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Henry and the Vampires

She had two "horses" saddled for them in that broad, stucco courtyard. The beasts were at least horse-like, though spiked bits of bone had grown through their smooth skin in places. Some sort of mutation had infected them, much as it had the dark stunted trees.

Bess pulled herself up on the back of one and without hesitation started it on a trot toward the white metal gates.

Henry swung into the saddle only an instant behind her. If the odd qualities of the beasts bothered him he gave no indication.

Outside, for a stretch of about thirteen feet, the earth was normal except for those strange mutations. Beyond that, the ground dipped away in a short gully, and at that point the earth turned scarlet, as though it had been soaked heavy with blood. The trees were slimy-looking, twisted into knots, leafless and white as bone. There was no scrub, but thorny tumbleweeds turned in the hot wind. Almost nothing stood in the way of the distance and the huge Castle looming upon its mountain crag.

It had once been of majestic white stone, and had once been so lovely it could take away the breath. Now it was half-ruined, and streaked with dark runnels that in the distance made it look like the lower jaw of some colossal beast.

This, now this bothered Henry. His fists clenched at his sides and his fingernails drew blood. "I'll kill them," he gritted between his teeth. "How dare they do this to my city..." He wished, irrationally, that there was something worse he could do than kill that odd, inconsistent "they" who were somehow responsible for the death of his world, for his own death and for the loss of so much of what he ought to remember.

Bess Blackwell turned to peer at him, a faint line etched between her delicate brows. "Who you gonna kill for all this?" She asked almost wearily. "It's been like this for almost as long as I've been alive. Nobody knows who did it."

Henry met her eyes and she could see that her words meant nothing to him. "I will find out," he said. "I will find who is responsible and then they will pay."

He turned forward and continued riding. He was a creature of rage now, rage and hunger.

The trek across the plains was long. Sight might have been easy, but trekking across loose, sharp shale became tiresome, and the horses were tired long before they made the foot of the mountain. Bess turned her beast sharply into a small ravine until she reached a gully. There was a small stream, iron-clogged and brackish, but it was water, and her horse drank.

Henry followed her to the stream and let his horse drink as well. While they waited, he considered her, studying her.

He thought that her mother's insistence on not sharing his identity did not gibe well with her later knowledge of his bloodline, and he wondered at the reasons for it. He searched her face for a resemblance to a memory...

There might be a glimmering of something, but it wasn't enough to spark a name or a face in his mind.

Of course, it was possible she had simply met Patternghosts before and disliked them. Henry looked away, down to the river, wondering at his own desire to make her a relative.

After the horses had drunk, Bess drank a little out of a waterskin slung low from her saddle - it was fresher water from the house, presumably. She tossed it to Henry when she'd had a little, and turned her horse back out of the gully and toward the cut steps of the mountain.

When they reached that place, Bess dismounted and issued a scale of whistles: high, low, high, which caused her horse to turn and trot obediently back the way they'd come.

She looked at Henry. "It's foot work from here."

Henry dismounted, but didn't attempt any fancy work communicating with his horse. He simply waited, prepared to follow Bess up the mountain.

Henry's horse trotted off after Bess' in any case. The lady began the struggle of climbing steps that had become rotted and slicked with old gore. She cursed under her breath every time her doeskin boots slipped beneath her.

He positioned himself behind so that if she were to fall, he could catch her, but he made no other move to help. Most of his attention was focused on not falling himself.

Looking so carefully at the blood upon the stairs made Henry remember something... there had been a battle here, recently in his memory. There would have been a lot of blood...

It had been an insurrection, he remembered that. His body tensed up like a live wire and darkness seemed almost to radiate from him - the palpable sense of violence barely checked. It had been an insurrection, and they had managed to come much too far. They were two - the one he hated with a fire that was almost painful; his distaste for the other was tempered by contempt.

Bess glanced back at him once, her expression unreadable, then forged onward. The sky was darkening by the time they reached the top of Kolvir. Harsh winds racked the stunted, blood-colored wreckage of what once had been a lovely mountain-side forest. The view on Kolvir's shoulder looked out over desolation. There was a sea of black, bone-white and crimson,- inside it little patches of green stood out like small besieged islands.

From here the dark streaks on the castle walls, which from a distance had looked like broken teeth, now were visibly only soot-marks, jet black from some ravaging and intense fire.

