The Art of the Game

written by Robert Wayne McCoy

Standing before the large picture window, shrouded in the night's darkness, for a time he watched the lightening dance over the mountains. The inner secrets of his ponderings were, as always, his own, to be disclosed in his fashion. When the mood would come over him, he would write, but not now. Now he watched.

The storm brought no rain yet, but something else... yes, an odd feeling, one with an edge to it, not unlike the proverb of the two sided sword, the man watching decided. A mischievous smile found it's way to his face as the excitement of all the possibilities this night might bring raced through his mind.

This slim man, wearing dark jeans and a maroon flannel shirt, turned suddenly from where he had stood at the window of his study and moved to turn on a light by his desk. The desk, built into the wall and facing the window, was arranged to his liking; his favorite typewriter with a stack of paper beside it, the book of poetry he was currently reading, a chess board and mahogany box filled with pieces, and a deck of trump cards fanned out evenly, face up. The major arcana of this deck depicted the members of a royal family he knew intimately, most of them even better than they knew themselves. Smiling, the man reached instead for the book entitled A Shropshire Lad. In the moments left to him, he would read; for no matter what else went on, there was always time for a good book.

*

Outside.

Forces played and that thing named nature was but one. In one instant, lightening continued to claw and tear over the pinon and juniper covered slopes of the mountains. An empty asphalt driveway in a lingering flash was shown to be deserted.

The next instant.

A flash of lightening illuminated the sky much as the opening of a stage curtain only to fade and be replaced by another flash; a black booted foot completed a step. The man, dark haired, dressed in silver and black, who seemed to have walked from nowhere, regarded the vista with eyes of green, his gaze stopping on the house up the drive. Only one light was on, toward the side of the house. There, he knew, was his destination this night. With his left hand he adjusted the silver rose clasp holding his cloak about his neck, his right rested easily on the hilt of his sheathed sabre. The metal hilt and equally gray blade, both the color of smoke, were contrasted by the bright, scaled gloves of silver looped over his belt. The man sighed heavily. He was tired and hungry and the frustrating events of the last few days had put him in a dark mood. Suddenly, there was darting movement to his left flank.

He reacted in speed and assurance, with cool confidence. Bending both knees, hands outstretched to receive a pouncing form from the shadows. Standing upright, the man, for the first time in many days, grinned easily, holding the cat in his arms. He found just the right place to scratch to elicit a steady contented purr.

Cat in hand, the man took the final steps of a very long journey.

*

The inevitable knock came.

"Come in, come in. The door's unlocked," said the seated man. He rose from his desk to greet his guest after closing one of it's drawers, placing the trump deck inside.

The door opened a moment later and the man in silver and black took a step into the converted two car garage. At a glance he surveyed the room, seemed satisfied and his eyes meet those of his soft spoken host.

"Corwin, welcome. And thank you for bringing Amber inside."

"Amber? You named a cat after Amber?"

Corwin couldn't hide the growing smirk.

"Yes, I did," answered the slim man.

"Your cutting wit must be the reason I've liked you all these years."

"I prefer natural charm, actually."

"Touché." Corwin set Amber down and moved to shake his host's extended hand. "Roger. How have you been?"

"Creative at times, and yourself, Prince Corwin? Or is it King, now?"

Amber prowled over to the picture window overlooking the Sangre de Christo mountains and began to settle in a favorite spot. "Neither. I prefer just Corwin. Let's forget about all the political crap, ok?"

"Agreed. So, how has life treated you?"

"Like shit. I can't remember the last boring moment I had."

"Hold on one moment," Roger said as he reached for A Shropshire Lad laying atop his desk. He quickly scanned through the thin volume until he said, "Ah, here it is, page fifty-two. "Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bare are brittle,/ Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong./ Think rather,-call to thought, if now you grieve a little,/ The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long." Finishing the reading, he closed the book and set it down on the desk.

"Point taken. Boring... is well, boring. Sometimes we have no choice in matters, but a moment to rest here or there is not too much to ask for, is it?"

Roger motioned to a empty chair. "Not in the least, even for a man of action as yourself. Please, have a seat and rest. My home is your home."

"Just as mine was yours," Corwin said as he unhooked his scabbarded blade and sat in the chair, heavily, Roger leaned on the edge of his desk, one foot dangling. Corwin looked around the room gazing at the library of books. Roger noted his thoughtful expression was an approving one. "I see all that writing you did during dungeon duty panned out after all."

"I'd say it was worth the effort."

"Are you working on something now?"

"What are you writing about this time?"

Chuckling, Roger repeated words used some time ago. "A rat, a bat, a.."

Corwin raised a hand in acquiescence. "I know, I know. I'll just wait and read it like everyone else."

