The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  I gestured toward the aurora.

  He stared off in that direction, then nodded.

  “Let’s get going,” he said.

  “There is an earthquake in progress,” I observed . . .

  “It seems pretty much confined to this valley,” he stated. “We can cut around it and proceed.”

  “And quite possibly encounter its continuance.”

  He shook his head.

  “It seems to me,” he said, “that whatever it is that’s trying to bar your way exhausts itself after each effort and takes quite a while to recover sufficiently to make another attempt.”

  “But the attempts are getting closer together,” I noted, “and more spectacular each time.”

  “Is it because we’re getting closer to their source?” he asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Then let’s hurry.”

  We descended the far side of the hill, then went up and down another. The tremors, by that time, had already subsided to an occasional shuddering of the ground and shortly these, too, ceased.

  We made our way into and along another valley, which for a while headed us far to the right of our goal, then curved gently back in the proper direction, toward the final range of barren hills, lights flickering beyond them against the low, unmoving base of a cloudlike line of white under a mauve to violet sky. No fresh perils were presented.

  “Luke,” I asked after a time, “what happened on the mountain, that night in New Mexico?”

  “I had to go away—fast,” he answered.

  “What about Dan Martinez’s body?”

  “Took it with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like leaving evidence lying about.”

  “That doesn’t really explain much.”

  “I know,” he said, and he broke into a jog. I paced him.

  “And you know who I am,” I continued.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Not now,” he said. “Not now.”

  He increased his pace. I matched it. “And why were you following me?”

  “I saved your ass, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, and I’m grateful. But it still doesn’t answer the question.”

  “Race you to that leaning stone,” he said, and he put on a burst of speed.

  I did, too, and I caught him. Try as I could I couldn’t pass him, though. And we were breathing too hard by then to ask or answer questions.

  I pushed myself, ran faster. He did, too, keeping up. The leaning stone was still a good distance off. We stayed side by side and I saved my reserve for the final sprint. It was crazy, but I’d run against him too many times. It was almost a matter of habit by now. That, and the old curiosity. Had he gotten a little faster? Had I? Or a little slower?

  My arms pumped, my feet thudded. I got control of my breathing, maintained it in an appropriate rhythm. I edged a little ahead of him and he did nothing about it. The stone was suddenly a lot nearer.

  We held our distance for perhaps half a minute, and then he cut loose. He was abreast of me, he was past me. Time to dig in.

  I drove my legs faster. The blood thudded in my ears. I sucked air and pushed with everything I had. The distance between us began to narrow again. The leaning rock was looking bigger and bigger . . .

  I caught him before we reached it, but try as I might I could not pull ahead. We raced past it side by side and collapsed together.

  “Photo finish,” I gasped.

  “Got to call it a tie,” he paused. “You always surprise me—right at the end.”

  I groped out my water bottle and passed it to him. He took a swig and handed it back. We emptied it that way, a little at a time.

  “Damn,” he said then, getting slowly to his feet. “Let’s see what’s over those hills.”

  I got up and went along.

  When I finally recovered my breath the first thing I said was, “You seem to know a hell of a lot more about me than I do about you.”

  “I think so,” he said after a long pause, “and I wish I didn’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not now,” he replied. “Later. You don’t read War and Peace on your coffee break.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Time,” he said. “There’s always either too much time or not enough. Right now there’s not enough.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Wish I could.”

  The hills were nearer and the ground remained firm beneath our feet. We trudged steadily onward.

  I thought of Bill’s guesswork, Random’s suspicions, and Meg Devlin’s warning. I also thought of that round of strange ammunition I’d found in Luke’s jacket.

  “That thing we’re heading toward,” he said, before I could frame a fresh question of my own. “That’s your Ghostwheel, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed. Then: “So you were telling the truth back in Santa Fe when you told me it required a peculiar environment. What you didn’t say was that you’d found that environment and built the thing there.”

  I nodded. “What about your plans for a company?” I asked him.

  “That was just to get you to talk about it.”

  “And what about Dan Martinez—the things he said?”

  “I don’t know. I really didn’t know him. I still don’t know what he wanted, or why he came at us shooting.”

  “Luke, what is it that you want, anyhow?”

  “Right now I just want to see that damned thing,” he said. “Did building it out here in the boonies endow it with some sort of special properties?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a few I didn’t even think of—unfortunately,” I answered.

  “Name one.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Question and answer is a two-way game.”

  “Hey, I’m the guy who just pulled you out of a hole in the ground.”

  “I gather you’re also the guy who tried to kill me on a bunch of April thirtieths.”

  “Not recently,” he said. “Honest.”

  “You mean you really did?”

  “Well . . . yeah. But I had reasons. It’s a long story and—”

  “Jesus, Luke! Why? What did I ever do to you?”

  “It’s not that simple,” he answered.

  We reached the base of the nearest hill and he started climbing it.

  “Don’t,” I called to him. “You can’t go over.”

  He halted.

  “Why not?”

