Roger Zelazny's The Dawn of Amber

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “Think! It is important! Try to remember!”

  I half closed my eyes, trying to see the tower in my mind’s eye, blood dripping into the air. “They were look­ing for us, I believe. I saw Juniper in a window made of blood . . . I think.”

  I shook my head, the dream-images slipping away, elu­sive as will-o’-the-wisps. In another minute they would be gone.

  Dworkin sank back on his heels. “Blood drips toward the sky in the Courts of Chaos,” he said numbly. “You have never been there. You could not possibly know . . .”

  “It couldn’t have been real,” I said.

  “I think it was. And if you saw Taine . . . then he is alive! That is good news. I had given up hope.”

  “Better off dead, from the look of him.”

  “All the children of Chaos heal fast and well. If we can find him . . . if we can rescue him—”

  “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I will see.”

  “And the Logrus!” I said, levering myself up with my elbows. I felt a rising sense of excitement at the prospect of traversing it. “How soon can we go there?”

  He hesitated.

  “What is it?” I demanded. “You said it was my birth-right. You said King Uthor couldn’t deny me my chance to go through it.”

  “Oberon . . . the news is bad. You cannot use the Logrus. Not now. Not ever.”

  “No!” Anger and outrage surged through me. I’d spent my whole life being denied. Denied a father. Denied a fam­ily. Denied all that should have been mine. I had no inten­tion of missing out again. I would master the Logrus, even if I had to borrow one of Aber’s magical Trumps and go to the Courts of Chaos on my own.

  “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “The pattern within you is wrong, somehow. It is more distorted than mine . . . so crooked, I almost did not recognize it.”

  “So?” I said. His news meant nothing to me.

  “You cannot enter the Logrus. It would destroy you, as it destroyed my brother, as it almost destroyed Freda and me. You would die, Oberon.”

  I looked away. My headache returned with a ven­geance, little knives piercing the inside my skull.

  “So that’s it, then?” I said. I felt like he had kicked my legs out from under me. “There’s nothing you can do? No way you can fix it, somehow? Make it work?”

  “I am sorry, my boy.” His eyes grew distant, thoughtful. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” I demanded. If he had any idea, any plan that might help me, I would have seized upon it.

  But Dworkin simply sighed and shook his head. “No. It was a crazy thought, best left unspoken. You must be content with who and what you are. If nothing else, that may keep you alive. I know it gives you small comfort now, but perhaps it is a blessing in disguise. Put all thoughts of the Logrus behind you. There is nothing else we can do for now.”

  For now. That still hinted of plans for the future, I thought. Plans which, it seemed, he had no intention of sharing with me. At least, not yet.

  “Very well,” I said. I had a blinding pain behind both of my eyes, like twin needles pushing into my brain. I didn’t feel up to fighting with him about the Logrus. There would be time enough for that later.

  Let him think I’d given up. I’d ask Aber about it later. My new-found brother seemed eager to volunteer information. If another way existed to get to the Logrus, or to have it imprinted on my mind, he might well know of it. Too many of Dworkin’s lies had been exposed for me to blindly trust him now, when he said the Logrus would kill me. For all I knew, he’d made it up to keep his control over me.

  I considered the evidence. First, my childhood face-changing game . . . no one else I knew had been able to do that. And what about my great strength? I was two or three times stronger than any normal man. Or the speed of my reflexes—the quickness with which I healed—? If the pattern inside me came out so distorted, why had I been able to do all these things?

  No, I thought, everything added up to more than Dworkin wanted to admit. I already had a measure of power over the Logrus—small as it was compared to everyone else’s. Judging from all these little signs, the Logrus within me worked just fine.

  But what if he’s right? a small voice at the back of my head asked. What if I can’t master the Logrus? What if this is as much magic as I’ll ever have?

  I didn’t like the thought.

  “Take my arm,” he said.

  With his help, I made it to the chair without falling. My head still swam, but not like before. A clarity had come over me, a sense of warmth and well-being. Probably from the brandy, I thought.

