"At peril," Caution added.
"How might one begin?"
"Query the guardians," Head stated.
"How bad is the situation?" "It has already begun," Head answered.
"And the danger is already present," said Risk.
"So is opportunity," said Chance.
"Of what sort?" Vialle inquired.
There came a sound from across the room as my scabbard and blade slid to the floor from where I had leaned them against the wall. Vialle stared.
"My weapon," I said, 'just slipped."
"Name it."
"It was my father's sword, called Werewindle."
"I know of it." Then, "This man, Luke," she said, "there is something about his blade and its sister weapon that figures in all of this. I do not know their stories, though."
"Yes, they are connected," said Memory.
"How?"
"They were created in a similar fashion at near to the same time, and they partake of the powers of which we have spoken," Memory replied.
"Will there be a conflict?"
"Yes," said Foresight.
"On what scale?"
Foresight was silent. Chance laughed.
"I do not understand."
"The laughter of Chance is uncertainty," Head responded.
"Will Luke figure in the conflict?"
"Yes," Foresight answered.
"Should he seek the guardians?"
"He must try," said Heart.
"And if he fails?"
"A Prince approaches even now who knows more of these matters," said Head.
"Who is that?"
"A prisoner freed," Head replied. "Who?"
"He wears a silver rose," said Head. "He bears the other blade."
Vialle raised her head.
"Have you any questions?" she asked me.
"Yes. But I doubt I'd get an answer if I asked whether we'll win."
Chance laughed as Vialle rose.
She let me help move the statues back into place. Then, seated once more, I said to her, "'Seek the guardians?'"
"There is a custodian--possibly two," she replied. "A self-exiled Prince of Amber and his sister have guarded a portion of this power for a long while. It would seem in order to see that they still live, still discharge the duty."
"Self-exiled? Why?" "Personal reasons, involving the late King."
"Where are they?"
"I do not know."
"Then how could we find them?"
"There is a Trump."
She rose and moved to a small chest of drawers. Opening one, she withdrew a boxed set of cards.
Slowly, she counted dawn from the top of the deck and removed one.
When she returned she presented me with the card, portrait of a slim man with hair the color of rust.
"His name is Delwin," she said.
"You think I should just call him and ask whether he still has whatever he had?"
"State quickly that you are not of Amber," she told me, "but give your lineage. Ask whether his stewardship of the spikards remains intact. Try to find out where he is, or to go through and discuss it face to face if you can."
"Right," I said, not wanting to tell her that I had spoken--very briefly--with him before in seeking allies in my war against Amber. He'd dismissed me out of hand, but I didn't want to stir Vialle's memories of those days. So I simply said, "Okay. I'll give it a try."
I decided to fast-talk him at first, to give him time to think, to realize that I was not alone, and not to let slip anything of our earlier exchange. My altered appearance should help in this, too.