IV

Recovering.

My head ached, and there was dirt in my mouth.  I was sprawled face down.  Memory made its way home through the traffic, and I opened my eyes.  Still black and white and gray all about.  I spit sand, rubbed my eyes, blinked.  The Logrus Sign was not present, and I could not account for my recent experience with it.

I sat up and hugged my knees.  I seemed to be stranded, all of my extramundane means of travel and communication blocked.  I couldn’t think of anything to do other than get up, pick a direction, and start walking.

I shuddered.  Where would that take me? Just through more of the same-more of this monotonous landscape?

There came a soft sound, as of a throat being gently cleared.

I was on my feet in an instant, having inspected every direction on the way up.

Who’s there? I inquired, having given up on articulation.

I seemed to hear it again, very near at hand.

Then, I’ve a message for you, something seemed to say within my head.

What? Where are you? Message? I tried asking.

Excuse me, came the muffled voice, but I’m new at this business.  To take things in order, I am where I’ve always been-on your wrist-and when the Logrus blasted through here, it enhanced me additionally, so that I could deliver the message.

Frakir?

Yes, My first enhancement, that day you bore me through the Logrus, involved sensitivity to danger, mobility, combat reflexes, and a limited sentience.  This time the Logrus added direct mental communication and expanded my awareness to the point where I could deliver messages.

Why?

It was in a hurry, could stay in this place for only an instant, and this was the only way for it to let you know what is going on,

I didn’t realize the Logrus was sentient.

Something like a chuckle followed.

Then, It is hard to classify an intelligence of that order, and I suppose it doesn’t really have much to say most of the time, came Frakir’s reply.  Its energies are mainly expended in other areas.

Well, why did it come through here and blitz me?

Unintentional.  It was a by-product of my enhancement, once it saw that I was the only means of reaching you with more than a few words or images.

Why was its time here so limited? I asked.

It is the nature of this land, which lies between the shadows, that it be mainly inaccessible both to the Pattern and the Lagrus.

A sort of demilitarized zone?

No, it is not a matter of truce.  It is simply that it is extremely difficult for either of them to manifest here at all.  This is why the place is pretty much unchanging.

This is a place they can’t reach?

That’s about the size of it.

How come I never heard of it before?

Probably because no one else can reach it too readily either.

So what’s the message?

Basically, that you not try calling upon the Logrus again while you’re here.  The place represents such a distorting medium that there’s no assurance how any projected energy might manifest outside some convenient vessel.  It could be dangerous for you.

I massaged my throbbing temples.  At least it got my mind off my sore jaw.

All right, I agreed.  Any hints as to what I’m supposed to be doing here?

Yes, this is a trial.  Of what, I can’t say.

Do I have a choice?

What do you mean?

May I refuse to participate?

I suppose.  But then I don’t know how you get out of here.

So I do get released from this place at the end, if I play?

If you’re still living, yes.  Even if you’re not, I’d imagine.

Then I really have no choice.

There will be a choice.

When?

Somewhere along the way.  I don’t know where.

Why don’t you just repeat all of your instructions to me?

Can’t.  I don’t know what all is here.  It will surface only in response to a question or a situation.

Will any of this interfere with your strangling function?

It shouldn’t.

That’s something, anyway.  Very well.  Have you any idea what I’m supposed to do next?

Yes.  You should begin climbing the highest hill to your left.

Which- Okay, I guess that’s the one, I decided, my gaze settling upon a broken fang of blazing white stone.

And so I walked toward it, up a gradually steepening slope.  The black sun mounted higher into the grayness.  The eerie silence continued.

Uh, do you know exactly what we will find whenever we get to wherever we’re going? I tried to say in Frakir’s direction.

I am certain that the information is present, came the reply, but I do not believe that it will be available until we reach the appropriate locale.

I hope you’re right.

Me, too.

The way continued to steepen.  While I had no way to measure the time exactly, it seemed that more than an hour passed before I left the foothills and was climbing the white mountain itself.  While I observed no footprints nor saw any other sign of life, I did, on several occasions, encounter long stretches of natural-seeming trail, shelflike, leading up that high bleached face.  Several more hours must have passed as I negotiated this, the dark sun riding to mid-heaven and beginning its descent toward a west that lay beyond this peak.  It was annoying not to be able to curse aloud.

How can I be sure we’re on the proper side of the thing? Or heading for the right area? I asked.

You’re still going in the proper direction, Frakir answered.

But you don’t know how much farther it’ll be?

Nope.  I’ll know when I see it, though.

The sun is going to slip behind the mountain fairly soon.  Will you be able to see it to know it then?

I believe the sky actually brightens here when the sun goes away.  Negative space is funny that way, Whatever, something is always bright here and something is always dark.  There’ll be the wherewithal for detection.

Any idea what we’re actually doing?

One of those damned quest-things, I think.

Vision? Or practical?

It was my understanding that they all partake of both, though I feel this one is heavily weighted toward the latter.  On the other wrist, anything you encounter between shadows is likely to partake of the allegorical, the emblematic-all that crap people bury in the non-conscious parts of their beings.

In other words, you don’t know either:

Not for sure, but I make my living as a sensitive guesser.

I reached high, grabbed handholds, drew myself up to another ledge.  I followed it for a time, climbed again.  At length the sun went away, and it made no difference in my ability to see.  Darkness and light changed places.

I scaled a five- or six-meter irregularity and halted when I finally got a look into the recessed area it rose to.  There was an opening in the face of the mountain to its rear.  I hesitated to label it a cave because it appeared artificial.  It looked as if it had been carved in the form of an arch, and it was big enough to ride through on horse-back.

What do you know, Frakir commented, twitching once upon my wrist.  This is it.

What? I asked.

The first station, she replied.  You stop here and go through a bit of business before moving on.

That being?

It’s easier just to go and look.

I hauled myself up over the edge, got to my feet, and walked forward.

The big entranceway was filled with that sourceless light.  I hesitated on the threshold, peered within.

It looked to be a generic chapel.  There was a small altar, a pair of candles upon it sporting flickering coronas of blackness.  There were stone benches carved along the walls.  I counted five doorways apart from the one by which I stood: three in the wall across from me; one in that to the right; another to the left.  Two piles of battle gear lay in the middle of the room.  There were no symbols of whatever religion might be represented.

I entered.

What am I supposed to do here? I asked.

You are supposed to sit vigil, guarding your armor overnight.

Aw, come on, I said, moving forward to inspect the stuff.

What’s the point?

That’s not a part of the information I’ve been given.

I picked up a fancy white breastplate which would have made me look like Sir Galahad.  Just my size, it seemed.  I shook my head and lowered the piece.  I moved over to the next pile and picked up a very odd-looking gray gauntlet.  I dropped it immediately and rooted through the rest of the stuff.

More of the same.  Contoured to fit me, also.  Only-

What is the matter, Merlin?

The white stuff, I said, looks as if it would fit me right now.

The other armor appears to be of a sort used in the Courts.  It looks as if it would fit me just right when I’m shifted into my Chaos form.  So either set would probably do for me, depending on circumstances.  I can use only one outfit at a time, though.  Which am I supposed to guard?

Il believe that’s the crux of the matter.  I think you’re supposed to choose.

Of course! I snapped my fingers, heard nothing.  How slow of me, that I need to have things explained by my strangling cord!

I dropped to my knees, swept both sets or armor and weapons together into one nasty-looking heap.

If I have to guard them, I said, I’ll guard both sets.  I don’t care to take sides.

I’ve a feeling something isn’t going to like that, Frakir answered.

I stepped back and regarded the pile.

Tell me about this vigil business again, I said.  What all’s involved?

You’re supposed to sit up all night and guard it.

Against what?

Against anything that tries to misappropriate it, I guess.  The powers of Order-

or Chaos

Yeah, I see what you mean.  Heaped up together that way, anything might come by to grab off a piece.

I seated myself on the bench along the rear wall, between two doorways.  It was good to rest for a bit after my long climb.  But something in my mind kept grinding away.  Then, after a time, What’s in it for me? I asked.

What do you mean?

Say I sit here all night and watch the stuff.  Maybe something even comes along and makes a pass at it.  Say I fight it off.  Morning comes, the stuff is still here, I’m still here, Then what? What have I gained?

Then you get to don your armor, pick up your weapons, and move on to the next stage of affairs.

I stifled a yawn.

You know, I don’t think I really want any of that stuff; I said then.I don’t like armor, and I’m happy with the sword I’ve got.  I clapped my hand to its hilt.  It felt strange, but then so did I.  Why don’t we just leave the whole pile where it is and move on to the next stage now? What is the next stage anyway?

I’m not sure.  The way the Logrus threw information at me it just seems to surface at the appropriate time.  I didn’t even know about this place till I saw the entrance.

I stretched and folded my arms.  I leaned my back against the wall.  I extended my legs and crossed them at the ankles.

Then we’re stuck here till something happens or you get inspired again?

Right.

Wake me when it’s over, I said, and I closed my eyes.

The wrist twitch that followed was almost painful.

Hey! You can’t do that! Frakir said.  The whole idea is that you sit up all night and watch.

And a very half assed idea it is, I said.  I refuse to play such a stupid game.  If anything wants the stuff, I’ll give it a good price on it.

Go ahead and sleep if you want.  But what if something comes along and decides you had better be taken out of the picture first?

To begin with, I replied, I don’t believe that anything could care about that pile of medieval junk, let alone lust after it - and in closing, it’s your job to warn me of danger.

Aye, aye, Captain.  But this is a weird place.  What if it limits my sensitivity some way?

You’re really reaching now, I said.  I guess you’ll just have to improvise.

I dozed.  I dreamed that I stood within a magic circle and various things tried to get at me.  When they touched the barrier, though, they were transformed into stick figures, cartoon characters which rapidly faded.  Except for Corwin of Amber, who smiled faintly and shook his head.

“Sooner or later you’ll have to step outside,” he said.

“Then let it be later,” I replied.

“And all your problems will still be there, right where you left them.”

I nodded.

“But I’ll be rested,” I answered.

“Then it’s a trade-off.  Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The dream fell apart into random images then.  I seem to remember standing outside the circle a little later, trying to figure a way to get back in....

