The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  As I made it to the north end of the Pattern and into the curve leading back, it struck me suddenly what I was about to do.

  I was rushing to spill more blood upon the Pattern.

  If it came to a simple choice between further damage to the Pattern and Brand’s destroying it utterly, then I knew what I had to do. Yet, I felt there had to be another way. Yes . . .

  I slowed my pace just a trifle. It was going to be a matter of timing, his passage was a lot rougher than mine just then, so I had an edge in that respect. My entire new strategy involved arranging our encounter at just the right point. Ironically, at that moment, I recalled Brand’s concern for his rug. The problem of keeping this place clean was a lot trickier, though.

  He was nearing the end of the Grand Curve, and I paced him while calculating the distance to the blackness. I had decided to let him do his bleeding over the area which had already been damaged. The only disadvantage I seemed to possess was that I would be situated to Brand’s right. To minimize the benefit this would give him when we crossed blades, I would have to remain somewhat to the rear.

  Brand struggled and advanced, all of his movements in slow motion. I struggled too, but not as hard. I kept the pace. I wondered as I went, about the Jewel, about the affinity we had shared since the attunement. I could feel its presence, there to my left and ahead, even though I could not see it now upon Brand’s breast. Would it really act to save me across that distance should Brand gain the upper hand in our coming conflict? Feeling its presence, I could almost believe that it would. It had torn me from one assailant and found, somehow, within my mind, a traditional place of safety—my own bed—and had transported me there. Feeling it now, almost seeing the way before Brand through it, I felt some assurance that it would attempt to function on my behalf once again. Recalling Fiona’s words, however, I was determined not to rely on it. Still, I considered its other functions, speculated upon my ability to operate it without contact . . .

  Brand had almost completed the Grand Curve. I reached out from some level of my being and made contact with the Jewel. Laying my will upon it, I called for a storm of the red tornado variety which had destroyed Iago. I did not know whether I could control that particular phenomenon in this particular place, but I called for it nevertheless and directed it toward Brand. Nothing happened immediately, though I felt the Jewel functioning to achieve something. Brand came to the end, offered a final exertion, and passed from the Grand Curve.

  I was right there behind him.

  He knew it, too—somehow. His blade was out the instant the pressure was off. He gained a couple feet faster than I thought he could, got his left foot ahead of him, turned his body, and met my gaze over the lines of our blades.

  “Damned if you didn’t make it.” he said, touching the tip of my blade with his own.

  “You would never have gotten here this soon if it weren’t for the bitch on the horse, though.”

  “Nice way to talk about our sister,” I said, feinting and watching him move to parry.

  We were hampered, in that neither of us could lunge without departing the Pattern. I was further hampered in not wanting to make him bleed, yet. I faked a stop thrust and he drew back, sliding his left foot along the design to his rear. He withdrew his right then, stamped it, and tried a head cut without preliminaries. Damn it! I parried and then riposted by pure reflex. I did not want to catch him with the chest cut I had thrown back at him, but the tip of Grayswandir traced an arc beneath his sternum. I heard a humming in the air above us. I could not afford to take my eyes off Brand, though. He glanced downward and backed some more. Good. A red line now decorated his shirt front where my cut had taken him. So far, the material seemed to be absorbing it. I stamped, feinted, thrust, parried, stop thrust, bound, and unbound—everything I could think of to keep him retreating. I had the psychological edge on him in that I had the greater reach and we both knew I could do more things with it, more quickly. Brand was nearing the dark area. Just a few more paces. . . . I heard a sound like a single bell chime, followed by a great roaring. A shadow suddenly fell upon us, as though a cloud had just occluded the sun.

  Brand glanced up. I think I could have gotten him just then, but he was still a couple of feet too far from the target area.

  He recovered immediately and glared at me.

  “Damn you, Corwin! That’s yours, isn’t it?” he cried, and then he attacked, discarding what caution he still possessed.

  Unfortunately, I was in a bad position, as I had been edging up on him, preparing to press him the rest of the way back. I was exposed and slightly off-balance. Even as I parried, I realized it would not be sufficient, and I twisted and fell back.

