To Rule in Amber (7 page)

"What if Dad was trying to warn me about something?" I said slowly. "Could Thellops have done this to him? It might explain Dad's behavior. He called me Thellops before he tried to kill me."

"I don't know…" Blaise hesitated. "Freda might be able to tell. Was Dad ever out of your sight?

Could they have met without your knowing it?"

I remembered how Dad had vanished from the center of the Pattern. Where had he gone? And how long had he been there? I had no way of knowing.

"It's possible," I admitted. "We got separated."

"How long were you apart?"

"I don't know. Time got weird." How long
had
I been trapped in that gray fog? After Dad redrew the Pattern, I fell and lost all sense of time. It could have been an hour. It could have been days or weeks. I had no way of telling, especially since time ran differently among all the Shadows. At least a month had passed in the Courts of Chaos, according to Blaise.

With a sigh, Blaise continued, "Thellops
is
very powerful. He has to be, since he works directly with the Logrus. But, assuming he really is to blame for what happened to Dad, I have to ask -
why
? It doesn't make sense to me. Why would he attack Dad? And why would he make Dad crazy?"

Good questions. I wished I had an answer.

She went on, "Thellops has never been involved in politics, as far as I know. He doesn't carry a sword or fight duels. Why would he interfere? Why wouldn't he let King Uthor and the
lai she'one
take care of Dad? It doesn't make sense to me."

"How about revenge?" I suggested. "No one but Dad and me seems to want the Shadows."

"And Aber," she said, pulling a sour face. They had never gotten along. "And Freda, of course."

I nodded. True, they both seemed to love the Shadows as much as I did. We were all more alike that I'd thought… children of the Pattern, all.

Blaise said, "Besides, many people in the Courts have grown up with the Shadows and enjoy playing in them. But the rest of us…" Her voice trailed off. "The Shadows just don't seem right to me, somehow. They don't belong. I think everyone feels that way now. When the storms came -"

"But that was years ago!" Aber had told me about the terrible magical storms that swept in from the Shadows after they first appeared, wrecking havoc on the Courts of Chaos and killing thousands.

"No," Blaise said firmly. "More storms struck Chaos - a lot more - over the last month."

"They must have happened when Dad drew the Pattern again," I said.

"I don't know." She sighed heavily. "They were horrible, Oberon, pounding at the Courts and the Beyond until we thought the universe itself was coming to an end. I never want to experience anything like that again!"

"I'm sorry about the Shadow-storms," I said, "but they're gone and nothing can be done about it now. You survive -"

"No thanks to you!" she said with a snort.

"- and I find it hard to care about anyone else in Chaos, beyond our immediate family. In fact, I wish the storms had killed off Uthor and Lord Zon and everyone else who stands against us. I'd send
more
storms, if I knew how!"

"Don't even think that!" She looked horrified. "You have no idea how horrible they were! I wouldn't wish it on our worst enemy - think of the thousands of innocent people who would die!"

I snorted. "You have a soft spot in your heart. I would kill our enemies in one quick swipe, if I could. No matter the cost."

"You would only make more enemies." She shook her head. "We're a hardy lot, we Lords and Ladies of Chaos."

"Almost as hard to kill as Dad and me."

"You'd be surprised at how much it takes to kill a Lord of Chaos." She shrugged. "The Pattern

storms served as a wakeup call. When the Courts are weakened and Chaos itself is threatened, everyone will put aside their differences and join the king."

"Against Dad and me."

"If you want to put it that way, then
yes
. Everyone blames Dad, but they want us
all
dead. You, me, Freda, Dad - everyone. It's in our bloodline, they say… traitors breed more traitors. If we are dead, the problem goes away… or so the reasoning goes."

"I think I'm finally beginning to understand," I said. In a sudden flash of inspiration, the truth came to me. We weren't
really
fighting over the existence of the Shadows or the devastation caused by Pattern storms. We were fighting over
power
.

The Pattern rivaled the Logrus… might even be
more powerful
than the Logrus. Sure, purebred Lords of Chaos could change their appearance, move through Shadows, and summon objects from far away. But I could do most of that already using just the Pattern. And, unlike Chaos, the Pattern cast a seemingly infinite number of Shadow-worlds across the universe.

