But Clip had lost control of himself. Evidently the mare was in heat; he had to go to her. He fought the lure, but step by step he went.
The Lady Blue had to remain in the cave, guarding herself and Hinblue. She was not so foolish as to venture where the ogres could pounce.
Now at last the capsule approached the curtain. But the capsule was below ground, under desert; Stile could not step through at this level. “Get me to the surface, anywhere by the curtain!” he snapped, in a fever of impatience to reach the West Pole.
Sheen located a bus stop. Stile got out and hurried up the stairs to the surface. “Keep things in order until my return,” he called back.
“Don’t get yourself killed, sir,” she said.
Stile didn’t answer. He held his breath and burst out on to the desert, running for the curtain. As he came upon its shimmer, he willed himself across—and found himself running on the green plain of Phaze.
Immediately he stopped, formulating a suitable spell in his mind while he played his harmonica to summon his power. Then he sang: “Convey me whole to the West Pole.”
The spell wrenched him from here to there, making him nauseous. It was never comfortable to work his magic on himself, and he avoided it except in emergencies. Feeling ill, he looked out from the West Pole.
There was no sign of Clip the unicorn. Stile sang a flight-spell he had in reserve, rose into the air, and zoomed toward the ravine and cave where the Lady Blue waited.
The two ogres were there. As Stile approached, one of them picked up the troll one-handed and hurled him high and away. Apparently Trool had left the security of his tunnels and so fallen into the power of the more massive monsters.
“Please—freeze,” Stile sang, willing the interpretation of the spell. But though there was a faint effort of magic, the action did not stop.
Then he remembered that he had already used this spell to freeze the sea monster of the Translucent Demesnes. No wonder it had lost its potency. “All will be still,” he sang.
This time the tableau froze as intended. The two ogres became statues, along with their injured companion, who was licking his arm a short distance away. The troll hung motionless in the air. The very wind stopped—but Stile himself continued.
The Lady Blue stood in the cave, knife in hand, her lovely face frozen in grinning ferocity as she slashed at the nearest monster. Behind her stood Hinblue, lame but trying to move out and get in a good kick.
Stile made a subspell to free the Lady only. “My Lord!” she exclaimed, breathlessly glad to see him. “Clip—he was lured away!”
“I saw,” Stile said. “First I must tend to thee and thy friends; then will I quest after the unicorn.”
The Lady was all right, though tired; it was no easy thing to stand up to an ogre with no more than a knife. Stile made a spell to restore Hinblue, whose injury had been beyond the Lady’s gentler healing power. Then he brought Trool sliding slowly down from midair. “A second time hast thou repaid my favor,” Stile said. “Now do I owe thee one.”
“Nay, Adept,” Trool protested. “It was prophesied that three times must I tunnel to free thee and thine from hazard, ere the balance evens.”
“Then gladly do I accept this rescue of my Lady!” Stile said. “But dost thou not know that the Blue Adept destroyed all thy tribe in fire?”
“As my tribe destroyed all thy village. Those scales are even. The debt is other.”
Stile shrugged. “Why shouldst thou be burdened, not me?”
“Because thou must save Phaze.” Trool turned and shambled back into his tunnel, which extended darkly into the ground. Stile was amazed at the creature’s facility in tunneling—but of course troll magic was involved.
Then he noticed an object on the ground. He stooped carefully to pick it up, for his knees remained bad, able to bend only to right angles before pain began. Stile could use magic to move himself but not to heal himself, so had to live with the condition. He picked up the object.
It was a small figurine of a woman, quite well executed. “Who made this?” Stile asked.
“Trool,” the Lady replied. “He appears clumsy, but his big hands have magic. When he is not tunneling, he turns that magic to sculpture, to relieve his nervousness.”
“Facing two ogres, I can appreciate his concern! Why did he step out on to the land, where they had power?”
“To stop them from charging me,” she said. “Trolls are not my favorite creature, but Trool acted bravely and selflessly. If again we meet, I shall call him friend.”
