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SEVEN

I am a strong man—stronger than any human I’ve ever fought. It should have been an easy thing for me to push an old man’s arm away from my throat.
But it wasn’t.
Ivinius, despite his age, was at least as strong as me—certainly stronger than any seventy-year-old servant ought to be.
It became a struggle of wills and brute force. I felt my bones start to creak; the muscles in my arm stood out like bands of iron. Grunting from the strain, I gave my every effort to throw him off.
It wasn’t enough. Standing, he had the better position. He threw not only his strength but his full weight against me, and steadily the razor drew closer to my throat. I gulped, suddenly realizing I couldn’t win.
Out of desperation, I kicked off against the floor with both feet, throwing my shoulders back as hard as I could and rolling. The chair tipped and went over backwards. Instead of pushing, I tightened my grip on Ivinius’s hand and pulled to the side. The razor’s blade sliced air just beyond the tip of my nose, then went past my right ear. I heard the dry snap of a bone.
Ivinius howled with pain and dropped the razor, clutching his wrist. I released him and continued my backwards roll. Coming up on my feet, legs spread, arms and fists ready, I began to back away, looking for a weapon—anything. Unfortunately, my sword lay on the other side of the room, still draped across the back of the chair where I had left it.
“Get out,” I said to him, stalling for time, “Run. You might make it out alive. I’ll give you fifteen seconds before I raise the alarm.”
Glaring, Ivinius bent and scooped the razor up with his good left hand.
“It would have been an easy death for you,” he said in a low growl. Then he rushed at me.
I bumped into the writing desk. It would have to do, I thought.
Seizing it, muscles straining, I lifted it and threw it at him. Paper, blotter, inkpot, and quills went flying in all directions. Ivinius couldn’t quite duck in time, and one of the legs struck him across the forehead and sent him sprawling. Luckily he lost his grip on the razor, which clattered on the floor.
I threw myself on him, fingers closing around his throat, and noticed that the blood gushing from his forehead wasn’t red. It was a sickly yellow, the color of a squashed bug, the color of vomit. He wasn’t human, despite his appearance. That explained his extraordinary strength.
“Hell-creature!” I snarled.
I saw no human emotion in his eyes, no regret, no wish for mercy. Just a cold hatred.
I felt no desire for mercy, either. His kind had killed Helda. His kind has destroyed Ilerium with a year of war and terror.
“Die!” I said.
I squeezed his throat shut. His eyes began to bulge; he made a desperate gurgle. Still I tightened my grip, pouring a year’s worth of hate and anger toward the hell-creatures against this assassin sent to murder me in my own room.
Then he began to struggle desperately, trying to buck me off, but with a broken wrist he could do nothing to stop me. Finally, with a sudden wrenching motion, I broke his neck.
His body seemed to sag, like a wineskin whose contents had suddenly run out. His skin changed, turning a mottled yellow-gray. In a few heartbeats, he was a man no more, but something else . . . something hideous and distorted, with solid black eyes that continued to sink deep into sharp, bony cheeks. Talons had replaced those age-spotted fingers, and two rows of narrow, slivered teeth suddenly lined a tiny round mouth at the end of a pointed jaw.
Magic.
Whatever he was, this thing who had looked so much like a man, he had been cleverly disguised. And he had known enough about life in Juniper Castle to get to my rooms and nearly kill me.
Of course, I was a stranger here, but nothing he had said in all that old-man prattle had put me on my guard. If it hadn’t been for the looking glass, I felt certain, I would now be dead. I swallowed and touched my throat.
Still his transformation continued, as whatever sorcery had disguised him unraveled. His prominent nose dwindled to mere nostril slits. His skin shimmered with faint iridescent scales. And then his transformation seemed to be complete.
I beheld a monster like none I had ever seen before. Clearly this wasn’t one of the hell-creatures I had fought in Ilerium . . . so what was it? And why would it want me dead enough to risk murdering me in my own rooms?
My battle-rage had begun to fade, and I took a deep cleansing breath, muscles suddenly weak. I felt like I’d lost control of my life, and I didn’t like the sensation.
So, yet another mystery faced me. What had this creature been doing here, inside Dworkin’s castle? How had he slipped past all those guards—past an entire army on the lookout? And most of all, how had he known to come to me posing as a barber?
I frowned. Clearly he must have had help. Someone had sent him—and set me up to be killed. Much as I hated the thought, I knew what it meant: Dworkin had a spy in his castle, someone in a fairly high position who knew our family’s comings and goings. Someone who could smuggle a hell-creature into the castle, get him the clothes and tools of a barber, and give him enough information to get him safely into my rooms and make me lower my guard.
Rising, I paced for a second, trying to work through the problem, trying to decide what to do next. Should I call Dworkin’s guards? No, I wouldn’t know whether to trust them. Any of them might be another hell-creature in disguise, and I didn’t want to reveal how much I knew yet. Freda, maybe? She seemed to have her own plots. Aber the prankster? I wasn’t sure what help he could be; I needed solid advice, not Trumps.
That left only Dworkin, and I certainly couldn’t go running to him at the first sign of trouble. It would make me look weak, helpless, unable to protect myself . . . in short, a perfect target.
Another problem worried me more. If assassins roamed Juniper’s halls disguised as servants, I reasoned, they might just as easily pose as family members. Since I didn’t know anyone in Juniper well enough to tell real from fake, except perhaps Dworkin, I knew how easily I could be fooled by another assassin. Ivinius had come close to succeeding; I didn’t want to give his masters a second chance.
Taking a deep breath, I rose. When in doubt, do nothing you know is wrong. That was one of the lessons Dworkin had always stressed throughout my childhood. I wouldn’t report this attempt on my life just yet, I decided. Perhaps whoever had set me up would reveal himself if I simply showed up alive and well, like nothing had happened.
Surely someone would be curious as to what had happened. I’d have to be doubly watchful.
One problem remained: how to proceed?
Clean up, I decided. I’d have to hide the body somewhere and get rid of it after dark. Perhaps it could be dumped into the moat, or smuggled out into the forest. Though exactly how I might do so, when I knew none of Juniper’s passageways—let alone the safest, least guarded path to the forest—escaped me at the moment.
Details could come later, I decided. For now, it was enough to have a plan.
I dragged the corpse into the little sitting room and positioned it behind a heavy tapestry where it couldn’t be seen from the main room. Hopefully, servants wouldn’t stumble across it before I was ready, and hopefully it wouldn’t begin to stink too much. Then I began tidying up, setting the chair I’d knocked over back where it belonged, picking up Ivinius’s razor and returning it to the tray with the towels, straightening the table with the basin, retrieving the desk and restoring its papers and blotter to their proper order—generally putting everything back the way it had been before the fight. To my surprise, the hardest part came last: mopping up the spilled ink. I cleaned it up as best I could with one of the towels, then covered the spot on the carpet with a smaller rug.
Not a bad job, I finally decided, standing back and studying my work critically. The room looked more or less normal. You couldn’t tell there had been a fight or that I’d hidden a corpse in the next room.
Then I spotted my reflection in the mirror that had saved my life, and I sighed. I still had the residue of a full lather on my face and neck, and it had begun to dry and flake off. Well, I needed to get cleaned up for dinner anyway—no sense in wasting a sharp razor, even if it had been meant to slit my throat.
I returned to the basin and the block of soap, lathered up again with the brush, pulled the mirror over to the window’s light while my beard softened, and began to shave myself with one of the smaller razors, which had a blade about as long as my hand. It gave me something to do while I continued to think things through.
A plan . . . that’s what I needed right now. Some way to sort friend from foe, hell-creature from servant or relative . . . 
Behind me, a floorboard suddenly squeaked. I whirled, razor up. I should have buckled on my swordbelt, I realized. More assassins, come to finish the job—?
No, it was only Aber, grinning at me like a happy pup who’d found its master. I forced myself to relax. He held what looked like one of Freda’s Trumps in his left hand, I noticed, and he carried a small carved wooden box in his right.
“A present for you, brother,” he said, holding out the box. “Your first set of family Trumps!”
I took them. “For me? I thought Freda was the expert.”
“Oh, everyone needs a set. Besides, she already has all the Trumps she wants.”
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, glancing pointedly at the door. The hinges most definitely had not given their telltale squeak. “How did you get in here? Is there another way—a secret passage?”
“You’ve been listening to too many fairy tales,” he said with a little laugh. “Secret passages? I only know of one in the whole castle, and it’s used all the time by servants as a shortcut between floors. Not much of a secret, if you ask me.”
“Then how did you get in here?”
Silently he raised the Trump in his hand, turning it so I could see the picture: my bedroom. He had drawn it perfectly, right down to the tapestries on the wall and the zigzag quilt on the bed.
Suddenly I remembered how the trump with Aber’s picture on it had seemed to move, almost to come alive, when Freda and I were in the carriage. Her cryptic comment about not wanting Aber to join us came back to me, and now it made sense. He had to be a wizard. One who used Trumps to move from place to place. That’s how he had gotten in here without opening my door.
“It’s a good drawing,” I said, taking the card and studying it. He had caught not just the look, but the feel of my bedchamber. As I stared at it, the image seemed to grow lifelike and started to loom before me . . . I had the distinct impression that I could have stepped forward and been in the next room. Hurriedly I pulled my gaze away and focused on him.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said, chest swelling a bit with pride. “Art is but one of my many talents, if I do say so myself.”