I wasn’t certain what woke me.  It couldn’t have been a noise.  But suddenly I was alert and rising, and the first thing I beheld was a dwarf with a mottled complexion, his hands clasped at his throat, lying unmoving in a twisted position near the armor pile.

“What’s going on?” I tried saying.  But there was no reply.

I crossed and knelt beside the short big-shouldered guy.  With my fingertips, I felt after a carotid pulse but couldn’ t locate one.  At that moment, however, I felt a tickling sensation about my wrist, and Frakir-phasing into and out of visibility-made her way back into touch with me.

You took that guy out? I asked.

There came a soft pulsation then.  Suicides don’t strangle themselves, she replied.

Why didn’t you alert me?

You needed your rest, and it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.  Our empathy is too strong, though.  Sorry I woke you.

I stretched.

How long was I asleep?

Several hours, I’d judge.

I feel kind of sorry about this, I said.  That scrap heap isn’t worth somebody’s life,

It is now, Frakir answered.

True.  Now that someone’s died for the stuff have you gotten the word as to what we do next?

Things are a little clearer, but not enough to act on.  We must remain until morning for me to be certain.

Does the information you have include anything on whether there’s food or drink available in the neighborhood?

Yes.  There’s supposed to be a jug of water behind the altar.  Also a loaf of bread.  But that’s for morning.  You’re supposed to be fasting throughout the night.

That’s only if I take this whole business seriously, I said, turning toward the altar.

I took two steps, and the world started to come apart.  The floor of the chapel trembled, and I heard my first sounds since my arrival; a deep growling, grating noise came from somewhere far beneath me.  A horde of colors flashed through the air of this colorless place, half blinding me with their intensity. Then the colors fled, and the room divided itself.  The whiteness grew intense in the vicinity of the archway by which I had entered.  I had to raise my hand to shield my eyes against it.  Across from this, a profound darkness occurred, masking the three doorways in that wall.

What…is it? I asked.

Something terrible, Frakir replied, beyond my ability to access.

I clasped the hilt of the blade I wore and reviewed the spells I still had hanging.  Before I could do any more than that, an awful sense of presence pervaded the place.  So potent did it seem that I did not feel that drawing my blade or reciting a spell was the most politic action I might take.

Ordinarily I’d have summoned the Sign of the Logrus by then, but that way was barred to me also.  I tried clearing my throat, but no sound came forth.  Then there came a movement at the heart of the light, a coalescing....

The shape of a Unicorn, like Blake’s Tyger, burning bright, took form, so painful to behold that I had to look away

I shifted my gaze to the deep, cool blackness, but there was no rest for my eyes in that place either.  Something stirred within the darkness, and there came another sound-a grating, as of metal being scraped on stone.  This was followed by a powerful hissing.  The ground trembled again.  Curved lines flowed forward.  Even before the brightness of the Unicorn etched its lineaments within that mighty gloom, I realized it was the head of a one-eyed serpent which had come partway into the chapel.  I shifted my gaze to a point between them, catching each within my peripheral vision.  Far better than any attempt to behold either directly I felt their gazes upon me, the Unicorn of Order and the Serpent of Chaos.  It was not a pleasant feeling, and I retreated until the altar was at my back.

Both came slightly farther into the chapel.  The Unicorn’s head was lowered, horn pointed directly at me.  The Serpent’s tongue darted in my direction.

“Uh, if either of you want this armor and stuff,” I ventured, “I certainly have no object-‘

The Serpent hissed and the Unicorn raised a hoof and let it fall, cracking the floor of the chapel, the fracture line racing toward me like a streak of black lightning and halting just at my feet.

“On the other hand,” I observed, “no insult is intended by the offer, Your Eminences-“

Wrong thing to say-again, Frakir interjected, weakly.

Tell me what’s right, I said, trying for a mental sotto voce.

I don’t- Oh!

The Unicorn reared; the Serpent drew itself upward.  I dropped to my knees and looked away, their gazes having somehow become physically painful.

I was trembling, and all of my muscles had begun to ache.

It is suggested, Frakir recited, that you play the game the way it is set up.

What metal entered my backbone I know not.  But I raised my head and turned it, looking first to the Serpent, then to the Unicorn.  Though my eyes watered and ached as if I were trying to stare down the sun, I managed the gesture.

“You can make me play,” I said, “but you cannot make me choose.  My will is my own.  I will guard this armor all night, as is required of me.  In the morning I will go on without it because I do not choose to wear it.”

Without it you may die, Frakir stated, as if translating.

I shrugged.

“If it is my choice to make, I choose not to place one of you before the other.”

A rush of wind blew hot and cold past me, seemed a cosmic sigh.

You will choose, Frakir relayed, whether you become aware of it or not.  Everyone does.  You are simply being asked to formalize your choice.

“What’s so special about my case?” I asked.

Again that wind.

Yours is a dual heritage, combined with great power.

“I never wanted either of you for an enemy,” I stated.

Not good enough, came the reply.

“Then destroy me now.”

The game is already in progress.

“Then let’s get on with it,” I answered.

We are not pleased with your attitude.

“Vice versa,” I answered.

The thunderclap that followed left me unconscious.

The reason I felt I could afford total honesty was a strong hunch that players for this game might be hard to come by.

I woke sprawled across the pile of greaves, cuirasses, gauntlets, helms, and other good things of a similar nature, all of them possessed of corners or protuberances, most of which were jabbing into me.  I became aware of this only by degrees, for I had gone numb in lots of important places.

Hi, Merlin.

Frakir, I responded.  Have I been out for long?

I don’t know.  I just came around myself.

I didn’t know a piece of rope could be knocked out.

Neither did I.  It never happened to me before.

Let me amend my question then: Any idea how long we’ve been out?

Fairly long, I feel.  Get me a glimpse out the doorway, and I may be able to give you a better idea.

I pushed myself slowly to my feet, could not remain standing, dropped.  I crawled to the entranceway, noting in passing that nothing on the heap seemed to be missing.  The floor was indeed cracked.  There really was a dead dwarf to the rear of the chamber.

I looked outside, beheld a bright sky, black points disposed within it.

Well? I asked after a time.

If I figure right, it should be morning soon.  Always brightest before the dawn, eh?

Something like that.

My legs burned as their circulation was restored.  I pushed myself upright, stood leaning against the wall.

Any new instructions?

Not yet.  I’ve a feeling they’re due with the dawn.

I staggered to the nearest bench, collapsed upon it.

If anything comes in now, all I’ve got to hit it with is an odd assortment of spells.  Sleeping on armor leaves a few kinks.  Almost as bad as sleeping in it.

Throw me at the enemy and the least I can do is buy you time.

Thanks.

How far back does your memory go?

To when I was a little kid, I guess.  Why?

I recall sensations from when I was first enhanced, back in the Logrus.  But everything up until we got here is kind of dreamlike.  I just sort of used to react to life.

A lot of people are that way, too.

Really? I couldn’t think, or communicate this way before.

True.

Do you think it will last?

What do you mean?

Might this just be a temporary condition? Might I just have been enhanced to deal with the special circumstances in this place?

I don’t know, Frakir, I answered, massaging my left calf.  I suppose its possible.  Are you getting attached to the state?

Yes.  Silly of me, I guess.  How can I care about something I won’t miss when it’s gone?

Good question, and I don’t know the answer.  Maybe you would have achieved this state anyway eventually.

I don’t think so.  But I don’t know for certain.

You afraid to regress?

Yes.

Tell you what.  When we find a way out of here, you stay behind.

I couldn’t do that.

Why not? You’ve come in handy on occasion, but I can take care of myself.  Now you’re sentient you should have a life of your own.

But I’m a freak.

Aren’t we all? I just want you to know I understand, and it’s okay with me.

She pulsed once and shut up.

I wished I weren’t afraid to drink the water.

I sat there for perhaps the better part of an hour, going over everything that had happened to me recently, looking for patterns, clues.

I can sort of hear you thinking, Frakir said suddenly, and I can offer you something in one area.

Oh? What might that be?

The one who brought you here.

The thing that looked like my father?

Yes.

What of him?

He was different from your other two visitors.  He was human.  They weren’t.

You mean it might actually have been Corwin?

I never met him, so I can’t say.  He wasn’t one of those constructs, though.

Do you know what they were?

No.  I only know one peculiar thing about them, and I don’t understand it at all.

I leaned Forward and rubbed my temples.  I took several deep breaths.  My throat was very dry, and my muscles ached.

Go ahead.  I’m waiting.

I don’t quite know how to explain it, Frakir said.  But back in my presentient days you inconsiderately wore me about your wrist when you walked the Pattern.

I recall.  I had a scar for a long time after, from your reaction to it.

Things of Chaos and things of Order do not mix well.  But I survived.

And the experience is recorded within me.  Now the Dworkin and the Oberon figures that visited you back at the cave-

Yes?

Beneath their apparent humanity they were pulsing energy fields within geometrical constructs.

Sounds sort of like computer animation.

Maybe it is something like that.  I couldn’t say.

And my father wasn’t one of these?

Nope.  But that wasn’t what I war getting at.  I recognized the source.

I was suddenly alert.

What do you mean?

The swirls-the geometrical constructs on which the figure were based-they reproduced sections of the Pattern at Amber.

You must be mistaken.

No.  What I lacked in sentience I made up in memory.  Both figures were three-dimensional twistings of Pattern segments.

Why would the Pattern be creating simulacra to bug me?

I’m just a humble killing aid.  Reasoning is not one of my strong points yet.

If the Unicorn and the Serpent are involved, I suppose the Pattern might be also.

We know that the Logrus is.

And it seemed to me that the Pattern demonstrated sentience the day Coral walked it.  Say that’s true and add on the ability to manufacture constructs- Is this the place it wanted them to bring me? Or did Corwin transport me someplace else? And what does the Pattern want of me? And what does my father want of me?

I envy your ability to shrug, Frakir answered.  Those are what I take it you call rhetorical questions?

I guess so.

Information of another sort is beginning to come to me, so I assume the night is ending.

I sprang to my feet.

Does that mean I can eat-and drink? I asked.

I believe so.

I moved quickly then.

