The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

by Roger Zelazny

  “Yes, I value the Queen's protection,” I said.

  “Even though you are now a monarch yourself from a country on friendly terms with us?”

  “Even so,” I said. “So much so, in fact, that I wish to reciprocate in part.”

  “Oh?”

  “I'm not at all certain that Amber is aware of recent events to which I have been party or of which I have knowledge, which may affect her welfare. That is, unless Merlin has been in touch recently.”

  “Merlin has not been in touch,” she said. “If you have information vital to the realm, though, perhaps you ought to give it to Random direct, He's not here just now, but I could reach him for you via Trump.”

  “No,” I said. “I know he doesn't like me at all or trust me, as his brother's killer and a friend of the man who has sworn to destroy Amber. I am sure he would love to see me deposed and some puppet on the throne of Kashfa. I suppose I must have things out with him one day, but this isn't the day. I've too much else going on just now. But the information transcends local politics. It involves Amber and the Courts of Chaos, the Pattern and the Logrus, the death of Swayvill and Merlin's possible succession to the throne in the Courts—”

  “You're serious!”

  “You bet. I know he'll listen to you. And he'll even understand why I told you. Let me avoid him this way. There are big events in the offing.”

  “Tell me,” she said, raising her cup.

  So I did, including everything Merlin had told me, up through the confrontation at the primal Pattern and my flight to the Crystal Cave. We went through the entire pot of tea in the process, and when I was finished we just sat for a time in silence.

  Finally, she sighed.

  “You have charged me to deliver major intelligence,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Yet I feel it is but a small part of much greater developments.”

  “How's that?” I asked.

  “A few small things I have heard, known, guessed at, and perhaps dreamed—and a few, I suppose, I simply fear. Hardly a coherent shape. Yet enough, perhaps, to query the powers of the earth I work with. Yes. Now that I have thought it I must try it, of course. At a time such as this.”

  She rose slowly, paused, and gestured high.

  “That shall be the Tongue,” she said, and a draft stirred one of the mobiles causing it to produce many tones.

  She crossed the studio to the righthand wall—small figure in gray and green, chestnut hair down to the middle of her back—and ran her fingers lightly over the sculpted figure that stood there. Finally, selecting a broad-faced statue with a narrow torso, she began pushing it toward the center of the room. I was on my feet and moving in an instant.

  “Let me do that for you, Your Highness.”

  She shook her head.

  “Call me Vialle,” she said. “And no, I must position them myself. This one is named Memory.”

  She placed it below and somewhat to the northwest of the Tongue. Then she moved to a knot of figures and selected a thin one with slightly parted lips, which she placed to the south on Tongue's compass.

  “.And this is Desire,” she stated.

  Quickly locating a third-a tall, squinting figure-she placed it to the northeast.

  “Caution,” she went on.

  A lady, her right hand boldly extended, went to the west.

  “Risk,” she continued.

  To the east she positioned another lady, both arms spread wide.

  “Heart,” she said.

  To the southwest went a high-domed, shaggy-browed philosopher. "Head,” she said.

  . . . And to the southeast a smiling lady-impossible to say whether her hand was raised in greeting or to deliver a blow.

  “Chance,” she finished, fitting her into the circle which had come to remind me both of Stonehenge and of Easter Island.

  “Bring two chairs,” she said, “and place them here and here,”

  She indicated positions to the north and south of her circle.

  I did as she'd said, and she seated herself in the northern-most chair, behind a final figure she had placed: Foresight. I took my place back of Desire.

  “Be silent now,” she instructed

  Then she sat still, hands in her lap, for several minutes.

  Finally, “At the deepest level,” she said, “what threatens the peace?”

  From my left, Caution seemed to speak, though the Tongue chimed his words overhead.

  “A redistribution of ancient powers,” he said.

  “In what manner?”

  “That which was hidden becomes known and is moved about.” answered Risk.

  “Are both Amber and the Courts involved?”

  “Indeed,” answered Desire, from before me.

  “Ancient powers,” she said. “How ancient?”

  “Before there was an Amber, they were,” stated Memory.

  “Before there was a Jewel of Judgement—the Eye of the Serpent?”

  “No,” Memory responded.

  She drew a sudden breath.

  “Their number?” she said.

  “Eleven,” Memory replied.

  She grew pale at that, but I held my silence as she had instructed.

  “Those responsible for this stirring of ashes,” she said then, "what do they wish?”

  “A return to the glory of days gone by,” Desire stated.

  “Could this end be realized?”

  “Yes,” Foresight replied.

  “Could it be averted?”

  “Yes,” said Foresight.

  “At peril,” Caution added.

  “How might one begin?”

  “Query the guardians,” Head stated.

  “How bad is the situation?”

  “It has already begun,” Head answered.

  “And the danger is already present,” said Risk.

  “So is opportunity,” said Chance.

  “Of what sort?” Vialle inquired.

  There came a sound from across the room as my scabbard and blade slid to the floor from where I had leaned them against the wall. Vialle stared.

  “My weapon,” I said, ‘just slipped.”

  “Name it.”