“Are there any more cards like this one?”
“No, that’s the only one I’ve done so far.”
Instead of handing it back, I tossed it atop the pile of dirty towels on the tray.
“You don’t mind if I keep it.” Deliberately, I made it a statement instead of a question. I didn’t need him—or anyone else—popping in on me unannounced.
“Not at all.” He shrugged. “I made it as part of your set, so it’s yours anyway. You should always have a few safe places to fall back on if need arises.”
“Then . . . thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” He gestured toward the box I still held. “Go ahead, take a look at the others.”
I took a moment to admire the mother-of-pearl dragon inlaid on the top of the box—also his work, it turned out—then unlatched the clasp and swung back the lid. Inside, nestled in a velvet-lined compartment, lay a small stack of Trumps, all face down. Their backs showed a blue-painted field with an intricate gold lion in the middle, exactly like Freda’s.
I pulled all the cards out and fanned them—about twenty-five, I judged. Most showed portraits done much like the ones in Freda’s set. I pulled out Aber’s. He looked even more heroic than in Freda’s set, if possible; here, he held a bloody sword in one hand and the severed head of a lion in the other. Clearly he had no problems with his own self-image.
“They’re terrific,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“You’ll have to show me how they work later, when we have more time.” I put them back in the box, adding the one of my bedroom to the top of the stack.
“You don’t know . . . ” he began. “Sorry! I thought you knew. This morning, someone used my card. Just for a second, I thought I saw you and Freda inside a carriage.”
“That was me,” I admitted. “But it was an accident. I didn’t know what I was doing,”
He shrugged. “It’s not hard. Take out a card and concentrate on it. If it’s a place, it will seem to grow life-sized before you, like a doorway. Just step through and you’re there.”
“And the people?”
“You’ll be able to talk to them,” he said, “but only if they want to talk to you, too. After contact is made, either one can help the other pass across.”
“It works both ways?”
“That’s right.” He nodded. “Just stick out your hand, the person you’re talking to will grasp it, and you step forward. Fast and easy.”
“It almost seems too good to be true!” I said, a trifle skeptical. Why would anyone bother with horses or carriages if a single card could make traveling quick and painless? “Freda said you liked pranks. You’re pulling my leg now, aren’t you?”
“No,” he insisted, “I’m telling the truth. I always tell the truth. It’s just that half the time nobody believes me!”
I gave a snort. “That’s what the best liars say.”
“You don’t know me well enough to say that. Give me the benefit of the doubt, Oberon.”
“Very well—explain to me again how you got in here.”
“I used that Trump of your bedroom,” he said solemnly, indicating the one I’d put in the box. “I left Dad in his study just a minute ago. Which reminds me, I’m here because he wants to see you. So you’d better hurry up. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I had to smile. “Some things never change.”
Throughout my childhood, Dworkin had hated waiting for anything, from lines at the baker’s to finishing my penmanship lessons so we could get on to more important things, like swordplay and military tactics.
“So,” I went on, “if I concentrated on Dad’s card right now, he’d pull me into his study? Just like that?” I’d never be able to master such a trick, I thought. It sounded impossibly hard, somehow.
“Sure. But I wouldn’t do it with Dad, ever, unless you haven’t any other choice . . . he doesn’t like to be distracted when he’s working. Sometimes he has delicate experiments going on, and if you accidentally mess one up . . . well, let’s just say he has quite a temper.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said. I knew what he meant about our father’s temper, all right. Once in the marketplace, when a soldier twice his size had insulted my mother, Dworkin had beaten the fool senseless with his bare hands. It had taken four of the city watch to drag him away, or he surely would have killed the fellow. I hadn’t seen him that angry very often, but it was a terrible thing to behold.
Some things, it seemed, never changed.
“Let me finish getting ready,” I said, turning back to the mirror and picking up the razor. “Then maybe you can show me the way down.”
“Sure, glad to.”
“Anari was supposed to find me some clothes. Maybe you can hurry him up.”
“What about those?” He pointed through my bedroom door, and to my amazement I saw brown hose, a green shirt, and undergarments laid out on the chair next to the bed where I’d been sleeping.
“I must be going blind,” I said, shaking my head. “I would’ve sworn they weren’t there five minutes ago!”
He chuckled. “Okay, you caught me. I put them there. After I saw Dad, I went to my room first to pick up your set of Trumps. Ivinius was in the hall, and I told him to let you know I’d bring in some clothes for you. I guess he forgot to mention it.”
I laughed with relief. “So I’m not crazy!”
“No . . . at least, I hope not! Say, why didn’t you let him shave you?”
“The way his hands were shaking? Never!”
“Well, he is getting old.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Someone ought to tell Anari to find us a new barber.”
“I think that would be a good idea. I wouldn’t want to have my throat cut.”
I finished shaving quickly. All the while I studied my brother. He stood by the window, gazing out across the castle grounds. He didn’t seem at all surprised at finding me alive. If anything, he seemed to like my company; I thought he must be lonely. It was easy to rule him out as a suspect in a conspiracy to have me killed—you didn’t kill friends, especially ones with as little power here as I had.
And that, I thought, made him my first potential ally.
I splashed water on my face, then toweled dry. Not the best job, I thought, studying my reflection and rubbing my chin, but it would do for now. I’d get a haircut tomorrow, if I could find a real barber.
I began to dress quickly. Anari had a good eye for clothes; these fit me almost perfectly. A tiny bit too narrow in the shoulders, a little too wide in the waist, but with a belt, they would do nicely.
“You look a bit like him,” Aber said suddenly as I pulled on my boots.
“Who?”
“Taine. Those are his clothes.”
Taine . . . another of my missing half-brothers. I studied my reflection more critically . . . yes, I thought, dressed in his colors, I looked a lot like him in his Trump.
I said, “Freda thinks Taine is dead. Do you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He has Dad’s temper, and he left after a fight with Locke. I suppose he could be off somewhere, brooding and planning his revenge.”
“What did they fight about?”
“I don’t know. Locke has never said.”
I finished dressing and reached for my sword, but Aber shook his head. “Leave it,” he said. “Father doesn’t allow swords in his workroom.”
Shrugging, I did so. Ivinius’s impersonator was dead . . . there probably wouldn’t be another attempt on my life tonight. And walking around without a sword clearly showed my lack of fear . . . I couldn’t let my enemy or enemies know how much my nerves had been shaken.
“Lead on! “I said.
“Want to try a Trump down?” he asked suddenly.
“I thought you said—”
“Dad doesn’t like to use them. But I’ve made Trumps of every interesting room in the castle . . . and many of the uninteresting ones, too.” He chuckled. “Those can be even more useful, you know.”
“I can imagine. And I suppose you know an uninteresting one near Dad’s workshop?”
“There’s a cloakroom just off the main hall . . . and it’s about thirty feet from there to his workshop door.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. Much as I liked the idea of trying out some magic, this wasn’t the right time. “Juniper is huge. I’ll never get a feel for its layout if we jump around like spring hares. Let’s walk. That will give us a chance to get to know each other, and you can tell me about the castle as we go.”
“As you wish.” With a little shrug, he led the way out to the hall. “Those are my rooms,” he said, pointing to the double doors directly across from mine. “Then Davin’s to the left, then Mattus. Locke, Alanar, and Titus have the rooms to the right, and then Fenn and Taine and Conner opposite. Our sisters have the floor above.”
We started down a broad stone stairway, heading back toward the salon in which we’d had drinks earlier that afternoon. As we walked, servants quickly stepped aside to let us pass, bowing their heads. I thought I recognized a few from my last trip through here, and several of them called me “Lord Oberon” as we passed. Clearly news of my arrival was spreading.
I still regarded them with veiled suspicion. Any might be another hell-creature spy or assassin in human guise. And yet I couldn’t allow myself to become too fearful or paranoid. If Juniper had to be my home now, I would accept it, even if it came with a measure of danger. I couldn’t brood on Ivinius and the possibility of assassination attempts or the assassins would have won . . . they would rule me.
No, I vowed, I would ferret them out in due course. But I wouldn’t let them change how I lived my life—heartily, savoring the pleasures and passions.
Where to start, though? Best to get Aber talking, I decided. He might reveal more information about our family and the military situation here—what I needed most at this point was information. With so many soldiers stationed around Juniper, and hell-creatures infiltrating the castle, the war Freda had mentioned must be imminent.
I decided to start with a comfortable topic before working our way to more sensitive matters, something to loosen his natural reserve. What Freda had said about him in the horseless carriage came back to me: Aber the prankster, Aber the artist, Aber the distraction who could not be trusted to join us. Art seemed one of his main interests.
I said, “So, you make your own Trumps?” Most people enjoyed talking about themselves, and his talent for art seemed a natural place to begin.
“That’s right!” He grinned, and I knew my question pleased him. “Everyone says I inherited Dad’s artistic tendencies, just not his temperament. Apparently he used to make Trumps all the time when he was my age, but I don’t think he has in years. There are more interesting things, he keeps saying. He’s always got dozens of experiments going on in his workshop.”
Experiments? A workshop? I had never seen this side of Dworkin in Ilerium . . . or perhaps I’d been too young to notice.
“I’ve been impressed by everything he’s made,” I said. “That horseless carriage—”
He snorted derisively.
“You don’t like it?” I asked, bewildered. I’d found it the finest means of transportation I’d ever used, except perhaps horse and saddle.
