The Chronicles of Amber by Roger Zelazny Page A

loved here, we are lost, and we have delivered ourselves into the hands of our enemies. But I feel he is not loved here. So we come asking aid, gentle Moire—”
    “I will not give you troops to assault Amber.” she replied. “As you know, the chaos would be reflected within my own realm.”
    “That is not what we would have of you, dear Moire,” Deirdre continued, “but only a small thing, to be achieved at no pain or cost to yourself or your subjects.”
    “Name it! For as you know, Eric is almost as disliked here as this recreant who stands at your left hand,” and with this she gestured at my brother, who stared at her in frank and insolent appraisal, a small smile playing about the corners of his lips.
    If he was going to pay—whatever the price—for whatever he had done, I could see that he would pay it like a true prince of Amber—as our three dead brothers had done ages ago, I suddenly recalled. He would pay it, mocking them the while, laughing though his mouth was filled with the blood of his body, and as he died he would pronounce an irrevocable curse which would come to pass. I, too, had this power, I suddenly knew, and I would use it if circumstances required its use.
    “The thing I would ask,” she said, “is for my brother Corwin, who is also brother to the Lady Llewella, who dwells here with you. I believe that he has never given you offense. . . .”
    “That is true. But why does he not speak for himself?”
    “That is a part of the problem, Lady. He cannot, for he does, not know what to ask. Much of his memory has departed, from an accident which occurred when he dwelled among Shadows. It is to restore his remembrance that we have come here, to bring back his recollection of the old days, that he might oppose Eric in Amber.”
    “Continue,” said the woman on the throne, regarding me through the shadows of her lashes on her eyes.
    “In a place in this building,” she said, “there is a room where few would go. In that room,” she continued, “upon the floor, traced in fiery outline, there lies a duplicate of the thing we call the Pattern. Only a son or daughter of Amber’s late liege may walk this Pattern and live; and it gives to such a person a power over Shadow.” Here Moire blinked several times, and I speculated as to the number of her subjects she had sent upon that path, to gain some control of this power for Rebma. Of course, she had failed. “To walk the Pattern,” Deirdre went on, “should, we feel, restore to Corwin his memory of himself as a prince of Amber. He cannot go to Amber to do it, and this is the only place I know where it is duplicated, other than Tir-na Nog’th, where of course we may not go at this time.”
    Moire turned her gaze upon my sister, swept it over Random, returned it to me.
    “Is Corwin willing to essay this thing?” she asked.
    I bowed.
    “Willing, m’lady,” I said, and she smiled then.
    “Very well, you have my permission. I can guarantee you no guarantees of safety beyond my realm, however.”
    “As to that, your majesty,” said Deirdre, “we expect no boons, but will take care of it ourselves upon our departure.”
    “Save for Random,” she said, “who will be quite safe.”
    “What mean you?” asked Deirdre, for Random would not. of course, speak for himself under the circumstances.
    “Surely you recall, she said, “that one time Prince Random came into my realm as a friend, and did thereafter depart in haste with my daughter Morganthe.”
    “I have heard this said. Lady Moire, but I am not aware of the truth or the baseness of the tale.”
    “It is true,” said Moire, “and a month thereafter was she returned to me. Her suicide came some months after the birth of her son Martin. What have you to say to that, Prince Random?”
    “Nothing,” said Random.
    “When Martin came of age,” said Moire, “because he was of the blood of Amber, he determined to walk the Pattern. He is the only one of my people to have