The day of the rifle. There had been two shots as I’d hurried down the street. They’d both missed me before I’d realized what was going on, chipping brickbats from the side of the building to my left. There was no third shot, but there was a thud and a splintering sound from the building across the street. A third-floor window stood wide open.
I hurried over. It was an old apartment house and the front door was locked, but I didn’t slow down for niceties. I located the stair and mounted it. When I came to what I thought was the proper room, I decided to try the door the old-fashioned way and it worked. It was unlocked.
I stood to the side and pushed it open and saw that the place was unfurnished and empty. Unoccupied, too, it seemed. Could I have been wrong? But then I saw that the window facing the street stood wide and I saw what lay upon the floor. I entered and closed the door behind me.
A broken rifle lay in the corner. From markings on the stock I guessed that it had been swung with great force against a nearby radiator before it had been cast aside. Then I saw something else on the floor, something wet and red. Not much. Just a few drops.
I searched the place quickly. It was small. The one window in its single bedroom also stood open and I went to it. There was a fire escape beyond it, and I decided that it might be a good way for me to make my exit, too.
There were a few more drops of blood on the black metal, but that was it. No one was in sight below, or in either direction.
Power.
To kill. To preserve. Luke, Jasra, Gail. Who was responsible for what?
The more I thought of it, the more it seemed possible that there might have been a telephone call on the morning of the open gas jets, too. Could that be what had roused me to an awareness of danger? Each time I thought of these matters there seemed to be a slight shifting of emphasis. Things stood in a different light. According to Luke and the pseudo Vinta, I was not in great danger in the later episodes, but it seemed that any of those things could have taken me out. Who was I to blame? The perpetrator? Or the savior who barely saved? And who was which? I remembered how my father’s story had been complicated by that damned auto accident which played like Last Year at Marienbad — though his had seemed simple compared to everything that was coming down on me. At least he knew what he had to do most of the time. Could I be the inheritor of a family curse involving complicated plotting?
Power.
I remembered Uncle Suhuy’s final lesson. He had spent some time following my completion of the Logrus in teaching me things I could not have learned before then. There came a time when I thought I was finished. I had been confirmed in the Art and dismissed. It seemed I had covered all the basics and anything more would be mere elaboration. I began making preparations for my journey to the shadow Earth. Then one morning Suhuy sent for me. I assumed that he just wanted to say good-bye and give me a few friendly words of advice.
His hair is white, he is somewhat stooped and there are days when he carries a staff. This was one of them. He had on his yellow caftan, which I had always thought of as a working garment rather than a social one.
“Are you ready for a short trip?” he asked me.
“Actually, it’s going to be a long one,” I said. “But I’m almost ready.”
“No,” he said. “That was not the journey I meant.”
“Oh. You mean you want to go somewhere right now?”
“Come,” he said.
So I followed him, and the shadows parted before us. We moved through increasing bleakness, passing at last into places that bore no sign of life whatsoever. Dark, sterile rock lay all about us, stark in the brassy light of a dim and ancient sun. This final place was chill and dry, and when we halted and I looked about, I shivered.
I waited, to see what he had in mind. But it was a long while before he spoke. He seemed oblivious of my presence for a time, simply staring out across the bleak landscape.
Finally, “I have taught you the ways of Shadow,” he said slowly, “and the composition of spells and their working.”
I said nothing. His statement did not seem to require a reply.
“So you know something of the ways of power,” he continued. “You draw it from the Sign of Chaos, the Logrus, and you invest it in various ways.”
He glanced at me at last, and I nodded.
“I understand that those who bear the Pattern, the Sign of Order, may do similar things in ways that may or may not be similar,” he went on. “I do not know for certain, for I am not an initiate of the Pattern. I doubt the spirit could stand the strain of knowing the ways of both. But you should understand that there is another way of power, antithetical to our own.
“I understand,” I said, for he seemed to be expecting an answer.
“But you have a resource available to you,” he said, “which those of Amber do not. Watch!”
His final word did not mean that I should simply observe as he leaned his staff against the side of a boulder and raised his hands before him. It meant that I should have the Logrus before me so I could see what he was doing at that level. So I summoned my vision and watched him through it.
Now the vision that hung before him seemed a continuation of my own, stretched and twisting. I saw and felt it as he joined his hands with it and extended a pair of its jagged limbs outward across the distance to touch upon a boulder that lay downhill of us.
“Enter the Logrus now yourself,” he said, “remaining passive. Stay with me through what I am about to do. Do not, at any time, attempt to interfere.”
“I understand,” I said.
I moved my hands into my vision, shifting them about, feeling after congruity, until they became a part of it.
“Good,” he said, when I had settled them into place. “Now all you need do is observe, on all levels.”
Something pulsed along the limbs he controlled, passing down to the boulder. I was not prepared for what came after.
The image of the Logrus turned black before me, becoming a seething blot of inky turmoil. An awful feeling of disruptive power surged through me, an enormous destructive force that threatened to overwhelm me, to carry me into the blissful nothingness of ultimate disorder. A part of me seemed to desire this, while another part was screaming wordlessly for it to cease. But Suhuy maintained control of the phenomenon, and I could see how he was doing it, just as I had seen how he had brought it into being in the first place.
The boulder became one with the turmoil, joined it and was gone. There was no explosion, no implosion, only the sensation of great cold winds and cacophonous sounds. Then my uncle moved his hands slowly apart, and the lines of seething blackness followed them, flowing out in both directions from that area of chaos which had been the boulder, producing a long dark trench wherein I beheld the paradox of both nothingness and activity.
Then he stood still, arresting it at that point. Moments later, he spoke. “I could simply release it,” he stated, “letting it run wild. Or I could give it a direction and then release it.”
As he did not continue, I asked, “What would happen then? Would it simply continue until it had devastated the entire shadow?”
“No,” he replied. “There are limiting factors. The resistance of Order to Chaos would build as it extended itself. There would come a point of containment.”
“And if you remained as you are, and kept summoning more?”
“One would do a great deal of damage.”
“And if we combined our efforts?”
“More extensive damage. But that is not the lesson I had in mind. I will remain passive now while you control it.”