Guns Of Avalon
Chapter 5

    I sucked on a blade of grass and watched the mill wheel turn. I was lying on my stomach on the stream's opposite bank, my head propped in my hands. There was a tiny rainbow in the mist above the froth and boil at the foot of the waterfall, and an occasional droplet found its way to me. The steady splashing and the sound of the wheel drowned out all other noises in the wood. The mill was deserted today, and I contemplated it because I had not seen its like in ages. Watching the wheel and listening to the water were more than just relaxing. It was somewhat hypnotic.
    It was our third day at Benedict's place, and Ganelon was off in town seeking amusement. I had accompanied him on the previous day and learned what I wanted to know at that time. Now I had no time for sight-seeing. I had to think and act quickly. There had been no difficulty at the camp. Benedict had seen us fed and had furnished us with the map and the letter he had promised. We had departed at sunrise and arrived at the manor around midday. We were well received, and after settling into the quarters we were shown, we had made our way into town, where we had spent the balance of the day.
    Benedict was planning to remain in the field for several more days. I would have to be done with the task I had set myself before he came home. So a hellride was in order. There was no time for leisurely journeying, I had to remember the proper shadows and be under way soon.
    It would have been refreshing, being in this place that was so like my Avalon, except that my thwarted purposes were reaching the point of obsession. Realizing this was not tantamount to controlling it, however. Familiar sights and sounds had diverted me only briefly, then I had turned once more to my planning.
    It should work out neatly, as I saw it. This one journey should solve two of my problems, if I could manage it without arousing suspicion. It meant that I would definitely be gone overnight, but I had anticipated this and had already instructed Ganelon to cover for me.
    My head nodding with each creak of the wheel, I forced everything else from my mind and set about remembering the necessary texture of the sand, its coloration, the temperature, the winds, the touch of salt in the air, the clouds . . .
    I slept then and I dreamed, but not of the place that I sought.
    I regarded a big roulette wheel, and we were all of us on it-my brothers, my sisters, myself, and others whom I knew or had known-rising and falling, each with his allotted section. We were all shouting for it to stop for us and wailing as we passed the top and headed down once more. The wheel had begun to slow and I was on the rise. A fair-haired youth hung upside down before me, shouting pleas and warnings that were drowned in the cacophony of voices. His face darkened, writhed, became a horrible thing to behold, and I slashed at the cord that bound his ankle and he fell from sight. The wheel slowed even more as I neared the top, and I saw Lorraine then. She was gesturing, beckoning frantically, and calling my name. I leaned toward her, seeing her clearly, wanting her, wanting to help her. But as the wheel continued its turning she passed from my sight. "Corwin!"
    I tried to ignore her cry, for I was almost to the top. It came again, but I tensed myself and prepared to spring upward. If it did not stop for me, I was going to try gimmicking the damned thing, even though falling off would mean my total ruin. I readied myself for the leap. Another click. .. "Corwin!"
    It receded, returned, faded, and I was looking toward the water wheel again with my name echoing in my ears and mingling, merging, fading into the sound of the stream.
    I blinked my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair. A number of dandelions fell about my shoulders as I did so, and I heard a giggle from somewhere behind me.
    I turned quickly and stared.
    She stood about a dozen paces from me, a tail, slender girl with dark eyes and close-cropped brown hair. She wore a fencing jacket and held a rapier in her right hand, a mask in her left. She was looking at me and laughing. Her teeth were white, even and a trifle long; a band of freckles crossed her small nose and the upper portions of her well-tanned cheeks. There was that air of vitality about her which is attractive in ways different from mere comeliness. Especially, perhaps, when viewed from the vantage of many years. She saluted me with her blade. "En garde, Corwin!" she said.
    "Who the Devil are you?" I asked, just then noticing a jacket, mask, and rapier beside me in the grass.
    "No questions, no answers," she said. "Not till we've fenced."
    She fitted her mask over her head then and waited.