I had to ask myself,
If the Pattern holds such power, why would anyone need the Logrus?

Dad was like the first Lord of Chaos, the one who discovered and experimented with the Logrus, mastering its gifts to forge an empire. This first King of Chaos must have wielded powers unimaginable to all who came before him. And he had used that power to conquer his enemies and create the Courts of Chaos, which he and his descendants had ruled for untold thousands of years.

A shiver of excitement and anticipation ran through me. I wondered… could the Pattern do the same? Once mastered, would it make Dad - and me! - the undisputed rulers of both Shadows and Chaos?

I swallowed hard. No wonder King Uthor wanted us dead. He feared not only the Pattern and its powers, but what we might become if we mastered it.

And he had good reason to fear. If I had the ability to strike, I would have used the Pattern against him without a second's hesitation.

I had missed part of what Blaise was saying and forced my attention back to her.

"- can you blame them?" she said. "Those Pattern storms killed hundreds and destroyed a dozen keeps! The Pattern is a menace and must be destroyed for everyone's safety!"

Half amused, I smiled down at her. She suddenly seemed almost childlike, prattling on about insignificant details in the mistaken belief they might somehow be important.

"Forget about getting rid of the Shadows," I said. "I told you, it isn't possible now."

"King Uthor will destroy them. And the Pattern."

"He can try."

She snorted. "Do you really think you can stand against the king?"

"If necessary. I'm not going to roll over and give up."

Blaise shook her head wonderingly. "You're either incredibly stupid or incredibly brave."

I grinned. "Maybe a bit of both. Now, about Thellops…"

She rubbed Dad's forehead gently. "It doesn't make sense. If Thellops wanted Dad dead, why not kill him outright? Why make him crazy?"

"Maybe Dad escaped. Or maybe Dad won… we have no idea what happened. Or Maybe Thellops thought madness was a better punishment."

She shook her head. "Maybe… but it doesn't feel right. I think there's another answer. Something that hasn't occurred to either of us yet."

I had to agree. None of it quite fit. Somehow, I had the feeling we had missed an important detail or two.

Blaise stifled a small yawn. "Anyway, it's best to do nothing if you don't know what the problem is. You might make it worse."

"I don't think it can get much worse."

"I'd say death is worse. Dad
is
still alive."

"True." She had me there.

"Wait and see if Dad recovers his senses," she said. "Then you can ask him why he keeps saying

'Thellops.' Maybe he's dreaming of old friends."

"I don't think Thellops is a friend." I had to smile. "Dad wanted to
kill
me. And he put a lot of effort into it. Old friends don't generally go around trying to murder each other."

"It could be something you said or did to Dad." Blaise yawned again. "It's nothing a good night's sleep can't fix. Speaking of which…"

"No!" I raised my hand as if I planned to slap her again, and her eyes flew open.

"All right, all right!" she snarled, eyes narrowing to slits. "I'm awake now! Honestly, Oberon, you can't go around hitting people. The next time you try, I'll break your arm!"

"Promises, promises." I smiled and shrugged. "As I said, you have to stay awake. I can only carry one unconscious relative at a time."

"I'm not going to fall asleep."

"Uh-huh. Not with me on watch, anyway."

I studied her face carefully; her eyelids already drooped. What could be causing her sleepiness?

Our proximity to the Pattern?

Maybe she would feel better if we moved farther away from it. It was worth a try.

"Come on, let's get moving. We'll find a place where you can rest safely."

"All right." She climbed unsteadily to her feet. "What about Dad?"

"If you can walk, I'll carry hi -"

"I
will
walk." She sounded determined.

"All right. Follow me. Shout if you can't keep up. I'll slow down."

"Don't worry about
me
, brother dear."

"Fair enough."

Picking Dad up, I started for the forest at a brisk pace. A clear destination filled my mind. As I walked, I let my imagination soar, and the landscape around us began to flow and change: a hint of pink around the sun, bunches of white flowers at the curve in the path, a covered bridge spanning a creek. A tame fawn paced us, nuzzling our pockets for treats.

Blaise laughed in delight. I glanced back and smiled. We didn't have enough laughter in our lives.

