To Rule in Amber tdoa-3 Read online

  “A complete set of Trumps sounds like a reasonable request. Go ahead and ask Dad.”

  “I did, but he refused.”

  “What! Why?”

  “He did not believe I sensed them. He said he did not have time to indulge my whims. Whims!”

  “He has not been quite right since he made the new Pattern,” I said, remembering some of his outbursts.

  “But this is important—so important, it must not be delayed.”

  “I agree. I'll speak to him tomorrow morning.” I patted her hand, and she smiled in relief. “In the meantime, Aber just went back to Selonica. Why don't you go, too, and try your old Trumps again? Perhaps this time…”

  “Very well.” Freda said. She rose. “Come with me?”

  I hesitated. The day was not yet half over. Plenty of work remained here.

  “Please?” she said. “I want you with me when I try Davin, Fenn, and Isadora. If you sense them, too, Father cannot deny it.”

  “All right. I'll go—but I can't stay long.”

  She nodded, then pulled out her deck of Trumps. The one Dad had made, which showed her room at the inn, sat on top. She concentrated on it and took us through when it came to life.

  She must have been planning to bring me back with her. A table with two chairs sat to one side as if waiting for us. She sat and motioned me opposite her.

  Then she handed me her deck of Trumps, face down. Without being asked, I shuffled them and handed them back. I had seen her read the future through them before. Was that what she had in mind?

  She set the deck down, then turned over the first card. It showed our brother Locke, who had died a hero's death defending Juniper. For a second Freda traced the smooth bonelike surface of the Trump lightly with her fingertips, but then she moved it to the bottom of the deck.

  “Why don't you try him?” I said.

  “But he is dead. We cremated his body.”

  “Humor me. I have been lied to so many times lately, I'm having a hard time believing anyone or anything. For all I know, he was replaced by a double in Juniper. Right now, he might be locked in a tower somewhere waiting to be rescued.”

  She pulled Locke's Trump out again. Raising it, she concentrated for a minute on his image, then shrugged.

  “Nothing.”

  She set it face-down on the table beside her, and moved on to the next card, which showed a beautiful long-legged woman with reddish-blond hair—Syara. I had barely exchanged two words with her in Juniper.

  “Nothing,” she repeated.

  Then she drew the next card. Fenn.

  She raised it, hesitated. “There… almost!”

  I hurried around to stand behind her, leaning forward to see. As we both concentrated, I felt a faint conscious stirring from the card. Was it him? I could not be certain.

  Finally, we had to give up. We had not been able to exchange any words with him, but something conscious was connected to his card.

  “See?” Freda cried. “I was not mistaken! You felt it, too.”

  I agreed. “Why couldn't we reach him, though?”

  “It could be anything,” she said. “Distance. The Logrus. He may be unconscious or consciously blocking contact. Father must make me that new set of Trumps based on the Pattern!”

  “I will tell him as soon as I see him. Now, what about the others?”

  She picked up the next card. Pella. Her full sister.

  “Nothing…” she said.

  We finished her deck with no more successes.

  Chapter 18

  Even though we hadn't managed to contact Fenn, I returned to Amber buoyed with optimism. Suddenly I had hope of seeing more of my brothers and sisters again.

  I set to work with a new enthusiasm and spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing the castle's foundations with the architect, one Yalsef Igar, a frail-looking old man whom Prince Marib had recommended highly. Indeed, I had found his plans to be a nearly flawless interpretation of my vision of the castle.

  My earlier threats and screaming had done wonders in motivating the construction supervisors… they now had their team of a hundred and fifty men hard at work shoveling dirt into barrows, rolling boulders down the mountainside, and cutting away trees, bushes, and underbrush. After stripping off the tree branches, mule-teams hauled the logs toward the new sawmill, half a mile away on the river.

  “Bring in more men,” I said to Igar. “You have a year to finish. Cut the time in half and I'll triple your pay.”

  “Triple?” he gasped.

  “In gold.”

