The Pattern within me seemed to have special properties. Let's see how I could use them.
With the bread knife, I began to carve an image of the Pattern into the table before me. As I did, my sight seemed to drift away from the reality of here and now. I saw dark lines, threads of energy, rising from the table. They formed an image of the Pattern, slowly spinning in mid air. I willed it up, up, larger and larger, surrounding and protecting me.
Suddenly, like a door closing, my sense of being watched came to and end. Whatever connection Lord Zon had made between Taine's blood and me, between the tower of skulls and this little cottage, had been broken.
I let the Pattern go, and it fell apart. The carving became just scratches on the tabletop, no more. My breathing relaxed. Good—one problem had been taken care of.
It seemed I, too, could command some real magic—untrained though I might be. I could at the very least protect myself from being spied upon.
My use of the Pattern further confirmed my suspicions… Dad had allied himself with some power other than the Logrus. And he had given the gift of its Pattern to me… though where the Jewel of Judgment fit into it all, I couldn't yet say.
I sighed. Our enemies wouldn't wait. I couldn't sit around this cottage waiting for Dad to return. My every action had been well rewarded thus far… from the party at Aunt Lanara's house to the fight with Ulyanash. Of course, I reminded myself, I would have died if not for Dad's timely intervention… but wasn't that what parents were for?
It was time to take the battle to Lord Zon and his tower. I had been there often enough in my dreams. I knew what it looked like. Now it was my turn to try drawing a Trump.
Bending, I dipped my index finger into my cup of wine, then rose and crossed to the nearest whitewashed wall. My brother Aber always drew a representation of the Logrus beneath the images he painted on Trumps. Our father had told me it wasn't necessary; he could do it by simply keeping the Logrus fixed in his mind while he worked. I could not draw on the Logrus, as I had never ventured into it, but the Pattern within me seemed to have many of the same powers.
I summoned a mental image of the Pattern and began to sketch the tower of skulls… from the inside. I showed the altar slab, the winding staircase of leg bones, the doorway through which hell-creatures had dragged my brothers to be tortured. The image took on an aliveness, a sense of reality and immediacy, despite being pale pink lines on the wall. Whenever I willed it, I knew I could bring the image to life and step through.
Then, licking wine from my finger, I stepped back. Yes, it would do. Crude though it was, I really had created a Trump. I knew it would work.
Retrieving my sword from the bedroom, I found the pen and ink my father had used, left him my thanks on the back of the note he'd left me, and told him I had gone to rescue Taine from the tower of skulls. I would return home to our house in the Beyond if successful. If not… he should try to contact me via Trump and bring me back directly.
Then I turned to the picture I had sketched on the wall, concentrating. Slowly, I felt it coming to life before me. It grew darker, blacks and browns emerging… lengthening shadows… the altar block… the circling stairway of bones… the entrance through which prisoners came…
Like a doorway, it filled the wall.
Hefting my sword, I stepped through.
The inside of the tower proved to be deserted. I knew it from the way my footsteps echoed; the shadows where I had previously seen Lord Zon remained empty. I no longer felt that malevolent presence there.
I crept up to the shadowy doorway and peered into a narrow corridor that circled down. A single torch lit the way, its light bubbling up to pool on the ceiling. Pausing, I listened, but heard nothing… no rustle of leather, no clink of armor, nor even the moans of prisoners.
I started forward, treading softly, sword ready. It couldn't possibly be this easy to rescue Taine.
The passageway descended. I came to a line of doors, all of them closed. Cells? I unbarred the first one and pushed it open, revealing a dark, tiny room scarcely large enough to lie down in. A skeleton lay chained in the far corner, its bones showing signs of having been gnawed. A few tatters of clothing remained, but nothing to tell me who it had been. Hopefully not one of my missing brothers or sisters.
The next two cells were empty.
The fourth cell held Taine. I rushed to his side. Still alive—?
