“Yes.”
Casting my gaze about the apartment, I quickly located other examples of her work. “Quite good,” I said.
“Thank you. Won’t you sit down?”
I lowered myself into a large, high-armed chair, which proved more comfortable than it had looked. She seated herself on a low divan to my right, curling her legs beneath her.
“May I get you something to eat, or to drink?”
“No thanks. I can only stay a short while. What it is, is that Random, Ganelon, and I had gotten a bit sidetracked on the way home, and after that delay we met with Benedict for a time. The upshot of it was that Random and Benedict had to make another small journey.”
“How long will he be away?”
“Probably overnight. Maybe a bit longer. If it is going to be much longer he will probably call back on someone’s Trump, and we’ll let you know.”
My side began to throb and I rested my hand upon it, massaging it gently.
“Random has told me many things about you,” she said.
I chuckled.
“Are you certain you would not care for something to eat? It would be no trouble.”
“Did he tell you that I am always hungry?”
She laughed.
“No. But if you have been as active as you say, I would guess that you did not take time for lunch.”
“In that you would be only half-correct. All right. If you’ve a spare piece of bread lying about it might do me some good to gnaw on it.”
“Fine. Just a moment.”
She rose and departed into the next room. I took the opportunity to scratch heartily all about my wound where it was suddenly itching fit to kill. I had accepted her hospitality partly for this reason and partly because of the realization that I actually was hungry. Only a little later it struck me that she could not have seen me attacking my side as I was. Her sure movements, her confident manner, had relaxed my awareness of her blindness. Good. It pleased me that she was able to carry it so well.
I heard her humming a tune: “The Ballad of the Water Crossers,” the song of Amber’s great merchant navy. Amber is not noted for manufacture, and agriculture has never been our forte. But our ships sail the shadows, plying between anywhere and anywhere, dealing in anything. Just about every male Amberite, noble or otherwise, spends some time in the fleet. Those of the blood laid down the trade routes long ago that other vessels might follow, the seas of a double dozen worlds in every captain’s head. I had assisted in this in times gone by, and though my involvement had never been so deep as Gerard’s or Caine’s, I had been mightily moved by the forces of the deep and the spirit of the men who crossed it.
After a while, Vialle came in bearing a tray heavy with bread, meat, cheese, fruit, and a flask of wine. She set it upon a table near at hand.
“You mean to feed a regiment?” I asked.
“Best to be safe.”
“Thanks. Won’t you join me?”
“A piece of fruit, perhaps,” she said.
Her fingers sought for a second, located an apple. She returned to the divan.
“Random tells me you wrote that song,” she said.
“That was a very long time ago, Vialle.”
“Have you composed any recently?”
I began to shake my head, caught myself, said, “No. That part of me is. . . . resting.”
“Pity. It is lovely.”
“Random is the real musician in the family.”
“Yes, he is very good. But performance and composition are two different things.”
“True. One day when things have eased up . . . Tell me, are you happy here in Amber? Is everything to your liking? Is there anything that you need?”
She smiled.
“All that I need is Random. He is a good man.”
I was strangely moved to hear her speak of him in this fashion.
“Then I am happy for you,” I said. And, “Younger, smaller . . . he might have had it a bit rougher than the rest of us,” I went on. “Nothing quite as useless as another prince when there is already a crowd of them about. I was as guilty as the rest. Bleys and I once stranded him for two days on an islet to the south of here . . .”
“. . . And Gerard went and got him when he learned of it,” she said. “Yes, he told me. It must bother you if you remember it after all this time.”
“It must have made an impression on him, too.”
“No, he forgave you long ago. He told it as a joke. Also, he drove a spike through the heel of your boot—pierced your foot when you put it on.”
“Then it was Random! I’ll be damned! I had always blamed Julian for that one.”
“That one bothers Random.”
“How long ago all of this was . . .” I said.
I shook my head and continued eating. Hunger seized me and she gave me several minutes of silence in which to get the upper hand on it. When I had, I felt compelled to say something.
“That is better. Much better,” I began. “It was a peculiar and trying night that I spent in the skycity.”
“Did you receive omens of a useful nature?”
“I do not know how useful they might prove. On the other hand, I suppose I’d rather have had them than not. Have there been any interesting happenings hereabouts?”
“A servant tells me your brother Brand continues to rally. He ate well this morning, which is encouraging.”
“True,” I said. “True. It would seem he is out of danger.”
“Likely. It—it is a terrible series of happenings to which you have all been subjected. I am sorry. I was hoping you might obtain some indication of an upturn in your affairs during the night you spent in Tir-na Nog’th.”
“It does not matter,” I said. “I am not that sure of the value of the thing.”
“Then why—Oh.”
I studied her with renewed interest. Her face still betrayed nothing, but her right hand twitched, tapping and plucking at the material of the divan. Then, as with a sudden awareness of its eloquence, she stilled it. She was obviously a person who had answered her own question and wished now she had done it in silence.
