“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.”
I handed it over, my uneasiness increasing as he held it in his hand and furrowed his brow. Why was I suddenly the stupid one? Does a night in Tir-na Nog’th slow cerebration? Why-
Random began to curse, a string of profanities unsurpassed by anything encountered in my long military career.
Then, “What is it?” I said. “I don’t understand.”
“The blood of Amber,” he finally said. “Whoever did it walked the Pattern first, you see. Then they stood there at the center and contacted him via this Trump. When he responded and a firm contact was achieved, they stabbed him. His blood flowed upon the Pattern, obliterating that part of it, as mine did here.”
He was silent for the space of several deep breaths.
“It smacks of a ritual,” I said.
“Damn rituals!” he said. “Damn all of them! One of them is going to die, Corwin. I am going to kill him-or her.”
“I still do not-“
“I am a fool,” he said, “for not seeing it right away. Look! Look closely!”
He thrust the pierced Trump at me. I stared. I still did not see.
“Now look at me!” he said. “See me!”
I did. Then I looked back at the card. I realized what he meant.
“I was never anything to him but a whisper of life in the darkness. But they used my son for this,” he said.
“That has to be a picture of Martin.”
Chapter 2
Standing there beside the broken Pattern, regarding a picture of the man who may or may not have been Random’s son, who may or may not have died of a knife wound received from a point within the Pattern, I turned and took a giant step back within my mind for an instant replay of the events which had brought me to this point of peculiar revelation. I had learned so many new things recently that the occurrences of the past few years seemed almost to constitute a different story than they had while I was living them. Now this new possibility and a number of things it implied had just shifted the perspective again.
I had not even been aware of my name when I had awakened in Greenwood, that private hospital in upstate New York where I had spent two totally blank weeks subsequent to my accident. It was only recently that I had been told that the accident itself had been engineered by my brother Bleys, immediately following my escape from the Porter Sanitarium in Albany. I got this story from my brother Brand, who had railroaded me into Porter in the first place, by means of fake psychiatric evidence. At Porter, I had been subjected to electroshock therapy over the span of several days, results ambiguous but presumably involving the return of a few memories. Apparently, this was what had scared Bleys into making the attempt on my life at the time of my escape, shooting out a couple of my tires on a curve above a lake. This doubtless would have resulted in my death, had Brand not been a step behind Bleys and out to protect his insurance investment, me. He said he had gotten word to the cops, dragged me out of the lake, and administered first aid until help arrived. Shortly after that, he was captured by his former partners-Bleys and our sister Fiona-who confined him in a guarded tower in a distant place in Shadow.