  I struggled to keep my feet in place as I went down. I caught myself with my right elbow and my left hand. I cursed, as the pain was too much and my elbow slid to the side, dropping me to my right shoulder.

  But Brand’s thrust had gone by me, and within blue halos my feet still touched the line. I was out of Brand’s reach for a death thrust, though he could still hamstring me.

  I raised my right arm, still clutching Grayswandir, before me. I began to sit up. As I did, I saw that the red formation, yellow about the edges, was now spinning directly above Brand, crackling with sparks and small lightnings, its roar now changed to a wailing.

  Brand took hold of his blade by the forte and raised it above his shoulder like a spear, pointed in my direction. I knew that I could not parry it, that I could not dodge it.

  With my mind, I reached out to the Jewel and up to the formation in the sky . . .

  There came a bright flash as a small finger of lightning reached down and touched his blade . . .

  The weapon fell from his hand and his hand flew to his mouth. With his left hand, he clutched at the Jewel of Judgment, as if he realized what I was doing and sought to nullify it by covering the stone. Sucking his fingers, he looked upward, all of the anger draining from his face to be replaced by a look of fear verging on terror.

  The cone was beginning to descend.

  Turning then, he stepped onto the blackened area, faced south, raised both his arms and cried out something I could not hear above the wailing.

  The cone fell toward him, but he seemed to grow two-dimensional as it approached. His outline wavered. He began to shrink—but it did not seem a function of actual size, so much as an effect of distancing. He dwindled, dwindled, was gone, a bare instant before the cone licked across the area he had occupied.

  With him went the Jewel, so that I was left with no way of controlling the thing above me. I did not know whether it was better to maintain a low profile or to resume a normal stance on the Pattern. I decided on the latter, because the whirlwind seemed to go for things which broke the normal sequence. I got back into a sitting position and edged over to the line. Then I leaned forward into a crouch, by which time the cone began to rise. The wailing retreated down the scale as it withdrew. The blue fires about my boots had subsided completely. I turned and looked at Fiona. She motioned me to get up and go on.

  So I rose slowly, seeing that the vortex above me continued to dissipate as I moved. Advancing upon the area where Brand had so recently stood, I once again used Grayswandir to guide me through. The twisted remains of Brand’s blade lay near the far edge of the dim place.

  I wished there were some easy way out of the Pattern. It seemed pointless to complete it now. But there is no turning back once you have set foot upon it, and I was extremely leery of trying the dark route out. So I headed on toward the Grand Curve. To what place, I wondered, had Brand taken himself? If I knew, I could command the Pattern to send me after him, once I reached the center. Perhaps Fiona had an idea. Still, he would probably head for a place where he had allies. It would be senseless to pursue him alone.

  At least I had stopped the attunement, I consoled myself.

  Then I entered the Grand Curve. The sparks shot up about me.

  Chapter 12

  Late afternoon on a mountain: t
he westering sun shone full on the rocks to my left, tailored long shadows for those to the right; it filtered through the foliage about my tomb; it countered to some extent the chill winds of Kolvir. I released Random’s hand and turned to regard the man who sat on the bench before the mausoleum.

  It was the face of the youth on the pierced Trump, lines now drawn above the mouth, brow heavier, a general weariness in eye movement and set of jaw which had not been apparent on the card.

  So I knew it before Random said, “This is my son Martin.”

  Martin rose as I approached him, clasped my hand, said, “Uncle Corwin.” His expression changed but slightly as he said it. He scrutinized me.

  He was several inches taller than Random, but of the same light build. His chin and cheekbones had the same general cut to them, his hair was of a similar texture.

  I smiled.

  “You have been away a long while,” I said. “So was I.”

  He nodded.

  “But I have never really been in Amber proper,” he said. “I grew up in Rebma—and other places.”

  “Then let me welcome you, nephew. You come at an interesting time. Random must have told you about it.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That is why I asked to meet you here, rather than there.”

  I glanced at Random.

  “The last uncle he met was Brand,” Random said, “and under very nasty circumstances. Do you blame him?”

