"slide10" - читать интересную книгу автора (Betancourt John Gregory - Roger Zelazny's Dawn of Amber 01 - The Dawn of Amber...)

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EIGHT

I found myself in a cluttered, windowless, musty-smelling workroom. Long wooden tables lined every wall; they held a confusing jumble of papers, scrolls, wooden boxes, oddly shaped rocks, countless crystals of varying sizes, and many other less readily identified materials. Dusty racks on the walls contained neatly labeled jars; doubtless they contained ingredients for potions and spells, I decided. At one table, he had been wiring a skeleton together from sun-bleached bones. It had at least four arms . . . and possibly as many as eight. At another table, candles warmed strangely shaped bottles containing liquids of various hues, some of which gave off curiously spiced scents. Ahead and to the left, narrow doorways led to additional workrooms, these just as cluttered from what little I could see.
“Come on, come on,” he said impatiently, turning and leading the way. “I have wasted enough time on your rescue already—we have work to do, and it is best to get on with it.”
“All right,” I said, falling back into the patterns of my youth. All the time an inner voice told me to stand up to him right here, right now . . . to demand answers to everything that had happened.
But I couldn’t. Not yet. He was still Uncle Dworkin to me, still the mentor I admired and respected . . . and obeyed. All the years of leading men, all the years without his presence, seemed to have melted away. I could have been ten years old again, following his instructions without question.
We passed into the next room, which was filled with unshelved books and scrolls, more than I had ever seen in any one place before. There had to be thousands of them.
He didn’t stop but led me into yet another room, which held larger machines he had obviously been building. Odd bits and pieces lay half-assembled (or half-disassembled, I couldn’t tell which) on the floor and the worktables. Some had pipes and wires leading from large stones to what looked like corroding copper spheres, the largest of which had to be at least four feet across, the smallest no more than a hand’s width. Others looked like fairy tale castles built from spun glass, and pink and white and yellow lights flared or pulsated briefly within them. Across from us, in a giant fireplace that took up the entire wall, liquids bubbled in three large cauldrons, though no fire heated them that I could see. These potions or brews let off a curious combination of smells—something like the air after a thunderstorm had just passed, but slightly sour. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck start to bristle. Against my will, I shivered.
Dworkin—Dad—noticed and chuckled.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked.
“Distilling.”
“Brandy?” I guessed, but knowing it couldn’t be anything so simple.
“Life forces.”
“Oh.” I didn’t quite know what to make of that.
He pulled over two straight-backed wooden chairs, and we sat facing each other, though he did not look me in the eye. Could he be feeling . . . guilt? For never letting me know I had a father, a family? For hiding my birthright? For abandoning me these many years?
A long, awkward silence stretched between us, punctuated by faint dripping noises from one of the machines and a steady hiss from one of the cauldrons.
“Dworkin—” I finally said. “Or should I call you Dad, like Aber and the others?”
He shifted uneasily. “Either one is fine. Perhaps Dworkin is best . . . I have never been much of a father to you. Though ‘Dad’ does have a nice ring to it . . . ”
“So be it—Dad.”
“What else have you found out since you arrived?” he asked softly.
“Not as much as I would have liked.” I swallowed, my mouth dry, and for the first time in my life I suddenly found words difficult. I had a lump in my throat the size of an apple; it was hard to speak to him calmly with all I now knew. “Apparently you have enemies in the Courts of Chaos, at least one of whom is trying to destroy your bloodline. Unfortunately, I seem to be included.”
He nodded. “Two attempts have been made on my own life in the last year. And seven of my children—two daughters and five sons—are now missing, I assume murdered.” He shook his head. “I do not know who to blame, but I have been gathering the rest of you from all your scattered Shadows, bringing you here, protecting you while I investigate . . . and preparing to defend Juniper if we are attacked.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, rising and pacing the floor. I simply couldn’t sit still any longer. “I had a right to know you were my father!”
“Your mother wanted it this way,” Dworkin said softly, “to protect you. She knew you would never rest easily if you discovered your true nature. You would want to meet the rest of your family, pass through the Logrus and master Shadows—”
“Damn right!”
“I became a friend of the family,” he said, “so that I could be near you, guide you, watch you grow.”
“You made sure I learned what I needed to learn,” I said, guessing the truth. “You prepared me for a life in the military. And apparently you have been secretly watching and perhaps even guiding my career all these years.”
“It is what any dutiful father would have done.”
“No.” I glared at him. “A dutiful father would have told me the truth!”
“And ignored your mother’s wishes?”
“She was dead, I wasn’t. You abandoned me! Your own flesh and blood!”
“I promised her. I do not give my word lightly, Oberon . . . I loved her too much for that.”
“Loved her?” My voice raised to a shout. “When you sired how many more sons on other Shadows? How many wives do you have, anyway? Ten? Twenty? No wonder you never had time for me!”
He recoiled as though struck across the face. I’d hurt him more with those words than I could have with any physical blows, I realized. Perhaps I’d meant to do it—I certainly didn’t feel sorry for him now.
“You don’t understand the way of Shadows,” he said. “And I’m older than you realize. Time moves differently on each world—”
I turned away. I didn’t want him to see the tears welling up in my eyes. Soldiers don’t cry. It was all happening too fast. I needed time to think, to sort through the strange unfolding secrets and half-truths that made up my life.
