Slowly Kurrelgyre shook his head. “We can not deny thee that. Yet we wish—”
“I must know myself,” Stile said. “The Oracle said so.”
“And the Oracle is always right,” the werewolf agreed. “We can not oppose our paltry judgment to that.”
“So I will go on a quest for myself,” Stile concluded. “When I have satisfied my need-to-know, I will return to mine own frame, where there is no problem about magic. So thou needst have no fear about me turning into whatever ogre thou dost think I might. I have to return soon anyway, to get my new employment, or my tenure will expire.”
Neysa’s gaze dropped.
“Why carest thou about tenure?” Kurrelgyre inquired. “Remain here, in hiding from thine enemy; thou hast no need to return.”
“But Proton is my world,” Stile protested. “I never intended to stay here—”
The werewolf stood and drew Stile gently aside. “Needs must I speak to thee in language unbecoming for the fair one to hear,” he said. Neysa glanced up quickly at him, but remained sitting silently by the garden.
“What’s this nonsense about unbecoming language?” Stile demanded when they were out of Neysa’s earshot. “I don’t keep secrets from—”
“Canst thou not perceive the mare is smitten with thee?” Kurrelgyre demanded. “Canst not guess what manner of question she tried to formulate for the Oracle?”
Stile suffered a guilty shock. He had compared Neysa in various ways to Sheen, yet missed the obvious one. “But I am no unicorn!”
“And I am no man. Yet I would not, were I thee, speak so blithely of departure. Better it were to cut her heart quickly, cleanly.”
“Uh, yes. No,” Stile agreed, confused. “She—we have been—I assumed it was merely a courtesy of the form. I never thought—”
“And a considerable courtesy it is,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “I was careless once myself about such matters, until my bitch put me straight.” He ran his fingers along an old scar that angled from his shoulder dangerously near the throat. Werewolves evidently had quite direct means of expressing themselves. “I say it as should not: Neysa is the loveliest creature one might meet, in either form, and no doubt the most constant too. Shamed would I have been to lay a tooth on her, ere thou didst halt me. Considering the natural antipathy that exists between man and unicorn, as between man and werewolf and between unicorn and werewolf, her attachment to thee is a mark of favor most extreme. Unless—chancest thou to be virginal, apart from her?”
“No.”
“And most critical of all: canst thou touch her most private parts?”
Stile reddened slightly. “I just told thee—”
“Her feet,” Kurrelgyre said. “Her horn. No stranger durst touch a unicorn’s magic extremities.”
“Why yes, I—”
“Then must it be love. She would not else tolerate thy touch. Mark me, friend: she spared thee, when she learned thou wert Adept, because she loved thee, and therein lies mischief with her herd. Thou canst not lightly set her aside.” He touched the scar near his throat again.
“No,” Stile agreed fervently, thinking again of Sheen. He had always had a kind of personal magnetism that affected women once they got to know him, though it was usually canceled out by the initial impression his size and shyness made. Thus his heterosexual relationships tended to be distant or intimate, with few shades between. But with that situation went a certain responsibility: not to hurt those women who trusted themselves to him.
He remembered, with another pang of nostalgia, how the jockey girl Tune had stimulated his love, then left him. He had never been able to blame her, and would not have eschewed the affair had he known what was coming. She had initiated him into a world whose dimension he had hardly imagined before. But he did not care to do that to another person. He had no concern about any injury from Neysa; she would never hurt him. She would just quietly take herself away, and off a mountain ledge, and never transform into a firefly. She would spare him, not herself. It was her way.
Kurrelgyre’s question was valid: why couldn’t Stile remain here? There was a threat against his life, true—but he had fled Proton because of that, too. If he could nullify that threat in this frame—well, there were appeals to this world that rivaled those of the Game.
In fact, magic itself had, for him, a fascination similar to—no! His oath made that academic.