“Not really,” he said. “It’s too slow, and you can’t see anything if you’re riding inside. I told him it should be open on top so passengers can take in the sights.”
“A good idea . . . until it rains!” I also thought of those monstrous bats, who could have swooped down on Freda and me had we been riding in the open.
“It never rains in Shadows unless you want it to.”
“I suppose,” I said nonchalantly, unwilling to expose my ignorance of exactly what Shadows were in the context of my new-found family.
We turned down another hallway, heading away from the salon. The topic changed back to Juniper Castle—the fastest way to get to the kitchens, where to find guard stations on this level (which also housed the weapons room, the main dining hall, and even the servants’ quarters)—so many places and directions that my head swam. I didn’t think I would be able to find any of them on my own.
Finally we reached a short windowless corridor. Two guards posted at its mouth held pikes. Down the corridor, small oil lamps set in wall sconces revealed plain stone walls and a red-and-white checkerboard slate floor. They didn’t challenge us, but nodded to Aber as if expecting him.
We went up the corridor in silence and halted at the heavy oak door at its end. The hinges were thick iron bands. It would have taken a battering ram to get through.
“Look,” Aber said softly, giving a quick glance back at the guards. We were clearly out of earshot, and he kept his voice low. “There’s one more thing I should tell you about your family. We’re all on our best behavior now, with war coming. But it won’t last. It never does. You’ll going to have to choose sides, and choose soon. Freda likes you, which counts for a lot as far as I’m concerned. I hope you’ll throw in with us.”
I paused to digest this.
“It’s you and Freda and Pella?” I guessed at one faction.
“Yes.”
“And the others . . . Davin and Locke, of course.”
He pulled a sour face. “The boors stick together. Yes. Locke and Davin—and also Fenn and Isadora, the warrior-bitch from hell.”
I arched my eyebrows at that description.
“You haven’t met her yet,” he said with an unapologetic laugh. “You’ll see exactly what I mean when you do. Be warned, though—tell one of them anything and they’ll all hear it. But none of them will ever act unless Locke says so.”
“What about Blaise?” I said.
He gave a dismissive wave. “She’s got her own interests. For now, she’s too busy seducing army officers and playing court with Leona and Syara—I don’t think you’ve met them yet, have you?—to be a real concern to anyone but Dad, who generally disapproves but doesn’t know how to tell her to grow up. She wants to wield power inside Juniper, but she doesn’t have any way to support her ambitions. Of all our family, she’s probably the most harmless . . . or least harmful might be a better way of putting it.”
“I’m sure she’d be hurt if she heard you’d said that!”
Aber clapped me on the shoulder. “Right you are! So keep it between the two of us, okay? If something terrible happens and she does end up running everything, I still want to be on her good side.”
“How . . . politic of you.”
“I would have said self-serving.”
I had to laugh at that. “Don’t worry, I know when to keep my mouth shut.” I glanced at him sidewise. “I’m a soldier, you know. What makes you think I won’t throw in with Locke? After all, he and I seem to have the most in common.”
“The fact that you’re asking means you’ve already decided not to.”
“It never hurts to know all your options. And Locke would seem to be a good one.”
He hesitated. “I’ll probably regret saying it, but . . . I like you, Oberon. I know it sounds simple-minded, but it’s the truth. I don’t know why, but I’ve liked you since the moment we met. You’re not like anyone else in our family.”
I knew exactly what he meant. “They’re all stiff and formal, afraid to say or do the wrong thing.” I’d seen it in Ilerium, among the bluebloods in King Elnar’s court.
“From what Dad told us, Freda and I expected you to be another Locke. You know, all soldier, dedicated to war and politics. But you’re not like Locke at all. I wouldn’t trust Locke to clean my paint brushes. You, dear brother, I just might.”
I scratched my head. “I’m not quite sure how to take that,” I admitted. Clean his paint brushes?
He laughed. “As a compliment, of course! Good brushes are a painter’s best friend. More valued than wine or women—and twice as expensive.”
“Surely not more valued than women!”
“Well, the available women in Juniper, anyway.”
“Then thank you for the compliment.”
“You feel like a friend, somehow,” he went on, eyes far away suddenly. “Like I’ve known you all my life and we’ve just been apart for too long and need to catch up with each other. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” I said. I knew exactly what he meant—I already felt the same way about both him and Freda: comfortable.
I changed the subject. “So Locke’s not a friend?”
“When it’s convenient for him—and that’s usually when he wants something. He took me out drinking a month ago when he wanted me to make him some new Trumps, and I haven’t had two words from him since. Well, that’s not true. He said ‘pass the wine’ last night at dinner, and that’s three words.”
“I see the real problem.”
“Really?” He looked startled. “What?”
“If you have to pass the wine, there aren’t enough bottles on the table!”
That got a snort of amusement.
“See? This is what I meant . . . and why I like you. Nobody else in our family has a sense of humor. Not even Freda.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“To Locke, we’re all tools to be used toward his own ends. Davin doesn’t mind being a tool. That’s the height of his ambition, to be second in command. The others . . . ” He shrugged. “Nobody really wants to serve under Locke. He’s a bully when he wants his way. If not for Dad pulling us all together here, we’d scatter to the winds again.”
I found myself agreeing with his assessment. Every word he’d said rang true.
Over the years, I’d known quite a few officers like Locke. They were always noble-born, and their only interest lay in yoking those beneath them to their own political and military advancement. Oddly enough, they always found eager followers. Sometimes a lot of them.
And I had invariably ended up at odds with them.
Aber said, “I still remember the first time Locke and Freda met as adults!” He shook his head. “He ordered her to fetch him and his men wine—he treated her like a common servant. Freda!”
“Did she do it?”
“Of course, like any prim and proper hostess. And then she dumped the whole tray in his lap.”
I smiled at that.
Aber said, “She still hasn’t forgiven him . . . nor has he forgiven her.”
“Well, I can see both of their positions,” I said, picturing the scene with some amusement. “And yet, part of me still thinks I’d be better off throwing in with Locke. After all, as the general in charge of Juniper’s army, and the firstborn son, he seems poised to take over after our father. And I’m a soldier. I’d fit in with Locke. We’d . . . understand each other.”
“You’re wrong, brother.” He said, voice firm. “Locke sees you as a threat. If you try to make friends with him, you won’t live long enough to stand a chance to replace him.”
“He’d kill me?” I said uneasily. “His own brother?”
“Half brother. And not directly, no . . . but he grew up in the Courts, where fighting and treachery are a way of life. His rivals never lasted long.”
“Murder?” I wondered aloud, thinking of Ivinius the demon-barber, sent to kill me in my chambers. Locke could easily have told him all he needed to know.
“Let’s call it a series of convenient accidents. Locke is careful, and no one has any proof of his involvement. But over the years, there have been too many hunting accidents, a drowning, two convenient suicides, and half a dozen mysterious disappearances in our family alone. That’s not counting other rivals.”
“Coincidences, I’d say.”
“So many? I think not.” He looked away. “When Dad turned the army over to him, I knew it was a huge mistake. He’ll never surrender command now. And he won’t welcome any rivals in the ranks.”
“I’ve served kings and generals my whole career. I’m used to taking orders, and I’d probably make a good lieutenant for Locke.”
“You don’t have ambitions?”
“Of course. But I’m not going to stroll in and try to wrestle away Locke’s position. That’s a fool’s errand. He has his command, and he’s welcome to it.”
“But—it can’t be that way!” he blurted out.
“Why not?”
“Freda said—”
Aber hesitated; clearly he didn’t like the direction our conversation had taken . . . and I took some pleasure in shaking apart his all-too-cozy view of our relationship. He had revealed a lot to me already—more than I had dared to hope, in fact—but I wanted more. And I thought I could get it.
“I can imagine what she said.” I lowered my voice to a more conspiratorial whisper. “I was just jerking your chain about Locke. Did Freda tell you . . . everything?”
He relaxed, his relief obvious.
“She told me enough,” he admitted. “The cards were a surprise. I didn’t think anyone could ever oppose both Dad and Locke.”
So, Freda did leave something out when she read my future, I thought. Oppose Dworkin and Locke? That had an ominous sound. Oppose them in what?
With deliberate mildness, intrigued despite my skepticism about Freda’s talents, I said: “Freda didn’t mention anything to me about opposing Locke and our father.”
He gulped suddenly, eyes wide with alarm. “No?”
“No.”
I folded my arms, waiting patiently as an awkward silence stretched between us. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, not looking at me, gazing back down the corridor like he wanted to go haring off to his rooms.
I saw it now. Freda had put him up to befriending me, feeling out my loyalties, and trying to win me over to their side. Despite that, I liked Aber, and I had the feeling he genuinely liked me.
Now he desperately wanted to take back his words and start on a different tack. It was something Freda could have done, I thought: just switched subjects and kept going, or announced she was tired, closed her eyes, and gone to sleep. Anything to get out of a cat-and-mouse game of questions-and-answers that couldn’t be won. Poor Aber made an excellent mouse.
“And?” I prompted, when I’d waited long enough. Like most questions, the benefit was in the asking, not the answering. “What did she see?”
He just stared at me wonderingly. “You are good,” he said suddenly. “Honestly, I thought you were just a soldier. But Freda saw truly.”
“I am just a soldier.”
