Split Infinity

by Piers Anthony

  As it turned out, monster steak was excellent.

  CHAPTER 11

  Oracle

  By the time they reached the Oracle, two days later, Stile had pretty well worked out the situation. He could do magic of Adept quality, provided he followed its rules. He had sworn off it, and he would not violate that pledge. But that didn’t change what he was: an Adept. That could explain why another Adept was trying to kill him; that other was aware of Stile’s potential, and didn’t want the competition. The Adepts, it seemed, were quite jealous of their prerogatives—as were the members of most oligarchies or holders of power.

  So how should he proceed? Swearing off magic would not protect him from a jealous Adept, who would resent Stile’s mere potential. But if it were only a single Adept who was after him, Stile might try to locate that one and deal with him. Nonmagically? That could be dangerous! So—he would ask the Oracle for advice. Why not?

  The Oracle lived in a palace. Manicured lawns and hedges surrounded it, and decorative fountains watered its gardens. It was open; anyone could enter, including animals. In this world, animals had much the same stature as human beings; that was one of the things Stile liked about it. In this palace and its grounds, as he understood it, no magic was permitted, other than that of the Oracle itself, and no person could be molested or coerced.

  “No disrespect intended,” Stile said. “But this doesn’t seem like much. It’s beautiful in appearance and concept, but …”

  Neysa left the saddle at the entrance and guided him to a small, plain room in the back. From its rear wall projected a simple speaking tube.

  Stile studied the tube. “This is it? The Oracle?” he asked dubiously. “No ceremony, no fanfare, no balls of flame? No bureaucracy? I can just walk up and ask it anything?”

  Neysa nodded.

  Stile, feeling let down, addressed the tube. “Oracle, what is my best course of action?”

  “Know thyself,” the tube replied.

  “That isn’t clear. Could you elucidate?” But the tube was unresponsive.

  Neysa nudged him gently away. “You mean I only get one question?” Stile asked, chagrined.

  It was so. As with a spell, the Oracle could be invoked only once by any individual. But it had not been Neysa’s purpose to have all his questions answered here; she had brought him to this place only for his safety.

  Stile, frustrated, left Neysa and went outside. She did not try to restrain him, aware that he had been disappointed. He proceeded to the first fountain he saw. A wolf sat on the far side, probably not tame, but it would not attack him here. Stile removed his shirt, leaned over the pool, and splashed the cold water on his face. So he was safe; so what? His curiosity was unsatisfied. Was he to remain indefinitely in this world without understanding it?

  “Thou, too?”

  Stile looked up, startled, blinking the droplets from his vision. There was a young man across the fountain. He had shaggy reddish hair and a dark cast of feature, with eyes that fairly gleamed beneath heavy brows. His beard and sideburns were very like fur.

  “I regret; I did not see you,” Stile said. “Did I intrude?”

  “Thou didst see me,” the man said. “But recognized me not, in my lupine form.”

  Lupine. “A—werewolf?” Stile asked, surprised. “I am not used to this land. I did not think—I apologize.”

  “That was evident in thy mode of speech. But apologize not to an outcast cur.”

  Mode of speech. Suddenly Stile remembered: Clip the unicorn, Neysa’s brother, had used this same touch of archaic language. Evidently that was what prevailed here. He had better change over, so as not to make himself awkwardly obvious.

  “I—will try to mend my speech. But I do apologize for mistaking thee.”

  “Nonesuch is in order. This region is open to all without hindrance, even such as I.”

  Stile was reminded of the robot Sheen, claiming to have no rights because of her metal origin. It bothered him. “Art thou not a person? If being outcast is a crime, I am surely more criminal than you. Thee. I fled my whole world.”

  “Ah, it is as I thought. Thou art from Proton. Art thou serf or Citizen?”

  “Serf,” Stile said, startled at this knowledge of his world. Yet of course others had made the crossing before him. “Werewolf, if thou hast patience, I would like to talk with thee.”

  “I welcome converse, if thou knowest what ilk I be and be not deceived. I am Kurrelgyre, were.”

  “I am Stile, man.” Stile proffered his hand, and the other, after a pause such as one might have when recalling a foreign convention, accepted it.