What, then, of Sheen? He could not simply leave her in doubt. He must return at least long enough to explain. She was a robot; she would understand. The practical thing for him to do was pick the most convenient world and stay there. It would be enough for Sheen to know he was safe; her mission would then have been accomplished.
As he had known Tune was safe and happy … Had that been enough for him? To know she had successfully replaced his arms with those of another man, and given that man in fact what she had given Stile in name: a son? He had understood, and Sheen would understand—but was that enough?
Yet what else could he do? He could not remain in both frames, could he? In any event, his tenure on Proton was limited, while it seemed unlimited here.
Stile returned to Neysa and sat beside her, Kurrelgyre trailing. “The werewolf has shown me that I can not expect to solve my problems by fleeing them. I must remain here to find my destiny, only visiting the other frame to conclude mine affairs there.” As he said it, he wished he had chosen other phrasing.
Neysa responded by lifting her gaze. That was enough.
“Now for thee, werewolf,” Stile said. “We must solve thy riddle too. Did it occur to thee that the Blue thou must cultivate could be an Adept?”
Now Kurrelgyre was stricken. “Cultivate an Adept? Rather would I remain forever outcast!”
“But if the Oracle is always right—”
“That may be. I asked how to restore myself to my pack; the Oracle answered. Perhaps the necessary price is too high.”
“Yet thou also didst specify that the method not violate thy conscience.”
“My conscience will not permit my craven catering to the abomination that is an Adept!”
“Then it must be something else. Some other blue. A field of blue flowers—”
“Werewolves are not fanners!” Kurrelgyre cried indignantly. “It must be the Blue Adept; yet the only cultivation I could do without shame would be the turf over his grave. I shall not seek the Blue Adept.”
Stile considered. “If, as we fear, thou hast doomed thyself to remain outcast from thy kind—why not travel with me? I have decided to remain in this frame, but this is pointless unless I locate and nullify the threat against my life—and that threat surely relates to who and what I am. Without magic with which to defend myself, I shall likely be in need of protection.”
“The lady unicorn is capable of protecting thee ably enough.”
“From the ill favor of an Adept?”
Kurrelgyre paced the ground. “Now, if I refuse, I brand myself coward.”
“No, no! I did not mean to imply—”
“Thou hardly needst to. But also I doubt the mare would care to have the like of me along, and I would not impose—”
Neysa stood. She took Kurrelgyre’s hand, glanced briefly into his eyes, then turned away.
The werewolf faced Stile. “Neysa has a way with words! It seems outcasts had best support each other, though they be natural enemies. We all shall likely die, and for a foolish cause—but it is as fitting a mode as any.”
CHAPTER 12
Black
“Who is the closest Adept?” Stile asked. “Not the Blue; we won’t check that one if you’re along.”
Kurrelgyre shifted to wolf-form and sniffed the breeze. He shifted back. “The Black, methinks.”
“Black it is!” Stile agreed. He would have preferred a more scientific selection—but science was not, it seemed, trustworthy in this frame. Convenience would have to do.
They left the palace together, Stile riding Neysa, the wolf ranging easily beside. They bore
west again, toward the castle of the Black Adept. Now that the decision was made, Stile had second thoughts about purpose and safety. Was he really doing the right thing? All he could do now was see it through, and after checking out the Black Adept he could decide whether it was worth checking out others. This was hardly his idea of sword and sorcery adventure—which was perhaps just as well. He suspected that in real life, more evil magicians prevailed than barbarian heroes.
Neysa had located a supply of grain, and had some in a bag tied to the saddle; she would not have to make long halts for grazing. Traveling at speed, they made excellent progress, covering fifty of this frame’s miles in about two and a half hours. Stile had done some endurance riding on Proton, and knew it would take an excellent horse to maintain even half this pace.
Thereafter, the way became bleak. The turf thinned, remaining verdant only in scattered oases. Stile realized that with a spell he might procure fresh water and extra food, but did not offer. They did not want magic, and the very notion was contrary to the spirit of his oath.
