Chapter 2 – The Great Unfathomable

The formal announcement of the old king's death came as much of a surprise as a shock to the general populace of Amber; he had only returned to them mere days ago, seemingly back from the dead! In the absence of the body there was initially some inevitable questioning. If any of the other royal siblings had been there at the time, suspicions would have invariably been aroused, pointing fingers gone flying (at least in secret, where it could do more damage.) But the informant was none other than Gérard, who didn't have a single dishonest or guileful bone in his enormous body, and his personal grief was believable enough to any who saw him; it didn't hurt anything that the High Priest of Amber also vouched for the authenticity of the report, all but declaring the death an unfortunate but necessary act of religious ritual, never to be repeated again.

The appointed day of remembrance for the late Oberon Barimen felt less like the memorializing of a great king and more like the mourning of a well-loved and honored god for most. The comparison was perhaps not unwarranted: the man had lived longer than even the current Castle had stood, had seen every epoch of civilized history, had marched and ridden with their ancient grandsires in glorious battles against the then-still encroaching Darkness, in days so long-gone that barely any of the fabled stories yet existed in any form. The Mad Artist Dworkin of Chaos might've done the initial tracing of the Pattern under the inspiration of the Unicorn in the depths of Time, but it was his mighty surviving son who had seen Amber brought up from a poor, barely defensible stockade on the mountainside to a thriving city-state, creating a ripple-effect throughout Shadow that had given both rise and advancement to countless cultures in innumerable worlds beyond their own. He had earned that level of respect and adoration from his people.

The turnout at the official service at the old shrine in the Grove of the Unicorn was so large that it was a very good thing that Ivor Venway was accustomed to officiating out-of-doors: all the nearby forest as far as the Valley of Garnath was packed to standing-room only, and a mere five days later at the unveiling of the great bronze statue of Oberon the Mighty – which was erected in the Concourse – normal traffic was inundated to standstill congestion from the throng of onlookers. Solemn feasts were held, even one hosted right away at the Castle for the remaining nobility and soldiers, with plenty of drinking and reminiscing, a proper and befitting wake. The prince refused to allow a cenotaph to be constructed when the chance of ever recovering his father's remains was so slim; in all likelihood, his body had been incinerated upon the Primal Pattern during the correction process, had not their grandfather borne away what was left of the corpse, wherever it was he had been going. Gérard had ridden out to the place of the True Pattern alone the day after the catastrophe and there was nothing there, just the pristine light-blue curving line in the smooth rock, uninterrupted by the stain that had blotted it before, the light emanating therefrom unusually placid. The sight had been both a relief and an oddly stark reminder…

A reminder that he himself might very well be the only 'god' left in this place; it was a thought that hadn't truly left him in peace since that ominous vision. That he might be called upon to fill his father's hallowed boots if none of the others returned. At the same time, it would've been downright stupid to believe that Gérard had never thought of the Throne at all – he had, like the others – but he had never believed that he would live to see the day that it became his; unlike his brothers, he'd been fine with that. The prince kept impulsively checking and rechecking his trump pack throughout the day, but the simple fact that he felt no coolness from it in his breastpocket where he kept it should've been informative enough: the cards were still inactive, temporarily 'out-of-service' from the Storm, as they had all been warned beforehand. And as long as those thin paperboard rectangles felt toasty from his considerable body heat, there was no reason to look at them. But he kept on trying anyway. If only…

If only one of his physically weaker but smarter brothers could come here in his place! He knew he could be of such service out there on the field – protecting the outnumbered, defending the wounded – and instead he was stuck here in a position he was never cut out for! Soon life would revert back to what would have to pass for 'normal' in the City with the vast majority of the menfolk gone, and he would be forced to judicate the all-too-regular cases between sharp-witted merchants, representatives of various trade guilds, and others who made a veritable living circumventing the law by loophole, besides the everyday pickpockets and other petty criminals such as lurked in the city and were periodically apprehended in their work and pastimes! It hadn't even been forty-eight hours and how he was longing to return to the sea: a straightforward life where a man knew what was expected of him, where the-

"Gérard."

Vialle had touched his arm, breaking his troubled reverie. "I had not heard your voice for some time now. You are still holding up all right?"

He gave her searching, sightless dark eyes a sad little smile and gently took the proffered hand, placing it in the crook of his great arm and leading her to one of the few empty couches along the wall. It was very late and guests were lingering too long in the lower sitting rooms of the Castle, but he hadn't had the heart to turn them out. They were all on the cusp of a new era; none knew what lay before. With the War still on, the future was completely up in the air.

"As well as will be," he quietly admitted, seating himself beside the slight lady. "I suppose my brothers have all fantasized about this day, some more aggressively than others, but… I never have even wished my father hurried on to whatever lies beyond for us, even if we weren't ever that close – even over the troubles with Mother, his abandonment. I never truly dreamed of reaching so high as…" he trailed off.

Vialle nodded. "I know. You do realize this is why you're still here. Even Random has joked to me at times of becoming king, and he has least chance of any of you, save your sisters! You loved your father even if he didn't always make it easy, enough so that his power was never sufficiently tempting."

Just having someone who understood that much, who would openly acknowledge it, seemed to help him get through the remainder of the night among many others who would've been more toward his brothers' inclination, who saw his current position as a tremendous opportunity to be seized. It did not even occur to him to wonder at how Vialle had located him among such a crowd all by herself…

The day after found him early in the king's apartments; he had barely slept with so much on his mind, and not of a mind to get truly wasted like the rest, now that that mind was actually needed. He had spent the morning poring over all the old treaties, agreements, general laws – thousands of years worth, mostly but not all in order. The sheer volume of documentation present was simply psychologically overwhelming, and the fact that he would have to develop a standing memory of most of the salient points in the immediate future made him more incredulous than ever that any of his brothers had truly been willing to fight each other to the death to have to deal with this every day for the rest of their lives! It was sheer madness! Had Eric even tried to do this part of the job properly?! Thinking back, Gérard wasn't entirely certain that a lot of 'kingly duty' had really been going on in his elder half-brother's unofficial 'reign'; mostly he had just worked to consolidate the power he was forced to stand upon in such a legally tentative stance, and he was often absent from Amber at that.

He closed the age-cracked, leather-bound book in his hands, wishing that the past could as easily be shut, but immediately repented of the thought. He would never forget them all, no matter what happened. Never. Rising, hoisting a stack of tomes in his arms, he ordered breakfast and lunch from a passing female servant in the hall, to be sent up to his own quarters so that he could continue to study in more personally comfortable surroundings.

Boy, did that bring back memories…

Prince Gérard had been the last of his siblings to attend college. It had nearly not happened at all, he was so busy with Amber's navy, but his father had insisted, and at length they chose a Shadow Earth university that allowed for a curious, new physically-oriented major: American football. It had taken some doing to convince the King of Amber of the inherent value of tackling men in padded suits to keep them from getting a little pigskin leather ball to the end of a field over and over again for points, but the fact that the stimulus was entertaining enough to the prince to make him want to study the other subjects required to keep him 'on the field' proved to be enough impetus in the end, and he was sent off to the University of Alabama with his tuition fully paid in advance, along with a language coach to privately tutor him in the Southern American dialect of English before he went, to help him blend in. Goodness knows he'd needed the help: it was akin to sending Hercules to play-tussle with mere mortals! A few serious injuries (not his – other players) quickly taught him that he had to learn to control his movements considerably when grappling with such lesser beings as Earth-men as a defensive tackle for the Crimson Tide. While the college had offered his preferred sport also, wrestling had simply been out of the question: there would have been deaths. Even at that, he had enjoyed the camaraderie both on and off the field, the chance to be just 'one of the boys', as he had observed for centuries with the soldiers and sailors of his own country. It wasn't that he didn't have friends at home; he was fairly popular and well-liked, and for obvious enough reasons. But they could never forget his status, his title, what and who he really was. On Shadow Earth he had been treated by many as an equal (even if he was physiologically their better.) And the women… Gérard leaned back on the legs of his chair and closed his eyes, folding his arms behind his head for a moment, smiling at the memories: there had definitely been some social perks as well to being on that football team. Those had been glorious days in that strange, libertine, technological society. He missed it at times.

He did not, however, miss this, the cramming under pressure of materials only half-studied beforehand, right before a test. Gérard had been a good student overall, never even ditching class, but there had admittedly been a few subjects had that failed to peak his interest, which he hadn't always paid quite as much attention to even if he was physically present.

But this was no final exam: it was life – his life – until further notice. Technically, he was free to consult all of these texts at his leisure – there was no rule in Amber's judicial system that would prohibit recesses to do precisely this during a hearing or a trial – but it would look far better if the prince knew as much of it off the top of his head as possible. The late king had known the entire Code of Law by rote… probably because he'd written most of it. The appearance of stability at the top had to be maintained at all costs.

It took ten days more for the prince – as well as the rest of the City – to finally realize that they were facing far greater and more immediately pressing problems than trying to run a country with over three-quarters the regularly working population missing. One big one, actually: no new merchant ships had come into the harbor from anywhere at all in days, all of Amber's own ships having been ordered to stay in until it was clear that the outside shadows were as they should be once again; it had seemed a reasonable enough proposition at the time the decree had been given. For all the fabled glory, wealth, and political and military power the City of Amber was legendary for, the neo-medieval metropolis had grown so accustomed to the ability to go anywhere by sea and deal in any merchandise imaginable that the food economy at home had never truly developed beyond a handful of subsistence farmers in the outlying areas to the west beyond the official city-limits, and one native vintner, Baron Bayle. Nearly all of the pantry goods to be had in the City were imported from Shadow-worlds both near and far. Some delay could've been written off as 'natural', a side-effect of the passing of the Great Storm (as the phenomenon had quickly been dubbed.) But if the absence continued even to the end of the ngan, the whole region would be plunged into a dire famine, the effects of which would spread through the freshly-cleaned Shadows…

And Gérard's trumps continued warm in his pocket, next to his great heart, to his consternation. Would even shadow-travel fail them while that great Order recalibrated itself? As the days wore on and the market stalls got emptier and emptier, with only the still-waiting Amberite fleets in the harbor (mostly unmanned as well, due to the draft), the prince knew that action was needed and soon, but he was in a moral bind over how to endeavor it. He couldn't simply strike out with even a small crew not knowing whether the attempted shadow-sail would doom all hands to limbo at best, possibly wrecked by unfamiliar reefs and prehistoric alien sea-monsters at worst, with no chance of reaching any destination once out of sight of land… including home. No, there had to be a way of testing the system, but what? And if anything were to happen to him, what would happen to his people?! It was a regular Gorgon knot, and it failed to improve upon verbal repetition – to the merchants, in particular, with aging luxury and specialty goods in the holds of their ships and nowhere to send them! Certain parts of the Arden Forest nearer the city, including the already deforested Valley of Garnath, were annexed as eminent domain by the Crown, land to be cleared and farmed for the first time in their country's history, with the resultant timber the workers' wages to do with as they saw fit, build or sell or burn for fuel. At least the local fisheries had not suffered – the people still had meat from the sea; conversely, that business was booming – but bread and ale were beginning to come hard by, as were other basic goods. No amount of land husbandry could help them this season; they simply didn't have enough time. If only there was a way to know, without risking so much…

"My lord, is it common practice to carry a copy of one's own trump?" Lord Rein put to him of an afternoon, when just the two of them were at luncheon (such as it was becoming) at the Castle; the man often felt unwelcome elsewhere in society anymore, for all practical purposes treated as a draft-dodger when so many husbands and sons his age or younger had gone off to the War. "I know that Lord Corwin has one of himself at all times anymore, but, well… it's Corwin," he quietly joked.

Gérard nearly choked on his haddock and blatantly stared at the man wide-eyed, stunned: that was it! The answer had been too obvious! Hurriedly taking a drink and coming to his feet, the prince raced across the room to one of the desks (they were currently in the Library; the dining room had simply become too depressing.) Unlocking a hidden side-drawer, he extracted a spare pack of trumps and brought it back to the table; Lord Rein had risen also, partly out of decorum but also sensing the urgency of the situation, wiping his hands clean. Gérard's hands were almost shaking as he thumbed through the pack, past the Minor Arcana cards that he had ceased to carry as a part of his regular deck years ago, to and through the old family portraits painted by none other than Dworkin himself in ages past, until he located his own face – and grinned widely at the miniature oil painting of a laughing, dark-haired brawny youth with a wine goblet in one hand that made him look like the King of Cups (at his ancient grandsire's insistence): that single trump was cool to the touch! His would work! Hopefully…

Rein was taken aback as the prince eagerly pressed the card into his hands; he had never been allowed to so much as touch the casing of Corwin's deck! "But, my lord!" he began to protest.

"At ease, man; it won't hurt you," Gérard reassured him. "But I need someone's help to test this thing and I can't think of anyone else more qualified to try it. You've seen us use these many times; you should be familiar with how they work by observation alone. I am going to go into the next room over. Start to concentrate on my trump. Don't be discouraged if it doesn't come live right away; these original decks were not made for the ease of the user as some of the later ones were, and you are unaccustomed to the exertion of will necessary. But I believe you to be capable or I would not ask you at all. Once the picture shifts and you see me as I am now, I will speak and reach out my hand to you: give me yours through the card, clasp mine firmly, and walk backwards pulling me with you back into this room. Do you understand?"

"Hardly," Fletcher faltered, "but I'll give it my best."

"Don't worry – the only ones of us who really understood how these blasted things work were the redheads, I think, and look where they got us," the prince rued. "You don't have to understand it. Just do it."

"Yes, my lord."

Gérard hastily tromped out of the library and hung a fast left!

Fletcher Rein let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and regarded the priceless magickal artifact in his hands, handling the miraculously well-preserved painting delicately by the edges as he had seen the sons and daughters of Oberon Barimen do since he had been a very young boy. The natural-born citizens of the True Realm, such as Rein, could live to be almost two-thousand years old, not showing age until much closer to the end. It wasn't the near-immortality of the children of the Unicorn, but it was still a fairly impressive and healthy span in comparison to the denizens of Shadow. And even at that…

True to the prince's warning, he found the mental task far more difficult than the royals had always made it look: it took nearly four-and-a-half minutes of almost headache-inducingly intense concentration before he proved capable of establishing even tentative contact, and when the sensation and the visual finally came through he initially doubted his senses, nearly believing that he had merely mesmerized himself into seeing the prince in the flesh with the different sitting room in the background, before Gérard began to talk to him.

"Good, I see you now! You can hear me all right?"

"Merciful heavens, it really is you! Yes, yes I can hear and see you, clear as day!"

The prince laughed a little good-naturedly at the man's reaction of shocked disbelief. "Give me your hand, then," he ordered, still smiling, extending his own large right hand toward him. Dreamlike, Rein saw his own hand visually pass through the two-dimensional paperboard and into the three-dimensional picture, feeling the prince's firm-nigh-painful clasp as soon as it reached him. Half pulling/half walking backwards, the man successfully hauled Gérard through the portal, blinking up at him in astonishment as the prince appeared before him with a clear expression of triumph in his blue eyes!

