The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

by Roger Zelazny

  Yes, Frakir said after a time. Caution is in order, But don’t ask me what to expect. It a only a general feeling of menace that I have.

  Perhaps there’s some way I could just sneak by whatever it is.

  You’d have to leave the trail to do that, Frakir replied, and since the trail does run through the circle of stones where it’s coming from, I’d say no.

  Nobody told me I couldn’t leave the trail. Do you have any instructions to that effect?

  I know you are supposed to follow the trail. I’ve nothing specific concerning the consequences of leaving it, though.

  Hm.

  The way curved to the right, and I followed it. It ran directly into the massive circle of stones, and though I slowed my pace, I did not deviate. I studied it as I drew near, however, and noted that while the trail entered there, it did not emerge again.

  You’re right, Frakir observed. Like the den of the dragon.

  But we’re supposed to go this way.

  Yes.

  Then we will.

  I’d slowed to a walk by then, and I followed the shining way between two gray plinths.

  The lighting was different within the circle from without. There was more of it, though the place was still a study in black and white, with a fairyland sparkle to it. For the first time here I saw something that appeared to be living. There was something like grass underfoot; it was silver and seemed to be studded with dewdrops.

  I halted, and Frakir constricted in a very odd fashion—less a warning, it seemed, than a statement of interest. Off to my right was an altar—not at all like the one over which I had vaulted back in the chapel. This one was a rude slab of stone set atop a couple of boulders. No candles, linens, or other ecclesiastical niceties kept company with the lady who lay atop it, her wrists and ankles bound. Because I recalled a similar bothersome situation in which I had once found myself, my sympathies were all with the lady—white-haired, black-skinned, and somehow familiar—my animus with the peculiar individual who stood behind the altar, faced in my direction, blade upraised in his left hand. The right half of his body was totally black; the left, blindingly white. Immediately galvanized by the tableau, I moved forward. My Concerto for Cuisinart and Microwave spell would have minced him and parboiled him in an instant, but it was useless to me when I could not speak the guide words.

  I seemed to feel his gaze upon me as I raced toward him, though one side of him was too dark and the other too bright for me to know for certain. And then the knife hand descended and the blade entered her breast beneath the sternum with an arcing movement. At that instant she screamed, and the blood spurted and it was red against all those blacks and whites, and I realized as it covered the man’s hand that had I tried, I might have uttered my spell and saved her.

  Then the altar collapsed, and a gray whirlwind obliterated my view of the entire tableau. The blood swirled through it to a barber pole-like effect, gradually spreading and attenuating to turn the funnel rosy, then pink, then faded to silver, then gone. When I reached the spot, the grasses sparkled, sans altar, sans priest, sans sacrifice.

  I drew up short, staring.

  “Are we dreaming?” I asked aloud.

  I do not believe I am capable of dreaming, Frakir replied.

  “Then tell me what you saw.”

  I saw a guy stab a lady who was tied up on a stone surface, Then the whole thing collapsed and blew away. The guy was black and white, the blood was red, the lady was Deirdre-

  “What? By God, you’re right! It did look like her—in negative. But she’s already dead—”

  I must remind you that I saw whatever you thought you saw. I don’t know what the raw data were, just the mixing job your nervous system did on them. My own special perceptions told me that there were not normal people but were beings on the order of the Dworkin and Oberon figures that visited you back in the cave.

  An absolutely terrifying thought occurred to me just then. The Dworkin and Oberon figures had had me thinking briefly of three-dimensional computer simulations. And the Ghostwheel’s shadow-scanning ability was based on digitized abstractions of portions of Pattern I believed to be particularly concerned with this quality. And Ghost had been wondering—almost wistfully, it now seemed—concerning the qualifications for godhood.

  Could my own creation be playing games with me? Might Ghost have imprisoned me in a stark and distant shadow, blocked all my efforts at communication, and set about playing an elaborate game with me? If he could beat his own creator, for whom he seemed to feel something of awe, might he not feel he had achieved personal elevation to a level beyond my status in his private cosmos? Maybe. If one keeps encountering computer simulations, cherchez le deus ex machina.

  It made me wonder just how strong Ghost really was. Though his power was, in part, an analogue of the Pattern, .I was certain it did not match that of the Pattern—or the Logrus. I couldn’t see him blocking this place off from either.

  On the other hand, all that would really be necessary would be to block me. I suppose he could have impersonated the Logrus in our flash encounter on my arrival. But that would have required Ghost’s actually enhancing Frakir, and I didn’t believe he could do it. And what about the Unicorn and the Serpent?

  “Frakir,” I asked, “are you sure it was really the Logrus that enhanced you this time and programmed you with all the instructions you’re carrying?”

  Yes.

  “What makes you certain?”

  It had the same feeling as our first encounter back within the Logrus, when I was enhanced initially.

  “I see. Next question: Could the Unicorn and the Serpent we saw back in the chapel have been the same sort of things as the Oberon or Dworkin figures back at the cave?”

  No. I’d have known. They weren’t like them at all. They were terrible and powerful and very much what they seemed.