He stood still for a moment, just looking. The place was not destroyed, then, not quite. It could be restored. And then there was the fire - he remembered no fire. This was not immediately odd, in that there were many things he did not remember, but he considered it odd that the sight of the blackened walls did not provoke a memory. Perhaps... perhaps the fire had happened after his death.

"Inside?" he said, turning to Bess.

She nodded. "It's still a good distance. We should stop out of sight of the walls and discuss a battle plan. I have hit them in brief skirmishes many times, but this time we shall kill them all." Her smile flashed harsh, white teeth.

Henry's answering smile was equally feral. The idea appealed to him. "Let's go, then," he said, "for I feel stronger every minute, as though there were a power upon me now, and I see much here for which I would have vengeance."

And Bess suddenly laughed. It was a deep, warm, rough-edged sound, more like a growl than what is normally associated with women's laughter. "There is a power upon me as well, Henry," she said. "I do not think anyone in that castle will survive its vengeance."

Henry looked at her and suddenly he wanted very much to kiss her, to crush her against his chest and see what strength was in her. He turned away so that whatever was in his eyes would not be visible, and took a few breaths.

In control of himself again, he said, "Let us go then."

And they went. Near the walls, Bess stopped again, loading her crossbow and loosening the other assortment of weapons she wore from a web of leather straps and belts. She glanced at Henry and smiled again, that harsh wild smile.

Then she nodded, springing out of hiding and racing toward the raised portcullises of the East Gate.

Henry loosened his blade in its scabbard, a familiar motion, and followed her. He wondered if his knowledge of the city would be a help or a hindrance now that things had so obviously changed.

She stopped, breathless, in the barbican, and glanced back at him. Wisps of freed hair clung to her cheek. "We have to get inside the main palace and up the stairs," she said, "that's all."

He nodded and sent a quick glance in the direction she'd indicated. He was looking for any signs of an enemy, to see whether stealth was necessary, or if speed would be all important.

The outer wall seemed empty, but Bess shook her head. "No, run. As fast as you can. Try to keep up and stay close to me. This is a place where splitting our life energy can be deadly."

And then she released her grip, counted softly under her breath, and... seemed to fly across the courtyard like a spinning autumn leaf.

Henry pushed off and followed her as quickly as he could force his legs to move. His muscles felt like pistons, like iron, as he ran.

They flew across the courtyard. Soon enough, razorblades of air rushed past them, as though they had been brushed, barely missed, by invisible missiles. A bleeding scratch etched itself on Bess' cheek, but she only snarled and ran faster.

They hit the gates to the palace hard, and Henry felt his force dent and twist the iron, but not enough to knock down the gates. Bess cursed under her breath and turned out toward the courtyard. "I'll hold them off," she said, "get the gate down."

They were beginning to materialize, twisted things with little substance, like vengeful and hideous ghosts. Every part of them was elongated and crooked. Bess did not draw a weapon, but she drew her fingers down against the scratch on her cheek, smearing her face ritualistically with blood. Then she jerked her hooked fingers downward in the air and pronounced a word.

The creatures seemed to hit an invisible wall, and draw back from it shrieking. Bess stood absolutely still, her concentration intense, as if the slightest movement on her part would disrupt the spell.

Henry's hunger returned, a dark, biting force. He knew now, too, what would satiate it, and his body yearned to submit to that dark river, to take her and taste her blood.

'Perhaps I am a vampire,' he thought, 'but now is definitely not the time.'

He turned to the gates and put all his rage and hunger into tearing them down, pushing them open, rending them from their joints.

It took little enough time. The iron twisted and tore in his grasp as if it were a hardened taffy. Bess' eyes widened, even as she held still, trembling, while it was done.

Henry's fury flooded out of him like dark water or heat energy as he grappled the gates, but still more remained ever-present within him.

As the gates fell, Bess called sharply back, "Now, hurry!" And she lashed outward with a coiling rope of power, momentarily driving the wraithlike creatures back, before plunging after Henry into the palace proper.

His anger fueled not only by his frustrated hunger, but also from the thought of running from such as those behind him, Henry turned and did as she had bidden, consoling himself with the thought that soon enough he would meet the masters, and then he would not run.

Once past the threshold, Bess paused, breathing hard, pressing a hand against her side. She seemed to have no fear of the wraith-like creatures within the castle proper. She looked up at the darkening sky and cursed softly under her breath. "They'll be waking."

"Then let them come," Henry growled. "I have had my fill of running."

She laughed, breathlessly. "They are not like those things outside. But yes. Let us go to meet them."

