Roger Zelazny – The Amber Chronicles Short Stories

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

  I entered by way of the kitchen, where there was new help on duty. None of them recognized me, though they obviously realized that I belonged. At least, they returned my greeting with due respect and did not object to some fruit I pocketed. They did ask whether I cared to have something sent to one of the rooms, and I answered "yes" and told them to send a bottle of wine and a chicken along with it. The afternoon head chef—a redhaired lady named Clare—began studying me more closely, and more than once her gaze drifted toward the silver rose on my cloak. I did not want to announce my identity just then, and I thought they'd be a little afraid to guess ahead at it, at least for a few hours. I did want the time to rest a bit and just enjoy the pleasure of being back. So, "Thanks," I said, and I went on my way to my quarters.

  I started up the back stairs the servants use for being unobtrusive and the rest of us for being sneaky.

  Partway up, I realized that the way was blocked by sawhorses. Tools lay scattered about the stairs though there were no workmen in sight—and I couldn't tell whether a section of old stair had simply given way or whether some other force had been brought to bear upon it.

  I returned, cut around to the front, and took the big stairway up. As I made my way, I saw signs of exterior repair work, including entire walls and sections of flooring. Any number of apartments were open to viewing. I hurried to make sure that mine was not among their number.

  Fortunately, it was not. I was about to let myself in when a big redhaired fellow turned a corner and headed toward me. I shrugged. Some visiting dignitary, no doubt...

  "Corwin!" he called out. "What are you doing here?"

  As he drew nearer, I saw that he was studying me most intently. I gave him the same treatment.

  "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," I said.

  "Aw, come on, Corwin," he said. "You surprised me. Thought you were off by your Pattern and the '57 Chevy."

  I shook my head.

  "Not sure what you're talking about," I said.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  "You're not a Pattern ghost?" he said.

  "Merlin told me something about them," I said, "after he effected my release at the Courts. But I don't believe I've ever met one."

  I rolled up my left sleeve.

  "Cut me. I bleed," I said.

  As he studied my arm, his gaze appeared more than a little serious. For a moment, I thought he'd actually take me up on it.

  "All right," he said then. "Just a nick. For security purposes."

  "I still don't know who I'm talking to," I said.

  He bowed.

  "Sorry. I am Luke of Kashfa, sometimes known as Rinaldo I, its king. If you are who you say you are, I am your nephew. My dad was your brother Brand."

  Studying him, I saw the resemblance. I thrust my arm farther forward.

  "Do it," I said.

  "You're serious."

  "Dead right."

  He drew a Bowie knife from his belt then and looked into my eyes. Inodded. He moved to touch my forearm with its tip and nothing happened. That is to say, something happened, but it was neither desired nor wholly anticipated.

  The point of his blade seemed to sink a halfinch or so into my arm. It kept going then, finally passing all the way through. But no blood came.

  He tried again. Nothing.

  "Damn," he said. "I don't understand. If you were a Pattern ghost, we'd at least get a flare. But there's not even a mark on you."

  "May I borrow the blade?" I asked.

  "Sure."

  He passed it to me. I took it in my hand and studied it, I pushed it into my arm and drew it along for perhaps threequarters of an inch. Blood oozed.

  "I'll be damned," Luke said. "What's going on?"

  "I'd say it's a spell I picked up when I spent a night in the Dancing Mountains recently," I replied.

  "Hm," Luke mused, "I've never had the pleasure, but I've heard stories of the place. I don't know any simple ways to break its spells. My room's off toward the front." He gestured southward. "If you'd care to stop by, I'll see what I can figure out about it. I studied Chaos magic with my dad, and with my mother, Jasra."

  I shrugged.

  "This is my room right here," I said, "and I've a chicken and a bottle of wine on the way up. Let's do the diagnosis in here, and I'll split the meal with you."

  He smiled.

  "Best offer I've had all day," he said. "But let me stop back at my room for some tools of the trade."

