If one is a prince or princess of the blood, then one may walk, crossing through Shadows, forcing one‘s environment to change as one passes, until it is finally in precisely the shape one desires it, and there stop. The Shadow world is then one‘s own, save for family intrusions, to do with as one would. In such a place had I dwelled for centuries.
The second means is the cards, cast by Dworkin, Master of the Line, who had created them in our image, to facilitate communications between members of the royal family. He was the ancient artist to whom space and perspective meant nothing. He had made up the family Trumps, which permitted the willer to touch his brethren wherever they might be. I had a feeling that these had not been used in full accord with their author‘s intention.
The third was the Pattern, also drawn by Dworkin, which could only be walked by a member of our family. It initiated the walker into the system of the cards, as it were, and at its ending gave its walker the power to stride across Shadows.
The cards and the Pattern made for instant transport from Substance through Shadow. The other way, walking, was harder.
I knew what Random had done in delivering me into the true world. As we had driven, he kept adding, from memory, that which he recalled of Amber, and subtracting that which did not agree. When everything corresponded, he knew we had arrived. It was no real trick, for had he the knowledge, any man could reach his own Amber. Even now, Bleys and I could find Shadow Ambers where each of us ruled, and spend all of time and eternity ruling there. But this would not be the same, for us. For none would be the true Amber, the city into which we‘re born, the city from which all others take their shapes.
So we were taking the hardest route, the walk through Shadow, for our invasion of Amber itself. Anyone knowing this and possessing the power could interpose obstacles. Eric had done so, and now we faced them as we died. What would come of this? No one knew.
But if Eric were crowned king, it would be reflected and shadowed everywhere.
All the surviving brothers, we princes of Amber, I am sure, felt it much better, each in his own simple way, personally to achieve this status and thereafter let the Shadows fall where they might.
We passed ghost fleets, the ships of Gerard, as we sailed—the Flying Dutchmen of this world—that world, and we knew we were coming near. I used them as reference points.
On the eighth day of our voyaging we were near to Amber. That is when the storm broke.
The sea turned dark, the clouds collected overhead, and the sails grew slack within the still that followed. The sun hid its face—an enormous blue one—and I felt that Eric had found us at last.
Then the winds arose, and—if you‘ll excuse the expression—broke—upon the vessel I rode.
We were tempest-tossed and storm-torn, as the poets say. or said. My guts felt loose and watery as the first billows hit us. We were hurled from side to side like dice in a giant‘s hand. We were swept over the waters of the sea and the waters from the sky. The sky turned black, and there was sleet mixed in with the glassy bell ropes that pulled the thunder. Everyone, I‘m sure, cried out. I know I did. I pulled my way along the shifting deck to seize the abandoned wheel. I strapped myself in place and held it. Eric had cut loose in Amber, that was for damn sure.
One, two, three, four, and there was no letup. Five hours, then. How many men had we lost? I dunno.
Then I felt and heard a tingling and a tinkling, and I saw Bleys as through a long gray tunnel.
“What‘s the matter?” he asked. “I‘ve been trying to reach you.”
“Life is full of vicissitudes,” I replied. “We‘re riding out one of them.”
“Storm?” he said.
“You bet your sweet ass. It‘s the granddaddy of them all. I think I see a monster off to port. If he has any brains, he‘ll aim for the bottom. . . . He just did.”