The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  The fact that it is easier for us to take a straight course does not make it the only way. We all pursue it so much of the time, though, that we tend to forget that one can also make progress by going around in circles. . . .

  I could feel the shift more strongly as I neared the two large rocks again. Brand caught on about then, also.

  “Hold it, Corwin!”

  I threw him a finger and cut between the rocks, heading down into a narrow canyon speckled with points of yellow light. According to specifications.

  I drew my cloak away from Star’s head and shook the reins. The canyon cut abruptly to the right. We followed it into a better-lighted avenue which widened and brightened as we went.

  . . . Beneath a jutting overhang, sky of milk shading to pearl on its other side.

  Riding deeper, faster, farther . . . A jagged cliff crowned the upper talus to my left, greening in twisted sign of shrubbery beneath a pink-touched sky.

  I rode until the greenery was bluery beneath a yellow sky, till the canyon rose to meet a lavender plain where orange rocks rolled as the ground was shaken beneath us in time with our hoofbeats. I crossed there under wheeling comets, coming to die shore of a blood-red sea in a place of heavy perfumes. I rode a large green sun and a small bronze one out of the sky as I paced that shore, while skeletal navies clashed and serpents of the deep circled their orange and blue-sailed vessels. The Jewel pulsed upon me and I drew strength from it. A wild wind came up and lofted us through a copper-clouded sky above a wailing chasm which seemed to extend forever, black-bottomed, spark-shot, fuming with heady scents. . . .

  At my back, the sound of thunder, ceaseless . . . Fine lines, like the craquelure of an old painting, abreast of us, advancing, everywhere . . . Cold, a fragrance-killing wind pursues . . .

  Lines . . . The cracks widen, blackness flows to fill . . . Dark streaks race by, up, down, back upon themselves . . . The settling of a net, the labors of a giant, invisible spider, world-trapping. . .

  Down, down and down . . . The ground again, wrinkled and leathery as a mummy’s neck . . . Soundless, our throbbing passage . . . Softer the thunder, falling the wind . . . Dad’s last gasp? Speed now and away . . .

  A narrowing of lines, to the fineness of an etching, fading then in the three suns’ heat . . . And faster yet . . .

  A rider, approaching . . . Hand to hilt in time to my own . . . Me. Myself coming back? Simultaneous, our salutes . . . Through one another, somehow, the air like a sheet of water that one dry instant . . . What Carroll mirror, what Rebma, Tir-na Nog’th effect . . . Yet far, far to my left, a black thing writhing . . . We pace the road . . . It leads me on . . .

  White sky, white ground and no horizon . . . Sunless and cloudless the prospect . . . Only that thread of black, far off, and gleaming pyramids everywhere, massive, disconcerting . . .

  We tire. I do not like this place . . . But we have outrun whatever process pursues. Draw rein.

  I was tired, but I felt a strange vitality within me. It seemed as though it arose from within my breast . . . The Jewel. Of course. I made an effort to draw upon this power again. I felt it flow outward through my limbs, barely halting at my extremities. It was almost as if—Yes. I readied out and lay my will upon my blank and geometrical surroundings. They began to alter.

  It was a movement. The pyramids shuffled by, darkening as they passed. They shrank, they merged, they passed to gravel. The world turned upside down and I stood as on the underside of a cloud, watching landscapes flash by beneath/above.

  Light streamed upward past me, from a golden sun beneath my feet. This, too, passed, and the fleecy ground darkened, firing waters upward to erode the passing land. Lightnings jumped up to strike the world overhead, to break it apart. In places it shattered and its pieces fell about me.

  They began to swirl as a wave of darkness passed.

  When the light came again, bluish this time, it held no point source and described no land.

  . . . Golden bridges cross the void in great streamers, one of them flashing beneath us even now. We wind along its course, standing the while still as a statue . . . For an age, perhaps, this goes on. A phenomenon not unrelated to highway hypnosis enters through my eyes, lulls me dangerously. I can to accelerate our passage. Another age goes by. Finally, far ahead, a dusky, misty blotch, our terminus, growing very slowly despite our velocity.

