The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  “This must seem like pretty small beer to someone from Amber.”

  “Hell, it’s your home. You’ve got a right to take it seriously. I’m just sorry it’s doing such a job on you.”

  “Yeah, most problems seem to start at home, don’t they? Sometimes I just feel like taking a walk and not coming back.”

  “What would happen if you did?”

  “Either Mom would restore herself to the throne with Dalt’s gang to back her up, which would require a mess of executions of people I can think of who’d be against it, or she’d say the game isn’t worth the candle and settle for the Keep. If she decided to enjoy her retirement, then the coalition which backed him in the first place would probably spring Arkans and continue things from where they’d had to leave off.”

  “Which course of action seems most likely to you?” I said.

  “She’d go for it and there’d be a civil war. Win or lose, it would mess up the country and doubtless keep us out of the Golden Circle this time around, too. Speaking of which—”

  “I don’t know,” I said quickly. “I’m not empowered to talk Golden Circle Treaty with you.”

  “I’d kind of guessed that,” Luke said, “and that wasn’t what I wanted to ask. I was just curious whether anyone back in Amber might have said, ‘They just blew it,’ or ‘Maybe we’ll give them another crack at it a little farther down the road,’ or ‘We’ll still deal, but they can forget the Eregnor guarantees’.”

  He gave me an artificial grin, and I returned it.

  “You can forget Eregnor,” I said.

  “Figured that,” he said. “What about the rest?”

  “I get the impression it’s ‘Let’s wait and see what happens.’”

  “Guessed that much, too. Give me a good report, even if they don’t ask, okay? By the way, I don’t suppose your presence here is technically official?”

  “Personal,” I said, “from a diplomatic standpoint.”

  The lady up front rose to her feet. Luke sighed.

  “Wish I could find my way back to Alice’s restaurant. Maybe the Hatter would see something we’re missing,” he said. Then: “Hey! Where’d he come from? Looks just like you but—”

  He was staring past me, and I could already feel the disturbance. I didn’t even bother to summon the Logrus, though, because I felt ready for anything.

  I turned, smiling.

  “Are you ready to die, brother?” Jurt asked. He had either managed to re-grow his eye or was wearing an artificial one, and he now had sufficient hair that I could no longer tell about the ear. His little finger was partly re-grown also.

  “No, but I’m ready to kill,” I said. “I’m glad you happened by.”

  He bowed, mockingly. There was a faint glow about him. I could feel the power that flowed through and around his person.

  “Have you been back to the Keep for your final treatment?” I inquired.

  “I don’t believe that will be necessary,” he said. “I am more than adequate for any task I’ve set myself, now I’ve control of these forces.”

  “This is Jurt?” Luke asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. “This is Jurt.”

  Jurt cast a quick glance Luke’s way. I could feel him focusing on the blade.

  “Is that a power object you bear?” he inquired. “Let me see it!”

  He extended his hand, and the weapon jerked within Luke’s grip but did not come loose.

  “No, thanks,” Luke said, and Jurt vanished. A moment later he appeared behind Luke, and his arm went around Luke’s neck in a choke. Luke gripped it with one hand, bowed, and turned and threw him over his shoulder.

  Jurt landed on his back before him, and Luke made no move to follow up on his action.

  “Draw that blade,” Jurt said, “and let me see it.” Then he shook himself like a dog and rose to his feet. “Well?” he said.

  “I see no need for a weapon in dealing with the likes of you,” Luke told him.

  Jurt raised both hands above his head and formed them into fists. They met, remained in contact for a moment. Then he drew them apart, his right hand somehow drawing a long blade out of his left.

  “You ought to take that show on the road,” Luke said, “now.”

  “Draw it!” Jurt said.

  “I don’t like the idea of fighting in a church,” Luke told him. “You want to step outside?”

  “Very funny,” Jurt replied. “I know you’ve got an army out there. No thanks. I’ll even take a certain pleasure in bloodying a Unicorn shrine.”

