John Betancourt: The Dawn of Amber

Cursing, Dworkin dropped the crystal. It had turned black, I saw, and a sharp, unpleasant smoke rose from it. It shattered on the cobblestones, then the bits seemed to turn to dust and disappear like evaporating water. Little remained but a faint black smudge.

“What was that ?” I demanded, shocked and horrified. It was the most terrible weapon I had ever seen.

“A parlor trick.”

“Magic!”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

Horns sounded again, much closer now. The two remaining hell-creatures reined in their hissing, spark-spitting horses, hesitated a second, then wheeled, kicked their mounts to a gallop, and fled back the way they had come.

I wasn’t surprised. Between us, Dworkin and I had killed fourteen of their band in a handful of minutes. We could easily have dispatched two more. Better to report failure and live to attack another day, especially with the town watch at hand.

Suddenly exhausted, I lowered my sword and stared at the carnage before us, then I stared at Dworkin. By the light of Helda’s burning house, he had seemed younger and stronger than I remembered. And now, nursing burnt fingers, blowing on them and shaking them in the air, he seemed almost comical.

“Where did you get that crystal?” I asked in a quiet voice. If I could get more like it for King Elnar, I knew without a doubt that it would turn the tide of war in our favor.

“Never ask a magician his secrets.”

“So I’m supposed to believe you’re a magician now?”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

“Actually, I do. You’re a spy for one of the neighboring kingdoms, one with a wizard. The wizard gave you that”—I indicated the remains of the crystal with my chin—“and your horseless carriage. Other spies warned you about the hell-creatures’ coming attack, and you came here to save me either for old times’ sake or for reasons I don’t yet know.”

Throwing back his head, he howled with uncontrollable laughter.

I frowned. Clearly he had no intention of telling me the truth.

“Yes! Yes!” he finally gasped. “Your explanation is much better than mine! Much more believable!”

This wasn’t the solemn, serious Dworkin I remembered of old.

“You’ve gone mad,” I said, half believing it.

That sent him howling again.

With the hell-creatures gone, the few remaining townspeople in this neighborhood began to venture from their houses. They stood in small clusters, talking in low voices and pointing at the carnage, Helda’s burning house, the odd horseless carriage, and Dworkin and me. The green flames in particular seemed to frighten them; they made no move to form a bucket brigade to try to put out the fire.

I didn’t blame them; I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near it, either. Luckily the fire didn’t seem to be spreading, or all of Kingstown might have been in jeopardy.

Ignoring Dworkin, I bent and cleaned both my sword and my knife on a dead hell-creature’s cloak, then sheathed them. A soldier’s first duty after a battle is to take care of his weapons, after all. Next I retrieved my throwing knife, cleaned it, and returned it to my right boot.

My movements felt almost mechanical. The whole night’s adventure had taken on an air of unreality, as though it had happened to someone else. The townspeople, the fire, my long-lost mentor… I found myself just standing there, staring into the green flames, remembering. And most of all I remembered Helda, my Helda, who was gone…

Horns sounded again, very close now, perhaps one street over. The town watch would be here soon.

Dworkin touched my shoulder. “We must go.”

I focused on him. “I’m not going anywhere until I get the truth.”

“Fine. I am a spy. That is as good an explanation as any, for the moment. Come on, we must go before the hell-creatures return in greater numbers. Do not be stubborn about it.”

“You think they’re coming back?” I demanded, startled. I gazed up the street in the direction the two surviving hell-creatures had fled. “Tonight? After the way you cut them in half with that crystal?”

“Of course they are coming back, and I have just about run out of tricks. Now that they have found you, they will not rest until you are dead. They will mount an all-out assault instead of a methodical search.”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why me ? I’m nobody special. They should be going after King Elnar if they want to end the war.”

“It is more complicated than that… and this war means nothing to them. They do not want land or slaves. They are searching for you.”

“Me? Why?”

“It is a long story. I will tell you everything when we are safely away, I promise.”

He started for his horseless carriage, then paused and looked back expectantly.

“You had best come, my boy.”

I took a deep breath, glanced one last time at the burning house, at the corpse-littered street, then at him. He seemed strong and sure and confident now. Despite all that had happened—or perhaps because of it—my long-seated anger and hurt and resentment over being abandoned began to melt away. I trusted him, I realized, in some deep way I couldn’t fully understand.

And he had claimed he could help end the war. That alone was worth giving him the benefit of the doubt.

A little stiffly, I nodded and started after him. All right, I told myself, you seem to know what you’re doing, Uncle. I’ll trust you for now.

I didn’t think I had much choice. We could sort out our differences when we were safe. And if he could help save Ilerium from the hell-creatures as he claimed, so much the better. That crystal gave me some idea he hadn’t been making idle promises.

The pumpkin-shaped carriage looked even more ridiculous now, in the greenish glow of Helda’s still-burning house, at the end of a street littered with dead hell-creatures and half a dozen dead horses. As we neared, a little door in its side slowly swung open and delicate steps glittering like spun crystal folded out. A small oil lamp hung from the ceiling inside, and by its pale illumination, I looked upon white velvet seats and cushions, a small ivory-inlaid table, and a passenger—the woman I had glimpsed earlier.

Without hesitation I unbuckled my swordbelt and slid into the seat across from her, balancing my weapon across my knees. My fellow passenger was strikingly beautiful, I found, with long dark hair and a wide, almost familiar face. Thin nose, full lips, strong chin—

Dworkin, I realized. She looks more than a little like him. Could she be his daughter?

She was dressed in a gold-and-red silk dress, with a round red hat perched atop her head. Heavy gold rings set with large diamonds and larger rubies, if I was any judge, covered her slender fingers. If she had witnessed the battle outside, she showed no sign of concern. She might have been out for a picnic in the country as far as I could tell.

“Hello,” I said.

“Not now, Oberon,” she said.

Ignoring me, she picked up what looked like a deck of Tarot cards and nimbly shuffled them, then began turning them over one by one on the table between us. Leaning forward, she studied intently the pattern made by the first nine.

“Anything?” Dworkin asked from outside the carriage door. I glanced over at him expectantly.

Freda said, “We had best hurry. Time is running out here.”

“Time already ran out,” he told her. Then he shut the door, and from the way the carriage shook and swayed, I knew he was climbing onto its roof. Probably to steer, I thought, thinking of the bench up there, though the carriage hadn’t needed any such guidance before.