“No. You’re better at these games even than Freda. She was right about you. I thought she was crazy, but I see it now. You are a threat to Locke. And to our father. Maybe to all of us.”
“What did she say?” I asked again.
“I guess it can’t hurt.” He sighed, looked away. “You and Locke are going to be at odds. And you will win.”
“And our father?”
“Him, too.”
“She saw all this in her Trumps?”
“Yes.”
“Rot and nonsense.”
“It’s not!”
“You’re saying exactly what you think I’d like to hear,” I snapped. “I’m supposed to arrive in Juniper and lay waste to all before me? No, it’s impossible. I may have ambitions, but they don’t lie in that direction. Right now, my only goal is to help our father as much as I can.”
“But Freda saw—”
“I don’t care! I don’t believe in fortune-telling. I told Freda as much.”
“Freda’s not some carnival witch, scrabbling for pennies!” He seemed almost hurt at the suggestion. “She’s been trained since childhood to see emerging patterns in Chaos. It’s a great science.”
“And I’m a great skeptic.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be. It’s what got you here.” He shrugged, sighed, looked away again. Clearly I had confused him.
“Go on.”
“I wasn’t supposed to say anything about it, but Locke already hates you.” He hesitated. “Locke didn’t want Dad to bring you to Juniper. If he hadn’t been so vocal about it, Dad would have fetched you here many years ago.”
Years ago . . . so that’s why Dworkin abandoned me, I thought. New pieces to the puzzle of my life suddenly fit neatly into place. Locke, not Dworkin, had kept me stranded and alone in Ilerium all these years.
Although I didn’t enjoy making quick decisions about people, I found myself disliking Locke. Hating him, even. He had given my enemy a face . . . a decidedly human face.
Could Locke have sent Ivinius the assassin-barber to my room? It seemed entirely possible. It wouldn’t be the first time brother killed brother to secure a throne.
“What made Dad change his mind about bringing me here?” I asked.
“Freda did. She saw you in her cards. She told Dad we needed you here, and now, or you would die . . . and with you would die our hopes of winning the war.”
Convenient enough, I thought. She could predict anything she wanted and who would know the difference? Perhaps she felt she needed another ally. Who better than me? A soldier to counter Locke, a strong arm to do her bidding, one forever loyal to her because she had prophesied that I would one day take over.
Still, she had gotten one thing right: if not for Dworkin’s timely rescue, I would be dead in Ilerium right now.
“All right,” I said, “I have to ask. What is this war everyone keeps mentioning? Against whom are we fighting? And how am I supposed to help?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I don’t think anyone knows—it’s been all sneak attacks so far.” He swallowed. “Freda said you held the key to saving our family.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
I threw back my head and laughed. “What rot! And you fell for it?”
“No!” Aber shook his head. “It’s the truth, brother. Freda saw it . . . and everything she sees comes true. That’s what really has Locke scared.”
My breath caught in my throat. Aber really believed it, I saw . . . believed in this prophecy of Freda’s. It sounded like some soothsayer’s trick to me, so vague as to be useless for anything—except manipulating me to her ends. And yet . . . I had seen enough magic and miracles in the last day to make me wonder if I might not be wrong.
“Well,” I finally said, “I do hope it’s true. But I don’t have any way to know—and neither does anyone else. Is that enough to make Locke hate me? The fact that Freda thinks I can help save the whole family?”
“No.” He hesitated again.
“There’s something else,” I said. “Spill it.”
“Dad has always spoken fondly of you—perhaps too fondly—Oberon this, and Oberon that; how great a swordsman you were becoming. Locke has always been jealous. Dad never talked about him that way when he was growing up in the Courts of Chaos, as he’s quick to remind us all.”
I said, “And now that I’m actually here . . . now that Locke’s greatest rival is flesh and bone instead of tall tales around the fireplace . . . and now that Freda has predicted that I’ll save the whole family instead of him . . . Locke’s feeling threatened. Almost desperately so.”
“He is the first-born son, after all,” Aber said, almost apologetically. “But Dad could easily name another heir . . . one he likes better . . . you.”
Me! That’s what all this was about, I realized. Freda believed I stood a chance of inheriting the family titles and lands, whatever they were. Perhaps she’d read it in her cards. Perhaps Dworkin had somehow given her the impression he favored me. Or perhaps she hated Locke so much that she’d throw in with any promising rival who happened along.
It didn’t matter. The impossibility of it all struck me then, and I laughed out loud.
Aber stared at me like I’d gone mad.
I said, “It’s unlikely that I will inherit anything.”
“Titles often pass to the strongest, not necessarily the first-born.”
I shook my head. “I’m hardly the strongest. I have no friends or allies. I don’t know anyone here. And I have no interest in titles.”
“Maybe that’s what makes you dangerous. Look at it this way. Locke’s never been Dad’s favorite. He knows it. But as the first-born son, he’s always had advantages over you. For one, he’s always been here, helping Dad. For another, he’s already got a large and incredibly loyal army behind him.”
I raised my eyebrows. “And I’m just supposed to walk in and take both of these advantages away from him? How?”
“Well, you are here.” Aber shrugged almost apologetically. “Late is better than never. And you do have military experience . . . more than Locke, probably, considering you’ve been a career soldier. Dad’s told us about the battles you’ve fought against those you call hell-creatures. The army here demands a strong leader . . . an experienced soldier. And since you’re the one apparently destined to win this war for our side, as everyone here already knows, well . . . why not you?”
Why not indeed, I thought. No wonder Locke hated and feared me. There is nothing quite as powerful as a legend . . . and apparently my own talents had grown with every telling.
Add to that Freda’s prophecy . . . 
I almost hated to tell Aber I was just a man with no interest or ambitions beyond reclaiming my own name and place in our family. He wouldn’t like it.
But I did so. I denied everything.
“Freda made it all up,” I said. “It’s a joke, a hoax, designed to hurt Locke’s position in the family. I don’t want to rule in Juniper or anywhere else. I’m too young to settle down. And now that I’ve seen the way you can all travel through Shadows . . . well, I want to do it, too!”
“But you must!” he said. “Everyone wants to rule!”
“Not me.”
“And Freda saw it—”
“No, Freda said she saw it.”
“You’re calling her a liar?”
“No.” I shrugged. “All I’m saying is this: I don’t believe in the power of Freda or her magical future-telling cards. Since I don’t believe, I don’t feel bound to live by their forecasts. I have no intention of taking lands, titles, or armies away from Locke . . . or anyone else.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?” he asked. I could hear the awe in his voice.
“Yes.”
“Then you are the best of us all.” He bowed slightly. “And you may be the only one of us who actually deserves to rule.”
“Nonsense.” I gave a dismissive wave. “Leave that to those who want to rule.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “I mean it, brother . . . I’m happy you’re here. And I hope we can be friends.”
I clasped his shoulder, too. “We already are.”
“Freda was right, you know,” he said, releasing me. “You are the prize of the family. I see it now. Locke has every reason to feel threatened, whether you admit it or not.”
“Then let me ask you this—if Dworkin prizes me so much, why did he abandon me in Ilerium all these years? Locke’s opinion be damned. If he’d wanted to, he could have gone and fetched me at any time.”
“I don’t know. Ask him.” He glanced toward the main corridor. “He’s waiting . . . we should go.”
“Answer one more question first.”
“All right.”
“Truthfully—what’s all this about? The war, the killings. How did it start? Who’s behind it?”
He frowned, and I could tell it troubled him.
“We have hereditary rivals in the Courts of Chaos. Enemies for generations. Somehow, one of us—Freda thinks it’s Dad, but she isn’t sure—did something to rekindle one of those old feuds . . . ”
“And it can’t be laid to rest? What about the King in Chaos? Couldn’t he stop it?”
“Perhaps. But we have our pride. We’d never have any power again if we ran crying to King Uthor.”
“I see your point,” I shook my head. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible?”
“No . . . just that it’s someone very powerful. Whoever it is began the war by trying to kill off our whole family . . . everyone in Shadow has been attacked in one way or another.”
“To what end?”
“Destroying the bloodline, I guess. That’s the ultimate revenge, isn’t it?”
“That’s more than a little pissed off.”
A sudden, horrible realization hit. Dworkin had been right—the hell-creatures in Ilerium had been after me . . . and me alone. The whole invasion had happened just to find and kill me.
He had said the hell-creatures would leave our country alone after he had rescued me. No wonder—they had no reason to continue the fight if I wasn’t there any more. By simply leaving, I had probably done what King Elnar and all his men had been unable to do in a year of fighting.
“I think Freda’s right about you,” Aber went on. “You won’t take Locke’s orders blindly, the way the others do, and that’s worth a lot. If you’re even half the warrior I think you are, you could end up heir.”
“Even if I wanted it—which I don’t—” I gave a sweep of my arm, taking in all of Juniper. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“Juniper?” He chuckled. “This is just a Shadow, and you could easily find another like it, if you wanted. I meant heir to the family. To us . . .  to our position within the Courts of Chaos. Dad holds a title there, and of course all the rights and privileges that go with—”
He broke off when the heavy oak door before us opened suddenly. From inside, Dworkin squinted up at me. He seemed older and much more tired looking now, as if our adventure over the last twenty-four hours had taken their toll.
“I thought I heard you,” he said, taking my arm and pulling me inside. His grip still felt like iron. “You certainly took your time getting here, Oberon.”
He closed the door in Aber’s face.

