Roger Zelazny's The Dawn of Amber

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “But you must!” he said. “Everyone wants to rule!”

  “Not me.”

  “And Freda saw it—”

  “No, Freda said she saw it.”

  “You’re calling her a liar?”

  “No.” I shrugged. “All I’m saying is this: I don’t believe in the power of Freda or her magical future-telling cards. Since I don’t believe, I don’t feel bound to live by their forecasts. I have no intention of taking lands, titles, or ar­mies away from Locke . . . or anyone else.”

  “You really mean that, don’t you?” he asked. I could hear the awe in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you are the best of us all.” He bowed slightly. “And you may be the only one of us who actually deserves to rule.”

  “Nonsense.” I gave a dismissive wave. “Leave that to those who want to rule.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “I mean it, brother . . . I’m happy you’re here. And I hope we can be friends.”

  I clasped his shoulder, too. “We already are.”

  “Freda was right, you know,” he said, releasing me. “You are the prize of the family. I see it now. Locke has every reason to feel threatened, whether you admit it or not.”

  “Then let me ask you this—if Dworkin prizes me so much, why did he abandon me in Ilerium all these years? Locke’s opinion be damned. If he’d wanted to, he could have gone and fetched me at any time.”

  “I don’t know. Ask him.” He glanced toward the main corridor. “He’s waiting . . . we should go.”

  “Answer one more question first.”

  “All right.”

  “Truthfully—what’s all this about? The war, the kill­ings. How did it start? Who’s behind it?”

  He frowned, and I could tell it troubled him.

  “We have hereditary rivals in the Courts of Chaos. Enemies for generations. Somehow, one of us—Freda thinks it’s Dad, but she isn’t sure—did something to re-kindle one of those old feuds . . .”

  “And it can’t be laid to rest? What about the King in Chaos? Couldn’t he stop it?”

  “Perhaps. But we have our pride. We’d never have any power again if we ran crying to King Uthor.”

  “I see your point.” I shook my head. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible?”

  “No . . . just that it’s someone very powerful. Whoever it is began the war by trying to kill off our whole family . . . everyone in Shadow has been attacked in one way or another.”

  “To what end?”

  “Destroying the bloodline, I guess. That’s the ultimate revenge, isn’t it?”

  “That’s more than a little pissed off.”

  A sudden, horrible realization hit. Dworkin had been right—the hell-creatures in Ilerium had been after me . . . and me alone. The whole invasion had happened just to find and kill me.

  He had said the hell-creatures would leave our country alone after he had rescued me. No wonder—they had no reason to continue the fight if I wasn’t there any more. By simply leaving, I had probably done what King Elnar and all his men had been unable to do in a year of fighting.

  “I think Freda’s right about you,” Aber went on. “You won’t take Locke’s orders blindly, the way the others do, and that’s worth a lot. If you’re even half the warrior I think you are, you could end up heir.”

  “Even if I wanted it—which I don’t—” I gave a sweep of my arm, taking in all of Juniper. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Juniper?” He chuckled. “This is just a Shadow, and you could easily find another like it, if you wanted. I meant heir to the family. To us . . . to our position within the Courts of Chaos. Dad holds a title there, and of course all the rights and privileges that go with—”

  He broke off when the heavy oak door before us opened suddenly. From inside, Dworkin squinted up at me. He seemed older and much more tired looking now, as if our adventure over the last twenty-four hours had taken their toll.

  “I thought I heard you,” he said, taking my arm and pulling me inside. His grip still felt like iron. “You certainly took your time getting here, Oberon.”

  He closed the door in Aber’s face.

  EIGHT

  found myself in a cluttered, window-less, musty-smelling workroom. Long wooden tables lined every wall; they held a confusing jumble of papers, scrolls, wooden boxes, oddly shaped rocks, countless crystals of varying sizes, and many other less readily identified materials. Dusty racks on the walls contained neatly labeled jars; doubtless they contained ingredients for potions and spells, I decided. At one table, he had been wiring a skele­ton together from sun-bleached bones. It had at least four arms . . . and possibly as many as eight. At another table, candles warmed strangely shaped bottles containing liq­uids of various hues, some of which gave off curiously spiced scents. Ahead and to the left, narrow doorways led to additional workrooms, these just as cluttered from what little I could see. “Come on, come on,” he said impatiently, turning and leading the way. “I have wasted enough time on your res­cue already—we have work to do, and it is best to get on with it.”

  “All right,” I said, falling back into the patterns of my youth. All the time an inner voice told me to stand up to him right here, right now . . . to demand answers to everything that had happened.

  But I couldn’t. Not yet. He was still Uncle Dworkin to me, still the mentor I admired and respected . . . and obeyed. All the years of leading men, all the years without his presence, seemed to have melted away. I could have been ten years old again, following his instructions without question.

  We passed into the next room, which was filled with unshelved books and scrolls, more than I had ever seen in any one place before. There had to be thousands of them.

