“I know Kergma well. Kergma is a trickster. I can feel your spatial situation. I am about to send bursts of energy to counter the rotation. Let me know if there are problems. As soon as you’re able to Trump through, tell me and come ahead.”
I pulsed it through the spikard and the braking effect began. Moments later, he informed me, “I think I can escape now.”
“Come on, then.”
Suddenly, Ghost was there, spinning about me like a magic circle.
“Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate this. Let me know if there’s ever anything—”
“There is,” I said.
“What?”
“Shrink yourself down and hide somewhere about my person.”
“Wrist okay again?”
“Sure.”
He did that thing. Then, “Why?” he asked.
“I may need a sudden ally,” I replied.
“Against what?”
“Anything,” I said. “It’s showdown time.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Then leave me now. I won’t hold it against you.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Listen, Ghost. This thing has escalated, and a line must be drawn now. I—”
The air began to shimmer, off to my right. I knew what it meant.
“Later,” I said. “Be still.”
. . . And there was a doorway, and it opened to admit a tower of green light: eyes, ears, nose, mouth, limbs cycling about its sea-like range—one of the more inspired demonic forms I’d beheld of late. And, of course, I knew the features.
“Merlin,” he said. “I felt you ply the spikard here.”
“I thought you might,” I replied, “and I am at your service, Mandor.”
“Really?”
“In all respects, brother.”
“Including a certain matter of succession?”
“That in particular.”
“Excellent! And what business were you about here?”
“I was but seeking something I had lost.”
“That can wait upon another day, Merlin. We have much to do just now.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“So assume a more pleasing form and come with me. We must discuss the measures you are to take upon assuming the throne—which Houses are to be suppressed, who outlawed—”
“I must speak with Dara immediately.”
“I would rather lay some groundwork first. Come! Shift, and let us be away!”
“Would you know where she is just now?”
“Gantu, I believe. But we will confer with her later.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have her Trump handy, would you?”
“I fear not. I thought you carried a deck of your own?”
“I do. But hers was inadvertently destroyed one night when I was drinking.”
“No matter,” he said. “We will see her later, as I explained.”
I had been opening channels on the spikard as we spoke. I caught him at the center of a whirlwind of forces. I could see the transformation procedure within him, and it was a simple matter to reverse it, collapsing the green and spinning tower into the form of a white-haired man clad in black and white and looking very irritated.
“Merlin!” he cried. “Why have you changed me?”
“This thing fascinates me,” I said, waving the spikard. “I just wanted to see whether I could do it.”
“Now you’ve seen it,” he said. “Kindly release me to turn back, and find a more fitting form for yourself.”
“A moment,” I said, as he attempted to melt and flow. “I require you just as you are.”
I held him against his effort, and I drew a fiery rectangle in the air. A series of quick movements filled it with a rough likeness of my mother.
“Merlin! What are you doing?” he cried.
I suppressed his effort to extricate himself by means of a transport spell.
“Conference time,” I announced. “Bear with me.”
I didn’t just meditate upon the impromptu Trump I had hung in the air before me, but practically attacked it with a charge of the energies I was cycling through my body and the space about me.
Suddenly, Dara stood within the frame I had created—tall, coal-black, eyes of green flame.
“Merlin! What’s happening?” she cried.
I’d never heard of it being done quite this way before, but I held the contact, willed her presence, and blew away the frame. She stood before me then, perhaps seven feet tall, pulsing with indignation.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked.
I caught her as I had Mandor and collapsed her down to human scale.
“Democracy,” I said “Let’s all look alike for a minute.”
“This is not amusing,” she responded, and she began to change back.
I canceled her effort.
“No, it isn’t,” I answered. “But I called this meeting, and it will be run on my terms.”
“Very well,” she said, shrugging. “What has become so terribly urgent?”
“The succession.”
“The matter is settled. The throne is yours.”
“And whose creature am I to be?” I raised my left hand, hoping they had no way of telling one spikard from another. “This thing confers great powers. It also charges for their use. It bore a spell for control of its wearer.”
“It was Swayvill’s,” Mandor said. “I got it to you when I did to accustom you to the force of its presence. And yes, there is a price. Its wearer must come to terms with it.”
“I have wrestled with it,” I lied, “and I am its master. But the main problems were not cosmic. They were compulsions of your own installation.”
“I do not deny it,” he said. “But there was a very good reason for their presence. You were reluctant to take the throne. I felt it necessary to add an element of compulsion.”
I shook my head.
“Not good enough,” I said. “There was more to it than that. It was a thing designed to make me subservient to you.”
“Necessary,” he responded. “You’ve been away. You lack intimate knowledge of the local political scene. We could not simply let you take the reins and go off in your own direction—not in times such as these, when blunders could be very costly. The House needed some means to control you. But this was only to be until your education was complete.”
“Permit me to doubt you, brother,” I said.
He glanced at Dara, who nodded slightly.
“He is right,” she said, “and I see nothing wrong with such temporary control until you learn the business. Too much is at stake to permit otherwise.”