  “In mine other form, we sniff tails,” Kurrelgyre said apologetically.

  “There is so much I do not know about this world,” Stile said. “If you know—thou knowest of my world, thou wilt—wilst—thou shouldst appreciate the problem I have. I know not how came I here, or how to return, and the Oracle’s reply seems unhelpful.”

  “It is the nature of Oracular response,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “I am similarly baffled. I queried the Oracle how I might regain my place in my society without performing anathema, and the Oracle told me ‘Cultivate blue.’ Means that aught to thee?”

  Stile shook his head. “Naught. I asked it what was my best course of action, and it said ‘Know thyself.’ I have no doubt that is always good advice, but it lacks specificity. In fact it is not even an action; it is an information.”

  “A most curious lapse,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “Come, walk with me about the gardens. Perhaps we may obtain insights through dialogue.”

  “I shall be happy to. Allow me just a moment to advise my companion. She brought me here—”

  “Assuredly.” They re-entered the palace, proceeding to the Oracle chamber where Stile had left Neysa.

  She was still there, facing the speaking tube, evidently unable to make up her mind what to say to it. Kurrelgyre growled when he saw her, shifting instantly into his lupine mode. Neysa, hearing him, whirled, her horn orienting unwaveringly on the new-formed wolf.

  “Stop!” Stile cried, realizing that violence was in the offing. “There is no—”

  The wolf sprang. Neysa lunged. Stile threw himself between them.

  All three came to a halt in a momentary tableau. The tip of Neysa’s horn was nudging Stile’s chest; the wolf’s teeth were set against his right arm, near the shoulder. Trickles of blood were forming on Stile’s chest and arm where point and fang penetrated.

  “Now will you both change into human form and apologize to the Oracle for this accident?” Stile said.

  There was a pause. Then both creatures shimmered and changed. Stile found himself standing between a handsome young man and a pretty girl. He was shirtless, with rivulets of blood on him; he had forgotten to put his shirt back on after splashing in the fountain pool.

  He extricated himself. “I gather unicorns and werewolves are hereditary enemies,” he said. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know. But this is no place for, uh, friendly competition. Now shake hands, or sniff tails, or whatever creatures do here to make up.”

  Neysa’s eyes fairly shot fire, and Kurrelgyre scowled. But both glanced at the Oracle tube, then at Stile’s bloodied spots, then at each other. And paused again.

  Stile perceived, as if through their eyes, what each saw. The werewolf’s clothing had reappeared with the man, and it was a tasteful fur-lined jacket and leggings, complimenting his somewhat rough-hewn aspect. Neysa was in a light black dress that set off her pert figure admirably; it seemed she wore clothing when she chose, though at night she had not bothered. She was now the kind of girl to turn any man’s head—and Kurrelgyre’s head was turning.

  “It is a place of truce,” the werewolf said at last. “I regret my instinct overcame my manners.”

  “I, too,” Neysa agreed softly.

  “I abhor the fact that I have drawn the blood of an innocent.”

  “I, too.”

  “Do thou draw my blood, Stile, in recompense.” Kurrelgyre hel
d out his arm. Neysa did the same.

  “I shall not!” Stile said. “If you—if thou—the two of you—”

  The werewolf smiled fleetingly. “Thou wert correct the first time, friend. It is the plural.”

  “If you two feel you owe me aught, expiate it by making up to each other. I hate to be the cause of dissent between good creatures.”

  “The penalty of blood need not be onerous,” Kurrelgyre murmured. He made a courtly bow to Neysa. “Thou art astonishingly lovely, equine.”

  Neysa responded with a curtsey that showed more décolletage and leg than was strictly necessary. Oh, the tricks that could be played with clothing! No wonder the Citizens of Proton reserved clothing to themselves. “Thank thee, lupine.”

  Then, cautiously, Neysa extended her hand. Instead of shaking it, Kurrelgyre lifted it slightly, bringing it to his face. For a moment Stile was afraid the werewolf meant to bite it, but instead he kissed her fingers.

