Roger Zelazny – The Amber Chronicles Short Stories

by The Chronicles of Amber Short Stories; Prologue to Trumps of Doom (html)

  She extended her hand. I reached forward, taking it lightly in my own, as her studio came clear, banishing gray skies and crystal hill, I took a step toward her and I was there.

  Immediately, I dropped to my knees, unclasped my swordbelt and offered her my blade. In the distance, I could hear sounds of hammering and sawing.

  "Rise," she said, touching my shoulder. "Come and be seated. Have a cup of tea with me."

  I got to my feet and followed her to a table in the corner. She took off her dusty apron and hung it on a peg on the wall. As she prepared the tea I regarded the small army of statues which lined one wall and bivouacked in random cluster about the enormous room—large, small, realistic, impressionistic, beautiful, grotesque. She worked mainly in clay, though a few smaller ones were of stone' and there were furnaces at the room's far end, though these were cold now. Several metal mobiles of unusual shape were suspended from ceiling beams.

  When she joined me again she reached out and touched my left hand, locating the ring she had given me.

  "Yes, I value the Queen's protection," I said.

  "Even though you are now a monarch yourself from a country on friendly terms with us?"

  "Even so," I said. "So much so, in fact, that I wish to reciprocate in part."

  "Oh?"

  "I'm not at all certain that Amber is aware of recent events to which I have been party or of which I have knowledge, which may affect her welfare. That is, unless Merlin has been in touch recently."

  "Merlin has not been in touch," she said. "If you have information vital to the realm, though, perhaps you ought to give it to Random direct, He's not here just now, but I could reach him for you via Trump."

  "No," I said. "I know he doesn't like me at all or trust me, as his brother's killer and a friend of the man who has sworn to destroy Amber. I am sure he would love to see me deposed and some puppet on the throne of Kashfa. I suppose I must have things out with him one day, but this isn't the day. I've too much else going on just now. But the information transcends local politics. It involves Amber and the Courts of Chaos, the Pattern and the Logrus, the death of Swayvill and Merlin's possible succession to the throne in the Courts—"

  "You're serious!"

  "You bet. I know he'll listen to you. And he'll even understand why I told you. Let me avoid him this way.There are big events in the offing."

  "Tell me," she said, raising her cup.

  So I did, including everything Merlin had told me, up through the confrontation at the primal Pattern and my flight to the Crystal Cave. We went through the entire pot of tea in the process, and when I was finished we just sat for a time in silence.

  Finally, she sighed.

  "You have charged me to deliver major intelligence," she said.

  "I know."

  "Yet I feel it is but a small part of much greater developments."

  "How's that?" I asked.

  "A few small things I have heard, known, guessed at, and perhaps dreamed—and a few, I suppose, I simply fear. Hardly a coherent shape. Yet enough, perhaps, to query the powers of the earth I work with. Yes. Now that I have thought it I must try it, of course. At a time such as this."

  She rose slowly, paused, and gestured high.

  "That shall be the Tongue," she said, and a draft stirred one of the mobiles causing it to produce many tones.

  She crossed the studio to the righthand wall—small figure in gray and green, chestnut hair down to the middle of her back—and ran her fingers lightly over the sculpted figure that stood there. Finally, selecting a broad-faced statue with a narrow torso, she began pushing it toward the center of the room.

  I was on my feet and moving in an instant.

  "Let me do that for you, Your Highness."

  She shook her head.

  "Call me Vialle," she said. "And no, I must position them myself. This one is named Memory."

  She placed it below and somewhat to the northwest of the Tongue. Then she moved to a knot of figures and selected a thin one with slightly parted lips, which she placed to the south on Tongue's compass.

  "And this is Desire," she stated.

  Quickly locating a third—a tall, squinting figure—she placed it to the northeast.

  "Caution," she went on.

  A lady, her right hand boldly extended, went to the west.

  "Risk," she continued.

  To the east she positioned another lady, both arms spread wide.

  "Heart," she said.

