Roger Zelazny - Nine Princes In Amber

I didn’t drink to that, but no one seemed to notice. It was Caine’s voice that had called out the toast, from far up along the table.

I ate as much as I could, because it was the best meal I had been offered since the coronation. I gathered from conversation overheard that today was the anniversary of Eric’s coronation, which meant I had spent an entire year in the dungeons.

No one spoke to me, and I didn’t make any overtures. I was present as a ghost only. To humiliate me, and to serve as a reminder to my brothers, no doubt, as to the price of defying our liege. And everyone had been ordered to forget me.

It went on well into the night. Someone kept me well provided with wine, which was something, and I sat there and listened to the music of all the dances.

The tables had been removed by this time, and I was seated off somewhere in a corner.

I got stinking drunk and was half dragged, half carried back to my cell in the morning, when the whole thing was over save for the cleaning up. My only regret was that I hadn’t gotten sick enough to dirty the floor or someone’s pretty garments.

Thus ended the first year of darkness.

I shall not bore you with repetition. My second year was pretty much like my first, with the same finale. Ditto for the third. Rein came twice that second year, with a basket of goodies and a mouthful of gossip. Both times I forbade him ever to come again. The third year he came down six times, every other month, and each time I forbade him anew and ate his food and heard what he had to say.

Something was wrong in Amber. Strange things walked through Shadow and presented themselves, with violence, to all and sundry. They were destroyed, of course. Eric was still trying to figure out how they had occurred. I did not mention my curse, though I later rejoiced in the fact that it had come to pass.

Random, like myself, was still a prisoner. His wife had joined him. The positions of my other brothers and sisters remained unchanged. This bolstered me through the third anniversary of the coronation, and it made me feel almost alive again.

It.

It! One day it was there, and it made me feel so good that I immediately broke out the final bottle of wine Rein had brought me and opened the last pack of cigarettes, which I had been saving.

I smoked them and sipped and enjoyed the feeling that I had somehow beaten Eric. If he found this out, I felt it might be fatal. But I knew he didn’t know.

So I rejoiced, smoking, drinking and reveling in the light of that which had occurred.

Yes, the light.

I’d discovered a tiny patch of brightness, off somewhere to my right.

Well, let’s take it like this: I had awakened in a hospital bed and learned that I had recovered all too soon. Dig?

I heal faster than others who have been broken. All the lords and ladies of Amber have something of this capacity.

I’d lived through the Plague, I’d lived through the march on Moscow.

I regenerate faster and better than anybody I’ve ever known.

Napoleon had once made a remark about it. So had General MacArthur.

With nerve tissue it takes me a bit longer, that’s all.

My sight was returning to me, that’s what it meant — that lovely patch of brightness, off somewhere to my right.

After a time, I knew that it was the little barren area in the door to my cell.

I had grown new eyes, my fingers told me. It had taken me over three years, but I had done it. It was the million-to-one thing I spoke of earlier, the thing which even Eric could not properly assess, because of the variances of powers among the individual members of the family. I had beaten him to this extent: I had learned that I could grow new eyeballs. I had always known that I could regenerate nerve tissues, given sufficient time. I had been left paraplegic from a spine injury received during the Franco–Prussian wars. After two years, it had gone away. I had had my hope — a wild one, I’ll admit — that I could do what I had done then, with my burned-out orbs. And I had been right. They felt intact, and the sight was returning, slowly.

How long till the next anniversary of Eric’s coronation? I stopped pacing and my heart beat faster. As soon as someone saw that I’d recovered my eyes, I’d lose them again.

Therefore, I’d have to escape before the four years had passed.

How?

I hadn’t thought about it much up to this time, because even if I could figure a way to get out of my cell, I’d never make it out of Amber — or out of the palace, for that matter — without eyes or aid, and neither were available to me.

Now, though…

The door of my cell was a big, heavy, brass-bound thing, with only a tiny grille at a height of about five feet for purposes of looking in to see whether I was still alive, if anyone cared. Even if I succeeded in removing it, I could tell that I couldn’t reach out far enough to touch the lock. There was a little swinging gate at the bottom of the door, large enough to push my food through and that’s about all. The hinges were either on the outside or in between the door and the jamb, I couldn’t tell for sure. Either way, I couldn’t get at them. There were no windows and no other doors.

It was still almost like being blind, save for that feeble reassuring light through the grille. I knew my sight hadn’t returned fully. That was still a long way off. But even if it had, it was nearly pitch dark in there. I knew this because I knew the dungeons under Amber.

I lit a cigarette, paced some more, and assessed my possessions, seeking anything that might be of aid. There was my clothing, my sleeping mat, and all the damp straw I wanted. I also had matches, but I quickly rejected the notion of setting fire to the straw. I doubted anyone would come and open the door if I did. Most likely the guard would come and laugh, if he came at all. I had a spoon I’d picked up at the last banquet. I’d wanted a knife, really, but Julian had caught me trying to lift one and snatched it away. What he didn’t know, though, was that that was my second attempt. I already had the spoon tucked inside my boot.

So what good was it?

I’d heard these stories of guys digging their way out of cells with the damnedest things — belt buckles (which I didn’t have) — etc. But I didn’t have time to try the Count of Monte Cristo bit. I needed out in a matter of months, or my new eyes wouldn’t mean anything.

The door was mainly wood. Oak. It was bound with four metal strips. One went around it near the top, one near the bottom, right above the gate, and there were two which ran from top to bottom, passing along either side of the footwide grille. The door opened outward, I knew, and the lock was to my left. My memories told me the door was about two inches thick, and I recalled the approximate position of the lock, which I verified by leaning against the door and feeling the tension at that point. I knew that the door was also barred, but I could worry about that later. I might be able to raise it by sliding the handle of the spoon upward between the door’s edge and the jamb.

I knelt on my sleeping mat and with the spoon I traced a box about that area which contained the lock. I worked until my hand was quite sore — maybe a couple of hours. Then I ran my fingernail over the surface of the wood. I hadn’t scarred it much, but it was a beginning. I switched the spoon to my left hand and continued until it, began to ache.

I kept hoping that Rein would show up. I was sure I could talk him into giving me his dagger if I really pressed the matter. He didn’t put in an appearance, though, so I just kept grinding away.

Day after day I worked, until I was perhaps half an inch into the wood. Each time I’d hear a guard’s footsteps I’d move the pallet back to the far wall and lie down on it with my back to the door. When he had passed, I’d resume work. Then I had to stop for a while, as much as I hated to. Even though I had wrapped them in cloth torn from my garments, my hands had blistered and the blisters had broken, and after a time the raw flesh underneath began to bleed. So I took a break to let them heal. I decided to devote the time to planning what I’d do after I got out.