Sign of the Unicorn

«Corwin. Also of Amber. Don't move! I did not ask who you are-»

«Corwin is dead these many centuries. I have seen his tomb.»

«Empty.»

«Not so. His body lies within.»

«Give me your lineage!»

Her eyes move to her right, where the shade of Benedict still stands. A blade has appeared in his new hand, seeming almost an extension of it, but he holds it loosely, casually. His left hand now rests on her arm. His eyes seek me in back of Grayswandir's hilt. Failing, they go again to that which is visible - Grayswandir - recognizing its design…

«I am the great-granddaughter of Benedict and the hellmaid Lintra, whom he loved and later slew.» Benedict winces at this, but She continues. «I never knew her. My mother and my mother's mother were born in a place where time does not run as in Amber. I am the first of my mother's line to bear all the marks of humanity. And you, Lord Corwin, are but a ghost from a long dead past, albeit a dangerous shade. How you came here, I do not know. But it was wrong of you. Return to your grave. Trouble not the living.»

My hand wavers. Grayswandir strays no more than half an inch. Yet that is sufficient.

Benedict's thrust is below my threshold of perception. His new arm drives the new hand that holds the blade that strikes Grayswandir, as his old arm draws his old hand, which has seized upon Dara, back across the arm of the throne… This subliminal impression reaches me moments later, as I fall back, catting air, recover and strike an en garde, reflexively… It is ridiculous for a pair of ghosts to fight. Here, it is uneven. He cannot even reach me, whereas Grayswandir-

But no! His blade changes hands as he releases Dara and pivots, bringing them together, old hand and new. His left wrist rotates as he slides it forward and down, moving into what would be corps a corps, were we two facing mortal bodies. For a moment our guards are locked. That moment is enough…

That gleaming, mechanical hand comes forward, a thing of moonlight and fire, blackness and smoothness, all angles, no curves, fingers slightly flexed, palm silverscribbled with a half-familiar design, comes forward, comes forward and catches at my throat…

Missing, the fingers catch my shoulder and the thumb goes hooking - whether for clavicle or larynx, I do not know. I throw one punch with my left, toward his midsection, and there is nothing there…

The voice of Random: «Corwin! The sun is about to rise! You've got to come down now!»

I cannot even answer. A second or two and that hand would tear away whatever it held. That hand… Grayswandir and that hand, which strangely resembles it, are the only two things which seem to coexist in my world and the city of ghosts…

«I see it, Corwin! Pull away and reach for me! The Trump-»

I spin Grayswandir out of the bind and bring it around and down in a long, slashing arc…

Only a ghost could have beaten Benedict or Benedict's ghost with that maneuver. We stand too close for him to block my blade, but his countercut, perfectly placed, would have removed my arm, had there been an arm there to meet it…

As there is not, I complete the stroke, delivering the blow with the full force of my right arm, high upon that lethal device of moonlight and fire, blackness and smoothness, near to the point where it is joined with him.

With an evil tearing at my shoulder, the arm comes away from Benedict and grows still… We both fall.

«Get up! By the unicorn, Corwin, get up! The sun is rising! The city will come apart about you!»

The floor beneath me wavers to and from a misty transparency. I glimpse a light-scaled expanse of water. I roll to my feet, barely avoiding the ghost's rush to clutch at the arm he has lost. It clings like a dead parasite and my side is hurting again…

Suddenly I am heavy and the vision of ocean does not fade. I begin to sink through the floor. Color returns to the world, wavering stripes of pink. The Corwin-spurning floor parts and the Corwin-killing gulf is opened…

I fall…

«This way, Corwin! Now!»

Random stands on a mountaintop and reaches for me. I extend my hand…

CHAPTER 11

…And frying pans without fires are often far between…

We untangled ourselves and rose. I sat down again immediately, on the bottommost stair. I worked the metal hand loose from my shoulder - no blood there, but a promise of bruises to come - then cast it and its arm to the ground. The light of early morning did not detract from its exquisite and menacing appearance.

Ganelon and Random stood beside me.

«You all right, Corwin?»

«Yes. Just let me catch my breath.»

«I brought food,» Random said. «We could have breakfast right here.»

«Good idea.»

As Random began unpacking provisions, Ganelon nudged the arm with the toe of his boot.

«What the hell,» he asked, «is that?»

I shook my head.

«I lopped it off the ghost of Benedict,» I told him. «For reasons I do not understand, it was able to reach me.»

He stooped and picked it up, studied it.