PRINCE OF CHAOS (8 page)

Gray and silver and black...
 
His face was an older, somewhat harder version of my own.
 
Corwin, my father, looked back at me.
 
How many times had I sweated over that card, trying to reach him, till my mind tied itself into aching knots, with no result? The others had told me that it could mean he was dead, or that he was blocking the contact.
 
And then a funny feeling came over me.
 
I recalled his own story, in particular when he’d spoken of the times they had tried to reach Brand through his Trump, being at first unable to because he had been imprisoned in such a distant shadow.
 
Then I remembered his own attempts to reach through to the Courts, and the difficulty imposed by the great distance.
 
Supposing that, rather than being dead or blocking me, he was greatly removed from the places I had been when I had made the efforts?

But then, who was it had come to my aid that night in Shadow, bearing me to that peculiar place between shadows and the bizarre adventures that befell me there?’ And though I was totally uncertain as to the nature of his appearance to me in the Corridor of Mirrors, I had later encountered indications of his presence in Amber Castle itself.
 
If he’d been in any of those places, it would seem he hadn’t really been too far off.
 
And that would mean he’d simply been blocking me, and another attempt to reach him would probably prove equally fruitless.
 
Still, what if there were some other explanation for all these occurrences and ...

The card seemed to grow cold beneath my touch.
 
Was it just my imagination, or was the strength of my regard beginning to activate it? I moved forward in my mind, focusing.
 
It seemed to grow even colder as I did so.

“Dad?” I said.
 
“Corwin?”

Colder still, and a tingling feeling in my fingertips that touched it.

It seemed the beginning of a Trump contact.
 
It could be that he was much nearer to the Courts than to Amber, within a more reachable range now...

“Corwin,” I repeated.
 
“It’s me, Merlin.
 
Hello.”

His image shifted, seemed to move.
 
And then the card went totally black.

Yet, it remained cold, and a sensation like a silent version of contact was present, like a telephone connection during a long pause.

“Dad? Are you there?”

The blackness of the card took on the aspect of depth.
 
And deep within it, something seemed to be stirring.

“Merlin?” The word was faint, yet I was certain it was his voice, speaking my name.
 
“Merlin?”

The movement within the depth was real.
 
Something was rushing toward me.

It erupted from the card into my face, with a beating of black wings, cawing, crow or raven, black, black.
 
“Forbidden!” it cried.
 
“Forbidden! Go back! Withdraw!”

It flapped about my head as the cards spilled from my hand.

“Stay away!” it screeched, circling the room.
 
“Forbidden place!”

It passed out the doorway and I pursued it.
 
It seemed to have vanished, though, in the moments it was lost to my sight.

“Bird!” I cried.
 
“Come back!”

But there was no reply, no further sounds of beating wings.
 
I peered into the other rooms and there was no sign of the creature in any of them.

“Bird ...?”

“Merlin! What’s the matter?”-this from high overhead.

I looked up to behold Suhuy, descending a crystal stair behind a quivering veil of light, a sky full of stars at his back.

“Just looking for a bird,” I replied.

“Oh,” he said, reaching the landing and stepping through the veil which then shook itself out of existence, taking the stair along with it.
 
“Any particular bird?”

“A big black one,” I said.
 
“Of the talking sort.” He shook his head.

“I can send for one,” he said.

“This was a special bird,” I said.

“Sorry you lost it.”

We walked out into the hallway and I turned left and headed back to the itting room.

“Trumps all over the place,” my uncle remarked.

“I was attempting to use one and it went black and the bird flew out of it, shouting, ‘Forbidden’! I dropped them at that point.”

“Sounds as if your correspondent is a practical joker,” he said, “or under a spell.”

We knelt and he helped me to gather them.

“The latter seems more likely,” I said.
 
“It was my father’s card, I’ve been trying to locate him for a long while now, and this was the closest I’ve come.
 
I actually heard his voice, within the blackout, before the bird interrupted and cut us off.”

“Sounds as if he is confined to a dark place, perhaps magically guarded as well.”

“Of course! “ I said, squaring up the edges of my deck and recasing it.

One cannot shift the stuff of Shadow in a place of absolute darkness.

It is as effective as blindness in stopping one of our blood from escaping confinement.
 
It added an element of rationality to my recent experience.
 
Someone wanting Corwin out of commission would have to keep him in a very dark place.

“Did you ever meet my father?” I asked.

“No,” Suhuy replied.
 
“I understand that he did visit the Courts briefly, at the end of the war.
 
But I never had the pleasure.”

“Did you hear anything of his doings here?”

“I believe he attended a meeting with Swayvill and his counselors, along with Random and the other Amberites, preliminary to the peace treaty.
 
After that, I understand he went his own ways, and I never heard where they might have led him.”

“I’d heard as much in Amber,” I said.
 
“I wonder...
 
He’d killed a noble-a Lord Borel-near the end of the final battle.
 
Any chance Borel’s relatives might have gone after him?”

He clicked his fangs twice, then pursed his lips.

“The House of Hendrake .
 
, .” he mused.
 
“I think not.
 
Your grandmother was Hendrake...”

“I know,” I said.
 
“But I didn’t have much to do with them.
 