  He moved to refill my cup, and I didn’t stop him. I drank it in a single gulp. After a moment’s hesitation, he filled the cup again, and again I drained it all.

  A warm glow spread down my throat and into my belly. I pressed my eyes shut, turned away, tried to envision Taine on the altar’s slab and failed. My dream or vision or whatever it had been had left me.

  “You’ve had enough brandy,” he said.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. That was a mistake; waves of nausea engulfed me again. “I haven’t had enough yet—not by far. I feel like I need a good three-day drunk.”

  “Do not feel bad about the Logrus, my boy,” he said, patting my shoulder. “You grew up without it. You will not miss what you have never had.”

  “Won’t I?” A wild fury came over me. My mind was rac­ing, cataloging every sin he’d ever committed against me, and the words just poured out. “Do you know what it’s like, growing up in Ilerium without a father? Yes, you were there, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t real. When my mother died in the Scarlet Plague and you simply disap­peared—do you know how alone that left me? You cannot imagine it. No father or mother or brothers and sisters. No uncles or aunts, no cousins. No one. Now, ten years later, you magically sweep back in and expect everything to be perfect because, oh yes, you really are my father, and my whole life up till now had been a lie!”

  “Oberon . . .” he whispered. He took a step back, face ashen.

  “It’s the truth!” I yelled. My whole body quivered with rage. “And now . . . after you’ve shown me all these won­ders . . . told me about the Logrus and the powers that should be mine . . . now you tell me I’ll never have them! And never miss what I’ve never known!”

  “I—” he began.

  I drowned him out. “I never knew my father, and I missed him. I never knew a real family, and I missed it. I never knew my brothers and sisters, and I missed them ev­ery day of my childhood. Every time I saw other children, it reminded me of what I lacked. Don’t tell me I won’t miss what I’ve never had—I know the truth!”

  “Perhaps I deserve that,” he said heavily. His shoulders slumped; he seemed old . . . old and tired and beaten. In that moment, he looked every day of his two hundred years of age.

  A pang of guilt touched me, but I pushed it away. He was the one who should feel guilty, I told myself. He was the one who had lied to me, denied me a normal childhood, and now planned to deny me everything else.

  I had lived too long in Shadow. Never again. I would not be denied my birthright.

  Whatever it took, whatever it cost, I would master the Logrus. I vowed it to myself.

  Distantly, I heard a bell toll.

  “Time for dinner,” Dworkin said softly. Then with a touch of almost bitter irony, looking up into my eyes, he added, “Time for you to meet the rest of our happy little family.”

  TEN

  o my displeasure, I needed Dworkin’s steadying touch on my arm to navigate the corridors. Luckily, by the time we reached the dining hall, much of my strength had returned. We paused outside, looking at each other, and I shrugged his hand away. “I suppose I should thank you,” I said bitterly.

  Silence stretched uncomfortably between us.

  “You cannot help your nature,” he said simply. “You were always a rebellious child, never content.”

  “You make me sound ambitious. I’m not
. I only want what should by rights be mine.”

  “I know,” he said, “and I do not blame you, my boy. It is a lot for me to ask . . . but try to fit in, and try to be a part of this family. I know it will be difficult—none of us is perfect, me least of all. But . . . we are all worth the effort. I have to believe that. It keeps me going.”

  “Very well,” I said. “I’ll . . . try. For now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Turning, he pushed the door open and we entered the dining hall—a large oak-paneled room with a crystal chan­delier over the table. Logs blazed, snapping and popping cheerfully, in the fireplace against the far wall, and they took the dampness and chill from the air.

  The table had been set for fifteen, though only ten had arrived so far: Freda, Aber, Pella, Blaise, and six others—four men and two women. All twisted in their seats to stare as I came in. Aber grinned happily and waved.

  I forced myself to smile and gave the whole table a po­lite, “Hello.” No sense letting them know how I felt right now; our problems should stay private between Dworkin and me. Freda’s warning echoed in my mind: trust none of them. If any of the others found out what had happened between us in Dworkin’s workshop, they might try to use it against me. No matter how I felt about my father, I wouldn’t allow that to happen.