  By the time we reach it, it is gigantic—an island in the void forested over with golden, metallic trees. . . .

  I stop the motion which has borne us thus far and we move forward under our own power, entering that wood. Grass like aluminum foil crunches beneath us as we pass among those trees. Strange fruit, pale and shiny, hangs about me. There are no animal sounds immediately apparent. Working our way inward, we come to a small clearing through which a quicksilver stream flows. There, I dismount.

  “Brother Corwin,” comes that voice again. “I have been waiting for you.”

  Chapter 4

  I faced the wood, watched him emerge from it. I did not draw my weapon, as he had not drawn his. I reached down into the Jewel with my mind, though. After the exercise I had just completed, I realized that I could do a lot more than control weather with it. Whatever Brand’s power, I felt I’d a weapon now with which to confront it directly. The Jewel pulsed more deeply as I did this.

  “Truce,” Brand said. “Okay? May we talk?”

  “I do not see that we have anything more to say to one another,” I told him.

  “If you do not give me a chance you will never know for certain, will you?”

  He came to a halt about seven meters away, flung his green cloak back over his left shoulder and smiled.

  “All right. Say it, whatever it is,” I said.

  “I tried to stop you,” he said, “back there, for the Jewel. It is obvious that you know what it is now, that you realize how important it is.”

  I said nothing.

  “Dad has already used it,” he continued, “and I am sorry to report that he has failed in what he set out to do with it.”

  “What? How could you know?”

  “I can see through Shadow, Corwin. I would have thought our sister had filled you in more thoroughly on these matters. With a little mental effort, I can perceive whatever I choose now. Naturally, I was concerned with the outcome of this affair. So I watched. He is dead, Corwin. The effort was too much for him. He lost control of the forces he was manipulating and was blasted by them a little over halfway through the Pattern.”

  “You lie!” I said, touching the Jewel.

  He shook his head.

  “I admit that I am not above lying to gain my ends, but this time I am telling the truth. Dad is dead. I saw him fall. The bird brought you the Jewel then, as he had willed it. We are left in a universe without a Pattern.”

  I did not want to believe him. But it was possible that Dad had failed. I had the assurance of the only expert in the business, Dworkin, as to the difficulty of the task.

  “Granting for the moment what you have said, what happens next?” I asked.

  “Things fall apart,” he replied. “Even now. Chaos wells up to fill the vacuum back at Amber. A great vortex has come into being, and it grows. It spreads ever outward, destroying the shadow worlds, and it will not stop until it meets with the Courts of Chaos, bringing all of creation full circle, with Chaos once more to reign over all.”

  I felt dazed. Had I struggled from Greenwood, through everything, to here, to have it end this way? Would I see everything stripped of meaning, form, content, life, when things had been pushed to a kind of completion?

  “No!” I said. “It cannot be so.”

  “Unless . . .” Brand said softly.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless a new Pattern is inscribed, a new order created to preserve form.”

  “You mean ride back into that mess and try to complete the job? You just said that the place no longer exists.”

  “No. Of course not. The location is un
important. Wherever there is a Pattern there is a center, let’s do it right here.”

  “You think that you can succeed where Dad failed?”

  “I have to try. I am the only one who knows enough about it and has sufficient time before the waves of Chaos arrive. Listen, I admit to everything Fiona has doubtless told you about me. I have schemed and I have acted. I have dealt with the enemies of Amber. I have shed our blood. I tried to burn out your memory. But the world as we know it is being destroyed now, and I live here too. All of my plans—everything!—will come to nothing if some measure of order is not preserved. Perhaps I have been duped by the Lords of Chaos. It is difficult for me to admit that, but I see the possibility now. It is not too late to foil them, though. We can build the new bastion of order right here.”

