“Oh, my! “ she said.

“I know what I'm looking at,” I said, “but I don't know what I'm seeing, if you follow me.”

“It is a shrine,” she said, “dedicated to the spirit of a member of the royal house of Amber.”

“Yes, it's my father Corwin,” I agreed. “That's what I'm looking at. But what am I seeing? Why should there be such a thing here in the Courts, anyway?”

She moved forward slowly, studying Dad's altar.

“I might as well tell you,” I added, “that this is not the only such shrine I've seen since my return.”

She reached out and touched the hilt of Grayswandir. Searching beneath the altar, she found a supply of candles. Removing a silver one and screwing it into the socket of one of a numlxr of holders, she lit it from one of the others and placed it near Grayswandir. She muttered something while she was about it, but I did not make out the words.

When she turned back to me again she was smiling. “We both grew up here,” I said. “How is it that you seem to know all about this when I don't?”

“The answer is fairly simple, Lord,” she told me. “You departed right after the war, to seek an education in other lands. This is a sign of something that came to pass in your absence.”

She reached out, took hold of my arm, led me to a bench.

“Nobody thought we would actually lose that war,” she said, “though it had long been argued that Amber would be a formidable adversary.” We seated ourselves. “Afterward, there was considerable unrest,” she continued, “over the policies that had led to it and the treaty that followed it. No single house or grouping could hope for a deposition against the royal coalition, though. You know the conservatism of the Rim Lords. It would take much, much more to unite a majority against the Crown. Instead, their discontent took another form. There grew up a brisk trade in Amber memorabilia from the war. People became fascinated by our conquerors. Biographical studies of Amber's royal family sold very well. Something like a cult began to take shape. Private chapels such as this began to appear, dedicated to a particular Amberite whose virtues appealed to someone.”

She paused, studying my face.

“It smacked too much of a religion,” she went on w' then, “and for time out of mind the Way of the Serpent had been the only significant religion in the Courts. So Swayvill outlawed the Amber cult as heretical, for obvious political reasons. That proved a mistake. Had he done nothing it might have passed quickly. I don't really know, of course. But outlawing it drove it underground, made people take it more seriously as a rebellious thing. I've no idea how many cult chapels there are among the Houses, but that's obviously what this is.”

“Fascinating sociological phenomenon,” I said, “and your cult figure is Benedict.”

She laughed.

“That wouldn't have been hard to guess,” she said.

“Actually, I had the chapel described to me by my brother Mandor. He claimed to have wandered into it at a party at Hendrake, not knowing what it was.”

She chuckled.

“He must have been testing you,” she said. “The practice has been common knowledge for a long while: And I happen to know he's a cultist himself.”

“Really? How do you know this?”

“He made no secret of it in the old days, before the general proscription.”

“And who might his personal patron be?” I said.

“The Princess Fiona,” she replied.

Curiouser and curiouser...

“You've actually seen his chapel to her?” I asked.

“Yes. Before the ban it was not uncommon to have your friends over for a service whenever you were feeling particularly disgruntled with royal policy.”

“And after the ban?”

“Everyone claimed publicly that their shrines had been destroyed. Many were simply relocated, I think, up hidden ways.”

“And the business of having friends over for services?”

“I'd guess it would depend on how good a friend you're talking about. I don't really know how organized the Amber cult is.” She gestured widely. “A place like this is illegal, though. Good thing I don't know where we are.”

“I guess so,” I said. “What about the relationship between the cult figure and the real thing? I'd say that Mandor really does have a thing about Fiona. He's met her, you know, and I've been present and seen it. Someone else I know stole something belonging to his-patron? -and keeps it in his shrine. And that"– I rose, crossed the altar, and picked up Corwin's sword-` `is the real thing. I'd seen Grayswandir close-up, touched it, held it. This is it. But what I'm getting at is that my father is missing, and the last time I saw him he was wearing that blade. Would it be in keeping with the tenets of this cult to keep your patron prisoner?”

“I never heard of such a thing,” she said. “But I don't see why not. It is really the spirit of the person that is being venerated. There is no reason the person could not be imprisoned.”

“Or dead?”

“Or dead,” she agreed.

“Then fascinating as all this is,” I said, turning away from the altar, “it doesn't really help me to find my father.”

I moved back to her, across what must have been a representation of Amber, stylized as the pattern on a Caucasian rug, there in the dark and light tile, the Chaotic one far off to my right.

“You would have to ask the person responsible for his blade's being there,” she said, rising.

“I already asked the person I believed responsible. The response was not satisfactory.”

I took her arm to steer her back toward the way to the tree, and she was suddenly standing very close.

“I would like to serve our next king any way I might,” she said. “Though I may not normally speak for our House, I am certain Hendrake would agree to help you bring pressure upon the person responsible.”

“Thanks,” I said as we embraced. Her scales were cool. Her fangs would have shredded my human ear, but it was only a nibble in demonform. “I will talk to you again if I need help along those lines.”

“Talk to me again, anyway.”

It was good to hold and be held for a time, and that is what we did, till I saw a shadow move in the vicinity of the way.

“Masster Merlin.”

“Glait!”

“Yess. I ssaw you come thiss way. Manform, demonform, grown or ssmall, I know you.”

“Merlin, what is it?” Gilva asked.

''An old friend,” I told her. “Glait, meet Gilva. And vice versa.”

“Pleassed. I came to warn you that ssomeone approachess.”

“Who?”

“Princess Dara.”

“Oh, dear!” Gilva remarked.

“You suspect where we are,” I said to her. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I value my head, Lord. What do we do now?”

“Glait, to me,” I said, kneeling and extending an arm. She flowed up it and made herself comfortable. I rose and caught hold of Gilva with the other. I sent my will into the spikard.

Then I hesitated

I didn't know where the hell we were-really, physically, in terms of geography. A way can deliver you next door, or somewhere thousands of miles distant from

its point of origin, or somewhere off in Shadow. It would take a while to have the spikard figure where we were and then work out the way back, if we were going to bypass the way. Too long, I was certain.

I could simply use it to render us invisible. But I feared my mother's sorcerous sensitivity would be suf ficient to detect our presence at levels beyond the visual.

I faced the nearest wall and extended my senses past it on a line of the spikard's force. We were not underwater or drifting on a sea of lava or quicksand. We seemed to be in a wooded spot.

So I walked toward the wall and passed us through it when we got there.

Several paces later, in the midst of a shaded glade, I looked back and beheld a grassy hillside, with no singing coming from beneath it. We stood under a blue sky,