Three paces more, and then it cleared, and she was standing before me, back against the lamppost. A head shorter than I was, she had on a trench coat and a black beret, her hair glossy, inky. She dropped her cigarette and slowly ground it out beneath the toe of a high-heeled black patent-leather shoe. I glimpsed something of her leg as she did so, and it was perfectly formed. She removed from within her coat then a flat silver case, the raised outline of a rose upon it, opened it, took out a cigarette, placed it between her lips, closed the case, and put it away. Then, without looking at me, she asked, “Have you a light?”
I hadn’t any matches, but I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that deter me.
“Of course,” I said, extending my hand slowly toward those delicate features. I kept it turned slightly away from her so that she could not see that it was empty. As I whispered the guide word which caused the spark to leap from my fingertip to the tip of the cigarette, she raised her hand and touched my own, as if to steady it. And she raised her eyes—large, deep blue, long-lashed—and met mine as she drew upon it. Then she gasped, and the cigarette fell away.
“Mon Dieu!” she said, and she threw her arms about me, pressed herself against me, and began to sob. “Corwin!” she said. “You’ve found me! It has been forever.”
I held her tightly, not wanting to speak, not wanting to break her happiness with something as cloddish as truth. The hell with truth. I stroked her hair.
After a long while she pulled away, looked up at me. A moment or so more, and she would realize that it was only a resemblance and that she was seeing but what she wanted to see. So, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” I asked.
She laughed softly.
“Have you found a way?” she said, and then her eyes narrowed. “You’re not—”
I shook my head.
“I hadn’t the heart,” I told her.
“Who are you?” she asked, taking a half step backward.
“My name is Merlin, and I’m on a crazy quest I don’t understand.”
“Amber,” she said softly, her hands still on my shoulders, and I nodded.
“I don’t know you,” she said then. “I feel that I should, but . . . I . . . don’t. . . . ”
Then she came to me again and rested her head on my chest. I started to say something, to try to explain, but she placed a finger across my lips.
“Not yet, not now, maybe never,” she said. “Don’t tell me. Please don’t tell me more. But you ought to know whether you’re a Pattern-ghost.”
“Just what is a Pattern-ghost?” I said.
“An artifact created by the Pattern. It records everyone who walks it. It can call us back whenever it wants, as we were at one of the times we walked it. It can use us as it would, send us where it will with a task laid upon us—a geas, if you like. Destroy us, and it can create us over again.”
“Does it do this sort of thing often?”
“I don’t know. I’m not familiar with its will, let alone its operations with any other than myself.” Then, “You’re not a ghost! I can tell!” she announced suddenly, taking hold of my hand. “But there is something different about you—different from others of the blood of Amber . . . ,”
“I suppose,” I answered. “I trace my lineage to the Courts of Chaos as well as to Amber.”
She raised my hand to her mouth as if she were about to kiss it. But her lips moved by, to the place on my wrist where I had cut myself at Brand’s request. Then it hit me: Something about the blood of Amber must hold a special attraction for Pattern-ghosts.
I tried to draw my hand away, but the strength of Amber was hers also.
“The fires of Chaos sometimes flow within me,” I said. “They may do you harm.”
She raised her head slowly and smiled. There was blood on her mouth. I glanced down and saw that my wrist was wet with it, too.
“The blood of Amber has power over the Pattern,” she began, and the fog rolled, churned about her ankles. “No!” she cried then, and she bent forward once more.
The vortex rose to her knees, her calves. I felt her teeth upon my wrist, tearing. I knew of no spell to fight this thing, so I laid my arm across her shoulder and stroked her hair. Moments later she dissolved within my embrace, becoming a bloody whirlwind.
“Go right,” I heard her wail as she spun away from me, her cigarette still smoldering upon the pavement, my blood dripping beside it.
I turned away. I walked away. Faintly, faintly, through the night and the fog I could still hear the piano playing some tune from before my time.
Chapter 6
I took the road to the right, and everywhere my blood fell reality melted a little. I heal fast, though, and I stopped bleeding soon. Even stopped throbbing before too long.
You got blood all over me, boss.
“Could have been fire,” I observed.
I got singed a little, too, back at the stones.
“Sorry about that. Figure out what’s going on yet?”
No new instructions, if that’s what you mean. But I’ve been thinking, now I know how to do it, and this place gets more and more fascinating. This whole business of Pattern ghosts, for instance. If the Pattern can’t penetrate here directly, it can at least employ agents. Wouldn’t you think the Logrus might have some way of doing the same?
“I suppose it’s possible.”
I get the impression there’s some sort of duel going on between them here, on the underside of reality, between shadows. What if this place came first? Before Shadow, even? What if they’ve been fighting here since the very beginning, in some strange metaphysical way?
“What if they have?”
That could almost make Shadow an afterthought, a by-product of the tension between the poles.
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Frakir.”
What if Amber and the Courts of Chaos were created only to provide agents for this conflict?
“And what if this idea were placed within you by the Logrus during your recent enhancement?”
Why?
“Another way to make me think that the conflict is more important than the people. Another pressure to make me choose a side.”