"I can't thank you enough for pointing that out to me, my friend," he congratulated Rein warmly, shaking his still-clasped hand before releasing him. "I fear I was chiefly made for action and manly labors, not for tricky problems of logic. It may be safe to assume that the only reason the other trumps don't work yet is because the Great Storm is still on its way to Chaos. But Shadow on this side of the universe should be working just fine by now, at least the first dozen or so worlds in the Golden Circle."

"But then why haven't we heard anything from them yet? Something still isn't right here, unless they too are merely afraid after seeing that hellish wall of clouded lightning pass by, and are wondering the same of us?"

Gérard frowned. "I fear there may be more to it than that. We kept the Begman ambassador abreast of events here to a certain extent, since their people were battling shadow-monsters similarly in their own land. I've known many of their sea captains personally over the years; it isn't in their nature to shirk a clear sky and a fair sea. The threat was surely wiped out there just as suddenly and completely as it was here. There would have been no mistaking it. No," the prince mused, "this smacks more of some kind of involuntary blockade."

"Or that the Storm knocked out all natural magic, both good and bad."

Gérard lightly shuddered. "I would certainly hope not, but you may be onto something there. The paths that Amber uses on the high seas weren't always there, you know – yes, I think you do remember a time before them," he thought aloud. "Perhaps they must be ploughed afresh on that new clear blue… perhaps we have to start over." He glanced down at Rein, suddenly serious. "I think I might have to re-establish the major trade routes myself, to open the way again."

Rein's eyes widened at the growing implications. "…but the full process could take seasons, years even! Amber cannot be without rule for that long!"

There must always, always be a king in Amber, Dworkin's half-lucid plaint echoed in the prince's memory.

Must there be? Gérard suddenly thought. There was technically no king now, and the Castle was yet standing. Their world had withstood both regency and forcible usurpation. Eric's betrayal of his trust on that count still left a bitter taste in the back of his throat; at least his elder brother had proven himself loyal to Amber in the end. And it was worth noting that the True World was not as dependent upon the Royal Family's physical presence there to maintain its own structural and cultural stability, as a world off in shadow could become if one of them lived there long enough and then left; Amber had the True Pattern for that, and three more within relatively close proximity, besides. But those concerns barely even touched the country's legal system…

"I agree," the prince said at length, worrying his beard with his front teeth. "But the people will be facing near-starvation if I don't start out right away. We need sail only as far as Begma to ensure the grain and dairy at first; the rest can come later," he retook his seat at the table, intent on polishing off lunch; Lord Rein followed suit out of outward respect, but his own appetite had fled on the heels of such news. "It'll be tight, but I believe we have enough hands left for a skeleton crew for such a voyage, so long as we don't take one of the larger ships. If only we had enough manpower for a clipper," he sighed, "it could be far quicker, just a few days there and back."

"Were you only planning on retracing the old routes, then? Well, probably easiest for the captains and the cartographers at least," Rein availed himself of a drink. "Faster isn't necessarily safer. But that still doesn't answer the question of what's to be done with all of us in the meanwhile – me, I'll just be working on the heroic ballads I've been composing of late, but that's just one man accounted for out of an entire civilization."

Gérard had stopped in mid-chew three sentences ago, fully convinced that the court minstrel could run the realm better than he could if his life depended on it! He swallowed.

"Rein," the prince addressed him rather solemnly, "I'm going to appoint you Steward of Amber during my absence, which, if I take your sound advice once more, should be shorter than even I had expected."

To say that Lord Rein was stunned by this dire pronouncement would have been putting it very mildly indeed.

"My lord, with all due respect," he began quietly, hesitantly, "you cannot possibly be serious! Leave a man mostly trained as a musician, as an entertainer, in charge of an entire kingdom?! Surely one of your retired generals would prove far more capable than I!"

"I cannot leave the position to our remaining armed forces; the move would look like a military coup!" the prince rejoindered. "I meant what I said. I've known you since I was but a lad myself; I know you to be honorable and clever, and I trust you as a friend. I'm not granting you a regency, just asking you to look after my house while I am away – possibly less than ten days."

"But it will amount to the same thing to the public!" the knighted minstrel (for that was what he truly was) objected. "How can I possibly 'look after things' without ruling?"

"Oh, it will be simple enough in the short term," Gérard easily brushed off the man's rather reasonable concerns, taking another drink himself, pushing the now-empty plate away. "Don't impede the police in the course of their duty. Don't pass any new laws. Don't hear cases or sentence criminals – in fact, don't even enter the Yellow Hearing Room for any reason at all. I will take care of it all upon my return," he stood up, walking over to where the copies of the nautical charts were kept. Fletcher stood also.

"And if you do not… return?"

The prince stopped in his tracks to look back at him, then laughingly blustered, "Don't be ridiculous – of course I'm coming home!"

But the smile slowly dropped off his face.

"Wait for me no longer than five years, in the absence of the others," he answered more seriously. "Whatever the people have to do to survive – let them, even if it means clearing more land to farm." A whisper of a sad smile crossed his features. " 'The Rule of the People By the People' isn't the end of the world, you know. I lived under a legal system like this on Shadow Earth for a few years, a government by popular vote. But it is far messier and more difficult to run and maintain than the monarchy our land has always known."

There was a saying of men on Shadow Earth that Gérard was sure he had heard at least once, possibly more often than that: 'be careful of what you wish for – you just might get it.' For a shadow-being who was subject to the 'reality' that they lived in, this might be considered a relatively sound warning, but the sentiment had always seemed almost laughably trite to a Prince of Amber such as he, a man accustomed to the idea of making what he would of 'reality' to his best advantage (even though he was less greedy than his siblings in this regard.) What the Barimens wished was largely their experience of the world, always had been, and presumably always would be; that things could be otherwise had been completely inconceivable.

Under any other circumstances, it would've been a pleasure to be getting away like this, even with the inevitable labor that was a part of such a venture, paired with the comforting familiarity of a life he had almost always known. Oberon had spared none of his sons true work, at least in their youth; the existence of a sailor had been much of Gérard's early education once out from under his grandfather's comparatively scanty tutelage, for he had been deemed unsuitable for the majority of the higher magicks and philosophical learning the old man would have otherwise provided him. The constant negotiating of wind and wave and weather, changing the rigging and the furl of the sails, the below-deck rudder-work in the older vessels, the eternal watching of the sea: they had all become as much a part of him as any part of his body. If the prince gave the matter any thought at all (which he usually didn't), Amber's fleets felt much more like home to him than the Castle did anymore.

But, for the first time in his long life, Gérard felt the light twinge of guilt and regret that normally came only to shadow-beings on the heels of that old traditional wishing remark. Indeed, it appeared that he would be getting exactly what he had desired since the Great Storm – his relative liberty on the oceans of Shadow once more – but the cost was still almost too great for his conscience. Amber would be nearly unprotected, for all her showy walls and fortresses, an all-but-hollow show of power, with practically nothing to back it up.

No, that is the old thinking, he reproved himself, bending to concentrate on the pile of nautical and astronomical maps – ancient, priceless artworks of cartography that he was recklessly scribbling notes over as if they were nothing more than a builder's blueprints. The blockade of Shadow itself would protect his homeland from threats from without while he was away, and he trusted to Lord Rein and the remaining retainers to see to it that no threats from within could truly foment. The old but highly experienced Captain Thoben had already been signed on for the venture, along with the scanty but necessary skilled crew of about a dozen middle-aged men and just over a score-and-a-half of boys: green recruits. These, along with the families of those left to work the shipyards and fisheries, had been preparing the standing rigging and loading the hull of the HMS Silversheen. She was a rather small brig – only a two-masted affair – but more than adequately canvassed with a goodly mixture of square and triangular sails, so that she could sail both with and against any decent wind, rather like a modern sailboat. Only far larger. There were just two decks below (the bottom one chiefly being filled up with their supplies and rough ballast at present), but none of the ceilings ever ran lower than six feet: Gérard pretty much demanded that of any vessel he voluntarily boarded, even though he still had to stoop fairly often below deck on these smaller ships. The craft was truly meant to accommodate three times as many sailors, but they could make due with the number at hand, although it meant that the schedule of the watches would be rather tight at times, depending on the weather.

While that routine physical work was being completed, the prince had been mentally toiling over settling the newer, quicker route that could be traversed in both directions, unlike the old one which operated along two completely separated shadow-tracks – worlds apart, so that the wind could be at one's back both ways, a boon to the older vessels still afloat but unnecessary for the most part anymore.

The official public proclamation of both the venture and Lord Rein's new temporary title were slated for the next day, first to be addressed to the convened court of the nobles, then pronounced by heralds to the countryside, with the prince himself announcing his intentions to the City. Rein's intended position was almost intrinsically powerless – the closest the land had come yet to a 'figurehead' – but it had felt even more irresponsible to simply leave the proverbial seat vacant, especially after everything that had happened recently. The man's chief duty was to be briefed daily on the police actions in the city and to make official records for the prince's judication upon his return. Simple as the job was on the surface, Fletcher was still terribly worried, and he wasn't the only one; there were numerous people in the palace who were already aware of Gérard's plan. But it couldn't be helped. The prince was merely playing the hand that had been dealt him as best he could; his choices concerned their collective welfare.

The following morning ran about as smoothly as could be expected. The prince did not mince or sugar-coat his words for those gathered to hear, but spoke plainly of their national plight and what he deemed to be the cause – and the solution, one which would aid their trade relations in ages to come, regardless of whatever-else happened in the meantime. Certain nobles had initially objected to Rein's appointment in the more private assembly in the Castle's feasting hall beforehand… but they were made to remember just how imposing-nigh-intimidating Rilga's strongest son could be when he believed himself to be defending the side of right. Rein might've been powerless in himself, but a mountainous titan of a man stood both behind him and for him, with no question left that there would be consequences for going against Gérard's wishes in this. There were no further grumblings – at least not in the prince's presence.

And so it was, upon the sixteenth of the ngan of Desta in the approximate anno of 2390.5 d'L, that the hope of Amber – such as it was – was met at the docks by a large crowd: families waving goodbye to their remaining sons, some to their fathers, others the prince himself. Really, it was a common enough traditional show of warmth in the mercantile fleets to do this, but Gérard could not entirely ignore the plaintiveness on some of those faces remaining ashore as he rowed himself out to the Silversheen, the ship alive with busyness and commotion and fresh-faced boys (some already aloft in the rigging), shouting their farewells and waving for all they were worth. Once the prince was aboard, they raised anchor.

Amber was in all likelihood one of the few places in any of the worlds where this seemingly haphazard crew was not an automatic recipe for irreparable disaster. The sea was in this people's blood, so-to-speak, possibly even moreso than those who merely dwelt below it in Rebma. The youths aboard this vessel had known the proper knots and when and how to tie them since they were old enough to first tie their own shoes, had learned to tell standing rigging from running rigging before they went to school, had been practicing on small play crafts and their fathers' vessels in harbor throughout childhood. They were sons of sailors, who were sons of sailors, who were sons of sailors, with the understanding that as soon as they turned sixteen – the age of legal adultdom in Amber's neo-medieval society still – that they, too, would enter the fleets, either fighting for king and country if need be, or plowing the deep in search of good business deals and occasional adventure… the adventure part rather obviously looming large in his young crew's imagination at the moment. This aspect of the voyage had proven to be unsurprisingly popular among the city's children, a chance to make a real difference in their families daily lives. Gérard actually could've had twice as many small but able bodies at his disposal, but his requirements for signing on had been very strict: none younger than fourteen years of age, with active experience on at least one supervised expedition into Shadow (even a short one), and not given to any sort of tantrums, rebellion, fits of crying or anger, or too much fantasizing – especially that last point. There would be no hiding the shadow-shifts on this Sail; his crew had to be doubly sound of mind.

A fresh, fair wind of Gérard's desire came out of the north, smelling of the Forest, filling the sails and gradually propelling the brigantine out of the harbor and south over the Rebman sea, out beyond it toward the horizon, beyond the wheeling shore gulls, as the first mate piped up the tack orders to those aloft, the prince gone to take his place at the prow of the ship. She rode light and easy with the relatively gentle dip-and-swell of the waves sending up their salt spray; a herd of dolphins were currently pacing her, but they too turned away before she was out of sight of the shore, the bright sun gleaming off their silvered backs, sparkling off the great unconquerable blue.

The unnamed Ocean of the True World – as mysterious and wild and gigantic as the primordial waters that swaddled Shadow-Earth's Pangaea in dim eons past. The last man to even attempt to circle this aquatic wilderness had been Osric Barimen, their eldest brother, long-dead now; he had gotten all the way to the other side of the Nothing before his crew mutinied and he was forced to trump away from the ship to save his life! The other men on that particular voyage were never heard from again. It was surprisingly easy to put out of mind what this place truly was, that it was even here, for it was rarely traversed for long before shifting away into the oceans and seas of Shadow. And yet… there was always this moment – which was coming up on them fast now – when you lost sight of Amber's coastline, and suddenly you were alone in that limbo, just you and your companions and the sea and the sky (and the sun, if you were lucky)… and the entire world seemed like a slate wiped clean, like anything was possible…

The prince's gaze momentarily shifted northward (they had set out south-southeast) to watch it happen… only to see a boy dive off the deck, the blank terror in his eyes unmistakable! The bo'sun barely had time to shout, "Man overboard!" before the prince dove into the brine after him with fire in his eye and indignation in his chest! He had the deserter subdued and back on deck in two minutes flat; once they were both back on their feet, Gérard back-handed him so hard across the face that it knocked him down, decorating the entire left cheek with a hand-shaped welt!

"You would have drowned before you ever reached the shore, you little coward!" he roundly scolded him before calling all new hands to the forecastle. The land disappeared unwatched.

"It would seem that at least one of you did not fully understand what it was that he was signing on for," the prince addressed them all, still dripping wet, as the shamed boy struggled back to his feet, carefully stretching out the crick in his neck, rubbing it. "This is no trawling expedition about the Bay, nor a pleasure cruise up the coast! Young you may be, yet limited access to the worlds of Shadow is practically your birthright as the sons of Amber's great navy. I am aware that when it comes to worldly experience you currently have little, and experience outside of Amber you have almost none, aside of the stories you have heard from your fathers and your fathers' friends. I did not require this of you, and until you all have had the chance for your own to develop, you may rely upon mine. What I require is steady hands, strong bodies, stout hearts. If you can provide these and follow orders, all will be well. As you are doubtless aware, our numbers are few, but not impossible – every one of you must fulfill the tasks assigned him for this ship to run at all, let alone well; I can influence the water and the wind, but not the rigging. Now, before we make more sail, do any of you have any questions or concerns you wish to put to me? I punish none for honesty, only insubordination," he glanced in passing at the soggy youth who still couldn't look him in the eye. A timid hand was raised. "Yes – you."

"Do you think we're going to run into any sea-monsters along the new route you've charted for us?"