"If you'd like, I can have a galley copy shipped to you."

"I'd like that." Corwin added.

After a moment of silence. "So what brings you, Corwin, to Shadow Earth and Santa Fe, no less?"

"I had heard you moved out here and I was passing by. In short, Roger, I've been on a long hellride concerning matters of state and needed a moment to rest."

"Amber?" Roger asked.

Corwin felt the old instincts rear, who's first commandment was the axiom, trust everyone like a brother. It was a time honored family tradition with more than a little necessity behind it, but he fought in that moment to repress it. There were some he had learned to trust in his long life; Bill Roth, Merlin, Dierdre, even Random, to a point. Until proven wrong, he would include Roger in that list. "Amber and Avalon. Hell, probably the Courts of Chaos as well."

"Sounds complicated."

"Very. I don't mean to presume, but have you had dinner yet, Roger? I talk better on a full stomach."

He stepped from the desk, lightly taking to his feet. "I have eaten, but I have a half a dozen assorted deli stuffed sandwiches made up in the frig. I keep them at hand in case the writing is going too well to stop. Acceptable?"

"Quite. And something to drink, if you would. Hellrides tend to take a lot out of you."

"No problem." Roger took a few steps, stopped, and said with a crinkled brow of consideration. "Knowing your families' famed appetites, I'll bring all the sandwiches."

With that he walked into the inner part of the house.

Corwin stood and looked about. Amber was curled in a tight ball resting comfortably. He noted the study was a good sized library, in some places several stacks deep. In one corner he found a black hakama with black belt ranking and a jo staff. So, Roger studied Aikido. Corwin felt it suited him. By his desk was a low table with a small computer covered under a mountain of scattered papers. Out of respect, he managed to ignore the neater stack of papers on the desk by the typewriter, presuming it to be Roger's latest work.

What could not be ignored, framed on the desk among various writing awards, was one of Yoshitoshi Mori's works, one of the "Face to Face" series woodcuts. Corwin gently reached for it even as his mind reached back for memories... memories of an older brother tormenting the younger. Of a fierce duel between two men, still brothers and the younger of the two left to die, stripped of name and memories in this very same shadow. Of the order of an older brother who would be king, who's royal decree arranged to sink white hot pokers, searing into the younger's eyes. In the darkness of closed and regrown eyes, sometimes he could still feel the dungeon cell around him. To this day, he still carried it's stone cold oppression with him in his darkest nightmares. Then the turning point, the library duel between the same brothers, this time the older wounded and running. Finally, the younger holding the older on the battlefield, the last spark of his life going to feed the jewel of t! hPr grandfather. The older brother died, in a sacrifice the younger almost had no choice but to respect. The bastard. No, it was not difficult at all to imagine he and Eric immortalized there in those carvings of wood. Always rivals, always seeking to better the other. Now even from the dead, Eric reached a specters hand back to him through those he cared about...

Corwin turned away to look out the window as Roger walked back into the room a silver serving tray in hand.

"Storm's still going strong?"

Letting the memories go, "Yes. I think it's coming closer. I had passed through similar mountains a while ago. The storm was worse there."

Setting the tray of food down on a clear spot of the desk, Roger asked. "You own one of Mori's, don't you?"

"As a matter of fact, I placed it in my own study, at my castle in Avalon."

Roger handed Corwin a brandy glass from the tray and took one for himself.

"I had heard, Corwin, that you had to create your own Pattern using the Jewel of Judgment."

"You've heard quite a lot. The afore mentioned study has a balcony which overlooks my Pattern. Did you know, Roger, that my Pattern is casting shadows now, similar to the ones of Amber? And in other ways not so similar."

"I had suspected it was true..." Roger thought a moment and, "A toast then, from one artist to another. To your successful completion and may many copies be made."

"Thank you and..," Raising his glass in return, "May you receive all the same for your latest work and may we both find happy endings."

"Cheers."

"Salud."

They drank and Corwin set about eating, Roger settling into his desk chair, brandy in hand. A few moments, several large glasses of water and a four sandwiches later, nothing was said between the two. It was more a comfortable silence, one in which two friends were happy with just passing the time in one another's company.

Mid-bite of his fifth sandwich, Corwin said in a tone mixed in both seriousness and sarcasm. "It's all crusades and cabals now. To be honest, everything's becoming a damned civil war, or if you want, the new Amber pastime. The families' not sure what to do about my pattern, what effects it will have long term on the balance of power. I know Fiona is heading the banner for it's destruction. I know sides, albeit silently, are being formed."

"Have you talked with King Random about this?" Roger asked in a subdued tone.