He was not chained, but lay on a pile of straw against the far wall. His bare chest and arms were covered with scabbed-over sores and cuts, just as I had seen in my last spirit-voyage here. A yellow crust covered his eyes. For a second I thought he might be dead, but then as I bent over him and my shadow covered his face, he moaned and tried to push me away.
"Lie still," I said softly. "I'm your brother Oberon. I'm here to rescue you."
He began to thrash and cry out wordlessly. Clearly he was beyond reason. Luckily his strength was gone; his blows were like a child's. I pinned his arms with one hand, then picked him up and threw him over my shoulder. He was curiously light—he had to weigh less than a hundred pounds now, starved as he was to skin and bones—and I had no trouble carrying him.
When I turned to leave, however, the room darkened. Half a dozen guards filled the doorway, blocking out the torch light. They all held swords at the ready.
I swallowed and raised my own weapon. It would be a challenge to cut my way through them while protecting Taine.
Instead of trying to fight me, however, they slammed the door shut. I heard the bar dropping into place.
Darkness surrounded me. I had a terrible, sinking feeling inside. Taine moaned.
"Don't give up just yet," I told him.
He did not reply. I put him down on the pile of straw, then sat next to him, my back to the wall and my sword balanced across my knees.
I fished the first Trump out of the pouch at my belt, the one showing my room. A couple of thin blades of light came in through cracks in the door. I tilted the Trump until I could see I clearly and began to concentrate.
It should have come to life before me, but it didn't. I felt… nothing. Something, some spell of Lord Zon's, prevented the Logrus from working in here.
So much for my first backup plan. I put the Trump away. Before I could try creating a Pattern-Trump of my own, the light faded away, leaving me in complete darkness… no way to see or draw a new Trump.
I sighed. That just left my father.
It shouldn't be long now. It shouldn't be long at all…
TWENTY-EIGHT
After what seemed a lifetime, I felt the familiar sensation of someone trying to reach me via my Trump. I opened my mind and reached out.
Dworkin appeared before me, framed by the white walls of the cottage. My wine-sketched Trump lay behind his left shoulder.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"In a cell with Taine. Take us out?"
He nodded and extended his right hand. "Come on."
I picked up my brother's limp body, reached out to Dad, and he pulled us both through to the cottage. As the dark cell disappeared, I couldn't help but grin.
"Thanks," I said. "I've been waiting for you."
He glanced at the sword in my hand. "They did not disarm you, I see. What happened?"
"It was a trap," I said.
I carried Taine into the bedroom and set him down on the bed. He stirred a moment, then lay still. He looked worse in the bright light than he had in the cell. Still, he was tough or he would have died long before this.
"They locked me up when I went into Taine's cell," I continued. "I tried to get out with one of Aber's Trumps, but they must have spells that prevent the Logrus from working, I think, like in Juniper."
"Interesting," he said.
"They haven't figured out yet that you're no longer using the Logrus."
Dworkin chuckled. "You know too much, my boy! Good thing they did not question you."
He looked over my brother's injuries briefly. "Dehydration and loss of b
lood, I think. Starvation. The wounds look worse than they really are. Get him something to drink."
"Water…" gasped Taine suddenly.
I looked in the next room, but only found the half bottle of wine I hadn't finished. I poured him a glass and held his head up while he took tiny sips.
He finished it all, then lay back and seemed to go to sleep—or pass out.
"What should we do with him?" I asked. "Do you know any safe Shadows, where they can't possibly reach him?"
"I have a better idea."
He produced a new Trump and handed it to me. It showed the library of our house in the Beyond. The paint glistened; it hadn't been made long before.
"Take him to Freda. She will nurse him back to health. Home may be the best place for them all right now. I can't think of a safer one."
"Aber and Freda put up spells to shield it," I said.
"I know," he said. "So have I. Get going."
"Then what? When will I see you again? You said you needed my help."