A little of the tension went out of Gérard's considerable frame and he gave a small lip-smile. "No, lad; the waters we will pass over in Shadow will only have relatively docile fish, no matter the size or kind; we made sure of that beforehand. But a fair question. Are there any others? Speak now."

All were at silent attention.

"All right, then – back to your posts with you."

As one they all made for where they had been previously stationed, a few clambering back up the rat lines, including the attempted deserter; Gérard caught him by the shoulder, though, but not hard.

"Not you," he pulled him back to deck. "Get you below for this one watch; go and see if the cook needs any help in the galley. Tell him I sent you."

"Aye, m'lord," the kid muttered, flushed with embarrassment besides, and slunk below deck.

Gérard looked back at the captain at the wheel, heaving a sigh; the old man simply nodded and gave half a shrug before turning his weathered face out a few points to starboard, gently turning the ship.

Gérard Barimen was definitely of the 'old school' when it came to certain things. He firmly believed in the value of corporal punishment, but only when he deemed it truly deserved, fearing the dangers of 'sparing the rod' and all that. To say nothing of ship discipline: had that brat been a full-grown man (as was judged in their country) and pulled that stunt, he would've gotten a few fast lashes from the bo'sun, and less provisions for a few days, besides. As it was, the prince fully expected the cook to give that boy something to eat once he heard what had happened, and to put him to work doing some mundane and repetitive task to ease his nerves, like peeling pounds of potatoes or plucking a chicken or two for their dinner. He couldn't afford to have his scanty crew having panic attacks before he had even started the process of shadow-shifting!

He had to admit that the other boy who'd spoken up had held a valid point, though. Amber was technically free to sail wherever she wished – wherever her princes had any desire to go, strongly enough that others could follow – but that didn't mean it wasn't still dangerous in the outer reaches of Shadow. They had the power to literally sail straight off the edges of the proverbial map, where unspeakable monsters lay in wait for little floating wooden crafts bearing tiny screaming morsels of salty meat and bone. There was many a heinous disaster in their ancient past that none spoke of or called to mind, outrageously cruel casualties of curiosity – a learning curve, as it were. The paths in the sea had had to be forged, it was finally determined, so that proper, safer regular trade routes to locales frequently visited could be established. This had chiefly been the task of Gérard's eldest brothers, long ago, starting with Benedict. After the terrible scandal and subsequent assassination of the first two princes (the record stated 'honorable death in battle', but the account certainly didn't read that way), their father had resolved to keep his future progeny busier to avoid further embarrassment. But he needn't have worried: Benedict had been perfect for the job – long, lanky, direly serious Benedict, with his seemingly eternal patience and the concentration abilities of a monk, bending the shadows to his unbreakable will day after day, season after season, year after long Amberite year. Eric and Corwin had also had a hand in the endeavor later on, but Benedict had borne the brunt of that great labor alone, and had carefully orchestrated the rest that he had not been physically present to oversee.

One of Prince Benedict's most marvelous achievements in this had been the altering of the night sky above the oceans upon which he sailed, setting signs in the heavens – groups of easily recognizable constellations in specific shadows, bright and magnificently fiery astronomical displays – to aid in navigating the roads in the deep, going so far as to compose mythological stories to go with each set and how they interconnected with each other. The prince's 'fairytales' were so well-liked and easy to remember that everyone alive in Amber's mercantile fleets had been taught them as children, including the children currently on deck: the tale of the princess and the arrogant sea-dragon that she alone was able to tame at last by means of a magical flute, leading to the beast's 'golden horde' (in Begman wheat and barley); the legend of the wise giant who decided one day to see how far the distance was from fear to love and had many adventures in his land (which may or may not have been based on some wisp of truth from the shadow Ledorne in eons past); the fable of the Deigan serving girl who had to make a cloak of all the healing herbs and spices in her master's garden to salve the sorrow that cursed him – the botanicals all described and explained in scrupulous detail, verse by verse, a veritable medicine chest's worth of knowledge woven into the telling, practical first aid for any who could understand it. Indeed, knowing beforehand their ultimate scope and reach, Benedict had acted according to his nature in crafting the tales, handing down wisdom and knowledge as a father would teach his children, to increase their chances of success.

Traversing places where a compass, or indeed most navigational tools, were of little use if one got lost – where all else about one was in a state of seemingly constant flux – these long and complex yet highly recognizable plot-yarns in the skies had been a godsend, saving many a crew who would've otherwise perished after a heavy storm when their ship had gotten blown badly off-course. It was not uncommon to hear of survivors who said it was Mestrin the Sorcerer or Shrilykra the Ice Lady who had helped them in their hour of need, as if these were real, sentient entities with deity-like powers. Of course, such speech came naturally enough anyway from a largely Animist population, but it was still high praise indeed of old Benedict's work. Someday – one day – perhaps if fate was kind to them, the old paths could be resurrected once more; Gérard hated the thought of all that effort and artistry going to waste, but at present it couldn't be helped. If he had started out right away there might've been time to follow them, but there was no point in ruminating over that, either.

And neither could the prince lean on the usual device he had come to rely upon over the years: Gw'thronadr the Shadow Opener, Gérard's silver horn, was every bit as legendary as any of the weapons he and his siblings had ever wielded. The artifact itself – a simple yet beautifully wrought hunting horn – had been a gift from Julian in days long past, when both of Gérard's elder blood-brothers were still attempting to curry his affection (and, subsequently, his muscle)… before the boy grew up fully and it became too apparent that he wasn't like either of them at all. He still cared for them both, but that love could never be purchased or superficially altered in any way, shape or form.

The horn could, though, as it turned out; his grandfather had seen a fitting use for it almost right away, but refrained from doing anything about it or even mentioning the idea until years later, once the prince's father deemed him seaworthy from his probationary 'training' in Shadow and it had been formally decided that he was to enter Amber's navy under Caine's tutelage. Dworkin had come to Gérard's quarters in the middle of the night – the night before he was to ship out – and secretly took him to the foot of Tir-na Nog'th by means of his considerable sorcery. The full moon rode high as the young prince's grandsire talked him through the ritual as bluntly as he possibly could in the Ghost City, of how to weave the Pattern into the metal… The next day, once his ship had embarked and they were finally out on the high seas of Shadow, out of sight of land, Gérard had simply walked up to the prow of the ship and blown the new, magically-augmented horn, concentrating as he had been instructed a mere six hours earlier… and the coast of their destination came into view almost immediately due south, days ahead of schedule and in the wrong direction by the charts! Gérard had laughed and laughed as his elder brother spluttered in consternation, but refused to make outright mockery of him, telling the crew that he had been ordered to test the new device and that no one else was to know of it beforehand in case it didn't work (which was technically true.) It still took Caine many years to forgive him for humiliating him thus in front of all his men.

But from that day forward, whenever the ships of Amber had to cross uncharted waters to gain a new shadowworld that had never been visited, or might not be visited twice – or if unnatural swiftness of transit was deemed necessary for any number of reasons – Gérard would be placed at the head of the fleet to sound Gw'thronadr… and the shadows about them would bend and flow and alter at the speed of sound waves, into the very world they needed to reach! Ships that appeared and abruptly disappeared began to enter the legends of Shadow, like the Flying Dutchman of the sea mythology of Shadow Earth: the briefest glimpses of that arcane transit, not unlike a hellride, only smoother in most cases.

But even this power had been denied him, for while the efficacy of Gw'thronadr was undeniable, it was also short-lived: the effect left no trail in Shadow that any could follow, save ships in the immediate party. It never lasted long enough for them even to be tailed by an enemy; Amberite vessels could simply vanish on people! No, the prince was forced to perform the task the old way – with brute willpower, just as those who had accomplished the feat before him. But if even hot-headed Eric and impatient Corwin had been able to set the watery ways farther out in Shadow, then there was no reason that he could not as well.

The old path from Amber to Begma – the first of all of them – had been colloquially nicknamed 'The Highway of the Gods' and for good reason: those on the route always enjoyed good weather and a relatively sedate sea no matter the time of day or year or passage, with a steady cooperative wind to fill the sails – in both directions, for it was two-tracked, one set of shadows to embark upon and a different set to return. The new route that Gérard had proposed, in comparison, was a single wide track that followed several high pressure weather systems, which was still decent enough; instead of almost never seeing traffic, the ships would pass each other on the right-hand side now. But the tradeoff for relatively safe seas and mostly workable wind conditions had been the heavens: specifically, there would be no less than four major shifts where the celestial bodies – and perhaps even the sky itself – would be drastically different, and there would be no hiding this from the crew. Even that, under more normal circumstances, would not have been a problem: the old hands in Amber's navy and mercantile fleets had seen and been through such experiences as would have driven lesser men mad; their current captain wouldn't so much as bat an eye, Gérard knew. Such changes were usually only viewed like landmarks on an otherwise featureless journey. He was less sure of those boys, though…

If the temperature had been any less balmy, the prince might've ventured below deck to the captain's quarters for dry clothing. As things stood, the sun would soon do that work itself, but not entirely; the light spray perpetually blasting off the prow would basically render the exercise moot in the end, he decided, and so stayed where he was, as he was. Taking a deep breath, Gérard let it out slowly as he gradually closed his eyes; navigational charts and maps had not been his only assigned 'homework' the previous evening. Benedict had worked out an exact (and exacting) method for making permanent cuts in Shadow like this, with the necessary state of mind meditative. Shifting on the water was harder in the first place, for there were no regular points in scenery that could be altered as when one shifted upon the land – and the land was usually not constantly bucking and rolling underneath one, at that! This was not, however, an exercise in the emptying of the self, but rather a taking into the self that which was without oneself – destroying the barrier between the worlds of shadow and the worker's will in the process – to move shadow as if only moving a part of one's own body, as an almost godlike extension that flowed in and became one.

Ever-so-slowly, the prince's breathing became like the wind, in time with the heaving of the waves, the very blood in his veins pulsing with the tide, the boom of the ocean his heart, the blazing star above merely a manifestation of the fire in his soul, the sky his eyes… he opened them and commenced to concentrate, dead to the orders piped up to the riggers, the flurry of activity all about him on deck (which was more flurrious than usual due to their company's small numbers), seemingly as much a part of the ship now as the figurehead of the siren in the surf that was carved just below the bowsprit. The wind picked up and the captain recognized the sign for what it was, giving the order for more canvas; he was well and truly in charge of the voyage now for all practical purposes. As long as the pilot kept to the set of bearings which they had all agreed upon, they would see the shores of Begma in as little as five days time. Thoben had been ordered to make in the direction of the Isles of the Sun south of Amber, but then to veer off to the northwest at the rising of Negril's moon Cleonid, cutting through the Sea of Dregath and past the Towering Stairs – a strange ancient volcanic formation – before taking the Skrewald current due west, cutting the regular duration of their time at sea in half, a new record for speed! Provided that the prince didn't fall from the bow of the ship entranced… the captain ordered one of the off-duty boys from below decks to come keep an eye on Gérard: the beginnings of a safety watch. For all their sakes.

Were it not for the hard labor at hand for those still ambulatory and alert about the decks, it would've been rather tempting to join the mentally distant prince's watch of the ocean; only the old hands could more or less ignore the subtle yet beautiful changes that kept happening all about them. Without the stringently enforced 'watches' below deck, all sense of time would've quickly slipped away as the seemingly eternal blue over which they rode pulsed shade – double, like a relaxed heartbeat – until it could no longer be strictly said to be blue… the very liquid over which they rode was edging into a deep violet without any explanatory tint of sunrise or set – and that sun was bleached to pure white now… and neither did it appear to be moving anymore; it hadn't in over an hour! High, wispy cirrus clouds feathered by – sparkling golden, reflecting the water – until they were swallowed up by the distant horizon that was shading a hazy aqua-green… then again, maybe not; it was surprisingly easy to lie to oneself about some of the more subtle changes in the stimuli at hand, writing it off as a side-effect of the heat. It had grown humidly hot by what should have been evening by the hourglass (and yet that sun rode as if it were only mid-afternoon), the salt spray a welcome relief. It was only after dinner that most of the boys got their first real shock upon coming back topside: a gigantic cratered red planet – easily fifty times the size of Amber's moon – had eclipsed the sun while they were below off-duty, their compatriots yet aloft screaming for them to get up here and see this; the phenomenon had appeared without warning! The bo'sun allowed them to gawk for about a minute before ordering them all to pick their jaws up off the deck like Amberites and get back to work! The sky had accordingly darkened, both in light intensity and hue – definitely a forest green now – and no less than five more planets and moons of varying atmosphere, size and description rose more naturally as the sun finally set; the largest had a deep-blue swirled, clouded countenance that fairly crackled with lightning beneath the gaseous blanket, while the smallest might've been a large meteor – dark, pocked and misshapen, thrust from gods-knew-where out of the bowels of Shadow-space.

And yet for all these strange wonders their way lay even, the waters brisk and easy, the wind mostly in their favor, a bit high at times, but not sufficiently so to damage the sails or to drive them too badly off-course. There was no precipitation whatsoever – a rarity at sea. The other wonder, of course, was that the prince hadn't so much as blinked this entire time, being so transfixed upon his great reckoning. He hadn't stirred for anything: food nor drink nor rest. Just standing there as if he were made of painted and clothed stone, braced against the front railing of the ship. If any had doubted that a prince of Amber was essentially made of no different stuff than any other native of the True City, this feat alone would've cowed even the most hardened of skeptics… and he showed no sign of tiring, of knocking off for the night. The situation turned out to be a slight embarrassment for the captain: of all the things that had been discussed and hammered out before they even left the harbor back in Amber, the prince had completely omitted instructions for what to do about this – for in truth Gérard had privately intended to permit himself no respite at all until their destination had been safely achieved, so great was his sense of personal responsibility for the lives of those onboard! He would mould the worlds to his will; all would be well on his long watch. He was leaving nothing to chance.

Except – ironically enough – himself. When it became apparent that he would go below for nothing, the first mate cautiously approached him, timidly asking his lord if he would not like some sustenance to be brought up to him. The man received no sign of acknowledgement at all, yet he went below decks and fetched a tankard of grog. Bringing it back topside, and with great trepidation, he touched the back of the prince's right hand with the chill metal, addressing him again, repeating his question. Gérard's blank expression didn't change a jot, but he took the tankard, drained it in a single draught, and held it out in the direction from whence it had come, with a single, momentously slow nod of acknowledgement. The man ran and came back with another; it also was drained in like manner, but the prince made no sign after the second, and they were forced to leave him be; it was either that or risk raising his anger for distracting him from literally keeping the world about them stable! But now they had a rough idea of what was needed to attempt to care for the one thing that Gérard was not thinking of at the moment.

