The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  “Oh, my,” I said. “I’ll order the one I’m wearing to conceal itself, also.”

  “I don’t think that’ll work,” he said, “though I’m not certain. I’d think they must maintain a constant fluxpin with each source of power, and that would give some indication of the thing’s presence because of its broadcast nature.”

  “I’ll tell it to tune itself as low as it can then.”

  He nodded.

  “It can’t hurt to make it specific,” he said, “though I’d guess it probably does that anyhow, automatically.”

  I placed the other ring back in my pocket, departed the niche, and hurried on up the hallway.

  I slowed when we neared what I thought to be the area. But I seemed mistaken. The metal forest was not there. We passed that section. Shortly, we came to a familiar display—the one that had preceded the metal forest, on approaching it from that direction.

  Even as I turned back, I knew. I knew what had happened. When we reached what had been the area, I stopped and studied it.

  “What is it?” my ghostly father asked.

  “It seems a display of every conceivable variety of edged weapon and tool that Chaos has ever spewed forth,” I said, “all of them exhibited point up, you’ll note.”

  “So?” he asked.

  “This is the place,” I answered, “the place where we were going to climb a metal tree.”

  “Merle,” he said, “maybe this place does something to my thought processes, or yours. I just don’t understand.”

  “It’s up near the ceiling,” I explained, gesturing. “I know the approximate area—I think. Looks a little different now. . . . ”

  “What’s there, son?”

  “A way—a transport area, like the one we passed through to the place of the Jabberwock skeleton. Only this one would take us to your chapel.”

  “And that’s where we’re headed?”

  “Right.”

  He rubbed his chin.

  “Well, there were some fairly tall items in some of the displays we passed,” he observed, “and not all of them were metal or stone. We could wrestle over that totem pole or whatever the hell it is, from back up the hall, clear away some of the sharp displays below that place, set the thing up—”

  “No,” I said. “Dara obviously caught on to the fact that someone had visited it—probably this last time around, when she almost surprised me. The display was changed because of this. There are only two obvious ways to get up there—transport something unwieldy, as you suggest, and clear away a lot of cutlery before we climb. Or rev up the spikard and levitate ourselves to the spot. The first would take too long and probably get us discovered. The second would employ so much power that it would doubtless set off any magical wards she’s installed about the area.”

  He took hold of my arm and drew me on past the display.

  “We’ve got to talk,” he said, leading me into an alcove containing a small bench.

  He seated himself and folded his arms.

  “I’ve got to know what the hell’s going on,” he said. “I can’t help properly unless I’m briefed. What’s the connection between the man and the chapel?”

  “I figured out something I think my mother really meant when she told me, ‘Seek him in the Pit,’” I explained. “The floor of the chapel bears stylized representations of the Courts and of Amber worked out in tiles. At the extreme of the Courts’ end is a representation of the Pit. I never set foot in that area when I visited the chapel. I’m willing to bet there’s a way located there, and at the other end is the place of his imprisonment.”

  He’d begun nodding as I spoke, then, “So you were going to pass through and free him?” he asked.

  “Right.”

  “Tell me, do these ways have to work both ways?” he said.

  “Well, no. . . . Oh, I see what you’re getting at.”

  “Give me a more complete description of the chapel,” he said.

  I proceeded to do so.

  “That magic circle on the floor intrigues me,” he said. “It might be a means of communicating with him without risking the dangers of presence. Some sort of image-exchange, perhaps.”

  “I might have to fool with it a long while to figure it out;” I said, “unless I got lucky. What I propose doing is to levitate, enter, use the way at the Pit to reach him, free him, and get the hell out. No subtlety. No finesse. If anything fails to do what we expect, we force our way through it with the spikard. We’ll have to move fast because they’ll be after us once we start.”

  He stared past me for a long while, as if thinking hard. At length, he asked, “Is there any way her wards might be set off accidentally?”

  “Hm. The passage of a stray magical current from the real Pit, I suppose. It sometimes spews them forth.”

  “What would characterize its passage?”

  “A magical deposit or transformation,” I said.

  “Could you fake such a phenomenon?”

  “I suppose. But what would be the point? They’d still investigate, and with Corwin gone they’d realize it was just a trick. The effort would be wasted.”

  He chuckled.

  “But he won’t be missing,” he said. “I’m going to take his place.”

  “I can’t let you do that!”

  “My choice,” he said. “But he’s going to need the time if he’s going to help stop Dara and Mandor from advancing the conflict between the Powers beyond anything at Patternfall.”

  I sighed.

  “It’s the only way,” he said.

  “I guess you’re right.”

  He unfolded his arms, stretched, and rose to his feet.

  “Let’s go do it,” he said.

  I had to work out a spell, a thing I hadn’t done recently—well, half of a spell, the effects half, as I had the spikard to juice it. Then I lay it in a swathe across the display, turning portions of blades into flowers, joined at the molecular level. As I did, I felt a tingling I was certain was the psychic alarm taking note of the enterprise and reporting it to central.