The inside of the palace proper was a mess, a ruin. All the furnishings, once fine, were burnt and broken as if a huge temper tantrum had followed a conflagration. Half ruined staircases led upward, and Bess took one of them, readying a bolt in her crossbow.

At the top of the stairs there came the soft sound of someone singing.

Henry's sword was in his hand, and he moved past her, back against the wall so that she might shoot around him. There was something in his blue eyes now that was less than human.

But Bess stopped dead at the top of the stairs. All the color faded from her face, so that it was bone white against her black hair. "I... can't..." she said, and all the life was gone from her voice.

Across the room, a twiggy girl with long blonde hair sang and shifted in a large broken bay window. The moonlight haloed her sheer white gown. She was toying with a chaplet of long-desiccated roses.

"... you'll have to..." Bess whispered, staring at the girl's back.

She turned, smiling. She looked almost exactly like Grace Blackwell, but much younger.

Henry did not even hesitate. He crossed the room in an even, catlike stride and his sword whipped through the air, aimed to behead the blonde woman in front of him.

She did not dodge, either. She did not seem to be all that sane, at least not of late. Her head flew directly out of the nearly-star-shaped gash in the broken window, and her body slumped, slid along the wall.

Tears leaked from Bess' eyes, but she tightened her lips and nocked another crossbow bolt. Her long, aggressive strides took her directly to the nearest door, which she kicked open.

Henry followed, sword still ready, lusting for more blood, and more than blood, revenge.

But there were no vampires or servants, in the first room. Bess glanced at Henry, assessed the length of his sword-arm, and let him take the lead. She was a tall woman, and could easily shoot around him in a narrow space... or so one hoped.

The next room held nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Bess let a low growl trickle through her clenched teeth. "The bitches are toying with us."

Henry laughed. "Or they are afraid and are hiding. It does not matter. We shall find them. Downstairs, perhaps? A basement of some kind? I had heard that vampires like the dark and damp."

"These are primarily women, so they're too attached to their stunning good looks." Bess' voice held a growl mingled with a drawl. "I'd expect them to ambush us somewhere in the upper halls, in the towers, or some place of power, if there is one..."

"I... don't remember," Henry said, and there was so much anger in his voice it shocked even him. He took a deep breath, calmed his voice, and then added, "The rest of the towers, then... I'll lead."

And he continued to explore the castle, making for the next tower.

"We have to move through the upper halls, so be wary," Bess warned.

And they did. It became obvious, after a few moments, that they were indeed being toyed with. They would find rooms empty, but little toys left on beds or bits of parchment without writing on it left on floorboards. Sometimes windows were left open so the torn curtains swayed suddenly, drawing Bess' crossbow to them.

She began to appear very angry.

Henry, incongruously, began to smile. The smile was not pleasant or warm, but it grew as he continued onward. As he found the signs of the game, he treated them violently. He broke windows, shattered toys. He scratched one thing on each of the papers and left them where he found them: ERIC.

"Come out and play," he murmured under his breath.

Bess blinked and glanced at him warily. "Eric?" She asked, a small smile clinging to her lips. "You sure you aren't a vampire, too?"

But her word was cut off by the sound of high sweet laughter.

A woman in a diaphanous gown lounged on the chandelier overhead, swinging it back and forth. Her lips were the color of fresh blood, and her hair was braided in a looping crown with pearls. It was red.

"He's not a vampire," she said curtly. "He's a ghost."

"Yes, I think so," Henry agreed pleasantly. "Why don't you come down and play, little songbird?"

"Oh, I'm not a vampire either, dear brother," she said with a sharp brittle laugh. "I am also a ghost. And there's one other: she rules them, and will kill you if she can. Or bend you to her wishes. I only wish to talk."

Henry stopped still, as his present vision of this woman was intercut in his mind with memories:

A woman, who looked very much like the one in the chandelier, except that her hair was shorter, her complexion a little more perfect and a little less soft, dressed in shimmering green. She was turning from a painting, smiling slightly, and he felt an instant shock - he didn't like her, but that was more because a part of him feared her than because of anything else... He never understood her.

"Then come down, and we'll talk," he said. "Sister..."

The second image came just as fast, and was just as difficult to put his finger on completely. He was dancing with her, and she was wearing blue and silver, he wearing green and gold. She was tiny, smiling up at him, and somehow he wanted to add, "Daughter," to what he had called the woman in the chandelier, but he did not.

