"slide14" - читать интересную книгу автора (Betancourt John Gregory - Roger Zelazny's Dawn of Amber 01 - The Dawn of Amber...)

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TWELVE

A quick search of my suite revealed no sign of Ivinius anywhere. No blood had been spilled, so no tell-tale stains remained. Only the tray with the razors and towels told me he had actually been here . . . and the ink stain beneath the small carpet, but that could have been spilled any time. It spoke of a clumsy scribe more than of an assassin.
I had no proof now that I’d been attacked, or that he’d been a hell-creature impersonating a servant. Without his body, I’d lost my one clue . . . and my one slight advantage. Since no alarm had been raised, I assumed either another hell-creature or a traitor in Juniper had come searching for him, discovered his body, and spirited it off.
I frowned. I hadn’t seen a single empty hallway or corri­dor all the way back to my rooms from dinner. Someone could have snuck into my rooms by normal means—it only took a moment of turned backs to slip through my unlocked door. But anyone smuggling out a body would have encountered witnesses. Clearly the body had been removed by other, perhaps even magical means. A Trump? It seemed likely.
And a Trump meant one of us . . . one of my half-brothers or half-sisters . . . 
But which one?
Puzzled, annoyed, and more than slightly frightened by the implications, I carefully bolted my doors, checked the windows (there didn’t seem to be any way short of flying to get to my balcony from the balconies to either side), and I moved my sword to within easy reach of the bed.
Only then did I undress and crawl between the sheets.
Exhaustion surged like an ocean tide. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.
Polite knocking has never been the way to rouse me in the morning, nor softly called invitations to breakfast. As with all soldiers, I liked to sleep the same way as I ate, fought, and bedded my women—heartily, fully, deeply. Trumpets sounding a call to arms, or the clash of swords, are the only things that stir my blood in the early hours. Otherwise, as my men had found out over the years, it’s best to let me be.
It should have surprised no one, then, that I scarcely heard the knocking, or the politely incessant “Lord? Lord Oberon?” that followed from the hallway when I refused to be awakened.
When someone threw back the curtains and bright sunlight flooded the room, I half opened one eye, saw it was only Aber, rolled over, and continued to snore.
“Oberon!” he called. “Wakee wakee!”
I opened my eyes to slits and glared at him. Hands on his hips, my half brother gazed down at me with a bemused expression. Behind him, in the doorway to my bedchamber, stood a clump of anxious servants in castle livery.
“I thought I bolted the door!” I said.
“Dad wants to see you. The servants have been trying to rouse you for half an hour. Finally they came and got me.”
“Why didn’t they say something?”
Growling a little, I threw back the covers and sat up, naked. A couple of the women hurried from the doorway, blushing. Anari hurried forward with a robe which turned out to be several sizes too large—but it would do, I shrugged it on.
Then I noticed a Trump in Aber’s hand . . . and plucked it from his grasp before he could object.
“Aha!” I said. A miniature portrait of my antechamber, done just like the one I had confiscated yesterday. “I knew I locked the door last night!”
He laughed. “Well, how else do you think I’d get in?”
“You told me you didn’t have any more Trumps of my rooms!”
“No,” he said with a grin, “I didn’t. I told you I didn’t have any more of your bedroom. This one isn’t of your bedroom, is it?”
“A fine distinction,” I grumbled. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. Served me right for not being specific enough, though I didn’t appreciate the service. Clearly I needed to do a better job of watching out for my own interests. “I’ll hang onto this one, too. Do you have any other Trumps of my rooms? Any of them?”
“Hundreds!” He tapped his head. “I keep them up here.”
I snorted. “Make sure they stay there. I don’t like people sneaking up on me!”
“Oh, all right.” He sighed. “You’re no fun.”
Yawning, I stretched the kinks from my muscles. “Now what were you saying? Dad wants to see me?”
“Yes.” Aber folded his arms. “You’ll find things run much more smoothly when you stick to his schedule. Rise early in the morning, stay up late at night, and try to catch a nap in the afternoon if time allows.”
“Lord,” said Anari, “I have found you a valet and taken the liberty of preparing your schedule for today.”
Schedule? I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Go on,” I said.
Anari motioned toward the doorway, and a young man of perhaps thirteen or so dashed forward and bowed to me.
“This is my great-grandson, Horace,” Anari said. “He will serve you well.”
“I’m sure,” I said. I gave Horace a brief nod. He had Anari’s features, but black hair to the old man’s white. “Pleased to have you, Horace.”
“Thank you, Lord!” He looked relieved.
“Call me Oberon,” I told him.
“Yes, Lord Oberon!”
“No, just Oberon. Or Lord.”
“Yes . . . Oberon . . . Lord.” He seemed hesitant at such familiarity. Well, he would get used to it soon enough. I needed a valet, not a toady.
Anari said, “The castle tailors will be here after breakfast. They will prepare clothing to your tastes. After that, lunch. You will be fitted for armor in the afternoon . . . and Lord Davin wishes to accompany you to the stables. He says you need a horse.”
“A peace offering?” I asked Aber.
“Who understands them?” he said with a shrug. “I don’t.”
I didn’t care; I did need a horse.
“It sounds fine,” I said to Anari. “But all must wait until after I see my father.”
“Of course.”
Horace was already making himself useful, laying out clothes for me—a beautiful white shirt with a stylized lion’s head stitched on the chest in gold thread and dark wine-colored pants that shimmered slightly in the bright morning light. They looked about my size, too . . . certainly closer than the robe.
“These were Mattus’s,” Aber said. “I don’t think he’d mind if you took them.”
“They’re beautiful.” I ran my hand over the fabric, wondering at the incredible softness and the silky texture, unlike anything I’d ever seen in Ilerium. No one there, not even King Elnar himself, had garments such as these.