  Then I summoned a lot of juice and lofted us. I felt the tug of the way as we neared it. I had been almost dead-on. I let it take us through.

  He whistled softly on regarding the chapel.

  “Enjoy,” I said. “It’s the treatment a god gets.”

  “Yeah. Prisoner in his own church.”

  He stalked across the room, unbuckling his belt as he went. He substituted it for the one upon the altar.

  “Good copy,” he said, “but not even the Pattern can duplicate Grayswandir.”

  “I thought a section of the Pattern was reproduced on the blade.”

  “Maybe it’s the other way around,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ask the other Corwin sometime,” he said. “It has to do with something we were talking about recently.”

  He approached and passed the lethal package to me—weapon, sheath, belt.

  “Be nice if you take it to him,” he said.

  I buckled it and hung it over my head and shoulder.

  “Okay,” I told him. “We’d better move.”

  I headed toward the far corner of the chapel. As I neared the area where the Pit was represented I felt the unmistakable tug of a way.

  “Eureka!” I said, activating channels on the spikard. “Follow me.”

  I stepped forward and it took me away.

  We arrived in a chamber of perhaps fifteen feet square. There was a wooden post at its center and the floor was of stone with some straw strewn upon it. Several of the big candles, as from the chapel, were spotted about. The walls were of stone on two sides, wood on the others. The wooden walls contained unlatched wooden doors. One of the stone walls contained a windowless metal door, a keyhole at its left side. A key, which looked about the right size, hung from a nail in the post.

  I took down the key and checked quickly beyond the wooden door to my right, discovering a large barrel of water, a dipper, and a vari
ety of dishes, cups, utensils. Behind the other door were a few blankets and stacks of what were probably toilet tissues.

  I crossed to the metal door then and knocked upon it with the key. There was no response. I inserted the key in the lock and felt my companion take hold of my arm.

  “Better let me do that,” he said. “I think like him, and I think I’ll be safer.”

  I had to agree with the wisdom of this, and I stepped aside.

  “Corwin!” he called out. “We’re springing you! It’s your son Merlin and me, your double. Don’t jump me when I open the door, okay? We’ll stand still and you can take a look.”

  “Open it,” came a voice from within.

  So he did, and we stood there.

  “What do you know?” came the voice I remembered, finally. “You guys look for real.”

  “We are,” said his ghost, “and as usual, at times such as this, you’d better hurry.”

  “Yeah.” There came a slow tread from within, and when he emerged he was shielding his eyes with his left hand. “Either of you got a pair of shades? The light hurts.”

  “Damn!” I said, wishing I’d thought of it. “No, and if I send for them the Logrus might spot me.”

  “Later, later. I’ll squint and stumble. Let’s get the hell out.”

  His ghost entered the cell.

  “Now make me bearded, thin, and grimy. Lengthen the hair and tatter the clothes,” he said. “Then lock me in.”

  “What’s going on?” my father asked.

  “Your ghost will be impersonating you in your cell for a while.”

  “It’s your plan,” Corwin stated. “Do what the ghost says.” And so I did. He turned and extended his hand back into the cell then. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “My pleasure,” the other replied, clasping his hand and shaking it. “Good luck.”

  “So long.”

  I closed and locked the cell door. I hung the key on its nail and steered him to the way. It took us through.

  He lowered his hand as we came into the chapel. The dimness must have been sufficient for him to handle now. He drew away from me and crossed to the altar.

  “We’d better go, Dad.”

  He chuckled as he reached across the altar, raised a burning taper, and used it to light one of the others that had apparently gone out in some draft.

  “I’ve pissed on my own grave,” he announced. “Can’t pass up the pleasure of lighting a candle to myself in my own church.”

  He extended his left hand in my direction without looking at me.

  “Give me Grayswandir,” he said.

  I slipped it off and passed it to him. He unfastened it and buckled it about his waist, loosened it in its sheath. “All right. What now?” he asked.

  I thought fast. If Dara was aware that I had exited through the wall last time—a distinct possibility, considering—then the walls might well be booby-trapped in some fashion. On the other hand, if we went out the way I had come in we might encounter someone rushing this way in answer to the alarm.

  Hell.

  “Come on,” I said, activating the spikard, ready to whisk us away at the glimpse of an intruder. “It’s going to be tricky because it involves levitation on the way out.”

  I caught hold of him again and we approached the way. I wrapped us in energies as it took us, and I lofted us above the field of blades and flowers as we departed.

  There were footfalls from up the corridor. I swirled us away to another place.

  I took us to Jurt’s apartment, which didn’t seem a place anyone was likely to come looking for a man who was still in his cell; and I knew that Jurt had no need of it just then.

  Corwin sprawled on the bed and squinted at me. “By the way,” he said, “thanks.”

  “Anytime,” I told him.

  “You know your way around this place pretty well?” he said.

  “It doesn’t seem to have changed that much,” I told him.

  “Then how’s about raiding an icebox for me while I borrow your brother’s scissors and razor for a quick shave and haircut.”

  “What would you like?”