  “Hardly. I ran into him myself a bit earlier. Can’t say it was the most rewarding encounter.”

  “Ran into him?” said Random. “You’ve lost me.”

  “He has left Amber and he has the Jewel of Judgment with him. If I had known earlier what I know now, he would still be in the tower. He is our man, and he is very dangerous.”

  Random nodded.

  “I know,” he said. “Martin confirmed all our suspicions on the stabbing—and it was Brand. But what is this about the Jewel?”

  “He beat me to the place where I had left it on the shadow Earth. He has to walk the Pattern with it and project himself through it, though, to attune it to his use. I just stopped him from doing that on the primal Pattern in the real Amber. He escaped, however. I was just over the hill with Gerard, sending a squad of guards through to Fiona in that place, to prevent his returning and trying again. Our own Pattern and that in Rebma are also under guard because of him.”

  “Why does he want so badly to attune it? So he can raise a few storms? Hell, he could take a walk in Shadow and make all the weather he wants.”

  “A person attuned to the Jewel could use it to erase the Pattern.”

  “Oh? What happens then?”

  “The world as we know it comes to an end.”

  “Oh,” Random said again. Then, “How the hell do you know?”

  “It is a long story and I haven’t the time, but I had it from Dworkin and I believe that much of what he said.”

  “He’s still around?”

  “Later,” I said.

  “Okay. But Brand would have to be mad to do something like that.”

  I nodded.

  “I believe he thinks he could then cast a new Pattern, redesign the universe with himself as chief executive.”

  “Could this be done?”

  “Theoretically, perhaps. But even Dworkin has certain doubts that the feat could be repeated effectively now. The combination of factors was unique. . . . Yes, I believe Brand is somewhat mad. Looking back over the years, recalling his personality changes, his cycles of moods, it seems there was something of a schizoid pattern there. I do not know whether the deal he made with the enemy pushed him over the edge or not. It does not really matter. I wish he were back in his tower. I wish Gerard were a worse physician.”

  “Do you know who stabbed him?”

  “Fiona. You can get the story from her, though.”

  He leaned against my epitaph and shook his head.

  “Brand,” he said. “Damn him. Any one of us might have killed him on a number of occasions—in the old days. Just when he would get you mad enough, though, he would change. After a while, you would get to thinking he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Too bad he didn’t push one of us just a little harder at the wrong time . . .”

  “Then I take it he is now fair game?” said Martin.

  I looked at him. The muscles in his jaws had tightened and his eyes narrowed. For a moment, all of our faces fled across his, like a riffling of the family cards. All of our egoism, hatred, envy, pride, and abuse seemed to flow by in that instant—and he had not even set foot in Amber yet. Something snapped inside me and I reached out and seized him by the shoulders.

  “You have good reason to hate him,” I said, “and the answer to your question is ‘yes.’ The hunting season is open. I see no way to deal with him other than to destroy him. I hated him myself for so long as he remained an abstraction. But—now—it is different. Yes, he must be killed. But do not let that hatred be your baptism into our company. There has been too much of it among us. I look at your face—I don’t know. . . . I am sorry, Martin. Too much is going on right now. You are young. I have seen more things. Some of them bother me—differently. That’s all.”

  I released my grip and stepped back.

  “Tell me about yourself,” I said.

  “I was afraid of Amber for a long while,” he began, “and I guess that I still am. Ever since he attacked me, I have been wondering whether Brand might catch up with me again. I have been looking over my shoulder for years. I have been afraid of all of you, I suppose. I knew most of you as pictures on cards—with bad reputations attached. I told Random—Dad—that I did not want to meet you all at once, and he suggested that I see you first. Neither of us realized at the time that you would be particularly interested in certain things that I know. After I mentioned them though. Dad said I had to see you as soon as possible. He has been telling me all about what has been going on and—you see, I know something about it.”

  “I had a feeling that you might—when a certain name cropped up not too long ago.”

  “The Tecys?” Random said.

  “The same.”

  “It is difficult, deciding where to start . . .” Martin said.

