“What happened?” Jurt asked, turning back, approaching.
“Apparently Pattern-ghosts react violently to weapons from the Courts,” I said.
“Good thing you had it handy. But why did he turn on me like that?”
“I believe that the Pattern sent him to stop you from gaining autonomy—or to destroy you if you already had. I’ve a feeling it doesn’t want agents of the other side gaining strength and stability in this place.”
“But I’m no threat. I’m not on anybody’s side but my own. I just want to get the hell out of here and be about my own business.”
“Perhaps that of itself constitutes a threat.”
“How so?” he asked.
“Who knows what your unusual background may fit you for as an independent agent—in light of what’s going on? You may disturb the balance of the Powers. You may possess or have access to information which the principals do not wish to see bruited about the streets. You may be like the gipsy moth. Nobody could see what its effect on the environment would be when it escaped from the lab. You may—”
“Enough!” He raised a hand to silence me. “I don’t care about any of those things. If they let me go and leave me alone, I’ll stay out of their way.”
“I’m not the one you have to convince,” I told him.
He stared at me for a moment, then turned, describing a full circle. Darkness was all that I could see beyond the light of the roadway, but he called out in a large voice to anything, I suppose, “Do you hear me? I don’t want to be involved in all this. I just want to go away. Live and let live, you know? Is that okay with you?”
I reached forward, caught hold of his wrist, and jerked him toward me. I did this because I had seen a small, ghostly replica of the Sign of the Logrus begin to take form in the air above his head. An instant later it fell, flashing like a lightning stroke, to the accompaniment of a sound like the cracking of a whip, passing through the space he had been occupying, opening a gap in the trail as it vanished.
“I guess it’s not that easy to resign,” he said. He glanced overhead. “It could be readying another of those right now. It could strike again anytime, when I least expect it.”
“Just like real life,” I agreed. “But I think you may take it as a warning shot and let it go at that. They have a hard time reaching here. More important, since I was led to believe that this is my quest, do you know offhand whether you’re supposed to be helping me or hindering me?”
“Now that you mention it,” he said, “I remember suddenly being where I was with a chance to race you and feeling that we’d fight or something afterward.”
“What’re your feelings on that now?”
“We’ve never gotten along all that well. But I don’t like the idea of being used like this either.”
“You willing to call a truce till I can see my way through this game and out of here?”
“What’s in it for me?” he asked.
“I will find a way out of this damned place, Jurt. Come along and give me a hand—or at least don’t get in the way—and I’ll take you with me when I go.”
He laughed.
“I’m not sure there is a way out of here,” he said, “unless the Powers release us.”
“Then you’ve nothing to lose,” I told him, “and you’ll probably even get to see me die trying.”
“Do you really know both kinds of magic—Pattern and Logrus?” he asked.
“Yeah. But I’m a lot better at Logrus.”
“Can you use either against its source?”
“That’s a very intriguing metaphysical point, and I don’t know the answer,” I said, “and I’m not sure I’ll find out. It’s dangerous to invoke the Powers here. So all I’m left with is a few hung spells. I don’t think it’s magic that’ll get us out of here.”
“What, then?”
“I’m not certain. I am sure that I won’t see the full picture till I get to the end of this trail, though.”
“Well, hell—I don’t know. This doesn’t seem the healthiest place for me to spend my time. On the other hand, what if it’s the only place something like me can have an existence? What if you find me a door and I step through it and melt?”
“If the Pattern-ghosts can manifest in Shadow, I’d guess you can, too. Those of Dworkin and Oberon came to me on the outside before I came to this place.”
“That’s encouraging. Would you try it if it were you?”
“You bet your life,” I said.
He snorted.
“I get the point. I’ll go a ways with you and see what happens. I’m not promising to help, but I won’t sabotage you.”
I held out my hand, and he shook his head.
“Let’s not get carried away,” he told me. “If my word’s no good without a handshake, it’s no good with one, is it?”
“I guess not.”
“And I’ve never had a great desire to shake hands with you.”
“Sorry I asked,” I said. “Would you mind telling me why, though? I’ve always wondered.”
He shrugged.
“Why does there always have to be a reason?” he said.
“The alternative is irrationality,” I replied.
“Or privacy,” he responded, turning away.
I commenced walking the trail once more. Shortly Jurt fell into step beside me. We walked for a long while in silence. One day I may learn when to keep my mouth shut or to quit when I’m ahead. Same thing.
The trail ran straight for a time but seemed to vanish not too far ahead. When we neared the point of vanishment, I saw why: The trail curved behind a low prominence. We followed this turning and met with another, shortly thereafter. Soon we had entered upon a regular series of switchbacks, realizing quickly that they were mitigating a fairly steep descent. As we proceeded down this turning way, I suddenly became aware of a bright squiggle, hanging in the middle distance. Jurt raised his hand, pointing at it, and began, “What . . . ?” just as it became apparent that it was the continuation of our trail, rising. At this, an instant reorientation occurred, and I realized that we were descending into what seemed a massive pit. And the air seemed to have grown somewhat cooler.
