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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.
Tous... 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.
EIGHT
I found myself in a cluttered, windowless, musty-smelling
workroom. Long wooden tables lined every wall; they held a confusing jumble of
papers, scrolls, wooden boxes, oddly shaped rocks, countless crystals of
varying sizes, and many other less readily identified materials. Dusty racks
on the walls contained neatly labeled jars; doubtless they contained
ingredients for potions and spells, I decided. At one table, he had been
wiring a skeleton together from sun-bleached bones. It had at least four
arms... and possibly as many as eight. At another table, candles wanned
strangely shaped bottles containing liquids of various hues, some of which
gave off curiously spiced scents. Ahead and to the left, narrow doorways led
to additional workrooms, these just as cluttered from what little I could see.
"Come on, come on," he said impatiently, turning and leading the
way. "I have wasted enough time on your rescue already we have work to do, and
it is best to get on with it."
"All right," I said, falling back into the patterns of my youth.
All the time an inner voice told me to stand up to him right here, right
now... to demand answers to everything that had happened.
But I couldn't. Not yet. He was still Uncle Dworkin to me, still
the mentor I admired and respected... and obeyed. All the years of leading
men, all the years without his presence, seemed to have melted away. I could
have been ten years old again, following his instructions without question.
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We passed into the next room, which was filled with unshelved
books and scrolls, more than I had ever seen in any one place before. There
had to be thousands of them.
He didn't stop but led me into yet another room, which held larger
machines he had obviously been building. Odd bits and pieces lay
half-assembled (or half-disassembled, I couldn't tell which) on the floor and
the worktables. Some had pipes and wires leading from large stones to what
looked like corroding copper spheres, the largest of which had to be at least
four feet across, the smallest no more than a hand's width. Others looked like
fairy tale castles built from spun glass, and pink and white and yellow lights
flared or pulsated briefly within them. Across from us, in a giant fireplace
that took up the entire wall, liquids bubbled in three large cauldrons, though
no fire heated them that I could see. These potions or brews let off a curious
combination of smells something like the air after a thunderstorm had just
passed, but slightly sour. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck start to
bristle. Against my will, I shivered.
Dworkin Dad noticed and chuckled.
"What are you doing in here?" I asked.
"Distilling."
"Brandy?" I guessed, but knowing it couldn't be anything so
simple.
"Life forces."
"Oh." I didn't quite know what to make of that.
He pulled over two straight-backed wooden chairs, and we sat
facing each other, though he did not look me in the eye. Could he be
feeling... guilt? For never letting me know I had a father, a family? For
hiding my birthright? For abandoning me these many years?
A long, awkward silence stretched between us, punctuated by faint
dripping noises from one of the machines and a steady hiss from one of the
cauldrons.
"Dworkin " I finally said. "Or should I call you Dad, like Aber
and the others?"
He shifted uneasily. "Either one is fine. Perhaps Dworkin is
best... I have never been much of a father to you. Though 'Dad' does have a
nice ring to it..."
"So be it Dad."
"What else have you found out since you arrived?" he asked softly.
"Not as much as I would have liked." I swallowed, my mouth dry,
and for the first time in my life I suddenly found words difficult. I had a
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