"I have. He officially and unofficially lends me his support, but..."

"But family games continue."

Corwin nodded in agreement, after taking a large bite. "Best of all, I have received certain offers, carefully worded, of course, from emissaries of the Courts. In those offers is not only a promise of alliance with Avalon, but the disguised innuendo that it might be in both our best interests to attack Amber."

Roger leaned forward, intent interest on his face. "Attack Amber. You wouldn't."

"Of course not. But there is no way in hell I would let Amber's Pattern destroy mine either, or the Logrus for that matter. If I had to, I would stand against them both." By the look in his eyes Roger could tell the man sitting across from him meant every word.

"With Random in charge there's no danger of that happening, I presume?"

"You're probably right. But you brought up the magic if. As long as Random remains on the throne we can work things out, lend each other support, but if something should happen to him..."

"Foul play?"

"Is there any other kind in my family?"

There was a pause in the conversation and Roger filled it.

"So what may I ask brought you out in the shadows this night?"

"The same reason I have to continue on."

Corwin stood as did Roger. With unconcious effort Corwin belted on his blade as he spoke. "I owe you my thanks for the moment of respite, food and drink, and later, perhaps a visit to my Avalon when things settle down a bit."

"You're more than welcome and I will take you up on that offer. Let me walk you to the door."

As the two men walked past, Amber stirred and a squinting sleepy eyed cat looked up at Corwin and settled back to the business of cat naps. At the door Roger asked, "Back to the original question. So, why are you on this hellride, and for that matter, where's your horse?"

Corwin adjusted his cape and sword belt holding Grayswandir. "I'm searching for my sister's son and granddaughter. Dierdre's worried sick that she hasn't heard from either of them and I have reason to believe some answers lay in the Hall of Mirrors in Amber. I've saved some time by finding and cutting through my brother Brand's Inner-shadow access points, but still have a lot of territory to cover."

"Do you mean Undershadow?"

"No. It was one of Brand's last discoveries and surprises for the family. It is something completely different from Undershadow, who's story, I am afraid, will have to wait for another time."

"I completely understand. Good luck in everything."

"The same to you, Roger. I wish you all the success."

The two men shook hands again in parting. Afterward, Corwin stepped outside. "As for my mount? I have a fast and very blue horse only a few steps away. By now he should be awakening from his stony sleep in the light of dawn." He waved in parting and disappeared mid-step, leaving Roger to ponder his words.

How Amberite of him, Roger thought.

*

Talking with Corwin brought on a few new ideas for his current project, so Roger turned around to go back inside, thinking to himself he had best leave the door unlocked. He cleared away the remains of Corwin's dinner to the kitchen sink and sat down in front of the typewriter. Soon the study was filled with the clanking sound of keys, the rumble of thunder from the storm around him and the creative imaginings of new worlds and their ideas.

More than a blur of an hour passed when behind him there was a rapping on the picture window. Roger turned quickly around, torn from his work to look. There stood a hunch backed dwarf in priestly robes, with the most wild unkempt hair and full beard. The dwarf preceded to walk through the glass as if was not there.

"Um, Dworkin. The door is over that way," Roger said, pointing to the very same door he mentioned.

More than half way through, "Yes. Yes, of course it is over there. I knew that." Dworkin uttered curtly and turned around, leaving the glass intact, momentarily lost from view as he walked around the house. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and the architect of the Pattern proceeded to enter. Of course not bothering to open the door. Amber slept through it all.

"He came by, didn't he."

"Whom are you referring to?" Roger said, with a playful tone in his voice. In the meantime, he began to clear some space on his desk.

"Corwin of course. He is on his way to Amber." Dworkin stated and not with a question's intent as he pulled up the chair Corwin had recently used and sat to the front of the desk.

"Yes, he did stop by. And he did mention something about riding to Amber."

Wild eyed, the old dwarf smiled in joyous satisfaction. "Good. Then he will arrive just in time. Yes, just in time. Suhuy will not be pleased." Dworkin muttered distantly. Suddenly, he looked quizzically at Roger as he placed the chess board down before them. "I wasn't aware you knew Corwin."

Roger nodded his head. "We had met when I was working in Amber's castle guard."

"Of course, I remember now." Dworkin quickly answered, one eye red, the other turning azure. Dworkin stopped him as Roger pulled a piece from the box. "This piece. It is new?"

"Yes, it is. As a matter of fact, I have a few new ones, though many remain the same for our game."

"May I see it."

"Of course," Roger replied and handed it to him.

"Yes, this one is familiar." Dworkin said as he examined the piece with a jeweler's eye he pulled from slight of hand as he had no pockets. "Weren't you going to tell me of the new stories you've written and how it involves the new pieces, written with a new style."

