After a time, the Sidhe damsel floated back down to Stile. She perched on Neysa’s horn, somewhat to the unicorn’s annoyance. She was breathing briskly, her full bodice flexing rhythmically. “Give o’er, giant elf; thou’rt forgiven!” she exclaimed. “Now come dance with me, before sunset, while thy steed plays her horn.” And she reached out a hand to him, the tiny fingers beckoning.
Stile glanced at the Lady Blue, who nodded affirmatively. Neysa shrugged. Both evidently felt it was better to go along with the Faerie-folk than to oppose them. They were getting along well at the moment; better not to disrupt the mood, for such creatures could be unpleasant when angered, and their tempers were volatile. Stile had seen that in the mercurial reactions of this little lady.
Yet he demurred, more diplomatically this time. “Elven lass, I can not dance in air without magic.” And he was not about to reveal his true nature now. Already he understood that Adepts were held in as poor regard by the Little Folk as by ordinary human people.
“Then shall I join thee below,” she said, descending lightly to the turf. Then, abruptly shy: “I am Thistlepuff.”
Stile dismounted. “I am Stile.” He stood almost a foot taller than she, and really did feel like a giant now. Was this the way Hulk saw the world?
“The bridge between pastures?” Thistlepuff exclaimed, correctly interpreting his name. Then she did a pirouette, again causing her skirt to rise and expose her fine and slender legs. This was a characteristic gesture with her. In the frame of Proton, where all serfs were naked, no such effect was possible, and Stile found it almost embarrassingly appealing. The brief glimpse seemed better than the constant view, because of the surprise and mystery. Clothing, he realized, was also magic.
Stile had played the Game in Proton for most of his life. Part of the Game was the column of the Arts, and part of the Naked Arts was Dance. He was an athlete and a gymnast, and he had a good memory and sense of pace. Hence Stile could dance as well as any man, and a good deal better than most. He had watched and analyzed the patterns of the Faerie dance, and now understood it well enough. If this sprite thought to make a fool of him for the entertainment of her peers, she would be disappointed.
He went into a whirl of his own, matching Thistlepuff’s effort. There was a faint “Oooh” of surprise, and the other Faerie-folk gathered about to watch. Yes, they had thought to have sport with him!
The lass stepped blithely into his arms, and he swung her in Sidhe fashion. Her head topped at the level of his shoulder, and she was light as a puff of smoke, but she was also lithe and sweet to hold. She spun out and kicked one leg high in the manner of a ballerina—oh, didn’t she love to show those legs!—while he steadied her by the other hand. Then she spun back into his embrace, making a little leap so that her face met his in a fleeting kiss that struck and dissipated like a breath of cool fog.
They moved into a small promenade, and he tossed her into the air for a graceful flip and caught her neatly at the waist. Light as she was, it was easy to do the motions, and he enjoyed it. He felt more and more like the giant he never had been, and privately he reveled in it.
When the demonstration was through, the Sidhe spectators applauded gleefully. “Thou hast danced before!” Thistlepuff exclaimed, her bosom heaving with even more abandon. “Yet thou dost claim to be human!”
“Human beings can dance,” Stile said. “The Lady I serve could do as well.” He hoped that was the case; it occurred to him as he spoke that though he had seen the Lady Blue ride marvelously well, he had never seen her dance. Yet of course she could do it!
Neysa blew a note of caution. But it was too late. Stile, in his inexperience with the Faerie-folk had made another blunder. Thistlepuff was frowning mischievously at the Lady Blue.
“So thou sayest?” the Sidhe inquired, as sharply as the sound of the wood of a tree-limb snapping under too great a burden of snow. “Thou art of the Elven kind, surely; but she is as surely mundane. We shall see how she can dance.” And the Sidhe recentered their ring on the lady.
He had gotten her into this; he would have to get her out. Stile crossed to the Lady as she dismounted. He could not even apologize; that would betray the situation to the Faerie-folk. He had to bluff it through—and he hoped that she could and would go along.
The Lady Blue smiled enigmatically and took his proffered hand. Good; at least she accepted him as a partner. It would have been disaster with a mischievous four-and-a-half-foot-tall Sidhe male for a dancing partner! At least Stile would keep his feet mainly on the ground.