  Stile, relieved, stepped forward and took an arm of each. “Let’s walk together, now that we’re all friends. We have much in common, being all outcasts of one kind or another. Neysa was excluded from the herd because of her color—”

  “What is wrong with her color?” the werewolf asked, perplexed.

  “Nothing,” Stile said as they walked. He spied his shirt by the fountain, and moved them all toward it. “Some unicorns have distorted values.”

  Kurrelgyre glanced sidelong past Stile at the girl. “I should say so! I always suspected that Herd Stallion had banged his horn into one rock too many, and this confirms it. My taste does not run to unicorns, understand, but the precepts of physical beauty are universal. She is extremely well formed. Were she a were-bitch—”

  “And I am outcast because I refused to—to perform a service for my employer,” Stile continued. “Or to honor an illegal deal proffered by another Citizen.” He washed his small wounds off with water from the pool, and donned his shirt. “What, if I may inquire, was thy problem, werewolf?”

  “Among my kind, where game is scarce, when the size of the pack increases beyond the capacity of the range to support, the oldest must be eliminated first. My sire is among the eldest, a former leader of the pack, so it fell to me to kill him and assume the leadership. Indeed, there is no wolf in my pack I could not slay in fair combat. But I love my sire, long the finest of wolves, and could not do it. Therefore mine own place in the pack was forfeit, with shame.”

  “Thou wert excluded for thy conscience!” Stile exclaimed.

  “There is no conscience beyond the good of the pack,” the werewolf growled.

  “Yes,” Neysa breathed sadly.

  They came to a hedged-in park, with a fine rock garden in the center. Neysa and Kurrelgyre sat down on stones nearer to each other than might have seemed seemly for natural enemies.

  “Let us review thy situation, Stile,” the werewolf said. “Thou knowest little of this land—yet this alone should not cause thee undue distress. Thou wilt hardly be in danger, with a fair unicorn at thy side.”

  “Nevertheless, I am in danger,” Stile said. “It seems an Adept is trying to kill me.”

  “Then thou art beyond hope. Against Adepts, naught suffices save avoidance. Thou must remain here at the Oracle’s palace forever.”

  “So I gather, in the ordinary case. But it also seems I have Adept powers myself.”

  Kurrelgyre phased into wolf-form, teeth bared as he backed away from Stile.

  “Wait!” Stile cried. “Neysa reacted the same way! But I have sworn off magic, till Neysa gives me leave.”

  The wolf hesitated, absorbing that, then phased warily back into the man. “No unicorn would grant such leave, even were that not the stubbornest of breeds.” Neysa nodded agreement.

  “But I am just a stray from another world,” Stile said. “It is mere coincidence that I have the talent for magic.”

  “Coincidence?” Kurrelgyre growled. “Precious little in this frame is coincidence; that is merely thy frame’s term for what little magic operates there. Here, all things have meaning.” He pondered a moment. “Have ye talent in the other frame?”

  “I ride well—”

  The werewolf glanced at Neysa, who sat with her fine ankles demurely exposed, her bosom gently heaving. “Who wouldn’t!”

  “And I am expert in the Game,” Stile continued.

  “The Game! That’s it! Know ye not the aptitude for magic in this frame correlates with that for the Game in that frame? How good at the Game be ye, honestly?”

  “Well, I’m tenth on my age-ladder—”

  Kurrelgyre waved a warning finger at him. “Think ye I know not the way of the ladders? If ye rise to fifth place, thou must enter the annual Tourney. No obfuscation, now; this is vital. How good art thou when thou tryest, absolute scale?”

  Stile realized that this was not the occasion for concealment or polite modesty. “I should be among the top ten, gross. On a good day, fourth or fifth.”

  “Then thou art indeed Adept caliber. There are no more than ten Adepts. They go by colors: White, Yellow, Orange, Green, and such: no more than there are clear-cut hues. Therefore thou art of their number. One Adept must be dead.”

  “What art thou talking about? Why must an Adept be dead, just because I’m good at the Game in the other—” Stile caught himself about to make an impromptu rhyme and broke off lest he find himself in violation of his oath.

  “Ah, I forget! Thou hast no basis yet to comprehend. Know this, Stile: no man can cross the curtain between frames while his double lives. Therefore—”

  “Double?”