Dworkin—Dad—my father—came up behind me. He put a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m here now,” he said softly. “I cannot change the past, but I can apologize for it. Perhaps I should have told you sooner. Perhaps I should never have made that promise to your mother. But what is done cannot be undone. Make the most of it. You have your heritage now. You have . . . a family. Embrace us all.”
I faced him. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“You must have questions. Ask them.”
I hesitated, trying to decide where to start. “Tell me about the—what did you call it? The Logrus?” I said, trying to remember his words. “Tell me about Shadows and how to move among them like you and the others do. I want to learn how.”
“It’s . . . difficult to explain.” He frowned. “Think of a single world, a place at the center of the universe . . . a primal source of life and power and wisdom.”
“The Courts of Chaos?”
“The Courts are built upon it there, yes. They are a part, but not the whole. Now, imagine time and the universe as a lake so huge you cannot see the shore when you are in the middle. The Courts of Chaos float at the center of this lake, casting reflections into the water. And every reflection is a world unto itself, a shadow of the Courts.”
“All right,” I said, not sure what he was leading up to. “How many of these reflections are there?”
“Nobody knows. Millions. Billions. Perhaps more than can ever be counted. Each is separate and distinct—a world of its own, with its own languages, peoples, customs. The farther you get from the Courts, the more different these worlds become, until you cease to recognize them. We call these worlds Shadows. Anything you can imagine exists in one, somewhere. Any many things you cannot possibly imagine.”
“And Juniper is just a Shadow,” I said, brow furrowing. “And Ilerium . . . everything I’ve ever known?”
“Yes.”
I felt stunned. With those few words, he had completely undone my view of the universe—and of my place within it. No wonder Ilerium now seemed a distant, fading memory. None of it mattered. None of it had ever mattered.
And yet . . . every fiber of my body told it had mattered. I had loved Helda. I had given my heart and soul to serving King Elnar and Ilerium. It had been my whole life . . . my whole reason for existing. It had been real . . . at least to me.
Now, suddenly, Dworkin reduced all I had ever known to a single mote of dust floating in a great ocean of a universe, a place so vastly, unimaginably huge that I could only just begin to take it in.
“But it felt so real!” I whispered.
“The Shadows are real. People live and breed in them, build cities and empires, work and love and fight and die, all the while never knowing anything of the greater universe that lies beyond.”
“And the Logrus? Is that what controls it?”
“No. The Logrus is—” he hesitated, as if searching for the words to describe the indescribable. “It is a key to finding your way amongst all the Shadow worlds. It is like a maze. By traversing its length, from start to finish, someone born of Chaos may have the Logrus imprinted on his mind forever. It frees your perceptions, allows you to control your movements. You can pass freely through the Shadows and find your path among them.”
Freda’s words on the journey in the carriage came back to me. “That’s what you did on the way here.”
“Yes. We traveled through many Shadows. We took an indirect route.”
“When can I go through this Logrus?”
“Soon. The Logrus is difficult and dangerous. It is not something to undertake lightly, and you must prepare for it. And, afterwards, it leaves you disoriented . . . sick for a time.” He hesitated. “Besides the ability to travel through Shadows, it confers other powers, too.”
Other powers? That caught my attention.
“Like what?” I asked cautiously.
“This.” Dworkin reached into the air and suddenly plucked a sword from nothingness.
I gaped at him. “How—”
“I had it in my bedchamber. I knew where I left it, and I used the Logrus to reach for it . . . to bridge the distance between my hand and where it lay. A kind of mental shortcut, if you will, between here and there.”
He set the sword down on the closest table. I stared at it, still hardly able to believe my eyes.
“And I can do that?” I asked skeptically.
“Not now. Not yet. You must first master the Logrus. That, at least, is your birthright . . . by tradition, no one, not even King Uthor himself, can deny it if you ask. Of course, there is the problem of getting you to the Courts and back safely, without our enemy finding out and killing us. And once in the Courts, you must survive the Logrus. Not all of us do, you know. My brother died on his first attempt. It destroyed him, mind and body. It is not so simple a matter after all.”
“I want to try,” I said firmly. “You cannot show me this gift and then tell me I can’t have it!”
“In due time.”
“You’re playing games with me again!”
“Do I need to remind you of how many children I’ve already lost? It is not safe for any of us to leave here,” Dworkin said firmly. “Not now, not yet. Juniper is well defended for a Shadow, but beyond the lands we control, there are creatures watching us. They are waiting for a mistake . . . any mistake.”
“Then we’ll kill them!” I felt a yearning inside to be off, to walk the Logrus and gain the powers due me . . . the powers my father and brothers and sisters already possessed. “That crystal you used against the hell-creatures—you must have more of them.”
“It is not so simple. Some of these watchers are relatives. The Courts of Chaos are . . . unlike anything you can imagine, with your limited experiences. Struggle and conflict are encouraged there, and only the strongest wield any real power. I have been away too long and have now lost whatever influence I once may have held.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
He folded his arms, looking away. “There are ancient codes of honor that are supposed to prevent death among us, among the Lords of Chaos. But out here in the deepest, farthest Shadows, those rules are often bent . . . or overlooked entirely. I am not important enough to try to demand observance of the rights and protections due me. But some of our enemies are very, very important, I suspect. And if they were to die—murdered or assassinated, whether by my hand, or yours, or our agents’—it would call the wrath of King Uthor himself upon us all. We could not survive it, not one of us.”
I frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Damned if we do, dead if we don’t. When we kill our enemies, it has to be in self defense.”
“Or it must look like an accident.” He sighed and shook his head slowly, and I realized he did not like the situation any more than I did. “After all,” he continued, “there is no harm in their watching us, or so they would say.”
“Spying on us.”
“Well, yes.”
“Then those hell-creatures in Ilerium—”
“They were soldiers drafted from another Shadow, sent to find and kill you, my boy. They are just the hands of our enemy . . . cut off the head and the body will die. It’s the only way, if we are to survive.”
“And this head . . . whose is it?”
“I wish I knew. It could be any of a dozen Lords of Chaos. My family has its share of hereditary rivals and blood-feuds. And I freely admit I have made mistakes over the years . . . my own list of personal enemies is larger than it should be. It could be any one of them.”
“Is that why you left the Courts?”
“One of the reasons. I thought they would forget me if I lost myself among the Shadows.”
I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully. His story pretty much matched Aber’s, and every word rang true. Sometimes, I’d found, just being alive was enough to make an enemy. I may have found my family . . . but I’d also gotten more than my share of trouble along with them.
“Before we can proceed,” Dworkin went on, “I must check something. It will only take a moment . . . ”
He crossed to a table cluttered with wires and tubes and beakers, crystals and glass spheres and copper pots—the cast-off paraphernalia of a wizard or alchemist, as far as I could tell. He rummaged among the bits and pieces, tossing first one then another aside, muttering to himself.
“How long have these feuds been going on in the Courts of Chaos?” I asked.
“Longer than anyone can remember. The Courts are ancient.”
“How old is that?” King Elnar’s family had ruled in Ilerium for nearly a thousand years,
“Every family in the Courts can trace their lineage back through the generations,” he said, “to the man who first recognized the Logrus for what it was. His name is lost to us, but it is known that he created if from his own blood and magics that came to him in a vision. He built it, and then he went through it. Once he completed the journey, when he discovered he had the power to move through Shadows, he forged an empire that still stands. Every one of his children went through the Logrus as they came of age, and they in turn gained the ability to walk among Shadows, becoming the first Lords of Chaos and begetting all the noble houses and the great families that still hold power in the Courts. Thus has it come down through the generations to us, to you and me and all the rest of our family.”
“How many generations?” I asked. “How many years?”
“It could be ten thousand. It could be more. Who can say? Time has little meaning for those who travel in Shadows . . . ”
It seemed inconceivably ancient to me. A ten-thousand-year-old blood feud . . . 
“How many of these great families are there, anyway?” I asked. “And how many Lords of Chaos?”
“There are hundreds of houses, though many are minor, like our own. The Lords of Chaos must number in the thousands. King Uthor himself keeps the Book of Peerage, where all the bloodlines are detailed, from the greatest house to least. Should any of us survive the coming war, we should annotate it. I . . . did not provide anyone in the Courts with the details of my children born in Shadow.”
That piqued my interest. “What of me? Did you tell them of me?”
“No.”
“And yet they found me anyway. How is that possible?”
“Yes, they did find you.” He paused, frowning. “An interesting question. You should have been safe in Ilerium. Nobody in the Courts knew of you.”
According to Aber, Dworkin had spoken often of me to Locke and Freda and the other members of our family. That’s how I’d been found. I knew without a doubt that we had a traitor in our midst—someone who had given away my name and location.
But who? Locke? Freda? Aber? One of the others? I swallowed, picturing them one by one. I couldn’t see Blaise or Pella betraying me, somehow. Davin, perhaps?
Still searching, Dworkin continued, “There is a science behind the Logrus. A reason it works. It creates a kind of mental shortcut, a way to hold its image in your mind without trying. That is the key to moving through Shadows.”
“Are there other ways? I thought the Trumps—”
“Yes, there are other ways through Shadow, and there are . . . legends, I supposed you would call them . . . of at least one other device which had similar properties, though it was lost or destroyed generations ago. The Logrus is all we have. I do not yet know why, but it makes some of us better able to manipulate Shadows than others.”
“And you’re one of the best, I suppose.”
“Me?” He chuckled. “Perhaps it seems that way to you, but in truth, compared to some of the great Lords of Chaos, I am still but a clumsy child.”
I shrugged. Clearly he underestimated his own abilities. Our journey in his horseless carriage, in which he had laid a series of traps for anyone following, had impressed Freda greatly, and I didn’t think that was an easy accomplishment.
“You said I’d need to get ready for the Logrus. How? Is there some training I need? A new skill?”
“You need strength and stamina and determination,” Dworkin said. “When I went into the Logrus nearly two hundred years ago, it almost killed me. I lay feverish and near death for two weeks, and weird visions filled my mind. I dreamed of a new kind of Logrus, one with a different kind of pattern, and finding it has become one of the goals of all my work and research.” He gestured grandly, taking in this room and the ones beyond, “In fact, the more I think about our enemies, the more I think this new pattern may be the cause.”
“How? Did you actually create it?”
“No . . . but I spoke openly of it when I was young, and I know it brought me undue scrutiny. After all, if I had created a new Logrus . . . a new source of power over Shadows . . . who knew what abilities it might confer on me!”
“And you think someone is trying to kill you and all your children,” I said, “to prevent it.”