“Yes,” I said, “I was stalling. You are aware of my injury.”
She nodded.
“I am not angry with Random for having told you,” I said. “His judgment has always been acute and geared to defense. I see no reason not to rely on it myself. I must inquire as to how much he has told you, however, both for your own safety and my peace of mind. For there are things I suspect but have not yet spoken.”
“I understand. It is difficult to assess a negative—the things he might have left out, I mean—but he tells me most things. I know your story and most of the others. He keeps me aware of events, suspicions, conjectures.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking a sip of. the wine. “It makes it easier for me to speak then, seeing how things are with you. I am going to tell you everything that happened from breakfast till now . . .”
So I did.
She smiled occasionally as I spoke, but she did not interrupt. When I had finished, she asked, “You thought that mention of Martin would upset me?”
“It seemed possible,” I told her.
“No,” she said. “You see, I knew Martin in Rebma, when he was but a small boy. I was there while he was growing up. I liked him then. Even if he were not Random’s son he would still be dear to me. I can only be pleased with Random’s concern and hope that it has come in time to benefit them both.”
I shook my head.
“I do not meet people like you too often,” I said. “I am glad that I finally have.”
She laughed, then said, “You were without sight for a long while.”
“Yes.”
“It can embitter a person, or it can give him a greater joy in those things which he does have.”
I did not have to think back over my feelings from those days of blindness to know that I was a person of the first sort, even discounting the circumstances under which
I had suffered it. I am sorry, but that is the way that I am, and I am sorry.
“True,” I said. “You are fortunate.”
“It is really only a state of mind—a thing a Lord of Shadow can easily appreciate.”
She rose.
“I have always wondered as to your appearance,” she said. “Random has described you, but that is different. May I?”
“Of course.”
She approached and placed her finger tips upon my face. Delicately, she traced my features.
“Yes,” she said, “you are much as I had thought you would be. And I feel the tension in you. It has been there for a long while, has it not?”
“In some form or other, I suppose, ever since my return to Amber.”
“I wonder,” she said, “whether you might have been happier before you regained your memory.”
“It is one of those impossible questions,” I said. “I might also be dead if I had not. But putting that part aside for a moment, in those times there was still a thing that drove me, that troubled me every day. I was constantly looking for ways to discover who I really was, what I was.”
“But were you happier, or less happy, than you are now?”
“Neither,” I said. “Things balance out. It is, as you suggested, a state of mind. And even if it were not so, I could never go back to that other life, now that I know who I am, now that I have found Amber.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you ask me these things?”
“I want to understand you,” she said. “Ever since I first heard of you back in Rebma, even before Random told me stories, I wondered what it was that drove you. Now I’ve the opportunity—no right, of course, just the opportunity—I felt it worth speaking out of turn and order beyond my station simply to ask you.”
A half-chuckle caught me.
“Fairly taken,” I said. “I will see whether I can be honest. Hatred drove me at first—hatred for my brother Eric—and my desire for the throne. Had you asked me on my return which was the stronger, I would have said that it was the summons of the throne. Now, though . . . now I would have to admit that it was actually the other way around. I had not realized it until this moment, but it is true. But Eric is dead and there is nothing left of what I felt then. The throne remains, but now I find that my feelings toward it are mixed. There is a possibility that none of us has a right to it under present circumstances, and even if all family objections were removed I would not take it at this time. I would have to see stability restored to the realm and a number of questions answered first.”
“Even if these things showed that you may not have the throne?”
“Even so.”
“Then I begin to understand.”
“What? What is there to understand?”
“Lord Corwin, my knowledge of the philosophical basis of these things is limited, but it is my understanding that you are able to find anything you wish within Shadow. This has troubled me for a long while, and I never fully understood Random’s explanations. If you wished, could not each of you walk in Shadow and find yourself another Amber—like this one in all respects, save that you ruled there or enjoyed whatever other status you might desire?”
“Yes, we can locate such places,” I said.
“Then why is this not done, to have an end of strife?”
“It is because a place could be found which seemed to be the same—but that would be all. We are a part of this Amber as surely as it is a part of us. Any shadow of Amber would have to be populated with shadows of ourselves to seem worth while. We could even except the shadow of our own person should we choose to move into a ready realm. However, the shadow folk would not be exactly like the other people here. A shadow is never precisely like that which casts it. These little differences add up. They are actually worse than major ones. It would amount to entering a nation of strangers. The best mundane comparison which occurs to me is an encounter with a person who strongly resembles another person you know. You keep expecting him to act like your acquaintance; worse yet, you have a tendency to act toward him as you would toward that other. You face him with a certain mask and his responses are not appropriate. It is an uncomfortable feeling. I never enjoy meeting people who remind me of other people. Personality is the one thing we cannot control in our manipulations of Shadow. In fact, it is the means by which we can tell one another from shadows of ourselves. This is why Flora could not decide about me for so long, back on the shadow Earth: my new personality was sufficiently different.”