  “His other self. His twin. All true men exist in both frames, and are forever fixed where they originate—until one dies out of turn. Then—”

  “Wait, wait! Thou sayest people as well as geography match? That can not be so. The serfs of Proton are constantly brought in and deported as their tenures expire; only the Citizens are a constant population.”

  “Perhaps ’tis so, now; not always in the past. Most people still equate, Phaze to Proton, Proton to Phaze. The others are partial people, like myself. Perhaps I had a serf-self in the past, and that serf departed, so now I alone remain.”

  “Thou travelest between frames—because werewolves don’t exist on Proton?”

  Kurrelgyre shrugged. “It must be. Here there are animals and special forms; there, there are more serfs. It balances out, likely. But thou—thou must travel because thy magic self is dead. And thy magic self must be—”

  “An Adept,” Stile finished. “At last I get thy drift.”

  “Know thyself,” Neysa said. “Adept.” She frowned.

  “That’s it!” Stile cried. “I must figure out which Adept I am!” Then he noticed Neysa’s serious demeanor. “Or must I? I have sworn off magic.”

  “But only by exerting thy powers as an Adept canst thou hope to survive!” Kurrelgyre exclaimed. Then he did a double take. “What am I saying? Who would want to help an Adept survive? The fair ’corn is right: abandon thy magic.”

  Corn? Oh, unicorn. “What is so bad about being an Adept?” Stile asked. “I should think it would be a great advantage to be able to perform magic.”

  The werewolf exchanged a glance with the unicorn. “He really knows not,” Kurrelgyre said.

  “I really don’t,” Stile agreed. “I am aware that magic can be dangerous. So can science. But you both act as if it’s a crime. You suggest I would be better off dying as a man than living as an Adept. I should think a lot of good could be done by magic.”

  “Mayhap thou shouldst encounter an Adept,” Kurrelgyre said.

  “Maybe I should! Even though I’m not doing magic myself, at least I’d like to know who I am and what manner of creature I am. From what thou sayest, something must have happened to my Adept double and, considering my age and health, it couldn’t have been natural.” He paused. “But of course! All we need to do is check which Adept died recently.”

  “None has,” Kurrelgyre assured him. “At least,
none we know of. Adepts are secretive, but even so, someone must be concealing evidence.”

  “Well I’ll just have to go and look,” Stile decided. “I’ll check out each Adept until I find which one is dead, and see if that was me. Then I’ll be satisfied. Only—how can I be sure that two aren’t dead, and I have found the wrong one?”

  “No problem there,” the werewolf said. “Thine other self would have looked exactly like thee, so any who saw thee in his demesnes would know. And every Adept has his own peculiar style of magic, his means of implementation, that he alone commands. What style is thine?”

  “Stile style,” Neysa murmured, permitting herself to smile fleetingly.

  “Spoken, or sung, in verse,” Stile said. “Music summons the power. Which Adept uses that mode?”

  “We know not. The Adepts vouchsafe no such information to common folk. Often they veil their magic in irrelevant forms, speaking incantations when it may be in fact a gesture that is potent, or posturing when it is a key rune. Or so it is bruited about among the animal folk. We know not who makes the amulets, or the golem people, or the potions or graphs or any of the other conjurations. We only know these things exist, and know to our dismay their power.” He turned to Stile, taking one hand. “But friend—do not do this thing. If thou findest thine Adept-self, thou wilt become that Adept, and I shall have to bear the onus of not having slain thee when I had the chance. And Neysa too, who helped thee: lay not this geas upon her.”

  Stile turned to Neysa, appalled. “Thou feelest that way also?”

  Sadly, she nodded.

  “Methinks she led thee to the Oracle to avoid the peril she saw looming,” Kurrelgyre said. “To destroy a friend—or turn an Adept loose on the realm. Here thou art safe, even from thy friends.”

  “But I am bound by mine oath!” Stile said. He hoped he was getting the language right: thy and my before a consonant, thine and mine before a vowel. “I will not perform magic! I will not become the monster thou fearest. I seek only to know. Canst thou deny me that?”