  “I know that you grew up in Rebma, walked the Pattern, and then used your power over Shadow to visit Benedict in Avalon,” I said. “Benedict told you more about Amber and Shadow, taught you the use of the Trumps, coached you in weaponry. Later, you departed to walk in Shadow by yourself. And I know what Brand did to you. That is the sum of my knowledge.”

  He nodded, stared off into the west.

  “After I left Benedict’s, I traveled for years in Shadow,” he said. “Those were the happiest times I have known. Adventure, excitement, new things to see, to do. . . . In the back of my mind, I always had it that one day when I was smarter and tougher—more experienced—I would journey to Amber and meet my other relatives. Then Brand caught up with me. I was camped on a little hillside, just resting from a long ride and taking my lunch, on my way to visit my friends the Tecys. Brand contacted me then. I had reached Benedict with his Trump, when he was teaching me how to use them, and other times when I had traveled. He had even transported me through occasionally, so I knew what it felt like, knew what it was all about. This felt the same way, and for a moment, I thought that somehow it was Benedict calling me. But no. It was Brand—I recognized him from his picture in the deck. He was standing in the midst of what seemed to be the Pattern. I was curious. I did not know how he had reached me. So far as I knew, there was no Trump for me. He talked for a minute—I forget what he said—and when everything was firm and clear, he—he stabbed me. I pushed him and pulled away then. He held the contact somehow. It was hard for me to break it—and when I did, he tried to reach me again. But I was able to block him. Benedict had taught me that. He tried again, several times, but I kept blocking. Finally, he stopped. I was near to the Tecys. I managed to get onto my horse and make it to their place. I thought I was going to die, bec
ause I had never been hurt that badly before. But after a time, I began to recover. Then I grew afraid once again, afraid that Brand would find me and finish what he had begun.”

  “Why didn’t you contact Benedict,” I asked him, “and tell him what had happened, tell him of your fears?”

  “I thought of that,” he said, “and I also thought of the possibility that Brand believed he had succeeded, that I was indeed dead. I did not know what sort of power struggle was going on in Amber, but I decided that the attempt on my life was probably part of such a thing. Benedict had told me enough about the family that this was one of the first things to come to mind. So I decided that perhaps it would be better to remain dead. I left the Tecys before I was completely recovered and rode off to lose myself in Shadow.

  “I happened upon a strange thing then,” he continued, “a thing I had never before encountered, but which now seemed virtually omnipresent: In nearly all of the shadows through which I passed, there was a peculiar black road existing in some form or other. I did not understand it, but since it was the only thing I had come across which seemed to traverse Shadow itself, my curiosity was aroused. I resolved to follow it and learn more about it. It was dangerous. I learned very quickly not to tread the thing. Strange shapes seemed to travel it at night. Natural creatures which ventured upon it sickened and died. So I was careful. I went no nearer than was necessary to keep it in sight. I followed it through many places. I quickly learned that everywhere it ran there was death, desolation, or trouble nearby. I did not know what to make of it.

  “I was still weak from my wound,” he went on, “and I made the mistake of pressing myself, of riding too far, too fast, in a day’s time. That evening, I fell ill and I lay shivering in my blanket through the night and much of the next day. I was into and out of delirium during this time, so I do not know exactly when she appeared. She seemed like part of my dream much of the while. A young girl. Pretty. She took care of me while I recovered. Her name was Dara. We talked interminably. It was very pleasant. Having someone to talk with like that . . . I must have told her my whole life story. Then she told me something of herself. She was not a native of the area in which I had collapsed. She said that she had traveled there through Shadow. She could not yet walk through it as we do, though she felt she could learn to do this, as she claimed descent from the House of Amber through Benedict. In fact, she wanted very badly to learn how it was done. Her means of travel then was the black road itself. She was immune to its noxious effects, she said, because she was also related to the dwellers at its farther end, in the Courts of Chaos. She wanted to learn our ways though, so I did my best to instruct her in those things that I did know. I told her of the Pattern, even sketched it for her. I showed her my Trumps—Benedict had given me a deck—to show her the appearance of her other relatives. She was particularly interested in yours.”