“That is one possibility,” he admitted, “though a dozen others have occurred to me as well. Locke’s mother is from a powerful family. They opposed our marriage . . . and took insult when I left her and kept our offspring.”
“It was your right,” I said. “Locke is your first-born and heir apparent. Of course he had to stay with you.”
“Valeria did not see it that way.”
“Ah.” I nodded. Never underestimate the power of love. More than a few wars had been fought in Ilerium over less. And mothers are not always rational when their sons are involved.
Now we had two possible causes for the attacks, a disagreement with Locke’s abandoned mother, and Dworkin’s vision of a new pattern. And he had admitted there were more.
I found the idea of a new Logrus intriguing, though. If he made it, and if it worked the way the original worked, it could easily threaten the whole stability of the Courts of Chaos. Dworkin could set himself up as a king. And if his Logrus, too, cast Shadows, created whole new worlds in its image . . . 
I shivered. Yes, I could see how anyone with a high position in the Courts of Chaos would feel threatened by it—perhaps threatened enough to want to kill even me, poor bastard son that I was, ignorant of my heritage and abandoned on a backwater Shadow with no way to escape.
“Tell me more about this new Logrus,” I said.
Dworkin paused for a heartbeat, scratched his head, and crossed to the other worktable, where he began his search anew.
“I have come to believe that the reason I had so much trouble walking the Logrus is because it did not quite match the one within me. They are close as first cousins, but not the same. And this new one has begun to emerge in my children, too. Freda has it. Aber and Conner, too. But not Locke, alas, poor boy . . . or perhaps he is the fortunate one. Ah!”
He pulled what looked like a silver rod studded with diamonds from the jumble, then turned and motioned toward the far corner of his workroom. A small machine full of glass tubes and wires and tiny interlocking gears stood there. I had barely noted its presence before, in the midst of all the other more impressive looking devices. At its center sat a high-backed chair with armrests.
“This is what we need,” he went on. “Sit there. We will start at once.”
“What is it?” I asked dubiously. “Start what?”
“I must see the pattern contained within you,” he said. “Sit. Make yourself comfortable. It takes but a few minutes, and it will tell me how hard or easy it will be for you to walk the Logrus.”
It seemed sensible enough, and yet some instinct made me hesitate. For an instant I had a vision of an altar with a dying man spread upon it, strange patterns floating in the air above him, and then it was gone. Alanar. I recognized the man from Freda’s Trump. What did this little flash of memory mean? Why had I glimpsed a dead man?
A coldness touched my heart. A panic. I did not want to be here right now.
“Sit,” Dworkin commanded.
“I don’t like it,” I said warily, taking a step back. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Nonsense, my boy.” He took my arm and propelled me forward. Almost by reflex, I sat in the chair. “I have done this to all your brothers and sisters . . . and to myself. It is necessary.”
He stepped back, raised that rod, and pointed at me. I half flinched, expecting a brilliant flash or a burning beam of light—but nothing happened . . . or at least, nothing seemed to happen. No sounds, no lights, no growl of thunder. The only sounds came from the bubbling cauldrons in the fireplace.
I discovered I had been unconsciously holding my breath, and I let it out with a sudden gasp. Apparently I’d been concerned over nothing. The metal wand either didn’t work or didn’t hurt. I relaxed.
“Just a minute more,” Dworkin said.
“What is it doing?” I asked.
“Tuning itself to the forces within you,” he said. “Hold still. Do not get up.”
He made a few adjustments to the rod, and suddenly the machine around me came to life with a whirring and a creaking of wooden gears. I must have jumped three feet. Turning my head, I peered up into the intricate machinery. Blue sparks ghosted across its surface as wheels and cogs turned. It began to hum like a kettle about to boil.
Dworkin stepped forward and inserted the silver rod into a hole in the center of the mechanism, and at that moment I felt a strange probing in the back of my head, almost like the start of a headache, but not quite. Without warning, memories sprang forth then vanished, images from the whole of my life, the early times with my mother, later years with Dworkin, and even my service with King Elnar. I glimpsed Helda and a dozen other women I’d loved before her.
The images jumbled together in no particular order. Faster and faster they came, and the humming noise of the machine became a deafening whistle that cut through my soul.
Cities and towns—battles and grueling marches—festivals and high holidays—my seventh birthday, when Dworkin gave me my first sword—fighting the hell-creatures—childhood games in the streets—faces of people I’d long forgotten—
Slowly, in the air before me, a pattern began to form, full of elegant sweeps and curves, loops and switchbacks, a twisting geometry like something I might have seen long ago in a forgotten dream. Blue sparks drifted around me. Through everything I could just make out Dworkin’s form, hands raised as he traced the pattern between us with his fingertips. Where he touched it, it took on a ruby glow.
Still the memories surged, more faces, more battles, more times long gone. Faster and faster they came, all blurred together now, and the whistle in the back of my head became an unimaginable screech of sound that tore through my skull. My eyes burned. My skin crawled. I tried to leap out of that seat, to get away from Dworkin’s machine, but I couldn’t move my arms or legs. When I opened my mouth to beg Dworkin to stop, the only sound was an agonized scream.
The machine was killing me.
I tried to block it from my thoughts, but it only hummed louder. Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt my thoughts shredding, the memories fleeing, all thoughts now impossible, only pain—pain—pain—
I gasped like a fish out of water, tried to breathe. Blackness fell like a stone.