  “I will do my best, Your Majesty!”

  I nodded. “Good.”

  After ten minutes of watching the men at work, I returned to my tent. A new set of floor plans lay open on the table for my inspection. I had just begun reviewing them when I felt a sense of contact.

  I looked up, opening my mind, and found Dad waiting impatiently.

  “Here.” He threw a Trump at me, and I caught it instinctively. “Hurry!”

  “Dad—” I began.

  “Join me later.”

  He broke contact before I could say another word. Typical. He never let anyone get a word in if it didn't suit his purposes.

  He had tossed a newly drawn Trump to me—and it showed the Pattern, glowing blue against the rock, with trees and bushes in the background. The paint still felt a bit sticky under my fingers. It hadn't quite dried yet.

  A coldness swept through me. He'd said to hurry. Had Uthor reached the Pattern, somehow?

  I tore my sword from its scabbard, then concentrated on the Trump's picture. The scene came to life quickly. I leaped forward.

  On the edge of the Pattern, I paused. A stillness hung over everything; colors seemed more vibrant and every edge and line as sharp as a knife, from the leaves on the trees to each blade of grass.

  I was not alone here. A tall, gaunt-faced stranger with skin the color of sun-bleached bones stood on the far side of the Pattern, studying it intently. If he noticed me, he made no sign of it.

  He wore all black, from his broad, flat cap to his shirt and pants to his knee-high boots. As far as I could tell, he carried no weapons.

  As he slowly circled the Pattern, his gait struck me as odd, and I suddenly realized he had an extra joint in his arms and his legs. It bent backward, giving him a curious hop at the end of each step. Clearly he wasn't human. But neither was he anything like the King Uthor's hell-creatures, or any of the other creatures of Chaos I had seen.

  “Hey!” I shouted. I took a step in his direction. “Hey there!”

  He glanced across at me and nodded politely, as though he were an honored guest and I his host. Then he resumed his careful examination of the Pattern.

  Since he didn't seem to be doing anything overtly threatening, I lowered my sword. Why had my father sent me here? To chase him off… or to help him in some way?

  I hesitated, looking around again, but saw no one else. Since I had a few minutes before he reached my position, I pulled out my Trumps. When in doubt—ask. It was a good rule for interpreting orders.

  Raising Dad's Trump, I stared at it and concentrated. Nothing. Not so much as a flicker. Dead? Unconscious? Somewhere I couldn't reach? I had no way of knowing. He hadn't seemed in any immediate danger, just rushed.

  I would have to figure it out for myself. Nothing like a quick question-and-answer session to sort things out.

  Cautiously I walked around the Pattern and joined the stranger in black. He barely acknowledged my presence. Up close, I realized for the first time how big he was… he towered over me by at least a foot. And he was completely hairless. Smooth white skin like parchment stretched tight over sinewy flesh. He had not a scrap of fat anywhere on his body, which gave him a curiously skeletal appearance.

  Everything about him struck me as wrong, somehow. There was no reason for it, but I took an instant dislike to him.

  “Are Oberon?” he said.

  “Yes. Who are you?” I demanded.

  “True
name meaning. You may call Ish.” He smiled, showing long, pointed white teeth. It could have been an expression of friendliness or even reassurance, but I found it unnerving.

  “Ish,” I said. I swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

  “That which emerged calls now.”

  “The Pattern?”

  “I not born Chaos, if you fear,” he said. Then he calmly stepped around me and continued walking his circuit of the Pattern, taking long hopping steps.

  Not born Chaos? What did that mean? Could he be a creature of the Pattern, like me?

  “You shouldn't be here,” I said, giving chase. “My father—Dworkin—sent me. I think he wants you to leave.”

  “New. In place.” He turned and bowed from the waist. “Apologies. Dworkin work time. This better.”

  He paused expectantly as I tried to puzzle through his jumble of words. Could he mean he liked this Pattern better than the last one? Had he seen them both?

  “You saw the other Pattern?” I asked. “The first one my father drew?”