"In due time. You of all people should know the artist should never be rushed." Roger commented as he sorted through the box and pulled out another. "This also might interest you. These two are linked, in many ways."

Dworkin took the second piece and examined it also through the jeweler's eye.

"I can see that. Tell me of what you wrote and then we'll examine the craft of the others later."

Roger smiled. "Strangely enough, a passage deals somewhat with the two I've just shown you. Let me find that section..." He said as he searched through the neat stack of papers on his desk. "Here it is." Dworkin leaned comfortably back in the chair, taking a drink from a steaming cup of tea in his hand. An identical porcelain cup holding coffee, in the same moment, walked across the desk toward Roger. Roger noted it by saying, "Thank you. Let's see it begins... 'Oliva starred out over the forest of Eezel.'"

*

Olivia starred out over the forests of Eezel. The weight of evening shadows cast by the ancient fortress Moorailia slowly fell around her. The collage of colors that was the sunset gave her father's lands, for the moment, a sense of tranquillity, although she knew no one could forget that only several hundred miles to the south of the continent, a war raged on. A war in which forces of tireless beserker warriors poured in from some dark shadow whose only creed was destruction, and this to them, the next battle of the endless jihad. Each day's battle devoured a bit more of the special beauty the land held, leaving only a wasteland. Each day, Olivia knew, took a bit more of her father's soul.

With his bare hands, her father had killed Noel, the King of Chaos during their recent adventure to Undershadow. What ramifications would this bring on all of them? How much more pressure could her father take before he crumbled?

Above, there was movement, the beating of wings in a quick, deft decent, as a great black hawk, with a wingspan of over six feet glided through the thick canopy toward the ground. Instinctively, the young women tucked the Jewel of Judgment inside her shirt, though in the same second she knew there was no danger. As the hawk was about to touch earth, the metamorphosis occurred as she expected, the ease of which she never could understand. There was only a blur as hawk became man, and that dark haired man, her father, Olaf, Duke of Amber, wearing his traditional black pants and black shirt offset by a silver sash with matching necklace. The battle axe, pulsating in flashes of silver that once belonged to his mother, hung at his side. The ease of his shape-shifting would put most Chaosians to shame, though he never dwelt on that fact. As she watched him approach in confident stride, there was a tenseness about him. It was as if his barrel chested, six foot two frame was taunt, ready to snap like a rubber band stretched just too far. Looking in his pale blue yet troubled eyes, her fears were even more apparent.

Her father had asked her to meet him at this place, and, considering his state, she was not at all happy about being there.

Olaf indeed was not happy.

It troubled him to think of this woman as his daughter when they had known each other for less than six months. Those long curled locks of blonde hair that fell past her shoulders to the middle of her back, and that defiant stance, hand on the hilt of her battle axe identical to his own, belonged to Melinda, her mother. Those large, intelligent eyes of emerald green were the exact image of her Aunt Crystal from Lord Earlund's Golden Circle kingdom. But where, he wondered would he fit into her life. Yes, she was a warrior, but so was her grandmother, and the two had spent considerable time together. Years together. Even today, he knew Olivia would call upon his mother's help before his own. Some might think this would make him jealous. Jealous of not being allowed his daughter's attentions. Jealous of not being given the time he deserved with her. Most knew better than to ask him these questions. Those that would ask already knew the answers.

She held both Corwin's Pattern and Dworkin's Pattern. What surprised him the most was the bland acceptance of this fact. Was the family so caught up in it's own problems, they had forgotten? Or had they decided to sit back and watch in the quiet awe of it, lest they be struck down?

He regarded her. Her darting eyes met his, but did not linger there. Her cloak shifted, as did her footing, revealing the small backpack slung over her shoulders. The black velvet clothes she wore, were tight fitting about her hourglass shaped form, a bit too tight for his liking, but he would not mention that to her. She waited, expectantly, with a touch of impatience. She was so young by the families' standards, her rite of passage far from complete. Her supposed choice to take the Jewel and save Solomon's life was suspect. Not suspect on her part, but the situation reeked of family games, which he so despised. If only she could understand how he felt. How he could not stand the thought of, her, of his own daughter, being the pawn of some one else's perverted game.

He finally spoke, as twilight settled upon them. Theirs would be a long talk, lasting well into the night.

*

Dworkin supped the last of his tea. After a moment of contemplation, he said, "It was a masterful move on Coral's part to convince Julian to kill her on the edge of the Abyss. If she had not, she would have been too easily manipulated by those forces which guided her higher asention in the Jewel."

"What of Coral and Merlin's son, Solomon. He's only a child, just going on seven?"

