The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  The breezes of the afternoon were gentle and cool; they lulled me so that I was unprepared for the row of fresh graves beside the trail that came into sight when we rounded a bend. Near by, there was a torn and trampled glen. We tarried there briefly but learned nothing more than had been immediately apparent.

  We passed another such place farther along, and several fire-charred groves. The trail was well worn by then and the side brush trampled and broken, as by the passage of many men and beasts. The smell of ashes was occasionally upon the air, and we hurried past the partly eaten carcass of a horse now well ripened where it lay.

  The sky of Amber no longer heartened me, though the way was clear for a long while after that.

  The day was running to evening and the forest had thinned considerably when Ganelon noted the smoke trails to the southeast. We took the first side path that seemed to lead in that direction, although it was tangent to Avalon proper. It was difficult to estimate the distance, but we could tell that we would not reach the place until after nightfall.

  “Their army—still encamped?” Ganelon wondered.

  “Or that of their conqueror.”

  He shook his bead and loosened his blade in its scabbard.

  Toward twilight, I left the trail to follow a sound of running water to its source. It was a clear, clean stream that had made its way down from the mountains and still bore something of their chill within it. I bathed there, trimming my new bearding and cleaning the dust of travel from my garments as well. As we were nearing this end of our journeying, it was my wish to arrive with what small splendor I could muster. Appreciating this, Ganelon even splashed water over his face and blew his nose loudly.

  Standing on the bank, blinking my rinsed eyes at the heavens, I saw the moon resolve itself sharp and clear, the fuzziness fading from its edges. This was the first time it had happened. My breathing jerked to a halt and I kept staring. Then I scanned the sky for early stars, traced the edges of clouds, the distant mountains, the farthest trees. I looked back at the moon, and it still held clear and steady. My eyesight was normal once again.

  Ganelon drew back at the sound of my laughter, and he never inquired as to its cause.

  Suppressing an impulse to sing, I remounted and headed back toward the trail once again. The shadows deepened as we rode, and clusters of stars bloomed among the branches overhead. I inhaled a big piece of the night, held it a moment, released it. I was myself once again and the feeling was good.

  Ganelon drew up beside me and said in a low voice, “There will doubtless be sentries.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then hadn‘t we better leave the trail?”

  “No. I would rather not seem furtive. It matters not to me whether we arrive with an escort. We are simply two travelers.”

  “They may require the reason for our travels.”

  “Then let us be mercenaries who have heard of strife in the realm and come seeking employment”

  “Yes. We look the part. Let us hope they pause long enough to notice.”

  “If they cannot see us that well, then we are poor targets.”

  “True, but I am not fully comforted by the thought.”

  I listened to the sounds of the horses‘ hoofs on the trail. The way was not straight. It twisted, curved, and wandered for a time, then took an upward turn. As we mounted the rise it followed, the trees thinned even more.

  We came to the top of a hill then, and into a fairly open area. Advancing, we achieved a sudden view that covered several miles. We drew rein at an abrupt drop that curved its way into a gradual slope after ten or fifteen precipitous meters, sweeping downward to a large plain perhaps a mile distant, then continuing on through a hilly, sporadically wooded area. The plain was dotted with campfires and there were a few tents toward the center of things. A large number of horses grazed near by, and I guessed there were several hundred men sitting beside the fires or moving about the compound. Ganelon sighed.

  “At least they seem to be normal men,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “. . . And if they are normal military men, we are probably being watched right now. This is too good a vantage to leave unposted.”

  “Yes.”

  There came a noise from behind us. We began to turn, just as a near by voice said, “Don‘t move!” I continued to turn my head, and I saw four men. Two of them held crossbows trained on us and the other two had blades in their hands. One of these advanced two paces.

  “Dismount!” he ordered. “On this side! Slowly!” We climbed down from our mounts and faced him, keeping our hands away from our weapons. “Who are you? Where are you from?” he asked.

  “We are mercenaries,” I replied, “from Lorraine. We heard there was fighting here, and we are seeking employment. We were headed for that camp below. It is yours, I hope?”

  “. . . And if I said no, that we are a patrol for a force about to invade that camp?”

  I shrugged. “In that case, is your side interested in hiring a couple of men?”

  He spat. “The Protector has no need for your sort,” he said. Then, “From what direction do you ride?”

  “East,” I said.

  “Did you meet with any difficulty recently?”

  “No,” I said. “Should we have?”

  “Hard to say,” he decided. “Remove your weapons. I‘m going to send you down to the camp. They will want to question you about anything you may have seen in the east—anything unusual.”

  “We‘ve seen nothing unusual,” I said.

  “Whatever, they will probably feed you. Though I doubt you will be hired. You have come a bit late for the fighting. Remove your weapons now.”

  He called two more men from within the trees while we unbuckled our sword belts. He instructed them to escort us below, on foot. We were to lead our horses. The men took our weapons, and as we turned to go our interrogator cried out, “Wait!” I turned back toward him.

  “You. What is your name?” he asked me.

  “Corey” I said.