It would have to be impromptu free-form, for they had had no rehearsal. Stile hoped the Lady had analyzed the dancing patterns as he had. But he let her lead, so that she could show him what she wanted.
Suddenly they were in it. The Lady was taller than he and as heavy—but also as lithe and light on her feet as a woman could be. When he swung her, she was solid, not at all like Thistlepuff, yet she moved precisely. He did not try to toss her in air, but she was so well balanced he could hold her up readily, and whirl her freely. When he moved, she matched him; when he stepped, she stepped; when he leaped, she was with him. In fact, she was the best dancer he had encountered.
It was a fragment of heaven, being with her like this. For the moment he could almost believe she was his. When they danced apart, she was a marvel of motion and symmetry; when they danced together, she was absolute delight. Now he wished this dance could go on forever, keeping his dream alive.
But then Neysa brought her harmonica melody to a close, and the dance ended. The Sidhe applauded. “Aye, she can dance!” Thistlepuff agreed ruefully. “Mayhap she has some inkling of Faerie blood in her ancestry after all. Thou hast shamed us, and we must make amend. Come to our village this night.”
“We dare not decline their hospitality,” the Lady Blue murmured in his ear. She was glowing with her effort of the dance, and he wished he could embrace her and kiss her. But this was one blunder he knew better than to make.
Now the steep bank of a ridge opened in a door. There was light inside, and warmth. The passage into the hill was broad enough for the steeds, and these were of course welcome. They walked into the Faerie village.
Inside it was amazingly large. This was technically a cave, but it seemed more like a clearing in a deep wood at night, the walls invisible in their blackness. A cheery fire blazed in the center. Already a feast was being laid out: a keg of liqueur, many delicious-smelling breadstuffs, fresh vegetables, pots of roasted potatoes and buckets of milk and honey and dew. For the animals there was copious grain and fragrant hay and a sparkling stream.
Then Stile remembered something from his childhood readings. “If a human being partakes of Faerie food, is he not doomed to live among them forever? We have business elsewhere—”
Thistlepuff laughed with the sound of rain spattering into a quiet pond. “Thou really art not of our kind, then! How canst thou believe that myth? Thou hast it backwards: if ever one of the Sidhe forsakes his own and consumes mundane food, he is doomed to become mortal. That is the true tragedy.”
Stile looked at Neysa, embarrassed. She blew a positive note—no danger here. Thistlepuff had spoken the truth, or close enough to it to eliminate his concern. So he had blundered again, but not seriously; the Sidhe were amused.
Now they ate, and it was an excellent repast. Afterwards, pleasantly sated, they availed themselves of the Faerie sanitary facilities, which were concealed in a thick bed of toadstools, then accepted invisible hammocks in lieu of beds. Stile was so comfortable that he fell almost instantly to sleep, and remained in blissful repose until a beam of sunlight struck his face in the morning.
Startled, he looked about. He was lying in a bed of fern in a niche in the gully. No cave, no invisible hammock, no Faerie village! The Lady Blue was up before him; she had already fetched fruit from some neighboring tree. Neysa and Hinblue were grazing.
Stile was abashed. “Last night—what I remember—the Sidhe—did I dream—?”
The Lady Blue pres
ented him with a pomegranate. “Of dancing with the Faerie-folk? Sharing their food? Consuming too much of their nefarious dew so that thou didst sleep like a rock forever in their invisible hammock? It must have been a dream, for I remember it not.”
There was a musical, mirthful snort from Neysa.
“Even so,” Stile agreed, concentrating on the fruit. Was his face as red as its juice? The Sidhe had had some sport with him after all. But how glad he was to note that the Lady’s heavy mood had lifted.
“Yet dost thou dance divinely in thy dreams.” The Lady was for a moment pensive, then reverted briskly to business. “If thou dost not get thy lazy bones aloft, never shall we locate the Platinum Elves in time for thee to go divert thyself at thy next otherframe game with thy mechanical paramour.”
