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In the Shadows, there was a pub. Maybe the first truly favourite pub of mine, although Random would mock me mercilessly, if he ever found out.
Because, you see, it was – it is, perhaps – rather... not a very classy or even interesting place. There was no music – and that alone would earn Random’s disdain – no cloth on the tables, no nice staff, no even a broad choice of alcohol. Yet the bar was never empty. There were men spitting on the floor, their saliva brown from tobacco. There were women, far from beauty, but close to lust, tired women with strong make-up and lips always full, shining, moist and a little sticky. From lipstick, of course. From Vaseline put on their mouths in a desperate attempt to counter the influence of smoke, dry, stuffy air, and smell of man’s sweat.
Said smell battled over the sovereignty of their bodies with the chemical smell of the cheap perfume; mostly bad imitation of ambergris mixed with even worse imitation of roses.
One of the girls – I thought of them as a ‘women’ at that time, but now I know they were very, very young; and if that messes up your narrative coherence, well, that makes two of us – one of the girls told me that this fragrance was called “Baroness”. I almost laughed. Or maybe I should say: we, Corwin, the prince of Amber, almost laughed. Like that. Witness and behold, the mighty laugher of the...
Yes, I’m drunk. I’m free and drunk, drunk and free. Why should I not be? It’s a nice feeling. Dara would never let me have a drink. Why? Well, presumably she was worried about my health. Mmm, that’s what she said. Straight face. Yeah, she almost convinced me, too. One a hell of a caring nurse, Dara dear.
You find this tale lacking, don’t you, my dear nephew? No, don’t deny it, be a man! Stop smiling and tell me to shut up. Shut the hell up, my most respectable uncle, you almost killed my father for a crown you didn’t even bother to take, so I’ve got every right to tell you...
Oh. A sore point, I see. Eric was not the best of fathers, then? I’m not really surprised.
What you mean ‘I’m mistaken’? Ah. You mourn him. Still? After so many years. Well, yes, time runs rather slowly there, but not that slow, it’s still running, not crawling...
Did I—? Ha. That’s a rather bold question. Risqué one. I like questions like that the most. You know why? Because I can safely and honestly answer: I have no bloody idea.
Why are you pouting? I’ve been honest and I rarely am. Not to mention you didn’t specify which ‘him’ you meant. But the answer is true either way. I’m not sure if I ever mourned Eric. If I did, then I'm not sure if I stopped; Freud might say my melancholy is an effect of my unaccepted grief, hidden and never lived through... And the same holds truth with a regard to your grandfather's death. Did I feel despair? There was no time for that. But did I feel... at ease with them dead? Happy? No, certainly not. Did I wish I could cry for them a little? Maybe. But I had my hands full with saving the world. Worlds, if you insist.
If you want to know something about your father, anyone will be a better choice than me. I was amnesiac for centuries of his rule. His allies at least got to know him.
What? But our minds were alike? Well, yes... That was the problem. We couldn’t stand each other, it was like... living with your own reflection. Nowadays, when I must endure my own ghosts, created by the Pattern, it might sounds like a trifle, yet... It’s easier. They’re just clones and ghosts. Something dependant, something... like a copy. Like a Shadow. Eric was an independent individual. His own person. His own older self. If anything, I was his copy.
And no matter how strange it may sounds, I sometimes feel like me and my ghost have less in common than me and Eric...
Wait. Not only you want me to speak about your father... which I hated the most when he lived, by the way... by also to approve of your latest actions? In his stead, I presume? That’s too much. But speak – speak I will.
And this way we’re coming back. Where? To that terrible bar I loved in my youth. Or rather: in my childhood. We, the children of Oberon, are growing slowly. Our life is long – and I feel like we spend most of it being completely immature. I’m not sure if Oberon was mature. I doubt it, really. And he lived, like, a few thousand years. Dworkin was mature, in a sense. But he was also mad. And older than the material universe, I think.
I was spending month after month in this bar. It was one of my first safe places in the shadows. And my favourite one. Why, I thought it was obvious: because it was completely different from Amber. No class. No aristocrats, except for “Baroness”, of course. No bards, no songs, no poems and rose-tinted romances. No great tragedies even. People there... they weren’t conflicted. They simply lived through that mud called life. They were managing. That was all.
Yes, maybe I was tired. Of politics, metaphysical dilemmas and of my... our family. My... your grandmother died no so long before. A few years, but well – Amberites’ feelings need time. And time. And a little more time.
So I spend said time in the bar. Chatting with clients, playing cards, sleeping with the ladies— No, I paid, of course. I felt more adult, mature doing so. Foolish boy I was.
And then, one day, when I was feeling particularly rebellious, there was a fight. Not big fight, more like two drunkards arguing about some situation from the past. Or kafuffle over the cards. Nothing serious, but somebody hit one of the girls. Not even very hard.
Nothing out of that Shadow routine, but I felt a surge of my famous chivalry. I rose from my corner and protested. He rose, too. He spat. He called me... Well, I don’t remember. He wasn’t particularly creative.
As you can easily guess, the situation escalated quickly. At first we used our fists – and all was well, a few punches here, a few kicks there, someone's teeth on the floor. I was steering for an easy victory. And then his comrades decided to join us. And then things became unpleasant. Somebody took out the knife. I searched for my dagger – and, alas, I found it.
Alas. I would survive a knife between my ribs. I’m a crown prince of Amber. But having a weapon – and being a crown prince of Amber – I ended up killing five drunkards. Five men. Or just pale reflections, constructs, whispers of my consciousness. Nothing, then. But still, I couldn’t stay in that Shadow anymore. Five stupidly precise moves and I had lost my foster home.