When the sky finally darkened sufficiently that galaxies-worth of stars could be observed (two of those closer heavenly bodies had set along with the sun; had the vessel been close to any land, those giant orbs would've wreaked havoc on any coast or harbor with vast, quick changes in tide), the ancient cartographer who had signed onto this trip finally came topside for the first time all day, to map those stars and planets by lamplight, to mark their positions in relation to how many watches the ship had traveled, and in which generalized directions, to work through the night and retire in the morning. As the evening grew chill, the captain himself fetched a thick wool cloak and hoisted the article about the prince's shoulders before turning in for his own allotted time of rest. The boy whose life Gérard had saved had first watch with the prince that night; for all the world it was like having to guard a statue. But this was a living idol, with the wind of his life filling their sails like his lungs. The pilot took the helm until dawn.

And such a dawn: fiery gold crying across the horizon at its own splendor, lapping through a lingering silvery mist that had formed over the water, painting opalescent mirages in the sky about the eerily familiar-yet-different star that was rising for the Day, alone in the heavens to reign once more.

And yet the prince stood! As the temperature rose, the woolen cloak was removed in passing, as if from a very tall coat-rack. The cook managed some liquefied rations for him, and these were accepted as before, some tiny shred of Gérard's mind left to run his body.

This day was experientially similar to its predecessor: relatively good weather – just a few more clouds, but nothing threatening – and a following sea… even if the heavens took strange turns at totally unexpected moments; the pilot began to announce when they were due for the next major shift over the amplifier in the attempt to minimize the shock on their younger passengers. Granted, some of them were handling it better than others, but no more truly bad cases of freakout had occurred; so far, so good.

One change was that they had a little more fauna in the seas they were currently traversing – basically harmless, as the prince had predicted, but still definitely strange by Amberite standards. There was the colony of sizable glassy seasnakes all sunbathing at the surface of a warm ocean – thousands of them – all syllabically hissing at each other like an entire phylum of gossips, their skin and muscles crystal clear so that not only their internal organs were on display, but also what they had been eating! None showed more than mild annoyance at the presence of the brigantine cutting through their numbers, but the snakes in turn were copiously noted and recorded in detail onboard. Later in the day, one of the off-duty boys had spotted a more normal-looking school of smaller fish that the vessel seemed to be passing over; he cast down a homemade line and actually caught one, but upon hoisting it shipside and removing the gasping, flailing creature from the simple nail hook, the fish promptly shot some vile-smelling green junk in the boy's face, galloped across the deck on its fins, climbed the railing, and flung itself back into the ocean! The boy was lucky: the substance had stung his eyes badly, but it was only the fish's gastric juices, as was determined by the ship's aged doctor, and after swift and thorough rinsing with saltwater it was estimated that he would fully recover his sight before they reached Begma, although he would receive less pay than the others in recompense for the time he spent laid-up below for being foolish. Suffice to say, no one was tempted in the least by the brilliant-yellow marlin-like dinosaurs that kept abreast of them for a while in the evening as they plowed the current of Joto, due south of the Aeventiri – 'fairy isles' they would be dubbed on Shadow Earth – a well-marked set of regularly recurring mirages that signaled an electromagnetic abnormality which never changed in this particular area of the Sea of Tharsis, making them one of the few natural 'landmarks' generally known to Amber in the deep in any Shadow.

As night descended, the deserted volcanic-red alien beaches of Slipher could finally be made out to the north-northwest in the distance by telescope, which meant it was time to change course to the west to catch them; at this rate, they would reach them by dawn. There wasn't even a moon, and yet the sky blazed with a meteor shower, a pastel lightshow that had in all likelihood never been viewed by any sentient creature in the history of history. The prince was brought his meal and grog to drink; the cloak was brought after and reverently wrapped about him by the boy whose job it was to watch him for the first four hours tonight. He still hadn't moved a muscle except to do a few basic things necessary for life. His endurance was simply appalling to behold; even the legendary Benedict had had to rest!

Power. Strength. Gérard's was the stuff of myths and tall tales, and for good cause, many. Yet it was precisely that strength had had driven his father to order him to sea, to follow in his elder brother Caine's example. As a youth, Gérard had not only never known his own strength, so-to-speak, but he had sincerely believed himself to be indestructible, taking successively greater and greater risks, dares to prove to the world that while he might've been found lacking in cleverness and deep thought, no man living could ever pray to achieve his level of physical prowess: he was both Sampson and Goliath combined! But when one of those self-imposed challenges had ended in the unintentional death of the son of one of his nobles, Oberon finally resolved – in spite of the prince's true sorrow and outward contrition – that it was time for his strongest son to learn that there was one thing in the World which was and would always be stronger than he.

In all seriousness, though, the king had been contemplating this particular move on the prince's behalf for quite some time, albeit for a completely different reason… and yet, not so different in a way. For you see, while it is widely rumored that the princes of Amber can never truly love as other men do, the idea still holds a single grain of truth: they are indeed born with fully-functioning emotional hearts, but they usually burn down to almost nothing over the course of their incredibly long lives; to feel so much for so long would be enough to kill any sentient being, or at least to drive them mad! And, like almost everything else about him, Gérard's capacity for caring and affection had been significantly larger than that of his brothers' to start out with, a potential 'weakness' that his father genuinely feared both for his son and for himself. And so he determined to force at least some of it out of the prince faster, for Gérard's own sake.

The initial lesson was a hard one, as was anticipated: the young prince was spared nothing; no hardship common to the experience of mortals was withheld. The prince watched as intelligent, skilled men perished in storms – swept overboard in squalls, suddenly rendered helpless as a small child's dolls in the face of the merciless rage of the elements. He was on vessels that were attacked in war and attacked by wild nature – by outrageous sea-monsters out of legend; he had stared the proverbial leviathan in the eye… before having to harpoon it out, to save his crew once. The king's method was excessively cruel, yet effective; sufficient repetition of varying death and disaster dulled the prince's reaction to it over the years…

But never killed it, as such 'exposure therapy' would have done in anyone else. Instead, Gérard's anger and anguish smeltered down into something almost painfully noble, yet tempered with reason: there was a time and a place for superhuman heroics as well as a time to cut loose, to let go, and remember the honorably fallen instead. By the prince's own estimation, his current situation was more than adequate occasion for such heroics. And he never got over the sheer enormity of the limitless, never-ending oceans of Shadow: this was the one place that he had always truly felt small, even though he would never openly admit such a thing to anyone. His brothers believed themselves to be gods in the shadow-worlds, but Gérard knew better. He had learned the lesson of his father well.

And, in spite of it all, the prince grew to genuinely love the sea regardless of its inherent dangers and cruelties – as many mortal men do – and when his 'apprenticeship' was up and he was given the choice, he chose to remain with Amber's more normal navy of his own freewill (unless his father required his presence on a battlefield somewhere; as strong-nigh-supreme as Amber was, there were yet petty shadow-peoples that would attempt to attack them occasionally.) It was a hard but personally rewarding life that required physical, mental, and spiritual endurance, as well as complete cooperation for the survival and well-being of all hands onboard. In short, it really was the perfect place for the strongest and most honorable of Oberon Barimen's sons.

The dawn of the third day seemed oddly groggy, nearly fogged in, the greenish sun struggling to lift itself above the horizon. Once some of the moisture in the air had burned off in a pearly haze, it was apparent that the wind had blown them slightly off-course to the north during the night, but not irreparably so; the captain gave the orders to adjust tack, and soon enough they were on the correct track again, although the wind was not quite as regular as it had been before. The Crags of Grisbon were, amazingly, coming up hard to starboard: this was the great turn in their journey, the one that should set them on a direct course for Begman waters in another couple of days. As wild as the proposition was psychologically, the crew had settled into their routine for the most part, with a case or two of nerves being 'medicated' with alcohol until they could return home; as stringent as the prince had been in his stipulations for signing on, not everyone was mentally cut out for obvious shadow-travel.

And speaking of shadows… the Crags of Grisbon in the world named Acedra had never been inhabited, not even by seabirds, crustaceans or barnacles. No fish ever swam these accursedly sterile waters, for the salinity level here was simply too high to support life. And yet… perhaps it was just a visual trick of the unusually dim morning, but some of the boys high aloft in the ratlines had just spotted a shadow that was flowing in slow-motion below the brigantine, formless like a black ghost, like a huge inkspill in the water… until it began to solidify into an undulating many-armed form that was all too recognizable indeed, and far too large – at least three times the size of the ship – and far too close! And, by the looks of it, of the rising movement of the water, getting closer!

"All hands on deck! All hands on deck!" the bo'sun rang out the alarm, as racks of harpoons were brought up from the hold, rapidly filling mostly unsteady and unpracticed hands: they were not yet far enough from Amber that the Silversheen's cannons would ignite, let alone fire! If the monster truly attacked the ship, their odds of survival were very bleak, especially with the prince's trumps all out-of-order, by his own reckoning…

The prince! They had very nearly forgotten him in their panic, figurehead of flesh and blood that he was at the prow of his own ship! The first mate rushed up to him – harpoon already in hand – and shook the big man as hard as he could by the shoulder, barely moving him; Gérard's eyes were bloodshot, half-closed, with very dark rings about them.

"My lord, my lord, we need you! The ship and crew are in grave danger! Command us, and we will stand and fight! My lord? Can you hear me?! For the love of the Unicorn please answer, I beseech you!"

With a great start that actually startled the first mate into leaping a full pace back in knee-jerk reaction, Gérard came to, blinking a few times; he had not been truly asleep, but all but!

"What?! Where?! What's going on?!" he thundered!

"See for yourself, my lord – off the port bow!" the man frantically gestured; Gérard followed it and peered out into the deep at the ominous, black figure that was floating there directly beneath the ship… and realized in a flash what had happened!

"Orders, my lord!" the first mate pressed. "Should we make for the Crags in spite of the shoals?"

"Silence!" the prince irritatedly barked: the threat was of his own making, and so he should be able to unmake it! Forcibly calming himself once more, closing his eyes, he was almost surprised at how simple it was to return to that meditative state now… and he reached out through it, into the depths of the ocean below them, that cold, unforgiving, harsh, soulless, alien brine…

… and the black creature began to stretch and drift in the current below, as if it had been nothing more than some kind of infernal cloud formation, as if they rode not upon the sea at all, but upon the very top of another shadow's sky… the threatening shape simply dissipated into the water, dissolving...

Gone.

Gérard wrenched open his eyes again and breathed a huge sigh of relief upon seeing the water clear. That had been far too close for all concerned; that shape had been conjured up by his own subconscious as his mind began to drift from fatigue this morning in that connected state… and had very nearly manifested as real in a world of Shadow!

All were silent and still up on deck, but now all those gawking eyes were turned full upon the prince; some of the men blessed themselves.

Gérard knew he had to have looked as haggard and weary as he currently felt. He hadn't so much as splashed fresh water on his face in three days, his features were unusually gaunt from dehydration, his mustache and beard growing wild. And gods were his eyes heavy, the skin about them stung raw. Whether he wanted to or not, he had to rest; they had to stop here for at least a couple of hours.

"I must go below for a time," he announced informally to any and all who were listening, suddenly feeling just how dry his throat had become, wearily lumbering toward the stairs; the boys and men parted to let him pass, genuine awe written on many faces. "Any who is of like mind should do the same."

'The same' here being as blatantly obvious as their savior's current level of fatigue, and the invitation was most welcome. The anchor was lowered and a watch was set on deck, the second mate and a few boys who had slept more recently. The rest all took the time to relax at various pastimes, or to follow his highness' example in taking a badly needed and well-deserved nap, filling the hammocks in the sailors' quarters. As for Gérard, the captain had graciously offered him his bed, but the prince good-naturedly refused the kind offer, stating quite frankly that his weight would break the slats, saying nothing of the fact that the attached footboard would literally get kicked off across the room during the course of his sleep, possibly damaging the ship! These sorts of issues had been a lifelong problem for the big man, but he had become rather adept at accommodating himself by now. Having dealt with this many times in the past during his long years of travel, the prince had once deliberately set out for a land of shadow that made sturdy enough hammocks that would comfortably fit his oversized frame… and was surprised to find himself floating off the coast of Central America on Shadow Earth, of all places! While he spoke not a word of the locals' language, he was able to communicate in pantomime what it was he was searching for, and was quite satisfied with the result: brightly woven Mayan hammocks that the natives used for everyday beds they were so comfortable, some of which were Gérard-sized! He successfully managed to barter for a dozen of them with the gold stater of his own realm (pure gold was valuable everywhere in Order), figuring that anything so lightly constructed would wear out in a hurry, having to bear his weight. But he was happily proven wrong… mostly. And so, he still took the second one (and a spare, just in case) with him whenever he traveled anywhere by sea, and sometimes by land if circumstances permitted. He now unfolded it from his pack, and – setting the necessary screws and hardware into the proper beams of the ship – mounted it in the captain's quarters, taking up all the free space in the middle of the room; he was soon sprawled out unconscious, rocking slightly, cocooned in a blanket, the cheerily-colored mesh stretched down to barely a foot off the floor! His dreams, if he really had any, were blank, his mind having been filled with visions for days already, and desperately hungering for the emptiness of the black. In years to come, future travelers along the prince's new Road would often remark upon the strange, ominously flowing shadows that came together and dissipated, gathered and dissipated, deep in the waters off the Crags of Grisbon: merely a phantom, but nothing more – and nothing less – than a dream of a Prince of Amber that had nearly come to life!

Gérard awoke only a few hours later with the need to relieve himself; rolling up out of the low hammock and slowly stretching his legs before standing, he strode over to the large floor-to-ceiling windows in the stern wall of the ship, opened one of the panes and did so. It was just as well that he was up; as badly as he had needed rest, Amber needed bread even more. The moment they reached Begma, the better-equipped merchant vessels could depart upon the new route immediately. And perhaps the Silversheen and her crew could return home by the power of Gw'thronadr… although this also had not been tried since the Storm. If it was deemed not worth the risk, another five days would be no great burden, comparatively-speaking. Hurriedly washing his face with cold water, rinsing his lengthening beard of salt, smoothing his dark, shortish hair back (by Amber standards, that is – he never let it grow past his neck anymore, it just got to be a nuisance), the prince made his way to the galley and had his first real meal since his departure: a hearty yet simple mutton stew graced with only a few root vegetables, along with pickles, a couple of apples, and more grog. He had only the vaguest memory of drinking something at intervals while he had been lost in his expanded mind, but he had no recollection at all of what it had been… although this variation of the drink had surely been part of it, he now realized; upon asking others present, he soon heard the truth of the matter and made a point of learning the names of those who had offered his largely unresponsive hulk their services while he had been thus, meaning to recognize or otherwise reward them later.

Once he was quite finished (not to his liking, mind you, but sufficient for current circumstances), he rose, feeling the familiar mantle of responsibility about his shoulders – as surely as his men had wrapped him nightly against the cold – but it was not as terrible a burden as before he made his way back up topside again. Without having to say a single word, the silent cue was taken as orders: shouts were heard below, waking those still asleep who should've been on duty, boys and men dashing back to their posts. They were about to weigh anchor and make more sail due west when the prince requested their presence again over the amplifier, all hands this time; in under half-a-minute, every soul on board including the captain stood at his attention.