"I do. I will." He nodded. "I will contact you soon. I have one quick errand first…"
Scooping up Taine, I studied the Trump until the library grew before me. Scrolls, books, the table…
I stepped through and found myself in the room. Fenn and Aber were seated at the table, talking. They leaped to their feet, looking surprised—and happy.
"Is that Taine?" Aber cried.
"Yes."
"How—"
"I rescued him," I said simply.
I deliberately didn't mention our father's role in the adventure—if they knew too much, they might be considered conspirators with Dworkin and me, and punished accordingly. That was the moment I realized I was a conspirator, whether I wanted to be or not. Clearly, with that Pattern inside me, I could never hope to ally myself with King Uthor and the Courts of Chaos. They would destroy me at once if they ever found out. My future had to lie elsewhere… with this power to which Dad had allied himself.
"Let me give you a hand," Fenn said. He took Taine from my arms.
Aber and I followed him out and up the stairs to the floor where we all had rooms. He knew Taine's door, and the face carved in it let us all in without any question. It seemed they could adapt to emergencies when they had to.
Anari suddenly appeared in the doorway, looking concerned.
"Lord Taine?" he asked. "Is he—"
"Alive but unconscious," I said. "Find Freda and tell her to get in here. Then get us warm broth and lots of water. I don't think he's eaten in weeks."
"Yes, Lord." Anari turned and ran down the hall.
I returned to the bed. Taine began to stir and opened his eyes a little as Fenn put pillows behind his head.
"I dreamed…" he whispered.
"Try not to think about it," Aber said. "The important thing is that you're here and you're safe."
Freda appeared. "What is this about?" she demanded. Then she saw Taine and hurried forward, pushing Aber and Fenn to one side.
"I think," Aber said, drawing me out to the hall, "that you have a story to tell us."
I chuckled. "It's going to have to wait. I'm exhausted, and I'm going to bed. Call me if we're attacked, otherwise…"
"But your meeting with Locke! What happened?"
"It wasn't Locke," I said simply. "He told me where to find Taine before I killed him. Then I went and got him. It's that simple."
Port swung my door open as I approached.
"No one," I said after he closed, "is to come in here until I wake up. Especially not brothers, sisters, or beautiful half-dressed women!"
"A very wise decision," said Port, sounding happy at last.
I couldn't have been asleep for more than a few hours before I felt rough hands shaking me.
"What now?" I groaned. If this was Aber, using yet another of his seemingly endless supply of Trumps, I'd strangle him.
But it was not Aber. It was my father.
"Get dressed, quickly and quietly," he said. "We're leaving. I told you I needed your help. The time has come."
TWENTY-NINE
"You keep telling me you need my help," I said, sitting up. "With what, exactly?"
"Oh, this and that," he said. "And I want your company, my boy. We should spend more time together…"
I had a strange feeling he had no intention of telling me anything right now. The last time he had shown up like this and dragged me out of bed, it had been in Ilerium, and he had saved my life. Hell-creatures had hurled glowing green fire at my house, destroying it almost as I stepped through the door.
I began pulling on my pants.
"Is an attack coming?" I demanded. I pulled on my left boot, stamping my foot on the floor to force it comfortably into place. "If so, we have to get everyone out of the house."
"No one knows I am here," he said. "I do not think an attack will come. At least, not tonight."
"Will I need a sword?"
"Hopefully not. Bring one anyway."
Chuckling, I got my right boot on, then pulled on my shirt and laced up the front. I would have brought my sword whether he wanted me to or not; that he wanted me to bring it meant he expected fighting.
Finally, rising, I buckled on my swordbelt and loosened the blade in the scabbard.
"Ready," I announced.
"That sword—I meant to ask you where you got it."
"Aber borrowed it for me. I needed it for my engagement party. I'm supposed to marry my cousin Braxara next year."
He stared at me, shaking his head. "Oberon… how do you get yourself into these things? I will talk to her parents. We cannot have such a match."