“They were made in the Courts of Chaos,” Aber said.
“What’s the secret? Magic?”
“Spider-silk, I believe.”
“Incredible!”
Horace had continued his work while we talked, setting out a wide belt, cape, and gloves in colors to match the pants, plus clean socks and undergarments.
“You know where to find me,” Aber said, starting for the door. “I’ll walk down with you when you’re ready. Don’t dawdle . . . Dad’s still waiting!”
“And growing more annoyed by the moment, I’m sure,” I added with a smile. “I remember.”
Shaking his head, he left, and the few servants still outside the door followed. Anari started after them, then paused in the doorway to look back.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Horace will be fine. I can tell he’s a hard worker. And I’ll watch out for him, you have my word.”
He seemed relieved. “Thank you, Lord Oberon.”
Ten minutes later, I collected Aber from his rooms across the hall and started down for Dad’s workshop. I have always had a fairly good sense of direction, and I unerringly retraced our journey from the previous evening.
As we walked, I asked Aber what had happened at dinner after I left.
“Not much,” he said. “Everyone was too shocked.”
I chuckled. “Shocked? By Taine’s being alive or my being a cripple?”
“A little of both, actually.” He swallowed and wouldn’t meet my gaze. “After dinner—”
“Everyone tried to contact Taine with his Trump,” I guessed. “But it didn’t work.”
“That’s right.”
“So he’s either dead, unconscious, drugged, or protected somehow from your Trumps.”
“That’s how it looks to me.”
We reached Dworkin’s workshop. Two new guards—one of whom I recognized from the dice game in the guardroom—snapped to attention as we passed.
“Is there anything else you can do?” I asked. “Is there any way to just reach through his Trump, grab him whether he’s awake or not, and just drag him through?”
“I wish we could. But Trumps don’t work that way.”
I raised my hand to knock on the workshop door, but it swung open for me. The room blazed with light. I couldn’t see Dworkin for a moment—but then I spotted him on the other side of the room. He hadn’t opened the door, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else present. Ghosts? No—probably just the Logrus again, I realized with a gulp. If he could snatch swords from the other end of the castle, why not open doors from ten feet away?
“Ah, there you are!” Dworkin said. “Come in.”
Disconcerted, I stepped inside.
“Good luck!” Aber said to me, and then the door slammed in his face.
Dworkin sat at a table in a tall-backed wooden chair. The table held a box, and in the box sat what looked like an immense ruby. I must admit I stared at it; I had never seen a jewel of its size before. Surely it belonged to some king . . . which is what Dworkin probably was in this Shadow.
He chuckled. “Impressive, is it not?”
“Beautiful,” I said. I raised it, studying the carefully faceted sides, which gleamed seductively in the bright light.
“This crystal is special. It holds a replica of the pattern within you.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I . . . acquired it some time ago. It has unusual properties, one of which may prove useful in your situation. Your Pattern, I now believe, is not a mere distortion of the Logrus after all.”
“Then . . . you were wrong last night?” I felt a mounting excitement. This might be the answer to my hopes and prayers. “I can walk the Logrus after all?”
“No—that would kill you!”
“But you said—”
“I said your pattern is not a distortion of the Logrus. It is something else . . . something new. A different pattern.”
I frowned, confused. “How can that be? Isn’t the Logrus responsible for everything . . . for the Courts of Chaos and all the Shadow worlds?”
“In some ways, perhaps.”
“I don’t understand.” I stared at him blankly.
“Few are the things that cannot be replaced.”
“You mean I really am a cripple. I cannot draw on the Logrus like you do.”
“No!” He threw back his head and laughed. “Exactly the opposite, my boy—you do not need to draw on the Logrus. You have something else to draw upon . . . your own pattern.”
“My own . . . ” I stared at him dumbly.
“I hold the design of your pattern fixed clearly in my mind now, and it burns with a primal power. You are like that first nameless Lord of Chaos. You hold a pattern—this new pattern—inside you. It is unlike the Logrus! It is a pattern from which whole worlds may spring, once it is traced properly!”
Not the Logrus . . . 
I felt a sudden joy, a boundless euphoria, as I realized what that meant. Perhaps I could master Shadows the way the rest of my family had. I might yet travel between the Shadow worlds and work the wonders I had seen. Suddenly it all lay within my grasp.
And I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. More than a father, more than a family, I wanted my heritage . . . my destiny.
Only—
“Traced properly?” I asked slowly. “What does that mean?”
He hesitated, and I could tell he was trying to find the words to explain it to me.
“I believe the Logrus exists not just inside, but outside the universe as we know it,” he finally said. “The first Lord of Chaos partly traced its shape using his own blood . . . putting a form to the formless, making it real in a way that it had not been before. It is my belief that when someone of our bloodline passes through it, the Logrus’s pattern is imprinted forever in his mind, enabling him to use it—to draw on its power and move between worlds.”
“I understand,” I said. I’d heard the whole history-of-our-powers speech already. “You said the Logrus wouldn’t work on me . . . it would destroy me.”
“That is correct. What we must do for you is something similar to what the first Lord of Chaos did . . . find a way to trace the unique pattern within you, so that your pattern is imprinted on your mind, much the way the Logrus is imprinted on my mind.”
“All right,” I said. It sounded reasonable enough. And yet . . . something still bothered me.
Dad hesitated.
“You’re leaving something out,” I said accusingly.
“No . . . ”
“Tell me!”
He swallowed. “I have never tried this before. It may work. It should work, if my theories about the Logrus and its nature are correct. But then again . . . what if I am wrong? What if I have made a mistake?”
“It might kill me,” I said, recognizing what he had been unwilling to say.
“That, or worse. It might destroy your mind, leaving your body little more than an empty shell. Or . . . it might do nothing at all.”