  "All right. I'll walk you back, so I'll know the way in case I need it."

  He nodded and turned. We headed up the hall.

  Turning the corner, we moved from west to east, passing Flora's apartments and moving in the direction of some of the better visitors' quarters. Luke halted before one room and reached into his pocket, presumably after the key. Then he halted.

  "Uh, Corwin?" he said.

  "What?" I responded.

  "Those two big cobrashaped candle holders," he said, gesturing up the hall. "Bronze, I believe."

  "Most likely. What of them?"

  "I thought they were just hall decorations."

  "That's what they are."

  "The last time I looked at them, they kind of bracketed a small painting or tapestry," he said.

  "My recollection, too," I said.

  "Well, there seems to be a corridor between them now."

  "No, that can't be. There's a proper hallway just a little beyond—" I began.

  Then I shut up because I knew. I began walking toward it.

  "What's going on?" Luke asked.

  "It's calling me," I said. "I've got to go and see what it wants."

  "What is it?"

  "The Hall of Mirrors. It comes and goes. It brings sometimes useful, sometimes ambiguous messages to the one it calls."

  "Is it calling us both, or just you?" Luke said.

  "Dunno," I replied. "I feel it calling me, as it has in the past.

  You're welcome to come with me. Maybe it has some goodies for you, too."

  "You ever hear of two people taking it at once?"

  "No, but there's a first time for everything," I said.

  Luke nodded slowly.

  "What the hell," he said, "I'm game."

  He followed me to the place of the snakes, and we peered up it. Candles flared along its walls, at either hand. And the walls glittered from the countless mirrors which hung upon them. I stepped forward. Luke followed, at my left.

  The mirror frames were of every shape imaginable. I walked very slowly, observing the contents of each one. I told Luke to do the same. For several paces, the mirrors seemed simply to be giving back what was before them.

  Then Luke stiffened and halted, head turning to the left.

  "Mom!" he said explosively.

  The reflection of an attractive red-haired woman occupied a mirror framed in green-tinged copper in the shape of an Ouroboros serpent.

  She smiled.

  "So glad you did the right thing, taking the throne," she said.

  "You really mean that?" he asked.

  "Of course," she replied.

  "Thought you might be mad. Thought you wanted it," he said.

  "I did once, but those damned Kashfans never appreciated me. I've got the Keep now, though, and I feel like doing a few years' research here—and it's full of sentimental values as well. So as long as Kashfa stays in the family, I wanted you to know I was pleased."

  "Why—uh—glad to hear that, Mom. Very glad. I'll hang onto it."

  "Do," she said, and vanished.

  He turned to me, a small ironic smile flickering across his lips.

  "That's one of the rare times in my life when she's approved of something I've done," he said. "Doubtless for all the wrong reasons, but still... How real are these things? What exactly did we see? Was that a conscious communication on her part? Was—"

  "They're real," I said. "I don't know how or why or what part of the other is actually present. They may be stylized, surreal, may even suck you in.
But in some way they're really real. That's all I know. Holy cow!"

  From the huge gold-framed mirror, ahead and to my right, the grim visage of my father Oberon peered forth. I advanced a pace.

  "Corwin," he said. "You were my chosen, but you always had a way of disappointing me."

  "That's the breaks," I said.

  "True. And one should not speak of you as a child after all these years. You've made your choices. Of some I have been proud. You have been valiant."

  "Why, thank you—sir."

  "I bid you do something immediately."

  "What?"

  "Draw your dagger and stab Luke."

  I stared.

  "No," I said.

  "Corwin," Luke said. "It could be something like your proving you're not a Pattern ghost."

  "But I don't give a damn whether you're a Pattern ghost," I said. "It's nothing to me."

  "Not that," Oberon interjected. "This is of a different order."

  "What, then?" I asked.

  "Easier to show than to tell," Oberon replied.

  Luke shrugged.

  "So nick my arm," he said. "Big deal."

  "All right. Let's see how the show beats the tell."