Her green eyes flashed to Bess then, and a gentle smile played upon her lips. "Put that crossbow away, Bess Blackwell, or at least point it elsewhere. You've nothing to fear when you're with me."

Comprehension dawned on Bess' dark-skinned face and she smiled suddenly. "Oh! I'm sorry, Rose, I didn't recognize you. What's with the piglet-rings, you look like one of them?"

Laughing her high crystalline laughter, the woman Bess had addressed as Rose leapt down from the chandelier, aiming perfectly for Henry's arms. She was light and delicate, as though recovering from an illness, and he could feel that under her elegant gown she was wraith-thin.

Henry caught her as gently as possible and lowered her to a standing position. "You... need what I need," he said quietly. "Now... what are we going to talk about?"

"That, precisely," she seemed still quite amused, but also composed, nearly regal. "May we go apart for a moment, Miss Blackwell? It won't take long." When Bess shrugged, as if to say it was none of her concern, Rose Red turned her diminutive face up toward Henry's. "Come apart with me a moment?"

"But only a moment. I'd venture a guess that the vampires would rather come upon either of us alone." Henry took Rose's arm (Rose... the name offered no images, no memories, unlike the name of Eric, but that did not mean it was not his sister's name) and moved them into the room that he and Bess had last explored.

Once there he looked at her, waiting.

She smiled and touched his cheek, running her fingers along the beard. She was radiant, but there was a flat, transparent quality to her. "So Grace Blackwell recruited you to hunt vampires." Rose seemed to find this very amusing. "I'll give you a bit of relevant information, and if you survive your encounter with our lady Snow White, I have another mission for you. With recompense, of course."

"What makes you think that I will turn from serving one woman to serving another? And as for recompense, there is nothing that I desire that you could give me. Sister... No offense meant, but I came on this mission for revenge on those that have taken my city. Despite Bess' reaction to you, 'our lady Snow White' indicates that you are, indeed, allied with those I mentioned."

"Perhaps you read too much into things." Rose remained calm in expression, almost aloof. "As for serving me, I would never ask it of you. There is someone who you and I will agree needs killing, that's all. I'm not a strong enough ghost to survive far from the psychic resonance of the Pattern, so I cannot go and 'do him in' as one might say. As for recompense, what about some history of who you are and what has happened? What about an option of how to survive without drinking human blood, or more effectively, the blood of Amber? As for 'our lady Snow White', I meant the 'our' to indicate something else, but you will learn that in due time."

"I remember you always did talk a good story," Henry said, smiling. "But you are right, I do want that information. I thought, however, that you'd said you would give me some pertinent information for free. I'd like that now, if you'll give it, Rose, and also the name and crime of the man you want dead."

"Quite." She leaned against what was left of a sideboard, her long hair almost looking painted over the white material of her gown. "It is simple enough. We don't have to become vampires to survive, and only at our weakest hours do most of us resort to it. There is an easier way to stabilize... that is to assay a thing of power. Right now it's not possible to get the full effects of walking the Pattern, but it's possible to get something less useful but still capable of a brief focusing effect. There are three other devices that work, but of them, I do not know where one lies, and the other two are marked with great difficulty and guarded by enemies.

"The man is named Richard, and he is the only trueborn son of Amber, the only non-ghost, to betray her. There can also be a case made for the fact that he is the only person in his right mind who is responsible for this." She gestured at the ruins, then grimaced. "And he killed his own father, can't forget that either, though I'm not sure you'd particularly care."

"Go on," Henry said impassively. "What did this Richard do to betray Amber? And who was his father?"

"Why, he joined with the one who calls himself La Conta, of his own volition, to destroy those of the Blood. He delivered Benedict to the Maestro, Random to Il Diavolo, and he murdered his own father after a long hunt in which I'm sure, those of us who were still alive at the time... I mean the one I was modeled upon, not I myself... thought that he would lose, but by some trickery... he destroyed Julian, who was his sire."

There was too much information, at first, for Henry to do anything except react. The titles meant nothing to Henry outside of the obvious - a man who called himself La Conta was probably aristocratic, and possibly possessed of some kind of odd dramatics associated with using the title Count instead of Baron. A vampire, again, like Count Dracula? Or perhaps it was simply that Rose was using Italian titles, for Il Maestro and and Il Diavolo were the Italian equivalents - the master, and the devil, respectively. The Maestro was probably a fighter, especially if he could have killed Benedict. Il Diavolo - well, the sheer grotesque arrogance of giving oneself such a name would have made Henry smile at any other time.