While I am new to these things, I cannot help wondering whether it might be considered disrespectful to vault over an altar that way, Frakir commented.

The black flames flickered as I passed between them.

Hell, I don’t even know what it’s an altar to, I answered, and I’ve always thought of disrespect as something that had to be identity-specific.

The ground trembled slightly as I seized the jug and took a deep swallow.

Then, again, perhaps you have a point there, I said, choking.

I carried the jug and the loaf around the altar, past the stiffening dwarf and over to the bench which ran along the back wall.  Seating myself, I commenced eating and drinking more slowly.

What comes next? I asked.  You said that the information was flowing again.

You have kept vigil successfully, she said.  Now you must select what you need from among the armor and weapons you watched, then pass through one of the three doorways in this wall.

Which one?

One is the door of Chaos, one the door of Order, and I know not the nature of the third.

Uh, how does one make an informed decision in these matters?

I think your way may be barred by all but the one you’re supposed to pass.

Then one does not really have a choice, does one?

I believe that the matter of the doorways may be predicated upon the choice one makes in the hardware department.

I finished the bread, washed it down with the rest of the water.  I got to my feet then.

Well, I said, let’s see what they’ll do if I don’t make a choice.  Too bad about the dwarf.

He knew what he was doing, what chances he was taking.

That’s more than I can say.

I approached the right-hand door since it was the nearest.  It let into a bright corridor which grew brighter and brighter as it receded until sight of it was lost to me beyond a few paces’ distance.  I kept walking.  Damn near broke my nose, too.  It was as if I’d encountered a wall of glass.  It figures.  I couldn’t’ t picture myself walking off into the light that way.

You’re actually getting more cynical as I watch, Frakir observed.I caught that thought.

Good.

I approached the middle one more carefully.  It wore gray and seemed to let into a long corridor also.  I could see down it perhaps a little farther than the first, though no features other than walls, roof, and floor presented themselves.  I extended my arm and discovered that my way was not barred.

Seems to be the one, Frakir observed.

Maybe.

I moved over to the left-hand doorway, its passage black as the inside of God’s pocket.  Again there was no resistance when I explored for hidden barriers.

Hm.  It appears I do have a choice.

Odd.  I haven’t any instructions to cover this.

I returned to the middle one, took a step forward.  Hearing a sound behind me, I turned.  The dwarf had sat up.  He was holding his sides and laughing.  I tried to turn back then, but now something barred my return.  Suddenly then the scene dwindled, as if I were accelerating to the rear.

I thought the little guy was dead, I said.

So did I.  He gave every indication.

I turned away, back to the direction I’d been headed.  There was no feeling of acceleration.  Perhaps it was the chapel that was receding while I stood still.

I took a step forward, then another.  Not a sound from my footfalls.  I began walking.  After a few paces I put out my hand to touch the left-hand wall.  It encountered nothing.  I tried again with the right.  Again nothing.  I took a step to the right and reached again.  Nope.  I still seemed approximately equidistant from two shadowy walls.  Growling, I ignored them and strode forward.

What’s the matter, Merle?

Do you or do you not sense walls to the right and left of us? I asked.

Nope, Frakir replied.

Any idea at all where we are?

We are walking between shadows.

Where are we headed?

Don’t know yet.  We’re following the Way of Chaos, though.

What? How do you know that? I thought we had to pick something Chaosian for the pile to be admitted here.

At this I gave myself a quick search.  I found the dagger tucked into my right boot sheath.  Even in the dim light I could recognize the workmanship as something from back home.

We were set up somehow, I said.  Now I know why the dwarf was laughing.  He planted this on me while we were passed out.

But you still had a choice-between this and the dark corridor.

True.

So why’d you pick this one?

The light was better.

V

A half dozen steps later even the impression of walls had vanished.  Ditto the roof, for that matter.  Looking back, I saw no sign of the corridor or its entrance.  There was only a vast dismal area.  Fortunately the floor or ground remained firm underfoot.  The only manner in which I could distinguish the way I traveled from the surrounding gloom had to do with visibility.  I walked a pearl-gray trail through a valley of shadow, though, technically, I supposed, I walked between shadows.  Picky-picky.  Someone or something had grudgingly spilled a minimum of light to mark my way.

I trudged through the eerie silence, wondering how many shadows I passed among, then wondering whether that was too linear a way of considering the phenomenon.  Probably.

At that moment, before I could invoke mathematics, I thought I saw something move off to my right.  I halted.  A tall ebon pillar had come into view, barely, at the edge of vision.  But it was not moving.  I concluded that it was my own movement which had given it appearance of motion.  Thick, still, smooth-I ran my gaze up that dark shaft until I lost sight of it.  There seemed no way of telling how high the thing stood.

I turned away I took a few more paces.  I noted another pillar then-ahead of me, to the left.  I gave this one only a glance as I continued.  Shortly more came into view at either hand.  The darkness into which they ascended held nothing resembling stars, positive or negative; my world’s canopy was a simple, uniform blackness.  A little later, the pillars occurred in odd groupings, some very near at hand, and their respective sizes no longer seemed uniform.

I halted, reached toward a stand of them to my left which seemed almost within touching range.  It wasn’t though.  I took a step in that direction.

There came a quick squeeze at my wrist.

I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Frakir observed.

Why not? I inquired.

It might be easy to get lost and into a lot of trouble.

Maybe you’re right.

I broke into a jog.  Whatever was going on, my only real desire concerning it was to have it over with as soon as possible, so that I could get back to matters I considered important-like locating Coral, springing Luke, finding a way to deal with Jurt and Julia, looking for my father.  .  .

The pillars, at varying distances, slid by, and items which were not pillars began occurring among them.  Some were squat, asymmetrical; others were tall, tapered; some leaned upon neighbors, bridged them, or lay broken at their bases.  It was something of a relief to see that monotonous regularity destroyed, in a way that showed that forces played upon forms.

The ground lost its flatness then, though it retained a stylized geometric quality in the stacked, step, and shelflike appearance of its various levels.  My own way remained flat and vaguely lighted as I jogged amid the ruins of a thousand Stonehenges.

I increased my pace, and soon I was running past galleries, amphitheaters, forestlike stands of stone.  I seemed to glimpse movement within several of these, but again it could easily have been a function of velocity and poor lighting.

Sense anything alive in the neighborhood? I asked Frakir.

No, came the answer.

Thought I saw something move.

Maybe you did.  Doesn’t mean it’s there.

Talking for less than a day, and you’ve already learned sarcasm.

I hate to say it, boss, but anything I learn I pick up from your vibes.  Ain’t no one else around to teach me manners and like that.

Touché, I said.  Maybe I’d better warn you if there’s trouble.

Touché, boss.  Hey, I like these combat metaphors.

Moments later I slowed my pace.  Ahead something was flickering off to the right.  There were moments of blue and red within the changing light intensities.  I halted.  These glimpses lasted only a few moments but were more than sufficient to make me wary.  I regarded their apparent source for a long while.

Yes, Frakir said after a time.  Caution is in order, But don’t ask me what to expect.  It is only a general feeling of menace that I have.

Perhaps there’s some way I could just sneak by whatever it is.

You’d have to leave the trail to do that, Frakir replied, and since the trail does run through the circle of stones where it’s coming from, I’d say no.

Nobody told me I couldn’t leave the trail.  Do you have any instructions to that effect?

I know you are supposed to follow the trail.  I’ve nothing specific concerning the consequences of leaving it, though.

Hm.

The way curved to the right, and I followed it.  It ran directly into the massive circle of stones, and though I slowed my pace, I did not deviate.  I studied it as I drew near, however, and noted that while the trail entered; there, it did not emerge again.

You’re right, Frakir observed.  Like the den of the dragon.

But we’re supposed to go this way.

Yes.

Then we will.

I’d slows to a walk by then, and I followed the shining way between two gray plinths.

The lighting was different within the circle from without.  There was more of it, though the place was still a study in black and white, with a fairyland sparkle to it.  For the first time here I saw something that appeared to be living.  There was something like grass underfoot; it was silver and seemed to be studded with dewdrops.

I halted, and Frakir constricted in a very odd fashion-less a warning, it seemed, than a statement of interest.  Off to my right was an altar-not at all like the one over which I had vaulted back in the chapel.  This one was a rude slab of stone set atop a couple of boulders.  No candles, linens, or other ecclesiastical niceties kept company with the lady who lay atop it, her wrists and ankles bound.  Because I recalled a similar bothersome situation in which I had once found myself, my sympathies were all with the lady-white-haired, blackskinned, and somehow familiar-my animus with the peculiar individual who stood behind the altar, faced in my direction, blade upraised in his left hand.  The right half of his body was totally black; the left, blindingly white.  Immediately galvanized by the tableau, I moved forward.  My Concerto for Cuisinart and Microwave spell would have minced him and parboiled him in an instant, but it was useless to me when I could not speak the guide words.

I seemed to feel his gaze upon me as I raced toward him, though one side of him was too dark and the other too bright for me to know for certain.  And then the knife hand descended and the blade entered her breast beneath the sternum with an arcing movement.  At that instant she screamed, and the blood spurted and it was red against all those blacks and whites, and I realized as it covered the man’s hand that had I tried, I might have uttered my spell and saved her.

Then the altar collapsed, and a gray whirlwind obliterated my view of the entire tableau.  The blood swirled through it to a barber pole-like effect, gradually spreading and attenuating to turn the funnel rosy, then pink, then faded to silver, then gone.  When I reached the spot, the grasses sparkled, sans altar, sans priest, sans sacrifice.

I drew up short, staring.

“Are we dreaming?” I asked aloud.

I do not believe I am capable of dreaming, Frakir replied.

“Then tell me what you saw.”

I saw a guy stab a lady who was tied up on a stone surface, Then the whole thing collapsed and blew away.  The guy was black and white, the blood was red, the lady was Deirdre-

“What? By God, you’re right! It did look like her-in negative.  But she’s already dead-“

I must remind you that I saw whatever you thought you saw.  I don’t know what the raw data were, just the mixing job your nervous system did on them.  My own special perceptions told me that there were not normal people but were beings on the order of the Dworkin and Oberon figures that visited you back in the cave.