"I am not known as a man of many words," Gérard began, "but I wanted to make sure that you all know that I am not only aware but appreciative of the service all hands on this vessel have been giving, especially to me in my mental absence – afraid that bit was a little unplanned-for," he gave a quiet, self-deprecating little laugh. "But that aside, we are still only over halfway to our destination and I dare not force our journey any faster than I already am, not only for your sakes, but for those who must follow us." At this, he noted appreciative nods among the more experienced sailors. "We have yet several uninhabited shadow-worlds to traverse, by the course I, the pilot, and our good captain have agreed upon, places where we will ride unhindered in relative safety… provided that all hands continue to give their one-hundred-percent to our group endeavor; just because nature will not be against us does not mean we must not guard against our own shortcomings – no outside aid will be forthcoming for us, either," he soberly warned. "But I have faith in all of you, in your abilities. Just keep giving me everything you've got and the other side of this venture will see us all celebrated as heroes!" He had very nearly given the old collegiate cheer of 'Roll, Tide, Roll!' but checked himself just in time, and instead shouted, "For Amber!" with his fist raised, which was quickly picked up with enthusiasm by the crew! They were subsequently dismissed, the anchor was raised, and canvass unfurled as the ship commenced to move again.

Some of the prince's fatigue came to him unbidden flashback-style, as he resumed his own post at the prow. Before, years ago, when he had heard the already-old stories of this crossing being done for the first time, he had sort of mentally rolled his eyes at the thought of the 'work' involved, having no real idea of just how taxing this actually was on one's whole being; it was right up there with walking the Pattern in difficulty, just… different. The experience was more like becoming the Pattern, the way that hallowed brightness traced sword, dagger and horn alike. It was blessedly easy to forget that he, too, had been reforged with that tracery, after the initiatory ordeal in the bowels of Kolvir. Gérard marveled then, for a moment, at Benedict's passionless resolve, his will hard as any diamond: had he always been thus, the prince wondered? Or had he simply trained anything that was less out of himself over the several millennia he had been alive? There was something positively alien about that cold, raw ability in his eldest brother, and yet, in spite of the strangeness, it was impossible for Gérard not to love him all the same; that nigh-emotionless goodwill had propped him up on occasion.

Brother, where stand you today? He flung the thought to the shadows as he began to concentrate once more. Guiding the flow of thousands of men-at-arms? Lying dead and forgotten beneath piles of men on that accursed black plain? Riding your Glemdenning home along the long, torturous Road, the trumps in your pocket yet too warm to use? Even iron-made Benedict had lost his right arm in an early skirmish with these Chaos-bred monsters in the shadowworld he ruled… yes, even he still had a heart (though he seemed to rarely use it anymore), for it had betrayed him one night, recognizing his own inner strength and lonely power in an enemy warrioress. Perhaps he kept what was left of it hidden away on purpose, to keep from having to face that loneliness…

Gérard's heart by comparison, for better or worse, was firmly attached to his sleeve, and the prince's own strength was often in its display as it was right now, the brigantine cutting through the white-capped waves of the Sea of Anóithe at full speed, twelve knots, as the ceilingless heights of the skies and the abstract, unsoundable deep beneath those waves retook his senses; he had resolved to try to be a little more consciously present this time, however, having some working experience with the state now.

They had left that miasmic climate behind them hours ago, along with its strange associations. The star of the day had resolved to be joyous and bright-golden once more, and while the clouds still were often tinted like cotton candy for no discernable reason to do with Amber-centric rationale, they had only briefly provided a light, warm rain that was more like mist, generating positively spectacular rainbows in its wake. The sheen of the ocean kept changing – gold to silver, silver to gold – only ever broken by pods of alien fish, colorful as parrots, some of which would break surface, whale-like, in order to breathe or otherwise communicate, filling the air with clicks, whistles, or even once an eerie, long-droning hum that resolved itself into a major 9th chord before all simultaneously dove in unison, to be seen no more. The men had broken into a chorus themselves on that occasion; the event had been strangely soul-stirring.

Toward evening on the third day, they lost the good weather for a few hours at last, and Gérard had to be roused to help; while it was only a relatively mild squall, they had feared the prince drowning, getting pummeled with wave after cold wave of water as he was! They rode it out as best they could, the majority of the canvas stowed so as to not have it destroyed by the wind, with Gérard himself at the helm, working hard to shorten the duration of it from where he was and beginning to doubt the efficacy of what would've been in any lesser being strictly self-delusional thinking… but the rain was lessening by two bells, stopped altogether by four, the wind dying back down to a manageable speed of gust once more. He had known that this sort of occurrence was possible if not likely just due to how the new track was being physically set up; it was a calculated risk, but so far the decision seemed to be paying off nicely. Any truly seaworthy vessel larger than a dinghy could've weathered a storm like that with no problem; no one would be so foolhardy as to set out in a tub upon any route in Shadow, no matter with what care that route had been constructed, or by whom for that matter! Gérard both ate and rested that night, but only for a small handful of hours as before, just enough to take the edge off so as not to endanger his crew that way. But simply his being unconscious at all at this point was a risk and he knew it. Balance was key here. When he returned to his eternal-feeling watch that night, he found the aged cartographer scribbling like mad, tracing on his oversized sheets of vellum as fast as possible, his fingers stained black and blue from the ink, bent over his work by the lamplight.

"Any ideas for naming the new constellations, my lord?" he asked upon noting the prince's passing interest.

But Gérard just shook his head with a sad smile. "I'm no storyteller; name them as seems good and fitting to you."

"Yes, my lord!" the slight man straightened in his folding chair, his pale old eyes suddenly bright as the distant celestial fires he was making record of.

It was hard not to catch a little of his excitement, though: there were such stars out here, multiple swirling galaxies visible to the naked eye, two of them in the process of cannibalizing each other in a gloriously brilliant cataclysm, sending out rays of pure light energy into the black void of space! That was some being's world that was getting destroyed out there, in all likelihood, yet even in this death there was incredible beauty. Surely this sight existed so that someone could see it; even if it was only a sentimental lie, Gérard wanted to believe…

The fourth day had started an ominous blood-red, but soon settled into the unnaturally nice conditions of sea and sky that the crew had nearly become accustomed to, the lack of true variation beginning to make some of the boys relax again (to the bo'sun's private consternation; they were quicker of reflex and order when they had believed their very lives hung in the balance, upon the whim of a godlike prince!)

That prince was currently pausing to take his turn at the wheel; these reefs had been too difficult to eradicate completely, but the water was clear enough through the Strait of Baculareia that the bottom could not only be seen, but was illuminated, dappling light through forests of coral and tall seaweed – some of the latter carefully harvested to supplement their remaining meals onboard, along with some fresh fish, as they passed through. Had they not done this (as most crews out of Shadow would have not, lacking the knowledge that viably safe foodstuffs could be had in this remote outpost) they would not have disturbed a small pod of mermaids: four of them nearly pulled one of the boys under for good, but threats of harpoons quickly rid them of their prize and drove them from the ship: it had only been a fair exchange of 'goods' as they seemed to understand it! The boy had protested rather strongly in spite of the near-drowning – his own interests painfully clear – but the sight of an old stripped human skeleton just outside of one of their lairs soon brought him back to his senses! The crew achieved open waters again by dark (for both physical safety as well as time), in preparation of the last leg of the journey: the race across Kantaso Meo to the waiting shores and easy anchorage of Begma, first port-of-call to the True City from of old, the breadbasket of perhaps close to dozen worlds now.

The full implications of that simple statement had never really hit home for Gérard until just now, over a simple yet good fish dinner that didn't have so much as a hardtack biscuit to balance the briny sauce and rich-tasting seaweed that had been prepared like boiled greens…

By the fateful fifth dawn, the prince was starting to have real difficulty in keeping up the level of concentration necessary, but it was not physical exhaustion that was taking him to task, but impatience that was finally proving to be a hindrance: the time that this voyage was taking – comparatively short as it was – was eating at his nerves. All he wanted was for it to be over with his whole being, but that desire alone threatened to wreak havoc upon the necessary rate of 'natural' progression required by both the ship and the crew! In the end, he had to surrender his sense of self completely to keep from consciously getting in his own way, becoming the gentle ocean, the 'rolling tide' pulling their craft inexorably onward, filling the sails with every breath…

He actually failed to notice the sweetness of the breeze that suddenly came to them, blowing eastward, the subtle scent that was not the brine none of them even smelled anymore…

"Land! Land, ho!" the cry from the crow's nest jostled him to his senses, and he blinked for a moment almost in disbelief at the sight of rolling green hills that they were swiftly coming up on! Abruptly remembering that he had legs, the prince made for the main mast in high spirits and climbed straight up the bole of it rather than risk breaking the ratlines, to get a better look himself with the spyglass!

Yes, there it was: Begma – rustic, even by Amber's standards, yet a healthy little state. Especially now: he could see that the dark blight that had been sprouting further out in the farmland like a toxic fungus was no more – the worlds were truly healed, then! Amber had been on good terms with this country practically since its discovery, and they in turn had been benefiting from Amber's involvement both politically and economically for generations upon generations. The things Oberon Barimen had allowed this people of Shadow to do…

Nevermind – they were here! Gérard touched Gw'thronadr to his lips and gave a single long blast in triumph before clambering back down. It was silly, but little tears stood in the corners of his eyes; he quickly brushed them aside as they made for the harbor.

The rising sun illuminated the sails of the Silversheen, as if she had come over the horizon riding it, her green flag with the white Unicorn flying proudly from the stern; by the time the prince's horn was heard – and recognized! – there was a sizable crowd upon the beach, some already in longboats, prepared to row out to meet them… if this was still permitted. Their own ships had been helplessly circling the bay for weeks, unable to cross out into open waters! True, the threat from the Darkness in the land had miraculously just disappeared almost one month ago to the day, but with no visitors at all from the Kingdom of Power, it was feared what had truly happened out there, coupled with their own loss of access to the Highway. But now

As the Silversheen entered the harbor, the prince took up the amplifier to address the gathered crowd, their faces a mixture of excitement, trepidation, and cautious hope.

"Fear no longer, good people of Begma!" he blasted with his powerful voice upraised. "The Darkness has been eradicated from our worlds and the Highway of the Gods is open to Amber once more! Make ready the merchant ships, those who still choose to do business with us! I repeat, the crossing is safe again, but your captains and pilots must meet with mine first, for the course of the Highway has been changed! There is only the one now – the twin paths of your ancestors are no more! The way has just been forged anew!"

This news was met with immediate cheers, joyous tears and embraces, and the signal was given from the Silversheen to allow the boats to come out to carry ashore any and all who wished to go, once the ship had been safely secured and anchored.

As for Gérard, he felt as if his own sails were currently hanging slack in the ensuing personal 'calm': it had all just caught up to him with the subtlety of a brick wall.

"Permission to go ashore to carry out your wishes, my lord?" The captain was at his side; the prince had not seen the man approach. That permission was granted with a nod of the head and a clasp on the shoulder, accompanied by a weary smile; the agreement had been that they, too, would purchase and bring back cargo as well as getting the merchants on their way to Amber.

"Make sure the others won't get lost first, though; we've got the entire day now."

"Of course, my lord," Thoben gave a craggy grin himself before disembarking with the rest, a small trunk of freshly inked charts in tow.

Gérard all but staggered down to the captain's quarters, able to relax for the first time in days, and proceeded to sack out, sleeping the sleep of the dead for near on ten hours.

Awakening early that evening, groggy and famished, he took the time to clean himself up properly – scrubbed up, fresh clothing, beard trimmed decently – before rowing ashore alone in the ship's remaining longboat, which had been left behind for his use. The prince was dressed rather simply for a royal, as was his preference: just a loose, long-sleeved dark-blue cotton tunic that opened a bit at the neck (revealing his thick, dark chest hair), grey trousers, black leather boots and a broad leather belt. He had no official retinue of any kind with him today, but when one was as eminently recognizable as Gérard Barimen, who needed to be flashy? His legendary feats, fame, and general reputation seemed to precede him everywhere anyone had ever heard of him.

He was celebrated in the streets of Begma that night as he casually strode into the capital 'city' (such as it was: a rude early copy of Amber with strong baronies and a weak king, it would seem to one familiar with the True City.) People pressed him for news of the War – which, sorrily, he had little. Women openly fawned over his size, his strength, and he kindly took their attentions and compliments in the stride without encouraging them further. Even small children were running about him, some boasting that they were going to grow up to be as big and strong as he – a long-standing popular aspiration of many a child he had seen grow up, grow old and die (sometimes not living to grow old), whilst others dared him at this and that, trying to goad him into action; these he had learned from boyhood to ignore, for even in play they were mostly only looking for trouble, and they were finally driven off by the innkeeper of the establishment where he chose to take his evening meal. The prince knew he really needed to get up to the embassy, but he had never thought well on an empty stomach. He had always preferred to let someone else handle the political wheedling when it came to these things; such mental and moral sleight-of-hand was certainly not his forte. But he would nevertheless go fortified – with dinner first.

And a merry one it was at that: Gérard's appetite appeared to be well-known also, for the serving girl brought out not one, but two of the large house plates, the steak on the first of a size he had not seen as one person's portion since he lived in the southern United States, the other loaded with bread, cheese, fresh-grown spring vegetables and candied fruits from last winter, all accompanied by a stein of good-quality Begman beer! The inn was packed with patrons, and a band of rustic country musicians played lively tunes in the corner of the establishment all evening; many present were dancing, making the old floorboards creak. The prince happily ate his fill of what was provided, but took the drinking a little easier (as tempting as it was to just let loose and enjoy himself tonight), politely refusing a refill when his stein was about two-thirds empty; he was going to need his wits for what was coming afterwards, as much as he didn't want to think about that either at the moment.

But he couldn't put it off forever: the proprietor told him that the meal was on the house, but Gérard insisted on paying the man; he had gone to considerable expense to feed him so well. He was just on his way out the door – and was being informally toasted one last time by the other patrons who were staying – when a liveried servant to Frekalin Orkuz, Prime Minister of Begma, arrived on horseback, the man's anxiety clear in his frazzled state!

"My lord prince!" he hailed Gérard, hurrying to dismount. "We did not know you were come ashore – my master only received the news but minutes ago! Had we but been told, my lord could have had a feast fit for a king for free!"

"Peace, my man," Gérard reassured him, "it is all right. I do not mind paying – that's why we come here, after all," he gently jested. "But I had meant to call upon the Prime Minister before we struck out again for home."

