“Because that is your name,” she said. “I recognized you.”
“From where?” She released my arm.
“Here it is,” she said, reaching behind a tree and raising a basket that had been resting upon the ridges of exposed roots.
“I hope the ants didn‘t get to it,” she said, moving to a shaded area beside the stream and spreading a cloth upon the ground.
I hung the fencing gear on a nearby shrub.
“You seem to carry quite a few things around with you,” I observed.
“My horse is back that way,” she said, gesturing downstream with her head.
She returned her attention to weighing down the cloth and unpacking the basket.
“Why way back there?” I asked.
“So that I could sneak up on you, of course. If you‘d heard a horse clomping around you‘d have been awake sure as hell.”
“You‘re probably right,” I said.
She paused as though pondering deeply, then spoiled it with a giggle.
“But you didn‘t the first time, though. Still . . .”
“The first time?” I said, seeing she wanted me to ask it.
“Yes, I almost rode over you awhile back,” she said. “You were sound asleep. When I saw who it was, I went back for a picnic basket and the fencing gear.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Come and sit down now,” she said. “And open the bottle, will you?”
She put a bottle beside my place and carefully unwrapped two crystal goblets, which she then set in the center of the cloth.
I moved to my place and sat down.
“That is Benedict‘s best crystal,” I noted, as I opened the bottle.
“Yes,” she said. “Do be careful not to upset them when you pour—and I don‘t think we should clink them together.”
“No, I don‘t think we should,” I said, and I poured. She raised her glass.
“To the reunion,” she said.
“What reunion?”
“Ours.”
“I have never met you before.”
“Don‘t be so prosaic,” she said, and took a drink.
I shrugged. “To the reunion.”
She began to eat then, so I did too. She was so enjoying the air of mystery she had created that I wanted to cooperate, just to keep her happy.
“Now where could I have met you?” I ventured. “Was it some great court? A harem, perhaps . . . ?”
“Perhaps it was in Amber,” she said. “There you were . . .” ,
“Amber?” I said, remembering that I was holding Benedict‘s crystal and confining my emotions to my voice. “Just who are you, anyway?”
“. . . There you were—handsome, conceited, admired by all the ladies,” she continued, “and there I was—a mousy little thing, admiring you from afar. Gray, or pastel-not vivid—little Dara—a late bloomer, I hasten to add—eating her heart out for you—”
I muttered a mild obscenity and she laughed again. “That wasn‘t it?” she asked.
“No,” I said, taking another bite of beef and bread. “More likely it was that brothel where I sprained my back. I was drunk that night—”
“You remember!” she cried. “It was a part-time job. I used to break horses during the day.”
“I give up,” I said, and I poured more wine.
The really irritating thing was that there was something damnably familiar about her. But from her appearance and her behavior, I guessed her age at about seventeen. This pretty much precluded our paths ever having crossed.
“Did Benedict teach you your fencing?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What is he to you?”
“My lover, of course,” she replied. “He keeps me in jewels and furs—and he fences with me.” She laughed again.
I continued to study her face. Yes, it was possible. . . . “I am hurt,” I said, finally.
“Why?” she asked.
“Benedict didn‘t give me a cigar.”
“Cigar?”
“You are his daughter, aren‘t you?”
She reddened, but she shook her head. “No,” she said. “But you are getting close.”
“Granddaughter?” I said. “Well . . . sort of.”
“I am afraid that I do not understand.”
“Grandfather is what he likes me to call him. Actually, though, he was my grandmother‘s father.”
“I see. Are there any others at home like you?”
“No, I am the only one.”
“What of your mother—and your grandmother?”
“Dead, both of them.”
“How did they die?”
“Violently. Both times it happened while he was back in Amber. I believe that is why he has not returned there for a long while now. He does not like to leave me unprotected—even though he knows that I can take care of myself. You know that I can, too, don‘t you?”
I nodded. It explained several things, one of them being why he was Protector here. He had to keep her somewhere, and he certainly would not want to take her back to Amber. He would not even want her existence known to the rest of us. She could be made into an easy armlock. And it would be out of keeping to make me aware of her so readily.
So, “I do not believe that you are supposed to be here,” I said, “and I feel that Benedict would be quite angry if he knew that you were.”
“You are just the same as he is! I am an adult, damn it!”
“Have you heard me deny it? You are supposed to be someplace else, though, aren‘t you?”
She filled her mouth instead of answering. So I did, too. After several uncomfortable minutes of chewing, I decided to start on a fresh subject. “How did you recognize me?” I asked.
She swallowed, took a drink of wine, grinned. "From your picture, of course,” she said.
“What picture?”
“On the card,” she said. “We used to play with them when I was very small. I learned all my relatives that way. You and Eric are the other good swordsmen, I knew that. That is why I—”
“You have a set of the Trumps?” I interrupted.
“No,” she said, pouting. “He wouldn‘t give me a set—and I know he has several, too.”
“Really? Where does he keep them?”