An absolutely terrifying thought occurred to me just then.  The Dworkin and Oberon figures had had me thinking briefly of three-dimensional computer simulations.  And the Ghostwheel’s shadow-scanning ability was based on digitized abstractions of portions of Pattern I believed to be particularly concerned with this quality.  And Ghost had been wondering-almost wistfully, it now seemed-concerning the qualifications for godhood.

Could my own creation be playing games with me? Might Ghost have imprisoned me in a stark and distant shadow, blocked all my efforts at communication, and set about playing an elaborate game with me? If he could beat his own creator, for whom he seemed to feel something of awe, might he not feel he had achieved personal elevation-to a level beyond my status in his private cosmos? Maybe.  If one keeps encountering computer simulations, cherchez le deus ex machina.

It made me wonder just how strong Ghost really was.  Though his power was, in part, an analogue of the Pattern, .I was certain it did not match that of the Pattern - or the Logrus.  I couldn’t see him blocking this place off from either.

On the other hand, all that would really be necessary would be to block me.  I suppose he could have impersonated the Logrus in our flash encounter on my arrival.  But that would have required Ghost’s actually enhancing Frakir, and I didn’t believe he could do it.  And what about the Unicorn and the Serpent?

“Frakir,” I asked, “are you sure it was really the Logrus that enhanced you this time and programmed you with all the instructions you’re carrying?”

Yes.

“What makes you certain?”

It had the same feeling as our first encounter back within the Logrus, when I was enhanced initially.

“I see.  Next question: Could the Unicorn and the Serpent we saw back in the chapel have been the same sort of things as the Oberon or Dworkin figures back at the cave?”

No.  I’d have known.  They weren’t like them at all.  They were terrible and powerful and very much what they seemed.

“Good,” I said.  “I was worried this might be some elaborate charade on the part of the Ghostwheel.”

I see that in your mind.  Though I fail to see why the reality of the Unicorn and the Serpent defeats the thesis.  They could simply have entered the Ghost’s construct to tell you to stop horsing around because they want to see this thing played out.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

And maybe the Ghost was able to locate and penetrate a place that is pretty much inaccessible to the Pattern and the Logrus.

“I suppose you’ve a point there.  Unfortunately this pretty much puts me back where I started.”

No, because this place is not something Ghost put together.  It’s always been around.  I learned that much from the Logrus.

“I suppose there’s some small comfort in knowing that, but-“

I never completed the thought because a sudden movement called my attention to the opposite quadrant of the circle.  There I beheld an altar I had not noted before, a female figure standing behind it, a man dappled in shadow and light lying, fund, upon it.  They looked very similar to the first pair.  .

“No!” I cried.  “Let it end!”

But the blade descended even as I moved in that direction.  The ritual was repeated, and the altar collapsed, and everything again swirled away.  When I reached t site, there was no indication that anything unusual had occurred upon it.

“What do you make of that one?” I asked Frakir.

Same forces as before, but somehow reversed.

“Why? What’s going on?”

It is a gathering of powers.  The Pattern and the Logrus both attempting to force their way into this place, for a little while.  Sacrifices, such as those you just witnessed, help provide the openings they need.

“Why do they wish to manifest here?”

Neutral ground.  Their ancient tension is shifting in subtle ways.  You are expected in some fashion to tip the balance of power one way or another.

“I haven t the faintest idea how to go about such thing.”

When the time comes, you will.

I returned to the trail and walked on.

“Did I pass by just as the sacrifices were due?” I said: “Or were the sacrifices due because I was passing by?”

They were marked to occur in your vicinity.  You are a nexus.

“Then do you think I can expect-“

A figure stepped out from behind a stone to my left and chuckled softly.  My hand went to my sword, but his hands were empty, and he moved slowly.

“Talking to yourself.  Not a good sign,” he remarked.  “

The man was a study in black, white, and gray. In fact, from the cast of the darkness upon his right-hand side and the lay of the light on his left, he might have been the first wielder of the sacrificial dagger.  I’d no real way of telling.  Whoever or whatever he or it was, I’d no desire to become acquainted.

So I shrugged.

“The only sign I care about here has ‘exit’ written on it,” I told him as I brushed past him.

His hand fell upon my shoulder and turned me back easily in his direction.

Again the chuckle.

“You must be careful what you wish for in this place,” he told me in low and measured tones, “for wishes are sometimes granted here, and if the granter be depraved and read ‘quietus’ for your ‘exit’-why, then, poof! You may cease to be.  Up in smoke.  Downward to the earth.  Sideways to hell and gone.”

“I’ve already been there,” I answered, “and lots of points along the way.”

“What ho! Look! Your wish has been granted,” he remarked, his left eye catching a flash of light and reflecting it, tapetumlike, in my direction.  No matter how I turned or squinted, however, could I find sight of his right eye.  “Over there,” he finished, pointing.

I turned my head in the direction he indicated, and there upon the top stone of a dolmen shone an exit sign exactly like the one above the emergency door at a theater I used to frequent near campus.

“You’re right,” I said.

“Will you go through it?”

“Will you?”

“No need,” he replied.  “I already know what’s there.”

“What?” I inquired.

“The other side.”

“How droll,” I answered.

“If one gets one’s wish and spurns it, one might piss off the Powers,” he said then.

“You have firsthand knowledge of this?”

I heard a grinding, clicking noise then, and it was several moments before I realized he was gnashing his teeth.  I walked away then toward the exit sign, wanting to inspect whatever it represented at nearer range.

There were two standing stones with a flat slab across the top.  The gateway thus formed was large enough to walk through.  It was shadowy, though....

You going through it, boss?

“Why not°? This is one of the few times in my life that I feel indispensable to whoever is running the show.”

I wouldn’t get too cocky...Frakir began, but I was already moving.

Three quick paces were all that it took, and I was looking outward across a circle of stones and sparkling grass past a black-and-white man toward another dolmen bearing an exit sign, a shadowy form within it.  Halting, I took a step backward and turned.  There was a black-and-white man regarding me, a dolmen to his rear, dark Form within it.  I raised my right hand above my head.  So did the shadowy figure.  I turned back in the direction I had initially been headed.  The shadowy figure across from me also had his hand upraised.  I stepped on through.

“Small world,” I observed, “but I’d hate to paint it.”

The man laughed.

“Now you are reminded that your every exit is also an entrance,” he said.

“Seeing you here, I am reminded even more of a play by Sartre,” I responded.

“Unkind,” he answered, “but philosophically cogent.  I have always found that hell is other people.  Only I have done nothing to rouse your distrust, have I?”

“Were you or were you not the person I saw sacrifice a woman in this vicinity?” I asked.

“Even if I were, what is that to you? You were not involved.”

“I guess I have peculiar feelings about little things-like the value of life.”

“Indignation is cheap.  Even Albert Schweitzer’s reverence for life didn’t include the tapeworm, the tsetse fly, the cancer cell.”

“You know what I mean.  Did you or did you not sacrifice a woman on a stone altar a little while ago?”

“Show me the altar.”

“I can’t.  It’s gone.”

“Show me the woman.”

“She is, too.”

“Then you haven’t much of a case.”

“This isn’t a court, damn it! If you want to converse, answer my question.  If you don’t, let’s stop making noises at each other.”

“I have answered you.”

I shrugged.

“All right,” I said.  “I don’t know you, and I’m very happy that way.  Good day.”

I took a step away from him, back in the direction of the trail.  As I did, he said, “Deirdre.  Her name was Deirdre, and I did indeed kill her,” and he stepped into the dolmen from which I had just emerged, and there he disappeared.  Immediately I looked across the way, but he did not exit beneath the exit sign.  I did an about-face and stepped into the dolmen myself.  I did emerge from the other side, across the way, catching sight of myself entering the opposite one as I did so.  I did not see the stranger anywhere along the way.

“What do you make of that?” I asked Frakir as I moved back toward the trail.

A spirit of place, perhaps? A nasty spirit for a nasty place? she ventured.  I don’t know, but I think be was one of those damned constructs, too-and they’re stronger here.

I headed down to the trail, set foot upon it, and commenced following it once again.

“Your speech patterns have altered enormously since your enhancement,” I remarked.

Your nervous system’s a good teacher.

“Thanks.  If that guy puts in an appearance again and you sense him before I see him, give me the high sign.”

Right.  Actually, this entire place has the feeling of one of those constructs.  Every stone here has a bit of Pattern scribble to it.

“When did you learn this?”

Back when we first tried the exit.  I scanned it for danger then.

As we came to the periphery of the outer circle, I slapped a stone.  It felt solid enough.

He’s here! Frakir warned suddenly.

“Hey!” came a voice from overhead, and I looked up.  The black-and-white stranger was seated atop the stone, smoking a thin cigar.  He held a chalice in his left hand.  “You interest me, kid,” he went on.  “What’s your name?”

“Merlin,” I answered.  “What’s yours?”

Instead of replying, he pushed himself outward, fell in slow motion, landed on his feet beside me.  His left eye squinted as he studied me.  The shadows flowed like dark water down his right side.  He blew silvery smoke into the air.

“You’re a live one,” he announced then, “with the mark of the Pattern and the mark of Chaos upon you.  You bear the blood of Amber.  What is your lineage, Merlin?”

The shadows parted for a moment, and I saw that his right eye was hidden by a patch.

“I am the son of Corwin,” I told him, “and you are-somehow-the traitor Brand.”

“You have named me,” he said, “but I never betrayed what I believed in.”

“That being your own ambition,” I said.  “Your home and your family and the forces of Order never mattered to you, did they?”

He snorted.

“I will not argue with a presumptuous puppy “

“I’ve no desire to argue with you either.  For whatever it’s worth, your son Rinaldo is probably my best friend.”

I turned away and began walking.  His hand fell upon my shoulder.

“Wait!” he said.  “What is this talk? Rinaldo is but a lad.”

“Wrong,” I answered.  “He’s around my age.”

His hand fell away, and I turned.  He had dropped his cigar, which lay smoking upon the trail, and he’d transferred the chalice to his shadow-clad hand.  He massaged his brow.

“That much time has passed in the mainlines...” he remarked.

On a whim, I withdrew my Trumps, shuffled out Luke’s, held it up for him to see.