  Locke and Davin I recognized from their Trumps, and from seeing them in the courtyard earlier that day. And, of course, I’d already spoken with Freda, Pella, Blaise, and Aber. The other four were strangers. As I looked over my siblings, I noticed again that all bore a striking resem­blance to Dworkin . . . and to me.

  “This is Oberon,” Dworkin said heavily. He started to put a hand on my shoulder, hesitated, let it drop to his side. I caught Freda pursing her lips—she’d noticed, and she didn’t like the tension between us.

  “I’m pleased to be here,” I said in even tones. Be bland, be harmless, I told myself. One of them may be trying to kill me—I wouldn’t let on that I knew. “I hope we’ll all grow to be friends as well as family.”

  That got a snort of derision from Locke, which he tried to hide behind a quick cough. I gave him a cool appraisal as if to say: I know your type. You will not get to me.

  Dworkin did a quick round of introductions, starting with my half-brothers: Locke, of course, tall and stout, with a full black beard and a brooding expression; Davin, a year or two younger than me and slender as a reed, smooth-cheeked and serious; Titus and Conner, clearly identical twins, both as short as our father and both with his eyes and wary expressions; and Fenn, who was taller than Dworkin but not as tall as me, with blue eyes and a hesitant but honestly welcoming smile. Aber came last; he gave me a quick grin.

  I nodded and smiled at each in turn. Be calm and po­lite, reveal nothing, I reminded myself.

  As for my half-sisters, I had already met Freda, Pella, and Blaise. That left Isadora and Syara, as alike as two peas in a pod: reddish hair, pale complexions, broad cheeks and eyes, and the slender figures of goddesses. Clearly both shared the same mother. Had we not been related, I would have lusted after them. As it was, I could now only admire them from afar as objects of feminine perfection.

  “I want you at my right hand tonight,” Dworkin said to me, starting for the head of the table. “We have a lot of catching up to do. Locke, slide down for Oberon.”

  Locke tried to hide his annoyance as he rose to make room for me. Luckily the seat next to his was vacant. As the eldest son, clearly he was used to the place of honor next to our father, and clearly he resented my taking it. So much for our getting off to a good start. If he truly feared my replacing him, as Aber claimed, this would only feed his paranoia.

  I gave a mental sigh; surely he would realize that I couldn’t control our father’s whims. And, I had to admit, it seemed only natural for me to sit next to him tonight, on my first evening in Juniper.

  “Locke, you may have my seat,” Freda said, rising. She had the place to Dworkin’s left.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. To my surprise, he seemed hesitant. I would have expected him to leap at the chance . . . though perhaps he knew Freda’s motives too well and ex­pected to pay some later price for her favor.

  “You and Father need to talk about military matters,” she said with a dismissive wave. “I will sit next to Oberon tonight. I think it best.”

  “All right. If you want it so.”

  Locke still looked a bit puzzled, but he traded places with her quickly, before she could change her mind. Being one seat closer to our father seemed important to him. I reminded myself that he had grown up knowing his noble her­itage . . . and playing politics in the Courts of Chaos. Perhaps having the right seat at dinner was important, and I simply didn’t have sense enough to realize it. I definitely would have preferred a spot at the far end of the table next to Aber.

  I glanced at my father. Better to sit with a friend, even in exile, than with an enemy. No, I had to correct myself, not an enemy. A tired old man, sad and out of his element. Dworkin wasn’t meant for war, I realized suddenly, think­ing of his workshop and all his experiments. He should never have been head of our family . . . he should have been tinkering and building and playing with his toys.

  And I knew, then, why Locke commanded the army instead of him. Everything—our family, our plight—began to make sense in that context. Dworkin was weak, and our enemy had to believe we made easy prey. Weakness had often been the cause of war, I knew from my studies of Ilerium’s history . . . and the history of the Fifteen King­doms, which had once numbered twenty-seven before conquest and consolidation had dwindled their number.