“Yet if he is honoring a prophecy, I can not reward him,” Stile said. “That might alter the meaning of his action and void the prophecy, causing mischief.”
“True,” she agreed soberly.
Stile contemplated the figurine. “This is thee!” he exclaimed, surprised.
She shrugged. “He begged my leave. He works better when he has a subject. I saw no harm.”
Figurine magic could be potent—but the Red Adept had specialized in that, with her amulets, and she was gone. “No, no harm,” Stile agreed. “He’s a fine craftsman. This is as pretty a statuette as I’ve seen.”
“We forget Clip,” she reminded him, taking the statuette from him.
“In a moment. Now for these monsters.” Stile conjured a cage around the two, then unfroze them. They rattled the bars for several minutes before conceding they were effectively imprisoned; then they were ready to listen to Stile.
“Know, ogres, that I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “This is my Lady Blue. Why did the five of you attack her?”
“Blue be now our enemy,” one repeated.
“The Oracle told thee that?”
“Told Brogbt.”
“Who is Brogbt?”
The ogre pointed to one of the dead monsters.
“Then must I make the dead to speak,” Stile said grimly. He pondered, working out a spell, then sang: “Ogre Brogbt, under my spell, the true message do thou tell.”
The dead ogre stirred. Flies buzzed up angrily. Its rigor-stiffened mouth cracked open. “Blue be not thine enemy,” it croaked, and lay still again.
“Not!” the Lady exclaimed. “It said not!”
Both living ogres seemed surprised. “Brogbt told us now.”
“He thought the word was now. He was enchanted, and heard or remembered it wrong. I am not thine enemy. Now thou knowest.”
“Now I know,” the ogre agreed, adapting dully to this new reality.
Stile eliminated their cage. “Go inform thy kind of the truth.”
They stomped away.
“Thou art as ever generous in victory,” the Lady said.
“Now for the unicorn.” Stile made a spell that set Clip’s hoofprints glowing, and they followed these. The trail led over a hill to a copse of evergreens and entered the dense forest island.
“Where are the mare’s prints?” the Lady asked.
Stile sang a new spell to make those also glow, but evoked nothing.
“She was mere illusion,” the Lady said. “A sending to distract him so the ogres could get to me. This surely means mischief. Had Trool not interfered—”
Stile made another spell. “Make an image, make it sooth, of the unicorn, of the truth.”
The image formed, like a holograph, three-dimensional. Clip walked beside a phantom. The unreal mare led him into the copse—and there a flash occurred, and the unicorn was gone.
“Destroyed?” the Lady cried, appalled.
“I think not,” Stile said grimly. He tried a spell to locate Clip specifically, but it fizzled. “This is Adept magic. I can not fathom the truth beyond this point, for it is Adept against Adept. But the message seems likely enough. Clip has been taken hostage.”
“Hostage!” she exclaimed. “For what?”
“For my behavior. My secret enemy can not match my power directly, so he has resorted to another device. I must bargain with him for Clip’s life.”
“But what does that Adept want?”
“It seems I am to be involved in great events in the near future. Mine enemies know this, my friends know too. Everybody knows this except me. What mine enemy wants will surely be made known in good time.”
“But no one can influence thee by such means!”
“Oh, yes, he can!” Stile scowled, feeling an elemental savagery. “He can evoke my vengeance against him for whatever he does to Clip. He can make me an enemy for life. Now he is attacking my wife and steed in lieu of me, seeking leverage. Not without consequence may Blue be thus used.”
She smiled sadly. “The honeymoon is over.”
Soberly, he nodded. “I must report to the Herd Stallion.”
“And I—I shall be left behind again.”
“Thou knowest I love thee, Lady. But there are things I must do.”
“I would not change thy nature if I could, my love.”
Abruptly, savagely, they kissed, their horror of the situation converting to passion. Then Stile spelled them to the unicorn herd.
They arrived at the edge of the pasture where the unicorns grazed. The great Herd Stallion looked up. He stood eighteen hands at the shoulder, or six feet, and was powerfully muscled. His torso was pearly gray, darkening into black hooves; his mane and tail were silver, and his head golden. He was the most magnificent equine Stile knew.
