Nine Princes In Amber

“I know,” he agreed, “but he did give me a pretty apartment and lots of things to do research with. Only he stopped coming to visit me after a time. He used to bring men who showed me splotches of ink and made me tell stories about them. That was fun, until I told a story I didn't like and turned the man into a frog. The king was angry when I wouldn't turn him back, and it's been so long since I've seen anybody that I'd even turn him back now, if he still wanted me to. Once-”

“How did you get here, into my cell?” I asked again,

“I told you. I walked.”

“Through the wall?”

“Of course not. Through the shadow wall.”

“No man can walk through Shadows in Amber. There are no Shadows in Amber.”

“Well, I cheated,” he admitted.

“How?”

“I designed a new Trump and stepped through it, to see what was on this side of the wall. Oh my! -I just remembered... I can't get back without it. I'll have to make another. Have you got anything to eat? And something to draw with? And something to draw on?”

“Have a piece of bread,” I said, and handed It to him, “and here's a piece of cheese to go along with it.”

“Thank you, Corwin.” and he wolfed them down and drank all my water afterward. “Now, if you'll give me a pen and a piece of parchment, I'll be returning to my own rooms. I want to finish a book I was reading. It's been nice talking to you. Too bad about Eric. I'll stop back again some time and we'll talk some more. If you see your father, please tell him not to he angry with me because I'll-”

“I don't have a pen, or parchment,” I observed.

“Goodness,” he said, “that's hardly civilized.”

“I know. But then, Eric isn't very.”

“Well, what have you got? I prefer my own apartment to this place. At least, it's better lighted.”

“You have dined with me,” I said, “and now I am going to ask you a favor. If you will grant me this request, I promise that I will do everything I can to make things right between you and Dad.”

“What is it that you want?” he asked.

“Long have I admired your work,” I said, “and there is something I have always desired as a work of your hand. Do you recall the Lighthouse of Cabra?”

“Of course. I've been there many times. I know the keeper, Jopin. I used to play chess with him.”

“More than anything else I can think of,” I told him, “for most of my adult life. I have longed to see one of your magical sketches of that great gray tower.”

“A very simple subject,” he said, “and rather an appealing one, at that, I did some preliminary sketches in the past, but I never got beyond that point. Other work kept getting in the way. I'll fetch you one, if you'd like.”

“No,” I said. “I'd like something more enduring, to keep me company here in my cell-to comfort me, and any others who may later occupy this place.”

“Commendable,” he said. “What have you in mind as the medium.”

“I have a stylus here,” I told him (the spoon was fairly sharp by then), “and I'd like to see it traced upon the far wall, so that I might look at it as I take my rest.”

He was silent a moment, then, “The illumination is quite poor.” he remarked.

“I have several books of matches,” I replied. “I'll light them and hold them for you. We might even burn some of this straw if we ron low.”

“Those are hardly ideal working conditions.

“I know,” I said, “and I apologize for them, great Dworkin, but they are the best I have to offer. A work of art by your hand would brighten my humble existence beyond measure.”

He chuckled again.

“Very well. But you must promise me that you will provide light afterwards, so that I may sketch myself a way back to my own chambers.”

“Agreed.” I said. and I felt in my pocket.

I had three full packages of matches and part of a fourth.

I pressed the spoon into his hand and led him to the wall.

“Do you have the feel of the instrument?” I asked him.

“Yes, it's a sharpened speon, isn't it?”

“Yes. I'll make a light as soon as you say you are ready. You'll have to sketch rapidly, because my supply of matches is limited. I'll allot half for the lighthouse and the other half for your own business.”

“All right,” he said, and I struck a match and he began to trace lines upon the moist gray wall.

First he did an upright rectangle to frame and contain the thing. Then with several deft strokes, the lighthouse began to appear. It was amazing, daft as he was, his skill was intact. I held each match at its barest base, spat on my left thumb and forefinger, and when I could hold it no longer in my right I took hold of the blackened end and inverted it, letting the match burn away completely before I struck another.

When the first book of matches was gone, he had finished the tower and was working on the sea and the sky. I encouraged him, I murmured appreciation at every stroke.

“Great, really great,” I said, when it appeared to be almost finished. Then he made me waste another match while he signed it. I was almost through the second book by then.

“Now let's admire it,” he said.