The mountains and valleys gave way to a broad and featureless dark plain that extended to the horizon, oppressed by what seemed to be a permanently looming cloud. Gusts of cutting wind brought choking clouds of dust into their faces. Stile coughed. If this environment reflected the temperament of the Black Adept, the magician was vile indeed! But it was probably a misapprehension. Stile had friends and un-friends, but there were few people he considered to be as evil as his friends seemed to think Adepts were. It was said that familiarity bred contempt, but surely ignorance bred error.
At last, amid the gloom, a black castle showed. It stood in stark silhouette, no light illuminating it from within. The land about it was so bleak as to seem scorched. Had Stile not known the identity of its occupant, thanks to Kurrelgyre’s nose, he might readily have guessed. Everything was dead black.
As they neared it, Stile suffered intensifying pangs of doubt. Was his curiosity worth the risk of bracing this person? He was running the risk of whatever sorcery the Black Adept had in mind—for what? Just to know who he was, in this frame.
No—it was more than that, he reminded himself. Another Adept was trying to kill him, and until Stile knew his own identity, he probably would not know who was trying to kill him, or why. The Oracle agreed; it had told him to know himself. Curiosity alone might not be worth it, but life, security—yes, that was worth it.
What should he do, though, if the lives of his friends were threatened on his behalf? Would he use his magic, then, to help them? No—he could not. His oath had been made, and Stile had never in his life broken his given word. Neysa had to give him leave, and now he knew she would not. Because she believed that to release him would be to turn him into the monster than an Adept would be, and she would rather die. He had better see to their mutual health by mundane means, staying alert.
Yet there was no call to be foolish. “Neysa,” he murmured. “Is there any way to approach this castle secretly and depart in the same fashion? I don’t need to brace the magician directly; I think one look at him will tell me whether he is alive or dead, or whether he resembles me. If we check, and the Black Adept is alive—not only is he not me, he is likely to do something horrible to me. And to thee, I fear.”
Kurrelgyre growled assent in an I-told-thee-so tone. The two of them expected this to be such a bad experience that Stile would no longer question the validity of their hatred of Adepts. Increasingly, Stile was being convinced.
Neysa halted. She flicked her nose, indicating that he should dismount. Stile did so. Then she reached back as she lifted one hind foot. She put her teeth to it, as if chewing an itch—and the white sock came off.
Stile stared. The term “sock” was descriptive, not literal; it was merely a patch of white hair about the foot. Yet she still held the white sock in her mouth, and her foot had turned black.
She nudged the sock at him, then went for the other hind foot. Soon Stile held a pair of white socks, one larger than the other. Neysa nudged him again.
“But I can’t wear these,” he protested. “These are your socks. Thy socks.”
Neysa nosed him impatiently again. Stile shrugged and tried donning a unicorn-sock over his boot. It was hoof-shaped at the extremity, yet it fit admirably: more unicorn magic, of course. In a moment he stood handsomely garbed in unicorn socks.
But the white color extended beyond the socks, now. His feet looked like hooves, his legs like hair. His arms—where were his arms?
Kurrelgyre growled appreciatively, seeming to think Stile’s appearance had improved.
Stile looked again, startled. He looked like a unicorn! A white unicorn. He remained human, but in illusion he was the forepart of the animal. Behind him stretched a ghost-body, equine.
Neysa had given him concealment. Who would worry about a unicorn poking about the premises?
“Every time I think I understand thee, Neysa, thou comest up with some new device!” he said admiringly. “I’ll return thy socks when we’re away from here. Thank thee most kindly.” And privately he thought: she didn’t mind him benefiting from magic, so long as it was not Adept magic. A useful distinction.