A suitably-sized mount was found for the prince, and he accompanied the servant back up into the surrounding foothills in the failing light, along well-worn and wide yet unpaved dirt roads, up to the Prime Minister's mansion. Gérard had only had occasion to be up this way maybe a couple of times over the centuries, remembering two of the current P.M.'s direct predecessors; the position was hereditary in this country. He still had to admit they had quite a view up here, what with the coastline to the east, rolling farmland stretching away to the north and south, and an echo of the Forest of Arden encroaching on the west. Unlike Amber, this land was generously bestowed with numerous lakes and rivers, most of which ran in tributary turn to the sea; he and his companion had to cross the River Diarmuid on a small cobblestone bridge to reach the Orkuz estate from the direction in which they had ridden – which was likely a shortcut for expediency's sake since no carriage had been required. Once there, the prince was received with much formal honor and ceremonial pomp (both of which he dearly wished he could simply wave off, but protocol forbid), as Frekalin Orkuz worked overtime to convey the king's (for all practical intents and purposes, his) profound thanksgiving at Gérard's coming to Begma, as well as his ingratiating apologies for not seeing to his bodily needs earlier. The man's son was also in attendance, young Dominéo, doing his best to inconspicuously blend into the general retinue. He certainly had his old man's build: on the short side, black-haired, and a little chunky already – but his dark brown eyes sharply noted all that happened or was said, and when refreshment was ordered for both his father and the prince in the state sitting room, it was he who brought the liqueur tray and not a servant, giving the prime minister the chance and excuse to formally introduce him (although Gérard knew who he was already from previous Castle reports.)

Once the prime minister had the prince alone, however, it quickly became apparent that Orkuz's relief at seeing a member of Amber's royal family was not merely due to his anxiety over the War. Gérard was quickly-nigh-frantically informed of a societal foment that had been rising rapidly in Begma in general, and for no apparent reason that Frekalin could possibly divine, especially now that the threat seemed to be past: the sudden and totally unforeseen push for the equality of women in their country! There had been no oppressive changes in how the fair sex was being treated in the public sector: they were still respected and loved as wives and mothers and helpmates at homestead and in the town, but suddenly within the last month or so a suffrage-style movement had literally sprung out of thin air, a push for women in the workplace: paid positions only men had ever held before! They were even lobbying to be allowed to enter the government, and the prime minister was at his wits' end! They were not breaking any laws, merely folk customs; he couldn't imagine using force against them, but what in the worlds was he to do about it?!

And the prince could certainly tell the level of the man's desperation, that he was telling him all of this; Orkuz understood perfectly well that his confidante-at-hand was Gérard, and not Eric or Corwin or even Caine… there was a old thought-pattern, he suddenly realized sadly. But the sentiment was unchanged: Gérard Barimen was nobody's first choice for an adviser unless it was on the high seas, or the battlefield perhaps – and then the queries posed him were always very specifically to do with the task immediately at hand. Of course, what was amusing about it this time was that for once he actually had a fair guess as to what was really going on here, and it was indeed one of the stranger examples of Shadow-in-action that he had heard of in many a moon, outside of the War.

Anything and everything that happened in Amber – in the True World – caused a ripple-effect that reverberated through the innumerable reflected worlds that ultimately hailed from this association with Order. Civil unrest in the True City could precipitate economic catastrophe and outright war in the inaccurate stretchings and twistings of the stuff of existence the further away one traveled from the epicenter. It would seem that Amber's women – having taken up the slack out of necessity from the absence of the vast majority of the male population – had triggered a progressive gender movement here, and the prince told Orkuz as much, as simply and calmly as possible, informing him that – as far as he knew – while the Black Road had been vanquished on their side of the spectrum, the battles could still be raging unabated in Chaos-proper, for he had received no intelligence that would've positively indicated otherwise up till now, and he explained Amber's current state-of-affairs in regard to the gender shift, reassuring him that their remaining populace was as productive as could be expected under the circumstances. Granted, it seemed that a fair number of the women who had taken over their husbands' shops and family businesses in the City had suddenly found their element, excelling in their new occupations – and this being the case, the prince's advice in the matter was to simply ride the circumstance out: it wasn't the end of the world that a woman could make an honest living and real money, just a different world than the one they were accustomed to living in. It was probably in the Begman public's best interest to indulge their women in this… for the time being, anyway; when the War was well and truly over and Amber's male forces were returned home again, they would be able to better see if the trend really lasted or if it had only been a fluke, an echo of the Truth.

It was painfully obvious that Frekalin Orkuz was not in favor of the idea of permitting this – in fact, he appeared to be grinding his teeth slightly as he listened – but he had to concede that what the prince had told him made sense in comparison to any theories he had come up with himself or had heard during the time this had been happening, though he wasn't about to allow any females to assume offices of ministry, either political or religious. Positions of lesser authority perhaps, ones more easily relinquishable…

The interview lasted a solid hour… and by Gérard's estimation, this was overkill by at least forty minutes, for what the man had truly wanted was a slew of intelligence information that the prince either did not know or wouldn't have told him even if he had. For some reason, an annoying number of individuals misinterpreted his general human decency, compassion, and forthrightness as being intellectually slow, and it was almost embarrassing just how often the less scrupulous had tried to very unsubtly take advantage of him over the centuries – and were surprised at the resistance they came up against… mostly. The prince didn't mentally revisit his mistakes if he didn't have to; there had only been a small handful of instances over several centuries, really.

One rather troubling thing that Gérard had to keep talking his way around was just how precisely the Black Road had been so perfectly erased; the Prime Minister of Begma knew it had something to do with the Pattern, but anything more than this was an incredibly confidential state secret for Amber, and not just for reasons of defense. The new knowledge of the Primal Pattern – which, so far, had been limited to the immediate blood family – threw a proverbial monkey-wrench into their entire understanding of the way the multiverse worked. Or, more specifically, that Amber herself was a shadow – a very special one, it would seem, first in an endless parade of logic-based sentience… but still just a shadow, the true Reality a beautiful rarified abstraction just beyond her borders. It changed how they looked at the worlds – at least it had for him, and some of what this shift in perspective portended was very troubling indeed. He was able to grant Orkuz assurance that no matter what happened from here on out that Amber herself would remain strong, even if it took a generation or two to replenish her numbers in the worst-case-scenario, and that Begma still had economic favor, that the Golden Circle was yet extant, at least in political theory…

But the direction the prince's thoughts had been listing to kept on bothering him as he rode back down to town, making for the ship once again. The Barimens were not gods – Unicorn forgive him, they weren't even totally Real! Perhaps a little more solid than most, but…

Once aboard, he saw that many of the crew had already returned – his own return was vigorously hailed – but the prince was somber as he made his way below deck to the captain's quarters. As he expected, Thoben was there at the polished oblong wooden table, working out the expeditions earnings and expenditures by lamplight and studying the new amalgamated map the cartographer had just finished inking for their voyage home.

"Evening, my lord," he glanced up momentarily to hail him. "We did rather well for ourselves: the hold has taken on as much grain and wool as we dare ballast, along with enough provisions for our return… what troubles you, my lord?"

Gérard had said not a word, given no sign, but had simply walked over to the floor-length windows and was staring out into the sea and the Begman night sky, his muscular arms crossed.

"I was just thinking, of an old game my family has played for as long as I can remember: Real and Unreal. Perhaps the differentiation was simpler in our father's day, when Amber was Amber and Other was Other, when we required no contact with Shadow in order to survive. True, things have run well with the contact: we certainly profit from our ventures abroad," he widely gestured about the well-appointed cabin, turning; the captain grinned in satisfaction with a firm nod of approval. But soon stopped; the prince was not smiling. "We have grown far too dependent upon the Shadow-trade… and we rendered the same possible for many of our neighbors: profit and interdependency. The borders of the Golden Circle have expanded far, and beyond these Shadow upon Shadow carries enough reflection of our Highway to trade amongst themselves, and have for centuries, millennia even in some places." Gérard's expression had turned positively dire. "They are all cut off now, just as we were. We are not the only world that has grown dependent upon Begman grain and wool, and we have allowed this to happen. Amber is directly responsible for that. There must be justice at the center of things, otherwise all falls apart everywhere. What right do we have to say that this people over here gets to prosper and that one over there gets to starve and their civilization crumble out from beneath them for no reason other than they trusted us?!"

"By the right of the Unicorn, and being of the True City," Thoben warily responded by rote, wondering at the prince's current state of mind.

The captain was genuinely aghast when Gérard's response was a cold, scoffed laugh that didn't suit him at all.

"A 'True City'? When my father and grandfather pulled all your ancestors out of Shadow to populate and defend it? You've got about as much 'reality' to you as any skilled man in that city yonder," he thumbed toward land, "just a longer lifespan and better health from being born and raised so close to all those Patterns! Amber hasn't been there forever – we built it!"

"Then… by the Unicorn alone," the captain faltered.

For a moment, Gérard almost pitied him: none of his 'countrymen' were even as much as a sparkle in Her eye. "I am of the Unicorn," the prince stated more calmly, "and I say you have worth – all of you, all of this, otherwise why else would it exist at all? We do not create the shadows; we merely find them: this is my conviction now, from what I have seen, and it is becoming very apparent that my brothers and sisters know very little of the True process. But as for me, I will act in accordance with my conscience on this point. It is what I can do, and so I must."

"Oh, my lord," the captain sighed sadly, "you mean to be away from Amber for the rest of my lifetime. While I doubt not the integrity of your intention in this, is there no other way? Is it not true that the Great Dworkin was rediscovered at last, before the Storm? Perhaps another method for the reopening of the paths can be found?"

The purpose in Gérard's sea-blue eyes hardened; if the captain hadn't been sitting he would've taken an automatic step back. "I am going to attempt it now, starting from right here in Begma, with at least one of their larger supply ships to follow, to learn the way." He made for the table then, for the stack of maps.

The captain could scarce believe his ears! "But – my lord!"

"We must! Now!" the prince seated himself, pulling a couple of the maps toward him, sliding them across the smooth tabletop, no longer looking at him. "How many weeks have already gone by in the farther reaches of the Golden Circle, months even?! Time himself ages more rapidly in some of those shadows! If we are to save them, we can afford no further delay!"

"…but, my lord," the man mentally stumbled in shock, with the beginnings of irritation, "what of your country? And what of our economic endeavor here? You truly intend to place the well-being of shadow-peoples before those of Amber! To say nothing of the perishable cargo we have just purchased by the bushel and the bale: it will be ruined by such a long journey! We'll lose the money!"

Gérard's eyes were blue fire as he turned on the captain.

"This isn't about money!" he thundered, the room fairly ringing with his deep voice. "It's about survival, dammit!" At the word, the prince furiously pounded the table so hard with his fist that the blow caused a considerable gash in the hardwood surface, raising huge splinters around the area of impact!

Immediately aware of what he had just rashly done, Gérard closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. It wasn't this old captain's fault that his worldview was so badly skewed. It was theirs

"With all due respect, my lord," Thoben began again, his own voice forced level, "'twas only by the favor of the Unicorn that we have even made it this far so badly undermanned. I cannot possibly attempt – in my good conscience – to travel so far on such an unsure venture with so few grown men. Those boys have served you valiantly; they have been willing to risk their lives and their sanity to serve you thus. Would you force them to go on, beyond the terms of contract? When much danger and physical and psychological hardship lie charted ahead of us on the course you would take? I have seen many of these waters myself, and I will warn you now – as is my duty – that it is no 'Highway of the Gods'! There are dragons in the waters between Makon and Telúk, for gods' sake! And depending on the time of year, Boralo is prone to hurricanes! Those children have done everything you have asked of them and more, and I say they've been through enough; they have earned the right to return home to Amber! None of them are experienced enough sailors for the voyage you wish to undertake; there is no sentiment in that, my lord. It is the truth."

Gérard sat back in his chair with a sigh. The man was right, of course. And he hadn't deserved to get his table busted up. He opened his eyes and met the captain's more calmly. "I press-gang none into my service… or Amber's. I acknowledge your concerns in this. You have my permission to fill out our crew as you see fit; surely there are experienced sailors to be had in Begma, who know how to weather a rough storm and keep their heads in the face of danger. Many of them are even accustomed to some shadow-travel because of us, albeit usually secondhand. You can guarantee those who will join us that if they stay on for the full journey and come at last to Amber before going back home, that they will be handsomely paid for their labors by the Crown – and that goes for our own who would stay on as well, including you."

"But who is-" The ill-thought-out words escaped the captain's lips; he hadn't meant to say it aloud, but it was too late now: who was the Crown?

Gérard slowly inhaled, his eyes still fixed on him. "Tell them that I myself will pay them, out of the Treasury in Castle Amber, upon our return thence." He glanced back to the table with a sigh. "You can add a woodworker to the tab; if it cannot be mended, I'll replace it."

Thoben snorted a very quiet laugh. "The worlds are not made of as stern of stuff as you are, my Prince," he rose to his feet. "When would you want to be shipping out, then? I can hardly go shopping for a crew at this hour of the night… at least not one that would be sober by morning," he ruefully joked; Gérard nodded assent.

"Tomorrow afternoon, then, with the tide. I should speak to our own crew myself, to give them time to make up their minds on the matter." He was struck with a sudden thought. "You are still with us? Or should I be looking for another captain as well, aboard a Begman vessel?"

One of the traits that made men follow Gérard Barimen to the ends of the earth and beyond was his complete lack of guile: one always knew exactly what he was thinking, exactly how he felt about things, exactly where he stood at all times, no matter what was going on; he even gave fair warning before knowingly blindsiding someone.

The captain sighed a bit irritatedly, but with that old fondness. "Course none of you would make it at all without me. I wouldn't normally doubt your Highness, but you're not really traveling 'with' us, so-to-speak," he gave a half-smile. "I'm still with you, my lord. And for you, for whatever that's worth; I'd rather serve a ruler who cares too much than one who don't care at all."

The prince gave only a curt nod with a small lip-smile before rising himself and tromping on across to the sailors' barracks, which was fairly packed for the night; only a couple were yet topside. Upon his entering the room – already stuffed with occupied hammocks, though few were sleeping yet – many of the crew straightened or rolled up to stand in the prince's presence, but Gérard stopped them.

"At ease, lads," he smiled warmly at the attempt, "I've just come to tell you what is on my mind."

And he did, in considerable detail for once, for he understood that this was asking a lot of them and he wanted his men (such as they were) to comprehend his reasoning for such a stupendous undertaking, along with the hopefully short but technically indefinable timetable of the venture. He reiterated that their service was both valued and appreciated – and that they indeed had every legal right to return to Amber from here should they so desire; he could easily work out an amnesty with the Prime Minister and arrange for them to come back via Begma's regular merchant fleet… provided that they offered any captain they sailed under their services also, and not just their paperwork, until they reached their destination. They would be paid for the work they had already accomplished, regardless of whether they stayed with the Silversheen or left it. But the ship was going onward with or without them, and they had until the morning to decide whether they were also, so that the captain had adequate time to recruit as many hands as he needed from among the local population; that had been Thoben's stipulation, that he would not leave at all without a full ship. Should they stay, the workload would not be as heavy as it had been before, but he still left the decision up to them and bid them goodnight.

Needless to say, consternation and argument reigned supreme onboard the Silversheen long into the wee hours of the morning on the heels of this totally unexpected news, with open debates raging this way and that over most of the points that the prince had discussed! What did this sudden shift in policy portend for Amber's future supremacy? The very thought of risking life and limb for 'lesser' shadowmen was almost more than some could even swallow, the prince's own tack at odds with everything they had ever known or been taught! It turned reality itself on its side!

