Roger Zelazny's The Dawn of Amber

by John Gregory Betancourt

“It is the same thing,” I said.

  “Perhaps the problem is simpler than you realize,” Locke said, leaning back and regarding me with a half taunting, half triumphant smile. He clearly scented my blood and was moving in for the kill, the strong attacking the weak. “Perhaps his mother whored around on you. It wouldn’t be the first time we had a bastard in the family.”

  I rose from my chair smoothly and silently. “Take that back,” I said, voice cold as a grave, “while you still can.” If I’d had my sword, I would have drawn it.

  “Oberon! Sit!” Dworkin barked. “Locke, apologize.”

  My nerves stretched toward their breaking point. Nobody had ever insulted my mother and lived. If not for Dworkin, I would have leaped across the table and twisted Locke’s head off with my bare hands—brother or not.

  Instead of responding, my half-brother slowly tilted his chair back on the rear two legs and grinned mockingly at me. “The pup thinks he has teeth.”

  My voice was hard. “More than enough to rip your throat out.”

  He shrugged. “My apologies, brother.” I noticed how he emphasized the word, like he doubted its truth. “I chose my words with insufficient care. I meant—”

  So softly I almost missed it, Freda hissed, “Shut up, Locke, or I will make you wish you had. This is dinner.”

  Locke glanced at her, looked away, didn’t finish. Clearly he didn’t fear me. But could he be afraid of Freda?

  She touched my hand softly. “Sit, Oberon. Please.”

  It was not a command, but a soft, kind suggestion, and somehow it took the fight out of me. I let out my breath and did as she instructed.

  Pointedly, she said, “Bickering is forbidden at dinner, as our brother knows.” And her voice carried the same insult­ing inflection Locke had used.

  In that instant I discovered I liked her even more than I had known.

  “Thank you,” Dworkin said to Freda. He cleared his throat. “Now, where was I?”

  Dutifully picking up my spoon, I returned to my soup. I wasn’t really hungry anymore, but I couldn’t let Locke know he’d spoiled the meal for me.

  “Oberon is my son,” Dworkin said with conviction. “I have known it since the day he was born. And my tests here today proved it. The problem lies with the Logrus . . . it is a damnable mystery still, even to me. Its pattern is within Oberon—without any doubt, it is there—but some trick of fate, or our family’s poor degenerate blood, has dis­torted its pattern in him more than in the rest of us. That is the true and only answer.”

  Silence stretched again. My siblings stared at the table or the walls or went back to their soups, now and then glancing furtively at each other or Dworkin—anywhere but at me.

  “Well done, Locke!” Aber finally said after more than a few awkward minutes had passed. He began clapping. “That’s the way to make a new-found brother feel at home and brighten up the dinner conversation.”

  “Shut up!” Locke growled at him.

  Then Freda began clapping, then Blaise and Pella, then most of the others. Dworkin threw back his head and howled with laughter.

  I stared from one to another, bewildered. This was hardly the reaction I would have expected.

  Locke glared around the table, gaze settling first on Aber then me, but he must have remembered Freda’s threat because he said nothing. Instead, rising, he threw down his napkin and stalked from the room.

  “Send up my meal,” he called to one of the servants. “I prefer to eat with civilized company—alone!”

  If anything, the applause grew louder.

  “First time that’s ever happened,” Aber said brightly, the moment Locke was safely out of earshot. “Can’t say it will hurt the dinner conversation.”

  He picked up his bowl and spoon and made a big show of moving to Locke’s former place. As he settled in, he gave me a quick wink.

  “Hey!” he said to everyone down at the other end of the table. “The food tastes better up here!”

  That got a laugh . . . from everyone except Davin, who sat next to him. He was Locke’s right-hand man, I reminded myself. Clearly he took that position seriously. He frowned, and I half expected him to rise and leave, too, in a show of solidarity . . . but he didn’t.

  Then he glanced at me, and I recognized the look in his eyes.

  It wasn’t hate or mistrust.

  It was pity.

  They now had a cripple in their midst, I realized sud­denly. They could all work wonders like Dworkin. All travel through Shadow-worlds, summon weapons from great distances, contact each other with magical Trumps, and only the gods knew what else.

