"You really mean that, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Yourself included?" I smiled.
"Of course it does not apply to me. I am the soul of honor, kindness, mercy, and goodness. Trust me in all things."
"I will," she said, and I laughed.
"I will," she insisted. "You would not hurt us. I know that."
"Tell me about Gerard and Julian," I said, feeling uncomfortable, as always, in the presence of unsolicited trust. "What was the reason for their visit?"
She was silent for a moment, still studying me, then, "I have been telling you quite a few things," she said, "haven't I? You are right. One can never be too careful. I believe that it is your turn to talk again."
"Good. You are learning how to deal with us. What do you want to know?"
"Where is the village, really? And Amber? They are somehow alike, aren't they? What did you mean when you said that Amber lies in all directions, or any? What are shadows?"
I got to my feet and looked down at her. I held out my hand. She looked very young and more than a little frightened then, but she took it. "Where... ?" she asked, rising.
"This way," I said, and I took her to stand at the place where I had slept and regarded the falls and the water wheel.
She began to say something, but I stopped her. "Look. Just look," I said.
So we stood there looking at the rushing, the splashing, the turning while I ordered my mind.
Then, "Come," I said, turning her by the elbow and walking her toward the wood.
As we moved among the trees, a cloud obscured the sun and the shadows deepened. The voices of the birds grew more shrill and a dampness came up out of the ground. As we passed from tree to tree, their leaves became longer and broader. When the sun appeared again, its light came more yellow, and beyond a turning of the way we encountered hanging vines. The bird cries grew hoarser, more numerous. Our trail took an upward turn, and I led her past an outcropping of flint and onto higher ground. A distant, barely perceptible rumble seemed to come from behind us. The sky was a different blue as we moved through an open place, and we frightened a large, brown lizard that had been sunning itself on arock. As we took a turn about another mass of stone, she said, "I did not know this was here. I have never been this way before." But I did not answer her, for I was busy shifting the stuff of Shadow.
Then we faced the wood once more, but now the way led uphill through it. Now the trees were tropical giants, interspersed with ferns, and new noises-barks, hisses, and buzzes-were to be heard. Moving up this trail, the rumble grew louder about us, the very ground beginning to vibrate with it. Dara held tightly to my arm, saying nothing now, but searching everything with her eyes. There were big, flat, pale flowers and puddles where the moisture dripped from overhead. The temperature had risen considerably and we were perspiring quite a bit. Now the rumble grew to a mighty roar, and when at length we emerged from the wood again, it was a sound like steady thunder that fell against us. I guided her to the edge of the precipice and gestured outward and down.
It plunged for over a thousand feet: a mighty cataract that smote the gray river like an anvil. The currents were rapid and strong, bearing bubbles and flecks of foam a great distance before they finally dissolved. Across from us, perhaps half a mile distant, partly screened by rainbow and mist, like an island slapped by a Titan, a gigantic wheel slowly rotated, ponderous and gleaming. High overhead, enormous birds rode like drifting crucifixes the currents of the air.
We stood there for a fairly long while. Conversation was impossible, which was just as well. After a time, when she turned from it to look at me, narrow-eyed, speculative, I nodded and gestured with my eyes toward the wood. Turning then, we made our way back in the direction from which we had come.
Our return was the same process in reverse, and I managed it with greater ease. When conversation became possible once more, Dara still kept her silence, apparently realizing by then that I was a part of the process of change going on around us.
It was not until we stood beside our own stream once more, watching the small mill wheel in its turning, that she spoke.
"Was that place like the village?"
"Yes. A shadow."
"And like Amber?"
"No. Amber casts Shadow. It can be sliced to any shape, if you know how. That place was a shadow, your village was a shadow-and this place is a shadow. Any place that you can imagine exists somewhere in Shadow."
"... And you and Grandpa and the others can go about in these shadows, picking and choosing what you desire?"
"Yes."
"That is what I did, then, coming back from the village?"
"Yes."
Her face became a study in realization. Her almost black eyebrows dropped half an inch and her nostrils flared with a quick inhalation.
"I can do it, too..." she said. "Go anywhere, do anything I want!"
"The ability lies within you," I said.
She kissed me then, a sudden, impulsive thing, then rotated away, her hair bobbing on her slim neck as she tried to look at everything at once.
"Then I can do anything," she said, coming to a standstill.
"There are limitations, dangers..."
"That is life," she said. "How do I learn to control it?"
"The Great Pattern of Amber is the key. You must walk it in order to gain the ability. It is inscribed on the floor in a chamber beneath the palace in Amber. It is quite large. You must begin on the outside and walk it to its center without stopping. There is considerable resistance and the feat is quite an ordeal. If you stop, if you attempt to depart the Pattern before completing it, it will destroy you. Complete it, though, and your power over Shadow will be subject to your conscious control."
She raced to our picnic site and studied the pattern we had drawn on the ground there.
I followed more slowly. As I drew near, she said, "I must go to Amber and walk it!"
"I am certain that Benedict plans for you to do so, eventually," I said.
"Eventually?" she said. "Now! I must walk it now! Why did he never tell me of these things?"
"Because you cannot do it yet. Conditions in Amber are such that it would be dangerous to both of you to allow your existence to become known there. Amber is barred to you, temporarily."
"It is not fair!" she said, turning to glare at me.
"Of course not," I said. "But that is the way things stand just now. Don't blame me."
The words came somewhat stickily to my lips. Part of the blame, of course, was mine.
"It would almost be better if you had not told me of these things," she said, "if I cannot have them."
"It is not as bad as all that," I said. "The situation in Amber will become stable again-before too very long."
"How will I learn of it?"
"Benedict will know. He will tell you then."
"He has not seen fit to tell me much of anything!"
"To what end? Just to make you feel bad? You know that he has been good to you, that he cares for you. When the time is ready, he will move on your behalf."
"And if he does not? Will you help me then?"
"I will do what I can."
"How will I be able to find you? To let you know?"
I smiled. It had gotten to this point without my half trying. No need to tell her the really important part. Just enough to be possibly useful to me later... .
"The cards," I said, "the family Trumps. They are more than a mere sentimental affectation. They are a means of communication. Get hold of mine, stare at it, concentrate on it, try to keep all other thoughts out of your mind, pretend that it is really me and begin talking to me then. You will find that it really is, and that I am answering you."