Chapter 20

When we returned to camp, I just stood and stared in amazement. The changes were nothing short of miraculous. An army of stonemasons, carpenters, and other workmen must have descended on Amber during our brief absence—scaffolding had been built along the outer walls, and derricks had already begun moving huge blocks of stone into place. Inside the walls, one wing of the castle had gone up. Dozens of workers on the roof installed red slate shingles.

“The king! The king!” a voice cried.

Work halted as hundreds of workmen turned and craned to see me. They cheered. I gave an uneasy wave.

A moment later, Aber and Freda came running through the opening where the front gates would go. They raced down the winding dirt road to us. Freda gave me a huge hug. She had begun to cry. Grinning, Aber pounded me on the back.

“About time!” he cried. “Where have you been?”

“All this—” I waved at the castle. “How did you do it?”

“Hard work.” He shook his head. “More of it than I've ever done before.”

Freda let go of me and stood back. “Welcome back,” she said. “Where did you find him, Father?”

I looked at the two of them. “Why are you making such a fuss? I've only been gone an hour!”

“An hour!” Aber laughed. “Oberon—you've been gone for four months!”

“Impossible!”

“The Feynim,” Dad murmured. “I had no idea…”

Freda shuddered. “You did not make a bargain with those creatures—” she began.

“No. They refused to help us,” I said.

“Good. We want nothing to do with them.”

“Tell me—what has happened here?” I stared again at the castle. “All of this, and so fast!”

“Believe it or not,” Aber said proudly, “we are actually three days ahead of schedule. Now that you are back, things should go more smoothly.”

I didn't like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“There have been some problems,” he admitted. “Come inside. I'll show you around and tell you all about it.”

Freda nodded. “Go on, Oberon. I have a few matters to discuss with Father.”

“Very well.” I looked at Aber. “Lead on. I want to see and hear about everything I've missed.”

As soon as we were out of earshot, my brother's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Blaise is gone.”

“What! Where?”

“I don't know. She disappeared one night. Just up and vanished. She took all of her possessions with her… I'm not sure if she went back to Chaos or is hiding in one of the Shadows.”

I sighed. “I can't believe it.”

“And,” he went on gravely, “Uthor knows where we are. There have been problems… sabotage in the construction. All our mules and horses were poisoned one night. And dozens of workmen have been killed. It hasn't been pleasant.”

“Where is Conner?”

“In the forest with the army. There have been a few skirmishes with Uthor's forces. Scouts, he thinks. Uthor is spying on us.” He swallowed. “Dad and Conner have been trying to keep on top of things, but—”

“What do you mean about Dad?” I asked, puzzled. “He's been with me.”

“You're crazy. I had breakfast with him twenty minutes ago!”

“What!” I stopped dead in my tracks.

“He went to his room to work, and a few minutes later he showed up outside with you. Didn't he go get you, then return with a Trump?”

“No. He was with the Feynim. I went and got him.”

Aber swallowed. “One of them is an imposter.”

I drew my sword. “Show me his room. Maybe he's still there.”

“This way!”

Turning, he raced between stacks of lumber, piles of stone, and stacks of red roofing tiles. I followed him through a doorless entryway where carpenters were busily laying a plank floor, then up a partly finished staircase. He turned right at the top and entered a wide corridor. Plasterers on ladders were at work on the walls and ceiling. They gave us curious glances as we dashed past.

“Here,” Aber said, stopping in front of a high closed door.

I tried the handle, but it had been locked from the inside. Taking a step back, I gave it a savage kick. It flew open with a loud crash, and I sprang in with my sword held high.

With a single glance, I took in the canopied bed, the long table littered with scrolls, blueprints, and other papers, and the wardrobe in the corner. The imposter was nowhere in sight. I stalked over to the wardrobe and threw its doors open, but aside from a few neatly folded shirts, pants, and undergarments, it lay empty.

Where could he have gone? I crossed to the window, in case he had jumped out, but saw no one below except workmen carrying stacks of lumber.

“Any idea where else he might be?” I asked.

“No. He did have a stack of Trumps, though… I saw him carrying them.”

I nodded. “He must have heard the watchman shouting when Dad and I arrived. Probably grabbed whatever he needed, used his Trump, and fled back to Chaos.”

“I can't believe he fooled Freda and me!” Aber muttered, shaking his head. Then he gave a snort. “I don't suppose mine was the real one and yours is the imposter?”

“No. Mine is the real Dworkin. I know it.”

