And before I could reply, he was gone. He was right, of course. He‘d agreed to give me an opportunity, not to fight my battle for me.
What then did that leave me?
I lit a cigarette. I paced the deck. It was no longer morning. The mists had long vanished and the sun warmed my shoulders. Soon it would be noon. Perhaps two hours.
I fingered my cards, weighed the deck in my hand. I could try a contest of wills through them, with either Eric or Caine. There was that power present, and perhaps even others of which I knew nothing. They had been so designed, at the command of Oberon, by the hand of the mad artist Dworkin
Dworkin, that wild-eyed hunchback who had been a sorcerer, priest, or psychiatrist—the stories conflicted on this point—from some distant Shadow where Dad had saved him from a disastrous fate he had brought upon himself. The details were unknown, but he had always been a bit off his rocker since that time. Still, he was a great artist, and it was undeniable that he possessed some strange power. He had vanished ages ago, after creating the cards and tracing the Pattern in Amber. We had often speculated about him, but no one seemed to know his whereabouts. Perhaps Dad had done him in, to keep his secrets secret.
Caine would be ready for such an attack, and I probably couldn‘t break him, though I might be able to hold him. Even then, though, his captains had doubtless been given the order to attack.
Eric would surely be ready for anything, but if there was nothing else left to do, I might as well try it. I had nothing to lose but my soul.
Then there was the card for Amber itself. I could take myself there with it and try an assassination, but I figured the odds were about a million to one against my living to effect it.
I was willing to die fighting, but it was senseless for all these men to go down with me. Perhaps my blood was tainted, despite my power over the Pattern. A true prince of Amber should have had no such qualms. I decided then that my centuries on the Shadow Earth had changed me, softened me perhaps, had done something to me which made me unlike my brothers.
I decided to surrender the fleet and then transport myself to Amber and challenge Eric to a final duel. He‘d be foolish to accept. But what the hell—I had nothing else left to do.
I turned to make my wishes known to my officers, and the power fell upon me, and I was stricken speechless.
I felt the contact and I finally managed to mutter “Who?” through clenched teeth. There was no reply, but a twisting thing bored slowly within my mind and I wrestled with it there.
After a time when he saw that I could not be broken without a long struggle, I heard Eric‘s voice upon the wind:
“How goes the world with thee, brother?” he inquired.
“Poorly,” I said or thought, and he chuckled, though his voice seemed strained by the efforts of our striving.
“Too bad,” be told me. “Had you come back and supported me, I would have done well by you. Now, of course, it is too late. Now, I will only rejoice when I have broken both you and Bleys.”
I did not reply at once, but fought him with all the power I possessed. He withdrew slightly before it, but he succeeded in holding me where I stood.
If either of us dared divert his attention for an Instant, we could come into physical contact or one of us get the upper hand on the mental plane. I could see him now, clearly, in his chambers in the palace. Whichever of us made such a move, though, he would fall beneath the other‘s control.
So we glared at each other and struggled internally. Well, he had solved one of my problems, by attacking me first. He held my Trump in his left hand and his brows were furrowed. I sought for an edge, but couldn‘t find one. People were talking to me but I couldn‘t hear their words as I stood there backed against the rail.