They went on: a white unicorn, a black unicorn, and a wolf. The dark fog swirled thickly about the castle, helping to conceal them. But could the Adept really be ignorant of their presence? It was possible; why should the Black Adept allow them to intrude, when he could so easily hurl a nasty spell at them, unless he were not paying attention? Surely he had better things to do than sit and watch for trespassers. And if the Adept happened to be dead, there should be no danger anymore. So Stile reasoned, reassuring himself.
Yet somehow he did not feel reassured.
Kurrelgyre made a low growl of warning. They stopped. The wolf had his nose to the ground, frozen there. Stile stooped to look—and his knees gave a warning shock of pain, and the unicorn image halfway buckled. Mustn’t do! But he saw what it was: a black line, stretching across the basalt.
Could it amount to a trip wire? It was a color-line, not a wire, but with magic it could perform the same function. That would explain why the Adept was not paying attention; he depended on his automatic alert. “We’d better pass without touching any lines,” Stile murmured. “They might be the Adept’s alert-lines, no pun.”
They all high-stepped carefully over the line. Soon there was another. This one was thicker, as if drawn with coagulating paint. Then a third, actually a ridge. And a fourth, set closer to the last, like a miniature wall.
“Something funny here,” Stile said. “Why make an alarm-line this solid? It only calls attention to itself.”
Yet there was nothing to do but go on over. Stile’s apprehension was abating as his perplexity grew. He had accepted the notion of magic as a way of life—but why should anyone surround himself with thickening lines? That hardly made sense.
The lines came more often now, each more formidable than the last. It became evident that the black castle was not a mere edifice of stone or brick, but the innermost manifestation of a rapidly solidifying network of line-walls. When the walls passed waist height on Stile, and were set only two meters apart, he concluded that jumping them was now too risky; they were bound to touch one accidentally and set off the alarm. If this really were an alarm system. Stile now feared it was something quite different, perhaps an elaborate architectural trap. But it might be no more than a progressive deterrent to intrusions such as theirs. A passive defense, showing that the Black Adept was not really the monster he was reputed to be. Maybe.
“I think we had better walk between walls for a while,” Stile said. “It is either that, or start climbing over them. This thing is turning into a maze, and we may be obliged to follow its rules.” And he wondered, nervously: was that the way of Adepts? To force intruders, stage by stage, into a set mold, that would lead inevitably into their corruption or destruction? Was that the way of all Adept-magic? In that case, the fears of the unicorn and werewolf with respect to Stile him
self could be well founded. Suppose he was, or had been, the Black Adept? That, given limitless power, he had chosen to isolate himself in this manner—and would do so again, given the power again? Helping no one, having no friends? Power corrupted …
They turned left, walking between walls. As it happened, it was indeed a maze, or at least a complicated labyrinth. The inner wall turned at right angles, making a passage toward the interior, and gradually elevated in height. Soon a ceiling developed, from an extension of one wall, making this a true hall. The passage kept curving about, usually sharply, often doubling back on itself, so that it was impossible to try to keep track of direction. “Kurrelgyre, your nose can lead us out again?” Stile inquired nervously. The wolf growled assent.
The line-labyrinth seemed to continue on indefinitely. Wan light fused in from somewhere, allowing them to see—but there was nothing to see except more blank walls of black material. The castle—for they had to be well inside the edifice proper now—was as silent as a burial vault. That hardly encouraged Stile.
On and on they went. Every time it seemed they were getting somewhere, the passage doubled back and paralleled itself for another interminable distance—then doubled back again. Was this whole castle nothing but many kilometers—many miles, he corrected himself—of passages? This passage continued to get narrower, becoming more like a tunnel, until Neysa was having difficulty making the turns. Her horn projected in front far enough to scrape a wall when she tried to make a hairpin turn, and her effort to avoid such contact put her into contortions and slowed her considerably. But she didn’t want to change form, in case they were still under observation; that would betray her special talent. In addition, she still wore the saddle, which would become a liability in her other form. It seemed her own clothing transformed with her, but not things originating externally. And their supplies were in the saddlebags.
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