  “It was my father's sword, called Werewindle.”

  “I know of it.” Then, “This man, Luke,” she said, "there is something about his blade and its sister weapon that figures in all of this. I do not know their stories, though.”

  “Yes, they are connected,” said Memory.

  “How?”

  “They were created in a similar fashion at near to the same time, and they partake of the powers of which we have spoken,” Memory replied.

  “Will there be a conflict?”

  “Yes,” said Foresight.

  “On what scale?”

  Foresight was silent. Chance laughed.

  “I do not understand.”

  “The laughter of Chance is uncertainty,” Head responded.

  “Will Luke figure in the conflict?”

  “Yes,” Foresight answered.

  “Should he seek the guardians?”

  “He must try,” said Heart.

  “And if he fails?”

  “A Prince approaches even now who knows more of these matters," said Head.

  “Who is that?”

  “A prisoner freed,” Head replied. “Who?”

  “He wears a silver rose,” said Head. “He bears the other blade.”

  Vialle raised her head.

  “Have you any questions?” she asked me.

  “Yes. But I doubt I'd get an answer if I asked whether we'll win.”

  Chance laughed as Vialle rose.

  She let me help move the statues back into place. Then, seated once more, I said to her, “'Seek the guardians?'”

  “There is a custodian—possibly two,” she replied. “A self-exiled Prince of Amber and his sister have guarded a portion of this power for a long while. It would seem in order to see that they still live, still discharge the duty.�
��

  “Self-exiled? Why?”

  “Personal reasons, involving the late King.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Then how could we find them?”

  “There is a Trump.”

  She rose and moved to a small chest of drawers. Opening one, she withdrew a boxed set of cards.

  Slowly, she counted dawn from the top of the deck and removed one.

  When she returned she presented me with the card, portrait of a slim man with hair the color of rust.

  “His name is Delwin,” she said.

  “You think I should just call him and ask whether he still has whatever he had?”

  “State quickly that you are not of Amber,” she told me, “but give your lineage. Ask whether his stewardship of the spikards remains intact. Try to find out where he is, or to go through and discuss it face to face if you can.”

  “Right,” I said, not wanting to tell her that I had spoken—very briefly—with him before in seeking allies in my war against Amber. He'd dismissed me out of hand, but I didn't want to stir Vialle's memories of those days. So I simply said, “Okay. I'll give it a try.”

  I decided to fast-talk him at first, to give him time to think, to realize that I was not alone, and not to let slip anything of our earlier exchange. My altered appearance should help in this, too.

  I reached for contact.

  First, the coldness, then a feeling of personality suddenly alert.

  “Who is it?” I felt the question even before the likeness took on depth and life.

  “Luke Reynard, otherwise known as Rinaldo,” I answered, as the card was suddenly animated and I felt his scrutiny, “King of Kashfa and B.S. in Business Management, University of California at Berkeley.” Our gazes locked. He seemed neither belligerent nor friendly. “I wanted to know whether your stewardship of the spikards remains intact.”

  “Luke-Rinaldo,” he said, “just what is your concern in this, and how did you come to learn of the matter?”

  “While I am not of Amber,” I replied, “my father was. I know it is soon to become a matter of concern in that place because of Merlin—son of Corwin—apparently being in direct line for the succession to the throne in the Courts of Chaos.”

  “I know who Merlin is,” Delwin sated. “Who is your father?”

  “Prince Brand.”

  “And your mother?”

  “The Lady Jasra, formerly Queen of Kashfa. Now, might we talk about this matter a little?”

  “No,” Delwin said. “We may not.”

  He moved his hand as if to break the contact.

  “Wait!” I said. “Do you have a microwave oven?”

  He hesitated.

  “A what?”

  “It's a box-like device that can warm a meal in a matter of minutes. I've worked out a general spell to allow one to operate in most of Shadow. Wake up in the middle of the night with a taste for a steaming hot tuna casserole? Take one out of the freezer, unwrap it, and pop it in. What's a freezer? Glad you asked. It's another box, with eternal winter inside. Store meals in there, take one out and zap it in the mike whenever the fancy hits. And yes, I can supply the freezer, too. You don't want to talk spikards, let's talk business. I can give you a deal on these devices, in quantity, that will meet or beat the price of anyone else capable of supplying them—and I don't think it would be an easy thing to find another supplier. But that's not all I can do for you—”

  “I'm sorry,” said Delwin. “No solicitors either.” His hand moved again.

  “Wait!” I cried. “I'll make you an offer you can't refuse!”

  He broke the connection.

  “Come back,” I willed after his image, but it went two-dimensional and warmed to room temperature again.

  “Sorry,” I said to Vialle. “I gave it my best shot, but he wasn't buying any.”

  “To tell the truth, I didn't think you'd hold him even that long. But I could tell he was interested in you until you mentioned your mother. Then something changed.”

  “Wouldn't be the first time,” I said. “I've a mind to try him again later.”

  “In that case, keep the Trump.”

  “I don't need it, Vialle. I'll make my own when the time comes.”

  “You are an artist and a Trump master?”

