Roger Zelazny's The Dawn of Amber

by John Gregory Betancourt

  She nodded. “I called it Ne’erwhon,” she said. “It was . . . beautiful. And peaceful. And they destroyed it when they tried to take me. Father rescued me just in time.”

  Her story sounded disturbingly similar to mine, and I said as much.

  “Father has been rounding up a lot of people,” she said. “As soon as he discovered his friends and relatives were being hunted down, he set out to rescue every one of us. That is why there is such a gathering at Juniper now.”

  “I had no idea,” I said.

  “None of us did.” Freda forced a yawn. “It has been a long trip for me, and I am growing tired. I hope you do not think it rude, but . . .”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “Not at all,” I murmured.

  She’d found the perfect way to escape my questions. And just as the answers were getting interesting, too.

  I sat back, waiting patiently until her breathing grew steady and I saw her eyes start to dart beneath their lids. Let her dream of better days; work remained.

  Making as little noise as possible, I gave the carriage a quick search. No papers, no scrolls or books, no magical crystals that shot lines of fire. A small lever to the side op­erated some hidden mechanism—probably to open the door.

  Then I discovered the seat beneath me moved. I swung it up, revealing a storage compartment. Inside lay a stack of soft white blankets . . . nothing else.

  Sighing, I covered Freda with a blanket. Might as well make her comfortable. She stirred for an instant, mur­mured a thank-you, then lay still.

  A little disappointed at not having found something more worthwhile, I sat back to ponder my situation. Freda, I noticed, had left her box of Trumps on the table between us. It could have been an invitation to look through them . . . but somehow they seemed forboding. I had seen enough of them to know they didn’t mean much without an expert to name the portraits and places. And what if they started to move? I wouldn’t know what to do, short of turning them over or covering them with my hand, as Freda had done. Better to leave them alone.

  Other than that, the carriage had no furnishings, no clues for me to puzzle over. It had been cleaned so thor­oughly that not a smudge remained to tell of any previous passengers.

  Turning back to the windows, thinking of all I had seen, all I had done in the last day, I stared out once more as mile after mile of greenery rolled past. Trumps . . . Shadows . . . this magical journey . . . Juniper . . . The Courts of Chaos . . . it made a confusing hodge-podge in my mind.

  I felt grateful that Uncle Dworkin had come back to rescue me, after so many years of abandonment, but somehow I thought he must have other motives. What? Where did I fit into his plans?

  Somehow, I didn’t think I’d like the answers.

  SIX

  t turned out Freda really was ex­hausted. A few minutes after I cov­ered her with that blanket, she began to snore. Perhaps magic took more out of her than I realized—though I still didn’t put much trust in her future-telling skills. When she’d read her Trumps, she hadn’t re­vealed more than crumbs of information . . . a few names, a few hints of dire things to come, which might or might not involve Dworkin and his various children.

  Still, I had seen a picture of Juniper, so I didn’t count it as a waste of time. And I had learned I didn’t want to go to the Courts of Chaos. Something about the place made my skin crawl.

  After a few more minutes of staring out the window and finding nothing but more questions, I gave up. Maybe Freda had the right idea, I decided, leaning back in the comfortable padded seat and stretching out my long legs. It had been an exhausting night, and I’d only had an hour or two of sleep. Might as well try to catch up.

  I closed my eyes. Exhaustion flooded over me, but for the longest time I found myself twisting and turning, trying to get comfortable. My thoughts kept racing through the events of the day, turning over all the questions I’d already asked myself, but finding no more answers.

  Finally, sleep did come, but it was not the sleep of the dead. It was anything but refreshing. Dreams of Helda and the hell-creatures haunted me, of burning buildings and green fires and horses that spat sparks, and towering over it all, a fairy tale castle grown to nightmare proportions—the legendary Juniper.

  Some time later the carriage began to slow. I sensed the change in our pace and came awake instantly, yawning and stretching the kinks from my muscles.

  Opposite me, her chin on her chest, Freda snored softly. No sense in waking her yet, I decided. Better to wait till we actually reached our destination.