  I drew a stiletto from my boot sheath. He pulled back his sleeve and extended his arm. I stabbed lightly.

  My blade passed through his arm as if the limb were made of smoke.

  "Shit," Luke said. "It's contagious."

  "No," Oberon responded. "It is a thing of very special scope."

  "That is to say?" Luke asked.

  "Would you draw your sword, please?"

  Luke nodded and drew a familiar-looking golden blade. It emitted a high keening sound, causing all of the candle flames in the vicinity to flicker.

  Then I knew it for what it was—my brother Brand's blade, Werewindle.

  "Haven't seen that in a long while," I said, as the keening continued.

  "Luke, would you cut Corwin with your blade, please?"

  Luke raised his eyes, met my gaze. I nodded. He moved the blade, scored my arm with its point. I bled.

  "Corwin—If you would...?" Oberon said.

  I drew Grayswandir and it, too, ventured into fighting song—as I had only heard it do on great battlefields in the past. The two tones joined together into a devastating duet.

  "Cut Luke."

  Luke nodded and I sliced the back of his hand with Grayswandir. An incision line occurred, reddening immediately. The sounds from our blades rose and fell. I sheathed Grayswandir to shut her up. Luke did the same with Werewindle.

  "There's a lesson there somewhere," Luke said. "Damned If I can see what it is, though."

  "They're brother and sister weapons, you know, with a certain magic in common. In fact, they've a powerful secret in common," Oberon said. "Tell him, Corwin."

  "It's a dangerous secret, sir."

  "The time has come for it to be known. You may tell him,"

  "All right," I said. "Back in the early days of creation, the gods had a series of rings their champions used in the stabilization of Shadow."

  "I know of them," Luke said. "Merlin wears a spikard."

  "Really," I said. "They each have the power to draw on many sources in many shadows. They're all different."

  "So Merlin said."

  "Ours were turned into swords, and so they remain."

  "Oh?" Luke said. "What do you know?"

  "What do you deduce from the fact that they can do you harm when another weapon cannot?"

  "Looks as if they're somehow involved in our enchantment," I ventured.

  "That's right," Oberon said. "In whatever conflict lies ahead—no matter what side you are on—you will need exotic protection against the oddball power of someone like Jurt."

  "Jurt?" I said.

  "Later," Luke told me. "I'll fill you in."

  I nodded.

  "Just how is this protection to be employed. How do we lot back to full permeability?" I asked.

  "I will not say," he replied, "but someone along the way here should be able to tell you. And whatever happens, my blessing—which is probably no longer worth much—lies on both of you."

  We bowed and said thanks. When we looked up again, he was gone.

  "Great," I said. "Back for less than an hour and involved in Amber ambiguity."

  Luke nodded.

  "Chaos and Kashfa seem just as bad, though," he said. "Maybe the state's highest function is to grind out insoluble problems."

  I chuckled as we moved on, regarding ourselves in dozens of pools of light. For several paces nothing happened, then a familiar face appeared in a red-framed oval to my left.

  "Corwin, what a pleasure," she said.

  "Dara!"

  "It seems that my unconscious will must be stronger than that of anyone else who wishes you ill," she said. "So I get to deliver the best piece of news of all."

  "Yes?" I said.

  "I see one of you lying pierced by the blade of the other. What joy!"

  "I've no intention of killing this guy," I told her.

  "Goes both ways," Luke said.

  "Ah, but that is the deadly beauty of it," she said. "One of you must be run through by the other for the survivor to regain that element of permeability he has lost."

  "Thanks, but I'll find another way," Luke said. "My mom, Jasra, is a pretty good sorceress."

  Her laughter sounded like the breaking of one of the mirrors.

  "Jasra! She was one of my maids," she said. "She picked up whatever she knows of the Art by eavesdropping on my work. Not without talent, but she never received full training."

  "My dad completed her training," Luke said.

  As she studied Luke, the merriment went out of her face.

