The Hand of Oberon

Chapter 1

A bright flash of insight, to match that peculiar sun…

There it was… Displayed within that light, a thing I had only seen self-illuminated in darkness up until then: the Pattern, the great Pattern of Amber cast upon an oval shelf beneath/above a strange sky-sea.

…And I knew, perhaps by that within me which bound us, that this had to be the real one. Which meant that the Pattern in Amber was but its first shadow. Which meant —

Which meant that Amber itself was not carried over into places beyond the realm of Amber, Rebma, and Tir-na Nog’th. Meaning, then, that this place to which we had come was, by the law of precedence and configuration, the real Amber.

I turned to a smiling Ganelon, his beard and wild hair molten in the merciless light.

“How did you know?” I asked him.

“You know I am a very good guesser, Corwin,” he replied, “and I recall everything you ever told me about how things work in Amber: how its shadow and those of your struggles are cast across the worlds. I often wondered, in thinking of the black road, whether anything could have cast such a shadow into Amber itself. And I imagined that such a something would have to be extremely basic, powerful, and secret.” He gestured at the scene before us. “Like that.”

“Continue,” I said.

His expression changed and he shrugged.

“So there had to be a layer of reality deeper than your Amber,” he explained, “where the dirty work was done. Your patron beast led us to what seems to be such a place, and that blot on the Pattern looks to be the dirty work. You agreed.”

I nodded.

“It was your perceptiveness rather than the conclusion itself which stunned me so,” I said.

“You beat me to it,” admitted Random, off to my right, “but the feeling has found its way into my intestines — to put it delicately. I do believe that somehow that is the basis of our world down there.”

“An outsider can sometimes see things better than one who is part of them,” Ganelon offered.

Random glanced at me and returned his attention to the spectacle.

“Do you think things will change any more,” he asked, “if we go down for a closer look?”

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

“Single file, then,” Random agreed. “I’ll lead.”

“All right.”

Random guided his mount to the right, the left, the right, in a long series of switchbacks which zigged us and zagged us across most of the face of the wall. Continuing in the order we had maintained all day, I followed him and Ganelon came last.

“Seems stable enough now,” Random called back.

“So far,” I said.

“Some sort of opening in the rocks below.”

I leaned forward. There was a cave mouth back to the right, on level with the oval plain. Its situation was such that it had been hidden from sight when we had occupied our higher position.

“We pass fairly near it,” I said.

“— quickly, cautiously, and silently,” Random added, drawing his blade.

I unsheathed Grayswandir, and one turn back above me Ganelon drew his own weapon.

We did not pass the opening, but turned leftward once more before we came to it. We moved within ten or fifteen feet of it, however, and I detected an unpleasant odor which I could not identify. The horses must have done a better job of it, though, or been pessimists by nature, because they flattened their ears, widened their nostrils, and made alarmed noises while turning against the reins. They calmed, however, as soon as we had made the turn and begun moving away once again. They did not suffer a relapse until we reached the end of our descent and moved to approach the damaged Pattern. They refused to go near it.

Random dismounted. He advanced to the edge of the design, paused and stared. After a time, he spoke without looking back.

“It follows that the damage was deliberate,” he said, “from everything else that we know.”

“It seems to follow,” I said.

“It is also obvious that we were brought here for a reason.”

“I’d say so.”

“Then it does not take too much imagination to conclude that our purpose for being here is to determine how the Pattern was damaged and what might be done to repair it.”

“Possibly. What is your diagnosis?”

“Nothing yet.”

He moved along the perimeter of the figure, off to the right where the smear-effect began. I resheathed my blade and prepared to dismount. Ganelon reached over and took hold of my shoulder.

“I can make it myself —” I began.

But, “Corwin,” he said, ignoring my words, “there does appear to be a small irregularity out toward the middle of the Pattern. It does not look like something that belongs…”

“Where?”

He pointed and I followed the gesture.

There was some foreign object near the center. A stick? A stone? A stray bit of paper…? It was impossible to tell from this distance.

“I see it,” I said.

We dismounted and headed toward Random, who by then was crouched at the extreme right of the figure, examining the discoloration.

“Ganelon’s spotted something out toward the center,” I said.

Random nodded.

“I’ve noticed it,” he replied. “I was just trying to decide on the best way to head out for a better look. I do not relish the notion of walking a broken Pattern. On the other hand, I was wondering what I would be laying myself open to if I tried heading in across the blackened area. What do you think?”