  “Well, I do paint. Fairly seriously sometimes.”

  “Then you must see all of my works while you wait. I'd value your opinion.”

  “My pleasure,” I said. “You mean while I wait—”

  “—for Corwin.”

  “Ah, just so. Thank you.”

  “You can be the first to use one of the new rooms. We've been doing a lot of reconstruction and remodeling since the Logrus and the Pattern had their confrontation.”

  “I heard about it,” I said. “Very well. I wonder when he'll arrive?”

  “Soon, I feel,” she said. “I'll summon a servant to get you settled now. Another will bring you to dine with me later, and we can discuss art.”

  “That will be fine.”

  I wondered where all of this was going to lead. It seemed that the big picture was about to change drastically again.

  Glad Delwin wasn't interested in the microwave oven, though. The spell would have been a bitch to work out.

  by Roger Zelazny

  The Shroudling and the Guisel

  — Preface from Realms of Fantasy:

  This story takes up the affairs of Merlin, son of Corwin, from where I left him at the end of Prince of Chaos, the 10th and most recent book in my Amber series. As a Prince of Amber on his father’s side and a Prince of Chaos on his mother’s, Merlin has some problems—not the least of these being that he finds himself in the line of succession for the recently vacated Throne of Chaos, a position he is not anxious to assume. He had felt himself well-protected from it by the number of claimants ahead of him. Unfortunately, they have been dying off most rapidly, generally by means other than the natural. He suspects his mother, Dara, and his half-brother, Mandor, of having a hand in this. But he recently faced both of them down in a magical duel, and they seem to have had second thoughts about his tractability, should one of them manage to seat him on the Throne. Time will tell. In the meantime, he went off to one of Mandor’s guest houses, hoping for a good night’s sleep.

  * * *

  I awoke in a dark room, making love to a lady I did not recall having gone to bed with. Life can be strange. Also oddly sweet at times. I hadn’t the will to destroy our congress, and I went on and on with what I was doing and so did she until we came to that point of sudden giving and taking, that moment of balance and rest.

  I made a gesture with my left hand and a small light appeared and glowed above our heads. She had long black hair and green eyes, and her cheekbones were high and her brow wide. She laughed when the light came on, revealing the teeth of a vampire. Her mouth held not a trace of blood, making it seem somehow impolite for me to touch my throat seeking after any trace of soreness. "It’s been a long time, Merlin,” she said softly.

  “Madam, you have the advantage of me,” I said.

  She laughed again. “Hardly,” she answered, and she moved in such a fashion as to distract me entirely, causing the entire chain of events to begin again on my part.

  “Unfair,” I said, staring into those sea-deep eyes, stroking that pale brow. There was something terribly familiar there, but I could not understand it.

  “Think,” she said, “for I wish to be remembered.”

  “I . . . Rhanda?” I asked.

  “Your first love, as you were mine,” she said smiling, “there in the mausoleum. Children at play, really. But it was sweet, was it not?”

  “It still is,” I replied, stroking her hair. “No, I never forgot you. Never thought to see you again, though, after finding that note saying your parents no longer permitted you to play with me . . . thinking me a vampire.”

  “It seemed so, my Prince of Chaos and of Amber. Your strange str
engths and your magics. . . .”

  I looked at her mouth, at her unsheathed fangs. “Odd thing for a family of vampires to forbid,” I stated.

  “Vampires? We’re not vampires,” she said. “We are among the last of the shroudlings. There are only five families of us left in all the secret images of all the shadows from here to Amber—and farther, on into that place and into Chaos.”

  I held her more tightly and a long lifetime of strange lore passed through my head. Later I said, “Sorry, but I have no idea of what a shroudling is.”

  Later still she responded, “I would be very surprised if you did, for we have always been a secret race.” She opened her mouth to me, and I saw by spirit-light a slow retraction of her fangs into normal-seeming dentition. "They emerge in times of passion other than feasting,” she remarked.

  “So you do use them as a vampire would,” I said.

  “Or a ghoul,” she said. “Their flesh is even richer than their blood.”

  “’Their’?” I said.

  “That of those we would take.”

  “And who might they be?” I asked.

  “Those the world might be better off without,” she said. “Most of them simply vanish. Occasionally, with a feast of jokers, only parts of some remain.”

  I shook my head.

  “Shroudling lady, I do not understand,” I told her.

  “We come and go where we would. We are an undetected people, a proud people. We live by a code of honor which has protected us against all your understanding. Even those who suspect us do not know where to turn to seek us.”

  “Yet you come and tell me these things.”

  “I have watched you much of my life. You would not betray us. You, too, live by a code.”

  “Watched me much of my life? How?”

  But we distracted each other then and that moment came to a close. I would not let it die, however. Finally, as we lay side by side, I repeated it. By then, however, she was ready for it.

  “I am the fleeting shadow in your mirror,” she said. “I look out, yet you see me not. All of us have our pets, my love, a person or place of hobby. You have always been mine.”

  “Why do you come to me now, Rhanda?” I asked. “After all these years?”

  She looked away.