I didn’t know which would be worse. My hopes had been raised; it had to work. It would work. I had run out of options.
“What are my chances of living?” I asked.
“I cannot guarantee anything, except that I have done my best.”
“Would you do it?” I asked. “Would you risk your own life on tracing this pattern?”
“Yes,” he said simply. No arguments, no explanations, just a single word.
I took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth. I could risk everything and try to gain power unimaginable. Or I could be safe, forever trapped in the world of mortal men.
Could I live with the Lockes of the world sneering at me, pitying me? Could I live with myself if I passed up my one last chance for power?
Only cowards choose the safe path.
I had known what my answer must be even before Dworkin told me of the risk. I wanted power. I wanted magic of my own. After seeing what Dworkin and the rest of my family could do, how could I step back now?
I swallowed hard. “I want to try it.”
Dworkin let out his breath. “I will not fail you, my boy,” he said softly.
He held up the ruby. I gasped as it caught the light, sending flashes of color dancing and slashing around the room.
Holding the jewel higher, at my eye level, I found it glowed with an inner light. I leaned forward, wanting to fall into its center like a moth is called by an open flame.
“Look deep inside,” Dworkin continued. His voice sounded as if he were standing far away. “Fastened within it is a design . . . an exact tracing of the pattern within you. Gaze upon it, my boy—gaze and let your spirit go!”
A shimmer of red surrounded me. The world receded, and light and shadow began to pulsate rhythmically, shapes and forms seeming to appear, then vanish.
As though from a great distance away, I heard Dworkin’s voice: “Follow the pattern, my boy . . . let it show you the way . . . ”
I stepped forward.
It was like opening a door and entering a room I never knew existed. The world unfolded around me. Space and time ceased to have meaning. I felt neither breath in my lungs nor the beating of my heart; I simply was. I did not need to breathe, or see, or taste, or touch. When I reached for my wrist, I felt no pulse . . . I felt nothing at all.
Lights glimmered, moved. Shadows flowed like water.
This isn’t real . . . 
And yet it was. Before me, behind me, to the sides and all around me, I saw the lines of a great pattern. It blazed with a liquid red light, curves and sweeps and switchbacks, like the twisted body of some immense serpent or dragon. It held me transfixed within it, just as I held it within me, and together we balanced perfectly. I felt a calm, a harmony of belonging.
“This way . . . ”
I felt a hand on my shoulder, pushing me on. I took a step.
“Dad?”
“Yes. I am here. I have projected myself inside the jewel, too. Come. Move forward, onto the pattern. Walk its length. I will be with you . . . ”
I stepped forward, heading for the pattern. This was no mere distortion of the Logrus. It was separate, different, and yet . . . two parts of some greater whole.
Distantly, as though in a dream, I heard Dad’s voice talking to me. I could not make out the words, but the tone nagged and insisted. I had to do something . . . go somewhere . . . 
So hard to concentrate. And yet I knew there was something I had to remember . . . something I had to do . . . 
“Forward,” said the voice. “Do not stop.”
Yes. Forward.
I moved on, into the pattern, following the glowing red light. At first I found it easy, but it grew steadily harder as I progressed, like wading through mud. The light pushed at me, trying to drive me back, but I refused to give up. I thought. I would not stop no matter what happened.
And abruptly the resistance ceased. I moved easily down the trail. The light, clear and brilliant, lit the path. Around the turn, forward—another turn—
The whole of my life flashed before me, but strangely vivid—all the places I’d been, all the people I’d ever met.
My mother—
Swearing to serve King Elnar—
Sword lessons on the town green—
Our house in Piermont—
Fighting the hell-creatures—
Dworkin as a younger man—
The path curved and again grew difficult, and I found myself straining for every inch, forcing myself forward. I would not stop. I could not stop. The lights ahead beckoned. Images of my life flashed and danced through my mind.
The beach at Janisport—
King Elnar’s crowning—
Fishing on the banks of the Blue River—
The women I had known before Helda—
The battle of Highland Ridge—
In bed with Helda—
Mustering troops for battle—
For some reason, I seized upon the image of the battlefield. Here King Elnar had fought the hell-creatures to a standstill. Here we had known our first real victory in the war against the hell-creatures.
In my mind’s eye, I still saw our troops again rallying valiantly to the king, swords and pikes raised, screaming their war-cries—
And, reaching the center of the pattern, where it had wound in upon itself—
—I staggered across mud and matted grass, then drew up short, half gagging on the stench of death and decay. Bodies of men and horses lay all around me, rotting and covered with flies. A low buzz of wings came from the corpses.
I looked up. It was late afternoon on a dark, overcast day. A chill wind blew from the east, heavy with the promise of rain. It could not remove the stench of death, however.
Slowly I turned in a circle. The battlefield stretched as far as I could see in every direction. There had been a massacre here, and I saw uncountable hundreds, perhaps thousands of bodies, all human, all dressed in King Elnar’s colors.
From warmth to cold, from dry to damp, from the safety of a castle to the horrors of a battlefield in an instant. What had happened? How had I gotten here?
Dworkin’s ruby . . . 
I remembered it now. I had seen the fields outside of Kingstown while gazing into the jewel. Somehow, it had sent me here.
But why? To see the destruction?
I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt tail, but it did little to hide the stench. Slowly, I turned full circle, taking in the horrors around me.
These men had died at least four or five days ago, I estimated. Broken weapons, a burnt out war-wagon toppled on its side, and fallen banners caked with mud and gore spoke to the magnitude of the loss. King Elnar’s army had been destroyed, and from the number of bodies, probably to the last man.
A cold drizzle began to soak my hair and clothes. The stench of carrion grew worse. Carefully I began to pick my way among the bodies, looking for the king, for anyone I knew.