Barbed wit, there! The Proton Tourney was no fun diversion, but a matter of life or nonlife on that planet. Stile rose with alacrity. “One more day, one more night—that’s all the time I have until I have to report for Round Two of the Tourney.”
Soon they were on their way again. It had been a good night; human and equine beings had extra vigor. Neysa and Hinblue stepped out briskly, hurdling the ridges and gullies and hummocks. Neysa, conscious of the equine limitations of the natural horse, did not push the pace too fast, but miles were traversed swiftly. The Lady Blue, of course, rode expertly. Stile might be the best rider in Phaze, but she was the second best.
After an hour Stile became aware of something fleeting. “Hold,” he murmured. Neysa, feeling his bodily reaction, was already turning around.
“Is aught amiss?” the Lady Blue inquired, elevating an eyebrow prettily.
“The curtain,” Stile said. “We just passed it. I need to note where it is, as a matter of future reference. There may be good places to cross it to Proton, if only I can locate them.”
“There are times when I wish I could cross that curtain,” she said wistfully. “But hardly can I even perceive it.”
“Ah—here it is,” Stile said. “Proceeding northeast/southwest, angling up from the Purple Mountains. Of course it may curve about, in between reference points, but—”
The Lady waved a hand. “Cross it, my lord, and see where it leads. Only forget not to return, lest I abscond with thy steed.”
Stile laughed, then spelled himself through.
The other side was hot and bleak. The ubiquitous cloud of pollution was thinner here, but the haze still shrouded a distant force-field dome. This was not a good place to cross; he needed a section within a dome, or very close to one. Ah, well—it had been worth checking. He released his held breath and willed himself back into Phaze as he stepped back across the faint scintillation.
It was a great relief to see the lush greenery form around him. What a mess the Citizens had made of the surface of their planet, in the name of progress! “I’m satisfied. Let’s go.”
“Yet if I could cross, it would mean there would be no one for Hulk,” the Lady concluded.
By midmorning they had reached the fringe of the Platinum Demesnes; Elven warner-markers so informed them.
Now Stile uncorked the Yellow Adept’s gift-potion and applied it liberally to his face and hands. He offered some to the Lady, but she demurred; she did not care to smell like an elf. Since she was obviously no threat to anyone, Stile trusted it would be all right.
The Platinum Demesnes were in the Purple Mountains proper. The access-pass was marked by a neat wooden sign: PT78. Stile smiled, recognizing the scientific symbol and atomic number of platinum; surely some crossover from the frame of Proton, here. Evidently these Little People had a sense of unity or of humor.
They rode up the narrow trail. The mountain slopes rose up steeply on either side, becoming almost vertical. It would be very easy for someone to roll boulders down; the stones would flatten anyone misfortunate enough to be in their way. Except an ogre or an Adept. Stile kept his hand on his harmonica and his mind on a boulder-repulsion spell he had devised. He did not want to use magic here, but he wanted even less to suffer death by stoning.
Then they encountered a hanging bridge. It crossed a deep, dark chasm too wide for Neysa to leap, but the bridge was too narrow and fragile to support equine weight. Neysa could change form and cross, but that would not help Hinblue. Stile considered casting a spell to transport the horse across, but vetoed it himself; the Platinum Elves could be watching. So—they would have to cross the hard way, by navigating the chasm manually. Perhaps this was a deliberate hurdle to test the nature of intruders, separating the natural from the supernatural—or, more likely, the Elven folk did not want mounted visitors charging into their Demesnes.
There was a precarious path down into the chasm, and another rising on the far side. Probably the two connected, below. Stile and the Lady started down, riding, because the steeds did not trust the people’s ability to navigate such a pass safely alone. But Stile kept his hand on the harmonica.
The touch of that musical instrument reminded him—he was coming here for a flute. Yet how could a musical instrument avail him? What he really needed was a weapon. Well, he should soon be finding out!
Fortunately the path did not descend far. It reached a broad ledge that cut into the chasm, reducing it to a width that could be conveniently hurdled by the steeds. The path continued on down into the chasm, but they did not follow it. They jumped across the ugly crack and started up the other side. Stile was aware of a hot draft that came up erratically from the depths, smelling of sulfur. He did not like it.