I don’t feel manipulated.
“As you pointed out, you’re to new to this thinking business. And that’s a pretty damned abstract line of thought for you to be following this early in the game.”
Is it?
“Take my word for it.”
What does that leave us with?
“Unwelcome attention from On High.”
Better watch your language if this is their war zone.
“A pox on both their houses. For some reason I don’t understand, they need me for this game. They’ll put up with it.”
From somewhere up ahead I heard a roll of thunder.
See what I mean?
“It’s a bluff,” I replied.
Whose?
“The Pattern’s, I believe. Its ghosts seem in charge of reality in this sector.”
You know, we could be wrong on all of this. Just shooting in the dark.
“I also feel shot at out of the dark. That’s why I refuse to play by anybody else’s rules.”
Have you got a plan?
“Hang loose. And if I say ‘kill,’ do it. Let’s get to where we’re going.”
I began to run again, leaving the fog, leaving the ghosts to play at being ghosts in their ghost city. Bright road through dark country, me running, reverse shadow-shifting, as the land tried to change me. And there ahead a flare and more thunder, virtual street scene flashing into and out of existence beside me.
And then it was as if I raced myself, dark figure darting along a bright way—till I realized it was indeed, somehow, a mirror effect. The movements of the figure to my right which paralleled my own mimicked mine; fleeting scenes to my left were imaged to the other’s right.
What’s going on, Merle?
“Don’t know,” I said. “But I’m not in the mood for
symbolism, allegory, and assorted metaphorical crap. If it’s supposed to mean that life is a race with yourself, then it sucks—unless they’re real platitudinizing Powers that are running this show. Then I guess it would be in character. What do you think?”
I think you might still be in danger of being struck by lightning,
The lightning did not follow, but my reflection did. The imaging effect continued for much longer than any of the previous beside-the-road sequences I’d witnessed. I was about to dismiss it, to ignore it completely, when my reflection put on a burst of speed and shot ahead of me,
Uh-oh,
“Yeah,” I agreed, stepping up my own pace to close the gap with and match the stride of that dark other.
We were parallel for no more than a few meters after I caught up. Then it began to pull ahead again. I stepped up my pace and caught up once more. Then, on an impulse I sucked air, bore down, and moved ahead.
My double noted it after a time, moved faster, began to gain. I pushed harder, held my lead. What the hell were we racing for anyway?
I looked ahead. In the distance I could see an area where the trail widened. There appeared to be a tape stretched across it at that point. Okay. Whatever the significance, I decided to go for it.
I held my lead for perhaps a hundred meters before my shadow began to gain on me again. I leaned into it and was able to hold that shortened distance for a time. Then it moved again, coming up on me at a pace I suspected might be hard to hold the rest of the way to the tape. Still, it was not the sort of thing one waited around to find out. I poured it on. I ran all out.
The son of a bitch gained on me, kept gaining, caught me, drew ahead, faltered for an instant. I was back beside it in that instant. But the thing did not flag again. It held the terrible pace at which we were now moving, and I had no intention of stopping unless my heart exploded.
We ran on, damn near side by side. I didn’t know whether I had a finishing spurt in me or not. I couldn’t tell whether I was slightly ahead, just abreast, or slightly to the rear of the other. We pounded our parallel gleaming trails toward the line of brightness when abruptly the sensation of a glass interface vanished. The two narrow-seeming trails became one wide one. The other’s arms and legs were moving differently from my own.
We drew closer and closer together as we entered the final stretch—close enough, finally, for recognition. It was not an image of myself that I was running against, for its hair streamed back and I saw that its left ear was missing.
I found a final burst of speed. So did the other. We were awfully close together when we came to the tape. I think that I hit it first, but I could not be certain.
We went on through and collapsed, gasping. I rolled quickly, to keep him under surveillance, but he just lay there, panting. I rested my right hand on the hilt of my weapon and listened to the sound of my blood in my ears.
When I’d caught my breath somewhat, I remarked, “Didn’t know you could run a race like that, Jurt.”
He gave a brief laugh.
“There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me, brother.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
Then he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and I noted that the finger he’d lost in the caves of Kolvir was back in place. Either this was the Jurt of a different time line or—
“So how’s Julia?” I asked him. “Is she going to be all right?”
“Julia?” he said. “Who’s that?”
“Sorry,” I said. “You’re the wrong Jurt.”
“Now what else does that mean?” he asked, propping himself on an elbow and glaring at me with his good eye.
“The real Jurt was never anywhere near the Pattern of Amber—”
“I am the real Jurt!”
“You’ve got all your fingers. He lost one very recently. I was there.”
He looked away suddenly.
“You must be a Logrus-ghost,” I continued. “It must pull the same stunt the Pattern does—recording those who make it through it.”
“Is that . . . what happened?” he asked. “I couldn’t quite recall . . . why I was here—except to race with you.”
“I’ll bet your most recent memories before this place involve negotiating the Logrus.”
He looked back. He nodded.