  “Good,” I said. “I was worried this might be some elaborate charade on the part of the Ghostwheel.”

  I see that in your mind. Though I fail to see why the reality of the Unicorn and the Serpent defeats the thesis. They could simply have entered the Ghost's construct to tell you to stop horsing around because they want to see this thing played out.

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  And maybe the Ghost was able to locate and penetrate a place that is pretty much inaccessible to the Pattern and the Logrus.

  “I suppose you’ve a point there. Unfortunately this pretty much puts me back where I started.”

  No, because this place is not something Ghost put together. It’s always been around. I learned that much from the Logrus.

  “I suppose there’s some small comfort in knowing that, but—”

  I never completed the thought because a sudden movement called my attention to the opposite quadrant of the circle. There I beheld an altar I had not noted before, a female figure standing behind it, a man dappled in shadow and light lying, fund, upon it. They looked very similar to the first pair. .

  “No!” I cried. “Let it end!”

  But the blade descended even as I moved in that direction. The ritual was repeated, and the altar collapsed, and everything again swirled away. When I reached the site, there was no indication that anything unusual had occurred upon it.

  “What do you make of that one?” I asked Frakir.

  Same forces as before, but somehow reversed.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  It is a gathering of powers. The Pattern and the Logrus both attempting to force their way into this place, for a little while. Sacrifices, such as those you just witnessed, help provide the openings they need.

  “Why do they wish to manifest here?”

  Neutral ground. Their ancient tension is shifting in subtle ways. You are expected in some fashion to tip the balance of power one way or another.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about such thing.”

  When the time comes, you will.

  I returned to the trail and walked
on.

  “Did I pass by just as the sacrifices were due?” I said: “Or were the sacrifices due because I was passing by?”

  They were marked to occur in your vicinity. You are a nexus.

  “Then do you think I can expect—”

  A figure stepped out from behind a stone to my left and chuckled softly. My hand went to my sword, but his hands were empty, and he moved slowly.

  “Talking to yourself. Not a good sign,” he remarked.

  The man was a study in black, white, and gray In fact, from the cast of the darkness upon his right-hand side and the lay of the light on his left, he might have been the first wielder of the sacrificial dagger. I’d no real way of telling. Whoever or whatever he or it was, I’d no desire to become acquainted.

  So I shrugged.

  “The only sign I care about here has ‘exit’ written on it,” I told him as I brushed past him.

  His hand fell upon my shoulder and turned me back easily in his direction.

  Again the chuckle.

  “You must be careful what you wish for in this place,” he told me in low and measured tones, “for wishes are sometimes granted here, and if the granter be depraved and read ‘quietus’ for your ‘exit’—why, then, poof! You may cease to be. Up in smoke. Downward to the earth. Sideways to hell and gone.”

  “I’ve already been there,” I answered, “and lots of points along the way.”

  “What ho! Look! Your wish has been granted,” he remarked, his left eye catching a flash of light and reflecting it, tapetum-like, in my direction. No matter how I turned or squinted, however, could I find sight of his right eye. “Over there,” he finished, pointing.

  I turned my head in the direction he indicated, and there upon the top stone of a dolmen shone an exit sign exactly like the one above the emergency door at a theater I used to frequent near campus.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “Will you go through it?”

  “Will you?”

  “No need,” he replied. “I already know what’s there.”

  “What?” I inquired.

  “The other side.”

  “How droll,” I answered.

  “If one gets one’s wish and spurns it, one might piss off the Powers,” he said then.

  “You have firsthand knowledge of this?”

  I heard a grinding, clicking noise then, and it was several moments before I realized he was gnashing his teeth. I walked away then toward the exit sign, wanting to inspect whatever it represented at nearer range.

  There were two standing stones with a flat slab across the top. The gateway thus formed was large enough to walk through. It was shadowy, though. . . .

  You going through it, boss?

  “Why not? This is one of the few times in my life that I feel indispensable to whoever is running the show.”

  I wouldn’t get too cocky . . . Frakir began, but I was already moving.

  Three quick paces were all that it took, and I was looking outward across a circle of stones and sparkling grass past a black-and-white man toward another dolmen bearing an exit sign, a shadowy form within it. Halting, I took a step backward and turned. There was a black-and-white man regarding me, a dolmen to his rear, dark form within it. I raised my right hand above my head. So did the shadowy figure. I turned back in the direction I had initially been headed. The shadowy figure across from me also had his hand upraised. I stepped on through.

  “Small world,” I observed, “but I’d hate to paint it.”

  The man laughed.

  “Now you are reminded that your every exit is also an entrance,” he said.

  “Seeing you here, I am reminded even more of a play by Sartre,” I responded.

  “Unkind,” he answered, “but philosophically cogent. I have always found that hell is other people. Only I have done nothing to rouse your distrust, have I?”

  “Were you or were you not the person I saw sacrifice a woman in this vicinity?” I asked.

  “Even if I were, what is that to you? You were not involved.”

  “I guess I have peculiar feelings about little things—like the value of life.”

  “Indignation is cheap. Even Albert Schweitzer’s reverence for life didn’t include the tapeworm, the tsetse fly, the cancer cell.”