  And now they pitied me, like the soldier who had lost his sword-arm in battle and would never fight again, or the scribe who had gone blind from too much reading. They pitied me because I would never share our family’s one great gift . . . the Logrus.

  As I looked across their faces, not one of them met my gaze. They all felt the same way, I saw. Only Freda and Aber seemed willing to accept me as I was.

  Freda was patting my arm.

  “You do not need the Logrus,” she said. “It almost killed Father and me, you know. I lay unconscious for nearly a month after I completed it.”

  “Oh?” That interested me.

  “It is supposed to be a family problem.” She lowered her voice so only I could hear. “Locke had the least trouble. Poor breeding, if you ask me. Dad had him by his first wife, a Lady of Chaos—an arranged marriage, you know, well before he inherited his title. The biggest mistake he ever made was falling in love with her; he said it a hundred times if he’s said it once.”

  I forced a chuckle.

  “Thank you,” I told her softly. “It helps to have a friend.”

  “None of us is truly your friend,” she said softly, but in an almost wistful tone. “Trust no one, but love us anyway, even Locke, since we are family. Betrayal is our nature and we cannot change, none of us.”

  I regarded her curiously, thinking of Ivinius. Could this be a confession? Or just the bittersweet words of a woman who had been hurt too often by those around her?

  “You’re too much of a pessimist,” I finally said. “I prefer to think of everyone as a friend until it’s proved otherwise.”

  “You are naïve, dear Oberon.”

  “I’ve been disappointed in the past . . . but I have also been pleasantly surprised.”

  She smiled. “You do not truly know us. Soon . . . too soon, I fear, you will.” She patted my arm again. “You do have a good heart. I admire that. Now finish your soup.”

  I took a few more spoonfuls to satisfy her, but I didn’t enjoy them. Mostly I wanted to be alone now . . . to think things through, to reconsider the day’s events. So much had happened, and so quickly, that I could barely take it in.

  Locke’s departure had definitely lightened the mood around the table, though. Small conversations resumed around us, and the next course came right on schedule: braised pheasant, or a game bird close enough to pheasant that it didn’t matter, accompanied by spicy roasted pota­toes and strange yellow vegetables the size of walnuts that tasted, somehow, like fresh salmon.

  I ate slowly, eavesdropping on the chatter around me: Davin telling Titus and Conner about a new horse he had broken to saddle. Blaise telling Pella and Isadora about a kitchen scandal involving the pastry chef and a pair of scullery maids; apparently she’s just heard it from one of the seamstresses, who had gotten it straight from the herb gardener. Aber and Freda talked about new Trumps that Aber planned to paint. And Dworkin . . . Dad . . . looked down across us all and smiled like the benevolent ruler he so desperately wanted to be.

  Almost pointedly, nobody discussed me . . . or so much as looked in my direction. Being ignored hurt almost as much as being insulted.

  Oberon the weak.

  Oberon the cripple.

  Oberon the doomed-to-be-powerless.

  There must be an answer, I thought. Maybe Dworkin—Dad, I corrected myself—had made a mistake. Maybe a true versio
n of the Logrus did exist somewhere within me, only he hadn’t seen it. Maybe . . .

  No. I couldn’t give in to wishful thinking. I forced all thoughts of the Logrus from my mind. After all, I told myself, I’d spent my whole life with no knowledge of it or the powers it bestowed. For years I’d relied on my wits and the strength of my arm. I didn’t need Dworkin’s tricks, nor magic cards nor spells, just a good sword and a sturdy horse.

  As servants cleared our plates in preparation for the next course, Dad leaned back in his seat and focused his gaze on Davin.

  “How are the new recruits working out?” he asked.

  At last something I knew, I thought, leaning forward and regarding Davin with interest. Hopefully Locke managed troops better than he managed relations within our family.

  “As well as can be expected,” Davin said. He gave a short report, mentioning company names like “Eagles” and “Bears” and “Wolves,” none of which meant anything to me. A company could have been anything from a hundred to a thousand men, depending on how it had been set up.

