His long white hair shed tiny sparkling motes, and when he turned his head I knew that he was coming for me, for then I felt his gaze like a cold pressure across the front of my body. I turned sidewise and raised my blade to guard.
He continued, and I realized that both he and the horse were big, bigger even than I had thought. They came on. When they reached the point nearest me—some ten meters, perhaps—the horse reared as the rider drew it to a halt. They regarded me then, bobbing and swaying as if on a raft in a gently swelling sea.
“Your name!” the rider demanded. “Give me your name, who comes to this place!”
His voice produced a crackling sensation in my ears. It was all of one sound level, loud and without inflection.
I shook my head.
“I give my name when I choose, not when I am ordered to,” I said. “Who are you?”
He gave three short barks, which I took to be a laugh.
“I will hale you down and about, where you will cry it out forever.”
I pointed Grayswandir at his eyes.
“Talk is cheap,” I said. “Whisky costs money.”
I felt a faint cool sensation just then, as if someone were toying with my Trump, thinking of me. But it was dim, weak, and I had no attention to spare, for the rider had passed some signal to his mount and the beast reared. The distance is too great, I decided. But this thought belonged to another shadow. The beast plunged ahead toward me, departing the tenuous roadway that had been its course.
Its leap bore it to a point far short of my position. But it did not fall from there and vanish, as I had hoped. It resumed the motions of galloping, and although its progress was not fully commensurate with the action, it continued to advance across the abyss at about half-speed.
While this was occurring, I saw that in the distance from which it had come another figure appeared to be headed my way. Nothing to do but stand my ground, fight, and hope that I could dispatch this attacker before the other was upon me.
As the rider advanced, his ruddy gaze flicked over my person and halted when it fell upon Grayswandir. Whatever the nature of the mad illumination at my back, it had tricked the delicate tracery on my blade to life once more, so that that portion of the Pattern it bore swam and sparkled along its length. The horseman was very near by then, but he drew back on the reins and his eyes leaped upward, meeting my own. His nasty grin vanished.
“I know you!” he said. “You are the one called Corwin!”
But we had him, me and my ally momentum.
His mount’s front hoofs fell upon the ledge and I rushed forward. The beast’s reflexes caused it to seek equal footing for its hind legs despite the drawn reins. The rider swung his blade into a guard position as I came on, but I cross-stepped and attacked from his left. As he moved his blade cross-body, I was already lunging. Grayswandir sheared through his pale hide, entering beneath the sternum and above the guts.
I wrenched my blade free and gouts of fire poured like blood from his wound. His sword arm sagged and his mount uttered a shriek that was almost a whistle as the blazing stream fell upon its neck. I danced back as the rider slumped forward and the beast, now fully footed, plunged on toward me, kicking. I cut again, reflexively, defensively. My blade nicked its left foreleg, and it, too, began to burn.
I side-stepped once again as it turned and made for me a second time. At that moment, the rider erupted into a pillar of light. The beast bellowed, wheeled, and rushed away. Without pausing, it plunged over the edge and vanished into the abyss, leaving me with the memory of the smoldering head of a cat which had addressed me long ago and the chill which always accompanied the recollection.
I was backed against rock, panting. The wispy road had drifted nearer—ten feet, perhaps, from the ledge. I had developed a cramp in my left side. The second rider was rapidly approaching. He was not pale like the first. His hair was dark and there was color in his face. His mount was a properly maned sorrel. He bore a cocked and bolted crossbow. I glanced behind me and there was no retreat, no crevice into which I might back.
I wiped my palm on my trousers and gripped Grayswandir by the forte of the blade. I turned sideways, so as to present the narrowest target possible. I raised my blade between us, hilt level with my head, point toward the ground, the only shield I possessed.
The rider came abreast of me and halted at the nearest point on the gauzy strip. He raised the crossbow slowly, knowing that if he did not drop me instantly with his single shot, I might be able to hurl my blade like a spear. Our eyes met.
He was beardless, slim. Possibly light-eyed within the squint of his aim. He managed his mount well, with just the pressure of his legs. His hands were big, steady. Capable. A peculiar feeling passed over me as I beheld him.
The moment stretched beyond the point of action. He rocked backward and lowered the weapon slightly, though none of the tension left his stance.
“You,” he called out. “Is that the blade Grayswandir?”
“Yes,” I answered, “it is.”
He continued his appraisal, and something within me looked for words to wear, failed, ran naked away through the night.
“What do you want here?” he asked.
“To depart,” I said.
There was a chish-chd, as his bolt struck the rock far ahead and to the left of me.
“Go then,” he said. “This is a dangerous place for you.”
He turned his mount back in the direction from which he had come.
I lowered Grayswandir.
“I won’t forget you,” I said.
“No,” he answered. “Do not.”
Then he galloped away, and moments later the gauze drifted off also.