But the other names meant something to him, and because of that he was afraid. Henry did not like to be afraid.

Benedict - memories of a dour countenance, of someone teaching him to use a sword. Also, incongruously, of a young man riding a tan horse. Random - dislike there, but also a certain sense of regret. The impression Henry received was that the kid had been a bastard, but maybe mostly because he'd had to be. And Julian... Julian, killed by his own son. That sent the rage spiralling through Henry again, because the memories were complicated, but he had the sense that they had shared something, Julian and he. And he could remember sitting at a table, laughing, and Julian was laughing, too.

Rose watched him carefully.

There was one more thing, a thing that made Henry cautious despite his rage. The name of Richard brought images with it as well - an image of features with a familial resemblance to Henry's own. A relative, then, certainly, but something about Rose's story did not feel quite right. He was fairly certain the boy was not his nephew, and therefore not Julian's son.

"Who is this La Conta you speak of?" Henry said finally. "I have no memory of such a person."

"A ghost, like us..." She twirled a lock of her red hair as she spoke. "The first ghost like us. The one responsible for the full extent of the damage. He was a ghost of Brand... he's very like Brand in many ways. The bad aspects, anyway. Not much left of meek and mild, if you know what I mean."

Brand... Now there was a memory. A redhaired man, laughing merrily, the laughter filling all of him and leaking out the corners of his eyes... and then someone said something, and it all died at once, and he was still and cold as the grave... until something amused him again. Wariness. Ambivalence.

"Is La Conta the Master of White Keep?" Henry said.

Rose blinked. "Why no, dear. But who has been telling you about White Keep?"

"I was told," Henry said, not quite answering the question, "that the Master of White Keep killed King Eric. I was curious as to who that man could be."

"Whoever told you that was mistaken," said Rose carefully, "the Master of White Keep is Rinaldo of Kashfa, and Eric was killed by..." she hesitated, then sighed a little. "Well, frankly, we think he was killed by Brand. I can see the confusion, though."

Henry considered this. Grace might have been mistaken, or confused, or lying to him. And Rose might be mistaken, or confused, or lying to him. It was impossible to tell.

"I want to take this castle and keep it, dear," Henry said to her then. "That's my aim at the moment. Will you resist me, assist me, or neither?"

"I'll ignore you the same way I ignore Bianca," Rose Red said calmly, "unless you mean to disenherit me of my tower. And perhaps I might assist you... if you chose to do as I requested."

"Then we have no problems, and perhaps, later, we shall have an accord. Can you tell me about my memories, before I go on? How to speed up the process of remembering?"

"The thing in the basement. Walk upon the bloodstains."

"Thank you, sister," Henry said, reaching out and cupping her face in his right hand. It was a curiously gentle gesture, and he remembered having done it before.

Rose Red smiled and stepped back gingerly. "If you survive your encounter with Snow White," she said calmly, "come and speak to me again. In the meantime, your little girl Friday could use some help." Her green eyes flickered toward the next room and she smiled.

Henry swore. "You might have said something before," he snapped, rushing into the next room to see what trouble Bess had gotten herself into.

Bess was on the floor, hissing, holding the edge of a crossbow bolt against the throat of a powerful, buxom redheaded woman. This woman had golden eyes slitted like a cat's and was very beautiful. Her nails were at Bess' throat, and had already left nasty scratches along the dusky skin.

Henry marched up to the confrontation and yanked the woman off of Bess by the hair. "None of that rough stuff," he said with a condescending smile. "Daddy's home."

The redhead was strong. Much stronger than Bess and almost as strong as Henry. She turned in the air like a cat and was on him, clawing him, red mouth smeared open over her long white fangs.

Bess growled, got groggily to her feet and took hold of the woman by the back of her neck, placing the crossbow bolt against her spine. "Yeah, and does daddy have a preference as to whether I ice this bitch or not?"

"She seems to show no inclination to play nice," Henry grunted, twisting his face so that her nails were nowhere near his eyes. "So be my guest. But if that bolt goes through her and into me, I'll be very disappointed."

Bess shoved the crossbow bolt, which she held in her hand like a dagger, through the vampiress' chest from behind. The creature gasped, a little blood bubbling around her lipsticked mouth, and then fell to the floor in a pile of decaying bones.

"Two," Henry said, but without any sound of satisfaction. "Now, let's see who sits on my throne."