“You’re right. What does it all mean?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’ve got some ideas about it. This place is a kind of eternal underside to Shadow. It’s damn near off limits for both the Pattern and the Logrus. But both can apparently penetrate here by means of their ghosts—artificial constructs from the recordings they made of us back when we passed through them—”
“You mean that all I am is some sort of recording?” He looked as if he were about to cry. “Everything seemed so glorious just a little while ago. I’d made it through the Logrus. All of Shadow lay at my feet.” He massaged his temples. Then, “You!” he spat. “I was somehow brought here because of you—to compete with you, to show you up in this race.”
“You did a pretty good job, too. I didn’t know you could run like that.”
“I started practicing when I learned you were doing it in college. Wanted to get good enough to take you on.”
“You got good,” I acknowledged.
“But I wouldn’t be in this damned place if it weren’t for you. Or—” He gnawed his lip. “That’s not exactly right, is it?” he asked. “I wouldn’t be anywhere. I’m just a recording. . . . ” Then he stared directly at me. “How long do we last?” he said. “How long is a Logrus-ghost good for?”
“I’ve no idea,” I said, “what goes into creating one or how it’s maintained. But I’ve met a number of Pattern-ghosts, and they gave me the impression that my blood would somehow sustain them, give them some sort of autonomy, some independence of the Pattern. Only one of them—Brand—got the fire instead of the blood, and it dissolved. Deirdre got the blood but was taken away then. I don’t know whether she got enough.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve a feeling—I don’t know where it comes from—that something like that would work for me, too, and that it’s blood for the Pattern, fire for the Logrus.”
“I don’t know how to tell in what regions my blood is volatile,” I said.
“It’d flame here,” he answered. “Depends on who’s is control. I just seem to know it. I don’t know how.”
“Then why did Brand show up in Logrus territory?” He grinned.
“Maybe the Pattern sought to use a traitor for some sort of subversion. Or maybe Brand was trying to pull something on his own—like double-crossing the Pattern.”
“That would be in character,” I agreed, my breath finally slowing.
I whipped the Chaos blade out of my boot, slashed my left forearm, saw that it spouted fire, and held it toward him.
“Quick! Take it if you can!” I cried. “Before the Logrus calls you back!”
He seized my arm and seemed almost to inhale the fire that fountained from me. Looking down, I saw his feet become transparent, then his legs. The Logrus seemed anxious to reclaim him, just as the Pattern had Deirdre. I saw the fiery swirls begin within the haze that had been his legs. Then, suddenly, they flickered out, and the outline of those limbs became visible once again. He continued to draw my volatile blood from me, though I could no longer see flames as he was drinking now as Deirdre had, directly from the wound. His legs began to solidify.
“You seem to be stabilizing,” I said. “Take more.”
Something struck me in the right kidney, and I jerked away, turning as I fell. A tall dark man stood beside me, withdrawing his boot from having kicked me. He had on green trousers and a black shirt, a green bandanna tied about his head.
“Now what perverse carrying-on is this?” he asked. “And in a sacred spot?”
I rolled to my knees and continued on up to my feet, my right arm bending, its wrist turning over, coming in to hold the dagger beside my hip. I raised
my left arm, extended it before me. Blood rather than fire now fell from my latest wound.
“None of your damn business,” I said, then added his name, having grown certain on the way up, “Caine.”
He smiled and bowed, and his hands crossed and came apart. They’d been empty going in, but the right one held a dagger coming out. It must have come from a sheath strapped to his left forearm, inside the billowy sleeve. He had to have practiced the move a lot, too, to be that fast at it. I tried to remember things I’d heard about Caine and knives, and then I did and wished I hadn’t. He was supposed to have been a master knife fighter. Shit.
“You have the advantage of me,” he stated. “You took very familiar, but I do not believe I know you.”
“Merlin,” I said. “Corwin’s son.”
He had begun circling me slowly, but he halted. “Excuse me if I find that difficult to believe.”
“Believe as you wish. It is true.”
“And this other one—his name is Jurt, isn’t it?”
He gestured toward my brother, who had just gotten to his feet.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
He halted, furrowing his brow, narrowing his eyes. “I—I’m not certain,” he said then.
“I am,” I told him. “Try to remember where you are and how you got here.”
He backed away, two paces. Then he cried, “He’s the one!” just as I saw it coming and shouted, “Jurt! Watch out!”
Jurt turned and bolted. I threw the dagger—always a bad thing to do, save that I was wearing a sword with which I could reach Caine before Caine could reach me now.
Jurt’s speed was still with him, and he was out of range in an instant. The dagger, surprisingly, struck at the side of Caine’s right shoulder point first, penetrating perhaps an inch or so into muscle. Then, even before he could turn back toward me, his body erupted in a dozen directions, emitting a series of vortices which sucked away all semblance of humanity in an instant, producing high-pitched whistling sounds as they orbited one another, two of them merging into a larger entity, which quickly absorbed the others then, its sound falling lower with each such acquisition. Finally there was but the one. For a moment it swayed toward me, then shot skyward and blew apart. The dagger was blown back in my direction, landing a pace to my right. When I recovered it, I found it to be warm, and it hummed faintly for several seconds before I sheathed it in my boot.
The Chronicles of Amber Page 156