  “Many.” His head bobbed twice. “Gift. Son-of-Dworkin?”

  He held something small toward me. Without thinking, I stuck out my hand, and he dropped a small, cold, hard object onto my palm.

  It was a man's ring. Gold, with what looked like a small ruby set into the top, it caught the light and glinted faintly.

  “Uh… thanks,” I said. I held it up, examining it.

  “Spikard,” he said firmly. “Old.”

  “Gold?”

  “Old,” he repeated. “A power. Yours. Spikard.”

  He motioned for me to put it on. After a second's hesitation, I slipped it onto the index finger of my right hand.

  At first it seemed much too loose, but then it suddenly tightened. Panicked, I tried to yank it off—but it clung to me like a leech.

  “What have you done to me?” I cried.

  “Spikard,” he repeated. “Good.”

  The ring grew warm. The warmth spread up my arm… but instead of burning, it left me with a sense of great well-being. Full and warm and safe… life was good… the spikard would protect me. I knew.

  Shivering, I took a step back. This spikard alarmed and frightened me. I was not well and safe. I had a strange ring on my finger trying to put reassuring thoughts in my head!

  “Stop it!” I cried.

  The ring pulsed once, and my unnatural sense of well-being left. I was myself again, or so I hoped.

  Ish tilted his head, then pointed at the Pattern. “Walk?”

  “What is this thing?”

  “Spikard. Good.”

  It pulsed once as if in reply.

  I glanced down at it. “Can you understand me?”

  It pulsed again.

  “Are you a friend?”

  It pulsed four times… an emphatic yes, I assumed.

  “Should I walk the Pattern?”

  Another pulse.

  All right… an intelligent ring. This might lead somewhere interesting.

  “I want you off my finger. Now.”

  The ring pulsed, then grew loose. I slipped it off, then fought my sudden impulse to heave it as far away from me as I could. Instead, I slipped it into the pouch at my belt, the one with my collection of Trumps. This spikard might prove valuable or useful once I understood it better. I'd ask Dad and Freda about it.

  Ish pointed at the Pattern again. “Walk?”

  “I already walked it twice.”

  “Dworkin walk,” he insisted. “Oberon walk.”

  I stared. “My father walked it?”

  “Walk.”

  “Not this time. I don't know who you are or what you're doing here, but I'm not taking any orders from you.” I pointed the sword at him. “Leave. Now.”

  He tilted his head to the side, clearly confused. Then his body flattened and folded into itself almost like a piece of paper. In a second, he had vanished.

  I let out the breath I had been holding. I had never seen anything like that before… and I was pretty sure he hadn't used the Logrus or the Pattern.

  Stepping forward, I swung my sword through the place he had been standing just to make sure he hadn't turned invisible. He really had gone. Hopefully he wouldn't find his way back again. We couldn't have strangers poking around the Pattern… even unarmed, hairless white giants.

  Sheathing my sword, I took a deep breath. What now?

  The Pattern shimmered.

  The sky overhead almost glowed, the deepest, most perfect azure I had ever seen.

  I pulled out Dad's Trump and tried it again, but got no response. Then I tried Freda. She answered immediately, and her image was as clear and sharp as if she stood next to me.

  Quickly I told her what had happened.

  “Do not touch the spikard again,” she told me. “It is dangerous.” How?

  “It is tied to the Keye—”

  “The what?”

  “The Keye…” She hesitated. “It is ancient, like the Logrus, and very powerful. There is no time to explain. Father must not ask the Feynim for help or protectio—”

  “Whoa! The Feynim? Who are they?”

  She knotted her hands. “They are ancients. Older than Chaos. You must stop him! He must not deal with them—it is forbidden!”

  “I'll try to find him. Do you have any idea where he is?”

  “He may be with them… beyond the edge of Chaos.” She looked me in the eye. “Walk the Pattern, Oberon. It has great powers. Use it to find him. Hurry!”

