

  A bowl of cotton candy.

  Having traversed the pass, I regarded the valley that lay before me. At least, I assumed that it was a valley. I could see nothing below its cover of cloud/mist/fog.

  In the sky, one of the red streaks was turning yellow; another, green. I was slightly heartened by this, as the sky had behaved in a somewhat similar fashion when I had visited the edge of things, across from the Courts of Chaos.

  I hitched up my pack and began hiking down the trail. The winds diminished as I went. Distantly, I heard some thunder from the storm I was fleeing. I wondered where Brand had gone. I had a feeling that I would not be seeing him again for a time.

  Partway down, with the fog just beginning to creep and curl about me, I spotted an ancient tree and cut myself a staff. The tree seemed to shriek as I severed its limb.

  “Damn you!” came something like a voice from within it.

  “You’re sentient?” I said. “I’m sorry . . .”

  “I spent a long time growing that branch. I suppose you are going to burn it now?”

  “No,” I said. “I needed a staff. I’ve a long walk before me.”

  “Through this valley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Come closer, that I may better sense your presence. There is something about you that glows.”

  I took a step forward.

  “Oberon!” it said. “I know thy Jewel.”

  “Not Oberon,” I said. “I am his son. I wear it on his mission, though.”

  “Then take my limb, and have my blessing with it. I’ve sheltered your father on many a strange day. He planted me, you see.”

  “Really? Planting a tree is one of the few things I never saw Dad do.”

  “I am no ordinary tree. He placed me here to mark a boundary.”

  “Of what sort?”

  “I am the end of Chaos and of Order, depending upon how you view me. I mark a division. Beyond me other rules apply.”

  “What rules?”

  “Who can say? Not I. I am only a growing tower of sentient lumber. My staff may comfort you, however. Planted, it may blossom in strange climes. Then again, it may not. Who can say? Bear it with you, however, son of Oberon, into the place where you journey now. I feel a storm approaching. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I turned and walked on down the trail into the deepening fog. The pinkness was drained from it as I went. I shook my head as I thought about the tree, but its staff proved useful for the next several hundred meters, where the going was particularly rough.

  Then things cleared a bit. Rocks, a stagnant pool, some small, dreary trees festooned with ropes of moss, a smell of decay . . . hurried by. A dark bird was watching me from one of the trees.

  It took wing as I regarded it, flapping in a leisurely fashion in my direction. Recent events having left me a little bird-shy, I drew back as it circled my head. But then it fluttered to rest on the trail before me, cocked its head and viewed me with its left eye.

  “Yes,” it announced then. “You are the one.”

  “The one what?” I said.

  “The one I will accompany. You’ve no objection to a bird of ill omen following you, have you, Corwin?” It chuckled then, and executed a little dance.

  “Offhand, I do not see how I can stop you. How is it that you know my name?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you since the beginning of Time, Corwin.”

  “Must have been a bit tiresome.”

  “It has not been all that long, in this place. Time is what you make of it.”

  I resumed walking. I passed the bird and kept going. Moments later, it flashed by me and landed atop a rock off to my right.

  “My name is Hugi,” he stated. “You are carrying a piece of
old Ygg, I see.”

  “Ygg?”

  “The stuffy old tree who waits at the entrance to this place and won’t let anyone rest on his branches. I’ll bet he yelled when you whacked it off.”

  He emitted peals of laughter then.

  “He was quite decent about it.”

  “I’ll bet. But then, he hadn’t much choice once you’d done it. Fat lot of good it will do you.”

  “It’s doing me fine,” I said, swinging it lightly in his direction.

  He fluttered away from it.

  “Hey! That was not funny!”

  I laughed. “I thought it was.” I walked on by.

  For a long while, I made my way through a marshy area. An occasional gust of wind would clear the way nearby. Then I would pass it, or the fogs would shift over it once again. Occasionally, I seemed to hear a snatch of music—from what direction, I could not tell—slow, and somewhat stately, produced by a steel-stringed instrument..

  As I slogged along, I was hailed from somewhere to my left:

  “Stranger! Halt and regard me!”

  Wary, I halted. Couldn’t see a damned thing through that fog, though.

  “Hello,” I said. “Where are you?”

  Just then, the fogs broke for a moment and I beheld a huge head, eyes on a level with my own. They belonged to what seemed a giant body, sunk up to the shoulders in a quag. The head was bald, the skin pale as milk, with a stony texture to it. The dark eyes probably seemed even darker than they really were by way of contrast.

  “I see,” I said then. “You are in a bit of a fix. Can you free your arms?”

  “If I strain mightily,” came the reply.

  “Well, let me check about for something stable you can grab onto. You ought to have a pretty good reach there.”

  “No. That is not necessary.”

  “Dont you want to get out? I thought that was why you hollered.”

  “Oh, no. I simply wanted you to regard me.”

  I moved nearer and stared, for the fog was beginning to shift again.

  “All right,” I said. “I have seen you.”

  “Do you feel my plight?”