Excited now, I hurried back up to my rooms. The hinges squeaked when I entered. Servants had lit an oil lamp on the writing table, but everything else looked just as I had left it: my sword across the back of one of the chairs, the stand and washbasin beside the now-dark windows, the desk shoved up against the wall, its paper, ink, and blotters all in slight disarray.
The carved wooden box containing my set of Trumps sat atop the stack of unused towels on the tray atop the wash-stand.
Feeling a growing sense of elation, I opened the little box and pulled out my stack of Trumps. They felt cool and hard as ivory in my hands. Slowly, one by one, I leafed through them. Portraits came first: Aber . . . Locke . . . Pella . . . Blaise . . . Freda . . .
Yes—there was the one I needed! With a trembling hand, I drew forth the card I had half remembered. It showed a dark forest glade, lush grass underfoot, trees all around, with Juniper’s towers just visible in the distance. This seemed an ideal place to dump a body . . . far enough from Juniper to be safe from any immediate discovery. Let Ivinius’s masters try to figure out what had happened to him!
Card in hand, I started for the sitting room. Then I stopped myself. How would I get back after I’d disposed of the body? I gave a chuckle. I was catching on to this game of Trumps—I would need one to bring me safely home.
I returned to my set of cards, selected the one that I had confiscated from Aber, which showed my bedroom, and only then headed for the sitting room. This would be a fast and simple job using magic, I thought. I would go to the glade, dump the body, and come straight home.
Hurrying now, I swept back the tapestry.
My elation died. I had come back too late.
The body had disappeared.
TWELVE
quick search of my suite revealed no sign of Ivinius anywhere. No blood had been spilled, so no tell-tale stains remained. Only the tray with the razors and towels told me he had actually been here . . . and the ink stain beneath the small carpet, but that could have been spilled any time. It spoke of a clumsy scribe more than of an assassin.
I had no proof now that I’d been attacked, or that he’d been a hell-creature impersonating a servant. Without his body, I’d lost my one clue . . . and my one slight advantage. Since no alarm had been raised, I assumed either another hell-creature or a traitor in Juniper had come searching for him, discovered his body, and spirited it off.
I frowned. I hadn’t seen a single empty hallway or corridor all the way back to my rooms from dinner. Someone could have snuck into my rooms by normal means—it only took a moment of turned backs to slip through my unlocked door. But anyone smuggling out a body would have encountered witnesses. Clearly the body had been removed by other, perhaps even magical means. A Trump? It seemed likely.
And a Trump meant one of us . . . one of my half-brothers or half-sisters . . .
But which one?
Puzzled, annoyed, and more than slightly frightened by the implications, I carefully bolted my doors, checked the windows (there didn’t seem to be any way short of flying to get to my balcony from the balconies to either side), and I moved my sword to within easy reach of the bed.
Only then did I undress and crawl between the sheets.
Exhaustion surged like an ocean tide. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.
Polite knocking has never been the way to rouse me in the morning, nor softly called invitations to breakfast. As with all soldiers, I liked to sleep the same way as I ate, fought, and bedded my women—heartily, fully, deeply. Trumpets sounding a call to arms, or the clash of swords, are the only things that stir my blood in the early hours. Otherwise, as my men had found out over the years, it’s best to let me be.
It should have surprised no one, then, that I scarcely heard the knocking, or the politely incessant “Lord? Lord Oberon?” that followed from the hallway when I refused to be awakened.
When someone threw back the curtains and bright sunlight flooded the room, I half opened one eye, saw it was only Aber, rolled over, and continued to snore.
“Oberon!” he called. “Wakee wakee!”
I opened my eyes to slits and glared at him. Hands on his hips, my half brother gazed down at me with a bemused expression. Behind him, in the doorway to my bedchamber, stood a clump of anxious servants in castle livery.
“I thought I bolted the door!” I said.
“Dad wants to see you. The servants have been trying to rouse you for half an hour. Finally they came and got me.”
“Why didn’t they say something?”
Growling a little, I threw back the covers and sat up, naked. A couple of the women hurried from the doorway, blushing. Anari hurried forward with a robe which turned out to be several sizes too large—but it would do. I shrugged it on.
Then I noticed a Trump in Aber’s hand . . . and plucked it from his grasp before he could object.
“Aha!” I said. A miniature portrait of my antechamber, done just like the one I had confiscated yesterday. “I knew I locked the door last night!”
He laughed. “Well, how else do you think I’d get in?”
“You told me you didn’t have any more Trumps of my rooms!”
“No,” he said with a grin, “I didn’t. I told you I didn’t have any more of your bedroom. This one isn’t of your bedroom, is it?”
“A fine distinction,” I grumbled. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. Served me right for not being specific enough, though I didn’t appreciate the service. Clearly I needed to do a better job of watching out for my own interests. “I’ll hang onto this one, too. Do you have any other Trumps of my rooms? Any of them?”
“Hundreds!” He tapped his head. “I keep them up here.”
I snorted. “Make sure they stay there. I don’t like people sneaking up on me!”
“Oh, all right.” He sighed. “You’re no fun.”