  Chapter 19

  By the time I reached the center of the Pattern, I felt drained physically and mentally. It seemed no easier on this, my third try. But I knew it could be done, and I pushed through the pain and all the barriers, and finally I emerged, gasping and soaked with sweat.

  I staggered forward. Without a second's hesitation, I visualized my father. “I want to join Dworkin,” I said aloud. “Send me to him.”

  Everything lurched a bit as I stepped forward. Disconnection followed.

  Blackness.

  I felt a spectral wind through my hair. The smells of dust and decay filled my nostrils.

  Cold.

  Shivering, I blinked and found myself in a cavernous hall carved from stone. Glowing circles on the walls and floor, in clusters of thirteen, provided a wan light. A cool, moist breeze moaned unceasingly from the left.

  A brighter light shone ahead. I peered at it and saw what looked like a table surrounded by high-backed chairs. My father stood there, surrounded by thirteen tall, gaunt, hairless old men. They were clearly of Ish's race.

  I approached, clearing my throat gently to make my presence known.

  Fast—so fast their movements seemed to blur—the thirteen around the table moved. Swords out, they surrounded me.

  Slowly I raised my hands.

  “Who?” one of them demanded. His words were spoken in a strange, ringing language I had never heard before, and yet I understood it.

  “My name is Oberon,” I said. It sounded too simple, too plain, so I quickly added a title for myself: “Lord of the Pattern. King of Amber.”

  “My son,” Dworkin said.

  They murmured to themselves, staring at me with unblinking eyes. Slowly they resumed their seats. I went to stand beside my father.

  “Go,” said one of them. The leader?

  Dad shook his head. “I want an answer first.”

  “Go.”

  He raised his hand and made a gesture of dismissal. All around us, the air around sparkled. Everything around us bent and seemed to fold, and then they were gone and we were back at the Pattern.

  It all happened too fast. I stared at my father.

  “What just happened?” I demanded. “Who were they?”

  “The Feynim?” My father shook his head unhappily. “Allies, I hoped, but they refuse to get involved.”

  “What were they?” I demanded. “They weren't like us—or the hell-creatures.”

  “True. They are not of Chaos or Pattern, but ol
der. Much, much older. And powerful. I am not sure they have a name as we understand it.”

  I remembered Ish's odd comment about his true name having no meaning.

  “One of them was here,” I said. “Looking at the Pattern.”

  “They have some interest in us and our doings. They thrive on other people's discord, I think. I sent you here to make sure they did not destroy the Pattern… or change it subtly to our disadvantage.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “Possibly. Yes. I suspect they changed the last Pattern, but subtly, trying to fix it. They did not succeed, however.”

  I stared at the Pattern. What powers they must possess, if they could do as much as Dad said. Changing the Pattern seemed impossible.

  Then I remembered the spikard and pulled it from my pouch. It grew warm in my hand, and I fought a sudden impulse to put it on. It wanted me to wear it.

  “Not now,” I said. “Settle down.”

  The urge passed.

  “Where did you get that?” Dad asked, eyes widening.

  “Ish gave it to me. He was the one here.”

  “Give it to me.” Dad stuck out his hand.

  I started to hand it over, but hesitated. The ring had grown warm in my hand. I had to fight an impulse to put it on again. It really didn't want to go to Dad.

  “It's not meant for you,” I said. “They gave it to me for a reason.”

  Happy now? I mentally asked it. I put it back with my Trumps.

  Dad sighed, but nodded. “Of course. I understand. Take care of it, my boy. A spikard is a precious gift. Perhaps even…”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps invaluable against Chaos. I half remember something about them. Something I read or heard a long, long time ago… something about the Feynim and their war against Chaos…”

  “They fought Chaos?” I gasped.

  “It was a very long time ago. So long that no direct written records of the war survive.”

  “What happened?”

  “I am not sure. All I know is that Chaos lost. The Feynim drove King Ythoc and his army from their lands, never to return. I think they used spikards for… something in the battle. A barrier?” He shook his head. “I cannot remember.”