She narrowed her eyes, focusing them on my own. Damn! I hadn‘t meant to sound that eager.
But, “He has a set with him most of the time,” she said, “and I have no idea where he keeps the others. Why? Won‘t he let you see them?”
“I haven‘t asked him,” I told her. “Do you understand their significance?”
“There were certain things I was not allowed to do when I was near them. I gather that they have a special use, but he never told me what it is. They are quite important, aren‘t they?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. He is always so careful with them. Do you have a set?”
“Yes, but it‘s out on loan just now.”
“I see. And you would like to use them for something complicated and sinister.”
I shrugged.
“I would like to use them, but for very dull, uncomplicated purposes.”
“Such as?” I shook my head.
“If Benedict does not want you to know their function yet, I am not about to tell you.”
She made a small growling noise.
“You‘re afraid of him,” she said.
“I have considerable respect for Benedict, not to mention some affection.” She laughed.
“Is he a better fighter than you, a better swordsman?”
I looked away. She must have just gotten back from someplace fairly removed from things. The townspeople I‘d met had all known about Benedict‘s arm. It was not the sort of news that traveled slowly. I certainly was not going to be the first to tell her.
“Have it as you would,” I said. “Where have you been?”
“The village,” she said, “in the mountains. Grandpa took me there to stay with some friends of his called Tecys. Do you know t
he Tecys?”
“No, I don‘t.”
“I‘ve been there before,” she said. “He always takes me to stay with them in the village when there is any sort of trouble here. The place has no name. I just call it the village. It is quite strange—the people, as well as the village. They seem to—sort of—worship us. They treat me as if I were something holy, and they never tell me anything I want to know. It is not a long ride, but the mountains are different, the sky is different—everything!—and it is as if there were no way back, once I am there. I had tried coming back on my own before, but I just got lost. Grandpa always had to come for me, and then the way was easy. The Tecys follow all of his instructions concerning me. They treat him as if he were some sort of god.”
“He is,” I said, “to them.”
“You said that you do not know them.”
“I don‘t have to. I know Benedict.”
“How does he do it? Tell me.” I shook my head.
“How did you do it?” I asked her. “How did you get back here this time?”
She finished her wine and held out the glass. When I looked up from refilling it, her head was cocked toward her right shoulder, her brows were furrowed, and her eyes were focused on something far away.
“I do not really know,” she said, raising the glass and sipping from it automatically, “l am not quite certain how I went about it. . . .”
With her left hand, she began to toy with her knife, finally picking it up.
“I was mad, mad as hell for having been packed off again,” she said. “I told him that I wanted to stay here and fight, but he took me riding with him and after a time we arrived at the village. I do not know how. It was not a long ride, and suddenly we were there. I know this area. I was born here, I grew up here. I‘ve ridden all over, hundreds of leagues in all directions. I was never able to find it when I went looking. But it seemed only a brief while that we rode, and suddenly we were at the Tecys‘ again. But it had been several years, and I can be more determined about things now that I am grown. I resolved to return by myself.”
With the knife, she began scraping and digging at the ground beside her, not seeming to notice what she was doing.
“I waited till nightfall,” she went on, “and studied the stars to take my direction. It was an unreal feeling. The stars were all different. I didn‘t recognize any of the constellations. I went back inside and thought about it. I was a little bit afraid and did not know what to do. I spent the next day trying to get more information out of the Tecys and the other people in the village. But it was like a bad dream. Either they were stupid or they were purposely trying to confuse me. Not only was there no way to get from there to here, they had no idea where ‘here‘ was and were none too certain about ‘there.‘ That night I checked the stars again, to be sure about what I had seen, and I was about ready to begin believing them.”
She moved the knife back and forth as if honing it now, smoothing the soil and packing it flat. Then she began to trace designs.
“For the next several days, I tried to find my way back,” she continued. “I thought I could locate our trail and backtrack along it, but it just sort of vanished. Then I did the only other thing I could think of. Each morning I struck out in a different direction, rode until noon, then headed back. I came across nothing that was familiar. It was totally bewildering. Each night I went to sleep more angry and upset over the way things were turning out—and more determined to find my own way back to Avalon. I had to show Grandpa that he could no longer dump me like a child and expect me to stay put.
“Then, after about a week, I began having dreams. Nightmares, sort of. Did you ever dream that you were running and running and not going anyplace? That is sort of what it was like—with the burning spider web. Only it wasn‘t really a spider web, there was no spider and it wasn‘t burning. But I was caught in this thing, going around it and through it. But I wasn‘t really moving. That is not completely right, but I do not know how else to put it. And I had to keep trying—actually, I wanted to—to move about it. When I woke up I was tired, as if I had actually been exerting myself all night long. This went on for many nights, and each night it seemed stronger and longer and more real.