    I rose and picked up the jacket. I could see that it would be easier to fence than argue with her. The fact that she knew my name disturbed me, and the more that I thought of it the more she seemed somehow familiar. It was best to humor her, I decided, shrugging into the jacket and buckling it. I picked up the blade, pulled on the mask.
    "All right," I said, sketching a brief salute and advancing. "All right."
    She moved forward then and we met. I let her carry the attack.
    She came on very fast with a beat-feint-feint-thrust. My riposte was twice as fast, but she was able to parry it and come back with equal speed. I began a slow retreat then, drawing her out. She laughed and came on, pressing me hard. She was good and she knew it. She wanted to show off. She almost got through twice, too, in the same way-low-line-which I did not like at all. I caught her with a stop-thrust as soon as I could after that. She cursed softly, goodnaturedly, as she acknowledged it and came right back at me. I do not ordinarily like to fence with women, no matter how good they are, but this time I discovered that I was enjoying myself. The skill and grace with which she carried the attacks and bore them gave me pleasure to behold and respond to, and I found myself contemplating the mind that lay behind that style. At first, I had wanted to tire her quickly, to conclude the match and question her. Now I found myself desiring to prolong the encounter.
    She did not tire readily. There was small cause for concern on that count. I lost track of time as we stamped back and forth along the bank of the stream, our blades clicking steadily.
    A long while must have passed, though, before she stamped her heel and threw up her blade in a final salute. She tore off her mask then and gave me another smile.
    "Thank you!" she said, breathing heavily.
    I returned the salute and drew off the bird cage. I tamed and fumbled with the jacket buckles, and before I realized it she had approached and kissed me on the cheek. She had not had to stand tiptoe to do it either. I felt momentarily confused, but I smiled. Before I could say anything, she had taken my arm and turned me back in the direction from which we had come. 
    "I've brought us a picnic basket," she said. 
    "Very good. I am hungry. I am also curious . . ."
    "I will tell you anything that you want to hear," she said merrily.
    "How about telling me your name?" I said.
    "Dara," she replied. "My name is Dara, after my grandmother."
    She glanced at me as she said it, as though hoping for a reaction. I almost hated to disappoint her, but I nodded and repeated it, then, "Why did you call me Corwin?" I asked.
    "Because that is your name," she said. "I recognized you." 
    "From where?" She released my arm.
    "Here it is," she said, reaching behind a tree and raising a basket that had been resting upon the ridges of exposed roots.
    "I hope the ants didn't get to it," she said, moving to a shaded area beside the stream and spreading a cloth upon the ground.
    I hung the fencing gear on a nearby shrub.
    "You seem to carry quite a few things around with you," I observed.
    "My horse is back that way," she said, gesturing downstream with her head.
    She returned her attention to weighing down the cloth and unpacking the basket. 
    "Why way back there?" I asked.
    "So that I could sneak up on you, of course. If you'd heard a horse clomping around you'd have been awake sure as hell." 
    "You're probably right," I said.
    She paused as though pondering deeply, then spoiled it with a giggle.
"But you didn't the first time, though. Still. . ." 
    "The first time?" I said, seeing she wanted me to ask it.
    "Yes, I almost rode over you awhile back," she said. "You were sound asleep. When I saw who it was, I went back for a picnic basket and the fencing gear." 
    "Oh. I see."
    "Come and sit down now," she said. "And open the bottle, will you?"
    She put a bottle beside my place and carefully unwrapped two crystal goblets, which she then set in the center of the cloth.
I moved to my place and sat down.
    "That is Benedict's best crystal," I noted, as I opened the bottle.
    "Yes," she said. "Do be careful not to upset them when you pour-and I don't think we should clink them together." 
    "No, I don't think we should," I said, and I poured. She raised her glass.
    "To the reunion," she said. 
    "What reunion?" 
    "Ours." "I have never met you before." 
    "Don't be so prosaic," she said, and took a drink. 
    I shrugged. "To the reunion."