  “You ought to talk to Dalt,” Luke said. “He gets his kicks in weird ways, too. Can I get you a horse—or a chicken? Maybe some white mice and aluminum foil?”

  Jurt lunged. Luke stepped backward and drew his father’s blade. It hissed and crackled and smoked as he parried lightly and drove it forward. There was a sudden fear on Jurt’s face as he threw himself backward, batting at it, stumbling. As he fell, Luke kicked him in the stomach and Jurt’s blade went flying.

  “That’s Werewindle!” Jurt gasped. “How did you come by the sword of Brand?”

  “Brand was my father,” Luke said.

  A momentary look of respect passed over Jurt’s face.

  “I didn’t know . . . ” he muttered, and then he vanished.

  I waited. I extended magical feelers all over the place. But there was just Luke, myself and the lady, who had halted some distance from us, watching, as if afraid to come any nearer on her way out.

  Then Luke collapsed. Jurt was standing behind him, having just struck him on the back of the neck with his elbow. He reached then for Luke’s wrist, as if to seize it and wrench the blade from his hand.

  “It must be mine!” he said as I reached through the ring and struck him with a bolt of pure energy which I thought would rupture most of his organs and leave him a bleeding mass of jelly. Only for an instant had I considered using anything less than lethal force. I could see that sooner or later one of us was going to kill the other, and I’d decided to get it over with before he got lucky.

  But he was already lucky. His bath in the Fount must have toughened him even more than I’d thought. He spun around three times, as if he’d been clipped by a truck, and was slammed up against the wall. He sagged. He slipped to the floor. Blood came out of his mouth. He looked as if he were about to pass out. Then his eyes focused and his hands extended.

  A force similar to the one I’d just thrown at him struck at me. I was surprised by his ability to regroup and retaliate at that level with that speed. Not so surprised that I wasn’t able to parry it, though. I took a step forward then and tried to set him afire with a beautiful spell the ring suggested. Rising, he was able to shield against it within moments of his clothes’ beginning to smolder. I kept coming, and he created a vacuum around me. I pierced it and kept breathing. Then I invoked a battering ram spell which the ring showed me, even more forceful than the first working with which I’d hit him.

  He vanished before it hit, and a crack ran up three feet of the stone wall which had been behind him. I sent sense-tendrils all over and spotted him seconds later, crouched on a cornice high overhead. He launched himself at me just as I looked up.

  I didn’t know whether it would break my hand or not, but I felt it would be worth it, even so, as I levitated. I contrived to pass him at about the midway point, and I hit him with a left, which I hoped broke his neck as well as his jaw. Unfortunately it also broke my levitation spell, and I tumbled to the floor along with him.

  I heard the lady cry out as we fell, and she came rushing toward us. We lay stunned for several heartbeats. Then he rolled over onto his stomach, reached, hunched and fell, reached again.

  His hand fell upon the haft of Werewindle. He must have felt my gaze as his fingers tightened about it, for he glanced at me and smiled. I heard Luke mutter a curse and stir. I threw a deep freeze spell at Jurt, but he trumped out before the cold front hit.

  Then the lady screamed again, and even before I turned, I
knew that the voice had been Coral’s. Reappearing, Jurt half collapsed against her from the rear, finding her throat with the edge of that bright, smoldering blade.

  “Nobody,” he gasped, “move . . . or I’ll carve her . . . an extra smile.”

  I sought after a quick spell that would finish him without endangering her.

  “Don’t try it, Merle,” he said. “I’ll feel it . . . coming. Just leave me . . . alone . . . for half a minute . . . and you’ll get to live . . . a little longer. I don’t know where you picked up . . . those extra tricks . . . but they won’t save you—”

  He was panting and covered with sweat. The blood still dripped from his mouth.

  “Let go of my wife,” Luke said, rising, “or there’ll never be anyplace you’ll be able to hide.”

  “I don’t want you for an enemy, son of Brand,” Jurt said.

  “Then do as I say, fella. I’ve taken out better men than you.”