  To the southwest went a high-domed, shaggy-browed philosopher.

  "Head," she said.

  And to the southeast a smiling lady—impossible to say whether her hand was raised in greeting or to deliver a blow.

  "Chance," she finished, fitting her into the circle which had come to remind me both of Stonehenge and of Easter Island.

  "Bring two chairs," she said, "and place them here and here."

  She indicated positions to the north and south of her circle.

  I did as she'd said, and she seated herself in the northern-most chair, behind a final figure she had placed: Foresight. I took my place back of Desire.

  "Be silent now," she instructed

  Then she sat still, hands in her lap, for several minutes.

  Finally, "At the deepest level," she said, "what threatens the peace?"

  From my left, Caution seemed to speak, though the Tongue chimed his words overhead.

  "A redistribution of ancient powers," he said.

  "In what manner?"

  "That which was hidden becomes known and is moved about," answered Risk.

  "Are both Amber and the Courts involved?"

  "Indeed," answered Desire, from before me.

  "'Ancient powers,"' she said. "How ancient?"

  "Before there was an Amber, they were," stated Memory.

  "Before there was a Jewel of Judgement—the Eye of the Serpent?"

  "No," Memory responded.

  She drew a sudden breath.

  "Their number?" she said.

  "Eleven," Memory replied.

  She grew pale at that, but I held my silence as she had instructed.

  "Those responsible for this stirring of ashes," she said then, "what do they wish?"

  "A return to the glory of days gone by," Desire stated.

  "Could this end be realized?"

  "Yes," Foresight replied.

  "Could it be averted?"

  "Yes," said Foresight.

  "At peril," Caution added. "How might one begin?"

  "Query the guardians," Head stated. "How bad is the situation?"

  "It has already begun," Head answered.

  "And the danger is already present," said Risk.

  "So is opportunity," said Chance.

  "Of what sort?" Vialle inquired.

  There came a sound from across the room as my scabbard and blade slid to the floor from where I had leaned them against the wall. Vialle stared.

  "My weapon," I said, 'just slipped."

  "Name it."

  "It was my father's sword, called Werewindle."

  "I know of it." Then, "This man, Luke," she said, "there is something about his blade and its sister weapon that figures in all of this. I do not know their stories, though."

  "Yes, they are connected," said Memory.

  "How?"

  "They were created in a similar fashion at near to the same time, and they partake of the powers of which we have spoken," Memory replied.

  "Will there be a conflict?"

  "Yes," said Foresight.

  "On what scale?"

  Foresight was silent. Chance laughed.

  "I do not understand."

  "The laughter of Chance is uncertainty," Head responded.

  "Will Luke figure in the conflict?"

  "Yes," Foresight answered.

  "Should he seek the guardians?"

  "He must try," said Heart.

  "And if he fails?"

  "A Prince approaches even now who knows more of these matters," said H
ead.

  "Who is that?"

  "A prisoner freed," Head replied.

  "Who?"

  "He wears a silver rose," said Head. "He bears the other blade."

  Vialle raised her head.

  "Have you any questions?" she asked me.

  "Yes. But I doubt I'd get an answer if I asked whether we'll win."

  Chance laughed as Vialle rose.

  She let me help move the statues back into place.

  Then, seated once more, I said to her, "'Seek the guardians?"'

  "There is a custodian—possibly two," she replied. "A self-exiled Prince of Amber and his sister have guarded a portion of this power for a long while. It would seem in order to see that they still live, still discharge the duty."

  "Self-exiled? Why?"

  "Personal reasons, involving the late King."

  "Where are they?"

  "I do not know."

  "Then how could we find them?"

  "There is a Trump."

  She rose and moved to a small chest of drawers.

  Opening one, she withdrew a boxed set of cards.

  Slowly, she counted dawn from the top of the deck and removed one.

  When she returned she presented me with the card, portrait of a slim man with hair the color of rust.

  "His name is Delwin," she said.

  "You think I should just call him and ask whether he still has whatever he had?"