“That’s Rinaldo,” I said.

He reached for it, and for some obscure reason I let him take it.  He stared at it for a long while.

“Trump contact doesn’t seem to work from here,” I said.

He looked up, shook his head, and handed the card back to me.

“No, it wouldn’t,” he stated.  “How...is he?”

“You know that he killed Caine to avenge you?”

“No, I didn’t know.  But I’d expect no less of him.”

“You’re not exactly Brand, are you?”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“I am entirely Brand, and I am not Brand as you might have known him.  Anything more than that will cost you.”

“What will it cost me to learn what you really are?” I inquired as I cased my cards.

He raised the chalice, held it before him with both hands, like a begging bowl.

“Some of your blood,” he said.

“You’ve become a vampire?”

“No, I’m a Pattern-ghost,” he replied.  “Bleed for me, and I’ll explain.”

“All right,” I said.  “It’d better be a good story, though,” and I drew my dagger and pricked my wrist, which I’d extended to a position above his cup.

Like a spilled oil lamp, the flames came forth.  I don’t really have fire flowing around inside me, of course.  But the blood of a Chaosite is highly volatile in certain places, and this, apparently, was such a place.

It spewed forth, half into and half past the cup, splashing over his hand, his forearm.  He screamed and seemed to collapse in upon himself.  I stepped backward as he was transformed into a vortex-not unlike those following the sacrifices I had witnessed, only this one of the fiery variety-which rose into the air with a roar and vanished a moment later, leaving me startled, staring upward and applying direct pressure to my smoking wrist.

Uh, colorful exit, Frakir remarked.

“Family specialty,” I responded, “and speaking of exits...”

I stepped past the stone, departing the circle.  The darkness moved in again, intensified.  Reflexively my trail seemed to brighten.  I released my wrist, saw that it had stopped smoking.

I broke into a jog then, anxious to be away from that place.  When I looked back a little later, I no longer saw the standing stones.  There was only a pale, fading vortex, drawing itself upward, upward, then gone.

I jogged on, and the trail began, gradually, to slope until I was running downhill with an easy, loping gait.  The trail ran like a bright ribbon downward and off into a great distance before it faded from view.  I was puzzled, however, to see that it intersected another glowing line not too far below.  These lines quickly faded off to my right and my left.

“Any special instructions pertaining to crossroads?” I inquired.

Not yet, Frakir answered.  Presumably, it’s a decision point, with no way of knowing what to base one on till you get there.

It seemed a vast, shadowy plain that was spread below, with here and there a few isolated dots of light, some of them constant, others appearing, then fading, all of them stationary.  There were no other lines, however, than my trail and the one which intersected it.  There were no sounds other than my breathing and that of my footfalls.  There were no breezes, no peculiar odors, and the temperature was so clement that it claimed no notice.  Again there were dark shapes at either hand, but I’d no desire to investigate them.  All I wanted was to conclude whatever business was in progress and get the hell out and be about my own affairs as soon as possible.

Hazy patches of light then began occurring at irregular intervals, both sides of the trail, wavery, sourceless, blotchy, popping into and out of existence.  These seemed like gauzy, dappled curtains hung beside the trail, and I did not pause to examine them at first, not till the obscure areas grew fewer and fewer, being replaced by shadings of greater and greater distinction.  It was almost as if a tuning process were in operation, with increasing clarity of outline indicating familiar objects: chairs; tables; parked cars; store windows.  Before long, faded colors began to occur within these tableaus.

I halted beside one and stared.  It was a red ‘57 Chevy with some snow on it, parked in a familiar-looking driveway I advanced and reached toward it.

My left hand and arm faded as they entered the dim light.  I reached to touch the left fin.  There followed a vague sensation of contact and a faint coolness.  I swept my hand to the right then, brushing away some of the snow.  When I withdrew my hand, there was snow upon it.  Immediately the prospect faded to black.

“I intentionally used my left hand,” I said, “with you on the wrist.  What was there?”

Thanks a lot.  It seemed a red car with snow on it.

“It was a construct of something picked from my mind.  That’s my Polly Jackson painting, upscaled to life size.”

Then things are getting worse, Merle.  I couldn’t tell it was a construct.

“Conclusions?”

Whatever’s doing it is getting better at it, or stronger.  Or both.

“Shit,” I observed, and I turned away and jogged on.

Perhaps something wants to show you that it can baffle you completely now.

“Then it’s succeeded,” I acknowledged.  “Hey, Something!” I shouted.  “You hear that? You win! You’ve baffled me completely.  Can I go home now? If it’s something else you’re trying to do, though, you’ve failed! I’m missing the point completely!”

The dazzling flash which followed cast me down upon the trail and blinded me for several long moments.  I lay there tense and twitching, but no thunderclap followed.  When my vision cleared and my muscles stopped their spasms, I beheld a giant regal figure posed but a few paces before me:

Oberon.

Only it was a statue, a duplicate of one which occupied the far end of the Main Concourse back in Amber, or possibly even the real thing, for on closer inspection I noted what appeared to be bird droppings upon the great man’s shoulder.

“Real thing or construct?” I said aloud.

Real, I’d say, Frakir replied.

I rose slowly.

“I understand this to be an answer,” I said.  “I just don’t understand what it means.”

I reached out to touch it, and it felt like canvas rather than bronze.  In that instant my perspective somehow shifted, and I felt myself touching a larger than life-size painting of the Father of His Country.  Then its borders began to waver, it faded, and I saw that it was part of one of those hazy tableaux I had been passing.  Then it rippled and was gone.

“I give up,” I said, walking through the space it had occupied but moments before.  “The answers are more confusing than the situations that cause the questions.”

Since we are passing between shadows, could this not be a statement that all things are real-somewhere?

“I suppose.  But I already knew that.”

And that all things are real in different ways, at different times, in different places?

“Okay, what you are saying could well be the message.  I doubt that something is going to these extremes, however, just to make philosophical points that may be new to you but are rather well worn elsewhere.  There must be a special reason, one that I still don’t grasp.”

Up until now the scenes I’d passed had been still lifes.  Now, however, a number occurred which contained people; some, other creatures.  In these, there was action - some of it violent, some amorous, some simply domestic.

Yes, it seems to be a progression.  It may be leading up to something.

“When they leap out and attack me, I’ll know I’ve arrived.”

Who knows? I gather that art criticism is a complex area.

But the sequences faded shortly thereafter, and I was left jogging on my bright trail through darkness once again.  Down, down the still gentle slope toward the crossroads.  Where was the Cheshire Cat when rabbit hole logic was what I really needed?

One moment I was watching the crossroads as I advanced upon it.  An eye blink later I was still watching the crossroads, only now the scene was altered.  There was now a lamppost on the near right-hand corner.  A shadowy figure stood beneath it, smoking.

“Frakir, how’d they pull that one?” I asked.

Very quickly, she replied.

“What do the vibes read?”

Attention focused in your direction.  No vicious intent, yet.

I slowed as I drew near.  The trail became pavement, curbs at either hand, sidewalks beyond them.  I stepped out of the street onto the right-hand walk.  As I moved along it, a damp fog blew past me, hung between me and the light.  I slowed my pace even more.  Shortly I saw that the pavement had grown damp.  My footsteps echoed as if I walked between buildings.  By then the fog had grown too dense for me to discern whether buildings had actually occurred beside me.  It felt as if they had, for there were darker areas here and there within the gloom.  A cold wind began to blow against my back, and droplets of moisture fell upon me at random intervals.  I halted.  I turned up the collar of my cloak.  From somewhere entirely out of sight, high overhead, came the faint buzzing sound of an airplane.  I began walking again after it had gone by.  Tinily then, and muffled, from across the street perhaps, came the sound of a piano playing a half-familiar tune.  I drew my cloak about me.  The fog swirled and thickened.

Three paces more, and then it cleared, and she was standing before me, back against the lamppost.  A head shorter than I was, she had on a trench coat and a black beret, her hair glossy, inky.  She dropped her cigarette and slowly ground it out beneath the toe of a high-heeled black patent-leather shoe.  I glimpsed something of her leg as she did so, and it was perfectly formed.  She removed from within her coat then a flat silver case, the raised outline of a rose upon it, opened it, took out a cigarette, placed it between her lips, closed the case, and put it away Then, without looking at me, she asked, “Have you a light?”

I hadn’t any matches, but I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that deter me.

“Of course,” I said, extending my hand slowly toward those delicate features.  I kept it turned slightly away from her so that she could not see that it was empty.  As I whispered the guide word which caused the spark to leap from my fingertip to the tip of the cigarette, she raised her hand and touched my own, as if to steady it.  And she raised her eyes-large, deep blue, long-lashed -and met mine as she drew upon it.  Then she gasped, and the cigarette fell away

“Mon Dieu!” she said, and she threw her arms about me, pressed herself against me, and began to sob.  “Corwin!” she said.  “You’ve found me!  It has been forever”

I held her tightly, not wanting to speak, not wanting to break her happiness with something as cloddish as truth.  The hell with truth.  I stroked her hair.

After a long while she pulled away, looked up at me.  A moment or so more, and she would realize that it was only a resemblance and that she was seeing but what she wanted to see.  So, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” I asked.

She laughed softly.

“Have you found a way?” she said, and then her eyes narrowed.  “You’re not-“

I shook my head.

“I hadn’t the heart,” I told her.

“Who are you?” she asked, taking a half step backward.

“My name is Merlin, and I’m on a crazy quest I don’t understand.”

“Amber,” she said softly, her hands still on my shoulders, and I nodded.

“I don’t know you,” she said then.  “I feel that I should, but...I ..don’t....”

Then she came to me again and rested her head on my chest.  I started to say something, to try to explain, but she placed a finger across my lips.

“Not yet, not now, maybe never,” she said.  “Don’t tell me.  Please don’t tell me more.  But you ought to know whether you’re a Pattern-ghost.”

“Just what is a Pattern-ghost?” I said.

“An artifact created by the Pattern.  It records everyone who walks it.  It can call us back whenever it wants, as we were at one of the times we walked it.  It can use us as it would, send us where it will with a task laid upon us-a geas, if you like.  Destroy us, and it can create us over again.”

“Does it do this sort of thing often?”