  "All right," she said. "I'll level with you, son of Brand. I can't see any way to resolve it other than the way I stated. As I have nothing against you, I hope to see you victorious."

  "Thanks," he said, "but I've no intention of fighting my uncle. Someone must be able to lift this thing."

  "The tools themselves have drawn you into this," she said. "They will force you to fight. They are stronger than mortal sorcery."

  "Thanks for the advice," he said. "Some of it may come in handy," and he winked at her. She blushed, hardly a response I'd have anticipated, then she was gone.

  "I don't like the tenor this has acquired," I said.

  "Me neither. Can't we just turn around and go back?"

  I shook my head.

  "It sucks you in," I told him. "Just get everything you can out of it—that's the best advice I ever got on the thing."

  We walked on for perhaps ten feet, past some absolutely lovely examples of mirror making as well as some battered old looking glasses.

  A yellow-lacquered one on Luke's side, embossed with Chinese characters and chipped here and there, froze us in our tracks as the booming voice of my late brother Eric rang out:

  "I see your fates," he said with a rumbling laugh. "And I can see the killing ground where you are destined to enact them. It will be interesting, brother. If you hear laughter as you lie dying, it will be mine."

  "Oh, you always were a great kidder," I said. "By the way, rest in peace. You're a hero, you know."

  He studied my face.

  "Crazy brother," he said, and he turned his head away and was gone.

  "That was Eric, who reigned briefly as king here?" Luke asked.

  I nodded. "Crazy brother," I said.

  We moved forward and a slim hand emerged from a steel-framed mirror patterned with roses of rust.

  I halted, then turned quickly, somehow knowing even before I saw her who I would behold.

  "Deirdre..." I said.

  "Corwin," she replied softly.

  "Do you know what's been going on as we walked along?"

  She nodded.

  "How much is bullshit and how much is true?" I asked.

  "I don't know, but I don't think any of the others do either—not for sure."

  "Thanks. I
'll take all the reassurances I can get. What now?"

  "If you will take hold of the other's arm, it will make the transport easier."

  "What transport?"

  "You may not leave this hall on your own motion. You will be taken direct to the killing ground."

  "By you, love?"

  "I've no choice in the matter."

  I nodded. I took hold of Luke's arm.

  "What do you think?" I asked him.

  "I think we should go," he said, "offering no resistance—and when we find out who's behind this, we take him apart with hot irons."

  "I like the way you think," I said. "Deirdre, show us the way."

  "I've bad feelings about this one, Corwin."

  "If, as you said, we've no choice in the matter, what difference does it make? Lead on, lady. Lead on."

  She took my hand. The world began to spin around us.

  Somebody owed me a chicken and a bottle of wine. I would collect.

  I awoke lying in what seemed a glade under a moonlit sky. I kept my eyes half-lidded and did not move. No sense in giving away my wakefulness.

  Very slowly, I moved my eyes. Deirdre was nowhere in sight. My rightside peripheral vision informed me that there might be a bonfire in that direction, with some folks seated around it.

  I rolled my eyes to the left and got a glimpse of Luke. No one else seemed to be nearby.

  "You awake?" I whispered.

  "Yeah," he replied.

  "No one near," I said, rising, "except maybe for a few around a fire off to the right. We might be able to find a way out and take it—Trumps, Shadowalk—and thus break the ritual. Or we might be trapped."

  Luke put a finger into his mouth, removed it, and raised it, as if testing the wind.

  "We're caught up in a sequence I think we need," he said.

  "To the death?" I said.

  "I don't know. But I don't really think we can escape this one," he replied.

  He rose to his feet.

  "Ain't the fighting, it's the familiarity," I said. "I begrudge knowing you."

  "Me, too. Want to flip a coin?" he asked.

  "Heads, we walk away. Tails, we go over and see what the story is."

  "Fine with me." He plunged his hand into a pocket, pulled out a quarter.

  "Do the honors," I said.

  He flipped it. We both dropped to our knees.

  "Tails," he said. "Best two out of three?"