  "State quickly that you are not of Amber," she told me, "but give your lineage. Ask whether his stewardship of the spikards remains intact. Try to find out where he is, or to go through and discuss it face to face if you can."

  "Right," I said, not wanting to tell her that I had spoken—very briefly—with him before in seeking allies in my war against Amber. He'd dismissed me out of hand, but I didn't want to stir Vialle's memories of those days. So I simply said, "Okay. I'll give it a try."

  I decided to fast-talk him at first, to give him time to think, to realize that I was not alone, and not to let slip anything of our earlier exchange. My altered appearance should help in this, too.

  I reached for contact.

  First, the coldness, then a feeling of personality suddenly alert.

  "Who is it?" I felt the question even before the likeness took on depth and life.

  "Luke Reynard, otherwise known as Rinaldo," I answered, as the card was suddenly animated and I felt his scrutiny, "King of Kashfa and B.S. in Business Management, University of California at Berkeley." Our gazes locked. He seemed neither belligerent nor friendly. "I wanted to know whether your stewardship of the spikards remains intact."

  "Luke-Rinaldo," he said, "just what is your concern in this, and how did you come to learn of the matter?"

  "While I am not of Amber," I replied, "my father was. I know it is soon to become a matter of concern in that place because of Merlin—son of Corwin—apparently being in direct line for the succession to the throne in the Courts of Chaos."

  "I know who Merlin is," Delwin sated. "Who is your father?"

  "Prince Brand."

  "And your mother?"

  "The Lady Jasra, formerly Queen of Kashfa. Now, might we talk about this matter a little?"

  "No," Delwin said. "We may not."

  He moved his hand as if to break the contact.

  "Wait!" I said. "Do you have a microwave oven?"

  He hesitated.

  "A what?"

  "It's a box-like device that can warm a meal in a matter of minutes. I've worked out a general spell to allow one to operate in most of Shadow. Wake up in the middle of the night with a taste for a steaming hot tuna casserole? Take one out of the freezer, unwrap it, and pop it in. What's a freezer? Glad you asked. It's another box, with eternal winter inside. Store meals in there, take one out and zap it in the mike whenever the fancy hits. And yes, I can supply the freezer, too. You don't want to talk spikards, let's talk business. I can give you a deal on these devices, in quantity, that will meet or beat the price of anyone else capable of supplying them—and I don't think it would be an easy thing to find another supplier. But that's not all I can do for you—"

  "I'm sorry," said Delwin. "No solicitors either." His hand moved again.

  "Wait!" I cried. "I'll make you an offer you can't refuse!"

  He broke the connection.

  "Come back," I willed after his image, but it went 2-dimensional and warmed to room temperature again.

  "Sorry," I said to Vialle. "I gave it my best shot, but he wasn't buying any."

  "To tell the truth, I didn't think you'd hold him even that long. But I could tell he was interested in you until you mentioned your mother. Then something changed."

  "Wouldn't be the first time," I said. "I've a mind to try him again later."

  "In that case, keep the Trump."

  "I don't need it, Vialle. I'll make my own when the time comes."

  "You are an artist and a Trump master?"

  "Well, I do paint. Fairly seriously sometimes."

  "Then you must see all of my works while you wait. I'd value your opinion."

  "My pleasure," I said. 'You mean while I wait—"

  "—for Corwin."

  "Ah, just so. Thank you."

  "You can be the first to use one of the new rooms. We've been doing a lot of reconstruction and remodeling since the Logrus and the Pattern had their confrontation."

  "I heard about it," I said. "Very well. I wonder when he'll arrive?"

  "Soon, I feel," she said. "I'll summon a servant to get you settled now. Another will bring you to dine with me later, and we can discuss art."

  "That will be fine."

  I wondered where all of this was going to lead. It seemed that the big picture was about to change drastically again.

  Glad Delwin wasn't interested in the microwave oven, though. The spell would have been a bitch to work out.