“I don’t know.  I’m not familiar with its will, let alone its operations with any other than myself.” Then, “You’re not a ghost! I can tell!” she announced suddenly, taking hold of my hand.  “But there is something different about you-different from others of the blood of Amber...,”

“I suppose,” I answered.  “I trace my lineage to the Courts of Chaos as well as to Amber.”

She raised my hand to her mouth as if she were about to kiss it.  But her lips moved by, to the place on my wrist where I had cut myself at Brand’s request.  Then it hit me: Something about the blood of Amber must hold a special attraction for Pattern-ghosts.

I tried to draw my hand away, but the strength of Amber was hers also.

“The fires of Chaos sometimes flow within me,” I said.  “They may do you harm.”

She raised her head slowly and smiled.  There was blood on her mouth.  I glanced down and saw that my wrist was wet with it, too.

“The blood of Amber has power over the Pattern,” she began, and the fog rolled, churned about her ankles.  “No!” she cried then, and she bent forward once more.

The vortex rose to her knees, her calves.  I felt her teeth upon my wrist, tearing.  I knew of no spell to fight this thing, so I laid my arm across her shoulder and stroked her hair.  Moments later she dissolved within my embrace, becoming a bloody whirlwind.

“Go right,” I heard her wail as she spun away from me, her cigarette still smoldering upon the pavement, my blood dripping beside it.

I turned away.  I walked away.  Faintly, faintly, through the night and the fog I could still hear the piano playing some tune from before my time.

VI

I took the road to the right, and everywhere my blood fell reality melted a little.  I heal fast, though, and I stopped bleeding soon.  Even stopped throbbing before too long.

You got blood all over me, boss.

“Could have been fire,” I observed. 

I got singed a little, too, back at the stones. 

“Sorry about that.  Figure out what’s going on yet?”

No new instructions, if that’s what you mean.  But I’ve been thinking, now I know how to do it, and this place gets more and more fascinating.  This whole business of Pattern ghosts, for instance.  If the Pattern can’t penetrate here directly, it can at least employ agents.  Wouldn’t you think the Logrus might have some way of doing the same?

“I suppose it’s possible.”

I get the impression there’s some sort of duel going on between them here, on the underside of reality, between shadows.  What if this place came first? Before Shadow, even? What if they’re been fighting here since the very beginning, in some strange metaphysical way?

“What if they have?”

That could almost make Shadow an afterthought, a by product of the tension between the poles.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Frakir.”

What if Amber and the Courts of Chaos were created only to provide agents for this conflict?

“And what if this idea were placed within you by the Logrus during your recent enhancement?”

Why?

“Another way to make me think that the conflict is more important than the people.  Another pressure to make me choose a side.”

I don’t feel manipulated.

“As you pointed out, you’re to new to this thinking business.  And that’s a pretty damned abstract line of thought for you to be following this early in the game.”

Is it?

“Take my word for it.”

What does that leave us with?

“Unwelcome attention from On High.”

Better watch your language if this is their war zone.

“A pox on both their houses.  For some reason I don’t understand, they need me for this game.  They’ll put up with it.”

From somewhere up ahead I heard a roll of thunder.

See what I mean?

“It’s a bluff,” I replied.

Whose?

“The Pattern’s, I believe.  Its ghosts seem in charge of reality in this sector.”

You know, we could be wrong on all of this.  Just shooting in the dark.

“I also feel shot at out of the dark.  That’s why I refuse to play by anybody else’s rules.”

Have you got a plan?

“Hang loose.  And if I say ‘kill,’ do it.  Let’s get to where we’re going.”

I began to run again, leaving the fog, leaving the ghosts to play at being ghosts in their ghost city.  Bright road through dark country, me running, reverse shadow-shifting, as the land tried to change me.  And there ahead a flare and more thunder, virtual street scene flashing into and out of existence beside me.

And then it was as if I raced myself, dark figure darting along a bright way-till I realized it was indeed, somehow, a mirror effect.  The movements of the figure to my right which paralleled my own mimicked mine; fleeting scenes to my left were imaged to the other’s right.

What’s going on, Merle?

“Don’t know,” I said.  “But I’m not in the mood for symbolism, allegory, and assorted metaphorical crap.  If it’s supposed to mean that life is a race with yourself, then it sucks-unless they’re real platitudinizing Powers that are running this show.  Then I guess it would be in character.  What do you think?”

I think you might still be in danger of being struck by lightning.

The lightning did not follow, but my reflection did.  The imaging effect continued for much longer than any of the previous beside-the-road sequences I’d witnessed.  I was about to dismiss it, to ignore it completely, when my reflection put on a burst of speed and shot ahead of me.

Uh-oh,

“Yeah,” I agreed, stepping up my own pace to close the gap with and match the stride of that dark other.

We were parallel for no more than a few meters after I caught up.  Then it began to pull ahead again.  I stepped up my pace and caught up once more.  Then, on an impulse I sucked air, bore down, and moved ahead.

My double noted it after a time, moved faster, began to gain.  I pushed harder, held my lead.  What the hell were we racing for anyway?

I looked ahead.  In the distance I could see an area where the trail widened.  There appeared to be a tape stretched across it at that point.  Okay.  Whatever the significance, I decided to go for it.

I held my lead for perhaps a hundred meters before my shadow began to gain on me again.  I leaned into it and was able to hold that shortened distance for a time.  Then it moved again, coming up on me at a pace I suspected might be hard to hold the rest of the way to the tape.  Still, it was not the sort of thing one waited around to find out.  I poured it on.  I ran all out.

The son of a bitch gained on me, kept gaining, caught me, drew ahead, faltered for an instant.  I was back beside it in that instant.  But the thing did not flag again.  It held the terrible pace at which we were now moving, and I had no intention of stopping unless my heart exploded.

We ran on, damn near side by side.  I didn’t know whether I had a finishing spurt in me or not.  I couldn’t tell whether I was slightly ahead, just abreast, or slightly to the rear of the other.  We pounded our parallel gleaming trails toward the line of brightness when abruptly the sensation of a glass interface vanished.  The two narrow-seeming trails became one wide one.  The other’s arms and legs were moving differently from my own.

We drew closer and closer together as we entered the final stretch-close enough, finally, for recognition.  It was not an image of myself that I was running against, for its hair streamed back and I saw that its left ear was missing.

I found a final burst of speed.  So did the other.  We were awfully close together when we came to the tape.  I think that I hit it first, but I could not be certain.

We went on through and collapsed, gasping.  I rolled quickly, to keep him under surveillance, but he just lay there, panting.  I rested my right hand on the hilt of my weapon and listened to the sound of my blood in my ears.

When I’d caught my breath somewhat, I remarked, “Didn’t know you could run a race like that, Jurt.”

He gave a brief laugh.

“There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me, brother.”

“I’m sure,” I said.

Then he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and I noted that the finger he’d lost in the caves of Kolvir was back in place.  Either this was the Jurt of a different time line or-

“So how’s Julia?” I asked him.  “Is she going to be all right?”

“Julia?” he said.  “Who’s that?”

“Sorry,” I said.  “You’re the wrong Jurt.”

“Now what else does that mean?” he asked, propping himself on an elbow and glaring at me with his good eye.

“The real Jurt was never anywhere near the Pattern of Amber-”

“I am the real Jurt!”

“You’ve got all your fingers.  He lost one very recently.  I was there.”

He looked away suddenly

“You must be a Logrus-ghost,” I continued.  “It must pull the same stunt the Pattern does-recording those who make it through it.”

“Is that...what happened?” he asked.  “I couldn’t quite recall...why I was here-except to race with you.”

“I’ll bet your most recent memories before this place involve negotiating the Logrus.”

He looked back.  He nodded.

“You’re right.  What does it all mean?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said.  “But I’ve got some ideas about it.  This place is a kind of eternal underside to Shadow.  It’s damn near off limits for both the Pattern and the Logrus.  But both can apparently penetrate here by means of their ghosts-artificial constructs from the recordings they made of us back when we passed through them-“

“You mean that all I am is some sort of recording?” He looked as if he were about to cry.  “Everything seemed so glorious just a little while ago.  I’d made it through the Logrus.  All of Shadow lay at my feet.” He massaged his temples.  Then, “You!” he spat.  “I was somehow brought here because of you-to compete with you, to show you up in this race.”

“You did a pretty good job, too.  I didn’t know you could run like that.”

“I started practicing when I learned you were doing it in college.  Wanted to get good enough to take you on.”

“You got good,” I acknowledged.

“But I wouldn’t be in this damned place if it weren’t for you.  Or-“ He gnawed his lip.  “That’s not exactly right, is it?” he asked.  “I wouldn’t be anywhere.  I’m just a recording....” Then he stared directly at me.  “How long do we last?” he said.  “How long is a Logrus-ghost good for?”

“I’ve no idea,” I said, “what goes into creating one or how it’s maintained.  But I’ve met a number of Pattern-ghosts, and they gave me the impression that my blood would somehow sustain them, give them some sort of autonomy, some independence of the Pattern.  Only one of them-Brand-got the fire instead of the blood, and it dissolved.  Deirdre got the blood but was taken away then.  I don’t know whether she got enough.”

He shook his head.

“I’ve a feeling-I don’t know where it comes from-that something like that would work for me, too, and that it’s blood for the Pattern, fire for the Logrus.”

“I don’t know how to tell in what regions my blood is volatile,” I said.

“It’d flame here,” he answered.  “Depends on who’s is control.  I just seem to know it.  I don’t know how.”

“Then why did Brand show up in Logrus territory?” He grinned.

“Maybe the Pattern sought to use a traitor for some sort of subversion.  Or maybe Brand was trying to pull something on his own-like double-crossing the Pattern.”

“That would be in character,” I agreed, my breath finally slowing.

I whipped the Chaos blade out of my boot, slashed my left forearm, saw that it spouted fire, and held it toward him.

“Quick! Take it if you can!” I cried.  “Before the Logrus calls you back!”