"Not that they would let her marry the son of a traitor," I said.
He looked at me oddly. "Not a traitor… the founder of a new dynasty!"
"I'd be happy to make it through this whole mess alive."
He shook his head and pulled out a Trump I had never seen before. This one had been carefully finished, unlike the hastily sketched Trumps he had made in Juniper, and it looked old—a favorite place he had been many times before, I guessed.
It showed an ancient tavern with ivy-colored walls, small-paned glass windows glowing warmly from within, and a pair of huge brick chimneys from which smoke rose. The sign of a boar's head hung over the doorway.
"You're taking me drinking?" I asked, letting a hopeful note creep into my voice.
"I need help," he said, "to correct a great mistake I made many years ago. And this is where we are going to start."
"Aha," I said. "The theft of the Jewel of Judgment, I assume."
"What do you know about that?" he demanded, regarding me warily. Unconsciously, he touched his chest… just about the place a pendant would hang. Or the Jewel, if he had it on a chain around his neck. I studied him.
"It's all everyone is talking about in the Courts. People keep asking me if I know where you hid it."
Shaking his head, he forced a laugh. "Next time they do, tell them I never had it."
"All right," I agreed. No sense in tipping my hand any more than I already had. "Now, about this tavern…"
He smiled happily. "A friend of mine runs it," He said. "Come on. I do need a drink now!"
Taking my elbow, he raised the Trump and concentrated on the image. It seemed to come to life, rising and expanding before us, a low stone building with ivy running up the walls, plenty of open windows with curtains fluttering in the breeze. I heard voices raised in a cheerful drinking song, smelled baking bread and roasting meat on the faint wind that now touched my face.
He stepped forward, pulling me with him. My feet left the wooden floor, and I trod on hard-packed dirt.
It was early afternoon, and we stood in front of the tavern. A warm wind blew, heavy with the smells of trees and grass and summer. Birds sang and insects chirped.
Through the open doorway of the tavern came a minstrel's voice, accompanied by the strumming of a lute, and suddenly a dozen voices joined in on the chorus.
I smiled; this was the sor
t of place I liked. Leaving Chaos made it feel like a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I would not go back easily to that nightmare place.
Dad started forward, and I fell in step behind him, one hand dropping to the hilt of my sword. For all I knew, this might be a carefully constructed trap. If our enemies knew Dworkin frequented this place, what better spot for an ambush?
Fortunately, we found no hell-creatures inside—just a dozen men, who seemed to be locals in for a quiet evening of cards and gossip, plus a couple of serving maids and a portly man behind the bar, whose eyes lit up with honest pleasure as he spotted my father.
"Dworkin, my old friend!" he cried, coming around to greet us. "It has been far too long!"
Laughing, the two clapped each other on the back like old drinking buddies.
"This is my son, Oberon," Dworkin said with a nod to me. "Oberon, this is Ben Bayle. Not only is he a good friend, he is one of the best vintners I have ever found."
"One of the best?" said Bayle.
"All right," laughed Dworkin, "the best of them all!"
"That's more like it!"
"A tavern-keeper who makes his own wine?" I said, raising my eyebrows.
"And who better?" said Bayle, but he grinned happily. "You must try last year's red," he said to Dworkin. "It was a very dry year, and the wine has an extra piquancy. I think it's one of our best, on par with the red of '48."
"That good!" said my father. "Set us up." He glanced around the room; nobody paid us the slightest heed now, wrapped up in their own drinking and conversation and a couple of card games. "The corner table," he said to me, indicating the one he wanted with a quick jerk of his head.
I headed over and sat with my back to one wall, my sword on the chair next to me. Dworkin sat with his back to the other wall. We could both see the door.
"You should like this place," he said to me. "I spent a lot of time here when I was your age."
"I didn't think the Shadows were that old. How old were you when you created them?"
New Amber Trilogy 2 - Chaos and Amber Page 20