He turned and began making his way toward the throne room.

The way to it was without incident.

The throne room, like the rest of the palace, was a shambles. In addition to charred furnishings and sooty stone, there was also a dark old bloodstain at the foot of the throne's dais.

Henry walked the length of the room, trying to pick up bits and pieces of memories, hoping something would spark his consciousness.

A flash. Something like... festivals, celebrations. Harsh laughter. A coronation... no, he could remember two.

In one... he was standing on the steps of the dais and bending so that a wizened old man could put the crown on his head. It was a formality, and the meeting dignitaries, none entirely human, knew this...

In the other, he was already seated on the throne, and there was a man in chains before him. The sight pleased him immensely, because he hated this man, hated him with a fire that burned... burned...

Henry walked the few short steps to the throne and sat on it, just for a moment, because the sight of the room like this, when he could remember its past magnificence, clawed at his heart. He rose and turned back to Bess. "Tell me everything you know about the fall of Amber. Everything you know about Richard."

Bess flinched and turned her head downward. Her voice was harsh, hissing. "How did you hear about Richard?"

Henry smiled. "She told me... Rose... but I am not sure how much of what she said was truth. I trust that you will not lie to me, and now I know that you do know something of him. What?"

Bess growled and curled her fingers into slow, desperate fists. "Richard... is my brother."

Henry's eyes widened. He didn't know why that should rock him, but it did. He covered by pretending to be confused about genetics. "But you're not... you can't be Julian's daughter... not with your mother's blue eyes."

Bess laughed harshly. "Did Rose Red tell you that Richard was Prince Julian's son? How like her... pointlessly obfuscating the truth." Blood trickled along the edge of her clenched fist. She turned away from Henry then, studying the throne of Amber with clinical detachment.

Henry doubted pointlessness in even the smallest doings of the least congruent ghost of Fiona, but said nothing.

"Richard's the result of a liaison between my mother- my real mother, not Grace Blackwell... the Lady was kind enough to take us in after her own son died in the war. Anyway, the result of a liaison between my mother and Eric of Amber. I don't know who my father was..."

He sat down again, on the throne, trying to disguise the sudden weakness in his knees as a pause for thought. Richard was Eric's son... that sounded right... that sounded right... damn him... And damn Rose for putting him in this mess...

Henry knew that Richard was not his son, no matter what his memories told him, because he was not precisely Eric, but the memories were enough... oh, God, they were enough. How was he supposed to kill his own son?

The rage was there, though, and it was a killing rage not in the least tempered by the dark choking pain in his heart where he remembered Richard... Rage that Amber had been betrayed by his own son... his own son...

He forced the emotions down and said quietly, "Why did you react that way when I asked about your brother? Are you protective of him?"

Bess laughed harshly. The sound was cruel and strained. "No," she said then, and he could see despite her admirable efforts that her dark eyes were shining and olive green with tears and her eyelashes were wet. "I was once. I worshiped him once. He's gorgeous... like his father... like you. I guess in many ways you are Eric, eh? Must be just about as painful for you as for me. Anyway, a little sister's going to feel that way about her hero brother... until the son of a bitch kills everything that ever mattered to her right in front of her. For no reason except his own ambition!"

Henry felt a rush of admiration for this woman, and he swallowed hard on his own emotion. He rose again, his hand reaching out for her shoulder and a wordless gesture of his commiseration, and then it struck him:

He could remember Richard's mother - and although she was thinner now, and older, changed enough that at first the sight of her had offered no memories, Henry knew now that Grace Blackwell had been the mother of his son - of Richard. And if Grace were Richard's mother, then Bess had to be lying to him. Either she was not Richard's sister, or Grace was her real mother, or she knew who her father was - and that father was Eric of Amber...

Henry took a deep breath, let his hand fall and said gently, "Richard's mother was beautiful, too. She still is, in fact, despite the unkindness of the subsequent years. I imagine you have your reasons for altering your genealogy, as I imagine Rose had her reasons for not telling me the truth about Richard. But the truth is important to me, Bess."

She sighed. With her characteristic roughness, she dashed the tears from her long eyelashes with the back of a thin dark hand. "It is quite simple. We keep up the charade so that the City does not turn against my poor mother and blame her for the actions of her son, which she labors forever to fix..." Her frame trembled. "If they could see how it tortures her! How much time and effort she puts into it! But one word, one breath, and the City would turn against her. ...I figured, if you remembered her, you probably were Eric. A ghost of him, as Rose Red said. But otherwise, how could I know but this was some form of witchcraft? Of game?"