Perceiving Stile’s mien, the Stallion converted immediately to man-form and approached. “Speak without waste, Adept.”
“Clip has been taken hostage,” Stile said. Then he choked and could not continue.
“Do thou go see Neysa,” the Lady Blue told him gently. “I will give the Stallion the detail.”
Gratefully, Stile walked through the herd, looking for his closest friend in Phaze. In a moment Neysa came to him. She was fit and sleek, showing as yet no sign of her gravid condition. She had only very recently been bred, and equines did not show the way humans did. She accepted his embrace, shifting momentarily to girl-form in his arms, in the mischievous way she had. Then she shifted back.
“Oh, Neysa,” he said, feeling the tears on his face. “I fear I have placed your brother in dire straits.”
She tensed, blowing a harmonica-note of alarm. She loved her brother.
“I was in Proton-frame,” he stumbled on. “Ogres attacked the Lady Blue. Clip fought valiantly, protecting her, and killed two ogres. But an Adept sent a sending of the mare called Belle, who won thine event in the Unolympics, and lured him into captivity, surely hostage against my power. And I—I can not accept what that enemy may demand of me, though Clip is—” The tears were flowing freely now, dropping from his chin. “I should have been there!” And perhaps, if he had checked Clip’s situation first, instead of last, he might have been in time to nullify the abduction. He had just assumed that Clip was near.
Neysa laid her warm horn against his cheek, suffering silently with him, forgiving him. She understood.
They walked together back to the Herd Stallion. The noble creature was again in his natural form and had evidently assimilated the Lady’s story. He was stomping the turf with one forehoof, making sparks fly up, and steam was issuing from his nostrils.
When Stile rejoined him, the Stallion changed again to man-form, a wisp of steam still showing in his breath. “Thou art not at fault, Adept,” he said. “Clip was there to help and protect thee, not thou him.”
“Protect me he did,” Stile said. “I owe him my life. But he lost his freedom protecting not me but my Lady. I must restore him to freedom and avenge what he is suffering.”
“He is of my herd,” the Stallion said. “Ultimately, vengeance is mine. But thou art welcome to free him if thou canst.”
“First must I locate him,” Stile said. “And, if thou canst permit it, I would take another unicorn as temporary steed. The forces ranged against me, for whatever reason, are more than I can safely cope with alone, and no horse suffices. I need the kind of service only a unicorn can give.”
The Stallion hesitated. Neysa blew a faint note on her harmonica-horn, half pleading, half warning. She was subject to the Herd Stallion, but friend to the Blue Adept—and to many others. She was close blood kin to Clip. She wanted to be Stile’s steed again, despite her condition. The Stallion could say nay or yea and would be obeyed—but his life would be simplified if he placated this spirited little mare. Stile had a certain sympathy for the Herd Stallion’s predicament.
“I will provide thee with another unicorn,” the Stallion decided. “Thou art held in unusual respect in this herd, Adept; a number of these would do for thee what they would not do for any ordinary man. Yet may I not compel any in this matter; give me time to seek a volunteer.”
The Stallion seemed less urgent about this than Stile felt, and was obliquely refusing Neysa’s offer. Yet it was a sensible course. “It will take time to locate Clip and prepare a campaign to recover him without injury,” Stile said. “Adept magic is involved, making the matter devious, not subject to simple spells. I do not relish his captivity for even another hour, but it would be foolish to strike unprepared. Will a day and a night suffice? I do have business in the other frame.”
“It will suffice,” the Stallion agreed. “I shall query the animals of other kinds and send to the Oracle.”
The Oracle! Of course! That would pinpoint Clip instantly—if the answer were not misunderstood. Except—what about the speculation the Translucent Adept had made about the Oracle? Maybe he should be careful of any advice received, without openly challenging its validity.
Stile turned to the Lady Blue. “Now must I return thee to the Blue Demesnes for safekeeping.”
Again Neysa protested. The Herd Stallion, shifting to natural form, blew an accordion-chord of irritated acquiescence.
