The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  Gray and silver and black. . . . His face was an older, somewhat harder version of my own. Corwin, my father, looked back at me. How many times had I sweated over that card, trying to reach him, till my mind tied itself into aching knots, with no result? The others had told me that it could mean he was dead, or that he was blocking the contact. And then a funny feeling came over me. I recalled his own story, in particular when he’d spoken of the times they had tried to reach Brand through his Trump, being at first unable to because he had been imprisoned in such a distant shadow. Then I remembered his own attempts to reach through to the Courts, and the difficulty imposed by the great distance. Supposing that, rather than being dead or blocking me, he was greatly removed from the places I had been when I had made the efforts?

  But then, who was it had come to my aid that night in Shadow, bearing me to that peculiar place between shadows and the bizarre adventures that befell me there? And though I was totally uncertain as to the nature of his appearance to me in the Corridor of Mirrors, I had later encountered indications of his presence in Amber Castle itself. If he’d been in any of those places, it would seem he hadn’t really been too far off. And that would mean he’d simply been blocking me, and another attempt to reach him would probably prove equally fruitless. Still, what if there were some other explanation for all these occurrences and . . .

  The card seemed to grow cold beneath my touch. Was it just my imagination, or was the strength of my regard beginning to activate it? I moved forward in my mind, focusing. It seemed to grow even colder as I did so.

  “Dad?” I said. “Corwin?”

  Colder still, and a tingling feeling in my fingertips that touched it. It seemed the beginning of a Trump contact. It could be that he was much nearer to the Courts than to Amber, within a more reachable range now. . . .

  “Corwin,” I repeated. “It’s me, Merlin. Hello.”

  His image shifted, seemed to move. And then the card went totally black.

  Yet, it remained cold, and a sensation like a silent version of contact was present, like a telephone connection during a long pause.

  “Dad? Are you there?”

  The blackness of the card took on the aspect of depth. And deep within it, something seemed to be stirring.

  “Merlin?” The word was faint, yet I was certain it was his voice, speaking my name. “Merlin?”

  The movement within the depth was real. Something was rushing toward me.

  It erupted from the card into my face, with a beating of black wings, cawing, crow or raven, black, black. “Forbidden!” it cried. “Forbidden! Go back! Withdraw!”

  It flapped about my head as the cards spilled from my hand.

  “Stay away!” it screeched, circling the room. “Forbidden place!”

  It passed out the doorway and I pursued it. It seemed to have vanished, though, in the moments it was lost to my sight.

  “Bird!” I cried. “Come back!”

  But there was no reply, no further sounds of beating wings. I peered into the other rooms and there was no sign of the creature in any of them.

  “Bird . . . ?”

  “Merlin! What’s the matter?”—this from high overhead.

  I looked up to behold Suhuy, descending a crystal stair behind a quivering veil of light, a sky full of stars at his back.

  “Just looking for a bird,” I replied.

  “Oh,” he said, reaching the landing and stepping through the veil which then shook itself out of existence, taking the stair along with it. “Any particular bird?”

  “A big black one,” I said. “Of the talking sort.” He shook his head.

  “I can send for one,” he said.

  “This was a special bird,” I said.

  “Sorry you lost it.”

  We walked out into the hallway and I turned left and headed back to the sitting room.

  “Trumps all over the place,” my uncle remarked.

  “I was attempting to use one and it went black and the bird flew out of it, shouting, ‘Forbidden’! I dropped them at that point.”

  “Sounds as if your correspondent is a practical joker,” he said, “or under a spell.”

  We knelt and he helped me to gather them.

  “The latter seems more likely,” I said. “It was my father’s card, I’ve been trying to locate him for a long while now, and this was the closest I’ve come. I actually heard his voice, within the blackout, before the bird interrupted and cut us off.”

  “Sounds as if he is confined to a dark place, perhaps magically guarded as well.”

  “Of course!” I said, squaring up the edges of my deck and recasing it.

  One cannot shift the stuff of Shadow in a place of absolute darkness. It is as effective as blindness in stopping one of our blood from escaping confinement. It added an element of rationality to my recent experience. Someone wanting Corwin out of commission would have to keep him in a very dark place.

  “Did you ever meet my father?” I asked.

  “No,” Suhuy replied. “I understand that he did visit the Courts briefly, at the end of the war. But I never had the pleasure.”

  “Did you hear anything of his doings here?”

  “I believe he attended a meeting with Swayvill and his counselors, along with Random and the other Amberites, preliminary to the peace treaty. After that, I understand he went his own ways, and I never heard where they might have led him.”

  “I’d heard as much in Amber,” I said. “I wonder . . . He’d killed a noble—a Lord Borel—near the end of the final battle. Any chance Borel’s relatives might have gone after him?”

  He clicked his fangs twice, then pursed his lips.

  “The House of Hendrake . . .” he mused. “I think not. Your grandmother was Hendrake. . . . ”

  “I know,” I said. “But I didn’t have much to do with them. Some disagreement with Helgram. . . . ”

  “Hendrake Ways is very much of the military sort,” he went on. “Glory of battle. Martial honor, you know. I can’t see them as holding a peacetime grudge for a wartime happening.”