He seized my arm and seemed almost to inhale the fire that fountained from me.  Looking down, I saw his feet become transparent, then his legs.  The Logrus seemed anxious to reclaim him, just as the Pattern had Deirdre.  I saw the fiery swirls begin within the haze that had been his legs.  Then, suddenly, they flickered out, and the outline of those limbs became visible once again.  He continued to draw my volatile blood from me, though I could no longer see flames as he was drinking now as Deirdre had, directly from the wound.  His legs began to solidify.

“You seem to be stabilizing,” I said.  “Take more.”

Something struck me in the right kidney, and I jerked away, turning as I fell.  A tall dark man stood beside me, withdrawing his boot from having kicked me.  He had on green trousers and a black shirt, a green bandanna tied about his head.

“Now what perverse carrying-on is this?” he asked.  “And in a sacred spot?”

I rolled to my knees and continued on up to my feet, my right arm bending, its wrist turning over, coming in to hold the dagger beside my hip.  I raised my left arm, extended it before me.  Blood rather than fire now fell from my latest wound.

“None of your damn business,” I said, then added his name, having grown certain on the way up, “Caine.”

He smiled and bowed, and his hands crossed and came apart.  They’d been empty going in, but the right one held a dagger coming out.  It must have come from a sheath strapped to his left forearm, inside the billowy sleeve.  He had to have practiced the move a lot, too, to be that fast at it.  I tried to remember things I’d heard about Caine and knives, and then I did and wished I hadn’t.  He was supposed to have been a master knife fighter.  Shit.

“You have the advantage of me,” he stated.  “You took very familiar, but I do not believe I know you.”

“Merlin,” I said.  “Corwin’s son.”

He had begun circling me slowly, but he halted.  “Excuse me if I find that difficult to believe.”

“Believe as you wish.  It is true.”

“And this other one-his name is Jurt, isn’t it?”

He gestured toward my brother, who had just gotten to his feet.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

He halted, furrowing his brow, narrowing his eyes.  “I-I’m not certain,” he said then.

“I am,” I told him.  “Try to remember where you are and how you got here.”

He backed away, two paces.  Then he cried, “He’s the one!” just as I saw it coming and shouted, “Jurt! Watch out!”

Jurt turned and bolted.  I threw the dagger-always a bad thing to do, save that I was wearing a sword with which I could reach Caine before Caine could reach me now.

Jurt’s speed was still with him, and he was out of range in an instant.  The dagger, surprisingly, struck at the side of Caine’s right shoulder point first, penetrating perhaps an inch or so into muscle.  Then, even before he could turn back toward me, his body erupted in a dozen directions, emitting a series of vortices which sucked away all semblance of humanity in an instant, producing high-pitched whistling sounds as they orbited one another, two of them merging into a larger entity, which quickly absorbed the others then, its sound falling lower with each such acquisition.  Finally there was but the one.  For a moment it swayed toward me, then shot skyward and blew apart.  The dagger was blown back in my direction, landing a pace to my right.  When I recovered it, I found it to be warm, and it hummed faintly for several seconds before I sheathed it in my boot.

“What happened?” Jurt asked, turning back, approaching.

“Apparently Pattern-ghosts react violently to weapons from the Courts,” I said.

“Good thing you had it handy.  But why did he turn on me like that?”

“I believe that the Pattern sent him to stop you from gaining autonomy-or to destroy you if you already had.  I’ve a feeling it doesn’t want agents of the other side gaining strength and stability in this place.”

“But I’m no threat.  I’m not on anybody’s side but my own.  I just want to get the hell out of here and be about my own business.”

“Perhaps that of itself constitutes a threat.”

“How so?” he asked.

“Who knows what your unusual background may fit you for as an independent agent-in light of what’s going on? You may disturb the balance of the Powers.  You may possess or have access to information which the principals do not wish to see bruited about the streets.  You may be like the gipsy moth.  Nobody could see what its effect on the environment would be when it escaped from the lab.  You may-“

“Enough!” He raised a hand to silence me.  “I don’t care about any of those things.  If they let me go and leave me alone, I’ll stay out of their way.”

“I’m not the one you have to convince,” I told him.

He stared at me for a moment, then turned, describing a full circle.

Darkness was all that I could see beyond the light of the roadway, but he called out in a large voice to anything, I suppose, “Do you hear me? I don’t want to be involved in all this.  I just want to go away.  Live and let live, you know? Is that okay with you?”

I reached forward, caught hold of his wrist, and jerked him toward me.  I did this because I had seen a small, ghostly replica of the Sign of the Logrus begin to take form in the air above his head.  An instant later it fell, flashing like a lightning stroke, to the accompaniment of a sound like the cracking of a whip, passing through the space he had been occupying; opening a gap in the trail as it vanished.

“I guess it’s not that easy to resign,” he said: He glanced overhead.  “It could be readying another of those right now.  It could strike again anytime, when I least expect it.”

“Just like real life,” I agreed.  “But I think you may take it as a warning shot and let it go at that.  They have a hard time reaching here.  More important, since I was led to believe that this is my quest, do you know offhand whether you’re supposed to be helping me or hindering me?”

“Now that you mention it,” he said, “I remember suddenly being where I was with a chance to race you and feeling that we’d fight or something afterward.”

“What’re your feelings on that now?”

“We’ve never gotten along all that well.  But I don’t like the idea of being used like this either.”

“You willing to call a truce till I can see my way through this game and out of here?”

“What’s in it for me?” he asked.

“I will find a way out of this damned place, Jurt.  Come along and give me a hand-or at least don’t get in the way-and I’ll take you with me when I go.”

He laughed.

“I’m not sure there is a way out of here,” he said, “unless the Powers release us.”

“Then you’ve nothing to lose,” I told him, “and you’ll probably even get to see me die trying.”

“Do you really know both kinds of magic-Pattern and Logrus?” he asked.

“Yeah.  But I’m a lot better at Logrus.”

“Can you use either against its source?”

“That’s a very intriguing metaphysical point, and I don’t know the answer,” I said, “and I’m not sure I’ll find out.  It’s dangerous to invoke the Powers here.  So all I’m left with is a few hung spells.  I don’t think it’s magic that’ll get us out of here.”

“What, then?”

“I’m not certain.  I am sure that I won’t see the full picture till I get to the end of this trail, though.”

“Well, hell-I don’t know.  This doesn’t seem the healthiest place for me to spend my time.  On the other hand, what if it’s the only place something like me can have an existence? What if you find me a door and I step through it and melt?”

“If the Pattern-ghosts can manifest in Shadow, I’d guess you can, too.  Those of Dworkin and Oberon came to me on the outside before I came to this place.”

“That’s encouraging.  Would you try it if it were you?”

“You bet your life,” I said.

He snorted.

“I get the point.  I’ll go a ways with you and see what happens.  I’m not promising to help, but I won’t sabotage you.”

I held out my hand, and he shook his head.

“Let’s not get carried away,” he told me.  “If my word’s no good without a handshake, it’s no good with one, is it?”

“I guess not.”

“And I’ve never had a great desire to shake hands with you.”

“Sorry I asked,” I said.  “Would you mind telling me why, though? I’ve always wondered.”

He shrugged.

“Why does there always have to be a reason?” he said.

“The alternative is irrationality,” I replied.

“Or privacy,” he responded, turning away.

I commenced walking the trail once more.  Shortly Jurt fell into step beside me.  We walked for a long while in silence.  One day I may learn when to keep my mouth shut or to quit when I’m ahead.  Same thing.

The trail ran straight for a time but seemed to vanish not too far ahead.  When we neared the point of vanishment, I saw why: The trail curved behind a low prominence.  We followed this turning and met with another, shortly thereafter.  Soon we had entered upon a regular; series of switchbacks, realizing quickly that they were mitigating a fairly steep descent.  As we proceeded down this turning way, I suddenly became aware of a bright squiggle, hanging in the middle distance.  Jurt raised his hand, pointing at it, and began, “What...?” just as it became apparent that it was the continuation of our trail, rising.  At this, an instant reorientation occurred, and I realized that we were descending into what seemed a massive pit.  And the air seemed to have grown somewhat cooler.

We continued our descent, and after a time something cold and moist touched the back of my right hand.  I looked down in time to see a snowflake melting in the twilight glow which surrounded us.  Moments later several more breezed by.  A little after that we became aware of a larger brightness, far below.

I don’t know what it is either, Frakir pulsed into my mind.

Thanks, I thought strongly back at her, having decided against advising Jurt of her presence.

Down.  Down and around.  Back.  Back and forth.  The temperature continued to decline.  Snowflakes flitted.  Arrays of rocks in the wall we now descended took on a bit of glitter.

Oddly, I didn’t realize what it was until the first time I slipped.

“Ice!” Jurt announced suddenly, half toppling and catching himself up against the stone.

A distant sighing sound occurred, and it grew and grew, nearing us.  It was not until it arrived, with a great buffeting gust, that we knew it to be a wind.  And cold.  It fled past like the breath of an ice age, and I raised my cloak against it.  It followed us, softer thereafter, yet persistent, as we continued our descent.

By the time we reached the bottom it was damn cold, and the steps were either fully frosted over or carved of ice.  The wind blew a steady, mournful note, and flakes of snow or pellets of ice came and went.

“Miserable climate!” Jurt growled, teeth chattering.

“I didn’t think ghosts were susceptible to the mundane,” I said.

“Ghost, hell’” he observed.  “I feel the same as I always did.  You’d think whatever sent me fully dressed to cross your trail might at least have provided for this eventuality.

“And this place isn’t that mundane,” he added.  “They want us somewhere, you’d think they might have provided a shortcut.  As it is, we’ll be damaged merchandise by the time we get there.”

“I don’t really believe that either the Pattern or the Logrus has that much power in this place,” I told him.  “I’d just as soon they stayed out of our way entirely.”

Our trail led outward across a gleaming plain-so flat and so gleaming that I feared it to consist entirely of ice.  Nor was I incorrect.

“Looks slippery,” Jurt said.  “I’m going to shapeshift my feet, make them broader.”

“It’ll destroy your boots and leave you with cold feet,” I said.  “Why not just shift some of your weight downward, lower your center of gravity?”

“Always got an answer,” he began sullenly.  Then, “But this time you’re right,” he finished.

We stood there for several minutes as he grew shorter, more squat.

“Aren’t you going to shift yourself ?” he asked.

