Below me, in a cleared area, a large pentagram was drawn. At each of the star’s points stood a figure, facing outward. Inward from them, at the five points where the lines crossed, flared a torch, its butt driven into the earth. This seemed a somewhat peculiar variation on the rituals with which I was familiar, and I wondered at the summoning and why the five were not better protected and why they were not about the work in concert, rather than each seeming off on a personal trip and ignoring the others. The three whom I could see clearly had their backs to me. The two who faced in my direction were barely within my line of sight, their faces covered over with shadows. Some of the voices were male; some, female. One was singing; two were chanting; the other two seemed merely to be speaking, though in stagy, artificial tones.
I drew myself higher, trying for a glimpse of the faces of the nearer two. This because there was something familiar about the entire ensemble, and I felt that if I were to identify one, I might well realize all of their identities.
Another question high on my list was, What was it they were summoning? Was I safe up here on the wall, this close to the operation, if something unusual put in an appearance? It did not seem that the proper constraints were in place below. I drew myself higher still. I felt my center of gravity shifting just as my view of affairs improved yet again. Then I realized that I was moving forward without effort. An instant later I knew that the wall was toppling, carrying me forward and down right into the midst of their oddly choreographed ritual. I tried to push myself away from the wall, hoping to hit the ground rolling and run like hell. But it was already too late. My abrupt push-up raised me into the air but did not really halt my forward momentum.
No one beneath me stirred, though rubble rained about them all, and I finally caught some recognizable words as I fell.
“ . . . summon thee, Merlin, to fall into my power now!” one of the women was chanting.
A very effective ritual after all, I decided, as I landed on my back upon the pentagram, arms flopping out to my sides at shoulder level, legs spread. I was able to tuck my chin, protecting my head, and the slapping of my arms seemed to produce a break-fall effect so that I was not badly stunned by the impact. The five high towers of fire danced wildly about me for several seconds, then settled once again into steadier blazing. The five figures still faced outward. I attempted to rise and found that I could not. It was as if I were staked out in that position.
Frakir had warned me too late, as I was falling, and now I was uncertain to what employment I might put her. I could send her creeping off to any of the figures with orders to work her way upward and commence choking. But so far I had no way of knowing which one, if any, might deserve such treatment.
“I hate dropping in without notice,” I said, “and I can see this is a private party. If someone will be good enough to turn me loose, I’ll be on my way—”
The figure in the vicinity of my left foot did an about-face and stood staring down at me. She wore a blue robe, but there was no mask upon her fire-reddened face. There was only a tight smile, which went away when she licked her lips. It was Julia, and there was a knife in her right hand.
“Always the smartass,” she said. “Ready with a flippant answer to any situation. It’s a cover for your unwillingness to commit yourself to anything or anyone. Even those who love you.”
“It could just be a sense of humor, too,” I said, “a thing I’m beginning to realize you never possessed.”
She shook her head slowly.
“You keep everyone at arms’ distance. There is no trust in you.”
“Runs in the family,” I said. “But prudence does not preclude affection.”
She had begun raising the blade, but she faltered for a second.
“Are you saying that you still care about me?” she asked.
“I never stopped,” I said. “It’s just that you came on too strong all of a sudden. You wanted more of me than I was willing to give just then.”
“You lie,” she said, “because I hold your life in my hand.”
“I could think of a lot worse reasons for lying,” I said. “But, unfortunately, I’m telling the truth.”
There came another familiar voice then, from off to my right.
“It was too early for us to speak of such things,” she said, “but I begrudge her your affection.”
Turning my head, I saw that this figure, too, now faced inward, and it was Coral and her right eye was covered by a black patch and she, too, held a knife in her right hand. Then I saw what was in her left hand, and I shot a glance back at Julia. Yes, they both held forks as well as knives.
“Et tu,” I said.
“I told you I don’t speak English,” Coral replied.
“Et by two,” Julia responded, raising her utensils. “Who says I don’t have a sense of humor?”
They spit at each other across me, some of the spittle not quite going the distance.