"I understand," he said, nodding. He felt vaguely disappointed. He had hoped that she was his daughter - that, if his son must be the Great Betrayer, at least he could have a daughter with honor.

And now he had to decide what next. "I'm going to the basement," he said finally. "Perhaps you ought to accompany me. We do better as a team, against what lives here."

"The basement?" she looked completely blank.

"Yes," Henry said. "Down the stairs. There's something down there I need to see."

Without waiting for further clarification, he moved in the direction his mind seemed to remember - toward the stairs that led down to the Pattern.

After a moment her soft footfalls were audible behind him.

The path was long and as arduous as remembered, but a strange thrumming began to pulse upward through Henry's feet, and he found that the closer he came to the remembered artifact, the stronger and more serene he felt.

At about dungeon level, a sound came, like a choir of children crying and screaming. Bess started, and then growled. "So the rumors are true..."

"Rumors?" Henry stopped and turned back toward her. "What is that... sound?"

"Marieve's private larder," Bess growled, "I'm so glad I got to kill that bitch. Wait a second, I'm going to let the poor things out." She turned down a side corridor of the dungeons toward the sounds.

Cursing virulently under her breath, Bess searched the walls frantically for some sort of key.

"Blow that," Henry said, reached for the door and yanked on it as hard as he could, putting all of his strength and all of his frustrated emotions into ripping it free.

The squeal of iron was loud and high-pitched enough to make Bess, and some of the children, cover their ears. Some of the children screamed, and they all shrank deeper into the cell.

Henry had to exert a little effort to rip the hinges. In fact, he had to exert a lot. These bars, it seemed, had been made to stay put. Still, he managed eventually to get it well open, enough that Bess could slip through and attempt to soothe the children enough to get them out.

He stayed back as she entered, relatively certain that the appearance of a man who could tear iron doors off their hinges would do nothing for the children's calm. It was a shame, but it was understandable. So he waited, watching for any sign of attackers.

Momentarily, Bess managed to herd all the children out of the cell. She looked up at Henry, her hair loosed around her scratched cheek, looking pale under her dusky, olive complexion.

"I'm going to take them out of here. If the last one's around, I think I can handle her. I know you can. You go on down to the basement on your own, and I'll meet up with you at dawn tomorrow."

Henry shook his head. "I do not believe that to be wise. I am certain you can take the final vampire, but with all these children your attention will be divided. If, however, you insist on making your way out alone, where will you meet me?"

"I agree with you that it's risky," she said, "but I also know that we can't troop these children much further downward. I'd much rather get them back to my mother. Hell..." she growled, and leaned forward. "Damn it. I can't get them out tonight anyway. How the hell would I get them down Kolvir and across the obsidian plain without horses or even decent shoes? I'll just take them upstairs and try to find some beds that will still hold them. I'll meet you near the throne room or something."

"I'll find you where you bed down the children. They, at least, cannot be left alone with vampires about," Henry nodded. "I will see you shortly."

He turned and continued on his way toward the basement and the thing of power that waited there.

He made it the rest of the way unmolested, and there it was, a thing of great white shining loops and whirls. Yet over those lines of pure fire were streaks of dried blackness. The fire tried to show through that ugly overlay, but it couldn't. It lay quiescent.

Henry drew in a long, ragged breath. It hurt him, somewhere deep inside, to see this thing defiled so...

And then there was a flash: another place, very much like this one, only open to the air, and with the colors subtly different... And there was a charred body staining the design, and his blackened blood had erased some of the lines, although not nearly so much as was now damaged, and his head lay at the center - flame-crowned, red-bearded, wide blue eyes. Bleys. His name had been Bleys.

Henry took another breath, remembered Rose's instructions, and entered the design by way of the ruined part, beginning a slow spiral of the thing, walking upon the burned out interstices.

As he walked, things returned to him. Some of these belonged to Eric, he knew, and some did not. There were the events that had led to Bleys' death, and there were the events that followed.

And Corwin, always Corwin.

He remembered Corwin now, remembered when they were boys and it became so obvious that Dad had preferred Corwin, remembered trying in spite of that to be friendly and finally giving up in the face of Corwin's need to be better than he. As if that was likely ever to happen.

