The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  Light! One day it was there, and it made me feel so good that I immediately broke out the final bottle of wine Rein had brought me and opened the last pack of cigarettes, which I had been saving.

  I smoked them and sipped and enjoyed the feeling that I had somehow beaten Eric. If he found this out, I felt it might be fatal. But I knew he didn’t know.

  So I rejoiced, smoking. drinking and reveling in the light of that which had occurred.

  Yes, the light.

  I’d discovered a tiny patch of brightness, off somewhere to my right.

  Well, let’s take it like this: I had awakened in a hospital bed and learned that I had recovered all too soon. Dig?

  I heal faster than others who have been broken. All the lords and ladies of Amber have something of this capacity.

  I’d lived through the Plague, I’d lived through the march on Moscow.

  I regenerate faster and better than anybody I’ve ever known.

  Napoleon had once made a remark about it. So had General MacArthur.

  With nerve tissue it takes me a bit longer, that’s all.

  My sight was returning to me, that’s what it meant—that lovely patch of brightness, off somewhere to my right.

  After a time, I knew that it was the little barren area in the door to my cell.

  I had grown new eyes, my fingers told me. It had taken me over three years, but I had done it. It was the million-to-one thing I spoke of earlier, the thing which even Eric could not properly assess, because of the variances of powers among the individual members of the family. I had beaten him to this extent: I had learned that I could grow new eyeballs. I had always known that I could regenerate nerve tissues, given sufficient time. I had been left paraplegic from a spine injury received during the Franco-Prussian wars. After two years, it had gone away. I had had my hope—a wild one, I’ll admit—that I could do what I had done then, with my burned-out orbs. And I had been right. They felt intact, and the sight was returning, slowly.

  How long till the next anniversary of Eric’s coronation? I stopped pacing and my heart beat faster. As soon as someone saw that I’d recovered my eyes, I’d lose them again.

  Therefore, I’d have to escape before the four years had passed.

  How?

  I hadn’t thought about it much up to this time, because even if I could figure a way to get out of my cell, I’d never make it out of Amber—or out of the palace, for that matter—without eyes or aid, and neither were available to me.

  Now, though . . .

  The door of my cell was a big, heavy, brass-bound thing, with only a tiny grille at a height of about five feet for purposes of looking in to see whether I was still alive, if anyone cared. Even if I succeeded in removing it, I could tell that I couldn’t reach out far enough to touch the lock. There was a little swinging gate at the bottom of the door, large enough to push my food through and that’s about all. The hinges were either on the outside or in between the door and the jamb, I couldn’t tell for sure. Either way, I couldn’t get at them. There were no windows and no other doors.

  It was still almost like being blind, save for that feeble reassuring light through the grille. I knew my sight hadn’t returned fully. That was still a long way off. But even if it had, it was nearly pitch dark in there. I knew this because I knew the dungeons under Amber.

  I lit a cigarette, paced some more, and assessed my possessions, seeking anything that might be of aid. There was my clothing, my sleeping mat, and all the damp straw I wanted. I also had matches, but I quickly rejected the notion of setting fire to the straw. I doubted anyone would come and open the door if I did. Most likely the guard would come and laugh, if he came at all. I had a spoon I’d picked up at the last banquet. I’d wanted a knife, really, but Julian had caught me trying to lift one and snatched it away. What he didn’t know, though, was that that was my second attempt. I already had the spoon tucked inside my boot

  So what good was it?

  I’d heard these stories of guys digging their way out of cells with the damnedest things—belt buckles (which I didn’t have)—etc. But I didn’t have time to try the Count of Monte Cristo bit. I needed out in a matter of months, or my new eyes wouldn’t mean anything.

  The door was mainly wood. Oak. It was bound with four metal strips. One went around it near the top, one near the bottom, right above the gate, and there were two which ran from top to bottom, passing along either side of the foot-wide grille. The door opened outward, I knew, and the lock was to my left. My memories told me the door was about two inches thick, and I recalled the approximate position of the lock, which I verified by leaning against the door and feeling the tension at that point. I knew that the door was also barred, but I could worry about that later. I might be able to raise it by sliding the handle of the spoon upward between the door’s edge and the jamb.

  I knelt on my sleeping mat and with the spoon I traced a box about that area which contained the lock. I worked until my hand was quite sore—maybe a couple of hours. Then I ran my fingernail over the surface of the wood. I hadn’t scarred it much, but it was a beginning. I switched the spoon to my left hand and continued until it, began to ache.

  I kept hoping that Rein would show up. I was sure I could talk him into giving me his dagger if I really pressed the matter. He didn’t put in an appearance, though, so I just kept grinding away.

  Day after day I worked, until I was perhaps half an inch into the wood. Each time I’d hear a guard’s footsteps I’d move the pallet back to the far wall and lie down on it with my back to the door. When he had passed, I’d resume work. Then I had to stop for a while, as much as I hated to. Even though I had wrapped them in cloth torn from my garments, my hands had blistered and the blisters had broken, and after a time the raw flesh underneath began to bleed. So I took a break to let them heal. I decided to devote the time to planning what I’d do after I got out.