  “How?”

  “I need the Jewel—and your assistance. This will be the site of the new Amber.”

  “Supposing—arguendo—I give it to you. Would the new Pattern be exactly like the old one?”

  He shook his head.

  “It could not be, any more than the one Dad was attempting to create would have been like Dworkin’s. No two authors can render the same story in the same fashion. Individual stylistic differences cannot be avoided. No matter how hard I might try to duplicate it, my version would be slightly different.”

  “How could you do this,” I asked, “when you are not fully attuned to the Jewel? You would need a Pattern to complete the process of attunement—and, as you say, the Pattern has been destroyed. What gives?”

  Then, “I said that I would need your help,” he stated. “There is another way to attune a person to the Jewel. It requires the assistance of someone who is already attuned. You would have to project yourself through the Jewel once more, and take me with you—into and through the primary Pattern that lies beyond.”

  “And then?”

  “Why, when the ordeal is past I will be attuned, you give me the Jewel, I inscribe a new Pattern and we are back in business. Things hold together. Life goes on.”

  “What of Chaos?”

  “The new Pattern will be unmarred. They will no longer have the road giving them access to Amber.”

  “With Dad dead, how would the new Amber be run?”

  He smiled crookedly.

  “I ought to have something for my pains, oughtn’t I? I will be risking my life with this, and the odds are not all that good.”

  I smiled back at him.

  “Considering the payoff, what is to prevent me from taking the gamble myself?” I said.

  “The same thing that prevented Dad from succeeding—all the forces of Chaos. They are summoned by a kind of cosmic reflex when such an act is begun. I have had more experience with them than you. You would not have a chance. I might.”

  “Now let us say that you are lying to me. Brand. Or let us be kind and say that you did not see clearly through all the turmoil. Supposing Dad did succeed? Supposing there is a new Pattern in existence right now? What would happen if you were to do another, here, now?”

  “I . . . It has never been done before. How should I know?”

  “I wonder,” I said. “Might you still get your own version of reality that way? Might it represent the splitting off of a new universe—Amber and Shadow—just for you? Might it negate ours? Or would it simply stand apart? Or would there be some overlapping? What do you think, given that situation?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I have already answered that. It has never been done before. How should I know?”

  “But I think that you do know, or can make a very good guess at it. I think that that is what you are planning, that that is what you want to try—because that is all you have left now. I take this action on your part as an indication that Dad has succeeded and that you are down to your last card. But you need me and you need the Jewel for it. You cannot have either.”

  He sighed.

  “I had expected more of you. But all right. You are wrong, but leave it at that. Listen, though. Rather than see everything lost, I will split the realm with you.”

  “Brand,” I said, “get lost. You cannot have the Jewel, or my help. I have heard you out, and I think that you are lying.”

  “You are afraid,” he said, “afraid of me. I do not blame you for not wanting to trust me. But you are making a mistake. You need me now.”

  “Nevertheless, I have made my choice.”

  He took a step toward me. Another. . .

  “Anything you want, Corwin. I can give you anything you care to name.”

  “I was with Benedict in Tir-na Nog’th,” I said, “looking through his eyes, listening with his ears, when you made him the same offer. Shove it. Brand. I am going on with my mission. If you think that you can stop me, now is as good a time as any.”

  I began walking toward him. I knew that I would kill him if I reached him. I also felt that I would not reach him.

  He halted. He took a step backward.

  “You are making a big mistake,” he said.

  “I do not think so. I think that I am doing exactly the right thing.”

  “I will not fight with you,” he said hastily. “Not here, not above the abyss. You have had your chance, though. The next time that we meet, I will have to take the Jewel from you.”

  “What good will it be to you, unattuned?”

  “There might still be a way for me to manage it—more difficult, but possible. You have had your chance. Goodbye.”

  He retreated into the wood. I followed after, but he had vanished.