    She began to eat then, so I did too. She was so enjoying the air of mystery she had created that I wanted to cooperate, just to keep her happy.
    "Now where could I have met you?" I ventured. "Was it some great court? A harem, perhaps . . . ?" 
    "Perhaps it was in Amber," she said. "There you were . . ." ,
    "Amber?" I said, remembering that I was holding Benedict's crystal and confining my emotions to my voice. "Just who are you, anyway?"
    ". . . There you were-handsome, conceited, admired by all the ladies," she continued, "and there I was- a mousy little thing, admiring you from afar. Gray, or pastel-not vivid-little Dara-a late bloomer, I hasten to add-eating her heart out for you-" I muttered a mild obscenity and she laughed again. "That wasn't it?" she asked.
    "No," I said, taking another bite of beef and bread. "More likely it was that brothel where I sprained my back. I was drunk that night-"
    "You remember!" she cried. "It was a part-time job. I used to break horses during the day." 
    "I give up," I said, and I poured more wine.
    The really irritating thing was that there was something damnably familiar about her. But from her appearance and her behavior, I guessed her age at about seventeen. This pretty much precluded our paths ever having crossed.
    "Did Benedict teach you your fencing?" I asked. 
    "Yes." 
    "What is he to you?"
    "My lover, of course," she replied. "He keeps me in jewels and furs-and he fences with me." She laughed again.
    I continued to study her face. Yes, it was possible. . .. "I am hurt," I said, finally.
    "Why?" she asked.
    "Benedict didn't give me a cigar."
    "Cigar?" 
    "You are his daughter, aren't you?" 
    She reddened, but she shook her head. "No," she said. "But you are getting close." 
    "Granddaughter?" I said. "Well... sort of."
    "I am afraid that I do not understand."
    "Grandfather is what he likes me to call him. Actually, though, he was my grandmother's father." 
    "I see. Are there any others at home like you?"
    "No, I am the only one." 
    "What of your mother-and your grandmother?" 
    "Dead, both of them." 
    "How did they die?"
    "Violently. Both times it happened while he was back in Amber. I believe that is why he has not returned there for a long while now. He does not like to leave me unprotected-even though he knows that I can take care of myself. You know that I can, too, don't you?"
    I nodded. It explained several things, one of them being why he was Protector here. He had to keep her somewhere, and he certainly would not want to take her back to Amber. He would not even want her existence known to the rest of us. She could be made into an easy armlock. And it would be out of keeping to make me aware of her so readily.
    So, "I do not believe that you are supposed to be here," I said, "and I feel that Benedict would be quite angry if he knew that you were."
    "You are just the same as he isl I am an adult, damn it!"
    "Have you heard me deny it? You are supposed to be someplace else, though, aren't you?"
    She filled her mouth instead of answering. So I did, too. After several uncomfortable minutes of chewing, I decided to start on a fresh subject. "How did you recognize me?" I asked. She swallowed, took a drink of wine, grinned. "From your picture, of course," she said. 
    "What picture?"
    "On the card," she said. "We used to play with them when I was very small. I learned all my relatives that way. You and Eric are the other good swordsmen, I knew that. That is why I-"
    "You have a set of the Trumps?" I interrupted.
    "No," she said, pouting. "He wouldn't give me a set -and I know he has several, too."
    "Really? Where does he keep them?"
    She narrowed her eyes, focusing them on my own. Damn! I hadn't meant to sound that eager.
    But, "He has a set with him most of the time," she said, "and I have no idea where he keeps the others. Why? Won't he let you see them?"
    "I haven't asked him," I told her. "Do you understand their significance?"
    "There were certain things I was not allowed to do when I was near them. I gather that they have a special use, but he never told me what it is. They are quite important, aren't they?"     
    "Yes."
    "I thought so. He is always so careful with them. Do you have a set?" 
    "Yes, but it's out on loan just now."
    "I see. And you would like to use them for something complicated and sinister."
    I shrugged.
