The Chronicles of Amber

“You still look confused,” she said, and then she gave a kinder laugh and reached out to pat my hand. Her skin, soft as silk, smelled of lavender and honey. “It does not matter.”

I smiled. Now we were getting somewhere.

“Wouldn’t you be confused, too?” I asked. “Pulled from my bed in the middle of the night to fight hell- creatures, trundled off in this ludicrous carriage, then thrown in here for a frantic midnight ride—all with no questions answered?”

“Probably.” She cleared her throat. “Thari is the primal tongue,” she said matter-of-factly, as though lecturing a small child who hadn’t learned his lessons properly. “It is the source of all languages in all the Shadow worlds. It is a part of you, just as everything around us is part of Chaos. You do remember the Courts of Chaos, don’t you?”

I shook my head, once again feeling foolish and ignorant. “Never been there, I’m afraid.”

“A pity. They are lovely, in their way.” Her eyes grew distant, remembering. I could tell she liked that place… the Courts of Chaos, she’d called it.

Hoping for more answers, I said, “It’s been quite a night. Or day now, I suppose. What do you think of all this?” I made a vague, sweeping gesture that covered the carriage, the riders, her cards. “What does it portend?”

“War is coming. All the signs are there. Everyone says so, especially Locke. He has been playing general long enough, he is bound to be good at it. But we will be safe enough in Juniper, I think. At least for now.”

“And this Juniper?”

“You have never been there, either?”

I shook my head. So much for my plan to keep my ignorance to myself.

“It is nothing like the Courts of Chaos, but for a Shadow, it is really quite lovely. Or used to be.”

That didn’t really help. So many new questions… Juniper… Shadows… the Courts of Chaos—what were they?

I glanced at the window again, thinking about Chaos. At least that name sounded familiar. Reading from the Great Book was part of every religious holiday in Ilerium, and I had heard some of the most famous passages hundreds of times over the years. Our most sacred scriptures told how the Gods of Chaos wrought the Earth from nothingness, then fought over their creation. They were supposed to be great, magical beings who would someday return to smite the wicked and reward the pious.

As a soldier, I had never put much faith in anything I couldn’t see or touch. Deep down, I had always believed the stories set forth in the Great Book were nothing more than parables designed to teach moral lessons to children. But now, after all I had seen and done this night, it began to make a certain amount of sense. If the stories were literally true…

I swallowed. The Gods of Chaos were supposed to return with fire and steel to punish those who didn’t believe. Perhaps the hell-creatures marked the beginning of their return. Perhaps we had been working against the Gods of Chaos all along and hadn’t realized it.

For they shall smite the wicked…

No, I decided, I had to have misunderstood. The scriptures didn’t fit. The hell-creatures killed everyone, from priests to tradesmen, from doddering crones to the youngest of children. No gods could have sent such an army.

What were the Courts of Chaos, and where did Dworkin fit into all of this?

Freda seemed to sense my confusion. Smiling, she reached out and patted my hand again.

“I know it’s a lot for you,” she said. “Father did you no favors in letting you grow up in a distant Shadow. But on the other hand, that may be why you are still alive when so many others are not. I think he means you for something greater.”

I frowned. “You think so? What?”

“We can try to find out.”

In one quick motion, she gathered her deck of Tarot cards into a neat stack and set it in front of me. She tapped the top card once with her index finger.

“This deck has forty-six Trumps. Shuffle them well, then turn the top one. Let’s see what they tell us.”

Chuckling, I shook my head. “I don’t believe in fortune telling.”

“I do not tell fortunes. As Father says, even in Chaos there is a grand pattern emerging, truths and truisms if you will. The Trumps reflect them. Those who are trained—as I am—can sometimes see reflected in the cards not only what is, but what must be. Since the whole family is gathering in Juniper right now, it might be best for us to know where you stand… and who will stand with you.”

Giving a shrug, I said, “Very well.” I didn’t think it could hurt.

I picked up the cards. The backs had been painted a royal blue, with a rampant lion in gold in the middle. They were a little thicker than parchment, but hard and chill to the touch, with a texture almost like polished ivory,

I cut them in half, shuffled them together a couple of times, then set them down in front of Freda. The palms of my hands tingled faintly. A light sweat covered my face. Somehow, touching the cards had made me distinctly uncomfortable.

“Turn the first Trump,” she said.

I did so.

It showed Dworkin, but he was dressed as a fool in red and yellow silks, complete with bells on his cap and long pointed shoes that curled at the toes. It was the last thing I had expected to see, and I had to choke back a laugh.

“That’s ridiculous!” I said.

“Odd…” Freda said, frowning. “The first turned is usually a place, not a person.” She set the card to the side, face up.

“Meaning… ?” I asked.

“Dworkin, the center of our family, who is now or will be the center of your world.”

I said, “Dworkin is no fool.”

“What matters is the person pictured on the card, not his clothing. Aber made these cards for me. Everyone knows he’s a bit of a prankster.”

Suddenly I had a new name to remember: Aber. Aber the prankster. I thought I might like him. And she seemed to assume I knew who he was.

“Turn another card,” she told me.

I did so. It depicted a younger man, fifteen or sixteen years old at most, dressed in yellows and browns. Without a doubt, he had to be another of Dworkin’s children—they shared the same eyes and strong chin. He wore a hat adorned with a set of preposterously large elk antlers and looked slightly bored, like he wanted to be off on adventures instead of having to sit for this miniature portrait. He held up a broadsword with both hands. It looked too long and too heavy for him. Somehow, he struck me as familiar, though I would have sworn we had never met —or had we?

Freda sucked in a surprised breath.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Alanar,” she whispered.

Again, the name didn’t sound familiar, but I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling he and I had met somewhere before. I could half picture him lying in a pool of blood… but where? When?

“Maybe he’s coming back,” Freda said.

“No,” I said with certainty. “He’s dead.”

“How do you know?” she asked, searching my eyes with her own. “You haven’t met him.”

“I—don’t know.” I frowned, fumbling for the memory, finding it elusive. “Isn’t he dead?”

“He’s been missing for more than a year. Nobody’s heard from him or been able to contact him, even with his Trump. I thought he was dead. Everyone does. But none of us has any proof.”

Contact him… with his Trump? I looked down at the card, puzzling over that odd turn of phrase. Stranger and stranger, I thought.

“If you haven’t seen a body,” I said, trying to sound comforting though I knew it was a lie, knew that he was dead, “there is reason for hope.”