  I pushed back the lace curtain and peered out.

  Morning had given way to late afternoon, if the fading light of the sun proved a true indicator of time. The ver­dant green forests had been replaced by open fields—and a sprawling army camp that stretched as far as the eye could see. Long rows of tents, pens of horses, sheep, and cattle, hundreds of cooking fires, and countless thousands of sol­diers—some with the extra joints in the arms, some fully human—filled my view. I couldn’t hear much through the carriage walls, but my imagination filled in the sounds of a camp life, the boasting talk of soldiers at work and leisure, the tramp of boots, the squeak of leather and the jingle of chain mail.

  We passed a large open field where dozens of squads marched and drilled, and in the distance I saw more sol­diers paired off to practice swordsmanship. It was a fa­miliar enough scene, but on a larger scale than I had ever witnessed before.

  King Elnar had raised an army of eight thousand against the hell-creatures, and I had thought he com­manded a huge force. This one dwarfed it. There had to be tens of thousands of soldiers here, I thought with awe. Again we rolled past row after row after row of tents.

  But whom did they serve? No small keep like Dworkin’s could possibly support this many soldiers. He must have allies—powerful ones. None of the Fifteen Kingdoms could have summoned up and sustained a force like this one.

  Opening the window, I leaned far out and craned my neck. At once I spotted what had to be our destination: Ju­niper, just as Aber had painted it. But he hadn’t done it jus­tice.

  An immense moss-and-ivy draped stone castle set high on a hill, its ancient walls had to be eighty feet high. Even at this distance I could clearly see half a dozen men patrolling the battlements.

  When the road turned and headed straight toward Ju­niper, our horsemen-escort peeled off. The castle’s huge stone walls had been built of massive blocks nearly as tall as me—an impressive feat of engineering, I thought. It would be hard to take this place by siege.

  Without slowing, the carriage mounted a long ramp overlooked by battlements on our right and entered a mas­sive gatehouse, emerging after a right turn in a courtyard paved in red flagstones. It stopped, then swayed a bit as Dworkin climbed down.

  Leaning forward, I touched Freda’s arm.

  “Mm?” she said.

  “We’re here.”

  Yawning, she sat up. “Juniper?”

  “I believe so.”

  Reaching to her left, she pulled a small lever by the door. Instantly it swung open and those delicate-looking glass steps folded out.

  I went down first, staring at the crowd that had begun to assemble. It included army officers as well as servants in white-and-red livery bearing water and other refreshments. I also recognized two of Dworkin’s sons from Freda’s Trumps—Locke and Davin. It seemed everyone wanted or needed to talk to Dworkin urgently, for they surrounded him, a dozen voices speaking at once. Locke paid me no heed; Davin gave me a curious glance, but did not address me. Clearly I wasn’t important enough to warrant their attention.

  When Freda appeared in the carriage’s doorway, I of­fered her my hand and helped her to the ground.

  Dworkin seemed to have forgotten us. He was busy giving orders—where to move troops, what supply stocks to draw upon, training and patrol schedules—as though he were the general who commanded this army.

  “Come,” Freda said, “he will be busy f
or hours.”

  Linking her arm through mine, she steered me toward a set of large double doors opened wide to the warm afternoon air. A steady stream of servants moved through them.

  “But if he wants me—” I began.

  “If he wants you, he will find you when he is ready. He always does.”

  I didn’t argue. I still didn’t know enough about the situation to make a decision. But I did know enough to realize that Freda was my sole key so far to learning more Dworkin’s surprising double life. I’d have to get her alone and work on charming information out of her, I decided, before my uncle came looking for me. I was more handsome than most men, after all, and I’d always had a winning way with women. Romance might well be the key. . . .