I resheathed Grayswandir and took a step forward. The world was beginning to turn about me again, the light advancing on my right, the dark retreating to my left. I looked about for some way to scale the rocky prominence at my back. It seemed to rise only thirty or forty feet higher, and I wanted the view that might be available from its summit. My ledge extended to both my right and my left. On inspection, the way to the right narrowed quickly, however, without affording a suitable ascent. I turned and made my way to the left.
I came upon a rougher spot in a narrow place beyond a rocky shoulder. Running my gaze up its height, an ascent seemed possible. I checked behind me after the approach of additional threats. The ghostly roadway had drifted farther away; no new riders advanced. I commenced climbing.
The going was not difficult, though the height proved greater than it had seemed from below. Likely a symptom of the spatial distortion which seemed to have affected my sight of so much else in this place. After a time, I hauled myself up and stood erect at a point which afforded a better view in the direction opposite the abyss.
Once again, I beheld the chaotic colors. From my right, the darkness herded them. The land they danced above was rock-cropped and cratered, no sign of any life within it. Passing through its midst, however, from the far horizon to a point in the mountains somewhere to the right, inky and serpentine, ran what could only be the black road.
Another ten minutes of climbing and maneuvering, and I had positioned myself to view its terminus. It swept through a broad pass in the mountains and ran right to the very edge of the abyss. There, its blackness merged with that which filled the place, noticeable now only by virtue of the fact that no stars shone through it. Using this occlusion to gauge it, I obtained the impression that it continued on to the dark eminence about which the misty strips drifted.
I stretched out on my belly, so as to disturb the outline of the low crest as little as possible to whatever unseen eyes might flick across it. Lying there, I thought upon the opening of this way. The damage to the Pattern had laid Amber open to this access, and I believed that my curse had provided the precipitating element. I felt now that it would have come to pass without me, but I was certain that I had done my part. The guilt was still partly mine though no longer entirely so, as I had once believed. I thought the
n of Eric, as he lay dying on Kolvir. He had said that as much as he hated me, he was saving his dying curse for the enemies of Amber. In other words, this, and these. Ironic. My efforts were now entirely directed toward making good on my least-liked brother’s dying wish. His curse to cancel my curse, me as the agent. Fitting though, perhaps, in some larger sense.
I sought, and was pleased not to discover, ranks of glowing riders setting forth or assembling upon that road. Unless another raiding party was already under way Amber was still temporarily safe. A number of things immediately troubled me, however. Mainly, if time did indeed behave as peculiarly in that place as Dara’s possible origin indicated, then why had there not been another attack? They had certainly had ample time in which to recover and prepare for another assault. Had something occurred recently, by Amber’s time, that is, to alter the nature of their strategy? If so, what? My weapons? Brand’s recovery? Or something else? I wondered, too, how far Benedict’s outposts reached. Certainly not this far, or I should have been informed. Had he ever been to this place? Had any of the others, within recent memory, stood where I had just stood, looking upon the Courts of Chaos, knowing something that I did not know? I resolved to question Brand and Benedict in this regard as soon as I returned.
All of which led me to wonder how time was behaving with me, at that moment. Better not to spend any more time here than I had to, I decided. I scanned the other Trumps I had removed from Dworkin’s desk. While they were all of them interesting, I was familiar with none of the scenes depicted. I slipped my own case then and riffled through to Random’s Trump. Perhaps he was the one who had tried to contact me earlier. I raised his card and regarded it.
Shortly, it swam before my eyes and I looked upon a blurred kaleidoscope of images, the impression of Random in their midst. Motion, and twisting perspectives . . .
“Random,” I said. “This is Corwin.”
I felt his mind, but there was no response from it. It struck me then that he was in the middle of a hellride, all his concentration bent on wrapping the stuff of Shadow about him. He could not respond without losing control. I blocked the Trump with my hand, breaking the contact.
I cut to Gerard’s card. Moments later, there was contact. I stood.
“Corwin, where are you?” he inquired.
“At the end of the world,” I said. “I want to come home.”
“Come ahead.”
He extended his hand. I reached out and clasped it, stepped forward.
We were on the ground floor of the palace in Amber, in the sitting room to which we had all adjourned on the night of Brand’s return. It seemed to be early morning. There was a fire going on the grate. No one else was present.
“I tried to reach you earlier,” he said. “I think Brand did, too. But I can’t be sure.”
“How long have I been away?”
“Eight days,” he said.
“Glad I hurried. What’s happening?”
“Nothing untoward,” he said. “I do not know what Brand wants. He kept asking for you, and I could not reach you. Finally, I gave him a deck and told him to see whether he could do any better. Apparently, he could not.”
“I was distracted,” I said, “and the time-flow differential was bad.”
He nodded.
“I have been avoiding him now that he is out of danger. He is in one of his black moods again, and he insists he can take care of himself. He is right, in that, and it is just as well.”