“Then this morning I got up, the dream still dancing in my head, and I knew that I could ride home. I set out, still half dreaming, it seemed. I rode the entire distance without stopping once, and this time I paid no special heed to my surroundings, but kept thinking of Avalon-and as I rode, things kept getting more and more familiar until I was here again. Only then did it seem as if I were fully awake. Now the village and the Tecys, that sky, those stars, the woods, the mountains, they all seem like a dream to me. I am not at all certain that I could find my way back there. Is that not strange? Can you tell me what happened?”
I rose and circled the remains of our lunch. I sat down beside her.
“Do you remember the looks of the burning spider web that really wasn‘t a spider web, or burning?” I asked her.
“Yes—sort of,” she said.
“Give me that knife,” I said.
She passed it to me.
With its point, I began adding to her doodling in the dirt, extending lines, rubbing some out, adding others. She did not say a word the entire time, but she watched every move that I made. When I had finished, I put the knife aside and waited for a long, silent while. Then, finally, she spoke very softly.
“Yes, that is it,” she said, turning away from the design to stare at me. "How did you know? How did you know what I had dreamed?”
“Because,” I said, “you dreamed a thing that is inscribed in your very genes. Why, how, I do not know. It demonstrates, however, that you are indeed a daughter of Amber. What you did was walk in Shadow. What you dreamed was the Great Pattern of Amber. By its power do those of the blood royal hold dominion over shadows. Do you understand what I am talking about?”
“I am not certain,” she said. “I do not think so. I have heard Grandpa cursing shadows, but I never understood what he meant.”
“Then you do not know where Amber truly lies.”
“No. He was always evasive. He told me of Amber and of the family. But I do not even know the direction in which Amber lies. I only know that it is far.”
“It lies in all directions,” I said, “or any direction one chooses. One need but—”
“Yes!” she interrupted. “I had forgotten, or thought he was just being mysterious or humoring me, but Brand said exactly the same thing a long while ago. What does it mean, though?”
“Brand! When was Brand here?”
“Years ago,” she said, “when I was just a little girl. He used to visit here often. I was very much in love with him and I pestered him mercilessly. He used to tell me stories, teach me games . . .”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Oh, eight or nine years ago. I‘d say.”
“Have you met any of the others?”
“Yes,” she said. “Julian and Gerard were here not too long ago. Just a few months back.”
I suddenly felt very insecure. Benedict had certainly been quiet about a lot of things. I would rather have been ill advised than kept totally ignorant of affairs. It makes it easier for you to be angry when you find out. The trouble with Benedict was that he was too honest, though. He would rather tell me nothing than lie to me. I felt something unpleasant coming my way, however, and knew that there could be no dawdling now, that I would have to move as quickly as possible. Yes, it had to be a hard hellride for the stones. Still, there was more to be learned here before I essayed it. Time . . . Damn!
“Was that the first time that you met them?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “and my feelings were very hurt.” She paused, sighed. "Grandpa would not let me speak of our being related. He introduced me as his ward. And he refused to tell me why. Damn it!”
“I‘m sure he had some very good reasons.”
“Oh, I am too. But it does not make you feel
any better, when you have been waiting all your life to meet your relatives. Do you know why he treated me like that?”
“These are trying times in Amber,” I said, “and things will get worse before they get better. The fewer people who know of your existence, the less chance there is of your getting involved and coming to harm. He did it only to protect you.” She made a spitting noise.
“I do not need protecting,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
“You are a fine fencer,” I said. “Unfortunately, life is more complicated than a fair dueling situation.”
“I know that. I‘m not a child. But—”
“ ‘But‘ nothing! He did the same thing I‘d do if you were mine. He‘s protecting himself as well as you. I‘m surprised he let Brand know about you. He‘s going to be damned mad that I found out.” Her head jerked and she stared at me, eyes wide.
“But you wouldn‘t do anything to hurt us,” she said. “We—we‘re related . ”
“How the hell do you know why I‘m here or what I‘m thinking?” I said. “You might have just stuck both your necks in nooses!”
“You are joking, aren‘t you?” she said, slowly raising her left hand between us.
“I don‘t know,” I said. “I need not be—and I wouldn‘t be talking about it if I did have something rotten in mind, would I?”
“No. . . I guess not,” she said.
“I am going to tell you something Benedict should have told you long ago,” I said. “Never trust a relative. It is far worse than trusting strangers. With a stranger there is a possibility that you might be safe.”
“You really mean that, don‘t you?”
“Yes.”
“Yourself included?” I smiled.
“Of course it does not apply to me. I am the soul of honor, kindness, mercy, and goodness. Trust me in all things.”
“I will,” she said, and I laughed.
“I will,” she insisted. “You would not hurt us. I know that.”
“Tell me about Gerard and Julian,” I said, feeling uncomfortable, as always, in the presence of unsolicited trust. “What was the reason for their visit?”
She was silent for a moment, still studying me, then, “I have been telling you quite a few things,” she said, “haven‘t I? You are right. One can never be too careful. I believe that it is your turn to talk again.”
The Chronicles of Amber Page 28