Yawning, I stretched the kinks from my muscles. “Now what were you saying? Dad wants to see me?”
“Yes.” Aber folded his arms. “You’ll find things run much more smoothly when you stick to his schedule. Rise early in the morning, stay up late at night, and try to catch a nap in the afternoon if time allows.”
“Lord,” said Anari, “I have found you a valet and taken the liberty of preparing your schedule for today.”
Schedule? I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Go on,” I said.
Anari motioned toward the doorway, and a young man of perhaps thirteen or so dashed forward and bowed to me.
“This is my great-grandson, Horace,” Anari said. “He will serve you well.”
“I’m sure,” I said. I gave Horace a brief nod. He had Anari’s features, but black hair to the old man’s white. “Pleased to have you, Horace.”
“Thank you, Lord!” He looked relieved.
“Call me Oberon,” I told him.
“Yes, Lord Oberon!”
“No, just Oberon. Or Lord.”
“Yes . . . Oberon . . . Lord.” He seemed hesitant at such familiarity. Well, he would get used to it soon enough. I needed a valet, not a toady.
Anari said, “The castle tailors will be here after breakfast. They will prepare clothing to your tastes. After that, lunch. You will be fitted for armor in the afternoon . . . and Lord Davin wishes to accompany you to the stables. He says you need a horse.”
“A peace offering?” I asked Aber.
“Who understands them?” he said with a shrug. “I don’t.”
I didn’t care; I did need a horse.
“It sounds fine,” I said to Anari. “But all must wait until after I see my father.”
“Of course.”
Horace was already making himself useful, laying out clothes for me—a beautiful white shirt with a stylized lion’s head stitched on the chest in gold thread and dark wine-colored pants that shimmered slightly in the bright morning light. They looked about my size, too . . . certainly closer than the robe.
“These were Mattus
’s,” Aber said. “I don’t think he’d mind if you took them.”
“They’re beautiful.” I ran my hand over the fabric, wondering at the incredible softness and the silky texture, unlike anything I’d ever seen in Ilerium. No one there, not even King Elnar himself, had garments such as these.
“They were made in the Courts of Chaos,” Aber said.
“What’s the secret? Magic?”
“Spider-silk, I believe.”
“Incredible!”
Horace had continued his work while we talked, setting out a wide belt, cape, and gloves in colors to match the pants, plus clean socks and undergarments.
“You know where to find me,” Aber said, starting for the door. “I’ll walk down with you when you’re ready. Don’t dawdle . . . Dad’s still waiting!”
“And growing more annoyed by the moment, I’m sure,” I added with a smile. “I remember.”
Shaking his head, he left, and the few servants still outside the door followed. Anari started after them, then paused in the doorway to look back.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Horace will be fine. I can tell he’s a hard worker. And I’ll watch out for him, you have my word.”
He seemed relieved. “Thank you, Lord Oberon.”
Ten minutes later, I collected Aber from his rooms across the hall and started down for Dad’s workshop. I have always had a fairly good sense of direction, and I unerringly retraced our journey from the previous evening.
As we walked, I asked Aber what had happened at dinner after I left.
“Not much,” he said. “Everyone was too shocked.”
I chuckled. “Shocked? By Taine’s being alive or my being a cripple?”
“A little of both, actually.” He swallowed and wouldn’t meet my gaze. “After dinner—”
“Everyone tried to contact Taine with his Trump,” I guessed. “But it didn’t work.”
“That’s right.”
“So he’s either dead, unconscious, drugged, or protected somehow from your Trumps.”
“That’s how it looks to me.”
We reached Dworkin’s workshop. Two new guards—one of whom I recognized from the dice game in the guardroom—snapped to attention as we passed.
“Is there anything else you can do?” I asked. “Is there any way to just reach through his Trump, grab him whether he’s awake or not, and just drag him through?”
“I wish we could. But Trumps don’t work that way.”
I raised my hand to knock on the workshop door, but it swung open for me. The room blazed with light. I couldn’t see Dworkin for a moment—but then I spotted him on the other side of the room. He hadn’t opened the door, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else present. Ghosts? No—probably just the Logrus again, I realized with a gulp. If he could snatch swords from the other end of the castle, why not open doors from ten feet away?
“Ah, there you are!” Dworkin said. “Come in.”
Disconcerted, I stepped inside.
“Good luck!” Aber said to me, and then the door slammed in his face.
Dworkin sat at a table in a tall-backed wooden chair. The table held a box, and in the box sat what looked like an immense ruby. I must admit I stared at it; I had never seen a jewel of its size before. Surely it belonged to some king . . . which is what Dworkin probably was in this Shadow.
He chuckled. “Impressive, is it not?”
“Beautiful,” I said. I raised it, studying the carefully faceted sides, which gleamed seductively in the bright light.
“This crystal is special. It holds a replica of the pattern within you.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I . . . acquired it some time ago. It has unusual properties, one of which may prove useful in your situation. Your Pattern, I now believe, is not a mere distortion of the Logrus after all.”
“Then . . . you were wrong last night?” I felt a mounting excitement. This might be the answer to my hopes and prayers. “I can walk the Logrus after all?”