He remembered being in his twenties, long after the rivalry had become much much more than rivalry, after stealing girlfriends had progressed to discrediting each other, to bloodying each other - things happened having to do with Dad, and Mother, and their sisters, especially Deirdre. There was something there between Corwin and Deirdre, and he thought it was disgusting, and he told Corwin so. They fought then, not with swords but fists, until Dad broke it up, and took Corwin's side, as always. He didn't even know what the damned fight was about, but he took Corwin's side.

Because he was younger, a tiny voice murmured, a voice that remembered the event subtly differently.

And Henry remembered a fight in the woods, wounding Corwin and being very afraid he would die - conflicting emotions there because he wanted the bastard to die and yet... and yet... there was fear there, too, because he couldn't be responsible for the death of a brother... So he took him out in shadow, to somewhere where the plague was rampant, so it would look like that was what Corwin had died of.

And he remembered Corwin coming back. Fighting in a library - damn, the boy had improved!

Odd flash there, teaching Corwin to fight... but Eric hadn't done that.

He remembered a red jewel - using it to control the weather - on many different occasions, not all memories belonging to the same man.

He remembered the coronations again... remembered a laughing blond woman, and how his ultimate triumph had been marred by the problem of Corwin - damn Corwin - and what he was going to do about his brother.

Then there was a flash of Bleys' head on the Pattern, and he wanted so badly for it to be Corwin's fault, to believe that Corwin might have done it, but the man had an airtight alibi - the timing was just too tight...

He remembered asking Corwin to join with him against the enemies of Amber... and oh, did that sting, asking Corwin for help... but he remembered the sea of demons from Chaos, remembered the dreadful weightless feeling of despair as he found that Dad had been right... he was inadequate...

He could not find the traitor...

It got worse... more difficult, mentally and physically, but more and more returned.

He pushed on, one foot after another, breathing into the pain, refusing to ignore it or let go of it, because the pain was his too, by all that was sacred, and he would have it back.

Henry remembered the androids Fiona created to defend Amber. He also remembered the growth of the Quincunx... the betrayal of his own son. He remembered the death of Benedict in Tir-na Nog'th, and the death of Julian in Arden... slain by the White Man.

He remembered too, that something he was told was subtly wrong, though he could not know if this was a simple mistake. He remembered what White Keep was. It was a fortress in the part of Arden overcome by evil, the lair of the creature called Grimm.

This was who Grace Blackwell told him killed Eric. But he did not remember ever crossing Grimm's path.

He remembered hearing of Fiona's death at the hands of La Conta...

And then there was nothing, and he stood at the center of the Broken Pattern.

Grace had said that Eric was killed by the Master of White Keep, by the man he now knew to be Grimm, but that was a memory he did not have, if indeed, it was the truth. Rose Red had said that the Master of White Keep was Rinaldo of Kashfa.

That did not seem to be possible, and it begged the question - why would she have said it? One lied... in Amber, one lied for one's own benefit, but what benefit might it possibly gain them to obfuscate Eric's death, or the ownership of White Keep?

Now he had two answers to the mystery of Eric's demise and neither seemed particularly likely. Grace said that it had been the creature Grimm, the one that had killed Julian. Had he also killed Eric? Perhaps... perhaps...

Rose had said they suspected Brand, but what had she meant? Had she meant that Fiona and those remaining alive had suspected Brand of Eric's death? If so, the timeline was odd because he remembered hearing of Fiona's death and...

And so much of it meant nothing, because there were too many holes and too many places where the holes were filled with that other man's memories... with Oberon's memories.

But he knew what he was supposed to be able to do now, and he hoped the Pattern still had the strength to do it, since he was unclear what would happen if he tried to backtrack along the thing.

He closed his eyes and visualized the throne room in its burnt-up, desecrated state.

When he opened his eyes again, he was there. Emptiness surrounded him.

Henry breathed for a long moment, processing what he had done and seen, and then he moved, looking for Bess and the children.

The second he stepped out of the throne room, however, he found himself in an unfamiliar hallway. Instead of the normal wide hall with dented, scorched suits of armor lining its course, this hallway was narrow and labyrinthine. It had faded red wallpaper and was hung with a thousand mirrors in broadly different frames.

At first all the mirrors seemed to reflect Henry, but as he continued along the corridor, fewer and fewer did.

Henry slowed, looking in the mirrors, his everpresent smile returning. He wasn't particularly fond of mirrors, an unusual thing in an exceptionally good-looking person, but he thought that these might have something to show him.

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