“I begin to understand,” she said. “It is not just Amber for you. It is the place plus everything else.”
“The place plus everything else . . . That is Amber,” I agreed.
“You say that your hate died with Eric and your desire for the throne has been tempered by the consideration of new things you have learned.”
“That is so.”
“Then I think I do understand what it is that moves you.”
“The desire for stability moves me,” I said, “and something of curiosity—and revenge on our enemies . . .”
“Duty,” she said. “Of course.”
I snorted.
“It would be comforting to put such a face on it,” I said. “As it is, however, I will not be a hypocrite. I am hardly a dutiful son of Amber or of Oberon.”
“Your voice makes it plain that you do not wish to be considered one.”
I closed my eyes, closed them to join her in darkness, to recall for a brief while the world where other messages than light waves took precedence. I knew then that she had been right about my voice. Why had I trodden so heavily on the idea of duty as soon as it was suggested? I like credit for being good and clean and noble and high-minded when I have it coming, even sometimes when I do not—the same as the next person. What bothered me about the notion of duty to Amber? Nothing. What was it then? Dad.
I no longer owed him anything, least of all duty. Ultimately, he was responsible for the present state of affairs. He had fathered a great brood of us without providing for a proper succession, he had been less than kind to all of our mothers and he then expected our devotion and support. He played favorites and, in fact, it even seemed he played us off against one another. He then got suckered into something he could not handle and left the kingdom in a mess. Sigmund Freud had long ago anesthetized me to any normal, generalized feelings of resentment which might operate within the family unit. I have no quarrel on those grounds. Facts are another matter. I did not dislike my father simply because he had given me no reason to like him; in truth, it seemed that he had labored in the other direction. Enough. I realized what it was that bothered me about the notion of duty: its object
“You are right,” I said, opening my eyes, regarding her, “and I am glad that you told me of it.”
I rose.
“Give me your hand,” I said.
She extended her right hand and I raised it to my lips.
“Thank you,” I said. “It was a good lunch.”
I turned and made my way to the door. When I looked back she had blushed and was smiling, her hand still partly raised, and I began to understand the change in Random.
“Good luck to you,” she said, the moment my footsteps ceased.
“ . . . And you,” I said, and went out quickly.
I had been planning to see Brand next, but just could not bring myself to do it. For one thing, I did not want to encounter him with my wits dulled by fatigue. For another, talking with Vialle was the first pleasant thing which had happened to me in some time, and just this once I was going to quit while I was ahead.
I mounted the stairs and walked the corridor to my room, thinking, of course, of the night of the knifings as I fitted my new key to my new lock. In my bedchamber, I drew the drapes against the afternoon’s light, undressed, and got into bed. As on other occasions of rest after stress with more stress pending, sleep eluded me for a time. For a long while I tossed and twisted, reliving events of the past several days and
some from even farther back. When finally I slept, my dreams were an amalgam of the same material, including a spell in my old cell, scraping away at the door.
It was dark when I awoke and I actually felt rested. The tension gone out of me, my reverie was much more peaceful. In fact, there was a tiny charge of pleasant excitement dancing through the back of my head. It was a tip-of-the-tongue imperative, a buried notion that—Yes!
I sat up. I reached for my clothes, began to dress. I buckled on Grayswandir. I folded a blanket and tucked it under my arm. Of course. . .
My mind felt clear and my side had stopped throbbing. I had no idea how long I had slept, and it was hardly worth checking at this point. I had something far more important to look into, something which should have occurred to me a long while ago—had occurred, as a matter of fact. I had actually been staring right at it once, but the crush of time and events had ground it from my mind. Until now.
I locked my room behind me and headed for the stairs. Candles flickered, and the faded stag who had been dying for centuries on the tapestry to my right looked back on the faded dogs who had been pursuing him for approximately as long. Sometimes my sympathies are with the stag; usually though, I am all dog. Have to have the thing restored one of these days.
The stairs and down. No sounds from below. Late, then. Good. Another day and we’re still alive. Maybe even a trifle wiser. Wise enough to realize there are many more things we still need to know. Hope, though. There’s that. A thing I lacked when I squatted in that damned cell, hands pressed against my ruined eyes, howling. Vialle . . . I wish I could have spoken with you for a few moments in those days. But I learned what I learned in a nasty school, and even a milder curriculum would probably not have given me your grace. Still . . . hard to say. I have always felt I am more dog than stag, more hunter than victim. you might have taught me something that would have blunted the bitterness, tempered the hate. But would that have been for the best? The hate died with its object and the bitterness, too, has passed—but looking back, I wonder whether I would have made it without them to sustain me. I am not at all certain that I would have survived my internment without my ugly companions to drag me back to life and sanity time and again. Now I can afford the luxury of an occasional stag thought, but then it might have been fatal. I do not truly know, kind lady, and I doubt that I ever will.
The Chronicles of Amber Page 60