  The double doors led to a large audience chamber. Tall, narrow stained-glass windows showing hunting and battle scenes filled the right wall. Similarly themed tapestries lined the other walls. Ahead, on a low dais, stood what could only be a throne, with half a dozen lesser chairs set slightly lower to either side. All sat empty now, but the room was far from deserted—at least a dozen servants scurried about on errands, carrying boxes, bundles of scrolls and parchments, trays of food, and additional items. Other servants had lowered the immense crystal chandelier from its mount on the central roof beam and were busily cleaning it and replacing candles.

  “This way,” Freda said, starting for a door to the left of the dais. I hesitated a second, then followed.

  Behind us, Dworkin and his entourage swept in, sev­eral voices still talking at once. I thought I heard Dworkin called “Prince” by at least one of the officers, which shocked me, but when I glanced back they were heading toward a different door.

  As we entered a wide hallway, I noticed how Freda seemed changed here, inside the castle. She smiled con­stantly, nodding to servants and soldiers who passed us in the hallway. All called her “Lady” and bowed. They all gave me curious looks, but no salutations. And Freda of­fered them no hint as to my identity.

  We turned, turned again, and went up a broad winding staircase to a second floor. I saw fewer servants here, but they seemed older and more polished. They too bowed, and they greeted Freda as “Lady Freda,” as though they were accustomed to dealing with her personally.

  At the end of the last hallway we came to a large salon, richly carpeted and filled with comfortable looking chairs and sofas. A stained glass window of yet another hunting scene filled most of the west wall, and the lowering sun gave everything inside a warm, comfortable glow.

  “Freda!” cried a woman from one of the sofas.

  I studied her. She looked older than Freda, but they might have been sisters. Both had Dworkin’s unmistakable features.

  “Pella, you’re back!” Freda said with clear delight. “When did you get in?”

  “Last night.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “Nothing to speak of.”

  The two embraced warmly, then Freda pulled me forward.

  “This is Oberon.”

  Pella raised her delicate eyebrows. “The long-lost Oberon? I though Father—”

  “No,” said Freda pointedly. “Oberon, this is my full sis­ter, Pella.”

  The long-lost Oberon? I wasn’t sure quite what she meant by that. It seemed as though she’d heard stories about me. But how could that be—unless Dworkin had told them? But why would he bother?

  Putting on my charm, I took Pella’s hand and kissed it. “Call me Obere,” I said with my most winning smile.

  “He is cute,” Pella said to Freda. “I can see he’s des­tined to give Aber a run.”

  “Aber?” I said. “Is he here, too?”

  “Of course,” Pella said.

  Freda added, “I do not think he has ventured outside Juniper’s walls in at least a year.”

  “Not at all?” I asked, puzzled. The castle seemed nice enough, but I wouldn’t want to hole up in here. If not training in the field with the soldiers, I’d want to be off hunting, patrolling the forests, or simply exploring new ter­ritory.

  “He has been busy chasing the kitchen maids.”

  “Oh.” I blinked, somewhat surprised.

  Freda said to Pella, “He is such an innocent. He was raised in Shadow, you know. He knows next to nothing of Father or our family.”

  “Not so innocent!” I protested.

  They both laughed, but it was done in such a kindly way that I couldn’t possibly take offense.

  A throat cleared behind us, and I turned to find a new woman leaning almost seductively against the doorway. She wore a low-cut gown of shimmering white, showing off ample cleavage. She was younger, a tad shorter, and far more attractive than either Pella or Freda. She wore her dark brown hair up, and makeup accentuated her high cheekbones, pale com­plexion, and perfect white teeth. She was beautiful and knew it.

  When she gave me an almost predatory boots-to-eyes appraisal, I took an instant dislike to her.

  “Oberon, this is Blaise,” Freda said. I couldn’t help but notice the chill that had crept into her voice. Apparently she shared my feelings about this woman.

  “Introductions?” came a man’s cheerful voice from behind Blaise. “Someone new here?”

  The man goosed Blaise, gave a grin at her indignant glare, and ducked around her with a swirl of red.

  “Aber?” I said, staring. He dressed as he had in his card: red from head to heel.

  “That’s right!” He gave a laugh, stepped forward swiftly, and seized my arm in a firm grip, pumping it. “And you, I gather, must be the long-lost Oberon.”

