Free Blood of Amber by Roger Zelazny Page A

her who I am, where I am from, what I am-and I was afraid to give her this knowledge.   I told myself that it would end our relationship as surely as telling her nothing would; and if it must end either way, I would rather we parted without her possessing this knowledge.   Later, much later, I was to see this for the rationalization it was; my real reason for denying her the answers she desired was that I was not ready to trust her, or anyone, so close to me as I really am.   Had I known her longer, better - another year, say - I might have answered her.   I don’t know.   We never used the word “love,” though it must have run through her mind on occasion, as it did through mine.   It was, I suppose, that I didn’t love her enough to trust her, and then it was too late.   So, “I can’t tell you;” were my words.
    “You have some power that you will not share.”
    “Call it that, then.”
    “I would do whatever you say, promise whatever you want promised.”
    “There is a reason, Julia.”
    She is on her feet, arms akimbo.   “And you won’t even share that.”
    I shake my head.
    “It must be a lonely world you inhabit, magician, if even those who love you are barred from it.”
    At that moment it seems she is simply trying her last trick for getting an answer from me.   I screw my resolve yet tighter.   “I didn’t say that.”
    “You didn’t have to.   It is your silence that tells me. If you know the road to Hell too, why not head that way? Good-bye!”
    “Julia.   Don’t.   .   .   .”
    She chooses not to hear me.   Still life with flowers.   .   .   .
    Awakening, Night.   Autumn wind beyond my window.   Dreams.   Blood of life without the body..., swirling... I swung my feet out of bed and sat rubbing my eyes, my temples.   It had been sunny and afternoon when I’d finished telling Random my story, and he’d sent me to get some shuteye afterward.   I was suffering from shadow lag and felt completely turned around at the moment, though I was not certain exactly what the hour might be.
    I stretched, got up, repaired myself and donned fresh clothing.   I knew that I would not be able to get back to sleep; also, I was feeling hungry.   I took a warm cloak with me as I departed my quarters.   I felt like going out rather than raiding the larder.   I was in the mood for some walking, and I hadn’ been outside the palace and into town in years, I guessed.   I made my way downstairs, then cut through a few chambers and a big hall, connecting up at the rear with a corridor I could have followed all the way from the stair if I’d cared to, but then I’d have missed a couple of tapestries I’d wanted to say hello to: an idyllic sylvan scene, with a couple making out following a picnic lunch; and a hunting scene of dogs and men pursuing a magnificent stag, which looks as if it might yet have a chance of getting away, if it will dare a stupendous leap that lies ahead.   .   .   .
    I passed through and made my way up the corridor to a postern, where a bored-looking guard named Jordy suddenly strove to seem attentive when he heard me coming.   I stopped to pass the time with him and learned that he didn’t get off duty till midnight, which was almost two hours away.
    “I’m heading down into town,” I said.   “Where’s a good place to eat this time of night?”
    “What’ve you got a taste for?”
    “Seafood,” I decided.
    “Well, Fiddler’s Green - about two thirds of the way down the Main Concourse - is very good for seafood.   It’s a fancy place.   .   .   .”
    I shook my head.   “I don’t want a fancy place,” I said.
    “The Net’s still supposed to be good-down near the comer of the Smiths and Ironmongers Street.   It’s not real fancy.”
    “But you wouldn’t go there yourself?”
    “Used to,” he replied.   “But a number of the nobles and big merchants discovered it recently.   I’d feel kind of uncomfortable there these days.