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EIGHT

I found myself in a cluttered, windowless, musty-smelling workroom. Long wooden tables lined every wall; they held a confusing jumble of papers, scrolls, wooden boxes, oddly shaped rocks, countless crystals of varying sizes, and many other less readily identified materials. Dusty racks on the walls contained neatly labeled jars; doubtless they contained ingredients for potions and spells, I decided. At one table, he had been wiring a skeleton together from sun-bleached bones. It had at least four arms . . . and possibly as many as eight. At another table, candles warmed strangely shaped bottles containing liquids of various hues, some of which gave off curiously spiced scents. Ahead and to the left, narrow doorways led to additional workrooms, these just as cluttered from what little I could see.
“Come on, come on,” he said impatiently, turning and leading the way. “I have wasted enough time on your rescue already—we have work to do, and it is best to get on with it.”
“All right,” I said, falling back into the patterns of my youth. All the time an inner voice told me to stand up to him right here, right now . . . to demand answers to everything that had happened.
But I couldn’t. Not yet. He was still Uncle Dworkin to me, still the mentor I admired and respected . . . and obeyed. All the years of leading men, all the years without his presence, seemed to have melted away. I could have been ten years old again, following his instructions without question.
We passed into the next room, which was filled with unshelved books and scrolls, more than I had ever seen in any one place before. There had to be thousands of them.
He didn’t stop but led me into yet another room, which held larger machines he had obviously been building. Odd bits and pieces lay half-assembled (or half-disassembled, I couldn’t tell which) on the floor and the worktables. Some had pipes and wires leading from large stones to what looked like corroding copper spheres, the largest of which had to be at least four feet across, the smallest no more than a hand’s width. Others looked like fairy tale castles built from spun glass, and pink and white and yellow lights flared or pulsated briefly within them. Across from us, in a giant fireplace that took up the entire wall, liquids bubbled in three large cauldrons, though no fire heated them that I could see. These potions or brews let off a curious combination of smells—something like the air after a thunderstorm had just passed, but slightly sour. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck start to bristle. Against my will, I shivered.
Dworkin—Dad—noticed and chuckled.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked.
“Distilling.”
“Brandy?” I guessed, but knowing it couldn’t be anything so simple.
“Life forces.”
“Oh.” I didn’t quite know what to make of that.
He pulled over two straight-backed wooden chairs, and we sat facing each other, though he did not look me in the eye. Could he be feeling . . . guilt? For never letting me know I had a father, a family? For hiding my birthright? For abandoning me these many years?
A long, awkward silence stretched between us, punctuated by faint dripping noises from one of the machines and a steady hiss from one of the cauldrons.
“Dworkin—” I finally said. “Or should I call you Dad, like Aber and the others?”
He shifted uneasily. “Either one is fine. Perhaps Dworkin is best . . . I have never been much of a father to you. Though ‘Dad’ does have a nice ring to it . . . ”
“So be it—Dad.”
“What else have you found out since you arrived?” he asked softly.
“Not as much as I would have liked.” I swallowed, my mouth dry, and for the first time in my life I suddenly found words difficult. I had a lump in my throat the size of an apple; it was hard to speak to him calmly with all I now knew. “Apparently you have enemies in the Courts of Chaos, at least one of whom is trying to destroy your bloodline. Unfortunately, I seem to be included.”
He nodded. “Two attempts have been made on my own life in the last year. And seven of my children—two daughters and five sons—are now missing, I assume murdered.” He shook his head. “I do not know who to blame, but I have been gathering the rest of you from all your scattered Shadows, bringing you here, protecting you while I investigate . . . and preparing to defend Juniper if we are attacked.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, rising and pacing the floor. I simply couldn’t sit still any longer. “I had a right to know you were my father!”
“Your mother wanted it this way,” Dworkin said softly, “to protect you. She knew you would never rest easily if you discovered your true nature. You would want to meet the rest of your family, pass through the Logrus and master Shadows—”
“Damn right!”
“I became a friend of the family,” he said, “so that I could be near you, guide you, watch you grow.”
“You made sure I learned what I needed to learn,” I said, guessing the truth. “You prepared me for a life in the military. And apparently you have been secretly watching and perhaps even guiding my career all these years.”
“It is what any dutiful father would have done.”
“No.” I glared at him. “A dutiful father would have told me the truth!”
“And ignored your mother’s wishes?”
“She was dead, I wasn’t. You abandoned me! Your own flesh and blood!”
“I promised her. I do not give my word lightly, Oberon . . . I loved her too much for that.”
“Loved her?” My voice raised to a shout. “When you sired how many more sons on other Shadows? How many wives do you have, anyway? Ten? Twenty? No wonder you never had time for me!”
He recoiled as though struck across the face. I’d hurt him more with those words than I could have with any physical blows, I realized. Perhaps I’d meant to do it—I certainly didn’t feel sorry for him now.
“You don’t understand the way of Shadows,” he said. “And I’m older than you realize. Time moves differently on each world—”
I turned away. I didn’t want him to see the tears welling up in my eyes. Soldiers don’t cry. It was all happening too fast. I needed time to think, to sort through the strange unfolding secrets and half-truths that made up my life.