  “The atmosphere ends thirty or forty feet up.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  I shook my head.

  “And it’s worse on the other side,” I added. “We have to find a passage through. There’s one farther to the left.”

  I turned and headed in that direction. Shortly, I heard his footfalls.

  “So you gave it your voice,” he said.

  “So?”

  “So I see what you’re up to and what’s been going on. It’s become sentient in that crazy place you built it. It went wild, and you’re heading to shut it down. It knows it and it’s got the power to do something about it—It’s your Ghostwheel that’s been trying to get you to turn back, isn’t it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why didn’t you just trump in?”

  “You can’t construct a Trump for a place that keeps changing. What do you know about Trumps, anyway?”

  “Enough,” he said.

  I saw the passage I was seeking up ahead.

  I approached the place and I halted before I entered it.

  “Luke,” I said, “I don’t know what you want or why or how you got here, and you don’t seem to care to tell me. I will tell you something for free, though. This could be very dangerous. Maybe you ought to go back to wherever you came from and let me handle it. There’s no reason to place you in jeopardy.”

  “I think there is,” he said. “Besides, I might be useful.�
�

  “How?”

  He shrugged.

  “Let’s get on with it, Merlin. I want to see that thing.”

  “Okay. Come on.”

  I led the way into the narrow place where the stone had been riven.

  Chapter 10

  The passage was long and dark and occasionally tight, growing progressively colder as we advanced, but at length we emerged onto the wide, rocky shelf that faced the steaming pit. There was an ammonia-like odor in the air, and my feet were cold and my face flushed, as usual. I blinked hard several times, studying the latest outlines of the maze through the shifting mist. A pearl-gray pall hung over the entire area. Intermittent orange flashes penetrated the gloom.

  “Uh—where is it?” Luke inquired.

  I gestured straight ahead, toward the site of the latest flicker.

  “Out there,” I told him.

  Just then, the mists were swept away, revealing isle upon isle of dark, smooth ridges separated by black declivities. The ridges zigged and zagged their way out toward a fortresslike island, a low wall running about it, several metallic structures visible beyond.

  “It’s a maze,” he remarked. “Do we travel it down in the passages or up on top of the walls?”

  I smiled as he studied it.

  “It varies,” I said. “Sometimes up and sometimes down.”

  “Well, which way do we go?”

  “I don’t know yet. I have to study it each time. You see, it keeps changing, and there’s a trick to it.”

  “A trick?”

  “More than one, actually. The whole damn thing is floating on a lake of liquid hydrogen and helium. The maze moves around. It’s different each time. And then there’s a matter of the atmosphere. If you were to walk upright along the ridges you would be above it in most places. You wouldn’t last long. And the temperature ranges from horribly cold to roasting hot over a range of a few feet in elevation. You have to know when to crawl and when to climb and when to do other things—as well as which way to go.”

  “How do you tell?”

  “Un-uh,” I said. “I’ll take you in, but I’m not giving you the secret.”

  The mists began to rise again from the depths and to collect into small clouds.

  “I see now why you can’t make a Trump for it,” he began.

  I continued to study the layout.

  “All right,” I said then. “This way.”

  “What if it attacks us while we’re in the maze?” he asked.

  “You can stay behind if you want.”

  “No. Are you really going to shut it down?”

  “I’m not sure. Come on.”

  I took several steps ahead and to the right. A faint circle of light appeared in the air before me; grew brighter. I felt Luke’s hand upon my shoulder.

  “What—?” he began.

  “No farther!” the voice I now recognized as my own said to me.

  “I think we can work something out,” I responded. “I have several ideas and—”

  “No!” it answered. “I heard what Random said.”

  “I am prepared to disregard his order,” I said, “if there is a better alternative.”

  “You’re trying to trick me. You want to shut me down.”

  “You’re making things worse with all these power displays,” I said. “I’m coming in now and—”

  “No!”

  A heavy gust of wind blew out of the circle and struck against me. I was staggered by it. I saw my sleeve turn brown, then orange. It began to fray even as I watched.

  “What are you doing? I have to talk to you, explain—”

  “Not here! Not now! Never!”

  I was hurled back against Luke, who caught me, dropping to one knee as he did so. An arctic blast assailed us and icy crystals danced before my eyes. Bright colors began to flash then, half blinding me.

  “Stop!” I cried, but nothing did.

  The ground seemed to tilt beneath us and suddenly there was no ground. It did not feel as if we were falling, however. It seemed rather as if we hung suspended in the midst of a blizzard of light.

  “Stop!” I called out once again, but the words were swept away.

  The circle of light vanished, as if retreating down a long tunnel. I realized, however, through the sensory overload, that it was Luke and I who were receding from the light, that we had already been blasted a great enough distance to drive us halfway through the hill. But there was nothing solid in any direction about us.

  A faint buzzing sound began. It grew into a humming, then a dull roar. In the distance, I seemed to see a tiny steam locomotive negotiating a mountainside at an impossible angle, then an upside-down waterfall, a skyline beneath green waters. A park bench passed us quickly, a blue-skinned woman seated upon it, clutching at it, a horrified expression on her face.

