The Hand Of Oberon

«Offhand then,» said Random, moving back, «I would say that his work leaves something to be desired.» He gestured at the dark area. «Which is understandable, if he is this friendly to anyone who doesn't eat oats and whinny.»

«My guess is that he is quite selective. It is also possible that he was set here after the damage was done, to defend against further unappreciated activity.»

«Who set him?»

«I'd like to know myself. Someone on our side, apparently.»

«You can now test your theory further by letting Ganelon approach him.»

Ganelon did not move.

«It may be you have a family smell about you,» he finally said, «and he only favors Amberites. So I will pass, thank you.»

«All right. It is not that important. Your guesses have been good so far. How do you interpret events?»

«Of the two factions out for the throne,» he said, «that composed of Brand, Fiona, and Bleys was, as you said, more aware of the nature of the forces that play about Amber. Brand did not supply you with particulars - unless you omitted some incidents he might have related - but my guess is that this damage to the Pattern represents the means by which their allies gained access to your realm. One or more of them did that damage, which provided the dark route. If the watchdog here responds to a family smell or some other identifying information you all possess, then he could actually have been here all along and not seen fit to move against the despoilers.»

«Possibly,» Random observed. «Any idea how it was accomplished?»

«Perhaps,» he replied. «I will let you demonstrate it for me, if you are willing.»

«What does it involve?»

«Come this way,» he said, turning and heading over to the edge of the Pattern.

I followed him. Random did the same. The watchgriffin slunk at my side. Ganelon turned and extended his hand.

«Corwin, may I trouble you for that dagger I fetched us?»

«Here,» I said, drawing it from my belt and passing it over.

«I repeat, what does it involve?» Random inquired.

«The blood of Amber,» Ganelon replied.

«I am not so sure I like this idea,» Random said.

«All you have to do is prick your finger with it,» he said, extending the blade, «and let a drop fall upon the Pattern.»

«What will happen?»

«Let's try it and see.»

Random looked at me.

«What do you say?» he asked.

«Go ahead. Let's find out. I'm intrigued.»

He nodded.

«Okay.»

He received the blade from Ganelon and nicked the tip of his left little finger. He squeezed the finger then, holding it above the Pattern. A tiny red bead appeared, grew larger, quivered, fell.

Immediately, a wisp of smoke rose from the spot where it struck, accompanied by a tiny crackling noise.

«I'll be damned!» said Random, apparently fascinated.

A tiny stain had come into being, gradually spreading to about the size of a half dollar.

«There you are,» said Ganelon. «That is how it was done.»

The stain was indeed a miniature counterpart of the massive blot further to our right. The watchgrifiin gave forth a small shriek and drew back, rapidly turning his head from one of us to the other.

«Easy, fellow. Easy,» I said, reaching out and calming him once more.

«But what could have caused such a large -» Random began, and then he nodded slowly.

«What indeed?» said Ganelon. «I see no mark to show where your horse was destroyed.»

«The blood of Amber,» Random said. «You are just full of insights today, aren't you?»

«Ask Corwin to tell you of Lorraine, the place where I dwelled for so long,» he said, «the place where the dark circle grew. I am alert to the effects of those powers, though I knew them then only at a distance. These matters have become clearer to me with each new thing I have learned from you. Yes, I have insights now that I know more of these workings. Ask Corwin of the mind of his general.»

«Corwin,» Random said, «give me the pierced Trump.»

I withdrew it from my pocket and smoothed it. The stains seemed more ominous now. Another thing also struck me. I did not believe that it had been executed by Dworkin, sage, mage, artist, and one-time mentor to the children of Oberon. It had not occurred to me until that moment that anyone else might be capable of producing one. While the style of this one did seem somehow familiar, it was not his work. Where had I seen that deliberate line before, less spontaneous than the master's, as though every movement had been totally intellectualized before the pen touched the paper? And there was something else wrong with it-a quality of idealization of a different order from that of our own Trumps, almost as if the artist had been working with old memories, glimpses, or descriptions rather than a living subject.

«The Trump, Corwin. If you please,» Random said.

There was that about the way in which he said it to make me hesitate. It gave rise to the feeling that he was somehow a jump ahead of me on something important, a feeling which I did not like at all.

«I've petted old ugly here for you, and I've just bled for the cause, Corwin. Now let's have it.»