We continued our descent, and after a time something cold and moist touched the back of my right hand. I looked down in time to see a snowflake melting in the twilight glow which surrounded us. Moments later several more breezed by. A little after that we became aware of a larger brightness, far below.
I don’t know what it is either, Frakir pulsed into my mind.
Thanks, I thought strongly back at her, having decided against advising Jurt of her presence.
Down. Down and around. Back. Back and forth. The temperature continued to decline. Snowflakes flitted. Arrays of rocks in the wall we now descended took on a bit of glitter.
Oddly, I didn’t realize what it was until the first time I slipped.
“Ice!” Jurt announced suddenly, half toppling and catching himself up against the stone.
A distant sighing sound occurred, and it grew and grew, nearing us. It was not until it arrived, with a great buffeting gust, that we knew it to be a wind. And cold. It fled past like the breath of an ice age, and I raised my cloak against it. It followed us, softer thereafter, yet persistent, as we continued our descent.
By the time we reached the bottom it was damn cold, and the steps were either fully frosted over or carved of ice. The wind blew a steady, mournful note, and flakes of snow or pellets of ice came and went.
“Miserable climate!” Jurt growled, teeth chattering.
“I didn’t think ghosts were susceptible to the mundane,” I said.
“Ghost, hell” he observed. “I feel the same as I always did. You’d think whatever sent me fully dressed to cross your trail might at least have provided for this eventuality.
“And this place isn’t that mundane,” he added. “They want us somewhere, you’d think they might have provided a shortcut. As it is, we’ll be damaged merchandise by the
time we get there.”
“I don’t really believe that either the Pattern or the Logrus has that much power in this place,” I told him. “I’d just as soon they stayed out of our way entirely.”
Our trail led outward across a gleaming plain—so flat and so gleaming that I feared it to consist entirely of ice. Nor was I incorrect.
“Looks slippery,” Jurt said. “I’m going to shapeshift my feet, make them broader.”
“It’ll destroy your boots and leave you with cold feet,” I said. “Why not just shift some of your weight downward, lower your center of gravity?”
“Always got an answer,” he began sullenly. Then, “But this time you’re right,” he finished.
We stood there for several minutes as he grew shorter, more squat.
“Aren’t you going to shift yourself?” he asked.
“I’ll take my chances holding my center. I can move faster this way,” I said.
“You can fall on your ass that way, too.”
“We’ll see.”
We started out. We held our balance. The winds were stronger away from the wall we had descended. The surface of our icy trail, however, was not so slick as it had appeared on distant inspection. There were small ripples and ridges to it, adequate to provide some traction. The air burned its way into my lungs; flakes were beaten into swirling snow devil towers which fled like eccentric tops across our way. It was a bluish glow which emanated from the trail, tinting those flakes which came within its ambit. We hiked for perhaps a quarter mile before a new series of ghostly images began. The first appeared to be myself, sprawled across a heap of armor back at the chapel; the second was Deirdre beneath a lamppost, looking at her watch.
“What?” Jurt asked, as they came and went in a matter of instants.
“I didn’t know the first time I saw them, and I still don’t know,” I answered, “though I thought you might be one of them when we first began our race. They come and go—at random, it would seem—with no special reason that I can figure.”
The next was what appeared to be a dining room, a bowl of flowers on the table. There were no people in the room. There and gone—
No. Not entirely. It went away, but the flowers remained, there on the surface of the ice. I halted, then walked out toward them.
Merle, I don’t know about leaving the trail. . . .
Oh, shit, I responded, moving toward a slab of ice which reminded me of the Stonehenge-like area back where I’d come aboard, incongruous flashes of color near its base.
There were a number of them—roses of many sorts. I stooped and picked one up. Its color was almost silver. . . .
“What are you doing here, dear boy?” I heard a familiar voice say.
I straightened immediately, to see that the tall dark figure which had emerged from behind the block of ice was not addressing me. He was nodding to Jurt, smiling.
“A fool’s errand, I’m sure,” Jurt replied.
“And this must be the fool,” the other responded, “plucking that damnable flower. Silver rose of Amber—Lord Corwin’s, I believe. Hello, Merlin. Looking for your father?”
I removed one of the spare clasp pins I keep pinned to the inside of my cloak. I used it to fasten the rose at my left breast. The speaker was Lord Borel, a duke of the royal House of Swayvill and reputedly one of my mother’s lovers of long ago. He was also deemed to be one of the deadliest swordsmen in the Courts. Killing my father or Benedict or Eric had been an obsession with him for years. Unfortunately it had been Corwin whom he’d met, at a time when Dad was in a hurry—and they’d never crossed blades. Dad had suckered him instead and killed him in what I supposed was technically a somewhat less than fair fight. Which is okay. I’d never much liked the guy.
“You’re dead, Borel. You know that?” I told him. “You’re just a ghost of the man you were the day you took the Logrus. Out in the real world there is no Lord Borel anymore. You want to know why? Because Corwin killed you the day of the Patternfall War.”