We regarded each other soberly for a moment. Then I remembered the Feynim, my spikard-ring, and all the questions Dad hadn't been willing or able to answer. Maybe my brother could help.

“Can you tell me anything about the Feynim?” I asked him.

“Not much.” He frowned. “Nobody has heard from them in generations, not since they mopped the floor with King Ythoc. They're mostly legends now… bogeymen to scare little children. How did Dad get in touch with them, anyway?”

“I don't know. They seemed interested in the Pattern.”

He nodded slowly. “That makes sense. They would be interested in a new primal power.”

“Do you mean the Pattern?”

“Yes. They were interested in the Logrus… that's what led to the fight with King Ythoc. They wanted to see it. He refused and invaded their lands. Ten years of fighting followed.”

“Dad let them see the Pattern.”

“Probably a wise move.” He frowned. “I wonder if they ever did see the Logrus…”

“Why would they be interested?”

“Who knows. It's not like they need it—they have their Keye, of course.”

“Keye?”

“You know—like the old nursery rhyme. 'What turns no lock but opens all doors? The Feynim Keye of course…' “ His voice trailed off.

“I've never heard that before,” I said.

“It's just nonsense for kids.” He shrugged. “A grain of truth wrapped in sugar and rhyme.”

We spent an hour searching the castle and its surrounding lands, but found no trace of the fake Dworkin. I wasn't surprised; he must have returned to Chaos and made his report to King Uthor by now. Every plan and word and deed made in the castle over the last four months would now be known in Chaos.

Angry and sick at heart, I called Conner through his Trump and brought him back immediately. Four months had changed him enormously. No longer thin and weak from starvation, he had filled out with new muscle and sported a short brown beard, shoulder-length hair, and a sun-bronzed face. He had assumed command of the army and begun setting up our defenses—which included hourly patrols along all the natural borders surrounding Amber, a line of guardposts, and cutting several roads for supplying troops. All in all, a good start.

“It's nice to have you back,” he said, sipping the wine I poured for him. “I don't want to be king.”

“King?”

“Dad—the imposter, I mean—kept telling me that you weren't coming back. That I had to take the crown for myself.”

I chuckled. “I'm glad you didn't! It's only been a few hours for me since I left. The changes everywhere…” I shook my head. “I'm impressed. Everyone seems to have pitched in.”

“Except Blaise. She never liked it here.” He made a face. “We're better off without her.”

“Am I the only one who likes her?” I said with a laugh.

“I think so!”

I shook my head, remembering the trouble she had in getting used to this Shadow. Wherever she was, I wished her well.

After a few more pleasantries had been exchanged, Conner continued telling Dad and me about our new army. It numbered just over ten thousand so far, with most of them stationed along the forest.

“I don't think we will have much longer to wait before Uthor acts,” Conner said. “My men have run across his scouts half a dozen times so far.”

“Did you question them?” I asked.

“They fought to the death.”

“I am surprised Uthor has waited this long,” Dad said. “It is not like him.”

“There must be a reason.” I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully. “Will it be an open attack? Like the one in Juniper?”

“A thousand time worse,” Dad said. “That one was designed to look like a minor personal vendetta, carried out against me personally by a single Lord of Chaos. This time we will face an attack from the throne, with the full force of Chaos behind it.”

“Then we will need fighters,” I said.

“A lot more of them,” Conner agreed. “A hundred thousand couldn't hold Juniper. Must we have a million? Ten million?”

“We will raise as many as we need,” I said grimly. “In that, we have an advantage over Chaos. We can recruit from all the Shadows we want, and quickly.”

Dad said, “True…”

I turned to Conner. “Is there someone you can leave in charge of the army for a few days? I need you off in Shadow recruiting more soldiers, too.”

He nodded. “I have several lieutenants I trust.”

“Good. Assign one to the castle and one to the borders.”

“I will go, too,” Dad said. “And I will take Freda with me.”

“Freda?”

“She can be quite persuasive.”

“All right. We need all the help we can get.”

“What about Aber?” Conner asked.

I frowned. “Someone must stay here to supervise the workers. Fighting isn't to his taste or talents, anyway. He wouldn't know what to look for in an army.”

Half an hour later, I walked alone toward the forest, away from the castle, letting my imagination soar. A hint of mauve in the leaves, a twist of the trail, and the world began to flow and change around me. Taller trees. Oaks giving way to pines. A rocky ground. And people… most especially people.

Each new element I introduced to the landscape brought me closer to my goal. I kept my destination firmly in mind… a land of beautiful fields, clear skies, and matchless warrior-priests, who worshipped me as a god. If such a place existed in Shadow, I would find it.