  When I’d worked my way far enough through the door, I’d raise the bar. The sound of it falling would probably bring a guard. By then, though, I’d be out. A couple of good kicks would break out the piece I was working on and the lock could stay right where it was if it wanted to. The door would swing open then and I would face the guard. He would be armed and I wouldn’t. I’d have to take him.

  He might be overconfident, thinking I couldn’t see. On the other hand, he might be a bit afraid, if he recalled how I had entered into Amber. Either way he would die and I would then be armed. I gripped my right biceps with my left hand and my fingertips touched. Gods! I was emaciated! Whatever, I was of the blood of Amber, and I felt that even in that condition I could take any ordinary man. Maybe I was kidding myself, but I’d have to try it.

  Then if I succeeded, with a blade in my hand, nothing could keep me from reaching the Pattern. I’d walk it, and when I made it to the center, I could transport myself to any Shadow world I chose. There I would recuperate, and this time I would not rush things. If it took me a century, I’d have everything letter-perfect before I moved against Amber again. After all, I was technically its liege. Hadn’t I crowned myself in the presence of all, before Eric had done the same? I’d make good my claim to the throne!

  If only it weren’t impossible to walk into Shadow from Amber itself! Then I wouldn’t have to fool around with the Pattern. But my Amber is the center of all, and you just don’t depart it that easily.

  After, say, a month my hands had healed and I was developing large calluses from my scraping activities. I heard a guard’s footsteps and removed myself to the far side of the cell. There was a brief creak and my meal was slipped beneath the door. Then there were footsteps again, this time diminishing in the distance.

  I returned to the door. Without looking, I knew what was on the tray: a chunk of stale bread. a crock of water, and a piece of cheese if I was lucky. I positioned the mat, knelt on it and felt at the groove. I was about halfway through.

  Then I heard the chuckle.

  It came from behind me.

  I
turned, not needing my eyes to tell me that someone else was present. There was a man standing near the left wall, giggling.

  “Who is it?” I asked. and my voice sounded strange. I realized then that these were the first words I had spoken in a long while.

  “Escape,” he said. “Trying to escape.” And he chuckled again.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Walked,” he replied.

  “From where? How?”

  I struck a match and it hurt my eyes, but I held it.

  He was a small man. Tiny, might be an even better word. He was around five feet tall and a hunchback. His hair and beard were as heavy as my own. The only distinguishing features in that great mass of fur were his long, hook nose and his almost black eyes, now squinted against the light.

  “Dworkin!” I said.

  He chuckled again.

  “That’s my name. What’s yours?”

  “Don’t you know me, Dworkin?” I struck another match and held it near my face. “Look hard. Forget the beard and the hair. Add a hundred pounds to my frame. You drew me, in exquisite detail, on several packs of playing cards.”

  “Corwin,” he said at last. “I remember you. Yes.”

  “I had thought you were dead.”

  “I’m not, though. See?” and he pirouetted before me. “How is your father? Have you seen him recently? Did he put you here?”

  “Oberon is no more,” I replied. “My brother Eric reigns in Amber, and I’m his prisoner.”

  “Then I have seniority,” he told me, “for I am Oberon’s prisoner.”

  “Oh? None of us knew that Dad had locked you up.”

  I heard him weeping.

  “Yes,” he said after a time. “He didn’t trust me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told him I’d thought of a way to destroy Amber. I described it to him, and he locked me in.”

  “That wasn’t very nice.” I said.

  “I know,” he agreed, “but he did give me a pretty apartment and lots of things to do research with. Only he stopped coming to visit me after a time. He used to bring men who showed me splotches of ink and made me tell stories about them. That was fun, until I told a story I didn’t like and turned the man into a frog. The king was angry when I wouldn’t turn him back, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen anybody that I’d even turn him back now, if he still wanted me to. Once—”

  “How did you get here, into my cell?” I asked again,

  “I told you. I walked.”

  “Through the wall?”

  “Of course not. Through the shadow wall.”

  “No man can walk through Shadows in Amber. There are no Shadows in Amber.”

  “Well, I cheated,” he admitted.

  “How?”

  “I designed a new Trump and stepped through it, to see what was on this side of the wall. Oh my!—I just remembered. . . . I can’t get back without it. I’ll have to make another. Have you got anything to eat? And something to draw with? And something to draw on?”

  “Have a piece of bread,” I said, and handed It to him, “and here’s a piece of cheese to go along with it.”

  “Thank you, Corwin.” and he wolfed them down and drank all my water afterward. “Now, if you’ll give me a pen and a piece of parchment, I’ll be returning to my own rooms. I want to finish a book I was reading. It’s been nice talking to you. Too bad about Eric. I’ll stop back again some time and we’ll talk some more. If you see your father, please tell him not to he angry with me because I’ll—”

  “I don’t have a pen, or parchment,” I observed.

  “Goodness,” he said, “that’s hardly civilized.”

  “I know. But then, Eric isn’t very.”

  “Well, what have you got? I prefer my own apartment to this place. At least, it’s better lighted.”

  “You have dined with me,” I said, “and now I am going to ask you a favor. If you will grant me this request, I promise that I will do everything I can to make things right between you and Dad.”