“It was a slave-spell,” I said. “It would force me to take the throne, to follow orders.”
Mandor licked his lips. It was the first time I’d ever seen him betray a sign of nervousness. It instantly made me wary—though I realized moments later that it may have been a calculated distraction. It caused me to guard against him immediately; and, of course, the attack came from Dara.
A wave of heat swept over me. I shifted my attention at once, attempting to raise a barrier. It was not an attack against my person. It was something soothing, coercive. I bared my teeth as I fought to hold it off.
“Mother—” I growled.
“We must restore the imperatives,” she said flatly, more to Mandor than to me.
“Why?” I asked. “You’re getting what you want.”
“The throne is not enough,” she answered. “I do not trust you in this, and reliance will be necessary.”
“You never trusted me,” I said, pushing away the remains of her spell.
“That is not true,” she told me, “and this is a technical matter, not a personal one.”
“Whatever the matter,” I said, “I’m not buying.”
Mandor tossed a paralysis spell at me, and I pushed it away, ready for anything now. As I was doing this, Dara hit me with an elaborate working I recognized as a Confusion S
torm. I was not about to try matching them both, spell for spell. A good sorcerer may have a half dozen major spells hung. Their judicious employment is generally enough for dealing with most situations. In a sorcerous duel the strategy involved in their employment is a major part of the game. If both parties are still standing when the spells have been exhausted, then they are reduced to fighting with raw energies. Whoever controls a greater quantity usually has the edge then.
I raised an umbrella against the Confusion Storm, parried Mandor’s Astral Club, held myself together through Mom’s Spirit Split, maintained my senses through Mandor’s Well of Blackness. My major spells had all gone stale, and I had hung no new ones since I’d begun relying on the spikard. I was already reduced to reliance on raw power. Fortunately, the spikard gave me control of more of it than I’d ever held before. All I had to do was force them to use up their spells, then all trickiness would be removed from the situation. I would wear them down, drain them.
Mandor sneaked one partway through, hurting me in a brush with an Electric Porcupine. I battered him with a wall of force, however, slamming him into a system of revolving discs that flashed off in all directions. Dara turned into a liquid flame, coiling, waving, flowing through circles and figure-eights, as she advanced and retreated, tossing bubbles of euphoria and pain to orbit me. I tried to blow them away, hurricane-wise, shattering the great porcelain face, uprooting towers, family groups with holes in them, glowing geometries. Mandor turned to sand, which filtered downward through the structure upon which he sprawled, became a yellow carpet, crept toward me.
I ignored the effects and continued to beat at them with energies. I hurled the carpet through the flame and dumped a floating fountain upon them. Brushing out small fires in my clothing and hair, I forced my consciousness through numbed areas in my left shoulder and leg. I fell apart and drew myself back together again as I mastered Dara’s spell of Unweaving. I shattered Mandor’s Diamond Bubble and digested the Chains of Deliverance. On three occasions, I dropped my human form for things more suitable, but always I returned to it. I hadn’t had a workout like this since my final exams with Suhuy.
But the ultimate advantage was obviously mine. Their only real chance had lain in surprise, and that was gone now. I opened all channels on the spikard, a thing which might have intimidated even the Pattern—though, now I thought on it, it had gotten me knocked senseless. I caught Mandor in a cone of force that stripped him down to a skeleton and built him back up again in an instant. Dara was harder to nail, but when I blasted her with all of the channels, she hit me with a Dazzlement spell she’d been holding in reserve, the only thing that saved her from turning into a statue as I’d intended. Instead, it left her in mortal form and restricted to slow motion.
I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. Lights danced before me.
“Congratulations,” she said, over a span of perhaps ten seconds. “You’re better than I’d thought.”
“And I’m not even finished,” I replied, breathing deeply. “It’s time to do unto you as you’d have done unto me.”
I began to craft the working which would place them under my control. It was then that I noticed her small slow smile.
“I’d thought—we might—deal with—you—ourselves,” she said as the air began to shimmer before her. “I was—wrong.”
The Sign of the Logrus took form before her. Immediately, her features grew more animated.
Then I felt its terrible regard. When it addressed me, that pastiche-voice tore at my nervous system.
“I have been summoned,” it said, “to deal with your recalcitrance, oh man who would be king.”
There came a crash from downhill as the house of mirrors collapsed. I looked in that direction. So did Dara. Mandor, just now struggling to his feet, did also.
The reflective panels rose into the air and drifted toward us. They were quickly deployed all about us, reflecting and re-reflecting our confrontation from countless angles. The prospect was bewildering, for space itself seemed somehow bent, twisted now in our vicinity. And in each image we were surrounded by a circle of light, though I could not detect its absolute source.
“I stand with Merlin,” Ghost said, from somewhere.
“Construct!” the Logrus Sign stated. “You thwarted me in Amber!”
“And a short thwart for the Pattern, too,” Ghost observed. “It sort of balances out.”
“What are your wishes now?”
“Hands off Merlin,” Ghost said. “He’ll rule here as well as reign. No strings on him.”