  He didn’t stop but led me into yet another room, which held larger machines he had obviously been building. Odd bits and pieces lay half-assembled (or half-disassembled, I couldn’t tell which) on the floor and the worktables. Some had pipes and wires leading from large stones to what looked like corroding copper spheres, the largest of which had to be at least four feet across, the smallest no more than a hand’s width. Others looked like fairy tale castles built from spun glass, and pink and white and yellow lights flared or pulsated briefly within them. Across from us, in a giant fireplace that took up the entire wall, liquids bubbled in three large cauldrons, though no fire heated them that I could see. These potions or brews let off a curious combination of smells—something like the air after a thunder-storm had just passed, but slightly sour. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck start to bristle. Against my will, I shivered.

  Dworkin—Dad—noticed and chuckled.

  “What are you doing in here?” I asked.

  “Distilling.”

  “Brandy?” I guessed, but knowing it couldn’t be anything so simple.

  “Life forces.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t quite know what to make of that.

  He pulled over two straight-backed wooden chairs, and we sat facing each other, though he did not look me in the eye. Could he be feeling . . . guilt? For never letting me know I had a father, a family? For hiding my birthright? For abandoning me these many years?

  A long, awkward silence stretched between us, punc­tuated by faint dripping noises from one of the machines and a steady hiss from one of the cauldrons.

  “Dworkin—” I finally said. “Or should I call you Dad, like Aber and the others?”

  He shifted uneasily. “Either one is fine. Perhaps Dworkin is best . . . I have never been much of a father to you. Though ‘Dad’ does have a nice ring to it . . .”

  “So be it—Dad.”

  “What else have you found out since you arrived?” he asked softly.

  “Not as much as I would have liked.” I swallowed, my mouth dry, and for the first time in my life I suddenly found words difficult. I had a lump in my throat the size of an ap­ple; it was hard to speak to him calmly with all I now knew. “Apparently you have enemies in the Court
s of Chaos, at least one of whom is trying to destroy your bloodline. Un­fortunately, I seem to be included.”

  He nodded. “Two attempts have been made on my own life in the last year. And seven of my children—two daughters and five sons—are now missing, I assume mur­dered.” He shook his head. “I do not know who to blame, but I have been gathering the rest of you from all your scat­tered Shadows, bringing you here, protecting you while I investigate . . . and preparing to defend Juniper if we are attacked.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, rising and pac­ing the floor. I simply couldn’t sit still any longer. “I had a right to know you were my father!”

  “Your mother wanted it this way,” Dworkin said softly, “to protect you. She knew you would never rest easily if you discovered your true nature. You would want to meet the rest of your family, pass through the Logrus and mas­ter Shadows—”

  “Damn right!”

  “I became a friend of the family,” he said, “so that I could be near you, guide you, watch you grow.”

  “You made sure I learned what I needed to learn,” I said, guessing the truth. “You prepared me for a life in the military. And apparently you have been secretly watching and perhaps even guiding my career all these years.”

  “It is what any dutiful father would have done.”

  “No.” I glared at him. “A dutiful father would have told me the truth!”

  “And ignored your mother’s wishes?”

  “She was dead. I wasn’t. You abandoned me! Your own flesh and blood!”

  “I promised her. I do not give my word lightly, Oberon . . . I loved her too much for that.”

  “Loved her?” My voice raised to a shout. “When you sired how many more sons on other Shadows? How many wives do you have, anyway? Ten? Twenty? No wonder you never had time for me!”

  He recoiled as though struck across the face. I’d hurt him more with those words than I could have with any physical blows, I realized. Perhaps I’d meant to do it—I certainly didn’t feel sorry for him now.

  “You don’t understand the way of Shadows,” he said. “And I’m older than you realize. Time moves differently on each world—”

  I turned away. I didn’t want him to see the tears welling up in my eyes. Soldiers don’t cry. It was all happen­ing too fast. I needed time to think, to sort through the strange unfolding secrets and half-truths that made up my life.

  Dworkin—Dad—my father—came up behind me. He put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I cannot change the past, but I can apologize for it. Perhaps I should have told you sooner. Perhaps I should never have made that prom­ise to your mother. But what is done cannot be undone. Make the most of it. You have your heritage now. You have . . . a family. Embrace us all.”

  I faced him. ”I don’t know where to begin.”

  “You must have questions. Ask them.”

  I hesitated, trying to decide where to start. “Tell me about the—what did you call it? The Logrus?” I said, try­ing to remember his words. “Tell me about Shadows and how to move among them like you and the others do. I want to learn how.”

  “It’s . . . difficult to explain.” He frowned. “Think of a single world, a place at the center of the universe . . . a pri­mal source of life and power and wisdom.”

  “The Courts of Chaos?”

  “The Courts are built upon it there, yes. They are a part, but not the whole. Now, imagine time and the uni­verse as a lake so huge you cannot see the shore when you are in the middle. The Courts of Chaos floats at the center of this lake, casting reflections into the water. And every reflection is a world unto itself, a shadow of the Courts.”

  “All right,” I said, not sure what he was leading up to. “How many of these reflections are there?”

  “Nobody knows. Millions. Billions. Perhaps more than can ever be counted. Each is separate and distinct—a world of its own, with its own languages, peoples, customs. The farther you get from the Courts, the more different these worlds become, until you cease to recognize them. We call these worlds Shadows. Anything you can imagine exists in one, somewhere. Any many things you cannot possibly imagine.”