“No—that would kill you!”
“But you said—”
“I said your pattern is not a distortion of the Logrus. It is something else . . . something new. A different pattern.”
I frowned, confused. “How can that be? Isn’t the Logrus responsible for everything . . . for the Courts of Chaos and all the Shadow worlds?
“In some ways, perhaps.”
“I don’t understand.” I stared at him blankly.
“Few are the things that cannot be replaced.”
“You mean I really am a cripple. I cannot draw on the Logrus like you do.”
“No!” He threw back his head and laughed. “Exactly the opposite, my boy—you do not need to draw on the Logrus. You have something else to draw upon . . . your own pattern.”
“My own . . .” I stared at him dumbly.
“I hold the design of your pattern fixed clearly in my mind now, and it burns with a primal power. You are like that first nameless Lord of Chaos. You hold a pattern—this new pattern—inside you. It is unlike the Logrus! It is a pattern from which whole worlds may spring, once it is traced properly!”
Not the Logrus. . . .
I felt a sudden joy, a boundless euphoria, as I realized what that meant. Perhaps I could master Shadows the way the rest of my family had. I might yet travel between the Shadow worlds and work the wonders I had seen. Suddenly it all lay within my grasp.
And I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. More than a father, more than a family, I wanted my heritage . . . my destiny.
Only—
“Traced properly?” I asked slowly. “What does that mean?”
He hesitated, and I could tell he was trying to find the words to explain it to me.
“I believe the Logrus exists not just inside, but outside the universe as we know it,” he finally said. “The first Lord of Chaos partly traced its shape using his own blood . . . putting a form to the formless, making it real in a way that it had not been before. It is my belief that when someone of our bloodline passes through it, the Logrus’s pattern is imprinted forever in his mind, enabling him to use it—to draw on its power and move between worlds.”
“I understand,” I said. I’d heard the whole history-of-our-powers speech already. “You said the Logrus wouldn’t work on me . . . it would destroy me.”
“That is correct. What we must do for you is something similar to what the first Lord of Chaos did . . . find a way to trace the unique pattern within you, so that your pattern is imprinted on your mind, much the way the Logrus is imprinted on my mind.”
“All right,” I said. It sounded reasonable enough. And yet . . . something still bothered me.
Dad hesitated.
“You’re leaving something out,” I said accusingly.
“No . . .”
“Tell me!”
He swallowed. “I have never tried this before. It may work. It should work, if my theories about the Logrus and its nature are correct. But then again . . . what if I am wrong? What if I have made a mistake?”
“It might kill me,” I said, recognizing what he had been unwilling to say.
“That, or worse. It might destroy your mind, leaving your body little more than an empty shell. Or . . . it might do nothing at all.”
I didn’t know which would be worse. My hopes had been raised; it had to work. It would work. I had run out of options.
“What are my chances of living?” I asked.
“I cannot guarantee anything, except that I have done my best.”
“Would you do it?” I asked. “Would you risk your own life on tracing this pattern?”
“Yes,” he said simply. No arguments, no explanations, just a single word.
I took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth. I could risk everything and try to gain power unimaginable. Or I could be safe, forever trapped in the world of mortal men.
Could I live with the Lockes of the world sneering at me, pi
tying me? Could I live with myself if I passed up my one last chance for power?
Only cowards choose the safe path.
I had known what my answer must be even before Dworkin told me of the risk. I wanted power. I wanted magic of my own. After seeing what Dworkin and the rest of my family could do, how could I step back now?
I swallowed hard. “I want to try it.”
Dworkin let out his breath. “I will not fail you, my boy,” he said softly.
He held up the ruby. I gasped as it caught the light, sending flashes of color dancing and slashing around the room.
Holding the jewel higher, at my eye level, I found it glowed with an inner light. I leaned forward, wanting to fall into its center like a moth is called by an open flame.
“Look deep inside,” Dworkin continued. His voice sounded as if he were standing far away. “Fastened within it is a design . . . an exact tracing of the pattern within you. Gaze upon it, my boy—gaze and let your spirit go!”
A shimmer of red surrounded me. The world receded, and light and shadow began to pulsate rhythmically, shapes and forms seeming to appear, then vanish.
As though from a great distance away, I heard Dworkin’s voice: “Follow the pattern, my boy . . . let it show you the way . . .”
I stepped forward.
It was like opening a door and entering a room I never knew existed. The world unfolded around me. Space and time ceased to have meaning. I felt neither breath in my lungs nor the beating of my heart; I simply was. I did not need to breathe, or see, or taste, or touch. When I reached for my wrist, I felt no pulse . . . I felt nothing at all.
Lights glimmered, moved. Shadows flowed like water.
This isn’t real. . . .
And yet it was. Before me, behind me, to the sides and all around me, I saw the lines of a great pattern. It blazed with a liquid red light, curves and sweeps and switchbacks, like the twisted body of some immense serpent or dragon. It held me transfixed within it, just as I held it within me, and together we balanced perfectly. I felt a calm, a harmony of belonging.
Roger Zelazny's The Dawn of Amber Page 14