“Where is he now?”
“Back in his own quarters, and he was still there as of perhaps an hour ago—brooding.”
“Has he been out at all?”
“A few brief walks. But not for the past several days.”
“I guess I had best go see him then. Any word on Random?”
“Yes,” he said. “Benedict returned several days ago. He said they had found a number of leads concerning Random’s son. He helped him check on a couple of them. One led further, but Benedict felt he had best not be away from Amber for too long, things being as uncertain as they are. So he left Random to continue the search on his own. He gained something in the venture, though. He came back sporting an artificial arm—a beautiful piece of work. He can do anything with it that he could before.”
“Really?” I said. “It sounds strangely familiar.”
He smiled, nodded.
“He told me you had brought it back for him from Tir-na Nog’th. In fact, he wants to speak with you about it as soon as possible.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. “Where is he now?”
“At one of the outposts he has established along the black road. You would have to reach him by Trump.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Anything further on Julian or Fiona?”
He shook his head.
“All right,” I said, turning toward the door. “I guess I will go see Brand first.”
“I am curious to know what it is that he wants,” he said.
“I will remember that,” I told him. I left the room and headed for the stairs.
Chapter 7
I rapped on Brand’s door.
“Come in, Corwin,” he said.
I did, deciding as I crossed the threshold that I would not ask him how he had known who it was. His room was a gloomy place, candles burning despite the fact that it was daytime and he had four windows. The shutters were closed on three of them. The fourth was only part way open. Brand stood beside this one, staring out toward the sea. He was dressed all in black velvet with a silver chain about his neck. His belt was also of silver—a fine, linked affair. He played with a small dagger, and did not look at me as I entered. He was still pale, but his beard was neatly trimmed and he looked well scrubbed and a bit heavier than he had when last I had seen him.
“You are looking better,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
He turned and regarded me, expressionless, his eyes half-closed.
“Where the hell have you been?” he said.
“Hither and yon. What did you want to see me about?”
“I asked you where you’ve been.”
“And I heard you,” I said, reopening the door behind me. “Now I am going to go out and come back in. Supposing we start this conversation over again?”
He sighed.
“Wait a minute. I am sorry,” he said. “Why are we all so thin-skinned? I do not know. . . . All right. It may be better if I do start over again.”
He sheathed his dagger and crossed to sit in a heavy chair of black wood and leather.
“I got to worrying about all the things we had discussed,” he said, “and some that we had not. I waited what seemed an appropriate time for you to have concluded your business in Tir-na Nog’th and returned. I then inquired after you and was told you had not yet come back. I waited longer. First I was impatient, and then I grew concerned that you might have been ambushed by our enemies. When I inquired again later, I learned that you had been back only long enough to speak with Random’s wife—it must have been a conversation of great moment—and then to take a nap. You then departed once more. I was irritated that you had not seen fit to keep me posted as to events, but I resolved to wait a bit longer. Finally, I asked Gerard to get hold of you with your Trump. When he failed, I was quite concerned. I tried it myself then, and while it seemed that I touched you on several occasions I could not get through. I feared for you, and now I see that I had nothing to fear all along. Hence, I was abrupt.”
“I see,” I said, taking a seat off to his right. “Actually, time was running faster for me than it was for you, so from where I am sitting I have hardly been away. You are probably further recuperated from your puncture than I am from mine.”
He smiled faintly and nodded.
“That is something, anyway,” he said, “for my pains.”
“I have had a few pains myself,” I said, “so don’t give me any more. You wanted me for something. Let’s have it.”
“Something is bothering you,” he said. “Perhaps we ou
ght to discuss that first.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s.”
I turned and looked at the painting on the wall beside the door. An oil, a rather somber rendering of the well at Mirata, two men standing beside their horses nearby, talking.
“You’ve a distinctive style,” I said.
“In all things,” he replied.
“You stole my next sentence,” I said, locating Martin’s Trump and passing it to him.
He remained expressionless as he examined it, gave me one brief, sidelong look and then nodded.
“I cannot deny my hand,” he said.
“It executed more than that card, your hand. Didn’t it?”
He traced his upper lip with the tip of his tongue.
“Where did you find it?” he asked.
“Right where you left it, at the heart of things—in the real Amber.”
“So . . .” he said, rising from the chair and returning to the window, holding up the card as if to study it in a better light. “So,” he repeated, “you are aware of more than I had guessed. How did you learn of the primal Pattern?”
I shook my head.
“You answer my question first: Did you stab Martin?”
He turned toward me once again, stared a moment, then nodded sharply. His eyes continued to search my face
“Why?” I asked.
“Someone had to,” he explained, “to open the way for the powers we needed. We drew straws.”
“And you won.”
“Won? Lost?” He shrugged. “What does any of this matter now? Things did not come about as we had intended. I am a different person now than I was then.”
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