“He is not dead,” I stated.
“How can you say that?”
I bit down on the desire to tell her I’d spoken with him, held it back.
“Only the guilty protest so strongly,” I said. “He’s alive. Where is he?”
She raised her hands, palms inward, and crossed them upon her breast, elbows low. The fear was gone, the anger was gone. When she spoke again, something like mockery seemed her main humor: “Then seek him, Merlin. By all means, seek him.”
“Where?” I demanded.
“Look for him in the Pit of Chaos.”
A flame appeared near her left foot and began orbiting her body in a counterclockwise direction, spiraling upward, leaving a line of fire to blaze redly behind it. By the time it reached the crown of her head she was entirely concealed. It went out with a faint whooshing sound then, taking her along with it.
I moved forward and knelt, feeling the area on which she’d stood. It was a little warm, that’s all. Nice spell. Nobody’d ever taught me that one. Thinking back on it then, I realized that Mom had always had a flair when it came to entrances and exits.
“Ghost?”
He danced away from my wrist to hover in the air before me.
“Yes?”
“Are you still barred from transporting yourself through Shadow?”
“No,” he replied. “That was lifted when the Sign of the Logrus departed. I can travel — in or out of Shadow. I can provide transportation for you. Would you like me to?”
“Yes. Take me into the gallery upstairs.”
“Gallery? I plunged directly from the place of the Logrus into the dark sea, Dad. I’m not quite sure as to the lay of the land here.”
“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll manage it myself.”
I activated the spikard. Energies spiraled from six of its tines, encaging Ghost and myself, swirling us upward to the place of my desire in the Maze of Art. I tried for a flash of fire as we went, but had no way of knowing whether I’d achieved it. Makes you wonder how the really good ones get their practice.
Chapter 7
I delivered us into that eerie hall that had always been old Sawall’s chief delight in the maze. It was a sculpture garden, with no outside light sources and small base lighting only about the huge pieces, making it several times darker than my favorite lounge. The floor was uneven — concave, convex, stepped, ridged — with concavity being the dominant curve. It was difficult to guess at its dimensions, for it seemed of different size and contour depending upon where one stood. Gramble, Lord Sawall, had caused it to be constructed without any plane surfaces — and I believe the job involved some unique shadowmastery.
I stood beside what appeared to be a complicated rigging in the absence of its ship — that, or an elaborate musical instrument fit to be strummed by Titans — and the light turned the lines to silver, running like life from darkness to darkness within some half seen frame. Other pieces jutted from walls and hung like stalactites. As I strolled, what had seemed walls became floor to me. The pieces that had seemed floored now jutted or depended.
The room changed shape as I went, and a breeze blew through it, causing sighs, hums, buzzes, chimes. Gramble, my stepfather, had taken a certain delight in this hall, whereas for me it had long represented an exercise in intrepidity to venture beyond its threshold. As I grew older, however, I, too, came to enjoy it, partly for the occasional frisson it provided my adolescence. Now, though — Now I just wanted to wander it a few moments, for old times’ sake, as I sorted through my thoughts. There were so damned many of them. Things that had tantalized me for much of my adult life seemed near to explanation now. I was not happy with all of the possibilities that tumbled through my mind. Still, no matter which ones came out on top, it would beat ignorance.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“What is this place, anyway?” Ghost asked.
“It’s a part of the big art collection here at the Ways of Sawall,” I explained. “People come from all over the Courts and nearby Shadow to see it. It was a passion with my stepfather. I spent a lot of time wandering these halls when I was a kid. There are many hidden ways in this place.”
“And this particular room? There’s something wrong with it.”
“Yes and no,” I said. “I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘wrong’.”
“My perceptions are strangely affected just now.”
“That is because the space itself is folded in here, like some odd origami figure. The hall is much larger than it seems. You can wander through many times and witness a different array of displays on each occasion. There may even be some internal movement involved. I was never sure. Only Sawall knew for certain.”
“I was right. Something’s wrong with it.”
“I rather like it this way.”
I seated myself on a silver stump beside a sprawled silver tree.
“I want to see how it folds,” he said at last.
“Go ahead.”
As he drifted off, I thought of my recent interview with my mother. I was reminded of everything Mandor had said or implied, of the conflict between the Pattern and the Logrus, of my father as the champion of the Pattern and intended king in Amber. Had she known this, known it as fact rather than speculation? I imagined she could have, for she seemed to enjoy a special relationship with the Logrus, and it would surely have been aware of its adversary’s more prominent decisions. She’d admitted that she did not love the man. It seemed as if she had sought him for whatever genetic material had so impressed the Pattern. Had she really been trying to breed a champion for the Logrus?
I chuckled as I considered the result. She had seen me trained well in arms, but I was nowhere near Dad’s league. I’d preferred sorcery, but sorcerers were a dime a dozen in the Courts. Finally, she’d shipped me off to college on that Shadow Earth the Amberites favor. But a degree in Computer Science from Berkeley didn’t much qualify me to uphold the banner of Chaos against the forces of Order either. I must have been a disappointment to her.
I thought back to my childhood, to some of the strange adventures for which this place had served as a point of departure. Gryll and I would come here, Glait slithering at our feet, coiled about a limb or riding somewhere amid my garments. I would give that odd ululant cry I had learned in a dream, and sometimes Kergma would join us, come skittering down the folds of darkness, out some frayed area of twisted space. I was never sure exactly what Kergma was, or even of what gender, for Kergma was a shapeshifter and flew, crawled, hopped, or ran in a succession of interesting forms.
On an impulse, I voiced that ancient call. Nothing, of course, happened, and I saw it moments later for what it was: a cry after a vanished childhood, when I had at least felt wanted. Now, now I was nothing — neither Amberite nor Chaosite, and certainly a disappointment to my relatives on both sides. I was a failed experiment. I’d never been wanted for myself, but as something that might come to pass. Suddenly my eyes were moist, and I held back a sob. And I’ll never know what sort of mood I might have worked myself into because I was distracted then.
There came a flare of red light from a point high on the wall to my left. It was in the form of a small circle about the feet of a human figure.
“Merlin!” called a voice from that direction, and the flames leapt higher. By their light, I saw that familiar face, reminding me a bit of my own, and I was pleased with the meaning it had just given to my life, even if that meaning was death.
I raised my left hand above my head and willed a flash of blue light from the spikard.
“Over here, Jurt!” I called, rising to my feet. I began forming the ball of light that was to be his distraction while I readied the strike that would electrocute him. On reflection, it had seemed the surest way of taking him out. I’d lost count of the number of attempts he’d made on my life, and I’d resolved to take the initiative the next time he came calling. Frying his nervous system seemed the surest way to ice him, despite what the Fountain had done for him. “Over here, Jurt!”