    "I would like to use them, but for very dull, uncomplicated purposes." 
    "Such as?" I shook my head.
    "If Benedict does not want you to know their function yet, I am not about to tell you."
    She made a small growling noise.
    "You're afraid of him," she said.
    "I have considerable respect for Benedict, not to mention some affection." She laughed.
    "Is he a better fighter than you, a better swordsman?"
    I looked away. She must have just gotten back from someplace fairly removed from things. The townspeople I'd met had all known about Benedict's arm. It was not the sort of news that traveled slowly. I certainly was not going to be the first to tell her.
    "Have it as you would," I said. "Where have you been?"
    "The village," she said, "in the mountains. Grandpa took me there to stay with some friends of his called Tecys. Do you know the Tecys?" 
    "No, I don't."
    "I've been there before," she said. "He always takes me to stay with them in the village when there is any sort of trouble here. The place has no name. I just call it the village. It is quite strange-the people, as well as the village. They seem to-sort of-worship us. They treat me as if I were something holy, and they never tell me anything I want to know. It is not a long ride, but the mountains are different, the sky is different -everything!-and it is as if there were no way back, once I am there. I had tried coming back on my own before, but I just got lost. Grandpa always had to come for me, and then the way was easy. The Tecys follow all of his instructions concerning me. They treat him as if he were some sort of god." 
    "He is," I said, "to them." 
    "You said that you do not know them." 
    "I don't have to. I know Benedict." 
    "How does he do it? Tell me." I shook my head.
    "How did you do it?" I asked her. "How did you get back here this time?"
    She finished her wine and held out the glass. When I looked up from refilling it, her head was cocked toward her right shoulder, her brows were furrowed, and her eyes were focused on something far away.
    "I do not really know," she said, raising the glass and sipping from it automatically, "l am not quite certain how I went about it. . . ."
    With her left hand, she began to toy with her knife, finally picking it up.
    "I was mad, mad as hell for having beed packed off again," she said. "I told him that I wanted to stay here and fight, but he took me riding with him and after a time we arrived at the village. I do not know how. It was not a long ride, and suddenly we were there. I know this area. I was born here, I grew up here. I've ridden all over, hundreds of leagues in all directions. I was never able to find it when I went looking. But it seemed only a brief while that we rode, and suddenly we were at the Tecys' again. But it had been several years, and I can be more determined about things now that I am grown. I resolved to return by myself."
    With the knife, she began scraping and digging at the ground beside her, not seeming to notice what she was doing.
    "I waited till nightfall," she went on, "and studied the stars to take my direction. It was an unreal feeling. The stars were all different. I didn't recognize any of the constellations. I went back inside and thought about it. I was a little bit afraid and did not know what to do. I spent the next day trying to get more information out of the Tecys and the other people in the village. But it was like a bad dream. Either they were stupid or they were purposely trying to confuse me. Not only was there no way to get from there to here, they had no idea where 'here' was and were none too certain about 'there.' That night I checked the stars again, to be sure about what I had seen, and I was about ready to begin believing them."
    She moved the knife back and forth as if honing it now, smoothing the soil and packing it flat. Then she began to trace designs.
    "For the next several days, I tried to find my way back," she continued. "I thought I could locate our trail and backtrack along it, but it just sort of vanished. Then I did the only other thing I could think of. Each morning I struck out in a different direction, rode until noon, then headed back. I came across nothing that was familiar. It was totally bewildering. Each night I went to sleep more angry and upset over the way things were turning out-and more determined to find my own way back to Avalon. I had to show Grandpa that he could no longer dump me like a child and expect me to stay put.
    "Then, after about a week, I began having dreams. Nightmares, sort of. Did you ever dream that you were running and running and not going anyplace? That is sort of what it was like-with the burning spider web. Only it wasn't really a spider web, there was no spider and it wasn't burning. But I was caught in this thing, going around it and through it. But I wasn't really moving. That is not completely right, but I do not know how else to put it. And I had to keep trying- actually, I wanted to-to move about it. When I woke up I was tired, as if I had actually been exerting myself all night long. This went on for many nights, and each night it seemed stronger and longer and more real.