Ghost’s lights began cycling.
I pulsed the spikard, open on all channels, hoping to locate Ghost, give him access to its energies. I couldn’t seem to make contact, though.
“I don’t need that, Dad,” Ghost stated. “I access sources in Shadow myself.”
“What is it that you want for yourself, construct?” the Sign inquired.
“To protect one who cares for me.”
“I can offer you cosmic greatness.”
“You already did. I turned you down then, too. Remember?”
“I remember. And I will remember.” A jagged tentacle of the constantly shifting figure moved toward one of the circles of light. There was a blinding rush of flame when they met. When my vision cleared, however, nothing had changed. “Very well,” the Sign acknowledged. “You came prepared. It is not yet time to weaken myself in your destruction. Not when another waits for me to falter.
“Lady of Chaos,” it stated, “you must honor Merlin’s wishes. If his reign be a foolish thing, he will destroy himself by his own actions. If it be prudent, you will have gained what you sought without interference.”
The expression on her face was one of disbelief.
“You would back down before a son of Amber and his toy?” she asked.
“We must give him what he wants,” it acknowledged, “for now. For now . . . ”
The air squealed about its vanishment. Mandor smiled the smallest of smiles, reflected to infinity.
“I can’t believe this,” she said, becoming a flowerfaced cat and then a tree of green flame.
“Believe as you would,” Mandor told her. “He’s won.”
The tree flared through its autumn and was gone. Mandor nodded to me.
“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Take it however you would,” he said, “but if you need advice I’ll try to help you.”
“Thanks.”
“Care to discuss it over lunch?”
“Not just now.”
He shrugged and became a blue whirlwind.
“Till later then,” came the voice out of the whirlwind, before it blew away.
“Thanks, Ghost,” I said. “Your timing’s gotten a lot better.”
“Chaos has a weak left,” he replied.
I located fresh garments of silver, black, gray, and white. I took them back to Jurt’s apartments with me. I had a long story to tell.
We walked little-used ways, passing through Shadow, coming at length to the final battlefield of the Patternfall War. The place had healed itself over the years, leaving no indication of all that had transpired there. Corwin regarded it for a long while in silence.
Then he turned to me and said, “It’ll take some doing to sort everything out, to achieve a more permanent balance, to assure its stability.”
“Yes.”
“You think you can keep things peaceful on this end for a while?”
“That’s the idea,” I said. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
“That’s all any of us can do,” he said. “Okay, Random has to know what’s happened, of course. I’m not sure how he’s going to take having you as an opposite number, but that’s the breaks.”
“Give him my regards, and Bill Roth, too.”
He nodded.
“And good luck,” I said.
“There are still mysteries within mysteries,” he told me. �
�I’ll let you know what I find out, as soon as I have something.”
He moved forward and embraced me.
Then, “Rev up that ring and send me back to Amber.”
“It’s already revved,” I said. “Good-bye.”
“ . . . And hello,” he answered, from the tail end of a rainbow.
About the Author:
— Photo from: The Multimedia Encyclopedia of Science Fiction
Roger Zelazny: American science fiction and fantasy writer, who often based his stories on myths and legends. Zelazny was one of the most important writers of the New Wave of science fiction along with Philip K. Dick, Samuel R. Delany, Thomas M. Disch, Ursula K. LeGuin, and Harlan Ellison. He published 50 novels, some 150 stories and three collections of poetry.
Roger Zelazny was born in Euclid, Ohio. He received his M.A. in Elizabethan and Jacobean drama from Columbia University in 1962. Zelazny briefly enlisted with the Ohio National Guard and then worked for the Social Security Administration in Cleveland, Ohio, and Baltimore, Maryland. Zelazny’s first published story was‘Passion Play’ which appeared in 1962. Before becoming a full-time writer in 1969, Zelazny concentrated on short stories and novellas. At the age of 38, he moved to Santa Fe, where he lived until his death.
In the 1960s Zelazny became highly visible in a group of science fiction writers known as the‘New Wave’. Up until that time the genre had been dominated by writers producing action-adventures set in space. The new generation felt that they had freedom to experiment; they focused on psychology and believed science fiction should be taken seriously as literature. Zelazny’s novel This Immortal won the 1966 Hugo for Best Novel, and the self-mocking, immortal, jokester became Zelazny’s favorite character type. The Dream Master won the 1966 Nebula for Best Novella. In the same year The Doors of His Face, The Lamps of His Mouth won a Nebula for Best Novellette. The Immortal told of a post-apocalyptic Earth, which have become a wasteland and place of entertainment for aliens, the Vegans. Conrad Nomikos, the many-talented protagonist, is employed as a guide to an alien official. The Vegans want to turn Earth into a holiday resort, but Nomikos has his own ideas and he helps to preserve the remnants of humanity. The Dream Master was about a psychiatrists who is able to enter and affect his client’s dreams - and thus cure the neuroses of their patients. Its shorter version,‘He Who Shapes’ (1965) won a Nebula.
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