I shivered, suddenly, soaked to the skin. Then I forced myself to look at the battlefield, at all that remained around me. Birds and dogs and other, less savory carrion-eaters had worked on the corpses for several days, but I didn’t need to see faces to recognize them.
All had been human.
I climbed onto the burnt-out wagon’s sides, my fingers growing black and greasy from the char, and when I stood above the battlefield I saw the true scope of the disaster.
The battlefield stretched as far as I could see. Proud banners lay in the mud. Swords, knives, pikes, and axes by the score lay rusting on the ground. And everywhere, piled or singly as they had fallen, lay more bodies.
No one, not wife nor child nor priest, had come to sing the funeral songs and bury the dead. I did not have to look to know that Kingstown too had fallen, or that the hell-creatures had slaughtered all whom they met along the way.
So much for Dad’s prediction that the hell-creatures would leave Ilerium once I went to Juniper. As I picked my way through the battlefield, a numb sort of shock settled upon me. Severed limbs, empty eye sockets that seemed yet to stare, expressions of terror and pain etched on every face—I could scarcely take it all in.
Then I came to a place where the bodies and debris had been cleared away. A line of seven chest-high wooden poles, each stuck into the mud perhaps two feet apart, held ghastly trophies: the severed heads of King Elnar and six of his lieutenants.
Staring at what little remained of my king, I felt my stomach knot with pain. I stumbled forward to stand before him. His eyes were closed; his mouth hung open. Though his grayish skin had begun to crack from exposure to the sun, he had a peaceful look, almost as though he slept.
It was a struggle to keep from throwing myself to the ground and sobbing helplessly. How could this have happened? Dad had said the hell-creatures would leave once I fled Ilerium. I had believed him.
“I’m sorry,” I told him.
Suddenly, impossibly, King Elnar’s eyelids flickered open.
I felt a jolt of terror.
His eyes turned slowly to regard me. Recognition shone in them.
“You!” he croaked, barely able to form the words. A black tongue darted out, licking cracked and broken lips. “You brought this punishment upon us!”
“No . . . ” I whispered.
The other heads on the other poles began to open their eyes, too. Ilrich, Lanar, Harellen—one by one they began to call my name: “Obere . . . Obere . . . Obere . . .  ”
Voice growing stronger, King Elnar said, “You fled your oath of allegiance. You abandoned us in our hour of need. Know, then, our doom, for you shall share it!”
“I thought the hell-creatures would leave,” I told him. “They were looking for me, not you.”
“Traitor!” he said. “You betrayed us all!”
And the other heads began to shout, “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!”
“No!” I said. “Listen to me! It’s not true!”
“Hell-creatures!” King Elnar began to scream. “He’s here! He’s here! Come and get him! Come and get the traitor!”
“Quiet!” I said, voice sharp. “Don’t call them—”
“Help!” one of the other heads shouted. “Hell-creatures! Come help us! Lieutenant Obere is here!”
I cried, “Shut up!”
Another called, “This is the one you want, not us! Help! Help!”
“Come and get him!” shouted the rest of the heads. “Come and get him!”
I tried everything to quiet them—explanations, reasoning, orders. Nothing worked. They just wouldn’t stop shouting for the hell-creatures to come and get me.
They were no longer men, but bewitched things, I finally told myself. The people I had known would never have betrayed me this way . . . not the king I had sworn to serve till my dying breath, not my brothers-in-arms . . . not one of them.
Raising my boot, I knocked over King Elnar’s pole. His head did not roll free. I bent to pry it off, but then I discovered it was not stuck on top of the pole, but had somehow become a part of it . . . flesh and wood grown together in a horrible mingling of the two.
“Liege-killer!” the heads shouted.
“Traitor!”
“Murderer!”
“Assassin!”
“Hell-creatures—help us!”
I pulled the pole free from the ground. A little more than four feet from end to end, it only weighed twenty pounds or so. I raised it easily over my head and smashed the head-part on the nearest stone with all my strength.
King Elnar’s face shattered, but instead of bone and brains, a pulpy green mass and what looked like sap sprayed out. It smelled like fresh-cut lumber.
Half sobbing, I smashed it again and again until the head was completely gone. Then I used the pole to smash the other heads, too. All the time they screeched their insults and called on the hell-creatures for help.
They couldn’t help it, I told myself. They were no longer the people I had known.
Finally it was done. Alone again, I stood there, listening to the wind moan softly through the battlefield, the smell of fresh wood mingling with the carrion stench. Rain pattered down harder. Darkness began to fall. Lightning flickered overhead.
Turning, still dragging the pole, I looked toward Kingstown. Perhaps I could find answers there . . . or a way back to Juniper. I needed time to rest and think and gather my wits.
Then I heard the one sound I feared most: distant hoofbeats. A lot of them. Hell-creatures? Answering the heads’ frantic calls?
I didn’t doubt it. The hell-creatures must have left the heads to watch for my return. And they had betrayed me as soon as I arrived.
Desperately, I looked around. There was no one left alive to help me here, and no place to make a stand. I might hide among the fallen bodies for a time, but a search would find me soon enough, and I didn’t look forward to a night spent lying motionless in cold mud.
I snatched up a fallen sword, only to discover it was chipped and bent in the middle. The second one I grabbed was broken. Damn Dworkin and his no-swords-in-the-workshop rule! If I’d had my own blade, I might have stood a chance.
With darkness falling rapidly now and rain drumming incessantly, I didn’t have time to hunt for a weapon I could use. With the hell-creatures approaching, I had to find cover, and fast. In my current condition, I didn’t think I’d last two minutes against any determined attack.
I ran toward Kingstown. Perhaps it still stood. Perhaps the remains of King Elnar’s army had rallied there and still held it. Though I knew the chances were slim, it seemed my only remaining option.