Dworkin grinned slyly. "Yes, he's but a babe, already linked to the Jewel. When Coral had cast the Jewel in Undershadow, Olivia, among others, have seen to not only walking the Jewel with him, but marking an entire pattern inside it, dedicated primarily to his protection."

Roger leaned forward over the chess board and asked, "So, Olivia now carries the Jewel?"

Dworkin ran a dirty nailed finger across his throat voicing a cutting sound. "Half the Jewel, half the Truth."

"Half? It was split in half."

"Yes and no. Today, I think the answer is yes. One of my blood wielding the blade with a full Jewel Pattern etched upon it split the Eye. Even now I see his piece on the board."

"And the other half, who carries that?" Roger asked, after taking his first sip of coffee. "Nice blend," He mentioned after tasting it. Dworkin nodded slightly in response and continued his line of thought.

"The other half is floating on the waters of some ocean out in shadow, tucked away in a drawer filled with other trinkets. A little mentioned grandson of mine, Grymneer, carries it on his ship, though he does not know it is in his possession. He was one of Oberon's bastards. Born right after Benedict, though recognized only as a member of the family after walking the Pattern. A bizarre one, that one. Imagine taking several hundred years at one point in one's life to learn to farm. I've heard a rumor he's gotten the hang of it by now. Farming, that is."

Dworkin motioned to the pile of papers. "So Roger, tell me more of what you wrote. There is a great amount of insight of my family in your words."

"Thank you. I try." He reached again for the manuscript. "This concerns a Chaosian. Xanador. He and Olaf were rumored to be friends long ago, through the rifts in their very natures making them significantly less than amiable as time went on. In other words, they were one step from killing each other."

Dworkin's eyes were aglow in ghost lights, his voice a distant whisper, "Yes, I arranged for them to meet years ago, around the time my grandson Brand thought he rewrote the universe in his image. How much sport I had with him. I hope now that he is dead he will give his games more careful thought. But I digress, read on, please."

Roger cleared his throat and read, "Xanador parried the blade, stopping its edge only inches from his right temple."

*

Xanador parried the blade, stopping its edge only inches from his right temple. The clang of metal on metal rang in his ear and resounded in the emptiness. There in Undershadow, at least in this part, was absolutely nothing. The plain upon which they stood was flat, obsidian black, with rivers of red light flowing through it. They were near the source, where the Eye of Chaos was making real the unreality of this place. Far in the distance, where waited the Eye; blackness over run by a red, red sun.

"Base coward! It is here, in this forsaken place where matters long past due will be resolved," his opponent voiced. For a man so big, the speed of his blade was phenomenal, so damned precise. His corpse colored face was offset by his red hair colored of flame. The coppery armor he wore with its glowing green tracing didn't even seem to slow him. But what should one expect from the legendary Fencing Master of Chaos, Borel of House Hendrake.

Borel knocked Xanador's own riposte off line and lunged in return. Xanador executing an odd parry with his blade point angled toward the ground caught Borel's blade at the pommel and let its point ride high. Borel continued his forward motion and forced Xanador back several steps. Xanador stopped two successive lunges, one to his midsection which ripped his red cloak, the other to his right shoulder. At the last possible moment, he cross-stepped to Borel's left, gaining a second or two of rest. The fencing master's blade point followed him, like it was target locked.

"There is no hope, no excuses this time. There are no brave men to shield you, to throw themselves on your enemies sword blades while you cower behind them. Here the pathetic running ends!"

Letting the fool prattle on, Xanador used his moment of respite to send a mental command to the Demon Spikard on his finger. Give me a summoning, damn it! A tough son of a bitch with hell in his eyes and chainsaws for claws would do well right about now. Even a simple spell or cantrip, a heat wave or even a blinding spell. Anything. There was nothing coming, the lines of power still cut off, as when he entered this place with Olaf to find his daughter Olivia and the missing Eye. They did not come searching alone, Borel had come with them. Even as much as Xanador loved Chaos, he also loved the shadows and would do anything, give anything, to see the Eye never returned to the Serpent as Borel would most certainly do if he were to get his hands on it.

"You grow weary, the weight of all your dishonor bears down upon you. There is nothing left for you. You had failed to honor the Ranger scouts of shadow, brave warriors all, who supported you through your darkest hours."

It was true. Xanador was tiring, not only of listening to this self righteous fool, but the duel already had lasted close to fourteen hours. His brow was dotted in sweat, beads running down his angular face, dripping from his sharply pointed nose, soaking his silk jerkin and leather grieves. His slim, muscled frame felt as if he was dragging around a ton of invisible lead weights. In evidence of this very fact , he barely slapped aside another slashing attack..