  The report seemed to satisfy Dad, though. I also liked what I heard. Locke and Davin seemed to have a solid grasp of military matters. From the sound of things, their newest recruits had begun to pull together into an able combat force and would be ready to join the rest of the troops in just a few weeks.

  “How many men are under your command?” I asked Davin, hoping to win a few points with him by showing an interest. Perhaps he could use whatever influence he had with Locke to put us on better terms.

  “Nearly two hundred thousand,” he said off-handedly. “Give us another year and we will have half a million . . . the finest force ever assembled, if I do say so myself.”

  “We may not have a year,” Dworkin said.

  “Did you say—two hundred thousand?” The number shocked me.

  “Well, a few thousand more, actually,” Davin said with a little shrug. “I haven’t seen the latest figures yet. More keep arriving all the time.”

  “Where are they coming from?” I wasn’t sure all of Ilerium had that many able-bodied fighting men.

  “Oh, far and wide.” He met my gaze. “We recruit from a dozen Shadows, including some where we are worshipped as gods. They are eager to join.”

  “I would have guessed fifteen or twenty thousand men in total,” I said, thinking back to the size of the camp around the castle. Their numbers made King Elnar’s fight against the hell-creatures look like an alley brawl in com­parison. “Where do you keep them all quartered?”

  “There are additional companies stationed to the north and east of Juniper. We only have so much space around the castle, after all.”

  “With a tenth that many,” I mused aloud, “it would be a simple matter to drive the hell-creatures from Ilerium once and for all . . . ”

  Davin brayed with laughter. I flushed, realizing how ri­diculous that must have sounded to him. Ilerium was but one world amidst all the Shadows cast by the Courts of Chaos, meaningless to anyone except me . . . and well be­yond the concern of anyone else at this table. Never mind that I had spent the last twenty years there, and that I had dedicated my life to serving my king and my country.

  And never mind that those vows still weighed on me.

  “With you gone,” Dworkin reminded me in gentle tones, “the enemy no longer has any reason to attack Ilerium. They will leave it alone to concentrate on other battles.”

  “Like here,” I said, realizing the truth. “That’s why you’ve brought all these soldiers to Juniper, isn’t it. You’re getting ready for an attack.”

  “Very good!” Davin said in lightly mocking tones, a pale imitation of Locke now. “Give the man a prize.”

  I gave a shrug and did not bother to reply. Sometimes it’s better to say nothing. Locke had taken an instant dis­like to me, and Davin had obviously taken his cue and done the same. Even so, I hoped they both might eventu­ally be won over as allies—perhaps even as friends—with some effort on my part.

  I said, “Two hundred thousand men . . . all fully trained? Armed and armored? Ready for battle?”

  Davin smiled. “That’s right. We’ve been preparing them for a year now.”

  I frowned. “The logistics of keeping such a force—the food supply alone, not to mention the costs! How is it pos­sible? Juniper looks well off, but surely it can’t support a standing army of such size for long!”

  “All we need is taken from Shadow,” Davin said with a grand wave of his arm. “We’re worshipped as gods on countless thousands of worlds. People are happy to tithe us all we need—food, weapons, gold, jewels. Everything.”

  “But why so many? Do we really need two hundred thousand men? Or half a million? How many hell-crea­tures do you expect will attack?”

  Freda said, “If we command this many, so too may other Lords of Chaos. They have had longer to prepare . . . they might well command more. Perhaps millions more.”

  I found the numbers incredible. That my family could sustain a force of two hundred thousand, let alone train and manage it, spoke greatly of their general competence in such matters.

  Dworkin said, “An attack is coming, and soon. Freda has seen it.”

  “In her cards?”

  I glanced at her, and she gave a little nod.

  “Soon,” she said.

  “Oberon has given me some good news, though,” Dworkin said happily. “Taine is alive.”

  There were exclamations all around the table.

  “How? Where?” Freda demanded.

  I took a minute to tell them of my dream or vision or whatever it had been—the few details I could still recall, anyway. Dworkin had to remind me of several key points as I stumbled through the narrative.

  “Are you certain it was real?” Davin asked me, sound­ing more than a little skeptical.