  Recalling my father’s story, I said, “Even if they considered the killing less than honorable?”

  “I don’t know,” he said to that. “It’s hard to guess attitudes on specific questions.”

  “Who is head of the House of Hendrake now?”

  “The Duchess Belissa Minobee.”

  “The duke, her husband—Larsus. . . . What happened to him?”

  “He died at Patternfall. I believe Prince Julian of Amber slew him.”

  “And Borel was their son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ouch. Two of them. I didn’t realize.”

  “Borel had two brothers, a half brother and a half sister, many uncles, aunts, cousins. Yes, it’s a big House. And the women of Hendrake are as doughty as the men.”

  “Yes, of course. There are songs, such as ‘Never Wed a Hendrake Lass.’ Any way of finding out whether Corwin had any doings with Hendrake while he was here?”

  “One could ask about a bit, though it’s been a long while. Memories fade, trails grow cold. Not easy.”

  He shook his head.

  “How long till bluesky?” I asked him.

  “Fairly soon,” he said.

  “I’d better be heading for Mandorways then. I promised my brother I’d breakfast with him.”

  “I’ll see you later,” he said. “At the funeral, if not before.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I guess I’d better clean up and change clothes.”

  I headed back through the way to my room, where I summoned a basin of water, soap, toothbrush, razor; also, gray trousers, black boots and belt, purple shirt and gloves, charcoal cloak, fresh blade and scabbard. When I had made myself presentable, I took a way through a forested glade to the receiving room. From there, I exited onto a thruway. A quarter mile of mountain trail later, ending abruptly at a chasm, I summoned a filmy and crossed upon it. Then I bore right to Mandorways, traveling a blue beach ben
eath a double sun for perhaps a hundred yards. I turned right, passing through a remembered archway of stone, moving briefly past a bubbling lava field and through a black obsidian wall, which took me to a pleasant cavern, over a small bridge, through a corner of a graveyard, a few steps along the Rim and into the receiving area of his Ways.

  The entire wall to my left was composed of slow flame; that to my right, a non-returnable way, save for light, giving sight of some sea-bottom trench where bright things moved about and ate one another. Mandor was seated human-formed before a bookcase directly ahead, wearing black and white, feet propped on a black ottoman, a copy of Robert Hass’s Praise, which I had given him, in his hand.

  He smiled as he looked up.

  “`Death’s hounds feared me’,” he said. “Nice line, that. How are you this cycle?”

  “Rested, finally,” I said. “Yourself?”

  He placed the book upon a small, legless table that floated near just then, and rose to his feet. The fact that he had obviously been reading it because I was coming in no way detracted from the compliment. He had always been that way.

  “Quite well, thank you,” he replied. “Come, let me feed you.”

  He took my arm and steered me toward the wall of fire. It fell away as we drew near and our footsteps sounded in a place of momentary darkness, succeeded almost immediately by a small lane, sunlight filtered through arching branches overhead, violets blooming at either hand. The lane took us to a flagged patio, a green and white gazebo at its farther end. We mounted a few stairs to a well-set table within, frosted pitchers of juice and baskets of warm rolls near at hand. He gestured and I seated myself. At his gesture a carafe of coffee appeared beside my setting.

  “I see you recall my morning predilection,” I said, “from the Shadow Earth. Thank you.”

  He smiled faintly as he nodded, seating himself across from me. Birdsongs I could not identify sounded from the trees. A gentle breeze caused leaves to rustle.

  “What are you up to these days?” I asked him as I poured a cup of coffee and broke a roll.

  “Observing the scene, mainly,” he replied.

  “Political scene?”

  “As always. Though my recent experience in Amber has led me to regard it as part of an even larger picture.”

  I nodded.

  “And your investigations with Fiona?”

  “Those, too,” he answered. “These are shaping up into very unusual times.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “It seems almost as if the Pattern-Logrus conflict were making itself manifest in mundane affairs, as well as on the cosmic scale.”

  “I feel that way, too. But then I’m prejudiced. I got caught up in the cosmic part early, and without a scorecard. I’ve been run all over the place and manipulated every which way recently—to the point where all of my affairs seemed part of their bigger picture. I don’t like it a bit, and if I had some way to make them back off I’d use it.”

  “Hm,” he said. “And what if your whole life were a study in manipulation?”

  “I wouldn’t feel good about it,” I said. “I guess I’d feel just the way I do now, only perhaps more intensely.”

  He gestured and an amazing omelet appeared before me, followed, moments later, by a side dish of fried potatoes, mixed with what appeared to be green chilies and onions.

  “All of this is hypothetical,” I said as I began eating, “isn’t it?”

  There followed a long pause as he took his first mouthful, then, “I think not,” he said.

  “I think the Powers have been moving madly for a long while now,” he went on, “and we’re finally nearing endgame.”

  “What makes you privy to these matters?”

  “It began with a careful consideration of events,” he said. “Then followed the formulation and testing of hypotheses.”