Then, letting my stride lengthen, we left the deer loping through the underbrush, playing hide-and-seek in the bushes with rabbits, skunks, and other forest creatures.

Forest, to grasslands, to gently rolling hills lush with ripening wheat and rye, and on through pastures of fat cows and rotund sheep. Here and there prosperous-looking farmers worked the fields with sons. All waved and drawled the friendliest of welcomes. Two boys came running, carrying packs.

They both eyed our father curiously. Neither asked why I had a tied-up old man in my arms; that would have been rude, and they weren't the prying types… a restful Shadow indeed. We needed calm natives who wouldn't try to kill us or betray us…

"May we offer you a drink, sir?" they asked. "Or a sandwich, ma'am?"

"No, thanks." I paused and looked back as my sister caught up. "Blaise?"

"A drink would be lovely," Blaise said. She brushed a dangling strand of hair off her forehead.

Without makeup, with her hair in disarray, she had a harder edge to her face. I remembered the strength behind her punch and wondered not for the first time if I had somehow underestimated her.

"Here." The oldest of the two fumbled a clay jar from their pack and poured water into a cup held by his brother. They both handed it to her.

"Thank you." She drank deeply, coughed, gasped, and handed it back quickly.

"Good?" I asked with a grin.

"It was…
water
." She gave a horrified shudder.

"More?" Both boys grinned up at her, thinking she had enjoyed it.

"I'm fine now."

They looked at me again. "Sir? Perhaps for the old gentleman?"

"We're both fine," I said. I glanced up the road and frowned. There would be an inn just ahead, beyond the grove of trees over the hill… a rambling old inn with a railed porch around the front. Dad could rest easily there. A brilliant physician lived on an estate not far beyond. He could help us.

It had to be so. My vision made sure of it.

Sure enough, the small town came into view when we topped the hill. As places go, it was nothing fancy, perhaps two dozen buildings, but a sprawling old inn sat facing us. Smoke drifted lazily from a pair of tall brick chimneys, carrying smells of fresh bread and roasting meat. Three gray-bearded old men sat on the porch in rocking chairs, whittling away at wooden blocks. As we approached, they all looked up and called cheery good-mornings.

"Somethin' wrong with that fellow?" one of them asked me idly. He stared without concern at our father's bruised face and bound wrists.

"He has seizures," I said. It came out sounding more exhausted than convincing; it
had
been a long day. "I tied him up to keep him from hurting himself. That last seizure almost killed him."

"Ayah." Nodding sagely, he settled back into his chair and began rocking slowly once more.

"You'll be wanting Doc Hand, then."

"Not Young Doc Hand," said the second old-timer, still whittling. "The one you need is
Old
Doc Hand."

"Ayah," said the third whittler. "Old Doc Hand, he's the best for seizures, sure enough. He lives over the short hills, nearer to Haddoxville than to Barleyton, at Manor-on-Edge."

"Thanks," I said. Old Doc Hand would be our man.

The first whittler said, "Have Young Jamas fetch Old Doc Hand for your daddy. Young Jamas ought to be inside, behind the counter more'n likely. He won't mind the trip. His girl's in Haddoxville, right enough."

"Ayup," said the second whittler rocking slowly. "Young Jamas won't mind 'tall."

I glanced at Blaise. "How are you doing?"

"I feel
much
better," she said, giving me a look that said the worst for her had passed. "Though after that foul farm beverage, I need a real drink."

"Jamas has the best wine in seven counties," said the third whittler.

"Thanks," I said. "When you're thirsty, come in and I'll buy you all a round of drinks."

"Thank you kindly!" said the first. "We'll be along presently, once Jamas has you settled in, sure as you're standin' there!"

I carried Dad inside. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the low-ceilinged common room, I saw scattered tables and a long counter. A pot of something hearty-smelling simmered in the fireplace.

Behind the counter stood a red-haired man of middling years. He looked up from polishing the thick oak slab used as a bar and gave a friendly nod. Could this be Young Jamas?

"Mornin'," he said with a pleasant smile. "Somethin' wrong with that fellow you're carryin'?"

"He's ill - having seizures." I decided to stick with that story.