  “Meat, bread, cheese, wine, maybe a piece of pie,” he said. “Just so it’s fresh and there’s lots of it. Then you’re going to have a lot of story to tell me.”

  “I guess I am,” I said.

  And so I made my way to the kitchen, down familiar halls and ways I had traversed as a boy. The place was lit by just a few tapers, the fires banked. No one was about.

  I proceeded to raid the larder, heaping a tray with the various viands requested, adding a few pieces of fruit I came across. I almost dropped the wine bottle when I heard a sharp intake of breath near the doorway I had entered.

  It was Julia, in a blue silk wrap.

  “Merlin!”

  I crossed to her.

  “I owe you several apologies,” I said. “I’m ready to make them.”

  “I’d heard you were back. I heard you were to be king.”

  “Funny, I heard that, too.”

  “Then it would be unpatriotic of me to stay mad, wouldn’t it?”

  “I never meant to hurt you,” I said. “Physically, or any other way.”

  Suddenly, we were holding each other. It lasted a long time before she told me, “Jurt says you’re friends now.”

  “I guess we sort of are.”

  I kissed her.

  “If we got back together again,” she said, “he’d probably try to kill you again.”

  “I know. This time the consequences could really be cataclysmic, too.”

  “Where are you going right now?”

  “I’m on an errand, and it’s going to take me several hours.”

  “Why don’t you stop by when you’re finished? We’ve got a lot to talk about. I’m staying in a place called the Wisteria Room for now. Know where that is?”

  “Yes,” I said. “This is crazy.”

  “See you later?”

  “Maybe.”

  The next day I traveled to the Rim, for I’d heard report that the Pit-divers—those who seek after artifacts of creation beyond the Rim—had suspended operations for the first time in a generation. When I questioned them they told me of dangerous activities in the depths—whirlwinds, wings of fire, blasts of new-minted matter.

  Sitting in a secluded place and looking down, I used the spikard I wore to question the one I didn’t. When I removed the shield in which I’d encased it, it commenced a steady litany, “Go to Mandor. Get crowned. See your brother. See your mother. Begin preparations.” I wrapped it again and put it away. If I didn’t do something soon he was going to suspect that I was beyond its control. Did I care?

  I could just absent myself, perhaps going away with my father, helping him at whatever showdown might finally develop over his Pattern. I could even ditch both spikards there, enhancing the forces in that place. I could still rely on my own magic in a pinch. But my problem was right here. I had been bred and conditioned to be a perfect royal flunky, under the control of my mother, and possibly my brother Mandor. I loved Amber, but I loved the Courts as well. Fleeing to Amber, while assuring my safety, would no more solve my personal problem than running off with my dad—or returning to the Shadow Earth I also cared for, with or without Coral. No. The problem was here—and inside me.

  I summoned a filmy to bear me to an elevated way to take me back to Sawall. As I traveled, I thought of what I must do, and I realized that I was afraid. If things got pushed as far as they well might, there was a strong possibility that I would die. Alternatively, I might have to kill someone I didn’t really want to.

  Either way, though, there had to be some resolution or I’d never know peace at this pole of my existence.

  I walked beside a purple stream beneath a green sun atop a pearly sky. I summoned a purple and gray bird, which came and sat upon my wrist. I had thought to dispatch it to Amber with a message for Random. Try as I might, however, I could phrase no simple note. Too many things depended on ot
her things. Laughing, I released it and leapt from the bank, where I struck another way above the water.

  Returned to Sawall, I made my way to the sculpture hall. By then, I knew what I must try to do and how I must go about it. I stood where I had stood—how long ago?—regarding massive structures, simple figures, intricate ones.

  “Ghost?” I said. “You in the neighborhood?”

  There was no response.

  “Ghost!” I repeated more loudly. “Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  I dug out my Trumps, located the one I had done for Ghostwheel, bright circle.

  I regarded it with some intensity, but it was slow to grow cool. This was understandable, considering some of the odd areas of space to which this hall gave access. Also, it was irritating.

  I raised the spikard. Using it here at the level I intended would be like setting off a burglar alarm. Amen.

  I touched the Tarot with a line of subtle force, attempting to enhance the instrument’s sensitivity. I maintained my concentration.

  Again, nothing.

  I backed it with more force. There followed a perceptible cooling. But there was no contact.

  “Ghost,” I said through clenched teeth. “This is important. Come to me.”

  No reply. So I sent power into the thing. The card began to glow and frost crystals formed upon it. Small crackling sounds occurred in its vicinity.

  “Ghost,” I repeated.

  A weak sense of his presence occurred then, and I poured more juice into the card. It shattered in my hand, and I caught it in a web of forces and held all of the pieces together, looking like a small stained-glass window. I continued to reach through it.

  “Dad! I’m in trouble!” came to me then.

  “Where are you? What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I followed this entity I met. Pursued her—it. Almost a mathematical abstraction. Called Kergma. Got caught here at an odd-even dimensional interface, where I’m spiraling. Was having a good time up until then—”