  “That’s right. Call me Obere.”

  “Let me save you from these old hens, brother.”

  He pulled me toward the back of the wall, where a cart filled with several dozen bottles of liquor sat. “Care for a drink?”

  “Gladly!” I glanced back at Freda and Pella, and be­yond them to Blaise. “Care to join us?” I asked politely.

  A little sulkily, Blaise said, “Aber knows what I like.”

  “Apple brandy,” he said with a grin and a wink at me. “Red wine for Freda and Pella. And you, brother Oberon?”

  Brother again. Why did he call me that? I wanted to ask, but what I said was, “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

  “Whiskey, neat?”

  “Perfect. It’s been quite a day.”

  He poured quickly and I got to pass out the drinks. The five of us formed a little semicircle around the liquor cart, Pella and Freda chatting about people I had never heard of, Blaise pretending an interest in them, Aber sizing me up behind his drink. I sipped my whiskey and returned his inquir­ing stare with one of my own.

  “Good whiskey,” I said.

  “It’s imported from a distant shadow at great risk and ef­fort . . . my own. Best I’ve ever found.”

  “Believe him,” Pella said to me. “He used to roam far­ther through Shadow than any of us. And he always seemed to turn up something delicious to bring back."

  “All for you, dear sister!” he said with a laugh. Then he raised his glass in a toast. “To king and family,” he said.

  The others raised their glasses, too.

  “To Dworkin,” I said, “for rescuing me.”

  It was only then that I caught a glimpse of the five of us in a long mirror hanging on the far wall. I was the tallest by a head, then Aber and Pella. But what truly caught my eye was the similarity between Aber and me. Our eyes were different colors, the shape of our faces and noses not at all the same—but there was something about us that struck a familiar chord. Our cheekbones, I thought, high and broad—and the similarities had to be more than coinci­dence.

  We looked like brothers.

  I had been denying it all along, but suddenly I realized how the women and I also shared many traits. Just as we shared them with Dworkin.

  Almost choking, I set my drink down. But my father is dead. He was a naval officer.

  So I had been told all my life.

  But now, faced with overwhelming evidenc
e, a differ­ent truth suddenly made sense.

  I was Dworkin’s son.

  I had to be.

  It all fell neatly into place. Dworkin’s interest in my mother and me. All the lessons he taught me during my childhood. His unexpected return last night to save me from the hell-creatures, just as he had saved Freda and his other children.

  I was a part of his family. Just as these strangers were now a part of mine.

  Both Freda and Aber already knew. They had both called me “brother.” I assumed Pella and Blaise knew as well. Apparently I was the only one who had been kept in the dark, too blind or stupid or naïve to guess my true heri­tage.

  Why hadn’t Dworkin or my mother ever told me? Why had I been forced to think of myself as an orphan all these years? It wasn’t fair! All through my childhood, I had longed for a father and brothers and sisters, longed for the sort of family everyone else had. Now it turned out I’d had brothers, sisters, and a living father all the time—only I’d never known it. I had been robbed of the family I could have had.

  Why had my mother hidden the truth from me?

  Why had I spent my childhood lonely and alone?

  The next time I saw my new-found father, I intended to ask some hard questions. For now, though, I tried to hide my sudden realization. My siblings all acted as if I should have known the truth about my parentage. Well, let them continue to think so. I seemed to get more information when people assumed I knew more than I did, as with Freda in the carriage.

  Suddenly I realized I’d missed an important thread of conversation. My attention snapped back to Aber.

  My new-found brother was saying, “. . . and that’s what Locke claimed. I’m not sure he’s right, though.”

  “Time will tell,” Blaise said.

  Pella laughed. “That’s what you always say, dear. It hasn’t been true yet.”

  Blaise, bristling like a cornered wolf, opened her mouth to say something I knew she’d regret, so quickly I jumped in with, “It’s nice to finally meet you all. How many more of us are here in Juniper now? Freda said something about a family gathering.”