“Walking what there is of the Pattern would take some time,” I said, “if the resistance is on par with what it is at home. Also, we have been taught that it is death to stray from it — and this setup would force me to leave it when I reach the blot. On the other hand, as you say, I might be alerting our enemies by treading on the black. So —”

“So neither of you is going to do it,” Ganelon interrupted. “I am.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he took a running leap into the black sector, raced along it toward the center, paused long enough to pick up some small object, turned and headed back. Moments later, he stood before us.

“That was a risky thing to do,” Random said. He nodded.

“But you two would still be debating it if I hadn’t.”

He raised his hand and extended it.

“Now, what do you make of this?”

He was holding a dagger. Impaled on it was a rectangle of stained pasteboard. I took them from him.

“Looks like a Trump,” Random said.

“Yes.”

I worked the card loose, smoothed down the torn sections. The man I regarded upon it was half familiar — meaning of course that he was also half strange. Light, straight hair, a trifle sharp-featured, a small smile, somewhat slight of build.

I shook my head.

“I do not know him,” I said.

“Let me see.” Random took the card from me, frowned at it.

“No,” he said after a time. “I don’t either. It almost seems as though I should, but… No.”

At that moment, the horses renewed their complaints much more forcefully. And we needed but turn part way to learn the cause of their discomfort, in that it had chosen that moment to emerge from the cave.

“Damn,” said Random. I agreed with him.

Ganelon cleared his throat, took forth his blade.

“Anyone know what it is?” he asked quietly.

My first impression of the beast was that it was snakelike, both from its movements and because of the fact that its long thick tail seemed more a continuation of its long thin body than a mere appendage. It moved on four double-jointed legs, however, large-footed and wickedly clawed. Its narrow head was beaked, and it swung from side to side as it advanced, showing us one pale blue eye and then the other. Large wings were folded against its sides, purple and leathery. It possessed neither hair nor feathers, though there were scaled areas across its breast, shoulders, back, and along the length of its tail. From beak-bayonet to twisting tail-tip it seemed a little over three meters. There was a small tinkling sound as it moved, and I caught a flash of something bright at its throat.

“Closest thing I know,” said Random, “is a heraldic beast — the griffin. Only this one is bald and purple.”

“Definitely not our national bird,” I added, drawing Grayswandir and swinging its point into line with the creature’s head.

The beast darted a red, forked tongue. It raised its wings a few inches, then let them fall. When its head swung to the right its tail moved to the left, then left and right, right and left-producing a near-hypnotic, flowing effect as it advanced.

It seemed more concerned with the horses than with us, however, for its course was directed well past us toward the spot where our mounts stood quivering and stamping. I moved to interpose myself. At that point, it reared.

Its wings went up and out, spreading like a pair of slack sails suddenly caught by a gust of wind. It was back on its hind legs and towering above us, seeming to occupy at least four times the space it had previously. And then it shrieked, a god-awful, hunting scream or challenge that left my ears ringing. With that, it snapped those wings downward and sprang, becoming temporarily airborne.

The horses bolted and ran. The beast was beyond our reach. It was only then that I realized what the bright flash and the tinkling had represented. The thing was tethered, by means of a long chain running back into the cave. The exact length of its leash was immediately a question of more than academic interest.

I turned as it passed, hissing, flapping, and falling, beyond us. It had not possessed sufficient momentum to obtain true flight in that brief rush upward. I saw that Star and Firedrake were retreating toward the far end of the oval. Random’s mount Iago, on the other hand, had bolted in the direction of the Pattern.

The beast touched ground again, turned, as if to pursue Iago, appeared to study us once more, and froze. It was much nearer this time — under four meters — and it cocked its head, showing us its right eye, then opened its beak and made a soft cawing noise.

“What say we rush it now?” said Random.

“No. Wait. There is something peculiar about its behavior.”

It had dropped its head while I was speaking, spreading its wings downward. It struck the ground three times with its beak and looked up again. Then it drew its wings part way back toward its body. Its tail twitched once, then swing more vigorously from side to side. It opened its beak and repeated the cawing sound.

At that moment we were distracted.

Iago had entered the Pattern, well to the side of the darkened area. Five or six meters into it, standing obliquely across the lines of power, he was caught near one of the Veil points like an insect on a piece of flypaper. He cried loudly as the sparks came up about him and his mane rose and stood erect.

