My scream was interrupted when Coral drove her fork into my right shoulder.

“This is ridiculous!” I cried as the other utensils flashed in their hands and I felt fresh stabs of pain.

Then the figure at the star's point near my right foot turned slowly, gracefully. She was wrapped in a dark brown cloak with a yellow border, her arms crossed before her holding it closed up to her eye level.

“Stop, you bitches!” she ordered, flinging the garment wide and resembling nothing so much as a mourning cloak butterfly. It was, of course, Dara, my mother.

Julia and Coral had already raised their forks to their mouths and were chewing. There was a tiny bead of blood beside Julia's lip. The cloak continued to flow outward from my mother's fingertips as if it were alive, as if it were a part of her. Its wings blocked Julia and Coral completely from my sight, falling upon them as she continued to spread her arms, covering them, bearing them over backward to become body-size lumps upon the ground, growing smaller and smaller until the garment simply hung naturally and they were gone from their points of the star.

There came a slow, delicate clapping sound then, followed by a hoarse laugh from my left.

“Extremely well executed,” came that painfully familiar voice, “but then you always liked him best.”

“Better,” she corrected.

“Isn't poor Despil even in the running?” Jurt said.

“You're being unfair,” she told him.

''You liked that mad Prince of Amber more than you ever cared for our father, who was a decent man,” he told her, “ That's why Merlin was always your pet, isn't it?”

“That's just not true, Jurt, and you know it,” she said.

He laughed again. “We all summoned him because we all want him,” he said, “for different reasons. But in the end our desires all come to this, do they not?”

I heard the growl, and I turned my head just in time to see his face slide along the projective curve wolfward, muzzle descending, fangs flashing as he fell to all fours and slashed at my left shoulder, gaining himself a gory taste of my person.

“Stop that!” she cried. “You little beast!”

He threw back his muzzle and howled, and it came out the way a coyote's cry does, as a kind of mad laughter.

A black boot struck his shoulder, knocking him over backward and sending him crashing into the uncollapsed section of wall behind him, which promptly collapsed upon him. He uttered but a brief whimper before being covered over completely by the falling rubble.

“Well, well, well,” I heard Dara say, and looking that way, I saw that she also held a knife and fork. “What's a bastard like you doing in a nice place like this?”

“Keeping the last of the predators at bay, it would seem,” replied the voice which had once told me a very long story containing multiple versions of an auto accident and a number of genealogical gaffes.

She lunged at me, but he stooped, caught me beneath the shoulders, and snatched me out of her way. Then his great black cloak swirled like a matador's, covering her. As she had done with Coral and Julia, she herself seemed to melt into the earth beneath it. He set me on my feet, stooped then, raised the cloak, and brushed it off. As he refastened it with a silver rose of a clasp, I studied him for fangs or at least cutlery.

“Four out of five,” I said, brushing myself off: “No matter how real this seems, I'm sure it's only analogically or anagogically true. So how come you're not cannibalistically inclined in this place?”

“On the other hand,” he said, drawing on a silver gauntlet, “I was never a real father to you. It's kind of difficult when you don't even know the kid exists. So I didn't really want anything from you either.”

“That sure looks like Grayswandir you're wearing,” I said.

He nodded.

“It seems to have served you, too.”

“I suppose I should thank you for that. I also suppose you're the wrong... person to ask whether you really bore me from that cave to the land between shadows.”

“Oh, it was me all right.”

“Of course, you'd say that.”

“I don't know why I should if I didn't. Look out! The wall!”

One quick glance showed me that another big section of wall was falling toward us. Then he pushed me, and I sprawled across the pentagram again. I heard the stone; crashing behind me, and I half rose and threw myself even farther forward.

Something struck the side of my head.

I woke up in the Corridor of Mirrors. I was lying facedownward, my head resting on my right forearm, a rectangular piece of stone clutched in my hand, the aromas of the candles drifting about me. When I began to rise, I felt pains in both shoulders and in my left thigh. A quick investigation showed me that I bore cuts; in all three of those places. Though there wasn't much I could do now to help demonstrate the veracity of my recent adventure beyond this, it wasn't something I felt like shrugging off either.

I got to my feet and limped back to the corridor that ran past my rooms.

“Where'd you go?” Random called down to me.

“Huh? What do you mean?” I responded.

“You walked back up the hall, but there's nothing there.”

“How long was I gone?”

“Half a minute maybe,” he answered. I waved the stone I still carried.

“Saw this lying on the floor. Couldn't figure what it was,” I said.

“Probably blown there when the Powers met,” he said, “from one of the walls. There were a number of arches edged with stones like that at one time. Mostly plastered over on your floor now.”

“Oh,” I said. “See you in a bit, before I take off.”

“Do that,” he replied, and I turned and found my way through one of the day's many broken walls and on into my room.

The far wall had also been blasted, I noticed, creating a large opening into Brand's dusty chambers. I paused and studied it. Synchronicity, I decided. It appeared there had once been an archway connecting those rooms with these. I moved forward and examined the exposed curve along its left side. Yes, it had been rendered from stones similar to the one I held. In fact—

I brushed away plaster and slid mine into a broken area. It fitted perfectly In fact, when I gave it a small tug, it refused to be removed. Had I really brought it back from the sinister father-mother-brother-lovers ritual dream beyond the mirror? Or had I half-consciously picked it up on my return, from wherever it had been blasted during the recent architectural distress?

I turned away, removing my cloak, stripping off my shirt. Yes. There were punctures like fork marks on my right shoulder, something like an animal bite on my left. Also, there was dried blood on my left trouser leg in the area of a tear beyond which my thigh was tender. I washed up and brushed my teeth and combed my hair, and I put a dressing on my leg and left shoulder. The family metabolism would see me healed in a day, but I didn't want some exertion tearing them open and getting fresh garments gory.

Speaking of which...

The armoire was undamaged and I thought I'd wear my other colors, to give Luke a happy memory or two for his coronation: the golden shirt and royal blue trousers I'd found which approximated Berkeley's colors almost exactly; a leather vest dyed to match the pants; matching cloak with gold trim; black sword belt, black gloves tucked behind it, reminding me I needed a new blade. Dagger, too, for that matter. I was wondering about a hat when a series of sounds caught my attention. I turned.

Through a fresh screen of dust I now had a symmetrical view into Brand's quarters; rather than a jagged openning in the wall the archway stood perfect and entire, the wall intact at either hand and above. The wall to my right also seemed less damaged than it had been earlier.

I moved forward and ran my hand along the curve of stones. I inspected adjacent plastered areas, looking for cracks. There were none. All right. The stone had borne an enchantment. To what end?