At the very least, I might find a place to hide until morning.

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TWELVE

A quick search of my suite revealed no sign of Ivinius anywhere. No blood had been spilled, so no tell-tale stains remained. Only the tray with the razors and towels told me he had actually been here . . . and the ink stain beneath the small carpet, but that could have been spilled any time. It spoke of a clumsy scribe more than of an assassin.
I had no proof now that I’d been attacked, or that he’d been a hell-creature impersonating a servant. Without his body, I’d lost my one clue . . . and my one slight advantage. Since no alarm had been raised, I assumed either another hell-creature or a traitor in Juniper had come searching for him, discovered his body, and spirited it off.
I frowned. I hadn’t seen a single empty hallway or corri­dor all the way back to my rooms from dinner. Someone could have snuck into my rooms by normal means—it only took a moment of turned backs to slip through my unlocked door. But anyone smuggling out a body would have encountered witnesses. Clearly the body had been removed by other, perhaps even magical means. A Trump? It seemed likely.
And a Trump meant one of us . . . one of my half-brothers or half-sisters . . . 
But which one?
Puzzled, annoyed, and more than slightly frightened by the implications, I carefully bolted my doors, checked the windows (there didn’t seem to be any way short of flying to get to my balcony from the balconies to either side), and I moved my sword to within easy reach of the bed.
Only then did I undress and crawl between the sheets.
Exhaustion surged like an ocean tide. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.
Polite knocking has never been the way to rouse me in the morning, nor softly called invitations to breakfast. As with all soldiers, I liked to sleep the same way as I ate, fought, and bedded my women—heartily, fully, deeply. Trumpets sounding a call to arms, or the clash of swords, are the only things that stir my blood in the early hours. Otherwise, as my men had found out over the years, it’s best to let me be.
It should have surprised no one, then, that I scarcely heard the knocking, or the politely incessant “Lord? Lord Oberon?” that followed from the hallway when I refused to be awakened.
When someone threw back the curtains and bright sunlight flooded the room, I half opened one eye, saw it was only Aber, rolled over, and continued to snore.
“Oberon!” he called. “Wakee wakee!”
I opened my eyes to slits and glared at him. Hands on his hips, my half brother gazed down at me with a bemused expression. Behind him, in the doorway to my bedchamber, stood a clump of anxious servants in castle livery.
“I thought I bolted the door!” I said.
“Dad wants to see you. The servants have been trying to rouse you for half an hour. Finally they came and got me.”
“Why didn’t they say something?”
Growling a little, I threw back the covers and sat up, naked. A couple of the women hurried from the doorway, blushing. Anari hurried forward with a robe which turned out to be several sizes too large—but it would do, I shrugged it on.
Then I noticed a Trump in Aber’s hand . . . and plucked it from his grasp before he could object.
“Aha!” I said. A miniature portrait of my antechamber, done just like the one I had confiscated yesterday. “I knew I locked the door last night!”
He laughed. “Well, how else do you think I’d get in?”
“You told me you didn’t have any more Trumps of my rooms!”
“No,” he said with a grin, “I didn’t. I told you I didn’t have any more of your bedroom. This one isn’t of your bedroom, is it?”
“A fine distinction,” I grumbled. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. Served me right for not being specific enough, though I didn’t appreciate the service. Clearly I needed to do a better job of watching out for my own interests. “I’ll hang onto this one, too. Do you have any other Trumps of my rooms? Any of them?”
“Hundreds!” He tapped his head. “I keep them up here.”
I snorted. “Make sure they stay there. I don’t like people sneaking up on me!”
“Oh, all right.” He sighed. “You’re no fun.”
Yawning, I stretched the kinks from my muscles. “Now what were you saying? Dad wants to see me?”
“Yes.” Aber folded his arms. “You’ll find things run much more smoothly when you stick to his schedule. Rise early in the morning, stay up late at night, and try to catch a nap in the afternoon if time allows.”
“Lord,” said Anari, “I have found you a valet and taken the liberty of preparing your schedule for today.”
Schedule? I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Go on,” I said.
Anari motioned toward the doorway, and a young man of perhaps thirteen or so dashed forward and bowed to me.
“This is my great-grandson, Horace,” Anari said. “He will serve you well.”
“I’m sure,” I said. I gave Horace a brief nod. He had Anari’s features, but black hair to the old man’s white. “Pleased to have you, Horace.”
“Thank you, Lord!” He looked relieved.
“Call me Oberon,” I told him.
“Yes, Lord Oberon!”
“No, just Oberon. Or Lord.”
“Yes . . . Oberon . . . Lord.” He seemed hesitant at such familiarity. Well, he would get used to it soon enough. I needed a valet, not a toady.
Anari said, “The castle tailors will be here after breakfast. They will prepare clothing to your tastes. After that, lunch. You will be fitted for armor in the afternoon . . . and Lord Davin wishes to accompany you to the stables. He says you need a horse.”
“A peace offering?” I asked Aber.
“Who understands them?” he said with a shrug. “I don’t.”
I didn’t care; I did need a horse.
“It sounds fine,” I said to Anari. “But all must wait until after I see my father.”
“Of course.”
Horace was already making himself useful, laying out clothes for me—a beautiful white shirt with a stylized lion’s head stitched on the chest in gold thread and dark wine-colored pants that shimmered slightly in the bright morning light. They looked about my size, too . . . certainly closer than the robe.
“These were Mattus’s,” Aber said. “I don’t think he’d mind if you took them.”
“They’re beautiful.” I ran my hand over the fabric, wondering at the incredible softness and the silky texture, unlike anything I’d ever seen in Ilerium. No one there, not even King Elnar himself, had garments such as these.
“They were made in the Courts of Chaos,” Aber said.