  Try as they might, Locke and Davin would not be able to win this war, which clearly had already begun. And from the look of things, we were far outclassed.

  I gave Freda a sad little smile as she sat to my right.

  “You’re looking particularly lovely this evening,” I told her sincerely.

  She all but preened, smoothing her dress and looking entirely pleased. “Thank you, Oberon. You cleaned up rather well yourself.”

  “Thanks to you, dear sister. You sent the barber up, didn’t you?”

  “Me? No—it was probably Anari.”

  “Probably,” I said blandly. I took a glance around the table to see if my mentioning Ivinius’s visit had gotten a reaction, but apparently it hadn’t. Side conversations had sprung up, and only Locke and Freda and our father were paying attention to me—Locke pretending not to, of course, but I could tell he took in every word as a man too long in the desert takes in water.

  I chatted amiably enough with all of them over the first course, a cold creamy soup made with some kind of yellow pumpkin, telling one and all a bit about my childhood in Ilerium. And, in turn, I learned more about them.

  Dworkin certainly had been busy over his 200 years. Almost all of them had different mothers on different Shadows. Most had been raised with the knowledge that they were children of Chaos, and all had gone through the Logrus in the Courts of Chaos except for me. I felt a pang whenever they mentioned it.

  Freda must have sensed it, for she touched my arm and murmured, “Your turn will come,” she murmured. “You must have patience.”

  Patience . . . I’d had too much of that already. So I sim­ply smiled a little sadly and made no reply: little sense in letting them know my bitter news just yet, I thought.

  I did find out some interesting facts. Locke turned out to be more than eighty years old—though he looked no more than thirty. Our whole family aged quite slowly, it seemed, which explained not only Dworkin’s condition despite his advanced age, but how he had managed to sire so many offspring. He had left more than a few women—or had them leave him, as with Locke’s mother, a Lady of Chaos—but most had been normal humans found on Shadows such as my own. They had died of old age while he remained young and hearty.

  And at least twice Freda hinted that time moved at dif­ferent speeds in different places. A year in the Courts of Chaos might well be two or five or ten years on
other Shadows.

  It was Aber who broached the question I had hoped to avoid. “So, Dad,” he said happily, and I could tell he thought he was helping me, which made it all the more painful. “How soon will Oberon go through the Logrus?”

  “Never,” Dworkin said flatly. No tact there, just a sharp and unpleasant truth.

  I looked down, studying the tablecloth, fingering my napkin. Never. It had a final ring.

  “What!” Aber sounded honestly shocked. “But not even King Uthor can deny Oberon his birthright. He must gain power over Shadow!”

  Dworkin shook his head. “Though he is my son, Oberon does not carry the Logrus within him. It is so dis­torted, it has become nearly unrecognizable. He cannot try the Logrus . . . ever. It would destroy him, as it destroyed my brother Darr.”

  ELEVEN

  tter silence followed. I took a quick glance down the length of the table. To a one, my every half-brother and half-sister, even Locke, had a look of stunned disbelief on his or her face. They took their magical powers for granted, I realized. That one of their own might be unable to use them—unbelievable!

  And yet it was true. Despite my anger and hurt and earlier denial, I could find no reason for Dworkin to lie to me. If anything, he needed me to go through the Logrus . . . needed another strong son to help defend Juniper. Clearly such a task now lay beyond my meager, mortal abilities.

  “How can that be?” Freda finally asked, looking trou­bled. “Any one born of Chaos carries the Logrus within. It is a part of our very essence. You have said it yourself many times over, Father.”

  Dworkin said, “He does carry it . . . only it has gone wrong within him.” Slowly shaking his head, he regarded me thoughtfully. “I do not know why or how, but the prob­lems we have all had—except of course you, Locke—with the Logrus are so much the worse in him.”

  “But to forbid him from ever trying the Logrus!” Aber protested. “That has never been done before!”

  “I did not forbid him,” Dworkin said sharply. “I said it would kill him.”