  I dug frantically within my pocket, knowing we might be destroyed at any moment.

  “What,” Luke screamed into my ear, his grip now almost dislocating my arm, “is it?”

  “Shadow-storm!” I cried back. “Hang on!” I added unnecessarily.

  A batlike creature was blown into my face, was gone an instant later, leaving a wet slash upon my right cheek. Something struck against my left foot.

  An inverted mountain range flowed past us, buckling and rippling. The roaring increased in volume. The light seemed to pulse by us now, in wide bands of color, touching us with a near-physical force. Heat lamps and wind chimes . . .

  I heard Luke cry out as if he had been struck, but I was unable to turn to his aid. We traversed a region of lightning-like flashes where my hair stood on end and my skin tingled.

  I gripped the packet of cards within my pocket and withdrew it. At this point we were beginning to spin and I was afraid they would be torn from my hand. I held them tightly, fearing to sort through them, keeping them close to my body. I drew them upward slowly, carefully. Whichever one lay on top would have to be our exit.

  Dark bubbles formed and broke about us, discharging noxious fumes.

  I saw, as I raised my hand, that my skin was gray in appearance, sparkling with fluorescent swirls. Luke’s hand upon my arm looked cadaverous, and when I glanced back at him a grinning death’s head met my gaze.

  I looked away, turned my attention back to the cards. It was hard to focus my vision, through the grayness, through a peculiar distancing effect. But it finally came clear. It was the grassy spit of land I had regarded—how long ago?—quiet waters about it, the edge of something crystalline and bright jutting into view off toward the right.

  I held it within my attention. Sounds from beyond my shoulder indicated that Luke was trying to address me, but I could not distinguish his words. I continued to regard the Trump and it grew clearer. But slowly, slowly. Something struck me hard, below the right side of my rib cage. I forced myself to ignore it and continued to concentrate.

  At last the scene on the card seemed to move toward me, to grow larger. There was a familiar sense of coldness to it now as the scene engulfed me and I it. An almost elegiac feeling of stillness hung over that little lake.

  I fell forward into the grass, my heart pounding, my side throbbing. I was gasping, and the subjective sense of worlds rushing by me was still present, like the afterimages of highways upon closing one’s eyes at the end of a long day’s drive.

  Smelling sweet water, I passed out.

  I was vaguely aware of being dragged, carried, then helped, stumbling along. There followed a spell of full unconsciousness, shading over into sleep and dreaming.

  . . . I walked the streets of a ruined Amber beneath a lowering sky. A crippled angel with a fiery sword stalked the heights above me, slashing. Wherever its blade fell, smoke, dust, and flame rose up. Its halo was my Ghostwheel, pouring forth mighty winds ridden by abominations that streamed past the angel’s face like a dark, living veil, working disorder and ruin wherever they fell. The palace was half collapsed, and there were gibbets nearby where my relatives hung, twisting in the
gusts. I’d a blade in one hand and Frakir dangled from the other. I was climbing now, going up to meet and do battle with the bright-dark nemesis. An awful feeling lay upon me as I mounted my rocky way, as if my imminent failure was a thing foregone. Even so, I decided, the creature was going to leave here with wounds to lick.

  It took note of me as I drew near, turning in my direction. Its face was still hidden as it raised its weapon. I rushed forward, regretting only that I had not had time to envenom my blade. I spun twice as I went in, feinting, to strike somewhere in the vicinity of its left knee.

  There followed a flash of light and I was falling, falling, bits of flame descending about me, like a burning blizzard. I fell so for what seemed an age and a half, coming to rest at last upon my back atop a large stone table marked out like a sundial, its stylus barely missing impaling me—which seemed crazy even in a dream. There were no sundials in the Courts of Chaos, for there is no sun there. I was located at the edge of a courtyard beside a high, dark tower, and I found myself unable to move, let alone rise. Above me, my mother, Dara, stood upon a low balcony in her natural form, looking down at me in her awful power and beauty.

  “Mother!” I cried. “Free me!”

  “I have sent one to help you,” she answered.

  “And what of Amber?”

  “I do not know.”

  “And my father?”

  “Speak not to me of the dead.”

  The stylus turned slowly; positioned itself above my throat; began a gradual but steady descent.

  “Help me!” I cried. “Hurry!”

  “Where are you?” she called out, head turning, eyes darting. “Where have you gone?”

  “I’m still here!” I yelled.

  “Where are you?”

  I felt the stylus touch the side of my neck—

  The vision broke and fell apart.

  My shoulders were propped against something unyielding, my legs were stretched out before me. Someone had just squeezed my shoulder, the hand brushing against my neck.

  “Merle, you okay? Want a drink?” a familiar voice was, asking.

  I took a deep breath and sighed it out. I blinked several times. The light was blue, the world a field of lines and angles. A dipper of water appeared before my mouth.

  “Here.” It was Luke’s voice.