“What’s the secret? Magic?”
“Spider-silk, I believe.”
“Incredible!”
Horace had continued his work while we talked, setting out a wide belt, cape, and gloves in colors to match the pants, plus clean socks and undergarments.
“You know where to find me,” Aber said, starting for the door. “I’ll walk down with you when you’re ready. Don’t dawdle . . . Dad’s still waiting!”
“And growing more annoyed by the moment, I’m sure,” I added with a smile. “I remember.”
Shaking his head, he left, and the few servants still outside the door followed. Anari started after them, then paused in the doorway to look back.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Horace will be fine. I can tell he’s a hard worker. And I’ll watch out for him, you have my word.”
He seemed relieved. “Thank you, Lord Oberon.”
Ten minutes later, I collected Aber from his rooms across the hall and started down for Dad’s workshop. I have always had a fairly good sense of direction, and I unerringly retraced our journey from the previous evening.
As we walked, I asked Aber what had happened at dinner after I left.
“Not much,” he said. “Everyone was too shocked.”
I chuckled. “Shocked? By Taine’s being alive or my being a cripple?”
“A little of both, actually.” He swallowed and wouldn’t meet my gaze. “After dinner—”
“Everyone tried to contact Taine with his Trump,” I guessed. “But it didn’t work.”
“That’s right.”
“So he’s either dead, unconscious, drugged, or protected somehow from your Trumps.”
“That’s how it looks to me.”
We reached Dworkin’s workshop. Two new guards—one of whom I recognized from the dice game in the guardroom—snapped to attention as we passed.
“Is there anything else you can do?” I asked. “Is there any way to just reach through his Trump, grab him whether he’s awake or not, and just drag him through?”
“I wish we could. But Trumps don’t work that way.”
I raised my hand to knock on the workshop door, but it swung open for me. The room blazed with light. I couldn’t see Dworkin for a moment—but then I spotted him on the other side of the room. He hadn’t opened the door, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else present. Ghosts? No—probably just the Logrus again, I realized with a gulp. If he could snatch swords from the other end of the castle, why not open doors from ten feet away?
“Ah, there you are!” Dworkin said. “Come in.”
Disconcerted, I stepped inside.
“Good luck!” Aber said to me, and then the door slammed in his face.
Dworkin sat at a table in a tall-backed wooden chair. The table held a box, and in the box sat what looked like an immense ruby. I must admit I stared at it; I had never seen a jewel of its size before. Surely it belonged to some king . . . which is what Dworkin probably was in this Shadow.
He chuckled. “Impressive, is it not?”
“Beautiful,” I said. I raised it, studying the carefully faceted sides, which gleamed seductively in the bright light.
“This crystal is special. It holds a replica of the pattern within you.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I . . . acquired it some time ago. It has unusual properties, one of which may prove useful in your situation. Your Pattern, I now believe, is not a mere distortion of the Logrus after all.”
“Then . . . you were wrong last night?” I felt a mounting excitement. This might be the answer to my hopes and prayers. “I can walk the Logrus after all?”
“No—that would kill you!”
“But you said—”
“I said your pattern is not a distortion of the Logrus. It is something else . . . something new. A different pattern.”
I frowned, confused. “How can that be? Isn’t the Logrus responsible for everything . . . for the Courts of Chaos and all the Shadow worlds?”
“In some ways, perhaps.”
“I don’t understand.” I stared at him blankly.
“Few are the things that cannot be replaced.”
“You mean I really am a cripple. I cannot draw on the Logrus like you do.”
“No!” He threw back his head and laughed. “Exactly the opposite, my boy—you do not need to draw on the Logrus. You have something else to draw upon . . . your own pattern.”
“My own . . . ” I stared at him dumbly.
“I hold the design of your pattern fixed clearly in my mind now, and it burns with a primal power. You are like that first nameless Lord of Chaos. You hold a pattern—this new pattern—inside you. It is unlike the Logrus! It is a pattern from which whole worlds may spring, once it is traced properly!”
Not the Logrus . . . 
I felt a sudden joy, a boundless euphoria, as I realized what that meant. Perhaps I could master Shadows the way the rest of my family had. I might yet travel between the Shadow worlds and work the wonders I had seen. Suddenly it all lay within my grasp.
And I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. More than a father, more than a family, I wanted my heritage . . . my destiny.
Only—
“Traced properly?” I asked slowly. “What does that mean?”
He hesitated, and I could tell he was trying to find the words to explain it to me.
“I believe the Logrus exists not just inside, but outside the universe as we know it,” he finally said. “The first Lord of Chaos partly traced its shape using his own blood . . . putting a form to the formless, making it real in a way that it had not been before. It is my belief that when someone of our bloodline passes through it, the Logrus’s pattern is imprinted forever in his mind, enabling him to use it—to draw on its power and move between worlds.”
“I understand,” I said. I’d heard the whole history-of-our-powers speech already. “You said the Logrus wouldn’t work on me . . . it would destroy me.”
“That is correct. What we must do for you is something similar to what the first Lord of Chaos did . . . find a way to trace the unique pattern within you, so that your pattern is imprinted on your mind, much the way the Logrus is imprinted on my mind.”
“All right,” I said. It sounded reasonable enough. And yet . . . something still bothered me.
Dad hesitated.
“You’re leaving something out,” I said accusingly.
“No . . . ”
“Tell me!”
He swallowed. “I have never tried this before. It may work. It should work, if my theories about the Logrus and its nature are correct. But then again . . . what if I am wrong? What if I have made a mistake?”
“It might kill me,” I said, recognizing what he had been unwilling to say.
“That, or worse. It might destroy your mind, leaving your body little more than an empty shell. Or . . . it might do nothing at all.”
I didn’t know which would be worse. My hopes had been raised; it had to work. It would work. I had run out of options.
