The Chronicles of Amber

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 older. 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.”

“Perhaps Freda will know,” I suggested. If my spikard could help defeat King Uthor, I would do whatever was necessary to master its powers.

“What do you know about spikards? What can they do?”

“Oh, I know a little of them. They have many uses. And many forms. I have handled two spikards over the years, one in the shape of a sword, one in the shape of a woman's necklace. They are centers of power… an older power than those born of Chaos know and use. I have heard they can keep you young, make you stronger, and help make spells more powerful. Their owners may draw on them for strength when they need it most.”

“Then it's a good thing.”

“Generally, yes.”

“Is it like the Logrus? Or the Pattern?”

“Not really.” He pulled out a Trump of his own. It showed the mountain where Amber Castle was being built. “Come, we must get back. The castle will not build itself.”

“Don't change the subject. Is it intelligent?” I had to know more. “Can it control me? It seemed to be trying to communicate with me—”

“Did you put it on?”

“Yes. But only for a minute.”

“Hmm. Sometimes it's safer not to know.”

He raised his Trump again, but I caught his arm.

“That's not an answer. Stop hiding things from me! This is my world, Dad. My universe. My Pattern. It's all part of me, and I'm part of it. You may have drawn the Pattern, but you don't have the same connection to it. If I'm going to protect it, I need to know what's going on. I want the truth… about everything. Let's start with spikards.”

“The truth…” He chuckled. “You would not believe me if I told you.”

“Try it!”

“Suhuy was right. All this—” A sweep of the arm took in the Pattern and all the Shadows it created. “This is but a game, and we are all pawns. Sometimes players make moves that we cannot see and cannot comprehend. Giving you a spikard…” He shrugged. “It changes the powers on the board. Just a slight shift of power toward us… toward you. Now it is another's turn to play.”

I snorted. “Let me guess—you're one of the Kindred, like Suhuy.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “No. I recognize truth when I see it, though, as should you. If I choose not to play, if I choose to leave the board and escape my destiny, it is my decision—for good or ill!”

“You make the game sound inevitable.”

He spread his hands. '“A pawn may still aspire to greatness.”