  And then Jurt screamed as if his soul were on fire. Werewindle moved away from Coral’s throat, and Jurt backed off and began jerking, like a puppet whose joints have seized up but whose strings are still being yanked. Coral turned toward him, her back to Luke and me. Her right hand rose to her face. After a time Jurt fell to the floor and curled into a fetal position. A red light seemed to be playing upon him. He was shaking steadily, and I could even hear his teeth chattering.

  Abruptly, then, he was gone, trailing rainbows, leaving blood and spittle, bearing Werewindle with him. I sent a parting bolt after, but I knew that it did not reach him. I’d felt Julia’s presence at the other end of the spectrum, and despite everything else, I was pleased to know that I had not slain her yet. But Jurt—Jurt was very dangerous now, I realized. For this was the first time we’d fought that he hadn’t left a piece of himself behind, had even taken something away with him. Something deadly. He was learning, and that did not bode well.

  When I turned my head, I caught sight of the red glow before Coral lowered her eyepatch, and I realized what had become of the Jewel of Judgment, though not, of course, why.

  “Wife?” I said.

  “Well, sort of . . . Yes,” she replied.

  Prince of Chaos

  The Second Amber Pentology - Merlin’s Story: Book 5

  Chapter 1

  See one coronation and you’ve seen them all. Sounds cynical and probably is, especially when the principal is your best friend and his queen’s your inadvertent lover. But there’s generally a procession, with a lot of slow music, and uncomfortable, colorful garb, incense, speeches, prayers, the ringing of bells. They are tedious, generally hot, and requiring of one an insincere attention, as at weddings, commencements, and secret initiations.

  And so Luke and Coral became the sovereigns of Kashfa, in the same church where we’d fought almost—but, unfortunately, not quite—to the death with my mad brother Jurt but a few hours before. As Amber’s only representative at the event—albeit of, technically, unofficial status—I was accorded a ringside standing-place, and eyes were often drifting my way. So I had to keep alert and mouth appropriate responses. While Random would not permit formal status to my presence at the ceremony, I knew he’d be irritated if he heard that my behavior was less than diplomatically sound.

  So I wound up with hurting feet, a stiff neck, and colorful garments soaked with sweat. That’s show biz. Still, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Luke and I go back through some of the damnedest times, and I couldn’t help but think of them—from sword’s point to track meets, from art galleries and into Shadow—as I stood there sweltering and wondering what would become of him now he wore a crown. Such an occurrence had changed my uncle Random from a happy-go-lucky musician, footloose and degenerate, into a sage and responsible monarch—though I’ve only my relatives’ reports when it comes to knowing about the first. I found myself hoping it wouldn’t mellow Luke out all that much. Still—again—Luke was a very different person than Random, not to mention ages younger. Amazing what years can do, though—or is it just the nature of events? I realized myself to be a lot different than I had been not so very long ago, from all that had happened to me recently. A lot different than I’d been yesterday, come to think of it.

  During the recessional Coral managed to pass me a note, saying that she had to see me, giving a time and a place, even including a small map. It proved an apartment to the rear of the palace. We met there that evening and wound up spending the night. She and Luke had been married as kids, by proxy, I learned then, part of the diplomatic arrangement between Jasra and the Begmans. It didn’t work out, though—the diplomatic part, that is—and the rest kind of fell by the wayside. The principals had sort of forgotten about the marriage, too, till recent events served as a reminder. Neither had seen the other in years. Still, the record showed that the prince had been married. While it was an annullable thing, she could also be crowned with him. If there were anything in it for Kashfa.

  And there was: Eregnor. A Begman queen on the Kashfan throne might help smooth over that particular real estate gab. At least, that had been Jasra’s thinking, Coral told me. And Luke had been swayed by this, particularly in the absence of the guarantees from Amber and the now-defunct Golden Circle Treaty.

  I held her. She was not well, despite what seemed an amazing post-operative recovery. She wore a black patch over her right eye and was more than a little reactive should my hand stray near it—or even if I looked at it for too long. What might have led Dworkin to replace the damaged eye with the Jewel of Judgment, I could not even guess. Unless he somehow considered her proof against the forces of the Pattern and the Logrus in their attempts to recover it. My expertise in this area, though, was nonexistent. Having finally met the diminutive mage, I had become convinced of his sanity—though this feeling in no way served to penetrate those enigmatic qualities that ancient wise men tend to possess.