  Roger Zelazny – Blue Horse, Dancing Mountains

  I took a right at the Burning Wells and fled smokeghosts across the Uplands of Artine. I slew the leader of the Kerts of Shern as her flock harried me from hightowered perches among the canyons of that place. The others abandoned the sport, and we were through, beneath a green rain out of a slate-colored sky. Onward and down then, to where the plains swirled dust devils that sang of sad eternities in rock that once they were.

  At last the winds fell off and Shask, my deadly mount, blue stallion out of Chaos, slowed to a stop before vermilion sands.

  "What is the matter?" I asked.

  "We must cross this neck of the desert to reach the Dancing Mountains," Shask replied.

  "And how long a journey might that be?"

  "Most of the rest of the day," he said. "It is narrowest here. We have paid in part for this indulgence already. The rest will come in the mountains themselves, for now we must cross where they are very active."

  I raised my canteen and shook it.

  "Worth it," I said, "so long as they don't really dance in Richter terms."

  "No, but at the Great Divide between the shadows of Amber and the shadows of Chaos there is some natural shifting activity in play where they meet."

  "I'm no stranger to shadow-storms, which is what that sounds like—a permanent shadow-storm front. But I wish we could just push on through rather than camp there."

  "I told you when you chose me, Lord Corwin, that I could bear you farther than any other mount by day. But by night I become an unmoving serpent, hardening to stone and cold as a demon's heart, thawing come dawn."

  "Yes, I recall," I said, —and you have served me well, as Merlin said you might. Perhaps we should overnight this side of the mountains and cross tomorrow."

  "The front, as I said, shifts. Likely, at some point, it would join you in the foothills or before. Once you reach the region, it matters not where we spend the night. The shadows will dance over us or near us. Dismount now, please, unsaddle, and remove your gear, that I may shift."

  "To what?" I asked as I swung to the ground.

  "I'v
e a lizard form would face this desert best."

  "By all means, Shask, be comfortable, be efficient. Be a lizard."

  I set about unburdening him. It was good to be free again.

  Shask as blue lizard was enormously fast and virtually tireless. He got us across the sands with daylight to spare, and as I stood beside him contemplating the trail that led upward through the foothills, he spoke in a sibilant tone: "As I said, the shadows can catch us anywhere around here, and I still have strength to take us up for an hour or so before we camp, rest, and feed. What is your choice?"

  "Go," I told him.

  Trees changed their foliage even as I watched. The trail was maddeningly irregular, shifting its course, changing its character beneath us. Seasons came and went—a flurrying of snow followed by a blast of hot air, then springtime and blooming flowers. There were glimpses of towers and metal people, highways, bridges, tunnels gone in moments. Then the entire dance would shift away and we would simply be mounting a trail again.

  At last, we made camp in a sheltered area near to a summit. Clouds collected as we ate, and a few rumbles under rolled in the distance. I made myself a low lean-to. Shask transformed himself into a great dragonheaded, winged, feathered serpent, and coiled nearby.

  "A good night to you, Shask," I called out, as the first drops fell.

  "And-to-you-Corwin," he said softly.

  I lay back, closed my eyes, and was asleep almost immediately. How long I slept, I do not know. I was jarred out of it, however, by a terrific clap of thunder which seemed to occur directly overhead.

  I found myself sitting up, having reached out to and half drawn Grayswandir, before the echoes died. I shook my head and sat listening.

  Something seemed to be missing and I could not determine what.

  There came a brilliant flash of light and another thunderclap. I flinched at them and sat waiting for more, but only silence followed.

  Silence...

  I stuck my hand outside the lean-to, then my head. It had stopped raining. That was the missing item—the splatter of droplets.

  My gaze was attracted by a glow from beyond the nearby summit. I pulled on my boots and departed the shelter. Outside, I buckled on my sword belt and fastened my cloak at the neck. I had to investigate. In a place like this, any activity might represent a threat.

  I touched Shask—who indeed felt stony—as I passed, and made my way to where the trail had been. It was still there, though diminished in width, and I set foot upon it and climbed upward. The light source for which I was headed seemed to be moving slightly.