Immediately, the sky began to darken directly overhead. But it was no cloud of water vapor which had begun to coalesce. Rather, it was a perfectly circular formation which had appeared, red at the center, yellow nearer the edges, turning in a clockwise direction. A sound like a single bell chime followed by the growl of a bull-roarer suddenly came to our ears.

Iago continued his struggles, first freeing his right front foot, then entangling it again as he freed the left, neighing wildly the while. The sparks were up to his shoulders by then, and he shook them like raindrops from his body and neck, his entire form taking on a soft, buttery glow.

The roaring increased in volume and small lightnings began to play at the heart of the red thing above us. A rattling noise caught my attention at that moment, and I glanced downward to discover that the purple griffin had slithered past and moved to interpose itself between us and the loud red phenomenon. It crouched like a gargoyle, facing away from us, watching the spectacle.

Just then, Iago freed both front feet and reared. There was something insubstantial about him by then, what with his brightness and the spark-shot indistinctness of his outline. He might have neighed at that moment, but all other sounds were submerged by the incessant roar from above.

A funnel descended from the noisy formation — bright, flashing, wailing now, and tremendously fast. It touched the rearing horse, and for a moment his outline expanded enormously, becoming increasingly tenuous in direct proportion to this effect. And then he was gone. For a brief interval, the funnel remained stationary, like a perfectly balanced top. Then the sound began to diminish.

The trunk raised itself, slowly, to a point but a small distance — perhaps the height of a man — above the Pattern. Then it snapped upward as quickly as it had descended.

The wailing ceased. The roaring began to subside. The miniature lightnings faded within the circle. The entire formation began to pale and slow. A moment later, it was but a bit of darkness; another moment and it was gone.

No trace of Iago remained anywhere that I could see.

“Don’t ask me,” I said when Random turned toward me. “I don’t know either.”

He nodded, then directed his attention toward our purple companion, who was just then rattling his chain.

“What about Charlie here?” he asked, fingering his blade.

“I had the distinct impression he was trying to protect us,” I said, taking a step forward. “Cover me. I want to try something.”

“You sure you can move fast enough?” he asked. “With that side…”

“Don’t worry,” I said, a trifle more heartily than necessary, and I kept moving.

He was correct about my left side, where the healing knife wound still ached dully and seemed to exercise a drag on my movements. But Grayswandir was still in my right hand and this was one of those occasions when my trust in my instincts was running high. I had relied on this feeling in the past with good results. There are times when such gambles just seem to be in order.

Random moved ahead and to the right. I turned sidewise and extended my left hand as you would in introducing yourself to a strange dog, slowly. Our heraldic companion had risen from its crouch and was turning.

It faced us again and studied Ganelon, off to my left. Then it regarded my hand. It lowered its head and repeated the ground-striking movement, cawed very softly — a small, bubbling sound — raised its head and slowly extended it. It wagged its great tail, touched my fingers with its beak, then repeated the performance. Carefully, I placed my hand on its head. The wagging increased; its head remained motionless. I scratched it gently about the neck and it turned its head slowly then, as if enjoying it. I withdrew my hand and dropped back a pace.

“I think we’re friends,” I said softly. “Now you try it, Random.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m sure you’re safe. Try it.”

“What will you do if you are wrong?”

“Apologize.”

“Great.”

He advanced and offered his hand. The beast remained friendly.

“All right,” he said half a minute or so later, still stroking its neck, “what have we proved?”

“That he is a watchdog.”

“What is he watching?”

“The Pattern, apparently.”

“Offhand then,” said Random, moving back, “I would say that his work leaves something to be desired.” He gestured at the dark area. “Which is understandable, if he is this friendly to anyone who doesn’t eat oats and whinny.”

“My guess is that he is quite selective. It is also possible that he was set here after the damage was done, to defend against further unappreciated activity.”

“Who set him?”

“I’d like to know myself. Someone on our side, apparently.”

“You can now test your theory further by letting Ganelon approach him.”

Ganelon did not move.

“It may be you have a family smell about you,” he finally said, “and he only favors Amberites. So I will pass, thank you.”

“All right. It is not that important. Your guesses have been good so far. How do you interpret events?”

“Of the two factions out for the throne,” he said, “that composed of Brand, Fiona, and Bleys was, as you said, more aware of the nature of the forces that play about Amber. Brand did not supply you with particulars — unless you omitted some incidents he might have related — but my guess is that this damage to the Pattern represents the means by which their allies gained access to your realm. One or more of them did that damage, which provided the dark route. If the watchdog here responds to a family smell or some other identifying information you all possess, then he could actually have been here all along and not seen fit to move against the despoilers.”