---

---

SEVEN

I am a strong man—stronger than any human I’ve ever fought. It should have been an easy thing for me to push an old man’s arm away from my throat.
But it wasn’t.
Ivinius, despite his age, was at least as strong as me—certainly stronger than any seventy-year-old servant ought to be.
It became a struggle of wills and brute force. I felt my bones start to creak; the muscles in my arm stood out like bands of iron. Grunting from the strain, I gave my every effort to throw him off.
It wasn’t enough. Standing, he had the better position. He threw not only his strength but his full weight against me, and steadily the razor drew closer to my throat. I gulped, suddenly realizing I couldn’t win.
Out of desperation, I kicked off against the floor with both feet, throwing my shoulders back as hard as I could and rolling. The chair tipped and went over backwards. Instead of pushing, I tightened my grip on Ivinius’s hand and pulled to the side. The razor’s blade sliced air just beyond the tip of my nose, then went past my right ear. I heard the dry snap of a bone.
Ivinius howled with pain and dropped the razor, clutching his wrist. I released him and continued my backwards roll. Coming up on my feet, legs spread, arms and fists ready, I began to back away, looking for a weapon—anything. Unfortunately, my sword lay on the other side of the room, still draped across the back of the chair where I had left it.
“Get out,” I said to him, stalling for time, “Run. You might make it out alive. I’ll give you fifteen seconds before I raise the alarm.”
Glaring, Ivinius bent and scooped the razor up with his good left hand.
“It would have been an easy death for you,” he said in a low growl. Then he rushed at me.
I bumped into the writing desk. It would have to do, I thought.
Seizing it, muscles straining, I lifted it and threw it at him. Paper, blotter, inkpot, and quills went flying in all directions. Ivinius couldn’t quite duck in time, and one of the legs struck him across the forehead and sent him sprawling. Luckily he lost his grip on the razor, which clattered on the floor.
I threw myself on him, fingers closing around his throat, and noticed that the blood gushing from his forehead wasn’t red. It was a sickly yellow, the color of a squashed bug, the color of vomit. He wasn’t human, despite his appearance. That explained his extraordinary strength.
“Hell-creature!” I snarled.
I saw no human emotion in his eyes, no regret, no wish for mercy. Just a cold hatred.
I felt no desire for mercy, either. His kind had killed Helda. His kind has destroyed Ilerium with a year of war and terror.
“Die!” I said.
I squeezed his throat shut. His eyes began to bulge; he made a desperate gurgle. Still I tightened my grip, pouring a year’s worth of hate and anger toward the hell-creatures against this assassin sent to murder me in my own room.
Then he began to struggle desperately, trying to buck me off, but with a broken wrist he could do nothing to stop me. Finally, with a sudden wrenching motion, I broke his neck.
His body seemed to sag, like a wineskin whose contents had suddenly run out. His skin changed, turning a mottled yellow-gray. In a few heartbeats, he was a man no more, but something else . . . something hideous and distorted, with solid black eyes that continued to sink deep into sharp, bony cheeks. Talons had replaced those age-spotted fingers, and two rows of narrow, slivered teeth suddenly lined a tiny round mouth at the end of a pointed jaw.
Magic.
Whatever he was, this thing who had looked so much like a man, he had been cleverly disguised. And he had known enough about life in Juniper Castle to get to my rooms and nearly kill me.
Of course, I was a stranger here, but nothing he had said in all that old-man prattle had put me on my guard. If it hadn’t been for the looking glass, I felt certain, I would now be dead. I swallowed and touched my throat.
Still his transformation continued, as whatever sorcery had disguised him unraveled. His prominent nose dwindled to mere nostril slits. His skin shimmered with faint iridescent scales. And then his transformation seemed to be complete.
I beheld a monster like none I had ever seen before. Clearly this wasn’t one of the hell-creatures I had fought in Ilerium . . . so what was it? And why would it want me dead enough to risk murdering me in my own rooms?
My battle-rage had begun to fade, and I took a deep cleansing breath, muscles suddenly weak. I felt like I’d lost control of my life, and I didn’t like the sensation.
So, yet another mystery faced me. What had this creature been doing here, inside Dworkin’s castle? How had he slipped past all those guards—past an entire army on the lookout? And most of all, how had he known to come to me posing as a barber?
I frowned. Clearly he must have had help. Someone had sent him—and set me up to be killed. Much as I hated the thought, I knew what it meant: Dworkin had a spy in his castle, someone in a fairly high position who knew our family’s comings and goings. Someone who could smuggle a hell-creature into the castle, get him the clothes and tools of a barber, and give him enough information to get him safely into my rooms and make me lower my guard.
Rising, I paced for a second, trying to work through the problem, trying to decide what to do next. Should I call Dworkin’s guards? No, I wouldn’t know whether to trust them. Any of them might be another hell-creature in disguise, and I didn’t want to reveal how much I knew yet. Freda, maybe? She seemed to have her own plots. Aber the prankster? I wasn’t sure what help he could be; I needed solid advice, not Trumps.
That left only Dworkin, and I certainly couldn’t go running to him at the first sign of trouble. It would make me look weak, helpless, unable to protect myself . . . in short, a perfect target.
Another problem worried me more. If assassins roamed Juniper’s halls disguised as servants, I reasoned, they might just as easily pose as family members. Since I didn’t know anyone in Juniper well enough to tell real from fake, except perhaps Dworkin, I knew how easily I could be fooled by another assassin. Ivinius had come close to succeeding; I didn’t want to give his masters a second chance.
Taking a deep breath, I rose. When in doubt, do nothing you know is wrong. That was one of the lessons Dworkin had always stressed throughout my childhood. I wouldn’t report this attempt on my life just yet, I decided. Perhaps whoever had set me up would reveal himself if I simply showed up alive and well, like nothing had happened.
Surely someone would be curious as to what had happened. I’d have to be doubly watchful.
One problem remained: how to proceed?
Clean up, I decided. I’d have to hide the body somewhere and get rid of it after dark. Perhaps it could be dumped into the moat, or smuggled out into the forest. Though exactly how I might do so, when I knew none of Juniper’s passageways—let alone the safest, least guarded path to the forest—escaped me at the moment.
Details could come later, I decided. For now, it was enough to have a plan.
I dragged the corpse into the little sitting room and positioned it behind a heavy tapestry where it couldn’t be seen from the main room. Hopefully, servants wouldn’t stumble across it before I was ready, and hopefully it wouldn’t begin to stink too much. Then I began tidying up, setting the chair I’d knocked over back where it belonged, picking up Ivinius’s razor and returning it to the tray with the towels, straightening the table with the basin, retrieving the desk and restoring its papers and blotter to their proper order—generally putting everything back the way it had been before the fight. To my surprise, the hardest part came last: mopping up the spilled ink. I cleaned it up as best I could with one of the towels, then covered the spot on the carpet with a smaller rug.
Not a bad job, I finally decided, standing back and studying my work critically. The room looked more or less normal. You couldn’t tell there had been a fight or that I’d hidden a corpse in the next room.
Then I spotted my reflection in the mirror that had saved my life, and I sighed. I still had the residue of a full lather on my face and neck, and it had begun to dry and flake off. Well, I needed to get cleaned up for dinner anyway—no sense in wasting a sharp razor, even if it had been meant to slit my throat.
I returned to the basin and the block of soap, lathered up again with the brush, pulled the mirror over to the window’s light while my beard softened, and began to shave myself with one of the smaller razors, which had a blade about as long as my hand. It gave me something to do while I continued to think things through.
A plan . . . that’s what I needed right now. Some way to sort friend from foe, hell-creature from servant or relative . . . 
Behind me, a floorboard suddenly squeaked. I whirled, razor up. I should have buckled on my swordbelt, I realized. More assassins, come to finish the job—?
No, it was only Aber, grinning at me like a happy pup who’d found its master. I forced myself to relax. He held what looked like one of Freda’s Trumps in his left hand, I noticed, and he carried a small carved wooden box in his right.
“A present for you, brother,” he said, holding out the box. “Your first set of family Trumps!”
I took them. “For me? I thought Freda was the expert.”
“Oh, everyone needs a set. Besides, she already has all the Trumps she wants.”
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, glancing pointedly at the door. The hinges most definitely had not given their telltale squeak. “How did you get in here? Is there another way—a secret passage?”
“You’ve been listening to too many fairy tales,” he said with a little laugh. “Secret passages? I only know of one in the whole castle, and it’s used all the time by servants as a shortcut between floors. Not much of a secret, if you ask me.”
“Then how did you get in here?”
Silently he raised the Trump in his hand, turning it so I could see the picture: my bedroom. He had drawn it perfectly, right down to the tapestries on the wall and the zigzag quilt on the bed.
Suddenly I remembered how the trump with Aber’s picture on it had seemed to move, almost to come alive, when Freda and I were in the carriage. Her cryptic comment about not wanting Aber to join us came back to me, and now it made sense. He had to be a wizard. One who used Trumps to move from place to place. That’s how he had gotten in here without opening my door.
“It’s a good drawing,” I said, taking the card and studying it. He had caught not just the look, but the feel of my bedchamber. As I stared at it, the image seemed to grow lifelike and started to loom before me . . . I had the distinct impression that I could have stepped forward and been in the next room. Hurriedly I pulled my gaze away and focused on him.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said, chest swelling a bit with pride. “Art is but one of my many talents, if I do say so myself.”