Some disagreement with Helgram...
 
,”

“Hendrake Ways is very much of the military sort,” he went on.
 
“Glory of battle.
 
Martial honor, you know.
 
I can’t see them as holding a peacetime grudge for a wartime happening.”

Recalling my father’s story, I said, “Even if they considered the killing less than honorable?”

“I don’t know,” he said to that.
 
“It’s hard to guess attitudes on specific questions.”

“Who is head of the House of Hendrake now?”

“The Duchess Belissa Minobee.”

“The duke, her husband-Larsus...
 
What happened to him?”

“He died at Patternfall.
 
I believe Prince Julian of Amber slew him.”

“And Borel was their son?”

“Yes.”

“Ouch.
 
Two of them.
 
I didn’t realize.”

“Borel had two brothers, a half brother and a half sister, many uncles, aunts, cousins.
 
Yes, it’s a big House.
 
And the women of Hendrake are as doughty as the men.”

“Yes, of course.
 
There are songs, such as ‘Never Wed a Hendrake Lass.’ Any way of finding out whether Corwin had any doings with Hendrake while he was here?”

“One could ask about a bit, though it’s been a long while.
 
Memories fade, trails grow cold.
 
Not easy.”

He shook his head.

“How long till bluesky?” I asked him.

“Fairly soon,” he said.

“I’d better be heading for Mandorways then.
 
I promised my brother I’d breakfast with him.”

“I’ll see you later,” he said.
 
“At the funeral, if not before.”

“Yes,” I said.
 
“I guess I’d better clean up and change clothes.”

I headed back through the way to my room, where I summoned a basin of water, soap, toothbrush, razor; also, gray trousers, black boots and belt, purple shirt and gloves, charcoal cloak, fresh blade and scabbard.
 
When I had made myself presentable, I took a way through a forested glade to the receiving room.
 
From there, I exited onto a thruway.
 
A quarter mile of mountain trail later, ending abruptly at a chasm, I summoned a filmy and crossed upon it.
 
Then I bore right to Mandorways, traveling a blue beach beneath a double sun for perhaps a hundred yards.
 
I turned right, passing through a remembered archway of stone, moving briefly past a bubbling lava field and through a black obsidian wall, which took me to a pleasant cavern, over a small bridge, through a corner of a graveyard, a few steps along the Rim and into the receiving area of his Ways.

The entire wall to my left was composed of slow flame; that to my right, a non-returnable way, save for light, giving sight of some sea-bottom trench where bright things moved about and ate one another.
 
Mandor was seated human-formed before a bookcase directly ahead, wearing black and white, feet propped on a black ottoman, a copy of Robert Hass’s Praise, which I had given him, in his hand.

He smiled as he looked up.

“ ‘Death’s hounds feared me,’ “ he said.
 
“Nice line, that.
 
How are you this cycle?”

“Rested, finally,” I said.
 
“Yourself?”

He placed the book upon a small, legless table that floated near just then, and rose to his feet.
 
The fact that he had obviously been reading it because I was coming in no way detracted from the compliment.
 
He had always been that way.

“Quite well, thank you,” he replied.
 
“Come, let me feed you.”

He took my arm and steered me toward the wall of fire.
 
It fell away as we drew near and our footsteps sounded in a place of momentary darkness, succeeded almost immediately by a small lane, sunlight filtered through arching branches overhead, violets blooming at either hand.
 
The lane took us to a flagged patio, a green and white gazebo at its farther end.
 
We mounted a few stairs to a well-set table within, frosted pitchers of juice and baskets of warm rolls near at hand.
 
He gestured and I seated myself.
 
At his gesture a carafe of coffee appeared beside my setting.

“I see you recall my morning predeliction,” I said, “from the Shadow Earth.
 
Thank you.”

He smiled faintly as he nodded, seating himself across from me.
 
Birdsongs I could not identify sounded from the trees.
 
A gentle breeze caused leaves to rustle.

“What are you up to these days?” I asked him as I poured a cup of coffee and broke a roll.

“Observing the scene, mainly,” he replied.

“Political scene?”

“As always.
 
Though my recent experience in Amber has led me to regard it as part of an even larger picture.”

I nodded.

“And your investigations with Fiona?”

“Those, too,” he answered.
 
“These are shaping up into very unusual times.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It seems almost as if the Pattern-Logrus conflict were making itself manifest in mundane affairs, as well as on the cosmic scale.”

“I feel that way, too.
 
But then I’m prejudiced.
 
I got caught up in the cosmic part early, and without a scorecard.
 
I’ve been run all over the place and manipulated every which way recently-to the point where all of my affairs seemed part of their bigger picture.
 
I don’t like it a bit, and if I had some way to make them back off I’d use it.”

“Hm,” he said.
 
“And what if your whole life were a study in manipulation?”

“I wouldn’t feel good about it,” I said.
 
“I guess I’d feel just the way I do now, only perhaps more intensely.”

He gestured and an amazing omelet appeared before me, followed, moments later, by a side dish of fried potatoes, mixed with what appeared to be green chilies and onions.

“All of this is hypothetical,” I said as I began eating, “isn’t it?”

There followed a long pause as he took his first mouthful, then, “I think not,” he said.