  “Spare me a lecture on the use of the scientific method in theology and human politics,” I said.

  “You asked.”

  “True. Go ahead.”

  “Do you not feel it somewhat odd that Swayvill expired just when he did, when so many things are coming to fruition simultaneously, after having hung on for so long?”

  “He had to go sometime,” I said, “and all the recent stresses probably proved too much.”

  “Timing,” Mandor said. “Strategic placement. Timing.”

  “For what?”

  “To place you on the throne of Chaos, of course,” he replied.

  Chapter 4

  Sometimes you hear an unlikely thing and that’s all it is. Other times, you hear something improbable and it strikes an echo. There is an immediate feeling of having known it, or known something very like it, all along, and just not having bothered to pick it up and examine it. By rights, I should have choked at Mandor’s pronouncement, then snorted something such as “Preposterous!” Yet, I’d a peculiar feeling about this business—whether his conclusion was right or wrong—as if there were something more than conjecture involved, as if there just might be some overall plan moving me toward the circle of power in the Courts.

  I took a long, slow drink of coffee. Then, “Really?” I said.

  I felt myself smiling as he sought my eyes, studied my face.

  “Are you consciously party to the effort?”

  I raised my coffee cup again. I had been about to say, “No, of course not. This is the first I’ve heard of the notion.” Then I recalled my father’s telling me how he had duped Aunt Flora into giving him vital information his amnesia had washed away. It was not the cleverness with which he had done it that had impressed me so much as the fact that his mistrust of relatives transcended consciousness, existed as a pure existential reflex. Not having been through all the family rivalries Corwin had, I lacked responses of such intensity. And Mandor and I had always gotten along particularly well, even though he was a few centuries older and had very different tastes in some areas. But, suddenly, discussing such a high-stakes matter as we were, that small voice Corwin referred to as his worse-if-wiser self suggested, “Why not? You could use the practice, kid,” and as I lowered the cup again I decided to try it out, just to see how it felt, for a few minutes.

  “I don’t know whether we both have the same thing in mind,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me about the middle game—or perhaps even the opening—for what you see rushing to conclusion now.”

  “Both the Pattern and the Logrus are sentient,” he said. “We’ve both seen evidence of that. Whether they are manifestations of the Unicorn and the Serpent or the other way around makes no real difference. Either way, we are talking about a pair of greater-than-human intelligences with vast powers at their disposal. Whichever came first is also one of those useless theological points. We need only concern ourselves with the present situation, as it affects us.”

  I nodded.

  “A fair assessment,” I agreed.

  “The forces they represent have been opposed but fairly evenly matched for ages,” he went on, “and thus a kind of balance has been maintained. They have constantly sought small victories over each other, each attempting to add to its own domain at the expense of the other. It appears to be a zero-sum game. Both Oberon and Swayvill were their agents for a long while, with Dworkin and Suhuy as their intermediaries with the powers themselves.”

  “So?” I said as he took a sip of juice.

  “I believe that Dworkin had touched the Pattern too closely,” he continued, “and so became subject to manipulation. He was sufficiently sophisticated, however, that he realized this and resisted. This resulted in his madness, with a reciprocal damaging effect on the Pattern itself because of their close connection. This, in turn, caused the Pattern to leave him alone, rather than risk further trauma. The damage was done, though, and the Logrus gained a small edge. This allowed it to act in the realm of order when Prince Brand began his experiments to increase his personal abilities. I believe he laid himself open to control and became an unwitting agent of the Logrus.”


  “That’s a lot of supposition,” I said.

  “Consider,” he responded, “that his aims seemingly became those of a madman. They make much more sense when seen as the goal of something wanting to destroy all order, to restore the universe to chaos.”

  “Continue,” I said.

  “At some point, the Pattern discovered—or perhaps possessed all along—the ability to create ‘ghosts,’ short-lived simulacra of those who had negotiated it. Fascinating concept, that. I was very interested to learn of it. It provided a major mechanism, supporting my thesis of the Pattern’s and possibly the Logrus’s, direct action in the promotion of physical events. Might they have figured in the setting up of your father as the Pattern’s champion against Brand? I wonder.”

  “I don’t follow,” I said. “Setting him up, you say?”

  “I’ve a feeling he was really the Pattern’s choice as the next King of Amber, easy to promote, too, as it seemed to coincide with his own wishes. I’ve wondered about his sudden recovery in that Shadow Earth clinic, and particularly about the circumstances surrounding the accident that put him there, when even with differing time streams it seemed possible that Brand might have had to be in two places at the same time—imprisoned and looking down the sights of a rifle. Of course, Brand is no longer available to clarify the matter.”

  “More supposition,” I said, finishing my omelet. “But not uninteresting. Please continue.”

  “Your father had second thoughts about the throne, however. Still, he was Amber’s champion. Amber did win the war. The Pattern was repaired. The balance was restored. Random was the second choice as monarch—a good maintainer of the status quo—and that choice was made by the Unicorn, not by the Amberites following any of their versions of the Rules of Succession.”