Trumps of Doom (30 page)

I studied the opening and the nearby walls.

“Don’t try it,” he said.
 
“I have the advantage of position.”

“Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded.

“I have to go back,” he said finally, “and try to get control of the Ghostwheel.
 
Any suggestions?”

I laughed.
 
“It’s not on the best of terms with me at the moment.
 
I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

He nodded again.
 
“I’ll just have to see what I can do.
 
God, what a weapon! If I can’t swing it myself I’ll have to come back and pick your brains for some ideas.
 
You be thinking about it, okay?”

“I’ll be thinking about a lot of things, Luke.
 
You’re not going to like some of them.”

“You’re not in a position to do much.”

“Not yet,” I said.

He caught hold of the boulder, began to move it.

“Luke!” I cried.

He paused, studied me, his expression changing to one I had never seen before.

“That’s not really my name,” he stated, after a moment.

“What, then?”

“I am your cousin Rinaldo,” he said slowly.
 
“I killed Caine, and I came close with Bleys.
 
I missed with the bomb at the funeral, though.
 
Someone spotted me.
 
I will destroy the House of Amber with or without your Ghostwheel - but it would make things a lot easier if I had that kind of power.”

“What’s your bitch, Luke? .
 
.
 
.
 
Rinaldo? Why the vendetta?”

“I went after Caine first,” he continued, “because he’s the one who actually killed my father.”

“I didn’t know.” I stared at the flash of the Phoenix clasp upon his breast.
 
“I didn’t know that Brand had a son,” I finally said.

“You do now, old buddy.
 
That’s another reason why I can’t let you go, and why I have to keep you in a place like this.
 
Don’t want you warning the others.”

“You’re not going to be able to pull this off.”

He was silent for several seconds, then he shrugged.

“Win or lose, I have to try.”

“Why April 30?” I said suddenly.
 
“Tell me that.”

“It was the day I got the news of my dad’s death.”

He drew upon the boulder and it slid into the hole, blocking it fully.

There followed some brief hammerings.

“Luke!”

He did not answer.
 
I could see his shadow through the translucent stone.
 
After a while it straightened, then dropped from sight.
 
I heard his boots strike the ground outside.
 
“Rinaldo!”

He did not answer and I heard his retreating footsteps.

I count the days by the lightening and darkening of the blue crystal walls.
 
It has been over a month since my imprisonment, though I do not know how slowly or rapidly time flows here in relation to other shadows.
 
I have paced every hall and chamber of this great cave, but I have found no way out.
 
My Trumps do not work here, not even the Trumps of Doom.
 
My magic is useless to me, limited as it is by walls the color of Luke’s ring.
 
I begin to feel that I might enjoy even the escape of temporary insanity, but my reason refuses to surrender to it, there being too many puzzles to trouble me: Dan Martinez, Meg Devlin, my Lady of the Lake .
 
.
 
.
 
Why? And why did he spend all of that time in my company, Luke, Rinaldo, my enemy? I have to find a way to warn the others.
 
If he succeeds in turning Ghostwheel upon them then Brand’s dream-my nightmare of vengeance-will be realized.
 
I see now that I have made many mistakes .
 
.
 
.
 
Forgive me, Julia .
 
.
 
.
 
I will pace the measure of my confinement yet again.
 
Somewhere there must be a gap in the icy blue logic that surrounds me, against which I hurl my mind, my cries, my bitter laughter.
 
Up this hall, down the tunnel.
 
The blue is everywhere.
 
The shadows will not bear me away, for there are no shadows here.
 
I am Merlin the pent, son of Corwin the lost, and my dream of light has been turned against me.
 
I stalk my prison like my own ghost.
 
I cannot let it end this way.
 
Perhaps the next tunnel, or the next...