  “And Juniper is just a Shadow,” I said, brow furrowing. “And Ilerium . . . everything I’ve ever known?”

  “Yes.”

  I felt stunned. With those few words, he had com­pletely undone my view of the universe—and of my place within it. No wonder Ilerium now seemed a distant, fading memory. None of it mattered. None of it had ever mat­tered.

  And yet . . . every fiber of my body told it had mattered. I had loved Helda. I had given my heart and soul to serving King Elnar and Ilerium. It had been my whole life . . . my whole reason for existing. It had been real . . . at least to me.

  Now, suddenly, Dworkin reduced all I had ever known to a single mote of dust floating in a great ocean of a uni­verse, a place so vastly, unimaginably huge that I could only just begin to take it in.

  “But it felt so real!” I whispered.

  “The Shadows are real. People live and breed in them, build cities and empires, work and love and fight and die, all the while never knowing anything of the greater uni­verse that lies beyond.”

  “And the Logrus? Is that what controls it?”

  “No. The Logrus is—” he hesitated, as if searching for the words to describe the indescribable. “It is a key to finding your way amongst all the Shadow worlds. It is like a maze. By traversing its length, from start to fin­ish, someone born of Chaos may have the Logrus im­printed on his mind forever. It frees your perceptions, allows you to control your movements. You can pass freely through the Shadows and find your path among them.”

  Freda’s words on the journey in the carriage came back to me. “That’s what you did on the way here.”

  “Yes. We traveled through many Shadows. We took an indirect route.”

  “When can I go through this Logrus?”

  “Soon. The Logrus is difficult and dangerous. It is not something to undertake lightly, and you must prepare for it. And, afterwards, it leaves you disoriented . . . sick for a time.” He hesitated. “Besides the ability to travel through Shadows, it confers other powers, too.”

  Other powers? That caught my attention.

  “Like what?” I asked cautiously.

  “This.” Dworkin reached into the air and suddenly plucked a sword from nothingness.

  I gaped at him. “How—”

  “I had it in my bedchamber. I knew where I left it, and I used the Logrus to reach for it . . . to bridge the distance between my hand and where it lay. A kind of mental shortcut, if you will, between here and there.”

  He set the sword down on the closest table. I stared at it, still hardly able to believe my eyes.

  “And I can do that?” I asked skeptically.

  “Not now. Not yet. You must first master the Logrus. That, at least, is your birthright . . . by tradition, no one, not even King Uthor himself, can deny it if you ask. Of course, there is the problem of getting you to the Courts and back safely, without our enemy finding out and killing us. And once in the Courts, you must survive the Logrus. Not all of us do, you know. My brother died on his first attempt. It destroyed him, mind and body. It is not so simple a matter after all.”

  “I want to try,” I said firmly. “You cannot show me this gift and then tell me I can’t have it!”

  “In due time.”

  “You’re playing games with me again!”

  “Do I need to remind you of how many children I’ve al­ready lost? It is not safe for any of us to leave here,” Dworkin said firmly. “Not now, not yet. Juniper is well defended for a Shadow, but beyond the lands we control, there are creatures watching us. They are waiting for a mistake . . . any mistake.”

  “Then we’ll kill them!” I felt a yearning inside to be off, to walk the Logrus and gain the powers due me . . . the powers my father and brothers and sisters already pos­sessed. “That crystal you u
sed against the hell-creatures—you must have more of them.”

  “It is not so simple. Some of these watchers are rela­tives. The Courts of Chaos are . . . unlike anything you can imagine, with your limited experiences. Struggle and con­flict are encouraged there, and only the strongest wield any real power. I have been away too long and have now lost whatever influence I once may have held.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  He folded his arms, looking away. “There are ancient codes of honor that are supposed to prevent death among us, among the Lords of Chaos. But out here in the deepest, farthest Shadows, those rules are often bent . . . or overlooked entirely. I am not important enough to try to demand observance of the rights and protections due me. But some of our enemies are very, very important, I sus­pect. And if they were to die—murdered or assassinated, whether by my hand, or yours, or our agents’—it would call the wrath of King Uthor himself upon us all. We could not survive it, not one of us.”

  I frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Damned if we do, dead if we don’t. When we kill our enemies, it has to be in self defense.”

  “Or it must look like an accident.” He sighed and shook his head slowly, and I realized he did not like the situation any more than I did. “After all,” he continued, “there is no harm in their watching us, or so they would say.”

  “Spying on us.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then those hell-creatures in Ilerium—”

  “They were soldiers drafted from another Shadow, sent to find and kill you, my boy. They are just the hands of our en­emy . . . cut off the head and the body will die. It’s the only way, if we are to survive.”

  “And this head . . . whose is it?”

  “I wish I knew. It could be any of a dozen Lords of Chaos. My family has its share of hereditary rivals and blood-feuds. And I freely admit I have made mistakes over the years . . . my own list of personal enemies is larger than it should be. It could be any one of them.”