They emerged at the top of that chasm, and continued on up the path. Now they were higher in the mountain range, nearing the top—and they rounded the crest, and the landscape leveled, and lo! it was only a larger foothill. Ahead the real mountains loomed, sloping up into the clouds. They were tall enough to maintain snow, but it was purple snow.
On this brief level spot was a mound, overgrown by turf and vines. The path led right to it; in fact there was a stone entranceway. “Methinks we have arrived,” Stile murmured, dismounting.
“Methinks thou shalt not swiftly depart,” a voice said behind him. Stile turned to find a small man in the path behind. He stood about four inches shorter than Stile, but was broader in proportion. His skin was an almost translucent blue, and his clothing was steel-gray.
“Thou must be of the Elven Folk,” Stile said. “I come to beg a favor of the workers of platinum.”
“We do work platinum,” the elf agreed. “But we do no favors for outsiders. Thou art now our prisoner, and thy human companion.” He gestured with his shining sword. “Now proceed into the mound, the two of you. Thine animals will join our herds outside.”
Neysa turned on the arrogant elf, but Stile laid a cautioning hand on her back. “We came to petition; we must yield to them,” he murmured. “If they treat us ill, thou canst then act as thou seest fit. An thou dost find me fettered, free me to play my music.”
Neysa made an almost imperceptible nod with her horn. Once Stile had access to his music, he could bring his powers of magic into play, and would then be able to handle himself. So the risk was less than it seemed. He and the Lady suffered themselves to be herded into the mound.
Inside it was gloomy, with only wan light filtering in through refractive vents. Several other armed elves were there, garbed like the first. Their leader stepped up and appraised Stile and the Lady as if they were newly purchased animals. He sniffed as he approached Stile. “This one be Elven,” he pronounced. “But the woman is human. Him we shall spare to labor at our forges; her we shall use as tribute to the beast.”
“Is this the way thy kind welcomes those who come peaceably to deal with thee?” Stile asked. There was no way he would permit the Lady Blue to be abused.
“Silence, captive!” the elf cried, striking at Stile’s face with a backhand swing of his arm.
The blow, of course, never landed. Stile ducked away from it and caught the elf’s arm in a punishing submission hold. “I can not imagine the elders of thy kind being thus
inhospitable,” he said mildly. “I suggest that thou dost summon them now.”
“No need,” a new voice said. It was a frail, long-bearded old elf, whose face and hands were black and wrinkled. “Guards, begone! I will deal with this matter myself.”
Stile let go his captive, and the young elves faded into the crevices and crannies of the chamber. The oldster faced Stile.
“I am Pyreforge, chief of the tribe of Platinum Mound Folk of the Dark Elves. I apologize for the inhospitability shown thee by our impetuous young. It is thy size they resent, for they take thee to be a giant of our kind.”
“A giant!” Stile exclaimed, amused. “I’m four feet eleven inches tall!”
“And I am four feet five inches tall,” Pyreforge said. “It is the odor of thy potion that deceives us, as well as thy size. To what do we owe this visit by the Lady and Blue Adept?”
Stile smiled ruefully. “I had thought not to be so obvious.”
“Thou art not. I was delayed researching my references for thy description. I pored all through the Elven species in vain. It was the unicorn that at last betrayed thee, though we thought Blue recently deceased.”
“Neysa would never—”
The old elf held up a withered hand. “I queried the ’corn not. But no man save one rides the unicorn, or travels with the fairest of human ladies. That be the imposter Blue Adept—who I think will not be considered imposter long.”
Stile relaxed. “Oh. Of course. Those must be comprehensive references thou hast.”
“Indeed. Yet they are oft tantalizingly incomplete. Be it true that thou didst come recently on the scene in the guise of thy murdered self, and when the unicorns and werewolves challenged thee performed two acts of magic, the first of which was inconsequential and the second enchantment like none known before, that established thee as the most powerful magician of the frame despite being a novice?”
“It may be true,” Stile agreed, taken aback. He had rather underestimated his magical strength on that occasion! Probably it had been the strength of his feeling that had done it, rather than any special aptness at magic.
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