Dworkin—Dad—my father—came up behind me. He put a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m here now,” he said softly. “I cannot change the past, but I can apologize for it. Perhaps I should have told you sooner. Perhaps I should never have made that promise to your mother. But what is done cannot be undone. Make the most of it. You have your heritage now. You have . . . a family. Embrace us all.”
I faced him. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“You must have questions. Ask them.”
I hesitated, trying to decide where to start. “Tell me about the—what did you call it? The Logrus?” I said, trying to remember his words. “Tell me about Shadows and how to move among them like you and the others do. I want to learn how.”
“It’s . . . difficult to explain.” He frowned. “Think of a single world, a place at the center of the universe . . . a primal source of life and power and wisdom.”
“The Courts of Chaos?”
“The Courts are built upon it there, yes. They are a part, but not the whole. Now, imagine time and the universe as a lake so huge you cannot see the shore when you are in the middle. The Courts of Chaos float at the center of this lake, casting reflections into the water. And every reflection is a world unto itself, a shadow of the Courts.”
“All right,” I said, not sure what he was leading up to. “How many of these reflections are there?”
“Nobody knows. Millions. Billions. Perhaps more than can ever be counted. Each is separate and distinct—a world of its own, with its own languages, peoples, customs. The farther you get from the Courts, the more different these worlds become, until you cease to recognize them. We call these worlds Shadows. Anything you can imagine exists in one, somewhere. Any many things you cannot possibly imagine.”
“And Juniper is just a Shadow,” I said, brow furrowing. “And Ilerium . . . everything I’ve ever known?”
“Yes.”
I felt stunned. With those few words, he had completely undone my view of the universe—and of my place within it. No wonder Ilerium now seemed a distant, fading memory. None of it mattered. None of it had ever mattered.
And yet . . . every fiber of my body told it had mattered. I had loved Helda. I had given my heart and soul to serving King Elnar and Ilerium. It had been my whole life . . . my whole reason for existing. It had been real . . . at least to me.
Now, suddenly, Dworkin reduced all I had ever known to a single mote of dust floating in a great ocean of a universe, a place so vastly, unimaginably huge that I could only just begin to take it in.
“But it felt so real!” I whispered.
“The Shadows are real. People live and breed in them, build cities and empires, work and love and fight and die, all the while never knowing anything of the greater universe that lies beyond.”
“And the Logrus? Is that what controls it?”
“No. The Logrus is—” he hesitated, as if searching for the words to describe the indescribable. “It is a key to finding your way amongst all the Shadow worlds. It is like a maze. By traversing its length, from start to finish, someone born of Chaos may have the Logrus imprinted on his mind forever. It frees your perceptions, allows you to control your movements. You can pass freely through the Shadows and find your path among them.”
Freda’s words on the journey in the carriage came back to me. “That’s what you did on the way here.”
“Yes. We traveled through many Shadows. We took an indirect route.”
“When can I go through this Logrus?”
“Soon. The Logrus is difficult and dangerous. It is not something to undertake lightly, and you must prepare for it. And, afterwards, it leaves you disoriented . . . sick for a time.” He hesitated. “Besides the ability to travel through Shadows, it confers other powers, too.”
Other powers? That caught my attention.
“Like what?” I asked cautiously.
“This.” Dworkin reached into the air and suddenly plucked a sword from nothingness.
I gaped at him. “How—”
“I had it in my bedchamber. I knew where I left it, and I used the Logrus to reach for it . . . to bridge the distance between my hand and where it lay. A kind of mental shortcut, if you will, between here and there.”
He set the sword down on the closest table. I stared at it, still hardly able to believe my eyes.
“And I can do that?” I asked skeptically.
“Not now. Not yet. You must first master the Logrus. That, at least, is your birthright . . . by tradition, no one, not even King Uthor himself, can deny it if you ask. Of course, there is the problem of getting you to the Courts and back safely, without our enemy finding out and killing us. And once in the Courts, you must survive the Logrus. Not all of us do, you know. My brother died on his first attempt. It destroyed him, mind and body. It is not so simple a matter after all.”
“I want to try,” I said firmly. “You cannot show me this gift and then tell me I can’t have it!”
“In due time.”
“You’re playing games with me again!”
“Do I need to remind you of how many children I’ve already lost? It is not safe for any of us to leave here,” Dworkin said firmly. “Not now, not yet. Juniper is well defended for a Shadow, but beyond the lands we control, there are creatures watching us. They are waiting for a mistake . . . any mistake.”
“Then we’ll kill them!” I felt a yearning inside to be off, to walk the Logrus and gain the powers due me . . . the powers my father and brothers and sisters already possessed. “That crystal you used against the hell-creatures—you must have more of them.”
“It is not so simple. Some of these watchers are relatives. The Courts of Chaos are . . . unlike anything you can imagine, with your limited experiences. Struggle and conflict are encouraged there, and only the strongest wield any real power. I have been away too long and have now lost whatever influence I once may have held.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
He folded his arms, looking away. “There are ancient codes of honor that are supposed to prevent death among us, among the Lords of Chaos. But out here in the deepest, farthest Shadows, those rules are often bent . . . or overlooked entirely. I am not important enough to try to demand observance of the rights and protections due me. But some of our enemies are very, very important, I suspect. And if they were to die—murdered or assassinated, whether by my hand, or yours, or our agents’—it would call the wrath of King Uthor himself upon us all. We could not survive it, not one of us.”
I frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Damned if we do, dead if we don’t. When we kill our enemies, it has to be in self defense.”
“Or it must look like an accident.” He sighed and shook his head slowly, and I realized he did not like the situation any more than I did. “After all,” he continued, “there is no harm in their watching us, or so they would say.”
“Spying on us.”
“Well, yes.”
“Then those hell-creatures in Ilerium—”
“They were soldiers drafted from another Shadow, sent to find and kill you, my boy. They are just the hands of our enemy . . . cut off the head and the body will die. It’s the only way, if we are to survive.”
“And this head . . . whose is it?”
“I wish I knew. It could be any of a dozen Lords of Chaos. My family has its share of hereditary rivals and blood-feuds. And I freely admit I have made mistakes over the years . . . my own list of personal enemies is larger than it should be. It could be any one of them.”
“Is that why you left the Courts?”
“One of the reasons. I thought they would forget me if I lost myself among the Shadows.”
I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully. His story pretty much matched Aber’s, and every word rang true. Sometimes, I’d found, just being alive was enough to make an enemy. I may have found my family . . . but I’d also gotten more than my share of trouble along with them.
“Before we can proceed,” Dworkin went on, “I must check something. It will only take a moment . . . ”
He crossed to a table cluttered with wires and tubes and beakers, crystals and glass spheres and copper pots—the cast-off paraphernalia of a wizard or alchemist, as far as I could tell. He rummaged among the bits and pieces, tossing first one then another aside, muttering to himself.
“How long have these feuds been going on in the Courts of Chaos?” I asked.
“Longer than anyone can remember. The Courts are ancient.”
“How old is that?” King Elnar’s family had ruled in Ilerium for nearly a thousand years,
“Every family in the Courts can trace their lineage back through the generations,” he said, “to the man who first recognized the Logrus for what it was. His name is lost to us, but it is known that he created if from his own blood and magics that came to him in a vision. He built it, and then he went through it. Once he completed the journey, when he discovered he had the power to move through Shadows, he forged an empire that still stands. Every one of his children went through the Logrus as they came of age, and they in turn gained the ability to walk among Shadows, becoming the first Lords of Chaos and begetting all the noble houses and the great families that still hold power in the Courts. Thus has it come down through the generations to us, to you and me and all the rest of our family.”
“How many generations?” I asked. “How many years?”
“It could be ten thousand. It could be more. Who can say? Time has little meaning for those who travel in Shadows . . . ”
It seemed inconceivably ancient to me. A ten-thousand-year-old blood feud . . . 
“How many of these great families are there, anyway?” I asked. “And how many Lords of Chaos?”
“There are hundreds of houses, though many are minor, like our own. The Lords of Chaos must number in the thousands. King Uthor himself keeps the Book of Peerage, where all the bloodlines are detailed, from the greatest house to least. Should any of us survive the coming war, we should annotate it. I . . . did not provide anyone in the Courts with the details of my children born in Shadow.”
That piqued my interest. “What of me? Did you tell them of me?”
“No.”
“And yet they found me anyway. How is that possible?”
“Yes, they did find you.” He paused, frowning. “An interesting question. You should have been safe in Ilerium. Nobody in the Courts knew of you.”
According to Aber, Dworkin had spoken often of me to Locke and Freda and the other members of our family. That’s how I’d been found. I knew without a doubt that we had a traitor in our midst—someone who had given away my name and location.
But who? Locke? Freda? Aber? One of the others? I swallowed, picturing them one by one. I couldn’t see Blaise or Pella betraying me, somehow. Davin, perhaps?
Still searching, Dworkin continued, “There is a science behind the Logrus. A reason it works. It creates a kind of mental shortcut, a way to hold its image in your mind without trying. That is the key to moving through Shadows.”
“Are there other ways? I thought the Trumps—”
“Yes, there are other ways through Shadow, and there are . . . legends, I supposed you would call them . . . of at least one other device which had similar properties, though it was lost or destroyed generations ago. The Logrus is all we have. I do not yet know why, but it makes some of us better able to manipulate Shadows than others.”
“And you’re one of the best, I suppose.”
“Me?” He chuckled. “Perhaps it seems that way to you, but in truth, compared to some of the great Lords of Chaos, I am still but a clumsy child.”
I shrugged. Clearly he underestimated his own abilities. Our journey in his horseless carriage, in which he had laid a series of traps for anyone following, had impressed Freda greatly, and I didn’t think that was an easy accomplishment.
“You said I’d need to get ready for the Logrus. How? Is there some training I need? A new skill?”
“You need strength and stamina and determination,” Dworkin said. “When I went into the Logrus nearly two hundred years ago, it almost killed me. I lay feverish and near death for two weeks, and weird visions filled my mind. I dreamed of a new kind of Logrus, one with a different kind of pattern, and finding it has become one of the goals of all my work and research.” He gestured grandly, taking in this room and the ones beyond, “In fact, the more I think about our enemies, the more I think this new pattern may be the cause.”
“How? Did you actually create it?”
“No . . . but I spoke openly of it when I was young, and I know it brought me undue scrutiny. After all, if I had created a new Logrus . . . a new source of power over Shadows . . . who knew what abilities it might confer on me!”
“And you think someone is trying to kill you and all your children,” I said, “to prevent it.”