    "Then this morning I got up, the dream still dancing in my head, and I knew that I could ride home. I set out, still half dreaming, it seemed. I rode the entire distance without stopping once, and this time I paid no special heed to my surroundings, but kept thinking of Avalon-and as I rode, things kept getting more and more familiar until I was here again. Only then did it seem as if I were fully awake. Now the village and the Tecys, that sky, those stars, the woods, the mountains, they all seem like a dream to me. I am not at all certain that I could find my way back there. Is that not strange? Can you tell me what happened?" 
    I rose and circled the remains of our lunch. I sat down beside her.
    "Do you remember the looks of the burning spider web that really wasn't a spider web, or burning?" I asked her.
    "Yes-sort of," she said.
    "Give me that knife," I said.
    She passed it to me.
    With its point, I began adding to her doodling in the dirt, extending lines, rubbing some out, adding others. She did not say a word the entire time, but she watched every move that I made. When I had finished, I put the knife aside and waited for a long, silent while. Then, finally, she spoke very softly.
    "Yes, that is it," she said, turning away from the design to stare at me. "How did you know? How did you know what I had dreamed?"
    "Because," I said, "you dreamed a thing that is inscribed in your very genes. Why, how, I do not know. It demonstrates, however, that you are indeed a daughter of Amber. What you did was walk in Shadow. What you dreamed was the Great Pattern of Amber. By its power do those of the blood royal hold dominion over shadows. Do you understand what I am talking about?"
    "I am not certain," she said. "I do not think so. I have heard Grandpa cursing shadows, but I never understood what he meant."
    "Then you do not know where Amber truly lies." 
    "No. He was always evasive. He told me of Amber and of the family. But I do not even know the direction in which Amber lies. I only know that it is far." 
    "It lies in all directions," I said, "or any direction one chooses. One need but-"
    "Yes!" she interrupted. "I had forgotten, or thought he was just being mysterious or humoring me, but Brand said exactly the same thing a long while ago. What does it mean, though?" 
    "Brand! When was Brand here?"
    "Years ago," she said, "when I was just a little girl. He used to visit here often. I was very much in love with him and I pestered him mercilessly. He used to tell me stories, teach me games . . ."
    "When was the last time you saw him?" 
    "Oh, eight or nine years ago. I'd say."
    "Have you met any of the others?"
    "Yes," she said. "Julian and Gerard were here not too long ago. Just a few months back." 
    I suddenly felt very insecure. Benedict had certainly been quiet about a lot of things. I would rather have been ill advised than kept totally ignorant of affairs. It makes it easier for you to be angry when you find out. The trouble with Benedict was that he was too honest, though. He would rather tell me nothing than lie to me. I felt something unpleasant coming my way, however, and knew that there could be no dawdling now, that I would have to move as quickly as possible. Yes, it had to be a hard hellride for the stones. Still, there was more to be learned here before I essayed it. Time . . . Damn!
    "Was that the first time that you met them?" I asked.
    "Yes," she said, "and my feelings were very hurt." She paused, sighed. "Grandpa would not let me speak of our being related. He introduced me as his ward. And he refused to tell me why. Damn it!"
    "I'm sure he had some very good reasons."
    "Oh, I am too. But it does not make you feel any better, when you have been waiting all your life to meet your relatives. Do you know why he treated me like that?"
    "These are trying times in Amber," I said, "and things will get worse before they get better. The fewer people who know of your existence, the less chance there is of your getting involved and coming to harm. He did it only to protect you." She made a spitting noise.
    "I do not need protecting," she said. "I can take care of myself."
    "You are a fine fencer," I said. "Unfortunately, life is more complicated than a fair dueling situation." 