"Best take the time to caulk her, then," the first mate advised, and his sentiment did not go amiss. Even though Amber influenced all of Shadow, recent events did suggest that shadows still could influence Amber; the monsters of the Black Road had killed men in their army in Amber! To say nothing of alien shadow-men some of the Royal Family had ignobly introduced for ostensibly the same reason! With this being the case, there was a natural enough obverse to this coin: the cultivation of shadow-allies, as had been accomplished for any number of reasons, including economic, in their country's distant past. Wasn't the voyage his highness intended merely an extension of that show of goodwill? Perhaps he ultimately had right on his side; this was Gérard, after all. It was just inconvenient due to circumstances beyond the prince's control, which only raised another slew of potentially dangerous questions, some of which they had never dared to ask anyone aloud before…

By morning, the crew had mostly decided in favor of staying on with only a few holdouts: not only a handful of the boys (that much the captain had anticipated), but also the second mate, and, most shockingly, the pilot, who could barely contain his disgust at the thought of the prince's 'clemency for mere shadows'! He refused to offer his services to even a shadow crew – he was for Amber, not for this dangerous farce, and would charter his own way home rather than perform the same duty on a foreign ship; he could financially afford to be hard-headed. Gérard could scarcely fault the boys, but he was more than a little galled at the other two, to say nothing of their reasoning (as mainstream as that sort of thinking actually was in his home country.) But he had given his word on the matter, and that was that: they were given their gold and their leave. Among those who had chosen to stay on was the boy who'd dove off the ship within sight of home – and the prince wished he had chosen to leave! The kid had been a bundle of nerves for most of the expedition so far, and no doubt felt that he had the chance to prove himself now, but such 'hands' were a liability on any voyage, let alone one so specialized as this, but Gérard didn't have the heart to openly disgrace the lad by announcing he was unfit when he had come this far; perhaps work could be found for him below decks on the second ship they were to contract out. For any merchant daring enough, this was the opportunity of a lifetime: to be there at the opening of a new trade-route, to get to learn the way before any others of his countrymen! The knowledge of the route was to be made common, though; Gérard had insisted on that point, to cut down on the chances of a truly detrimental monopoly developing in any of these shadow-nations they were to link together. The Golden Circle was to be made an actual circle at last.

That day saw even more activity than the prior (or, rather, the prince was actually a conscious participant this time.) The choice of a second ship had resulted in a bidding war on the docks, and in the end the captain of the Silversheen tripled his profits for the venture merely by selling the right to follow his ship to Hendrik Retiver, a man on the make with a sizable frigate at his disposal. The crewing process was even more arduous for both vessels, the prince's requirements were so strict, but by noon the Silversheen had taken on an extra sixty hands including a cabin boy of barely ten years (which Gérard couldn't help but feel had been a personal moral jab at him by his own captain, who still wasn't totally happy about doing this) as well as a new pilot; the man had been very thoroughly briefed as to what his specific duties were to be and how the operation was to run. Shadow-pilotage was similar enough to the regular kind that the man had trained for (and had years of practice in), but there were some significant navigational differences which were usually only ever taught in Amber to sailors of the True City. They were taking a risk in doing this, but it was a rare privilege to be allowed access to this knowledge; the pilot proved to be a swift learner bestowed with an eager and broad mind, and the prince was satisfied with his competency.

The Bright Jenna – the frigate in question – was rigged and ready by seven bells by the day watch; she was to carry most of the cargo for both of the ships, and all hands were on decks, ready to make sail. The prince had made a fast jaunt to the Amberite embassy in the city, leaving behind the documentation papers for those who would be taking the alternate route directly back home from his own crew, along with the necessary legal signatures and monetary compensation to accommodate their passage; then he made for the Silversheen again. He was last to board as before, and he found that it was frankly a relief to see the manpower they now had at their disposal – a proper crew once more – readying their own rigging and preparing to cast off just as soon as the signal was given. If the Amberite men who had served him were fondly deferential, these Begman sailors looked up to Gérard as if he were a demigod in the flesh, giving him generous berth wherever he went about deck, all showing little signs of respect and subservience. It was just as well, the prince reasoned; it meant he had a reliable, quick-responding crew. The order to raise anchor was given and Gérard took his position at the prow, hoping that this attempted act of charity was not his own heart's moment of well-meaning betrayal…


Meanwhile, back in the True City, Fletcher Rein had his hands full of litigation he could literally do nothing with but stack up in the corner, as well as at least a dozen old nobles who still had their noses out of joint about this arrangement, breathing down his neck! Granted, the general change in the law – that if one was caught breaking it at all by the police, the perpetrator was promptly sent to the dungeons for an indefinite stay – had seemed positively draconian at first, but he had to admit that the standing threat of that level of punishment alone with no trial had all but eradicated petty crime in the City; it was too bad that it had taken a measure that extreme to do it, though. (There was, of course, the rather real possibility that quite a number of the usual troublemakers were battling for their lives at the other side of the multiverse at present, but Rein very consciously chose to ignore this particular data.) The prince's mail and newspapers were piling up, so-to-speak; the assumption that the outside world was simply going to leave them alone because they couldn't even get to them seemed to unfortunately be proving spot-on, but that didn't take into account the goings on at home that the king had always quietly dealt with in the past, with no one else's knowledge. Lord Rein couldn't remember either of the late kings – Oberon or Eric – ever smiling a lot; from the little he could see from his own position, the job was definitely a bitch (as Corwin would have remarked, were he here), especially without access to any of the perks that usually came with this level of power! And Rein didn't envy the prince who would wind up with it nearly as much as he'd thought he would: his own nearly worthless little title was proving to be trial enough!

But barely nine days into Fletcher's 'stewardship', ships with Begman flags were sighted off in the distance, making straight for Amber's port! They were greeted with general pandemonium and rejoicing… but the Silversheen was not among their number. The sailors told strange tales, wonders none had ever seen in their entire lives, and certainly never on the old Highway! Shadow was well and truly open between them once more… but such shadows! While a man on one of the vessels had taken mindsick three days out, the rest appeared to have made the crossing hale and whole – and now that they knew what this was going to be like from now on, they could better prepare their own people for its effects in the future! The raw wool, grain and other foodstuffs were like a gift from heaven, and fetched good price at market (which had grown nearly threadbare aside of the fishmongers.) It was generally assumed that the prince's vessel would be following in a day or two from what the captains had overheard – that the Amberites had stopped to rest and resupply before returning home. All was indeed well, then, and they would have their ruler back soon enough.

But days passed and there was still no sign of the Silversheen, just more Begman merchants, their cargo far more telling this time, for those who had defected from the prince's second voyage were onboard! The boys were fairly bursting at the seams with their stories upon being reunited with their families, although by the sounds of it more than one of them had decided that their futures lay in the local waters as simple fishermen or on land as other types of tradesmen. Unlike the poor Begman they heard tell of, none of the Amberites had lost their senses in the crossing, but that journey was still a little too traumatic for some to care to voluntarily repeat for a living!

With the little clout that he had, Lord Rein urged the populace to calmly continue their daily lives for the time being: there was nothing that any of them could do to bring back their lord or their loved ones any faster, except perhaps to pray that they would be returned to them before the turn in the season. He knew not how time pulled out in the shadow-worlds that Gérard and his crew (two of them, powers preserve them!) were traversing at this moment, but he felt in his gut that the prince would not have embarked upon this second voyage had he truly believed that too much time would pass at home in the interim.

He hoped…


Speaking courageously, vowing to hold fast and true in the face of all adversity (by Amberite standards, that is) and actually doing it were two very different things, as the seasoned Begman sailors in Gérard's small fleet were quickly discovering. The prince had simply seen the symptoms too many times to really be affected by it anymore, but the fact remained that they had already lost two of the Silversheen's new crew to the old madness, the unfortunate yet surprisingly common affliction of lesser mortals upon exposure to a reality far greater than their ability to psychologically handle. They were rapidly transferred to the Jenna's hold and bound securely among the bales of wool to keep them from hurting themselves or others, two of the frigate's sailors taking their place aboard the Silversheen. Gérard knew he had heard Corwin recently speak in passing of a type of mind doctor to be found on Shadow Earth, who had the ability to make those of weaker will forget painful or otherwise unwanted and personally detrimental memories. He would have to look into it upon his return home; such a thing might be useful in such simple, straightforward cases like these.

The madness had not occurred without serious provocation, however: some of the 'shadow-walking' conditions of this sail were proving to be particularly wild, the effects impossible to completely cover over even with temporary weather inversions or even outright fog, no hiding from those onboard that they were indeed plowing the waters between the worlds: different atmospheres, different smells to the sea, signs in the heavens that abruptly appeared and disappeared seemingly at will, testing and trying the psyches of his crew. There had been a reason these courses had never been attempted for permanence before. The prince, the captain, and the pilot of the Silversheen had been having planning sessions that lasted long into the night, charting out each next day's passage, carefully weighing dangers of sea and sky against the psychological well-being of the men… with the cabin boy often an unwitting, hidden witness to their dire councils. This was one of the most serious undertakings of Gérard's life, moreso than even the War: he had to come through this with all the men entrusted to him; he had to be willing to hobble the speed of their journey to care for them, in spite of that very speed being a great bodily necessity to all involved.

Onward, ever onward through those trackless alien oceans, graced by foreign stars, completely alone except for the occasional pods of fish and other sea creatures. One night the crew of the Jenna thought that the outside of the hull of the ship had caught fire from the amount of light out-of-doors… only to discover an entire migration of bioluminescent jellyfish, as far as the eye could see in all directions, flashing and shimmering in sequence like a sea full of living lanterns…

As the captain of the Silversheen had predicted, they sighted their first sea-dragon within hours of entering the Sea of Makon, but they were in luck: the beast was only fishing, and so let them be. Seeing that they were in no danger, the crew of the Jenna lowered nets and caught a goodly number also, preserving them in salt, to add to the table (such as it was, with so many mouths to feed.)

But, unfortunately, Captain Thoben had also been right about the weather not being as predictable out here, either. They passed through small batches of moisture regularly – petty, inconsequential cloudbursts, just enough to get the men wet, cold, and irritable. But they had to ride out a fairly significant squall on the fourth night out: black clouds crowding out the stars and planets, with volleys of rain pounding the decks and sails, hard enough to make the masts and rigging creak, the roiling waters beneath the ships churning into a liquid mountain range as sheets of lightning roared across the heavens! As much canvas as possible was stowed, but the Silversheen had already lost her foremast topsail to a gigantic rip from top to bottom before the crew even had time to furl it, and it had to be lowered altogether in the blinding rain to keep it from pulling the ship off-course! The prince had ordered the boys to go below deck immediately for their own safety in spite of their vehement vocal protests to the contrary: the kind of storm that could easily take a man's life was no place for children to be playing at heroics! The Silversheen was getting doused with each oncoming white-foamed wave, riding the deeply echoing valleys of the troughs, the heights of the breakers; the more heavily-canvassed frigate sustained more damage from the wind and was beginning to list to leeward, but managed to keep apace the lead vessel in spite of all, having to use the pumps below deck to keep from taking on too much water! For two whole hours the elements raged at them – a sudden flash of close lightning illuminated a lost plesiosaur in a huge raised wall of water two points off the starboard beam, submerged, rowing against the current in vain!

But, gradually, the wind began to tire of blowing itself out, and at last there was a near-calm in another hour as the clouds dissipated and stars reappeared, along with two new brightly-colored planets. Everything and everyone that had been above decks was sopping wet, the weight of the water pulling down on sails, clothes, and spirits alike. But they had made it, and without losing a single man – a small victory in and of itself! Repairs were seen to, fresh canvas hoisted aloft, the two bound men in the hold of the frigate soothed out of their terrified screaming with songs and stories out of their childhood, with promises of home and family. Once the wind was in their favor again, it was quickly discovered that they had been blown all the way out to the deep and immense coral forest of Simaja, crossing the shadow-barrier into Laerna through a naturally occurring 'wormhole', without even meaning to! It took some work to get back out into the correct course – and time, time they could not afford to spare, for it ebbed and flowed like the tide in some of these desert regions…

But those heavens at night, every night that it was clear – and sometimes even in broad daylight… Were the circumstances any less serious, this alone would've been worth the price of admission: the displays were awe-inspiring, almost painfully beautiful, and sometimes more than a little disquieting. The cartographer (who had stayed with the Silversheen) had made up a sort of contest for the joint crews, to help with the naming of this seemingly endless parade of celestial phenomena, that whoever's idea or story was best for it would be the official one used in the records – in Amber, no less! The prince approved of the old man's harmless scheme: it helped to keep the men's minds from wandering off into dangerous, self-injurious directions in the few hours that they weren't distracted by their work.

As to the true purpose of all this toil and travail across the great wide watery wastes of Shadow, at least that part was basically going according to plan, between catastrophes. The Silversheen and the Bright Jenna and their crews were lauded at every port-of-call as heroes, like something out of an old legend come to life: the gods coming in time of famine to give not only bread, but new freedom of the seas about each shadow-country they visited (and the Begmans were making a rather healthy profit, but not an unreasonable one, even trading for less-perishable local-made items they could market elsewhere along the route as well as in Amber and at home!) They were mobbed by enthusiastic crowds onshore, celebrated every night they made land.

Well… almost every time: the farthest reaches of the Begman grain trade had reached tentative fingers all the way out to Deiga via the old route through Amber, furthest port-of-call with permanent ties to True City, with a gorgeous semi-tropical climate near the shore, but the soil too alkaline for much sustenance agriculture further in. The place was awash in coffee and spice plantations spread out all along the long, thin strip of the coast: reliable cash crops. They kept Castle Amber supplied in tobacco also; when one could regenerate lung and other bodily tissues faster than serious damage or cancer could occur, smoking was simply not a problem as far as the Royal Family was concerned. That and tourism were the main staples of Deigan economy, especially since they had been able to buy or barter for what they could not easily grow or make themselves for generations. Inland, there were a few small copper mines hidden away in the rocky deserts; a fair amount of house wares and highly stylized jewelry came to the worlds from their artisans.

But modern Deigan society had been able to develop – and the population to grow – because they were not limited to their own country's resources. Nearly all of their food was imported through the shadow-trade now. Or… had been, before the Storm. Deiga was the Silversheen's last scheduled stop before wheeling on home the long way, and the prospect of their being last had caused the prince a certain degree of worry along the way, due to their high level of dependency, how far they were situated away in comparison to the others. His supply ships simply couldn't be everywhere at once… or perhaps, in truth, they could, but he and his siblings had never gotten down the knack of getting along with their close shadow-copies well enough to get them to do what one wanted; it was too incredulous a strain on reality for their minds to handle, and there was no guarantee that their powers would follow also. At any rate, some logical order of priority had had to be established if this was going to be a viable trade route for anyone, and it had made more sense from the perspective of safety to link nearby shadow-peoples with their immediate neighbors. All of them had had to travel to Amber before to do business with each other, and she had always profited greatly from being the necessary hub that tied all the spokes together.