“What are my chances of living?” I asked.
“I cannot guarantee anything, except that I have done my best.”
“Would you do it?” I asked. “Would you risk your own life on tracing this pattern?”
“Yes,” he said simply. No arguments, no explanations, just a single word.
I took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth. I could risk everything and try to gain power unimaginable. Or I could be safe, forever trapped in the world of mortal men.
Could I live with the Lockes of the world sneering at me, pitying me? Could I live with myself if I passed up my one last chance for power?
Only cowards choose the safe path.
I had known what my answer must be even before Dworkin told me of the risk. I wanted power. I wanted magic of my own. After seeing what Dworkin and the rest of my family could do, how could I step back now?
I swallowed hard. “I want to try it.”
Dworkin let out his breath. “I will not fail you, my boy,” he said softly.
He held up the ruby. I gasped as it caught the light, sending flashes of color dancing and slashing around the room.
Holding the jewel higher, at my eye level, I found it glowed with an inner light. I leaned forward, wanting to fall into its center like a moth is called by an open flame.
“Look deep inside,” Dworkin continued. His voice sounded as if he were standing far away. “Fastened within it is a design . . . an exact tracing of the pattern within you. Gaze upon it, my boy—gaze and let your spirit go!”
A shimmer of red surrounded me. The world receded, and light and shadow began to pulsate rhythmically, shapes and forms seeming to appear, then vanish.
As though from a great distance away, I heard Dworkin’s voice: “Follow the pattern, my boy . . . let it show you the way . . . ”
I stepped forward.
It was like opening a door and entering a room I never knew existed. The world unfolded around me. Space and time ceased to have meaning. I felt neither breath in my lungs nor the beating of my heart; I simply was. I did not need to breathe, or see, or taste, or touch. When I reached for my wrist, I felt no pulse . . . I felt nothing at all.
Lights glimmered, moved. Shadows flowed like water.
This isn’t real . . . 
And yet it was. Before me, behind me, to the sides and all around me, I saw the lines of a great pattern. It blazed with a liquid red light, curves and sweeps and switchbacks, like the twisted body of some immense serpent or dragon. It held me transfixed within it, just as I held it within me, and together we balanced perfectly. I felt a calm, a harmony of belonging.
“This way . . . ”
I felt a hand on my shoulder, pushing me on. I took a step.
“Dad?”
“Yes. I am here. I have projected myself inside the jewel, too. Come. Move forward, onto the pattern. Walk its length. I will be with you . . . ”
I stepped forward, heading for the pattern. This was no mere distortion of the Logrus. It was separate, different, and yet . . . two parts of some greater whole.
Distantly, as though in a dream, I heard Dad’s voice talking to me. I could not make out the words, but the tone nagged and insisted. I had to do something . . . go somewhere . . . 
So hard to concentrate. And yet I knew there was something I had to remember . . . something I had to do . . . 
“Forward,” said the voice. “Do not stop.”
Yes. Forward.
I moved on, into the pattern, following the glowing red light. At first I found it easy, but it grew steadily harder as I progressed, like wading through mud. The light pushed at me, trying to drive me back, but I refused to give up. I thought. I would not stop no matter what happened.
And abruptly the resistance ceased. I moved easily down the trail. The light, clear and brilliant, lit the path. Around the turn, forward—another turn—
The whole of my life flashed before me, but strangely vivid—all the places I’d been, all the people I’d ever met.
My mother—
Swearing to serve King Elnar—
Sword lessons on the town green—
Our house in Piermont—
Fighting the hell-creatures—
Dworkin as a younger man—
The path curved and again grew difficult, and I found myself straining for every inch, forcing myself forward. I would not stop. I could not stop. The lights ahead beckoned. Images of my life flashed and danced through my mind.
The beach at Janisport—
King Elnar’s crowning—
Fishing on the banks of the Blue River—
The women I had known before Helda—
The battle of Highland Ridge—
In bed with Helda—
Mustering troops for battle—
For some reason, I seized upon the image of the battlefield. Here King Elnar had fought the hell-creatures to a standstill. Here we had known our first real victory in the war against the hell-creatures.
In my mind’s eye, I still saw our troops again rallying valiantly to the king, swords and pikes raised, screaming their war-cries—
And, reaching the center of the pattern, where it had wound in upon itself—
—I staggered across mud and matted grass, then drew up short, half gagging on the stench of death and decay. Bodies of men and horses lay all around me, rotting and covered with flies. A low buzz of wings came from the corpses.
I looked up. It was late afternoon on a dark, overcast day. A chill wind blew from the east, heavy with the promise of rain. It could not remove the stench of death, however.
Slowly I turned in a circle. The battlefield stretched as far as I could see in every direction. There had been a massacre here, and I saw uncountable hundreds, perhaps thousands of bodies, all human, all dressed in King Elnar’s colors.
From warmth to cold, from dry to damp, from the safety of a castle to the horrors of a battlefield in an instant. What had happened? How had I gotten here?
Dworkin’s ruby . . . 
I remembered it now. I had seen the fields outside of Kingstown while gazing into the jewel. Somehow, it had sent me here.
But why? To see the destruction?
I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt tail, but it did little to hide the stench. Slowly, I turned full circle, taking in the horrors around me.
These men had died at least four or five days ago, I estimated. Broken weapons, a burnt out war-wagon toppled on its side, and fallen banners caked with mud and gore spoke to the magnitude of the loss. King Elnar’s army had been destroyed, and from the number of bodies, probably to the last man.
A cold drizzle began to soak my hair and clothes. The stench of carrion grew worse. Carefully I began to pick my way among the bodies, looking for the king, for anyone I knew.