  “No, I’m not,” I said. I had more than a few doubts myself. “I have no experience in such things.”

  Dworkin said, “Remember, Oberon has never been to the Courts of Chaos. He had never even heard of it before today. In his dream, however, the blood flowed up. That is a detail he could not have guessed or imagined. I believe his vision is true. Somewhere, somehow, Taine is still alive.”

  “Indeed,” Freda said.

  Davin looked thoughtful suddenly and regarded me with what I thought was a new-found respect.

  “The question now,” he said, “is what do we do? How can we rescue Taine?”

  “Perhaps his Trump . . .” Aber said.

  Freda shook her head. “I have tried that too many times now. He cannot be reached.”

  “When was the last time?” I asked.

  She thought carefully before replying. “Perhaps two weeks ago.”

  “It never hurts to try again,” Dworkin said. “Perhaps, knowing he is alive, you will have a better chance of reaching him.”

  “I will try,” she said, “as soon as dinner is over. We should all try.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from all present. It seemed they all had Trumps depicting Taine and could use them.

  I felt a measure of pride. Perhaps I was more than a cripple after all. Maybe I had my own form of magic to fall back upon . . . visions that showed more than Freda’s Trumps.

  Servants began bringing in platters bearing the next course—cubes of beef, nicely pink and steaming, artfully arranged with waxy looking yellow-and-red striped beans. Unfortunately, as delicious as it looked, I found my appetite completely gone. A restlessness came over me, a need to get up and do something active rather than sit and wait for the meal to end.

  Pointedly, I stifled a yawn.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said to Dworkin, “I’d like to retire. Everything I’ve been through today is starting to catch up with me. I’m going to fall asleep in this chair if I don’t get some rest.”

  “Off you go, then.” He made shooing motions with his fork. “Pleasant dreams, my boy. I will send for you again tomorrow. There are still a few matters we must discuss.�
�

  “Yes, Dad,” I said, rising.

  Freda, Aber, and all the rest—even Davin—bade me good night. They all had interesting expressions on their faces: not so much pity, now, as a kind of awe or wonder. I might not be able to walk the Logrus as they had done, but it seemed I shared at least some of their powers. Dworkin had been right to show it off before them. This way they wouldn’t dismiss me outright, the way Locke had done.

  I strode out into the corridor, pausing only long enough to get my bearings. Although exhaustion really did threaten to overwhelm me, I knew I had work to do: Ivinius’s body remained hidden behind that tapestry. I had to dispose of it without being seen.

  Instead of going back to my rooms, however, I decided to explore the castle a bit more. There might be a safe, easy passage out—I just had to find it.

  Unfortunately, every way I turned, I found more servants moving on errands or scrubbing the floors or chang­ing candles or filling reserves in oil lamps. The castle’s staff had to number in the hundreds.

  I passed one of the guard rooms Aber had pointed out earlier that afternoon. Through the open door, it looked like any of a hundred guard rooms I’d seen over the years—a rack of swords against the far wall, armor and shields on wooden pegs, a table and plenty of sturdy chairs.

  At the moment, three guards sat at the table throwing dice. Unfortunately, the one facing the door recognized me—the moment he saw my face, he leaped to his feet.

  “Lord!” he cried. He saluted, and the other two shoved back their chairs and did the same.

  “Please, continue with your game.” I gave a polite wave, then strolled on. No need to involve them; they were probably off duty and unwinding from a long day’s work.

  Kitchens . . . servants’ quarters . . . the still-guarded corridor by Dad’s workshop . . . the main hall . . . everywhere I went, I found people. Lots of people. And all seemed to recognize me. Clearly, I thought with some frus­tration, getting Ivinius out of Juniper would not be as easy as I’d hoped.

  Then I remembered Aber’s gift—my own set of Trumps. I could make them work on my own—after all, I had been able to contact my brother earlier from Dworkin’s horseless carriage. Perhaps I could use one now to get rid of Ivinius’s body. Frowning, I tried to recall all their pictures. I had barely glanced at them—but hadn’t one showed a forest glade with Juniper in the distance? That would be perfect, I thought.