"You have betrayed any who would call you friend. And most heinous of all, you lost the throne of Chaos, and renounced publicly to all the Lords and Ladies of the Court any further claims to it. With this action you sold cheaply what remained of your honor."

It was certain out of anyone in the universe there was no man he hated more. Not only because Borel had opposed him up to the time of his kingship. Hell, the bastard wasn't even hardly breathing heavy.

"There is nothing left for you save a quick death at the end of my blade."

This man, Borel sword master of Hendrake, represented everything in Chaos he had opposed. The stifling, old useless ways. Amber had moved one, adjusted to all that was thrown at her. Why then could the Courts not to the same? It was because of men like the one he faced. Men too frightened to let go of the old ways.

Borel continued to stalk him, his face calm, like a statue, his sword blade a blur.

He shuffle stepped rapidly forward, flashing blade leading. Xanador parried, returned with a thigh thrust, was countered and forced again to parry, pushed to the limits of his reserve. Borel, upon getting closer and closer to the mark, increased his pace, his darting blade seeming to be everywhere. First it was a high thrust, then two feints and a midsection slash. Suddenly a lunge to his heart, which he parried within a inch. Never launching the same combination twice, Borel had mastered so many fighting styles. The only thing predictable about the man was his damnable sense of honor. Xanador fell back to the defensive, a last ditch fortress maneuver.

For another few moments, Borel pressed him, death closer by millimeters.

Suddenly, pain. There a thin line opened on his sword hand where Borel's steel flashed. Xanador's return thrust slid off the man's armor in a shower of sparks. Another attack later, a quick thrust and his enemy's blade tore his left ear.

He knew his time was running out. Borel was too skilled. None of the usual shape shifting tricks would work against this man, i.e. shifting his heart to a different place of his body or faking the seriousness of a wound and striking when his opponent thought he was dead. Borel knew those tricks. No, there was only one chance now, or Borel would kill him. With each attack, Xanador let him in a fraction more, let him come that much closer to the mark. At the right moment, he would activate the magic of his blade. The length could extend or shorten at Xanador's whim. When the time was right, he would extend it by several feet and skewer Borel where he stood. It was the last trick to play.

The seconds blurred, slowed for Xanador; Closer and closer Borel came with each relentless lunge, slash and thrust. The inevitable came about; Xanador parried a downward slash, staggered back, with his own feet tripping him and stumbled to a knee; Borel raised his blade for the killing blow; "Time to die." "You're problem is you were always insufferably honorable." The first Borel's, the second Xanador's.

Both men struck. Each blade managed to find a mark.

One man watched the other die. And the rest, to quote the shadow Earth writer Shakespeare, was silence.

*

Roger looked up from his pages, "What do you think, so far?"

For a moment there was an odd silence between the two. "I find your clarity refreshing." Dworkin, in immediate beat change, picked up another chess piece from the board.

"Roland." Roger stated, taking again a drink from his cup.

Dworkin looked back at him. "Of course I know my own blood line. He is the wielder of the Jewel Pattern blade."

"And has been Benedict's finest student."

"True. We will see if it helps him in his trials to come."

"Shall I continue?" Roger inquired. "It's the end of what I've written so far."

"By all means."

Roger straightened a few pages by tapping them together on the desk. He read the words. "Roland gripped tightly the rings high above the gymnasium floor, and for twenty five minutes, upside down, he held the grueling iron cross."

*

Roland gripped tightly the rings high above the gymnasium floor, and for twenty-five minutes, upside down, he held the iron cross. His steel gray eyes were closed, his shoulder length, brown hair tied in a pony tail, fell by his left ear. If he were to open his eyes he would see below him the gymnasium he had come to know very well in the past two summer months. There were ten possible entrances, eight of which were screened in windows, one self-locking door leading to the outside parking lot and one double door leading to the corridor of the small, private high school. The main floor was a full basketball court now filled with his equipment, such as tumbling mat, training horse, weights and weapon rack. A long set of bleachers that folded in on themselves faced the court. He had rented the space while school was not in session, and as with the rest of his family, money never seemed to be a problem.

The campus was ideal for his purposes, being a peaceful study of green trees, widely spaced buildings and quiet paths leading to athletic fields. The janitors were told to leave him alone during his sessions but they were friendly during his off hours. If someone not so friendly appeared? His answer at the moment was tapped to his back in the form of an automatic 10mm pistol, the butt angled up along his left shoulder blade. Also, his famed blade was never far from hand, though he knew how to make most items a suitible weapon.