“That is one possibility,” he admitted, “though a dozen others have occurred to me as well. Locke’s mother is from a powerful family. They opposed our marriage . . . and took insult when I left her and kept our offspring.”
“It was your right,” I said. “Locke is your first-born and heir apparent. Of course he had to stay with you.”
“Valeria did not see it that way.”
“Ah.” I nodded. Never underestimate the power of love. More than a few wars had been fought in Ilerium over less. And mothers are not always rational when their sons are involved.
Now we had two possible causes for the attacks, a disagreement with Locke’s abandoned mother, and Dworkin’s vision of a new pattern. And he had admitted there were more.
I found the idea of a new Logrus intriguing, though. If he made it, and if it worked the way the original worked, it could easily threaten the whole stability of the Courts of Chaos. Dworkin could set himself up as a king. And if his Logrus, too, cast Shadows, created whole new worlds in its image . . . 
I shivered. Yes, I could see how anyone with a high position in the Courts of Chaos would feel threatened by it—perhaps threatened enough to want to kill even me, poor bastard son that I was, ignorant of my heritage and abandoned on a backwater Shadow with no way to escape.
“Tell me more about this new Logrus,” I said.
Dworkin paused for a heartbeat, scratched his head, and crossed to the other worktable, where he began his search anew.
“I have come to believe that the reason I had so much trouble walking the Logrus is because it did not quite match the one within me. They are close as first cousins, but not the same. And this new one has begun to emerge in my children, too. Freda has it. Aber and Conner, too. But not Locke, alas, poor boy . . . or perhaps he is the fortunate one. Ah!”
He pulled what looked like a silver rod studded with diamonds from the jumble, then turned and motioned toward the far corner of his workroom. A small machine full of glass tubes and wires and tiny interlocking gears stood there. I had barely noted its presence before, in the midst of all the other more impressive looking devices. At its center sat a high-backed chair with armrests.
“This is what we need,” he went on. “Sit there. We will start at once.”
“What is it?” I asked dubiously. “Start what?”
“I must see the pattern contained within you,” he said. “Sit. Make yourself comfortable. It takes but a few minutes, and it will tell me how hard or easy it will be for you to walk the Logrus.”
It seemed sensible enough, and yet some instinct made me hesitate. For an instant I had a vision of an altar with a dying man spread upon it, strange patterns floating in the air above him, and then it was gone. Alanar. I recognized the man from Freda’s Trump. What did this little flash of memory mean? Why had I glimpsed a dead man?
A coldness touched my heart. A panic. I did not want to be here right now.
“Sit,” Dworkin commanded.
“I don’t like it,” I said warily, taking a step back. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Nonsense, my boy.” He took my arm and propelled me forward. Almost by reflex, I sat in the chair. “I have done this to all your brothers and sisters . . . and to myself. It is necessary.”
He stepped back, raised that rod, and pointed at me. I half flinched, expecting a brilliant flash or a burning beam of light—but nothing happened . . . or at least, nothing seemed to happen. No sounds, no lights, no growl of thunder. The only sounds came from the bubbling cauldrons in the fireplace.
I discovered I had been unconsciously holding my breath, and I let it out with a sudden gasp. Apparently I’d been concerned over nothing. The metal wand either didn’t work or didn’t hurt. I relaxed.
“Just a minute more,” Dworkin said.
“What is it doing?” I asked.
“Tuning itself to the forces within you,” he said. “Hold still. Do not get up.”
He made a few adjustments to the rod, and suddenly the machine around me came to life with a whirring and a creaking of wooden gears. I must have jumped three feet. Turning my head, I peered up into the intricate machinery. Blue sparks ghosted across its surface as wheels and cogs turned. It began to hum like a kettle about to boil.
Dworkin stepped forward and inserted the silver rod into a hole in the center of the mechanism, and at that moment I felt a strange probing in the back of my head, almost like the start of a headache, but not quite. Without warning, memories sprang forth then vanished, images from the whole of my life, the early times with my mother, later years with Dworkin, and even my service with King Elnar. I glimpsed Helda and a dozen other women I’d loved before her.
The images jumbled together in no particular order. Faster and faster they came, and the humming noise of the machine became a deafening whistle that cut through my soul.
Cities and towns—battles and grueling marches—festivals and high holidays—my seventh birthday, when Dworkin gave me my first sword—fighting the hell-creatures—childhood games in the streets—faces of people I’d long forgotten—
Slowly, in the air before me, a pattern began to form, full of elegant sweeps and curves, loops and switchbacks, a twisting geometry like something I might have seen long ago in a forgotten dream. Blue sparks drifted around me. Through everything I could just make out Dworkin’s form, hands raised as he traced the pattern between us with his fingertips. Where he touched it, it took on a ruby glow.
Still the memories surged, more faces, more battles, more times long gone. Faster and faster they came, all blurred together now, and the whistle in the back of my head became an unimaginable screech of sound that tore through my skull. My eyes burned. My skin crawled. I tried to leap out of that seat, to get away from Dworkin’s machine, but I couldn’t move my arms or legs. When I opened my mouth to beg Dworkin to stop, the only sound was an agonized scream.
The machine was killing me.
I tried to block it from my thoughts, but it only hummed louder. Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt my thoughts shredding, the memories fleeing, all thoughts now impossible, only pain—pain—pain—
I gasped like a fish out of water, tried to breathe. Blackness fell like a stone.

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