  “What is it that you want?” he asked.

  “Long have I admired your work,” I said, “and there is something I have always desired as a work of your hand. Do you recall the Lighthouse of Cabra?”

  “Of course. I’ve been there many times. I know the keeper, Jopin. I used to play chess with him.”

  “More than anything else I can think of,” I told him, “for most of my adult life. I have longed to see one of your magical sketches of that great gray tower.”

  “A very simple subject,” he said, “and rather an appealing one, at that, I did some preliminary sketches in the past, but I never got beyond that point. Other work kept getting in the way. I’ll fetch you one, if you’d like.”

  “No,” I said. “I’d like something more enduring, to keep me company here in my cell—to comfort me, and any others who may later occupy this place.”

  “Commendable,” he said. “What have you in mind as the medium.”

  “I have a stylus here,” I told him (the spoon was fairly sharp by then), “and I’d like to see it traced upon the far wall, so that I might look at it as I take my rest.”

  He was silent a moment, then, “The illumination is quite poor.” he remarked.

  “I have several books of matches,” I replied. “I’ll light them and hold them for you. We might even burn some of this straw if we run low.”

  “Those are hardly ideal working conditions.

  “I know,” I said, “and I apologize for them, great Dworkin, but they are the best I have to offer. A work of art by your hand would brighten my humble existence beyond measure.”

  He chuckled again.

  “Very well. But you must promise me that you will provide light afterwards, so that I may sketch myself a way back to my own chambers.”

  “Agreed.” I said. and I felt in my pocket.

  I had three full packages of matches and part of a fourth.

  I pressed the spoon into his hand and led him to the wall.

  “Do you have the feel of the instrument?” I asked him.

  “Yes, it’s a sharpened spoon, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’ll make a light as soon as you say you are ready. You’ll have to sketch rapidly, because my supply of matches is limited. I’ll allot half for the lighthouse and the other half for your own business.”

  “All right,” he said, and I struck a match and he began to trace lines upon the moist gray wall.

  First he did an upright rectangle to frame and contain the thing. Then with several deft strokes, the lighthouse began to appear. It was amazing, daft as he was, his skill was intact. I held each match at its barest base, spat on my left thumb and forefinger, and when I could hold it no longer in my right I took hold of the blackened end and inverted it, letting the match burn away completely before I struck another.

  When the first book of matches was gone, he had finished the tower and was working on the sea and the sky. I encouraged him, I murmured appreciation at every stroke.

  “Great, really great,” I said, when it appeared to be almost finished. Then he made me waste another match while he signed it. I was almost through the second book by then.

  “Now let’s admire it,” he said.

  “If you want to get back to your own apartments, you’ll have to leave the admiring to me.” I told him. “We’re too low on matches to be art critics at this point.”

  He pouted a bit, but moved to the other wall and began sketching as soon as I struck a light.

  He sketched a tiny study, a skull on the desk, a globe beside it, walls full of books all around.

  “Now that’s good.” he said, when I had finished the third pack and was starting on the remaining partial pack.

  It took him six more to finish up and one to sign it. He gazed at it while the eighth match burned—there were only two remaining—then he took a step forward and was gone.

  The match was burning my fingertips by then and I dropped it and it sizzled w
hen it hit the straw and went out.

  I stood there shaking, full of mixed feelings, and then I heard his voice and felt his presence at my side. He was back again.

  “I just thought of something,” he said. “How can you see the picture when it’s so dark in here?”

  “Oh. I can see in the dark,” I told him. “I’ve lived with it so long that it has become my friend.”

  “I see. I just wondered. Give me a light so I can go back now.”

  “Very well,” I agreed, considering my second to last match. “But you’d better bring your own illumination next time you stop around, I’ll be out of matches after this.”

  “All right.” And I struck a light and he considered his drawing, walked toward it. and vanished once more.

  I turned quickly and considered the Lighthouse of Cabra before the match failed. Yes, the power was there. I could feel it.

  Would my final match serve me, though?

  No, I didn’t think it would. A longer period of concentration than that was required for me to use a Trump as a gateway.

  What could I burn? The straw was too damp and might not take fire. It would be horrible to have the gateway—my road to freedom—right there with me and not be able to use it.

  I needed a flame that would last awhile.

  My sleeping roll! It was a cloth liner stuffed with straw. That straw would be drier, and the cloth would burn, too.

  I cleared half the floor, down to the bare stone. Then I sought the sharpened spoon. to use to cut the liner. I cursed then. Dworkin had carried it off with him.

  I twisted and tore at the thing.

  Finally, it came open and I pulled out the dry straw from the middle. I made a little heap of it and I set the liner nearby, to use as extra fuel if I needed it. The less smoke the better, though. It would attract attention if a guard passed this way. This wasn’t too likely, though, since I had just recently been fed, and I got one meal a day.

  I struck my last match, then used it to set fire to the cardboard book that had contained it. When this got going, I used it on the straw.

  It almost didn’t take. The straw was damper than I’d thought, even though it came from the center of my mat. But finally there was a glow, and then a flame. It took two of the other empty matchbooks to achieve this, so I was glad I hadn’t thrown them down the john.