“Are there any more cards like this one?”
“No, that’s the only one I’ve done so far.”
Instead of handing it back, I tossed it atop the pile of dirty towels on the tray.
“You don’t mind if I keep it.” Deliberately, I made it a statement instead of a question. I didn’t need him—or anyone else—popping in on me unannounced.
“Not at all.” He shrugged. “I made it as part of your set, so it’s yours anyway. You should always have a few safe places to fall back on if need arises.”
“Then . . . thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” He gestured toward the box I still held. “Go ahead, take a look at the others.”
I took a moment to admire the mother-of-pearl dragon inlaid on the top of the box—also his work, it turned out—then unlatched the clasp and swung back the lid. Inside, nestled in a velvet-lined compartment, lay a small stack of Trumps, all face down. Their backs showed a blue-painted field with an intricate gold lion in the middle, exactly like Freda’s.
I pulled all the cards out and fanned them—about twenty-five, I judged. Most showed portraits done much like the ones in Freda’s set. I pulled out Aber’s. He looked even more heroic than in Freda’s set, if possible; here, he held a bloody sword in one hand and the severed head of a lion in the other. Clearly he had no problems with his own self-image.
“They’re terrific,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“You’ll have to show me how they work later, when we have more time.” I put them back in the box, adding the one of my bedroom to the top of the stack.
“You don’t know . . . ” he began. “Sorry! I thought you knew. This morning, someone used my card. Just for a second, I thought I saw you and Freda inside a carriage.”
“That was me,” I admitted. “But it was an accident. I didn’t know what I was doing,”
He shrugged. “It’s not hard. Take out a card and concentrate on it. If it’s a place, it will seem to grow life-sized before you, like a doorway. Just step through and you’re there.”
“And the people?”
“You’ll be able to talk to them,” he said, “but only if they want to talk to you, too. After contact is made, either one can help the other pass across.”
“It works both ways?”
“That’s right.” He nodded. “Just stick out your hand, the person you’re talking to will grasp it, and you step forward. Fast and easy.”
“It almost seems too good to be true!” I said, a trifle skeptical. Why would anyone bother with horses or carriages if a single card could make traveling quick and painless? “Freda said you liked pranks. You’re pulling my leg now, aren’t you?”
“No,” he insisted, “I’m telling the truth. I always tell the truth. It’s just that half the time nobody believes me!”
I gave a snort. “That’s what the best liars say.”
“You don’t know me well enough to say that. Give me the benefit of the doubt, Oberon.”
“Very well—explain to me again how you got in here.”
“I used that Trump of your bedroom,” he said solemnly, indicating the one I’d put in the box. “I left Dad in his study just a minute ago. Which reminds me, I’m here because he wants to see you. So you’d better hurry up. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I had to smile. “Some things never change.”
Throughout my childhood, Dworkin had hated waiting for anything, from lines at the baker’s to finishing my penmanship lessons so we could get on to more important things, like swordplay and military tactics.
“So,” I went on, “if I concentrated on Dad’s card right now, he’d pull me into his study? Just like that?” I’d never be able to master such a trick, I thought. It sounded impossibly hard, somehow.
“Sure. But I wouldn’t do it with Dad, ever, unless you haven’t any other choice . . . he doesn’t like to be distracted when he’s working. Sometimes he has delicate experiments going on, and if you accidentally mess one up . . . well, let’s just say he has quite a temper.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said. I knew what he meant about our father’s temper, all right. Once in the marketplace, when a soldier twice his size had insulted my mother, Dworkin had beaten the fool senseless with his bare hands. It had taken four of the city watch to drag him away, or he surely would have killed the fellow. I hadn’t seen him that angry very often, but it was a terrible thing to behold.
Some things, it seemed, never changed.
“Let me finish getting ready,” I said, turning back to the mirror and picking up the razor. “Then maybe you can show me the way down.”
“Sure, glad to.”
“Anari was supposed to find me some clothes. Maybe you can hurry him up.”
“What about those?” He pointed through my bedroom door, and to my amazement I saw brown hose, a green shirt, and undergarments laid out on the chair next to the bed where I’d been sleeping.
“I must be going blind,” I said, shaking my head. “I would’ve sworn they weren’t there five minutes ago!”
He chuckled. “Okay, you caught me. I put them there. After I saw Dad, I went to my room first to pick up your set of Trumps. Ivinius was in the hall, and I told him to let you know I’d bring in some clothes for you. I guess he forgot to mention it.”
I laughed with relief. “So I’m not crazy!”
“No . . . at least, I hope not! Say, why didn’t you let him shave you?”
“The way his hands were shaking? Never!”
“Well, he is getting old.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Someone ought to tell Anari to find us a new barber.”
“I think that would be a good idea. I wouldn’t want to have my throat cut.”
I finished shaving quickly. All the while I studied my brother. He stood by the window, gazing out across the castle grounds. He didn’t seem at all surprised at finding me alive. If anything, he seemed to like my company; I thought he must be lonely. It was easy to rule him out as a suspect in a conspiracy to have me killed—you didn’t kill friends, especially ones with as little power here as I had.
And that, I thought, made him my first potential ally.
I splashed water on my face, then toweled dry. Not the best job, I thought, studying my reflection and rubbing my chin, but it would do for now. I’d get a haircut tomorrow, if I could find a real barber.
I began to dress quickly. Anari had a good eye for clothes; these fit me almost perfectly. A tiny bit too narrow in the shoulders, a little too wide in the waist, but with a belt, they would do nicely.
“You look a bit like him,” Aber said suddenly as I pulled on my boots.
“Who?”
“Taine. Those are his clothes.”
Taine . . . another of my missing half-brothers. I studied my reflection more critically . . . yes, I thought, dressed in his colors, I looked a lot like him in his Trump.
I said, “Freda thinks Taine is dead. Do you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He has Dad’s temper, and he left after a fight with Locke. I suppose he could be off somewhere, brooding and planning his revenge.”
“What did they fight about?”
“I don’t know. Locke has never said.”
I finished dressing and reached for my sword, but Aber shook his head. “Leave it,” he said. “Father doesn’t allow swords in his workroom.”
Shrugging, I did so. Ivinius’s impersonator was dead . . . there probably wouldn’t be another attempt on my life tonight. And walking around without a sword clearly showed my lack of fear . . . I couldn’t let my enemy or enemies know how much my nerves had been shaken.
“Lead on! “I said.
“Want to try a Trump down?” he asked suddenly.
“I thought you said—”
“Dad doesn’t like to use them. But I’ve made Trumps of every interesting room in the castle . . . and many of the uninteresting ones, too.” He chuckled. “Those can be even more useful, you know.”
“I can imagine. And I suppose you know an uninteresting one near Dad’s workshop?”
“There’s a cloakroom just off the main hall . . . and it’s about thirty feet from there to his workshop door.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. Much as I liked the idea of trying out some magic, this wasn’t the right time. “Juniper is huge. I’ll never get a feel for its layout if we jump around like spring hares. Let’s walk. That will give us a chance to get to know each other, and you can tell me about the castle as we go.”
“As you wish.” With a little shrug, he led the way out to the hall. “Those are my rooms,” he said, pointing to the double doors directly across from mine. “Then Davin’s to the left, then Mattus. Locke, Alanar, and Titus have the rooms to the right, and then Fenn and Taine and Conner opposite. Our sisters have the floor above.”
We started down a broad stone stairway, heading back toward the salon in which we’d had drinks earlier that afternoon. As we walked, servants quickly stepped aside to let us pass, bowing their heads. I thought I recognized a few from my last trip through here, and several of them called me “Lord Oberon” as we passed. Clearly news of my arrival was spreading.
I still regarded them with veiled suspicion. Any might be another hell-creature spy or assassin in human guise. And yet I couldn’t allow myself to become too fearful or paranoid. If Juniper had to be my home now, I would accept it, even if it came with a measure of danger. I couldn’t brood on Ivinius and the possibility of assassination attempts or the assassins would have won . . . they would rule me.
No, I vowed, I would ferret them out in due course. But I wouldn’t let them change how I lived my life—heartily, savoring the pleasures and passions.
Where to start, though? Best to get Aber talking, I decided. He might reveal more information about our family and the military situation here—what I needed most at this point was information. With so many soldiers stationed around Juniper, and hell-creatures infiltrating the castle, the war Freda had mentioned must be imminent.
I decided to start with a comfortable topic before working our way to more sensitive matters, something to loosen his natural reserve. What Freda had said about him in the horseless carriage came back to me: Aber the prankster, Aber the artist, Aber the distraction who could not be trusted to join us. Art seemed one of his main interests.
I said, “So, you make your own Trumps?” Most people enjoyed talking about themselves, and his talent for art seemed a natural place to begin.
“That’s right!” He grinned, and I knew my question pleased him. “Everyone says I inherited Dad’s artistic tendencies, just not his temperament. Apparently he used to make Trumps all the time when he was my age, but I don’t think he has in years. There are more interesting things, he keeps saying. He’s always got dozens of experiments going on in his workshop.”
Experiments? A workshop? I had never seen this side of Dworkin in Ilerium . . . or perhaps I’d been too young to notice.
“I’ve been impressed by everything he’s made,” I said. “That horseless carriage—”
He snorted derisively.
“You don’t like it?” I asked, bewildered. I’d found it the finest means of transportation I’d ever used, except perhaps horse and saddle.
