He was silent for the space of several deep breaths.
“It smacks of a ritual,” I said.
“Damn rituals!” he said. “Damn all of them! One of them is going to die, Corwin. I am going to kill him — or her.”
“I still do not —”
“I am a fool,” he said, “for not seeing it right away. Look! Look closely!”
He thrust the pierced Trump at me. I stared. I still did not see.
“Now look at me!” he said. “See me!”
I did. Then I looked back at the card. I realized what he meant.
“I was never anything to him but a whisper of life in the darkness. But they used my son for this,” he said. “That has to be a picture of Martin.”
Chapter 2
Standing there beside the broken Pattern, regarding a picture of the man who may or may not have been Random’s son, who may or may not have died of a knife wound received from a point within the Pattern, I turned and took a giant step back within my mind for an instant replay of the events which had brought me to this point of peculiar revelation. I had learned so many new things recently that the occurrences of the past few years seemed almost to constitute a different story than they had while I was living them. Now this new possibility and a number of things it implied had just shifted the perspective again.
I had not even been aware of my name when I had awakened in Greenwood, that private hospital in upstate New York where I had spent two totally blank weeks subsequent to my accident. It was only recently that I had been told that the accident itself had been engineered by my brother Bleys, immediately following my escape from the Porter Sanitarium in Albany. I got this story from my brother Brand, who had railroaded me into Porter in the first place, by means of fake psychiatric evidence.