  “How does it feel?” I asked her.

  “Very strange,” she replied. “Not pain—exactly. More like the way a Trump contact feels. Only it’s with me all the time, and I’m not going anywhere or talking to anyone. It’s as if I’m standing in some sort of gateway. Forces are moving about me, through me.”

  In an instant I was at the center that was the gay ring with its wheel of many-spoked reddish metal. From the inside, here, it was like a great web. A bright strand pulsed for my attention. Yes, it was a line to a very potent force in distant Shadow, one that might be used for probing. Carefully, I extended it toward the covered jewel she wore in her eye socket.

  There was no immediate resistance. In fact, I felt nothing as I extended the line of power. An image came to me of a curtain of flame, however. Pushing through the fiery veil, I felt my extension of inquiry slowing, slowing, halted. And there I hovered, as it were, at the edge of a void. This was not the way of attunement, as I understood it, and I was loath to invoke the Pattern, which I understood to be a part of it, when employing other forces. I pushed forward and felt a terrible coldness, draining the energies I had called upon.

  Still, it was not draining the energy directly from me, only from one of the forces I commanded. I pushed it farther, and I beheld a faint patch of light like some distant nebula. It hung against a background the deep red of port wine. Closer still, and it resolved itself into a form—a complex, three dimensional construct, half familiar—which must be the pathway one takes in attuning oneself to the Jewel, from my father’s description. All right, I was inside the Jewel. Should I essay the initiation?

  “Go no further,” came an unfamiliar voice, though I realized it to be Coral who was making the sounds. She seemed to have slipped into a trance state. “You are denied the higher initiation.”

  I drew back on my probe, not eager for any demonstrations that might come my way along it. My Logrus sight, which had remained with me constantly since recent events in Amber, gave me a vision of Coral now fully enfolded and penetrated by the higher version of the Pattern.

  “Why?” I asked it.

  But
I was not vouchsafed a reply. Coral gave a little jerk, shook herself, and stared at me.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “You dozed off,” I replied. “No wonder. Whatever Dworkin did, plus the day’s stress . . . ”

  She yawned and collapsed back on the bed.

  “Yes,” she breathed, and then she was really asleep. I pulled off my boots and discarded my heavier garments. I stretched out beside her and drew a quilt over us. I was tired, too, and I just wanted someone to hold.

  How long I slept I do not know. I was troubled by dark, swirling dreams. Faces—human, animal, demonic, moved about me, none of them bearing particularly cheerful expressions. Forests fell and burst into flame, the ground shook and split, the waters of the sea rose in gigantic waves and assailed the land, the moon dripped blood and there came up a great wailing. Something called my name. . . .

  A great wind rattled the shutters till they burst inward, clapping and banging. In my dream, a creature entered then and came to crouch at the foot of the bed, calling softly to me, over and over. The room seemed to be shaking, and my mind went back to California. It seemed that an earthquake was in progress. The wind rose from a shriek to a roar, and I heard crashing sounds from without, as of trees falling, towers toppling. . . .

  “Merlin, Prince of the House of Sawall, Prince of Chaos, rise up,” it seemed to say. Then it gnashed its fangs and began again.

  At the fourth or fifth repetition it struck me that I might not be dreaming. There were screams from somewhere outside, and steady pulses of lightning came and went against almost musical rolls of thunder.

  I raised a protective shell before I moved, before I opened my eyes. The sounds were real, as was the broken shutter. So was the creature at the foot of the bed.

  “Merlin, Merlin. Rise up, Merlin,” it said to me—it being a long-snouted, pointed-eared individual, well-fanged and clawed, of a greenish-silver cast of complexion, eyes large and shining, damp leathery wings folded against its lean sides. From its expression, I couldn’t tell whether it was smiling or in pain. “Awaken, Lord of Chaos.”