  “Stand still.”

  He approached, drawing very near. He stared at me for perhaps ten seconds.

  “What is the matter?” I asked.

  Instead of replying, he fumbled with a pouch at his belt. He withdrew a handful of coins and held them close to his eyes.

  “Damn! It‘s too dark,” he said, “and we can‘t make a light.”

  “For what?” I said.

  “Oh, it is not of any great importance,” he told me. “You struck me as familiar, though, and I was trying to think why. You look like the head stamped on some of our old coins. A few of them are still about.

  “Doesn‘t he?” he addressed the nearest bowman.

  The man lowered his crossbow and advanced. He squinted at me from a few paces‘ distance.

  “Yes,” he said then, “he does.”

  “What was it—the one we‘re thinking of?”

  “One of those old men. Before my time. I don‘t remember.”

  “Me neither. Well . . .” He shrugged. “No importance. Go ahead, Corey. Answer their questions honestly and you‘ll not be harmed.”

  I turned away and left him there in the moonlight, gazing after me and scratching the top of his head.

  The men who guarded us were not the talkative sort. Which was just as well.

  All the way down the hill I wondered about the boy‘s story and the resolution of the conflict he had described, for I had achieved the physical analogue of the world of my desire and would now have to operate within the prevailing situations.

  The camp had the pleasant smell of man and beast, wood smoke, roasting meat, leather and oil, all intermingled in the firelight where men talked, honed weapons, repaired gear, ate, gamed, slept, drank, and watched us as we led our mounts through their midst, escorted in the direction of a nearly central trio of tattered tents. A sphere of silence expanded about us as we went.

  We were halted before the second-largest tent and one of our guards sp
oke with a man who was pacing the area. The man shook his head several times and gestured in the direction of the largest tent. The exchange lasted for several minutes, then our guard returned and spoke with the other guard who waited at our left. Finally, our man nodded and approached me while the other summoned a man from the nearest campfire.

  “The officers are all at a meeting in the Protector‘s tent,” he said. “We are going to hobble your horses and put them to graze. Unstrap your things and set them here. You will have to wait to see the captain.” I nodded, and we set about unstowing our belongings and rubbing the horses down. I patted Star on the neck and watched a small man with a limp lead him and Ganelon‘s mount Firedrake off toward the other horses. We sat on our packs then and waited. One of the guards brought us some hot tea and accepted a pipeful of my tobacco. They moved then to a spot somewhat to our rear.

  I watched the big tent, sipped my tea, and thought of Amber and a small night club in the Rue de Char et Pain in Brussels, on the shadow Earth I had so long inhabited. Once I obtained the jewelers rouge I needed from here, I would be heading for Brussels to deal with the arms merchants of the Gun Bourse once again. My order would be complicated and expensive, I realized, because some ammunition manufacturer would have to be persuaded to set up a special production line. I knew dealers on that Earth other than Interarmco, thanks to my itinerant military background in that place, and I estimated that it would only take me a few months to get outfitted there. I began considering the details and time passed quickly and pleasantly.

  After what was probably an hour and a half, the shadows stirred within the large tent. It was several minutes after that before the entrance flap was thrown aside and men began to emerge, slowly, talking among themselves, glancing back within. The last two tarried at the threshold, still talking with someone who remained inside. The rest of them passed into the other tents.

  The two at the entrance edged their way outside, still facing the interior. I could hear the sounds of their voices, although I could not make out what was being said. As they drifted farther outside, the man with whom they were speaking moved also and I caught a glimpse of him. The light was at his back and the two officers blocked most of my view, but I could see that he was thin and very tall.

  Our guards had not yet stirred, indicating to me that one of the two officers was the captain mentioned earlier. I continued to stare, willing them to move farther and grant me a better look at their superior.

  After a time they did, and a few moments later he took a step forward.

  At first, I could not tell whether it was just a play of light and shadow . . . But no! He moved again and I had a clear view for a moment. He was missing his right arm, from a point just below the elbow. It was so heavily bandaged that I guessed the loss to have been quite recent.

  Then his large left hand made a downward, sweeping gesture and hovered a good distance out from his body. The stump twitched at the same moment, and so did something at the back of my mind. His hair was long and straight and brown, and I saw the way that his jaw jutted. . .

  He stepped outside then, and a breeze caught the cloak he wore and caused it to flare to his right. I saw that his shirt was yellow, his trousers brown. The cloak itself was a flame-like orange, and he caught its edge with an unnaturally rapid movement of his left hand and drew it back to cover his stump.

  I stood quickly, and his head snapped in my direction.

  Our gazes met, and neither of us moved for several heartbeats after that.

  The two officers turned and stared, and then he pushed them aside and was striding toward me. I heard Ganelon grunt and climb quickly to his feet. Our guards were taken by surprise, also.

  He halted several paces before me and his hazel eyes swept over me. He seldom smiled, but he managed a faint one this time.

  “Come with me,” he said, and he turned back toward his tent.

  We followed him, leaving our gear where it lay.