“Not really,” he said. “It’s too slow, and you can’t see anything if you’re riding inside. I told him it should be open on top so passengers can take in the sights.”
“A good idea . . . until it rains!” I also thought of those monstrous bats, who could have swooped down on Freda and me had we been riding in the open.
“It never rains in Shadows unless you want it to.”
“I suppose,” I said nonchalantly, unwilling to expose my ignorance of exactly what Shadows were in the context of my new-found family.
We turned down another hallway, heading away from the salon. The topic changed back to Juniper Castle—the fastest way to get to the kitchens, where to find guard stations on this level (which also housed the weapons room, the main dining hall, and even the servants’ quarters)—so many places and directions that my head swam. I didn’t think I would be able to find any of them on my own.
Finally we reached a short windowless corridor. Two guards posted at its mouth held pikes. Down the corridor, small oil lamps set in wall sconces revealed plain stone walls and a red-and-white checkerboard slate floor. They didn’t challenge us, but nodded to Aber as if expecting him.
We went up the corridor in silence and halted at the heavy oak door at its end. The hinges were thick iron bands. It would have taken a battering ram to get through.
“Look,” Aber said softly, giving a quick glance back at the guards. We were clearly out of earshot, and he kept his voice low. “There’s one more thing I should tell you about your family. We’re all on our best behavior now, with war coming. But it won’t last. It never does. You’ll going to have to choose sides, and choose soon. Freda likes you, which counts for a lot as far as I’m concerned. I hope you’ll throw in with us.”
I paused to digest this.
“It’s you and Freda and Pella?” I guessed at one faction.
“Yes.”
“And the others . . . Davin and Locke, of course.”
He pulled a sour face. “The boors stick together. Yes. Locke and Davin—and also Fenn and Isadora, the warrior-bitch from hell.”
I arched my eyebrows at that description.
“You haven’t met her yet,” he said with an unapologetic laugh. “You’ll see exactly what I mean when you do. Be warned, though—tell one of them anything and they’ll all hear it. But none of them will ever act unless Locke says so.”
“What about Blaise?” I said.
He gave a dismissive wave. “She’s got her own interests. For now, she’s too busy seducing army officers and playing court with Leona and Syara—I don’t think you’ve met them yet, have you?—to be a real concern to anyone but Dad, who generally disapproves but doesn’t know how to tell her to grow up. She wants to wield power inside Juniper, but she doesn’t have any way to support her ambitions. Of all our family, she’s probably the most harmless . . . or least harmful might be a better way of putting it.”
“I’m sure she’d be hurt if she heard you’d said that!”
Aber clapped me on the shoulder. “Right you are! So keep it between the two of us, okay? If something terrible happens and she does end up running everything, I still want to be on her good side.”
“How . . . politic of you.”
“I would have said self-serving.”
I had to laugh at that. “Don’t worry, I know when to keep my mouth shut.” I glanced at him sidewise. “I’m a soldier, you know. What makes you think I won’t throw in with Locke? After all, he and I seem to have the most in common.”
“The fact that you’re asking means you’ve already decided not to.”
“It never hurts to know all your options. And Locke would seem to be a good one.”
He hesitated. “I’ll probably regret saying it, but . . . I like you, Oberon. I know it sounds simple-minded, but it’s the truth. I don’t know why, but I’ve liked you since the moment we met. You’re not like anyone else in our family.”
I knew exactly what he meant. “They’re all stiff and formal, afraid to say or do the wrong thing.” I’d seen it in Ilerium, among the bluebloods in King Elnar’s court.
“From what Dad told us, Freda and I expected you to be another Locke. You know, all soldier, dedicated to war and politics. But you’re not like Locke at all. I wouldn’t trust Locke to clean my paint brushes. You, dear brother, I just might.”
I scratched my head. “I’m not quite sure how to take that,” I admitted. Clean his paint brushes?
He laughed. “As a compliment, of course! Good brushes are a painter’s best friend. More valued than wine or women—and twice as expensive.”
“Surely not more valued than women!”
“Well, the available women in Juniper, anyway.”
“Then thank you for the compliment.”
“You feel like a friend, somehow,” he went on, eyes far away suddenly. “Like I’ve known you all my life and we’ve just been apart for too long and need to catch up with each other. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” I said. I knew exactly what he meant—I already felt the same way about both him and Freda: comfortable.
I changed the subject. “So Locke’s not a friend?”
“When it’s convenient for him—and that’s usually when he wants something. He took me out drinking a month ago when he wanted me to make him some new Trumps, and I haven’t had two words from him since. Well, that’s not true. He said ‘pass the wine’ last night at dinner, and that’s three words.”
“I see the real problem.”
“Really?” He looked startled. “What?”
“If you have to pass the wine, there aren’t enough bottles on the table!”
That got a snort of amusement.
“See? This is what I meant . . . and why I like you. Nobody else in our family has a sense of humor. Not even Freda.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“To Locke, we’re all tools to be used toward his own ends. Davin doesn’t mind being a tool. That’s the height of his ambition, to be second in command. The others . . . ” He shrugged. “Nobody really wants to serve under Locke. He’s a bully when he wants his way. If not for Dad pulling us all together here, we’d scatter to the winds again.”
I found myself agreeing with his assessment. Every word he’d said rang true.
Over the years, I’d known quite a few officers like Locke. They were always noble-born, and their only interest lay in yoking those beneath them to their own political and military advancement. Oddly enough, they always found eager followers. Sometimes a lot of them.
And I had invariably ended up at odds with them.
Aber said, “I still remember the first time Locke and Freda met as adults!” He shook his head. “He ordered her to fetch him and his men wine—he treated her like a common servant. Freda!”
“Did she do it?”
“Of course, like any prim and proper hostess. And then she dumped the whole tray in his lap.”
I smiled at that.
Aber said, “She still hasn’t forgiven him . . . nor has he forgiven her.”
“Well, I can see both of their positions,” I said, picturing the scene with some amusement. “And yet, part of me still thinks I’d be better off throwing in with Locke. After all, as the general in charge of Juniper’s army, and the firstborn son, he seems poised to take over after our father. And I’m a soldier. I’d fit in with Locke. We’d . . . understand each other.”
“You’re wrong, brother.” He said, voice firm. “Locke sees you as a threat. If you try to make friends with him, you won’t live long enough to stand a chance to replace him.”
“He’d kill me?” I said uneasily. “His own brother?”
“Half brother. And not directly, no . . . but he grew up in the Courts, where fighting and treachery are a way of life. His rivals never lasted long.”
“Murder?” I wondered aloud, thinking of Ivinius the demon-barber, sent to kill me in my chambers. Locke could easily have told him all he needed to know.
“Let’s call it a series of convenient accidents. Locke is careful, and no one has any proof of his involvement. But over the years, there have been too many hunting accidents, a drowning, two convenient suicides, and half a dozen mysterious disappearances in our family alone. That’s not counting other rivals.”
“Coincidences, I’d say.”
“So many? I think not.” He looked away. “When Dad turned the army over to him, I knew it was a huge mistake. He’ll never surrender command now. And he won’t welcome any rivals in the ranks.”
“I’ve served kings and generals my whole career. I’m used to taking orders, and I’d probably make a good lieutenant for Locke.”
“You don’t have ambitions?”
“Of course. But I’m not going to stroll in and try to wrestle away Locke’s position. That’s a fool’s errand. He has his command, and he’s welcome to it.”
“But—it can’t be that way!” he blurted out.
“Why not?”
“Freda said—”
Aber hesitated; clearly he didn’t like the direction our conversation had taken . . . and I took some pleasure in shaking apart his all-too-cozy view of our relationship. He had revealed a lot to me already—more than I had dared to hope, in fact—but I wanted more. And I thought I could get it.
“I can imagine what she said.” I lowered my voice to a more conspiratorial whisper. “I was just jerking your chain about Locke. Did Freda tell you . . . everything?”
He relaxed, his relief obvious.
“She told me enough,” he admitted. “The cards were a surprise. I didn’t think anyone could ever oppose both Dad and Locke.”
So, Freda did leave something out when she read my future, I thought. Oppose Dworkin and Locke? That had an ominous sound. Oppose them in what?
With deliberate mildness, intrigued despite my skepticism about Freda’s talents, I said: “Freda didn’t mention anything to me about opposing Locke and our father.”
He gulped suddenly, eyes wide with alarm. “No?”
“No.”
I folded my arms, waiting patiently as an awkward silence stretched between us. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, not looking at me, gazing back down the corridor like he wanted to go haring off to his rooms.
I saw it now. Freda had put him up to befriending me, feeling out my loyalties, and trying to win me over to their side. Despite that, I liked Aber, and I had the feeling he genuinely liked me.
Now he desperately wanted to take back his words and start on a different tack. It was something Freda could have done, I thought: just switched subjects and kept going, or announced she was tired, closed her eyes, and gone to sleep. Anything to get out of a cat-and-mouse game of questions-and-answers that couldn’t be won. Poor Aber made an excellent mouse.
“And?” I prompted, when I’d waited long enough. Like most questions, the benefit was in the asking, not the answering. “What did she see?”
He just stared at me wonderingly. “You are good,” he said suddenly. “Honestly, I thought you were just a soldier. But Freda saw truly.”
“I am just a soldier.”