Sweat poured down his well muscled body. He wore only black sweat pants. Distantly he was aware his arms, back and shoulders had begun to ache, his legs quivering ever so slightly as he held them perfectly straight. But as was the basis of his life-long pursuit, his ultimate search for self, the separation of mind and body, independence of thought and action. It was a practice which recently saved his life.

With each day he felt his inner Ki energy grow, again becoming one with his sense of confidence. After the disaster on Olaf's shadow, he knew there was a long journey back. The simple truth was, he failed. He failed his training. By doing so, he failed his teacher and Uncle, Benedict. The result of this failure? A yard full of steel was rammed through his stomach, breaking two ribs on the way in and shredding his kidney on the way out. Needless to say, he nearly died. For the past eight weeks he had placed himself under an increasingly intensive training regimen; weapon practice including both traditional and modern, several hours of meditation, his own style of martial arts, cardiovascular fitness...

Roland's eyes snapped open.

A new draft of air caressed his face, as if a door had been quickly opened and closed. It was not a physical door, though there was a displacement of space. There were no sounds of movement. Three seconds. The sense of a presence moving closer, he/she/its intent on him was strong and sure. Still hanging upside down, he let go of the ring with his right hand, swinging to his left in order to hang right side up. Two seconds. Swaying side to side, his right hand smoothly ripped the pistol from his back. He aimed at the double doorway. One second. His thumb clicked the safety off and without conscious effort he constantly adjusted his aim for every degree of his gentle sway. He planned a head shot, through the nose or eye. Zero seconds. A figure entered just as he expected. A swarthy, lean man of average height, wearing green and black satin clothes and a three cornered hat plumed with a green feather atop his head. His hand rested on an emerald studded dagger sheathed on his broad belt.

"Dad."

Prince Caine smiled that disarming smile of which more than one lady had fallen for in the past and spoke, "Did you call me here in order to shoot me, or was there, I hope, another reason you had in mind?"

Roland also smiled and lowered the pistol. Caine watched his son drop agilely to the mat below, rolling easily to his feet. As he stood, he slipped the pistol in his pants, behind his back. Roland clasped hands with his father, who greeted him warmly.

"You've lost none of your skill since you entered the Olympics on Shadow Earth," his father remarked proudly.

"I'm glad to see you, dad. Glad you responded. I couldn't afford to try a full trump contact, I only touched yours and sent my intent." Roland said.

"I felt it and came as quickly as possible. It was only several days ago we held your funeral back in Amber. The entire family believes you to be dead, Roland." He grinned rakishly upon saying these next words, "How did you do it? Olaf reported you were run through and even provided the body?"

"I had a good teacher, and a good father?"

Caine laughed, stroking his goatee. "I'll admit, the corpse you provided seemed real enough, even under full medical and Pattern examination."

"That was the bonus. I believe the Jewel was protecting in that moment, it's protector. It activated the link and replaced me with a duplicate."

Caines eyes were alight, with part admiration, part amusement. Nodding, he said, "Yes, of course. It makes perfect sense now. It was a Jewel Pattern Ghost, and even dear Fiona can't seem to distinguish them from the real article. This then, implies the Jewel itself has achieved, or always was, sentient."

"Yes."

"Continue, Roland."

"As for the rest, it was my doing. I managed to summon up my Pattern and send myself away, to anywhere. I think I put my blade into my opponent before I left."

"You did at that."

"I know who it was and how they beat me."

Caine stood, arms akimbo and waited patiently. Roland continued. "It was your seldom seen siblings, Dad. Delwin and Sand. They've trained together, perfected an interesting combination attack. Sand is able to bypass the normal defenses and push against the mind, much like making a trump contact without forcing it on someone, letting it just happen." On those words Caine nodded as if he already knew. Roland continued.

"Delwin, in turn, is an expert swordsman. In short, on the battle field, as I engaged the knight in green plate-mail armor who was the commander of the enemy forces attacking Olaf's shadow, it turned out to be Delwin in disguise. As we fought, Sand attacked, attempting to freeze my mind to helplessness."

"In my lessons with your great grandfather, he had once theorized of drawing trumps of dreams. Of actually entering through this reality. In a limited sense, it is the same principal in which we all can enter Tir-Na Nog'th when the moon is full. It appears Sand has researched this in depth. It also appears you surprised them, being able to counter them on both levels, long enough to act."

"Next time I'll be ready."

"Of that, my son, I have no doubt. So you think they are making a play for the Jewel?"

Roland nodded grimly. "I would say that's definitely part of their agenda. With me gone it will make it easier."

"Agreed. Now your death will be our advantage."

Caine put a hand on his son's shoulder, squeezing comfortingly.

"Perhaps, if you wish, Roland, together we can prepare a proper response and keep them from laying their hands upon the Jewel. I think I have a few ideas coming to me already, being somewhat knowledgeable in these matters."

