“But he is dead. We cremated his body.”
“Humor me. I have been lied to so many times lately, I'm having a hard time believing anyone or anything. For all I know, he was replaced by a double in Juniper. Right now, he might be locked in a tower somewhere waiting to be rescued.”
She pulled Locke's Trump out again. Raising it, she concentrated for a minute on his image, then shrugged.
“Nothing.”
She set it face-down on the table beside her, and moved on to the next card, which showed a beautiful long-legged woman with reddish-blond hair—Syara. I had barely exchanged two words with her in Juniper.
“Nothing,” she repeated.
Then she drew the next card. Fenn.
She raised it, hesitated. “There… almost!”
I hurried around to stand behind her, leaning forward to see. As we both concentrated, I felt a faint conscious stirring from the card. Was it him? I could not be certain.
Finally, we had to give up. We had not been able to exchange any words with him, but something conscious was connected to his card.
“See?” Freda cried. “I was not mistaken! You felt it, too.”
I agreed. “Why couldn't we reach him, though?”
“It could be anything,” she said. “Distance. The Logrus. He may be unconscious or consciously blocking contact. Father must make me that new set of Trumps based on the Pattern!”
“I will tell him as soon as I see him. Now, what about the others?”
She picked up the next card. Pella. Her full sister.
“Nothing…” she said.
We finished her deck with no more successes.
Chapter 18
Even though we hadn't managed to contact Fenn, I returned to Amber buoyed with optimism. Suddenly I had hope of seeing more of my brothers and sisters again.
I set to work with a new enthusiasm and spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing the castle's foundations with the architect, one Yalsef Igar, a frail-looking old man whom Prince Marib had recommended highly. Indeed, I had found his plans to be a nearly flawless interpretation of my vision of the castle.
My earlier threats and screaming had done wonders in motivating the construction supervisors… they now had their team of a hundred and fifty men hard at work shoveling dirt into barrows, rolling boulders down the mountainside, and cutting away trees, bushes, and underbrush. After stripping off the tree branches, mule-teams hauled the logs toward the new sawmill, half a mile away on the river.
“Bring in more men,” I said to Igar. “You have a year to finish. Cut the time in half and I'll triple your pay.”
“Triple?” he gasped.
“In gold.”
“I will do my best, Your Majesty!”
I nodded. “Good.”
After ten minutes of watching the men at work, I returned to my tent. A new set of floor plans lay open on the table for my inspection. I had just begun reviewing them when I felt a sense of contact.
I looked up, opening my mind, and found Dad waiting impatiently.
“Here.” He threw a Trump at me, and I caught it instinctively. “Hurry!”
“Dad—” I began.
“Join me later.”
He broke contact before I could say another word. Typical. He never let anyone get a word in if it didn't suit his purposes.
He had tossed a newly drawn Trump to me—and it showed the Pattern, glowing blue against the rock, with trees and bushes in the background. The paint still felt a bit sticky under my fingers. It hadn't quite dried yet.
A coldness swept through me. He'd said to hurry. Had Uthor reached the Pattern, somehow?
I tore my sword from its scabbard, then concentrated on the Trump's picture. The scene came to life quickly. I leaped forward.
On the edge of the Pattern, I paused. A stillness hung over everything; colors seemed more vibrant and every edge and line as sharp as a knife, from the leaves on the trees to each blade of grass.
I was not alone here. A tall, gaunt-faced stranger with skin the color of sun-bleached bones stood on the far side of the Pattern, studying it intently. If he noticed me, he made no sign of it.
He wore all black, from his broad, flat cap to his shirt and pants to his knee-high boots. As far as I could tell, he carried no weapons.
As he slowly circled the Pattern, his gait struck me as odd, and I suddenly realized he had an extra joint in his arms and his legs. It bent backward, giving him a curious hop at the end of each step. Clearly he wasn't human. But neither was he anything like the King Uthor's hell-creatures, or any of the other creatures of Chaos I had seen.
“Hey!” I shouted. I took a step in his direction. “Hey there!”
He glanced across at me and nodded politely, as though he were an honored guest and I his host. Then he resumed his careful examination of the Pattern.
Since he didn't seem to be doing anything overtly threatening, I lowered my sword. Why had my father sent me here? To chase him off… or to help him in some way?
I hesitated, looking around again, but saw no one else. Since I had a few minutes before he reached my position, I pulled out my Trumps. When in doubt—ask. It was a good rule for interpreting orders.
Raising Dad's Trump, I stared at it and concentrated. Nothing. Not so much as a flicker. Dead? Unconscious? Somewhere I couldn't reach? I had no way of knowing. He hadn't seemed in any immediate danger, just rushed.
I would have to figure it out for myself. Nothing like a quick question-and-answer session to sort things out.
Cautiously I walked around the Pattern and joined the stranger in black. He barely acknowledged my presence. Up close, I realized for the first time how big he was… he towered over me by at least a foot. And he was completely hairless. Smooth white skin like parchment stretched tight over sinewy flesh. He had not a scrap of fat anywhere on his body, which gave him a curiously skeletal appearance.
Everything about him struck me as wrong, somehow. There was no reason for it, but I took an instant dislike to him.
“Are Oberon?” he said.
“Yes. Who are you?” I demanded.
“True name meaning. You may call Ish.” He smiled, showing long, pointed white teeth. It could have been an expression of friendliness or even reassurance, but I found it unnerving.
“Ish,” I said. I swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”
“That which emerged calls now.”
“The Pattern?”
“I not born Chaos, if you fear,” he said. Then he calmly stepped around me and continued walking his circuit of the Pattern, taking long hopping steps.
Not born Chaos? What did that mean? Could he be a creature of the Pattern, like me?
“You shouldn't be here,” I said, giving chase. “My father—Dworkin—sent me. I think he wants you to leave.”
“New. In place.” He turned and bowed from the waist. “Apologies. Dworkin work time. This better.”
He paused expectantly as I tried to puzzle through his jumble of words. Could he mean he liked this Pattern better than the last one? Had he seen them both?
“You saw the other Pattern?” I asked. “The first one my father drew?”
“Many.” His head bobbed twice. “Gift. Son-of-Dworkin?”
He held something small toward me. Without thinking, I stuck out my hand, and he dropped a small, cold, hard object onto my palm.
It was a man's ring. Gold, with what looked like a small ruby set into the top, it caught the light and glinted faintly.
“Uh… thanks,” I said. I held it up, examining it.
“Spikard,” he said firmly. “Old.”
“Gold?”
“Old,” he repeated. “A power. Yours. Spikard.”
He motioned for me to put it on. After a second's hesitation, I slipped it onto the index finger of my right hand.
At first it seemed much too loose, but then it suddenly tightened. Panicked, I tried to yank it off—but it clung to me like a leech.