From the huge gold-framed mirror, ahead and to my right, the grimvisage of my father Oberon peered forth. I advanced a pace.
"Corwin," he said. "You were my chosen, but you always had a way ofdisappointing me."
"That's the breaks," I said.
"True. And one should not speak of you as a child after all theseyears. You've made your choices. Of some I have been proud. You have beenvaliant."
"Why, thank you--sir."
"I bid you do something immediately."
"What?"
"Draw your dagger and stab Luke."
I stared.
"No," I said.
"Corwin," Luke said. "It could be something like your proving you'renot a Pattern ghost."
"But I don't give a damn whether you're a Pattern ghost," I said. "It'snothing to me."
"Not that," Oberon interjected. "This is of a different order."
"What, then?" I asked.
"Easier to show than to tell," Oberon replied.
Luke shrugged.
"So nick my arm," he said. "Big deal."
"All right. Let's see how the show beats the tell."
I drew a stiletto from my boot sheath. He pulled back his sleeve andextended his arm. I stabbed lightly.
My blade passed through his arm as if the limb were made of smoke.
"Shit," Luke said. "It's contagious."
"No," Oberon responded. "It is a thing of very special scope."
"That is to say?" Luke asked.
"Would you draw your sword, please?"
Luke nodded and drew a familiar-looking golden blade. It emitted a highkeening sound, causing all of the candle flames in the vicinity to flicker.Then I knew it for what it was--my brother Brand's blade, Werewindle.
"Haven't seen that in a long while," I said, as the keening continued.
"Luke, would you cut Corwin with your blade, please?"