“Possibly,” Random observed. “Any idea how it was accomplished?”

“Perhaps,” he replied. “I will let you demonstrate it for me, if you are willing.”

“What does it involve?”

“Come this way,” he said, turning and heading over to the edge of the Pattern.

I followed him. Random did the same. The watchgriffin slunk at my side. Ganelon turned and extended his hand.

“Corwin, may I trouble you for that dagger I fetched us?”

“Here,” I said, drawing it from my belt and passing it over.

“I repeat, what does it involve?” Random inquired.

“The blood of Amber,” Ganelon replied.

“I am not so sure I like this idea,” Random said.

“All you have to do is prick your finger with it,” he said, extending the blade, “and let a drop fall upon the Pattern.”

“What will happen?”

“Let’s try it and see.”

Random looked at me.

“What do you say?” he asked.

“Go ahead. Let’s find out. I’m intrigued.”

He nodded.

“Okay.”

He received the blade from Ganelon and nicked the tip of his left little finger. He squeezed the finger then, holding it above the Pattern. A tiny red bead appeared, grew larger, quivered, fell.

Immediately, a wisp of smoke rose from the spot where it struck, accompanied by a tiny crackling noise.

“I’ll be damned!” said Random, apparently fascinated.

A tiny stain had come into being, gradually spreading to about the size of a half dollar.

“There you are,” said Ganelon. “That is how it was done.”

The stain was indeed a miniature counterpart of the massive blot further to our right. The watchgrifiin gave forth a small shriek and drew back, rapidly turning his head from one of us to the other.

“Easy, fellow. Easy,” I said, reaching out and calming him once more.

“But what could have caused such a large —” Random began, and then he nodded slowly.

“What indeed?” said Ganelon. “I see no mark to show where your horse was destroyed.”

“The blood of Amber,” Random said. “You are just full of insights today, aren’t you?”

“Ask Corwin to tell you of Lorraine, the place where I dwelled for so long,” he said, “the place where the dark circle grew. I am alert to the effects of those powers, though I knew them then only at a distance. These matters have become clearer to me with each new thing I have learned from you. Yes, I have insights now that I know more of these workings. Ask Corwin of the mind of his general.”

“Corwin,” Random said, “give me the pierced Trump.”

I withdrew it from my pocket and smoothed it. The stains seemed more ominous now. Another thing also struck me. I did not believe that it had been executed by Dworkin, sage, mage, artist, and one-time mentor to the children of Oberon. It had not occurred to me until that moment that anyone else might be capable of producing one. While the style of this one did seem somehow familiar, it was not his work. Where had I seen that deliberate line before, less spontaneous than the master’s, as though every movement had been totally intellectualized before the pen touched the paper? And there was something else wrong with it — a quality of idealization of a different order from that of our own Trumps, almost as if the artist had been working with old memories, glimpses, or descriptions rather than a living subject.

“The Trump, Corwin. If you please,” Random said.

There was that about the way in which he said it to make me hesitate. It gave rise to the feeling that he was somehow a jump ahead of me on something important, a feeling which I did not like at all.

“I’ve petted old ugly here for you, and I’ve just bled for the cause, Corwin. Now let’s have it.”

I handed it over, my uneasiness increasing as he held it in his hand and furrowed his brow. Why was I suddenly the stupid one? Does a night in Tir-na Nog’th slow cerebration? Why —

Random began to curse, a string of profanities unsurpassed by anything encountered in my long military career.

Then, “What is it?” I said. “I don’t understand.”

“The blood of Amber,” he finally said. “Whoever did it walked the Pattern first, you see. Then they stood there at the center and contacted him via this Trump. When he responded and a firm contact was achieved, they stabbed him. His blood flowed upon the Pattern, obliterating that part of it, as mine did here.”

He was silent for the space of several deep breaths.

“It smacks of a ritual,” I said.

“Damn rituals!” he said. “Damn all of them! One of them is going to die, Corwin. I am going to kill him — or her.”

“I still do not —”

“I am a fool,” he said, “for not seeing it right away. Look! Look closely!”

He thrust the pierced Trump at me. I stared. I still did not see.

“Now look at me!” he said. “See me!”

I did. Then I looked back at the card. I realized what he meant.

“I was never anything to him but a whisper of life in the darkness. But they used my son for this,” he said. “That has to be a picture of Martin.”