Luke, it occurred to me, might have tried settling matters by proposing to both of them on the spot. I’d a feeling it wouldn’t work for me, so I didn’t.
“This is an objectification of marriage neurosis,” I said. “It’s a projective experience. It’s a vivid dream. It’s—”
Julia dropped to one knee, and her right hand flashed downward. I felt the blade enter my left thigh.
My scream was interrupted when Coral drove her fork into my right shoulder.
“This is ridiculous!” I cried as the other utensils flashed in their hands and I felt fresh stabs of pain.
Then the figure at the star’s point near my right foot turned slowly, gracefully. She was wrapped in a dark brown cloak with a yellow border, her arms crossed before her holding it closed up to her eye level.
“Stop, you bitches!” she ordered, flinging the garment wide and resembling nothing so much as a mourning cloak butterfly. It was, of course, Dara, my mother.
Julia and Coral had already raised their forks to their mouths and were chewing. There was a tiny bead of blood beside Julia’s lip. The cloak continued to flow outward from my mother’s fingertips as if it were alive, as if it were a part of her. Its wings blocked Julia and Coral completely from my sight, falling upon them as she continued to spread her arms, covering them, bearing them over backward to become body-size lumps upon the ground, growing smaller and smaller until the garment simply hung naturally and they were gone from their points of the star.
There came a slow, delicate clapping sound then, followed by a hoarse laugh from my left.
“Extremely well executed,” came that painfully familiar voice, “but then you always liked him best.”
“Better,” she corrected.
“Isn’t poor Despil even in the running?” Jurt said.
“You’re being unfair,” she told him.
“You liked that mad Prince of Amber more than you ever cared for our father, who was a decent man,” he told her, “That’s why Merlin was always your pet, isn’t it?”
“That’s just not true, Jurt, and you know it,” she said.
He laughed again. “We all summoned him because we all want him,” he said, “for different reasons. But in the end our desires all come to this, do they not?”
I heard the growl, and I turned my head just in time to see his face slide along the projective curve wolfward, muzzle descending, fangs flashing as he fell to all fours and slashed at my left shoulder, gaining himself a gory taste of my person.
“Stop that!” she cried. “You little beast!”
He threw back his muzzle and howled, and it came out the way a coyote’s cry does, as a kind of mad laughter.
A black boot struck his shoulder, knocking him over backward and sending him crashing into the un-collapsed section of wall behind him, which promptly collapsed upon him. He uttered but a brief whimper before being covered over completely by the falling rubble.
“Well, well, well,” I heard Dara say, and looking that way, I saw that she also held a knife and fork. “What’s a bastard lik
e you doing in a nice place like this?”
“Keeping the last of the predators at bay, it would seem,” replied the voice which had once told me a very long story containing multiple versions of an auto accident and a number of genealogical gaffes.
She lunged at me, but he stooped, caught me beneath the shoulders, and snatched me out of her way. Then his great black cloak swirled like a matador’s, covering her. As she had done with Coral and Julia, she herself seemed to melt into the earth beneath it. He set me on my feet, stooped then, raised the cloak, and brushed it off. As he refastened it with a silver rose of a clasp, I studied him for fangs or at least cutlery.
“Four out of five,” I said, brushing myself off: “No matter how real this seems, I’m sure it’s only analogically or anagogically true. So how come you’re not cannibalistically inclined in this place?”
“On the other hand,” he said, drawing on a silver gauntlet, “I was never a real father to you. It’s kind of difficult when you don’t even know the kid exists. So I didn’t really want anything from you either.”
“That sure looks like Grayswandir you’re wearing,” I said.
He nodded.
“It seems to have served you, too.”
“I suppose I should thank you for that. I also suppose you’re the wrong . . . person to ask whether you really bore me from that cave to the land between shadows.”
“Oh, it was me all right.”
“Of course, you’d say that.”
“I don’t know why I should if I didn’t. Look out! The wall!”
One quick glance showed me that another big section of wall was falling toward us. Then he pushed me, and I sprawled across the pentagram again. I heard the stone; crashing behind me, and I half rose and threw myself even farther forward.
