“I'm sure he had good reasons for what he did,” I said stubbornly. “Aber wouldn't do that to me. Lord Zon must have forced him to do it.”
She shook her head. Then she reached out and touched my forehead with the thumb of her right hand.
“See clearly,” she told me. “Be well.”
The room swam dizzily. I blinked and steadied myself on the arm of the chair.
Like a veil being lifted, I saw Aber clearly for the first time… the petty manipulations… the betrayals… the lies. He betrayed King Uthor, then left me there to die. The truth hit me like a blow.
“Oberon?” Freda asked.
“The next time I see him, I'm going to kill him,” I said grimly. “I can't believe he cast spells on me. What a fool I've been!”
“Not a fool…” she murmured. “You must understand Aber. He grew up in the Courts of Chaos, where betrayal is a way of life. He is very good at what he does.”
I shook my head. “I can never forgive him.”
“Nor should you,” she said. She paused. “And yet… are you sure it was him?”
“What do you mean?”
“We know of at least two doubles… one of you and one of Father. Perhaps there is a double of Aber as well. One who is working for Lord Zon.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I know my brother. It was Aber, all right.”
She shook her head sadly, bit her lip, looked away. She knew he had betrayed us.
“I'll leave you to discover his reasoning,” I said. “If I ever see him again, I'll have to kill him. And it's not something I want to do, damn it!”
Her gaze met mine. I recognized an icy resolve in her eyes.
“I will find out,” she promised. “Believe me, if he has done this thing, he will come to regret it.”
Hearing loud footsteps in the hall outside, I glanced over at the door. Our father? Sure enough, he burst in, face flushed, breath ragged. He must have run all the way here. I had never seen him so upset.
“Freda!” he cried. He rushed to her side and took her hands, rubbing them. “They said you were injured!”
“Not injured, just exhausted.” She patted the divan next to her. “Come, sit with me, Father. Oberon has a story to tell you. It is very important.”
I poured Dad a glass of red wine as he seated himself, and once more I told what had happened after our arrival in Uthor's camp. Aber's betrayal stung every time I thought about it.
Dad frowned. “I never trusted that boy,” he muttered. “Trouble from the day of his birth. Should have put him down years ago.”
“It's too late for that now,” I said dryly. “The question is—what now? King Uthor is dead. Zon has tightened his grip on the throne.
“Get drunk,” Dad said. “We must celebrate.”
“Celebrate! Things are in ruins.”
“Nonsense, it could be far worse,” Dad said.
“How?” I demanded.
“Swayvil could be attacking us right now. Instead, he will spend months—if not years—consolidating his power in Chaos.”
Freda added, “Every day our defenses grow stronger, Oberon. Time is our ally now.”
I shook my head. “With the time difference between Amber and Chaos, Zon has more time that we do… a year for him to consolidate his victory might only be a month to us. I don't want to wait for his attack. It's a mistake.”
“Freda is right, my boy,” Dad said. “There is balance to the universe now. The longer it lasts, the harder it is to upset. King Uthor felt it. That's why he wanted to make a deal with us. Zon will feel it too, if you give him enough time.” He chuckled. “They are both, after all, mere pawns in a larger game. Entropy will keep the Pattern safe.”
Balance in the universe? Entropy? Pawns? Sighing, I shook my head. More craziness. He could prattle on as long as he liked, but
We were out of luck.
Dad said, “Carry on with the game, my boy.” He stood and clasped my shoulder. Then, chuckling to himself, still carrying his goblet of wine, he teetered out into the hall and headed back for his workshop.
“He's crazy,” I said to Freda. “Completely crazy!”
“Perhaps he is the only sane one,” she said, arching her thin eyebrows. She held out her cup. “Pour me some more tea, like a good boy. It's going to be a long night.”
Chapter 30
Two days had passed since our disastrous expedition to join King Uthor's forces. Conner managed to return with most of the troops, though he fought a running battle for several miles. We had only lost four hundred of the men from Ceyoldar. In the meantime, we had heard nothing from Aber. Freda had tried to reach him a number of times through his Trump. As long as he believed me still to be charmed, we might be able to persuade him to return.
“Is there anyone you can contact in Chaos who might have news for us?” I asked Freda over breakfast. “I'd like to know more of what's happening there. I think it might prove valuable.”
“Someone in Chaos…” She thought for a minute. “Perhaps…”
Raising her hands, she drew a small white chest from somewhere else using the Logrus. I had never seen it before. It had been carved from a single piece of bone or perhaps ivory, and delicate scrimshaw showing strange horned beasts covered the top and sides. Flipping back the hinged top, she drew out the contents—a stack of perhaps thirty Trumps.
I leaned forward, watching with mingled interest and revulsion as she slowly flipped through the cards. I had never seen this deck before. The portraits showed people—and things that might once have been people—in various poses. Women with fangs and yellow-green scales instead of skin… men with horns or wolf-heads or an insect's antennae… even a puke-green blob of jelly with dozens of floating eyes… and so many others with such strange and horrible appearances that I could only shudder helplessly. It seemed more a freak-show than a family album. And yet she smiled down at each one fondly.
“Did you make these Trumps yourself?” I asked. The figures and brushstrokes seemed cruder than those on the cards which Aber and Dad had painted. And yet I could still feel power radiating from them: crudely done though they were, they
“No,” she said. “I have no talent for making them. Aber painted these many years ago. I have little call to use them, so I never asked him to make nicer ones.”
I nodded. These Trumps definitely looked like apprentice-level work.
“Is it safe to contact these… people?”
She nodded slightly. “They are relatives. More than that, they are…
“You're sure they won't turn you in?” I asked.
She smiled. “How can they, if we only talk? I have no intention of visiting the Courts again. The rest of my days will be spent in Amber… I am resigned to a life in exile.”
“Not exile,” I said quickly. That sounded too depressing. “We are colonists.”
“I suppose,” she said wistfully.
She did have a point, though. If her relatives feared contact with anyone in Amber, they could always refuse to talk to us. And if they willingly chose to talk, they could hardly betray our confidence without incriminating themselves. We could not lose.
“This is the one I wanted.” Freda pulled out a Trump showing a round, almost-human woman, only she had