"Somehow, Dad, I knew you would."

*

"This boy shows much promise, with his mastery of the Pattern, though his martial pursuits are slowing his studies. I must admit I nearly died laughing when he thrust his father's Pattern imbued dagger into the Logrus itself, in the heart of the Thelbane, no less. It must have given it a migraine for months." Dworkin said with a evil chuckle.

"You mentioned trials he would face?" Roger noted. Dworkin raised a finger to his lips. "Not just Roland. You see Roger, the twins of Fiona, Cilla and Killian, are attempting to create a magic Logrus, to act as a pole to Corwin's Pattern."

"Isn't the Logrus already magical?"

"No and yes. It's all how you look at it, but in any case, the process will involve the Jewel and a blind Serpent. These young ones could destroy the entire Universe, or save it. I'll just have to decide how it turns out later." Dworkin seemed well lost in thought, "Yes, maybe I'll decide on Tuesday..."

"I could just imagine a number of plot lines that could be written if it were all only just a story." Roger said also lost in his own moment of thought.

Dworkin suddenly added, snapping out of his contemplation. "You know, Roger, if this writing thing doesn't work out and you need work, there is an opening in the janitorial service department in the castle. I'm sure I could get you a job."

Roger set out his last chess pieces on the board. "Really? I'll be sure to keep that in mind." Pretending to consider. "Yes, that might work out. For one, I would be close by in case you wanted a few private chess lessons. At reduced rates, of course."

Dworkin huffed, blowing steam from his ears, but continued to set up his side of the board.

"Is it true what they say about you and the unicorn, Dworkin? That you got a little tail."

He cackled, "No. I grabbed her by the horn. Get it? By the horn."

"I knew you would say something like that, you dirty old man."

Together they laughed and started the new game involving old pieces and newer ones, but it was still chess and they both the master players.

Roger would win in fifty-eight moves and be ready for the next.

*

THE CAST

In order of first appearance (including those not mentioned in the story, but no less a part of it)

Duke Olaf of Amber. Perhaps the most honest person in the universe- Jason

Xanador, Ranger of Chaos. Perhaps the most devious person in the universe- Ron

Juan Dunn, Hero and childhood friend of Olaf. How he loved to lop off those heads- John

Duke Roland of Amber. Yes, it is true a GM can remain impartial- Me

Killian, Earl of Amber.Ghost of Amber until he finds out who almost killed him- Ron

Cilla, Countess of Amber. Brand's protegee, even if she won't admit it- Jason

Ste, son of Xanador.Died after his father lost Chaos. All but his father miss him- Steven D.

Jacob Asher Carver. Prince of Amber, who alas was but a dream in a jewelery box- Mike

Olivia, Baroness of Amber.Holder of two Patterns, and the Jewel,'nuff said?- Deb

Lyon, son of Benedict, Duke of Amber. Father wishes he'd talk less, fight more- Jody Prince Gyrmneer of Amber.300 years for farming? Is that style or what?- Steven S.

Duke Malcolm, first son of Osric. Loves power to death, even if it means his own - Jay

Duke Thorne, son of Osric/ Eric (?). A duelist; a sense of honor nearly as sharp as his pride - Bill

Duke Kyle, son of Osric.Green Spikard; Jedi Knight; starship captain; who knows -Alex

Duke Dante, son of Llewella. Keeps his mother company amongst the archers.- Jody

Mandryn. Would be an excellebt warrior if only he held onto his sword.- Steve D.

An untold cast of thousands- One schizophrenic GM.

I would like to say that I never had the fortune of meeting Roger in person, but I feel I know him. Where we did meet, were on the worlds of his imaginings and through the characters populating them. Roger was a true artist and through his words, we have become friends.

As a final note, I would like to thank everyone listed above who put up with my game-mastering for the past seven plus years, for without them, this tribute could not have been written. For a time we were playing once a week, if not more, and we have sewn a rich tapestry, or if you would rather, played the ultimate game. Our collective thanks goes out first to Erick Wujcik and his invaluable staff for bringing us a ROLE-playing game, not a ROLL-playing game. Secondly, and most of all, we wish to thank Roger Zelazny. We will miss him. On a personal note, it was reading his works, not only the Amber series, that influenced me the most as a writer. In a not so small way, I am indebted to him.

We (the gaming group) would be interested if there were any comments, on Roger, our Amber game or whatever. Please drop us an e-mail. Until then, maybe we'll bump into each other around the castle.

Robert Wayne McCoy
peryton334@aol.com

Reading Between the Lines

by Robert Wayne McCoy and Thomas F. Monteleone