The forest trail opened onto a road made of jet-black stone. As I walked over a hill, fields of wheat and rye spread out before me as far as I could see, worked by thousands of slaves from conquered nations. Overhead, an eagle soared, its voice raucous.

A pair of golden chariots pulled by high-stepping black horses sped toward me. Two men stood inside each chariot, their long moustaches and golden hair whipping behind them.

I paused in the middle of the road, hands on my hips, waiting patiently. The large yellow sun warmed my back. Scents of thyme and wild lavender rode the breeze. This was a pleasant Shadow; I wouldn't have minded living here.

The two carriages skidded to a halt ten paces from where I stood. Four men—one old, three young, all dressed in beautiful golden armor—leaped to the ground and knelt before me.

They had to be King Olam and his three sons. I knew all their names, just as I knew the history of their world. It had come into my mind, and I had sought it out, following a path through Shadows until everything matched my vision.

Thus had I come to the Kingdom of Ceyoldar… where millions worshipped a warrior-god named Oberon who happened to look just like me.

“Rise, Aslom,” I said, trying to sound godlike. My voice hung in the air, low and powerful. “I am Oberon, returned to lead my chosen people to glory!”

Aslom stood slowly, scarcely daring to gaze upon my face. He looked every day of his fifty-five years. Although decades spent outdoors on military campaign had creased and weathered his face, his eyes spoke of a pleasant temper and a keen intellect. The broken nose and long white scars on his hands and along his left cheek and jawline spoke of battles fought through the years. He was the greatest king and warrior his people had ever known.

“Most exalted Oberon, Lord of Light, Shaper of Dreams!” King Aslom cried, trembling slightly with awe and fear. “Our lives are yours! Command us, I beg you! We live to serve you!”

I gazed beyond him to the three younger men still kneeling in the road with their eyes respectfully downcast. Only the youngest dared to cast wondering glances at me when he thought my attention lay elsewhere. They shared his sharp-hewn features, but few of his battle-scars. Give them time…

“You brought your sons,” I said, smiling.

“All is as the prophecy said, Lord Oberon!”

“All?” I asked. This would be the test. “Where is your fourth son, King Aslom?”

“You must tell me, Lord!”

The sharp twang of a bowstring sounded behind me. I had known it was coming, but it still surprised me. All gods needed to be tested now and again to prove their divinity. An arrow in the back would be my test.

I whirled, arms a blur, turning faster than any mere man could ever move. Time seemed to be slowing down as I focused on the arrow heading straight for me. It whistled faintly as it flew, a black shaft with black fletching, its barbed arrowhead tipped in gold. How fitting for a god.

I snatched it from the air before it could strike me and continued my pirouette. I wound up facing King Aslom again. He gaped, eyes wide, hardly able to believe what he had just seen. A miracle to them… a trick of speed and coordination for me, as easy as catching a ball.

Then fear began to replace joy in his expression. I was the god, and on his order, his son had just tried to kill me. What would I do? What punishment fit this crime?

“A fair shot, but it will take far more than an arrow to kill me,” I said easily, letting a note of amusement creep into my voice. Better to treat it as a joke and let him off the hook. Tightening my fist, I snapped the arrow in half, then tossed it casually at his feet. “Bring forth your first-born son,” I continued. “I want to look upon him.”

“Iankos!” cried King Aslom. “Join us!”

Still pale, Aslom knelt again and bowed his head. He dared not look at my face—I couldn't blame him for his shame. Things were going even better than I had hoped.

Iankos—a lanky version of his father—trotted out from the bushes behind me and joined his brother, kneeling with eyes turned down.

“Command us, Lord Oberon!” King Aslom cried. “How may we serve you?”

His sons looked startled when I called each by name: “Iankos. Eitheon. Lymnos. Haetor. Stand and let me look upon your faces.”

They rose slowly, the three eldest daring now to gaze upon me with awe and wonder. The youngest, Haetor, had a curious expression somewhere between suspicion and disbelief. There had to be an unbeliever in every family, after all. Despite my trick with the arrow, he still had doubts. If I could convince him, they would all be won to my cause.

“You do not believe the prophecies about me,” I said to Haetor, smiling. “It is good to be skeptical.”

“Lord Oberon!” he protested. “I do believe!”

“You want to test me,” I said. I drew my sword in a smooth motion. “Do not protest. I see it in your heart.”

“Most exalted one—” he began uncertainly.

“Draw your blade, Haetor,” I said in a kindly voice. “You will not be satisfied until you have tried your steel against mine. This I know.”