  I left that place and rode on, along a road over nothing. I did not like to consider the possibility that Brand might have been telling the truth, or at least a part of it. But the things he had said kept returning to plague me. Supposing Dad had failed? Then I was on a fool’s errand. Everything was already over, and it was just a matter of time. I did not like looking back, just in case something was gaining on me. I passed into a moderately paced hellride. I wanted to get to the others before the waves of Chaos reached that far, just to let them know that I had kept faith, to let them see that in the end I had tried my best. I wondered then how the actual battle was going. Or had it even begun yet, within that time frame?

  I swept along the bridge, which widened now beneath a brightening sky. As it assumed the aspect of a golden plain, I considered Brand’s threat. Had he said what he had said simply to raise doubts, increase my discomfort and impair my efficiency? Possibly. Yet, If he required the Jewel he would have to ambush me. And I had a respect for that strange power he had acquired over Shadow. It seemed almost impossible to prepare for an attack by someone who could watch my every move and transport himself instantaneously to the most advantageous spot. How soon might it come? Not too soon, I guessed. First, he would want to frazzle my nerves—and I was already tired and more than a little punchy. I would have to rest, to sleep, sooner or later. It was impossible for me to go that great distance in a single stretch, no matter how accelerated the hellride.

  Fogs of pink and orange and green fled past, swirled about me, filling up the world. The ground rang beneath us like metal. Occasional musical tones, as of rung crystal, occurred overhead. My thoughts danced. Memories of many worlds came and went in random fashion. Ganelon, my friend—enemy, and my father, enemy-friend, merged and parted, parted and merged. Somewhere one of them asked me who had a right to the throne. I had thought it was Ganelon, wanting to know our several justifications. Now I knew that it had been Dad, wanting to know my feelings. He had judged. He had made his decision. And I was backing out. Whether it was arrested development, the desire to be free of such an encumbrance, or a matter of sudden enlightenment based on all that I had experienced in recent years, growing slowly within me, granting me a more mature view of the onerous role of monarch apart from its moments of glory, I do not know.

  I remembered my life on the shadow Earth, following orders, giving them. Faces swam before me—people I had known over the centuries—friends, enemi
es, wives, lovers, relatives. Lorraine seemed to be beckoning me on. Moire laughing, Deirdre weeping. I fought again with Eric. I recalled my first passage through the Pattern, as a boy, and the later one when, step by step, my memory was given back to me. Murders, thieveries, knaveries, seductions returned because, as Mallory said, they were there. I was unable, even, to place them all correctly in terms of time. There was no great anxiety because there was no great guilt. Time, time, and more time had softened the edges of harsher things, had worked its changes on me. I saw my earlier selves as different people, acquaintances I had outgrown. I wondered how I could ever have been some of them.

  As I rushed onward, scenes from my past seemed to solidify in tile mists about me. No poetic license here. Battles in which I had taken part assumed tangible form, save for a total absence of sound—the flare of weapons, the colors of uniforms, banners and blood. And people—most of them now long dead—moved from my memory into silent animation about me. None of these were members of my family, but all of them were people who had once meant something to me. Yet there was no special pattern to it. There were noble deeds as well as shameful; enemies as well as friends—and none of the persons involved took note of my passage; all were caught up in some long-past sequence of actions. I wondered then at the nature of the place through which I rode. Was it some watered-down version of Tirana Nog’th, with some mind-sensitive substance in the vicinity that drew from me and projected about me this “This Is Your Life” panorama? Or was I simply beginning to hallucinate? I was tired, anxious, troubled, distressed, and I passed along a way which provided a monotonous, gentle stimulation of the senses of the sort leading to reverie. . . . In fact, I realized that I had lost control over Shadow sometime back and was now simply proceeding in a linear fashion across this landscape, trapped m a kind of externalized narcissism by the spectacle. . . . I realized then that I had to stop and rest—probably even sleep a little—though I feared doing so in this place. I would have to break free and make my way to a more sedate, deserted spot. . . .