  He dismissed the two officers with a glance, halted beside the tent‘s entrance and motioned us in. He followed and let the flap fall behind him. My eyes took in his bedroll, a small table, benches, weapons, a campaign chest. There was an oil lamp on the table, as well as books, maps, a bottle, and some cups. Another lamp flickered atop the chest.

  He clasped my hand and smiled again. “Corwin,” he said, “and still alive.”

  “Benedict,” I said, smiling myself, “and breathing yet. It has been devilish long.”

  “Indeed. Who is your friend?”

  “His name is Ganelon.”

  “Ganelon,” he said, nodding toward him but not offering to clasp hands.

  He moved to the table then and poured three cups of wine. He passed one to me, another to Ganelon, raised the third himself.

  “To your health, brother,” he said.

  “To yours.” We drank.

  Then, “Be seated,” he said, gesturing toward the nearest bench and seating himself at the table, “and welcome to Avalon.”

  “Thank you—Protector.” He grimaced.

  “The sobriquet is not unearned,” he said flatly, continuing to study my face. "I wonder whether their earlier protector could say the same?”

  “It was not really this place,” I said, “and I believe that he could.” He shrugged.

  “Of course,” he said. “Enough of that! Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why have you come here? Tell me of yourself. It has been too long.”

  I nodded. It was unfortunate, but family etiquette as well as the balance of power required that I answer his questions before asking any of my own. He was my elder, and I had—albeit unknowing—intruded in his sphere of influence. It was not that I begrudged him the courtesy. He was one of the few among my many relatives whom I respected and even liked. It was that I was itching to question him. It had been, as he had said, too long.

  And how much should I tell him now? I had no notion where his sympathies might lie. I did not desire to discover the reasons for his self-imposed exile from Amber by mentioning the wrong things. I would have to begin with something fairly neutral and sound him out as I went along.

  “There must be a beginning,” he said then. “I care not what face you put upon it.”

  “There are many beginnings,” I said. “It is difficult . . . I suppose I should go all the way back and take it from there.” I took another sip of the wine.

  “Yes,” I decided. “That seems simplest—though it was only comparatively recently that I recalled much of what had occurred.”

  “It was several years after the defeat of the Moonriders out of Ghenesh and your departure that Eric and I had a major falling out,” I began. “Yes, it was a quarrel over the succession. Dad had been making abdication noises again, and he still refused to name a successor. Naturally, the old arguments were resumed as to who was more legitimate. Of course, you and Eric are both my elders, but while Faiella, mother to Eric and myself, was his wife after the death of Clymnea, they—”

  “Enough!” cried Benedict, slapping the table so hard that it cracked.

  The lamp danced and sputtered, but by some small miracle was not upset. The tent‘s entrance flap was immediately pushed aside and a concerned guard peered in. Benedict glanced at him and he withdrew.

  “I do not wish to sit in on our respective bastardy proceeding,” Benedict said softly. “That obscene pastime was one of the reasons I initially absented myself from felicity. Please continue your story without the benefit of footnotes.”

  “Well—yes,” I said, coughing lightly. “As I was saying, we had some rather bitter arguments concerning the whole matter. Then one evening it went beyond mere words. We fought.”

  “A duel?”

  “Nothing that formal. A simultaneous decision to murder one another is more like it. At any rate, we fought for a long while and Eric finally got the upper hand and proceeded to pulverize me. At the risk of getting ahead of my story, I have to add that all of this was only recalled to me about five ye
ars ago.” Benedict nodded, as though he understood.

  “I can only conjecture as to what occurred immediately after I lost consciousness,” I went on. “But Eric stopped short of killing me himself. When I awakened, I was on a shadow Earth in a place called London. The plague was rampant at the time, and I had contracted it. I recovered with no memory of anything prior to London. I dwelled on that shadow world for centuries, seeking some clue as to my identity. I traveled all over it, often as part of some military campaign. I attended their universities, I spoke with some of their wisest men, I consulted famous physicians. But nowhere could I find the key to my past. It was obvious to me that I was not like other men and I took great pains to conceal this fact. I was furious because I could have anything that I wanted except what I wanted most—my own identity, my memories.

  “The years passed, but this anger and this longing did not. It took an accident that fractured my skull to set off the changes that led to the return of my first recollections. This was approximately five years ago, and the irony of it is that I have good reason to believe Eric was responsible for the accident. Flora had apparently been resident on that shadow Earth all along, keeping watch over me.

  “To return to conjecture, Eric must have stayed his hand at the last moment, desiring my death, but not wanting it traceable to him. So he transported me through Shadow to a place of sudden, almost certain death—doubtless to return and say that we had argued and I had ridden off in a huff, muttering something about going away again. We had been hunting in the Forest of Arden that day—just the two of us, together.”

  “I find it strange,” Benedict interrupted, “that two rivals such as yourselves should elect to hunt together under such circumstances.”

  I took a sip of wine and smiled.

  “Perhaps it was a trifle more contrived than I made it sound,” I said. "Perhaps we both welcomed the opportunity to hunt together. Just the two of us.”