    "I know that. I'm not a child. But-"
    " 'But' nothing! He did the same thing I'd do if you were mine. He's protecting himself as well as you. I'm surprised he let Brand know about you. He's going to be damned mad that I found out." Her head jerked and she stared at me, eyes wide.
    "But you wouldn't do anything to hurt us," she said. "We-we're related . "
    "How the hell do you know why I'm here or what I'm thinking?" I said. "You might have just stuck both your necks in nooses!"
    "You are joking, aren't you?" she said, slowly raising her left hand between us.
    "I don't know," I said. "I need not be-and I wouldn't be talking about it if I did have something rotten in mind, would I?"
    "No. . . I guess not," she said.
    "I am going to tell you something Benedict should have told you long ago," I said. "Never trust a relative. It is far worse than trusting strangers. With a stranger there is a possibility that you might be safe." 
    "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."
    "Those are all the things Grandpa told me not to do when I handle the cards!"
    "Of course." 
    "How does it work?"
    "Another time," I said. "A thing for a thing. Remember? I have told you now of Amber and of Shadow. Tell me of the visit here by Gerard and Julian." 
    "Yes," she said. "There is not really much to tell, though. One morning, five or six months ago. Grandpa simply stopped what he was doing. He was pruning some trees back in the orchard-he likes to do that himself-and I was helping him. He was up on a ladder, snipping away, and suddenly he just stopped, lowered the clippers, and did not move for several minutes. I thought that he was just resting, and I kept on with my raking. Then I heard him talking-not just muttering-but talking as though he were carrying on a conversation. At first, I thought he was talking to me, and I asked him what he had said. He ignored me, though. Now that I know about the Trumps, I realize that he must have been talking to one of them just then. Probably Julian. Anyway, he climbed down from the ladder quite quickly after that, told me he had to go away for a day or so, and started back toward the manor. He stopped before he had gone very far, though, and returned. That was when he told me that if Julian and Gerard were to visit here that I was to be introduced as his ward, the orphaned daughter of a faithful servant. He rode away a short while later, leading two spare horses. He was wearing his blade.
    "He returned in the middle of the night, bringing both of them with him. Gerard was barely conscious. His left leg was broken, and the entire left side of his body was badly bruised. Julian was quite battered also, but-he had no broken bones. They remained with us for the better part of a month, and they healed quickly. Then they borrowed two horses and departed. I have not seen them since."
    "What did they say as to how they had been injured?"
    "Only that they had been in an accident They would not discuss it with me." 
    "Where? Where did it happen?"
    "On the black road. I overheard them talking about it several times." 
    "Where is this black road?" 
    "I do not know." 
    "What did they say about it?" 
    "They cursed it a lot. That was all." 
    Looking down, I saw that there was some wine left in the bottle. I stooped and poured two final drinks, passed her one.
    "To the reunion," I said, and smiled.
    ". . . The reunion," she agreed, and we drank.
    She began cleaning the area and I assisted her, my earlier sense of urgency upon me once again.
    "How long should I wait before I try to reach you?" she asked.
    "Three months. Give me three months."
    "Where will you be then?"
    "In Amber, I hope."
    "How long will you be staying here?"
    "Not very. In fact, I have to take a little trip right now. I should be back tomorrow, though. I will probably only be staying for a few days after that."
    "I wish you would stay longer."
    "I wish that I could. I would like to, now that I have met you."
    She reddened and turned what seemed all of her attention to repacking the basket. I gathered up the fencing gear.
    "Are you going back to the manor now?" she said. 
    "To the stables. I'll be leaving immediately." 
    She picked up the basket.
    "We will go together then. My horse is this way." I nodded and followed her toward a footpath to our right.
    "I suppose," she said, "that it would be best for me not to mention any of this to anybody. Grandpa in particular?" 
    "That would be prudent."
    The splash and gurgle of the stream, as it flowed to the river, on its way to the sea, faded, faded, was gone, and only the creak of the land-locked wheel that cut it as it went, remained for a time in the air.