  “You know what I mean. Did you or did you not sacrifice a woman on a stone altar a little while ago?”

  “Show me the altar.”

  “I can’t. It’s gone.”

  “Show me the woman.”

  “She is, too.”

  “Then you haven’t much of a case.”

  “This isn’t a court, damn it! If you want to converse, answer my question. If you don’t, let’s stop making noises at each other.”

  “I have answered you.”

  I shrugged.

  “All right,” I said. “I don’t know you, and I’m very happy that way. Good day.”

  I took a step away from him, back in the direction of the trail. As I did, he said, “Deirdre. Her name was Deirdre, and I did indeed kill her,” and he stepped into the dolmen from which I had just emerged, and there he disappeared. Immediately I looked across the way, but he did not exit beneath the exit sign. I did an about-face and stepped into the dolmen myself. I did emerge from the other side, across the way, catching sight of myself entering the opposite one as I did so. I did not see the stranger anywhere along the way.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked Frakir as I moved back toward the trail.

  A spirit of place, perhaps? A nasty spirit for a nasty place? she ventured. I don’t know, but I think he was one of those damned constructs, too—and they’re stronger here.

  I headed down to the trail, set foot upon it, and commenced following it once again.

  “Your speech patterns have altered enormously since your enhancement,” I remarked.

  Your nervous system’s a good teacher.

  “Thanks. If that guy puts in an appearance again and you sense him before I see him, give me the high sign.”

  Right. Actually, this entire place has the feeling of one of those constructs. Every stone here has a bit of Pattern scribble to it.

  “When did you learn this?”

  Back when we first tried the exit. I scanned it for danger then.

  As we came to the periphery of the outer circle, I slapped a stone. It felt solid enough.

  He’s here! Frakir warned suddenly.

  “Hey!” came a voice from overhead, and I looked up. The black-and-white stranger was seated atop the stone, smoking a thin cigar. He held a chalice in his left hand. “You interest me, kid,” he went on. “What’s your name?”

  “Merlin,” I answered. “What’s yours?”

  Instead of replying, he pushed himself outward, fell in slow motion, landed on his feet beside me. His left eye squinted as he studied me. The shadows flowed like dark water down his right side. He blew silvery smoke into the air.

  “You’re a live one,” he announced then, “with the mark of the Pattern and the mark of Chaos upon you. You bear the blood of Amber. What is your lineage, Merlin?”

  The shadows parted for a moment, and I saw that his right eye was hidden by a patch.

  “I am the son of Corwin,” I told him, “and you are—somehow—the traitor Brand.”

  “You have named me,” he said, “but I never betrayed what I believed in.”

  “That being your own ambition,” I said. “Your home and your family and the forces of Order never mattered to you, did they?”

  He snorted.

  “I will not argue with a presumptuous puppy.”

  “I’ve no desire to argue with you either. For whatever it’s worth, your son Rinaldo is probably my best friend.”

  I turned away and began walking. His hand fell upon my shoulder.

  “Wait!” he said. “What is this talk? Rinaldo is but a lad.”

  “Wrong,” I answered. “He’s around my age.”

  His hand fell away, and I turned. H
e had dropped his cigar, which lay smoking upon the trail, and he’d transferred the chalice to his shadow-clad hand. He massaged his brow.

  “That much time has passed in the mainlines . . . ” he remarked.

  On a whim, I withdrew my Trumps, shuffled out Luke’s, held it up for him to see.

  “That’s Rinaldo,” I said.

  He reached for it, and for some obscure reason I let him take it. He stared at it for a long while.

  “Trump contact doesn’t seem to work from here,” I said.

  He looked up, shook his head, and handed the card back to me.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” he stated. “How . . . is he?”

  “You know that he killed Caine to avenge you?”

  “No, I didn’t know. But I’d expect no less of him.”

  “You’re not exactly Brand, are you?”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  “I am entirely Brand, and I am not Brand as you might have known him. Anything more than that will cost you.”

  “What will it cost me to learn what you really are?” I inquired as I cased my cards.

  He raised the chalice, held it before him with both hands, like a begging bowl.

  “Some of your blood,” he said.

  “You’ve become a vampire?”

  “No, I’m a Pattern-ghost,” he replied. “Bleed for me, and I’ll explain.”

  “All right,” I said. “It’d better be a good story, though,” and I drew my dagger and pricked my wrist, which I’d extended to a position above his cup.

  Like a spilled oil lamp, the flames came forth. I don’t really have fire flowing around inside me, of course. But the blood of a Chaosite is highly volatile in certain places, and this, apparently, was such a place.

  It spewed forth, half into and half past the cup, splashing over his hand, his forearm. He screamed and seemed to collapse in upon himself. I stepped backward as he was transformed into a vortex—not unlike those following the sacrifices I had witnessed, only this one of the fiery variety—which rose into the air with a roar and vanished a moment later, leaving me startled, staring upward and applying direct pressure to my smoking wrist.

  Uh, colorful exit, Frakir remarked.

  “Family specialty,” I responded, “and speaking of exits . . . ”