King Aslom threw himself at my feet. “Spare him, Most Revered Oberon!” he gasped, eyes desperate. “He is young and rash!”

Aslom's other sons shifted unhappily. I glanced at them and smiled. Had their father commanded, I knew they would have drawn their swords to protect Haetor from me… even at the cost of their own lives. Such loyalty would serve me well against Chaos.

“Be at ease, good King Aslom,” I said softly, so only he could hear. Haetor must be his favorite, I decided. I would play to his emotions. “Your son is not destined to die this day, but he must learn his place if he is to serve me. I have important plans for his sword. In years to come, he will become my strong right hand. As will you. I have need of you all.”

“Thank you!” Aslom whispered. “Thank you!”

I looked at Haetor and motioned him forward. The boy swallowed audibly. Clearly he was having second thoughts about facing a man who might be a god.

“Draw your sword,” I told him. “Would you slay me this day?”

Haetor knelt suddenly, blushing furiously. “Forgive me, Most Exalted Oberon!” he cried.

“Rise!” I said sharply. “Draw, Haetor! Show me what a warrior-prince can do! Or are you a coward, ashamed of your meager talents?”

He climbed to his feet. Then, in a single fluid movement, he drew his sword and attacked.

I had wanted a race of warriors. I had deliberately sought out a Shadow where the strongest, fastest, bravest swordsmen lived… where they worshipped me as a god. But I never imagined how fast Haetor would move—or how brilliant a natural swordsman he might be. With the supple grace of a dancer, he launched a blistering attack that would have overwhelmed lesser men. I fought defensively, slowly giving ground before him, watching the darting tip of his blade for an opening. It moved like a hummingbird, left and right, up and down, testing my defenses and my speed. Other than my father, I had never seen a finer fighter. His enthusiasm, finesse, and technique could not be faulted.

But neither could mine. For every move he made, I had a counter. If his sword hummed with speed, mine sang. If his footwork dazzled, mine shone brighter than the sun. We fought differently, but the match was still uneven.

Finally, I saw the faintest of hesitations. His sword turned slightly out of position following my riposte, and his recovery had a second's hesitation. I knew, then, that his arm had grown tired.

I leaped at him. Sparks flew as steel rang oh steel. I advanced, falling into a deadly rhythm—thrust, thrust, lunge—thrust, thrust, lunge. He fell back, and his face showed sudden alarm.

Then, with a twist of my wrist, I ripped the sword from his hand through sheer strength of muscle. It went sailing through the air and landed point-down in the field to our left. Slowly, it rocked back and forth.

Haetor gazed dumbly after it, clutching his right hand to his chest. Then he faced me bravely, standing tall as he waited unflinchingly for my death-blow.

Swifter than he could follow, I dropped my own sword and closed with him. My left hand seized his throat while my right hand grabbed his armored stomach. Like a child lifting a doll, I raised him over my head.

“Listen well, princeling,” I said softly, so only he could hear. “I can crush the life from your throat, or pluck your heart from your chest as easily as you can pick an apple from a tree. Your life is mine to give or take. Do you understand what that means?”

“Y-yes, Lord Oberon!” he whispered. His face had gone pale.

“Gods,” I continued, voice low, eyes narrowing, “are quite hard to kill. Remember that.”

He began to shake with fear. I saw belief in his eyes… and sheer terror as he realized suddenly life and death lay solely in my hands. I had but to close my fist and his throat would be crushed. I had but to press my fingers another few inch into his chest and his heart would fail.

I tossed him twenty feet, into his brothers' arms. They staggered, but caught him and set him down. As he reeled dizzily, I threw back my head and laughed.

“You will do well, young Haetor!” I said. That sounded like something a god would say to a loyal subject. “I have seen your future, and it is glorious!” I wished it were true. What did his future hold?

Haetor fell to his knees before me. “I swear to serve you for the rest of my life, Lord Oberon. Command me. I am yours!”

“Retrieve your sword,” I said. “We must all return to the city. Aslom?” I faced his father again.

“Yes, Lord Oberon?” He still looked greatly relieved that I had spared his youngest son.

“Tonight we will celebrate my arrival. Tomorrow you will begin gathering in your armies.”

“You will lead us into battle?” he cried eagerly.

“Yes!”

“Against what foe?”

“The hell-creatures of Chaos!”

“Against the hell-creatures!” he shouted. His sons drew their swords and raised them, taking up the cry: “Against the hell-creatures! Against the hell-creatures of Chaos!”