The climate had grown markedly hotter upon drawing nigh to their final destination; the sun felt a hair closer, but the sea was so clear in the shadows of the approach that it gave the impression of sailing straight over the contents of an enormous lighted aquarium, with as many fish as could be seen, and as far down! Small, brightly-colored tropical species darted and swam in schools nearer the surface, while huge rays undulatingly glided about in the dim below. A brief rain was a welcome relief from the scorching afternoon, even if the weather had occluded their vision of the sea ahead of them for a short time.

It was only when it cleared away that something small was spotted on the horizon, coming from the generally southwestern direction they were sailing in. Another ship? It seemed impossible; that would indicate a bleeding of Shadow somewhere in this vicinity, an occurrence that should've been wholly rectified by the healing of the Pattern! And yet, there the vessel rode…

Captain Thoben looked out through his telescope: yes, definitely a triangular-sailed xebec of the kind commonly found in Deiga and its surrounding shadows! Had they been attempting the crossing to Amber unaided with the way closed, then? If this was so, the prince's fleet would certainly receive a warm welcome once they caught up with them, and official escort back to the coast of their people, there to teach them the bearings of the new track.

But upon the approach of the xebec by late afternoon, the now unmistakably Deigan vessel and her crew were obviously of less than friendly intent: there could now be discerned furious flights of activity on deck, accompanied by shouted orders… and were those the gun ports that had just been opened?

"Duck!" was all the bo'sun had time to scream before the first volley pounded into the starboard side of the Silversheen with a resounding boom that startled Gérard instantly alert! The smell of gunpowder was all the information he needed…but why in the worlds?! The chemical compounds that make up what is recognizable upon Shadow Earth as gunpowder are not incendiary upon Amber or her nearby shadows, and for this reason the fleets of the Golden Circle have always been welcome to have it aboard their ships for it is usually never a threat (or even a safety hazard) unless one enters the outermost frontiers of the Circle and the waters of Shadow beyond…

The xebec was coming up on them fast, with the clear intent to broadside the smaller brigantine!

"My lord!" Arnas Karvel, the captain of the Jenna shouted across to the prince via amplifier, "Should I take the other side? We can easily sink this upstart between us!"

"No!" Gérard shot back over his own amplifier. "Stay course and fall back!" It seemed that Karvel had temporarily forgotten the twin air currents: he could be blown off course backwards if he veered a mere few yards to starboard! And there was something that felt terribly off about this unprovoked attack; the prince never dealt blows to a stranger without at least a reason! He dashed to the starboard side.

"Hold fire!" he trumpeted to the Deigan vessel. "You are attacking an ally!"

This was met with a collection of hurled insults and curses – and a second round of explosions at much closer range that took out part of the railing and the side of the ship, one cannonball flying across deck, missing the bole of the foremast by inches! The crew of the Silversheen were obviously preparing their own vessel's guns below deck, awaiting the order to fire; the xebec rather obviously had the greater firepower, but the frigate could level her in minutes once the wind carried her broadside! And yet the whole thing felt all wrong, like a dire misunderstanding, but the prince's adrenaline was pumping now, overriding his cooler reasoning with indignant knee-jerk fury!

"I said hold, you morons!" he roared across at them. "Move another muscle and be buried in the deep!"

…the change was immediate, breathtaking…

All was silent and still on the xebec – too silent.

As the smoke began to slowly clear, the crews of the Silversheen and the Jenna were met with a sight that made many doubt their senses: the crew aboard the Deigan vessel was frozen in place to the last man, as if they had been spontaneously encased in ice… only they were all just standing as they had been moments before! It was a near-macabre human menagerie of various facial expressions and attitudes of body! The collective response to this was a mixture of awe and muted horror as both vessels were borne past the disabled xebec; none would utter a single word – words felt both insufficient as well as crassly out-of-place in the face of such a supernatural catastrophe, even for one that had ostensibly favored them!

As for Gérard, he was nearly as stunned as his men at first, genuinely shocked that he had unintentionally managed to effect that!

no, it was intentional, he finally realized. What it hadn't been was a conscious choice: in his momentary burst of rage, he had accidentally slipped a bit back into his meditative level of concentration… and his subconscious intention had an immediate effect on the world! He wondered…

Ordering the frigate to pass the Silversheen on the port-side and to continue on ahead of them for a time in case of other trouble (allegedly), the prince leisurely made his way to the stern of his own ship; none of the men would so much as look him in the eye, but the subservience was still there. They continued to make sail in silence.

Upon hearing the complete lack of any human sound from above decks, the cabin boy had ventured out to see what had befallen the ship's obvious adversary, only to be met with the stares of wide-eyed men, who would only gesture toward the prince. He could not even fathom what had happened, but fairly guessed that it had been some unexpected occurrence of a magical nature. Curious, he jogged up to the stern of the ship to see for himself. The xebec could still be plainly made out in the distance, its inhabitants still unmoving; it resembled a toy on the water with the men held rigid like that! He looked up at the prince, who was still watching it also; his was the only calm countenance on deck.

"My lord, what happened to…"

But Gérard held up a hand to stall his question, then pointed back to the Deigan ship as if he meant for him to see something. Taking a deep breath, the prince closed his eyes, and extended his mind outward, his will reaching, reaching… He very deliberately exhaled, relaxing as much of his frame as he could without slumping to the deck where he stood… and their ears were suddenly greeted with receding shouts of confusion, consternation, and more than a few indistinct curses from the xebec, right before the vessel abruptly vanished! He opened his eyes again, breathing a genuine sigh of relief.

"Those men… they're all right, then?"

Gérard glanced down at the kid and surrendered an amused little smile.

"I believe so, lad, although by rights they shouldn't be for attacking a Prince of Amber in cold blood. But I spared their lives undeserved, yes."

"But really, they're not that far from us! Couldn't they just turn and follow still?"

"Aye, but they don't realize that they can!" the big man laughed heartily. "They believe a demon wind fills our sails, that we could even pass them thus! By the time they reach Cibola along the new track and figure it out, we will be worlds away from here, on our way back to Amber."

"But I still don't understand why they attacked us! That was no corsair – I recognized the flag! Deiga is still Amber's friend, aren't they?"

It wasn't an easy question to answer, but Gérard had a sinking feeling that he knew. He gently laid a hand on the boy's small shoulders with a sad sigh.

"I think they must believe that the House of Amber had betrayed them and their families, as if we had closed the way against them on purpose. That we had abandoned them to die."

The boy looked down at the railing in front of him, swallowing hard. "You don't think that… they…"

"We'll be there by sunset," Gérard reassured him, not knowing the answer himself. Then frowningly smiled at him, bending down slightly to look him in the eye. "Shouldn't you be going to see if the carpenter needs any help?"

The boy was suddenly at attention, his eyes wide. "Aye, m'lord!" he darted out of his grasp, making for the lower deck again.

Gérard smiled after him for a moment with quiet laughter, seeing that the rest of the crew seemed to have finally relaxed out of that terrible tension as well. The prince thought then of those shadow-people whose lives they had been righting by doing this, of those innumerable echoes upon echoes of shadow-children… and found himself satisfied with this sacrifice of time and effort. They were worth it; this was worth it. He had made the right decision.

Perhaps unsurprisingly there was a continuation of hostility when the ships entered Deigan waters and made for land. The prince gave orders for both the Silversheen and the Bright Jenna to strike their colors, hoisting white flags of truce as they entered the harbor, which calmed things down in a hurry: such an action aboard an Amberite vessel was absolutely unheard of! The presence of the Begman supply ship did slightly more to smooth over the general public's bitterness over what had happened to their country, seemingly at the royal family of Amber's hands, for who else could have cut them off from the world like that? It had been nearly four months since the Storm had passed through out here: from that time to this very day, no aid had come to them, even if the evil spirits had abruptly quit the land. Indeed, some of the people had died of starvation here while they waited, helpless, for anyone to come, for they had proven incapable of leaving their own waters at all! It was only within the last few days that one of their holy women had sensed a change in the fabric of the world – Gérard's approach! – and a ship had successfully slipped past the first boundary!

The prince had to confess to the king of that land just precisely what had befallen those men on the exploratory vessel and why, before he heard a far more unsavory version of the tale later on, but the monarch seemed satisfied that Gérard had refused to fire on them – even if it had necessitated the use of a little white voodoo, as he thought of it – and agreed to not only remain in the Golden Circle, but generously offered to pay for the damages sustained by the Silversheen (which, thankfully for her crew, had all been above the waterline!) The man's subjects were a bit less inclined to be forgiving, and it took a considerable purchase of coffee beans and spices by the Crown to somewhat assuage the bad feelings, coupled with official public vows that this type of stranding would never happen again under any circumstances.

And so it was that the Silversheen struck out for home at last, laden with exotic goods and fineries instead of necessities – but hopefully those had already made it to Amber ages ago (and Captain Thoben was still getting his cut of the sales percentage, regardless of what his cargo consisted of.) It was determined that rather than cutting a swift-yet-temporary passage with Gw'thronadr that a facsimile of the old road that connected Deiga directly to Amber should be reinstated in the manner of the one to/from Begma, to both further cement the future goodwill between the two countries and to effectively close the new Circle. Gérard followed the old path as closely as he was able in similarity, not wishing to completely lose Benedict's work in the heavens, even if the act would only turn out to be a memorial in the old prince's honor.

Benedict's stories were always divided into two parts, you see: one half for the journey out to their destination, the other for the return trip home. In the tale apportioned to Deiga, the original continuant ran as follows: not only did the cloak of herbs heal the serving girl's master of his sorrow, but, to her great surprise, also his age (for great misery can cheat a mortal man of his years long before his time.) He was young once more, and, seeing that she did not shun him, he not only openly professed thanksgiving but great love for her who had cared for him in his unnatural infirmity, not knowing who he truly was – no less than a duke by birth in his own country! But with his youth also came fresh strength of limb, and with that a renewed desire to bring justice down upon the one who had ultimately caused his nigh-deadly sorrow in the first place: his uncle (who, though not wholly evil – as no mortal human can be, no matter how terrible they may outwardly seem – was nevertheless capable of immense and thoughtless greed.) It was he who had convinced his well-to-do nephew to go questing abroad far from home in a foreign land, for he had greatly coveted the young man's holdings, lucrative farms and fertile fields. But if this were not bad enough, his wicked uncle had made a clandestine pact with a band of shadow-creatures… which the young man only discovered in part when he was unprovokedly attacked by them one night, the resultant terror of an order that the human mind often blots from memory out of necessity. But it was imperative that he remember rightly now, for he was certain that his unknown enemies held the key to his uncle's public downfall and disgrace. For this he needed an elixir not to be found in his garden in the alien land; in fact it could only be found in one special place, and then only with a maiden's assistance, for it required coaxing a unicorn into touching the surface of a bowl of spring water with its horn. The long yarn continued on, but the last of the constellations represented in it had echoes in quite a number of shadows – what on Shadow Earth constitutes the star grouping called Monoceros, the Unicorn. Many of the return stories included features of Amber's own heavens, for they could not be changed to suit fancy. (Unbeknownst to any present but the prince, this lastly mentioned aspect to the story was also practically useful information, but it had only been discovered in recent years and by none other than Corwin, although Random was the one who had guessed the truth, the myth just thinly veiling a specific use of those resultant ripples, the Pattern.)

However, certain prominent celestial configurations from Benedict's beautiful (and moral) telling in the stars were being visually warped in the re-imprinting of the shadow-path, with quite a few of the constellations, star clusters, and other phenomena so stretched or otherwise altered that the old shapes could no longer be made out. The Begman sailors onboard the Silversheen began extemporaneously composing a humorous and somewhat surrealistic alternative plotline, one which Gérard heard the better snippets of over supper each evening when he rested from his own mental labors; he doubted this crazy new tale would have met with Benedict's approval, but neither was the eldest prince present to object to anything at the moment. Admittedly, it was rather memorable, which still suited the purpose at hand. In this version, the young duke had been betrayed alas not by his uncle, but by his donkey, and while he was searching in vain for the Holy Turnip, his company of weasels was set upon by a vicious gang of shrimp with huge hare-like feet! And the yarn kept on getting stranger and more twisted and utterly ridiculous every night until by the end of it his true love (who had somehow grown dragon's wings – and teeth!) had to simply fly out of the way as the Unicorn (no question of which one now) bore down on the hapless hero's rear-end: the 'bowl' constellation had not only inverted, but doubled like a mirror! The prince gave an involuntary snigger when he was first told the ending – but then sternly ordered them not to repeat the last part to anyone ashore, and certainly never to a Unicornian priest: the rough joke was well-nigh blasphemous! But 'Monoceros' was almost in sight in truth, rising above the horizon…

It hadn't been cold enough consistently enough that ice accumulation on the rigging and canvas had become a weight danger to the ships, but big flakes of snow were definitely falling again the day Gérard's small fleet sighted the coast of Amber due north; they also were sighted and well-marked, for by the time they were on the approach to the harbor it seemed that the entire shoreline was crowded with cheering onlookers from both the City and the surrounding countryside – a truly stirring sight for the men! For Gérard, it simply signaled that he was home, that he had accomplished what he had set out to do. The strangers aboard the Silversheen were as celebrated as the few native Amberites still aboard her, an experience it was doubtful that any of them would forget (well… except for those two in the hold of the Jenna, who would be blessedly made to forget the entire voyage before they were allowed to go home, and, eventually, the first man from the other Begman trading vessel as well once Gérard heard of him.)

Many were waiting on the docks for the prince from among the Castle staff and soldiers, as well as a fair number of the aristocracy. And Lord Rein: if he hadn't been so relieved at Gérard's return (and the prince been a lesser man than he was), he might've given into the urge to throttle him right then and there in public for having stuck him with this utterly impossible position!

Instead, the first words out of his mouth as he rushed up to him were, "You've been missing for over six ngan without so much as a messenger pigeon to let me know what in the worlds is going on! I appreciate your munificence as much as any man would, but I would like to formally announce right here and now to Amber at large that as of this moment I wash my hands of my 'stewardship' – I quit!"

But instead of being angry at the outburst, the big man nearly doubled over in laughter!

"It is good to see you also, Rein," he warmly clasped the man to himself briefly. "I am sorry to hear your lack of power was such a burden to you, but I give you my word that I will never be absent like this again as long as I am needed here in Amber. I am returned to stay."

As they rode back to the Castle together, their way lined with enthusiastic citizens of every walk of life – still mostly women – Gérard ruefully reflected that there was no doubt quite a lot of work awaiting his attention there, but a mound of paperwork would seem simplicity itself now. The hard work was over.

…he was wrong, of course – it was only just beginning – but as much as one might rue it at times, such lack of foreknowledge is one of the stranger blessings of mankind, mortal and immortal alike, to only know one's trials when it is time for them to set anchor in the harbor…


Alright, go listen to 'The Cold Black Key' by Azam Ali. Because I said so ;)