Something struck the side of my head.
I woke up in the Corridor of Mirrors. I was lying face downward, my head resting on my right forearm, a rectangular piece of stone clutched in my hand, the aromas of the candles drifting about me. When I began to rise, I felt pains in both shoulders and in my left thigh. A quick investigation showed me that I bore cuts; in all three of those places. Though there wasn’t much I could do now to help demonstrate the veracity of my recent adventure beyond this, it wasn’t something I felt like shrugging off either.
I got to my feet and limped back to the corridor that ran past my rooms.
“Where’d you go?” Random called down to me.
“Huh? What do you mean?” I responded.
“You walked back up the hall, but there’s nothing there.”
“How long was I gone?”
“Half a minute maybe,” he answered. I waved the stone I still carried.
“Saw this lying on the floor. Couldn’t figure what it was,” I said.
“Probably blown there when the Powers met,” he said, “from one of the walls. There were a number of arches edged with stones like that at one time. Mostly plastered over on your floor now.”
“Oh,” I said. “See you in a bit, before I take off.”
“Do that,” he replied, and I turned and found my way through one of the day’s many broken walls and on into my room.
The far wall had also been blasted, I noticed, creating a large opening into Brand’s dusty chambers. I paused and studied it. Synchronicity, I decided. It appeared there had once been an archway connecting those rooms with these. I moved forward and examined the exposed curve along its left side. Yes, it had been rendered from stones similar to the one I held. In fact—
I brushed away plaster and slid mine into a broken area. It fitted perfectly. In fact, when I gave it a small tug, it refused to be removed. Had I really brought it back from the sinister father-mother-brother-lovers ritual dream beyond the mirror? Or had I half-consciously picked it up on my return, from wherever it had been blasted during the recent architectural distress?
I turned away, removing my cloak, stripping off my shirt. Yes. There were punctures like fork marks on my right shoulder, something like an animal bite on my left. Also, there was dried blood on my left trouser leg in the area of a tear beyond which my thigh was tender. I washed up and brushed my teeth and combed my hair, and I put a dressing on my leg and left shoulder. The family metabolism would see me healed in a day, but I didn’t want some exertion tearing them open and getting fresh garments gory.
Speaking of which . . .
The armoire was undamaged and I thought I’d wear my other colors, to give Luke a happy memory or two for his coronation: the golden shirt and royal blue trousers I’d found which approximated Berkeley’s colors almost exactly; a leather vest dyed to match the pants; matching cloak with gold trim; black sword belt, black gloves tucked behind it, reminding me I needed a new blade. Dagger, too, for that matter. I was wondering about a hat when a series of sounds caught my attention. I turned.
Through a fresh screen of dust I now had a symmetrical view into Brand’s quarters; rather than a jagged opening in the wall the archway stood perfect and entire, the wall intact at either hand and above. The wall to my right also seemed less damaged than it had been earlier.
I moved forward and ran my hand along the curve of stones. I inspected adjacent plastered areas, looking for cracks. There were none. All right. The stone had borne an enchantment. To what end?
I strode through the archway and looked around. The room was dark, and I summoned the Logrus sight reflexively. It came and served me, as usual. Perhaps the Logrus had decided against holding a grudge.
At this level I could see the residue of many magical experiments as well as a number of standing spells. Most sorcerers leave a certain amount of not normally visible magical clutter about, but Brand seemed to have been a real slob, though of course, he might have been rushed quite a bit near the end there when he was trying to take over control of the universe. It’s not the sort of occupation wherein neatness counts the way it might in other endeavors. I passed on along my tour of inspection. There were mysteries here, unfinished bits of business and indications that he had gone farther along some magical routes than I had ever wished to go. Still, there was nothing here that I felt I could not handle and nothing representing grave and immediate danger. It was just possible, now I’d finally had an opportunity to inspect them, that I might want to leave the archway intact and add Brand’s quarters to my own.