“You lie, you little shit!” he told me.
“Uh, no,” Jurt offered. “You’re dead all right. Run through, I heard. Didn’t know it was Corwin did it, though.”
“It was,” I said.
He looked away, and I saw his jaw muscles bunching and relaxing, bunching and relaxing.
“And this place is some sort of afterlife?” he asked a little later, still not looking back at us.
“I suppose you could call it that,” I said.
“Can we die yet again here?”
“I think so,” I told him.
“What is that?”
His gaze had suddenly dropped, and I followed it. Something lay upon the ice nearby, and I took a step toward it.
“An arm ” I replied. “It appears to be a human arm.”
“What’s it doing there?” Jurt asked, walking over and kicking it.
It moved in a fashion which showed us that it was not simply lying there but rather was extended up out of the ice. In fact, it twitched and continued to flex spasmodically for several seconds after Jurt kicked it. Then I noted another, some distance away, and what appeared to be a leg. Farther on, a shoulder, arm attached, a hand . . .
“Some cannibal’s deep freeze,” I suggested.
Jurt chuckled.
“Then you’re dead, too,” Borel stated.
“Nope,” I replied. “I’m the real thing. Just passing through, on my way to a far, far better place.”
“What of Jurt?”
“Jurt’s an interesting problem, both physically and theologically,” I explained. “He’s enjoying a peculiar kind of bilocation.”
“I’d hardly say I’m enjoying it,” Jurt observed. “But considering the alternative, I suppose I’m glad I’m here.”
“That’s the sort of positive thinking that’s worked so many wonders for the Courts over the years,” I said.
Jurt chuckled again.
I heard that metallic sighing sound one does not easily forget. I knew that I could not possibly draw my blade, turn, and parry in time if Borel wished to run me through from the rear. On the other hand, he took great pride in observing every punctilio when it came to killing people. He always played fair because he was so damned good that he never lost anyway. Might as well go for the reputation, too. I immediately raised both hands, to irritate him by acting as if he had just threatened me from the rear.
Stay invisible, Frakir. When I turn and snap my wrist, let go. Stick to him when you hit, find your way to the throat. You know what to do when you get there.
Right, boss, she replied.
“Draw your blade and turn, Merle.”
“Doesn’t sound too sporting to me, Borel,” I replied.
“You dare to accuse me of anything less than propriety?” he said.
“Hard to tell when I can’t see what you’re up to,” I answered.
“Then draw your weapon and turn around.”
“I’m turning,” I said. “But I’m not touching the thing.”
I turned quickly, snapping my left wrist, feeling Frakir depart. As I did, my feet went out from under me. I’d moved too fast on a very smooth patch of ice. Catching myself, I felt a shadow drift into place before me. When I looked up, I beheld the point of Borel’s blade, about six inches from my right eye.
“Rise slowly,” he said, and I did. “Draw your weapon now,” he ordered.
“And if I refuse?” I inquired, trying to buy time.
“You will prove yourself unworthy to be considered a gentleman, and I will act accordingly.”
“By attacking me anyway?” I asked.
“The rules permit this,” he said.
“Shove your rules,” I replied, crossing my right foot behind my left and springing backward as I drew my blade and let it fall into a guard position.
He was on me in an instant. I continued my retreat, backing past the big slab of ice from behind which he had appeared. I had no desire to stand and trade techniques with him, especially now
that I could see the speed of those attacks. Parrying them took a lot less effort while I was backing off. My blade did not feel quite right, however, and as I scanned it quickly I saw why. It was not my weapon.
In the glittering light from the trail, bounced off the ice, I saw the swirling inlay along part of the blade. There was only one weapon like this that I knew of, and I had only just seen it recently, in what might have been my father’s hand. It was Grayswandir that moved before me. I felt myself smile at the irony. This was the weapon which had slain the real Lord Borel.
“You smile at your own cowardice?” he asked. “Stand and fight, bastard!”
As if in answer to his suggestion, I felt my rearward movement arrested. I was not run through when I ventured a quick downward glance, however, for I realized from his expression that something similar had happened to my attacker.
Our ankles had been seized by several of those hands which extended up through the ice, holding us firmly in place. And this made it Borel’s turn to smile, for though he could not lunge, I could no longer retreat. Which meant—
His blade flashed forward, and I parried in quarte, attacked in sixte. He parried and feinted. Then quarte again, and the next attack. Riposte. Parry sixte—No, that was a feint. Catch him in four. Feint. Feint again. Hit—
Something white and hard passed over his shoulder and struck my forehead. I fell back, though the grasping hands kept me from collapsing completely. Good thing I sagged, actually, or his thrust might have punctured my liver. My reflexes or some touch of the magic I’ve heard may dwell in Grayswandir threw my arm forward as my knees buckled. I felt the blade strike something, though I was not even looking in that direction, and I heard Borel grunt surprisedly, then utter an oath. I heard Jurt mouthing an oath of his own about then, too. He was out of my line of sight.
The Chronicles of Amber Page 157