I shivered, suddenly, soaked to the skin. Then I forced myself to look at the battlefield, at all that remained around me. Birds and dogs and other, less savory carrion-eaters had worked on the corpses for several days, but I didn’t need to see faces to recognize them.
All had been human.
I climbed onto the burnt-out wagon’s sides, my fingers growing black and greasy from the char, and when I stood above the battlefield I saw the true scope of the disaster.
The battlefield stretched as far as I could see. Proud banners lay in the mud. Swords, knives, pikes, and axes by the score lay rusting on the ground. And everywhere, piled or singly as they had fallen, lay more bodies.
No one, not wife nor child nor priest, had come to sing the funeral songs and bury the dead. I did not have to look to know that Kingstown too had fallen, or that the hell-creatures had slaughtered all whom they met along the way.
So much for Dad’s prediction that the hell-creatures would leave Ilerium once I went to Juniper. As I picked my way through the battlefield, a numb sort of shock settled upon me. Severed limbs, empty eye sockets that seemed yet to stare, expressions of terror and pain etched on every face—I could scarcely take it all in.
Then I came to a place where the bodies and debris had been cleared away. A line of seven chest-high wooden poles, each stuck into the mud perhaps two feet apart, held ghastly trophies: the severed heads of King Elnar and six of his lieutenants.
Staring at what little remained of my king, I felt my stomach knot with pain. I stumbled forward to stand before him. His eyes were closed; his mouth hung open. Though his grayish skin had begun to crack from exposure to the sun, he had a peaceful look, almost as though he slept.
It was a struggle to keep from throwing myself to the ground and sobbing helplessly. How could this have happened? Dad had said the hell-creatures would leave once I fled Ilerium. I had believed him.
“I’m sorry,” I told him.
Suddenly, impossibly, King Elnar’s eyelids flickered open.
I felt a jolt of terror.
His eyes turned slowly to regard me. Recognition shone in them.
“You!” he croaked, barely able to form the words. A black tongue darted out, licking cracked and broken lips. “You brought this punishment upon us!”
“No . . . ” I whispered.
The other heads on the other poles began to open their eyes, too. Ilrich, Lanar, Harellen—one by one they began to call my name: “Obere . . . Obere . . . Obere . . .  ”
Voice growing stronger, King Elnar said, “You fled your oath of allegiance. You abandoned us in our hour of need. Know, then, our doom, for you shall share it!”
“I thought the hell-creatures would leave,” I told him. “They were looking for me, not you.”
“Traitor!” he said. “You betrayed us all!”
And the other heads began to shout, “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!”
“No!” I said. “Listen to me! It’s not true!”
“Hell-creatures!” King Elnar began to scream. “He’s here! He’s here! Come and get him! Come and get the traitor!”
“Quiet!” I said, voice sharp. “Don’t call them—”
“Help!” one of the other heads shouted. “Hell-creatures! Come help us! Lieutenant Obere is here!”
I cried, “Shut up!”
Another called, “This is the one you want, not us! Help! Help!”
“Come and get him!” shouted the rest of the heads. “Come and get him!”
I tried everything to quiet them—explanations, reasoning, orders. Nothing worked. They just wouldn’t stop shouting for the hell-creatures to come and get me.
They were no longer men, but bewitched things, I finally told myself. The people I had known would never have betrayed me this way . . . not the king I had sworn to serve till my dying breath, not my brothers-in-arms . . . not one of them.
Raising my boot, I knocked over King Elnar’s pole. His head did not roll free. I bent to pry it off, but then I discovered it was not stuck on top of the pole, but had somehow become a part of it . . . flesh and wood grown together in a horrible mingling of the two.
“Liege-killer!” the heads shouted.
“Traitor!”
“Murderer!”
“Assassin!”
“Hell-creatures—help us!”
I pulled the pole free from the ground. A little more than four feet from end to end, it only weighed twenty pounds or so. I raised it easily over my head and smashed the head-part on the nearest stone with all my strength.
King Elnar’s face shattered, but instead of bone and brains, a pulpy green mass and what looked like sap sprayed out. It smelled like fresh-cut lumber.
Half sobbing, I smashed it again and again until the head was completely gone. Then I used the pole to smash the other heads, too. All the time they screeched their insults and called on the hell-creatures for help.
They couldn’t help it, I told myself. They were no longer the people I had known.
Finally it was done. Alone again, I stood there, listening to the wind moan softly through the battlefield, the smell of fresh wood mingling with the carrion stench. Rain pattered down harder. Darkness began to fall. Lightning flickered overhead.
Turning, still dragging the pole, I looked toward Kingstown. Perhaps I could find answers there . . . or a way back to Juniper. I needed time to rest and think and gather my wits.
Then I heard the one sound I feared most: distant hoofbeats. A lot of them. Hell-creatures? Answering the heads’ frantic calls?
I didn’t doubt it. The hell-creatures must have left the heads to watch for my return. And they had betrayed me as soon as I arrived.
Desperately, I looked around. There was no one left alive to help me here, and no place to make a stand. I might hide among the fallen bodies for a time, but a search would find me soon enough, and I didn’t look forward to a night spent lying motionless in cold mud.
I snatched up a fallen sword, only to discover it was chipped and bent in the middle. The second one I grabbed was broken. Damn Dworkin and his no-swords-in-the-workshop rule! If I’d had my own blade, I might have stood a chance.
With darkness falling rapidly now and rain drumming incessantly, I didn’t have time to hunt for a weapon I could use. With the hell-creatures approaching, I had to find cover, and fast. In my current condition, I didn’t think I’d last two minutes against any determined attack.
I ran toward Kingstown. Perhaps it still stood. Perhaps the remains of King Elnar’s army had rallied there and still held it. Though I knew the chances were slim, it seemed my only remaining option.
At the very least, I might find a place to hide until morning.

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