On the way out I decided to check Brand’s armoire to see whether he had a hat to go with what I was wearing. I opened it and discovered a dark three-cornered one with a golden feather, which fitted me perfectly. The color was a little off, but I suddenly recalled a spell which altered it. As I was about to turn away, something to the rear of that top shelf which held the hats glinted for a moment within my Logrus vision. I reached in and withdrew it.
It was a long and lovely gold-chased sheath of dark green, and the hilt of the blade which protruded from it appeared to be gold-plated, with an enormous emerald set in its pommel. I took hold of it and drew it partway, half expecting it to wail like a demon on whom one has dropped a balloon filled with holy water. Instead, it merely hissed and smoked a little. And there was a bright design worked into the metal of its blade—almost recognizable. Yes, a section of the Pattern. Only this excerpting was from the Pattern’s end, whereas Grayswandir’s was from a point near the beginning.
I sheathed it, and on an impulse I hung it from my belt. His old man’s sword would make a neat coronation present for Luke, I decided. So I’d take it along for him. I let myself out into the side corridor then made my way over a small section of collapsed wall from Gerard’s quarters and back past Fiona’s door to my dad’s rooms. There was one thing more I wanted to check, and the sword had reminded me. I fished in my pocket for the key I’d transferred from my bloody trousers. Then I decided I’d better knock. What if . . .
I knocked and waited, knocked again and waited again. In that nothing but silence ensued I unlocked the door and entered. I went no farther than that first place. I’d just wanted to check t
he rack.
Grayswandir was gone from the peg where I’d hung it. I backed out, closing and locking the door. The fact that the row of pegs had been empty was an instance of obtaining the knowledge one wanted and still not being certain what one had proved thereby. Yet it had been something I’d wished to know, and it did make me feel that final knowledge was nearer than it had been. . . .
I walked back, past Fiona’s rooms. I reentered Brand’s rooms through the door I had left ajar. I hunted around till I spotted a key in a nearby ashtray. I locked the door and pocketed the key; that was almost silly because anyone could walk in from my room now and my room was missing a wall. Still . . .
I hesitated before crossing back to my sitting room with its Tabriz stained with ty’iga spit and partly covered by fallen wall. There was something almost restful about Brand’s quarters, a kind of peaceful quality I hadn’t really noticed before. I wandered a bit, opening drawers and looking inside magic boxes, studying a folder of the man’s drawings. The Logrus sight showed me that something small and potent and magical was secreted in a bedpost, radiating lines of force every which way. I unscrewed the knob, found the compartment within it. It contained a small velvet bag which bore a ring. The band was wide, possibly of platinum. It bore a wheel-like device of some reddish metal, with countless tiny spokes, many of them hair-fine. And each of these spokes extended a line of power leading off somewhere, quite possibly into Shadow, where some power cache of spell source lay. Perhaps Luke would rather have the ring than the sword. When I slipped it on, it seemed to extend roots to the very center of my body. I could feel my way back along them to the ring and then out along those connections. I was impressed by the variety of energies it reached and controlled—from simple chthonic forces to sophisticated constructs of High Magic, from elementals to things that seemed like lobotomized gods. I wondered why he hadn’t been wearing it on the day of the Patternfall battle. If he had, I’d a feeling he might have been truly invincible. We could all have been living on Brandenberg in Castle Brand. I wondered, too, why Fiona, in the next room over, had not felt its presence and come looking for it. On the other hand, I hadn’t. For what it was, it didn’t register well at all, beyond a few feet. It was amazing the treasures this place contained. Was it something about the private universe effect said to obtain in some of these rooms? The ring was a beautiful alternative to Pattern Power or Logrus Power, hooked in as it was with so many sources. It must have taken centuries to empower the thing. Whatever Brand had wanted it for, it had not been part of a short-range plan. I decided I could not surrender the thing to Luke—or to anyone with any familiarity with the Arts. I didn’t even think I should trust a non-magician with it. And I certainly didn’t feel like returning it to the bedpost. What was that throbbing at my wrist? Oh, yes, Frakir. It had been going on for some small while, and I’d barely noticed.
The Chronicles of Amber Page 166