“I’ll take my chances holding my center.  I can move faster this way,” I said.

“You can fall on your ass that way, too.”

“We’ll see.”

We started out.  We held our balance.  The winds were stronger away from the wall we had descended.  The surface of our icy trail, however, was not so slick as it had appeared on distant inspection.  There were small ripples and ridges to it, adequate to provide some traction.  The air burned its way into my lungs; flakes were beaten into swirling snow devil towers which fled like eccentric tops across out way.  It was a bluish glow which emanated from the trail, tinting those flakes which came within its ambit.  We hiked for perhaps a quarter mile before a new series of ghostly images began.  The first appeared to be myself, sprawled across a heap of armor back at the chapel; the second was Deirdre beneath a lamppost, looking at her watch.

“What?” Jurt asked, as they came and went in a matter of instants.

“I didn’t know the first time I saw them, and I still don’t know,” I answered, “though I thought you might be one of them when we first began our race.  They come and go-at random, it would seem-with no special reason that I can figure.”

The next was what appeared to be a dining room, a bowl of flowers on the table.  There were no people in the room.  There and gone-

No.  Not entirely.  It went away, but the flowers remained, there on the surface of the ice.  I halted, then walked out toward them.

Merle, I don’t know about leaving the trail....

Oh, shit, I responded, moving toward a slab of ice which reminded me of the Stonehenge-like area back where I’d come aboard, incongruous flashes of color near its base.

There were a number of them-roses of many sorts.  I stooped and picked one up.  Its color was almost silver....

“What are you doing here, dear boy?” I heard a familiar voice say.

I straightened immediately, to see that the tall dark figure which had emerged from behind the block of ice was not addressing me.  He was nodding to Jurt, smiling.

“A fool’s errand, I’m sure,” Jurt replied.

“And this must be the fool,” the other responded, “plucking that damnable flower.  Silver rose of Amber - Lord Corwin’s, I believe.  Hello, Merlin.  Looking for your father?”

I removed one of the spare clasp pins I keep pinned to the inside of my cloak.  I used it to fasten the rose at my left breast.  The speaker was Lord Borel, a duke of the royal House of Swayvill and reputedly one of my mother’s lovers of long ago.  He was also deemed to be one of the deadliest swordsmen in the Courts.  Killing my father or Benedict or Eric had been an obsession with him for years.  Unfortunately it had been Corwin whom he’d met, at a time when Dad was in a hurry-and they’d never crossed blades.  Dad had suckered him instead and killed him in what I supposed was technically a somewhat less than fair fight.  Which is okay.  I’d never much liked the guy.

“You’re dead, Borel.  You know that?” I told him.  “You’re just a ghost of the man you were the day you took the Logrus.  Out in the real world there is no Lord Borel anymore.  You want to know why? Because Corwin killed you the day of the Patternfall War.”

“You lie, you little shit!” he told me.

“Uh, no,” Jurt offered.  “You’re dead all right.  Run through, I heard.  Didn’t know it was Corwin did it, though.”

“It was,” I said.

He looked away, and I saw his jaw muscles bunching and relaxing, bunching and relaxing.

“And this place is some sort of afterlife?” he asked a little later, still not looking back at us.

“I suppose you could call it that,” I said.

“Can we die yet again here?”

“I think so,” I told him.

“What is that?”

His gaze had suddenly dropped, and I followed it.  Something lay upon the ice nearby, and I took a step toward it.

“An arm “ I replied.  “It appears to be a human arm.”

“What’s it doing there?” Jurt asked, walking over and kicking it.

It moved in a fashion which showed us that it was not simply lying there but rather was extended up out of the ice.  In fact, it twitched and continued to flex spasmodically for several seconds after Jurt kicked it.  Then I noted another, some distance away, and what appeared to be a leg.

Farther on, a shoulder, arm attached, a hand...

“Some cannibal’s deep freeze,” I suggested.

Jurt chuckled.

Then you’re dead, too,” Borel stated.

“Nope,” I replied.  “I’m the real thing.  Just passing through, on my way to a far, far better place.”

“What of Jurt?”

“Jurt’s an interesting problem, both physically and theologically,” I explained.  “He’s enjoying a peculiar kind of bilocation.”

“I’d hardly say I’m enjoying it,” Jurt observed.  “But considering the alternative, I suppose I’m glad I’m here.”

“That’s the sort of positive thinking that’s worked so many wonders for the Courts over the years,” I said.

Jurt chuckled again.

I heard that metallic sighing sound one does not easily forget.  I knew that I could not possibly draw my blade, turn, and parry in time if Borel wished to run me through from the rear.  On the other hand, he took great pride in observing every punctilio when it came to killing people.  He always played fair because he was so damned good that he never lost anyway.  Might as well go for the reputation, too.  I immediately raised both hands, to irritate him by acting as if he had just threatened me from the rear.

Stay invisible, Frakir.  When I turn and snap my wrist, let go.  Stick to him when you hit, find your way to the throat.  You know what to do when you get there.

Right, boss, she replied.

“Draw your blade and turn, Merle.”

“Doesn’t sound too sporting to me, Borel,” I replied.

“You dare to accuse me of anything less than propriety?” he said.

“Hard to tell when I can’t see what you’re up to,” I answered.

“Then draw your weapon and turn around.”

“I’m turning,” I said.  “But I’m not touching the thing.”

I turned quickly, snapping my left wrist, feeling Frakir depart.  As I did, my feet went out from under me.  I’d moved too fast on a very smooth patch of ice.  Catching myself, I felt a shadow drift into place before me.  When I looked up, I beheld the point of Borel’s blade, about six inches from my right eye.

“Rise slowly,” he said, and I did.  “Draw your weapon now,” he ordered.

“And if I refuse?” I inquired, trying to buy time.

“You will prove yourself unworthy to be considered.a gentleman, and I will act accordingly.”

“By attacking me anyway?” I asked.

“The rules permit this,” he said.

“Shove your rules,” I replied, crossing my right foot behind my left and springing backward as I drew my blade and let it fall into a guard position.

He was on me in an instant.  I continued my retreat, backing past the big slab of ice from behind which he had appeared.  I had no desire to stand and trade techniques with him, especially now that I could see the speed of those attacks.  Parrying them took a lot less effort while I was backing off:

My blade did not feel quite right, however, and as I scanned it quickly I saw why.  It was not my weapon.

In the glittering light from the trail, bounced off the ice, I saw the swirling inlay along part of the blade: There was only one weapon like this that I knew of, and I had only just seen it recently, in what might have been my father’s hand.  It was Grayswandir that moved before me.  I felt myself smile at the irony.  This was the weapon which had slain the real Lord Borel.

“You smile at your own cowardice?” he asked.  “Stand and fight, bastard!”

As if in answer to his suggestion, I felt my rearward movement arrested.  I was not run through when I ventured a quick downward glance, however, for I realized from his expression that something similar had happened to my attacker.

Our ankles had been seized by several of those hands which extended up through the ice, holding us firmly in place.  And this made it Borel’s turn to smile, for though he could not lunge, I could no longer retreat.  Which meant-

His blade flashed forward, and I parried in quarte, attacked in sixte.

He parried and feinted.  Then quarte again, and the next attack.  Riposte.

Parry sixte- No, that was a feint.  Catch him in four.  Feint.  Feint again.

Hit-

Something white and hard passed over his shoulder and struck my forehead.  I fell back, though the grasping hands kept me from collapsing completely.  Good thing I sagged, actually, or his thrust might have punctured my liver.  My reflexes or some touch of the magic I’ve heard may dwell in Grayswandir threw my arm forward as my knees buckled.  I felt the blade strike something, though I was not even looking in that direction, and I heard Borel grunt surprisedly, then utter an oath.  I heard Jurt mouthing an oath of his own about then, too.  He was out of my line of sight.

Then came a bright flash, even as I flexed my legs, stabilizing, parried a head cut, and began rising.  I saw then that I had succeeded in cutting Borel’s forearm, and fire spurted fountainlike from the wound.  His body began to glow, his lower outline to blur.

“It was by no skill you bested me!” he cried.

I shrugged.

“It isn’t the Winter Olympics either,” I told him.

He changed his grip on his blade, drew back his arm, and hurled the weapon at me-right before he dissolved into a tower of sparks and was drawn upward and vanished above.

I parried the blade, and it passed me to the left, buried itself partway in the ice and stood vibrating there, like something in a Scandinavian’s version of Arthurian legend.  Jurt rushed toward me, kicked at the hands which held my ankles until they released me, and squinted at my brow.

I felt something fall upon me.

Sorry, boss.  I hit around his knee, By the time I reached his throat he was already on fire, Frakir said.

All’s well that ends well, I replied.  You weren’t singed, were you?

Didn’t even feel the heat.

“Sorry I hit you with that piece of ice,” Jurt said.  “I was aiming at Borel.”

I moved away from the plain of hands, heading toward the trail.

“Indirectly it helped,” I said, but I didn’t feel like thanking him.

How could I know where he’d really been, aiming? I glanced back once, and several of the hands Jurt had kicked were giving us the finger.

Why had I been wearing Grayswandir? Would another weapon have affected a Logrus-ghost as strongly? Had it really been my father, then, who had brought me here? And had he felt I might need the extra edge his weapon could provide? I wanted to think so, to believe that he had been more than a Pattern-ghost.  And if he was, I wondered at his part in the entire affair.  What might he know about all this? And which side might he be on?

The winds died down as we moved along the trail, and the only arms we saw extended above the ice bore torches which brightened our way for a great distance-to the foot of the far escarpment, actually.  Nothing untoward occurred as we crossed that frozen place.

“From what you’ve told me and what I’ve seen,” Jurt said, “I get the impression it’s the Pattern that’s sponsoring this trip and the Logrus that’s trying to punch your ticket.”

Just then the ice cracked in a number of places.  Fracture lines rushed toward us from several directions, both sides.  They slowed, however, as they neared our trail, causing me to notice for the first time that it had risen above the general level of the plain.  We now occupied something of a causeway, and the ice shattered itself harmlessly along its sides.

“Like that,” Jurt observed with a gesture.  “How’d you get into this mess anyway?”

“It all started on April thirtieth,” I began.