Even before I looked up I was sure they'd all be green.
Nor was I incorrect. About that or anything else. The setup was similar to that of my father, with a groined vault containing a light source superior to the candles. Only there was no painting above this altar. This one featured a stained-glass window, lots of green in it, and a little red.
Its principal was Brand.
I rose and crossed to it. Lying upon it, drawn a few inches from its sheath, was Werewindle.
I reached out and took hold of it, my first impulse being to bear it away with me for eventual restoration to Luke. Then I hesitated. It wasn't something I could wear to a funeral. If I took it now I'd have to hide it somewhere, and it was already well-hidden right here. I'' let my hand rest upon it, though, as I thought. It con– tained a similar feeling of power to that which Grays– wandir bore, only somehow brighter, less tragedy, touched and brooding. Ironic. It seemed an ideal blade for a hero.
I looked about. There was a book on a reading stand off to my left, a pentagram upon the floor behind me, worked in different shades of green, a smell-as of a. recent wood fire-hung in the air. Idly, I wondered what I might find if I were to knock a hole in the wall. Wa:s this chapel located upon a mountaintop? Beneath a lake? Underground? Was it drifting somewhere in the heavens?
What did it represent? It looked to be religious in nature. And Benedict, Corwin, and Brand were the three I knew about. Were they admired, respected-venerated-by certain of my countrymen and relatives? Or were these hidden chapels somehow more sinister?
I removed my hand from Werewindle, stepped to the vicinity of the pentagram.
My Logrus vision revealed nothing untoward, but an intense scan with the spikard detected the residue of a long-removed magical operation. The traces were too faint to tell me anything of its nature, however. While it seemed possible I might probe further after this and come up with a clearer picture, I also realized I hadn't the time such an operation would require.
Reluctantly, I retreated to the vicinity of the way. Could these places have been used to try to influence the individuals involved?
I shook my head. This was something I would have to save for another day. I located the way and gave myself to it.
I stumbled on my return, also.
Catching hold of the frame with one hand, I seized a garment with another, kept myself upright, straightened, and stepped out. Then I shifted the clothing back into place and shut the doors.
I stripped quickly, altering my form as I was about it, and I donned my mourning garb once again. I felt some activity in the vicinity of the spikard, and for the first time I caught it drawing upon one of the many sources it commanded to alter its shape, accommodating the changing size of my finger. It had obviously done this several times before, though this was the first time I had noted the process. This was interesting, in that it showed the device capable of acting independent of my will.
I didn't really know what the thing was, what its origin might have been. I kept it because it represented a considerable source of power, an acceptable substitute for the use of the Logrus, which I now feared. But as I watched it change shape to remain snug upon my changing finger, I wondered. What if it were somehow boobytrapped to turn upon me at exactly the wrong moment?
I turned it a couple of times upon my finger. I moved into it with my mind, knowing this to be an exercise in futility. It would take ages for me to run down each line to its source, to check out hidden spells along the way. It was like taking a trip through a Swiss watch-custommade. I was impressed both with the beauty of its design, and with the enormous amount of work that had gone into its creation. It could easily possess hidden imperatives that would only respond to special sets of circumstances. Yet
It had done nothing untoward, yet. And the alternative was the Logrus. It struck me as a genuine instance of the preferability of the devil one didn't know.
Growling, I adjusted my apparel, focused my attention on the Temple of the Serpent, and bade the spikard de-liver me near its entrance. It performed as smoothly and gently as if I had never doubted it, as if I had not dis-covered in it yet another cause for paranoia.
k And for a time, I simply stood outside the doors of frozen flame, there at the great Cathedral of the Serpent at the outer edge of the Plaza at the End of the World, situated exactly at the Rim, opened to the Pit itself– where, on a good day, one can view the creation of the universe, or its ending-and I watched the stars swarm through space that folded and unfolded like the petals of flowers; and as if my life were about to change, my thoughts returned to California and school, of sailing the Sunburst with Luke and Gail and Julia, of sitting with my father near the end of the war, of riding with Vinta Bayle through the wine country to the east of Amber, of a long, brisk afternoon spent showing Coral about the town, of the strange encounters of that day; and I turned. and raised my scaly hand, stared past it at the spire of Thelbane, and “they cease not fighting, east and west, on the marches of my breast,” I thought. How long, how long..? -irony, as usual, a three-to-one favorite whenever sentimentality makes its move.
Turning again, I went in to see the last of the King, of Chaos.
IX
Down, down into the pile, into the great slag heap, window onto the ends of time and space, where nothing is to be seen at the end, I went, between walls forever afire, never burnt down, walking in one of my bodies toward the sound of a voice reading from the Book of the Serpent Hung upon the Tree of Matter, and at length came into the grotto that backed upon blackness, widening semicircles of red-clad mourners facing the reader and the grand catafalque beside which he stood, Swayvill clearly in view within it, half-covered with red flowers dropped by mourners, red tapers flickering against the Pit, but a few paces behind them; across the rear of the chamber then, listening to Bances of Amblerash, High Priest of the Serpent, his words sounding as if spoken beside me, for the acoustics of Chaos are good; finding a seat in an otherwise empty arc, where anyone looking back would be certain to notice me; seeking familiar faces, finding Dara, Tubble, and Mandor seated in frontal positions that indicated they were to assist Bances in sliding the casket past the edge into forever when the time came; and in my divided heart I recalled the last funeral I had attended before this: Caine's, back in Amber, beside the sea, and I thought again of Bloom and the way the mind wanders on these occasions.
I sought about me. Jurt was nowhere in sight. Gilva of Hendrake was only a couple of rows below me. I shifted my gaze to the deep blackness beyond the Rim. It was almost as if I were looking down, rather than ; out-if such terms had any real meaning in that place: Occasionally, I would perceive darting points of light or rolling masses. It served me as a kind of Rorschach for a time, and I half-dozed before the prospect of dark but terflies, clouds, pairs of faces
I sat upright with a small start, wondering what had broken my reverie.
The silence, it was. Bances had stopped reading.
I was about to lean forward and whisper something to Gilva when Bances began the Consignment. I was startled to discover that I recalled all of the appropriate responses.
As the chanting swelled and focused, I saw Mandor get to his feet, and Dara, and Tubble. They moved forward, joining Bances about the casket-Dara and Mandor at its foot, Tubble and Bances at its head. Service assistants rose from their section and began snuffing can
dles, until only the large one, at the Rim, behind Bances, still flickered. At this point we all stood.
The ever-eerie light of flame mosaics, worked into the y walls at either hand, granted additional illumination to the extent that I could detect the movement below when the chanting ceased.