“I have been invited to visit with the Herd during thine absence,” the Lady said. “I can be better guarded here, for no magic penetrates a herd on guard. By thy leave, my Lord—”
“I will make thee a pavilion,” Stile said, pleased. She would be much safer here, certainly.
“I need it not, my Lord.”
Stile nodded. The Lady Blue was no frail flower; she could survive well enough. “Then shall I—”
He paused, and the unicorns looked up from their grazing. A dragon was approaching—a huge flying creature, swooping up and down, evidently searching for something. It spied the herd and flew directly toward it.
Immediately the unicorns formed a circle, horns pointing out. In the center were the foals and aged individuals—and Neysa, specially protected during her gestation. The Herd Stallion stood outside, flanked by several of the strongest of the lesser males, facing the monster alertly.
“I can deal with this,” Stile offered. He had a number of spells to bring down dragons.
But the dragon was not attacking. It was a steed, with an old woman holding the reins, perched between the great beating wings. She carried a white kerchief that she waved in her left hand.
“Flag of truce,” Stile said. Then, with a double take: “That’s the Yellow Adept!”
The Herd Stallion snorted angrily. He would honor the truce, but he had no love for the Yellow Adept, whose business it was to trap and sell animals, including unicorns.
The dragon landed with a bump that made its passenger bounce, then folded its wings. The old woman scrambled down. “I bear a message for Blue. It must be quick, for my potion can not hold this monster long.”
Stile stepped forward, still surprised. Usually this witch only went out in public after taking a youth potion for cosmetic effect. What message could cause her to scramble like this? “I am here, Yellow.”
“It is in the form of a package, my handsome,” she said, handing him a long box that appeared from her shawl. Stile suddenly became conscious of his own apparel: the outfit of a Proton Citizen. In the rush of events he had not bothered to conjure Phaze clothing. But it hardly mattered; an Adept, like a Citizen, could wear what he pleased. “I want thee to know I had no hand in this particular mischief. The item wa
s delivered by conjuration with the message: Blue butt out. I hastened to bring it to thee, fearing further malice against thee an I delayed. My potions indicate that more than one Adept participates in this.”
She hurried back to her dragon-steed before Stile could open the package. “Wait, Yellow—I may wish to question thee about this!” Stile called. Something about the package gave him an extremely ugly premonition.
“I dare not stay,” she called back. “I would help thee if I could, Blue, for thou art a bonny lad. But I can not.” She spurred her dragon forward. The creature spread its wings and taxied along on six little legs, finally getting up to takeoff velocity. Once it was airborne, it was much more graceful. Soon it was flying high and away.
Stile unwrapped the package with a certain misgiving. It surely did not contain anything he would be glad to see. Probably it was from Clip’s captor; some evidence that the unicorn was indeed hostage, such as a hank of his blue mane.
As the package unwrapped, two red socks fell out. Clip’s socks, which could be magically removed and used separately, in the same manner as Neysa’s white socks. But there was something else in the package. Stile unwrapped it—and froze, appalled. All the others stared, not at first believing it.
It was a severed unicorn horn.
Stile’s hands began to shake. He heard the Lady Blue’s quick intake of breath. Neysa blew a note of purest agony.
Slowly Stile lifted the horn to his mouth. He blew into the hollow base. The sound of an ill-played saxophone emerged. It was definitely Clip’s horn.
Neysa fell to the ground as if stricken by lightning. The Lady Blue dropped down beside her, putting her arms about the unicorn’s neck in a futile attempt to console her. Stile stood stiffly, his mind half numbed by the horror of it. To a unicorn, the horn was everything, the mark that distinguished him from the mere horse.
More than that, he realized, the horn was the seat of the unicorn’s magic. Without it, Clip could not change form or resist hostile spells. He would be like a man blinded and castrated—alive without joy. There could be no worse punishment.
The Herd Stallion was back in man-form. He put forth his large hand to take the horn. His eyes were blazing like the windows of a furnace, and steam was rising from him. “They dare!” he rasped, staring at the member.
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