They were nothing. I keep repeating that to myself, as I escaped through the Shadow. I hid in some forest. Then in an ice cave. Then in some city taken straight from romantic ballads. All of those places were located near Amber. Near home.
Obviously, I was terrified.
You see, that was the very first murder – killing – in my life. Meaningless. Yeah. Rather foolish, miserable affair. I’m not proud of it. I think your father would not do that. Not because he thought highly about the habitants of Shadows; for what I know, he didn’t care about them at all... But well, here I am, talking to his son, so I might be wrong.
But he would never make such a mistake. He would not come to that bar in a first place. But if he came, he would simply scare those men off, make a show, throw the weapon out of their hands, something like that. He disliked troubles and complications. He disliked irreversible actions, too.
Thanks to that we’re talking today, so not that I complain. But you should have seen him, when he found out...
How he found out? Simply. I told you: I was a rebellious teenager, a child almost. Our father was relatively young. I didn’t think about succession much and nor Eric, nor Benedict treated me like a rival. Not yet.
So when I didn’t come back, they searched for me.
Not that it was the first time. We – all of us, even girls – were rather troublesome children. I had to bring Deirdre back home like a hundred times. Once, I found her in a void of some kind, you know, like cosmic space. Empty, dark, lonely. She was creating planets. Why so complicated, sister dear, I asked her, if you want to have a life and civilisation all you need to do is imagine – find – the fitting Shadow.
She replied she wanted to see how life evolves. What may become from a bunch of cells without the influence of her will.
Yes, Deirdre was amazing. Incredible. I’d gladly die a billion times if that could bring her back. If she ever wanted the throne, I’d gladly give it to her.
Is that scepticism I see in your eyes? Well, maybe you’re right. But I had the chance once. I refused it.
After having tasted of the power. True.
Let's get back to Eric, shall we? He found me in the middle of a Shadow-forest near Amber. Forest was full of wild animals: perfect to slay, perfect to ease my anger. On some days I would hunt them down till my legs couldn’t move anymore and air seemed to be sand, drowning my lungs. Some other days I would spend in my cave, sleeping or looking at the ceiling mindlessly. A week more and I would leave that Shadow – it was becoming familiar and at that time everything familiar seemed to look at me with disdain. Like my sheer presence would make trees and animals aware of the foolish crime I had committed. The mistake I had made.
Of course, with my luck, the day Eric found me must be the day of sleeping in the cave. He wasn’t impressed.
No, I don’t blame him now. After all, he wasted quite a lot of time and effort to find his silly, grumpy brother.
He asked what the hell possessed me to disappear for so long and worry Deirdre. She is insufferable, he told me. She cries, complains, refuses to sleep or eat and the way she treats her maids definitely worsen. Not very sophisticated manipulation, but it did the trick – I was truly young – and made me feel guilty.
My first instinct was to run. Or at least turn on the other side and announce I didn’t wish to speak with anybody.
He put me on my feet, forcefully. Shoved to the entrance of the cave. Took me on his horse, so I wouldn’t escape again. Like an insolent kid.
Who to him I probably was. Thanks for reminding me.
He stayed silent. Shadow after Shadow moved before my eyes, quickly. They were boring Shadows, by the way. Eric was choosing the fastest, the easiest route.
And, very predictably, after an hour of two of sulking – very close to Amber, in Arden forest, I believe – my resolve broke and I spoke. About the bar, the fights and my irritation of being treated as a kid. Nothing surprising, you’re right. I’m always quick to share the tale of my glorious deeds with the eager ears.
To Eric I tried to show my actions as a chivalrous and romantic, something taken straight from ballads. I thought he would laugh or preach. Instead he just sighted and once again felt silent. I was babbling, irritated by his lack of attention.
When he finally turned his face to me it was cold and empty of all feelings. Closed.
‘I’ve heard you. You’ve killed a Shadow of an intelligent being. A man.’
‘Five drunk bastards,’ I protested.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ He seemed almost contemplative. ‘So you’re a man now.’
I wanted to disagree. In my arrogant opinion I had been a man long before. Yet a solemn note in his voice stopped me.
‘I should have let you rot in that Shadow, plagued by your weakness and the consequence of your own stupidity,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘But we will have plenty of time to correct this mistake.’
I thought he was simply irritated by my behaviour and once again I resorted to silent sulking. Today I see... the deeper meaning of his words, although I still don’t know how come he foresaw what would became with all of us when father would start to speak about the retirement and succession.
Yes, you’re right. He was older. And a bastard child. Too bad for him.
No, I’m not trying to put a blame on him. He wasn’t to blame. It’s not like he tried to kill me that day. He took me back home, to Deirdre. He just... became wary. At that time I didn’t even notice; he hadn’t been the most caring brother before. He look after me, sometimes, if only because I was something of mother’s. But that was all.
Out hate sprung a few years later, when I was still young, but lost the last scraps of childish political indolence... innocence, I mean. None of us is to be blame of that. Not me, not Eric, not our father even. I’d blame the Pattern and the Amber in our veins, if I must. But I prefer to let it go. That’s how things worked for us. That’s how things work in our family. So, you see, you better stay away from us. For your own good. You seem to be happy in this Shadow— yes, I’ve noticed the girl, how could I not? I’m Corwin of Amber! – You’re happy. Don’t waste it because of the bunch of bastards our family is.
Bitterness? My dear nephew, I’m much too jaded to be bitter.