“No. You’re better at these games even than Freda. She was right about you. I thought she was crazy, but I see it now. You are a threat to Locke. And to our father. Maybe to all of us.”
“What did she say?” I asked again.
“I guess it can’t hurt.” He sighed, looked away. “You and Locke are going to be at odds. And you will win.”
“And our father?”
“Him, too.”
“She saw all this in her Trumps?”
“Yes.”
“Rot and nonsense.”
“It’s not!”
“You’re saying exactly what you think I’d like to hear,” I snapped. “I’m supposed to arrive in Juniper and lay waste to all before me? No, it’s impossible. I may have ambitions, but they don’t lie in that direction. Right now, my only goal is to help our father as much as I can.”
“But Freda saw—”
“I don’t care! I don’t believe in fortune-telling. I told Freda as much.”
“Freda’s not some carnival witch, scrabbling for pennies!” He seemed almost hurt at the suggestion. “She’s been trained since childhood to see emerging patterns in Chaos. It’s a great science.”
“And I’m a great skeptic.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be. It’s what got you here.” He shrugged, sighed, looked away again. Clearly I had confused him.
“Go on.”
“I wasn’t supposed to say anything about it, but Locke already hates you.” He hesitated. “Locke didn’t want Dad to bring you to Juniper. If he hadn’t been so vocal about it, Dad would have fetched you here many years ago.”
Years ago . . . so that’s why Dworkin abandoned me, I thought. New pieces to the puzzle of my life suddenly fit neatly into place. Locke, not Dworkin, had kept me stranded and alone in Ilerium all these years.
Although I didn’t enjoy making quick decisions about people, I found myself disliking Locke. Hating him, even. He had given my enemy a face . . . a decidedly human face.
Could Locke have sent Ivinius the assassin-barber to my room? It seemed entirely possible. It wouldn’t be the first time brother killed brother to secure a throne.
“What made Dad change his mind about bringing me here?” I asked.
“Freda did. She saw you in her cards. She told Dad we needed you here, and now, or you would die . . . and with you would die our hopes of winning the war.”
Convenient enough, I thought. She could predict anything she wanted and who would know the difference? Perhaps she felt she needed another ally. Who better than me? A soldier to counter Locke, a strong arm to do her bidding, one forever loyal to her because she had prophesied that I would one day take over.
Still, she had gotten one thing right: if not for Dworkin’s timely rescue, I would be dead in Ilerium right now.
“All right,” I said, “I have to ask. What is this war everyone keeps mentioning? Against whom are we fighting? And how am I supposed to help?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I don’t think anyone knows—it’s been all sneak attacks so far.” He swallowed. “Freda said you held the key to saving our family.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
I threw back my head and laughed. “What rot! And you fell for it?”
“No!” Aber shook his head. “It’s the truth, brother. Freda saw it . . . and everything she sees comes true. That’s what really has Locke scared.”
My breath caught in my throat. Aber really believed it, I saw . . . believed in this prophecy of Freda’s. It sounded like some soothsayer’s trick to me, so vague as to be useless for anything—except manipulating me to her ends. And yet . . . I had seen enough magic and miracles in the last day to make me wonder if I might not be wrong.
“Well,” I finally said, “I do hope it’s true. But I don’t have any way to know—and neither does anyone else. Is that enough to make Locke hate me? The fact that Freda thinks I can help save the whole family?”
“No.” He hesitated again.
“There’s something else,” I said. “Spill it.”
“Dad has always spoken fondly of you—perhaps too fondly—Oberon this, and Oberon that; how great a swordsman you were becoming. Locke has always been jealous. Dad never talked about him that way when he was growing up in the Courts of Chaos, as he’s quick to remind us all.”
I said, “And now that I’m actually here . . . now that Locke’s greatest rival is flesh and bone instead of tall tales around the fireplace . . . and now that Freda has predicted that I’ll save the whole family instead of him . . . Locke’s feeling threatened. Almost desperately so.”
“He is the first-born son, after all,” Aber said, almost apologetically. “But Dad could easily name another heir . . . one he likes better . . . you.”
Me! That’s what all this was about, I realized. Freda believed I stood a chance of inheriting the family titles and lands, whatever they were. Perhaps she’d read it in her cards. Perhaps Dworkin had somehow given her the impression he favored me. Or perhaps she hated Locke so much that she’d throw in with any promising rival who happened along.
It didn’t matter. The impossibility of it all struck me then, and I laughed out loud.
Aber stared at me like I’d gone mad.
I said, “It’s unlikely that I will inherit anything.”
“Titles often pass to the strongest, not necessarily the first-born.”
I shook my head. “I’m hardly the strongest. I have no friends or allies. I don’t know anyone here. And I have no interest in titles.”
“Maybe that’s what makes you dangerous. Look at it this way. Locke’s never been Dad’s favorite. He knows it. But as the first-born son, he’s always had advantages over you. For one, he’s always been here, helping Dad. For another, he’s already got a large and incredibly loyal army behind him.”
I raised my eyebrows. “And I’m just supposed to walk in and take both of these advantages away from him? How?”
“Well, you are here.” Aber shrugged almost apologetically. “Late is better than never. And you do have military experience . . . more than Locke, probably, considering you’ve been a career soldier. Dad’s told us about the battles you’ve fought against those you call hell-creatures. The army here demands a strong leader . . . an experienced soldier. And since you’re the one apparently destined to win this war for our side, as everyone here already knows, well . . . why not you?”
Why not indeed, I thought. No wonder Locke hated and feared me. There is nothing quite as powerful as a legend . . . and apparently my own talents had grown with every telling.
Add to that Freda’s prophecy . . . 
I almost hated to tell Aber I was just a man with no interest or ambitions beyond reclaiming my own name and place in our family. He wouldn’t like it.
But I did so. I denied everything.
“Freda made it all up,” I said. “It’s a joke, a hoax, designed to hurt Locke’s position in the family. I don’t want to rule in Juniper or anywhere else. I’m too young to settle down. And now that I’ve seen the way you can all travel through Shadows . . . well, I want to do it, too!”
“But you must!” he said. “Everyone wants to rule!”
“Not me.”
“And Freda saw it—”
“No, Freda said she saw it.”
“You’re calling her a liar?”
“No.” I shrugged. “All I’m saying is this: I don’t believe in the power of Freda or her magical future-telling cards. Since I don’t believe, I don’t feel bound to live by their forecasts. I have no intention of taking lands, titles, or armies away from Locke . . . or anyone else.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?” he asked. I could hear the awe in his voice.
“Yes.”
“Then you are the best of us all.” He bowed slightly. “And you may be the only one of us who actually deserves to rule.”
“Nonsense.” I gave a dismissive wave. “Leave that to those who want to rule.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “I mean it, brother . . . I’m happy you’re here. And I hope we can be friends.”
I clasped his shoulder, too. “We already are.”
“Freda was right, you know,” he said, releasing me. “You are the prize of the family. I see it now. Locke has every reason to feel threatened, whether you admit it or not.”
“Then let me ask you this—if Dworkin prizes me so much, why did he abandon me in Ilerium all these years? Locke’s opinion be damned. If he’d wanted to, he could have gone and fetched me at any time.”
“I don’t know. Ask him.” He glanced toward the main corridor. “He’s waiting . . . we should go.”
“Answer one more question first.”
“All right.”
“Truthfully—what’s all this about? The war, the killings. How did it start? Who’s behind it?”
He frowned, and I could tell it troubled him.
“We have hereditary rivals in the Courts of Chaos. Enemies for generations. Somehow, one of us—Freda thinks it’s Dad, but she isn’t sure—did something to rekindle one of those old feuds . . . ”
“And it can’t be laid to rest? What about the King in Chaos? Couldn’t he stop it?”
“Perhaps. But we have our pride. We’d never have any power again if we ran crying to King Uthor.”
“I see your point,” I shook my head. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible?”
“No . . . just that it’s someone very powerful. Whoever it is began the war by trying to kill off our whole family . . . everyone in Shadow has been attacked in one way or another.”
“To what end?”
“Destroying the bloodline, I guess. That’s the ultimate revenge, isn’t it?”
“That’s more than a little pissed off.”
A sudden, horrible realization hit. Dworkin had been right—the hell-creatures in Ilerium had been after me . . . and me alone. The whole invasion had happened just to find and kill me.
He had said the hell-creatures would leave our country alone after he had rescued me. No wonder—they had no reason to continue the fight if I wasn’t there any more. By simply leaving, I had probably done what King Elnar and all his men had been unable to do in a year of fighting.
“I think Freda’s right about you,” Aber went on. “You won’t take Locke’s orders blindly, the way the others do, and that’s worth a lot. If you’re even half the warrior I think you are, you could end up heir.”
“Even if I wanted it—which I don’t—” I gave a sweep of my arm, taking in all of Juniper. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“Juniper?” He chuckled. “This is just a Shadow, and you could easily find another like it, if you wanted. I meant heir to the family. To us . . .  to our position within the Courts of Chaos. Dad holds a title there, and of course all the rights and privileges that go with—”
He broke off when the heavy oak door before us opened suddenly. From inside, Dworkin squinted up at me. He seemed older and much more tired looking now, as if our adventure over the last twenty-four hours had taken their toll.
“I thought I heard you,” he said, taking my arm and pulling me inside. His grip still felt like iron. “You certainly took your time getting here, Oberon.”
He closed the door in Aber’s face.

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