Split Infinity

CHAPTER 18 - Oath

They tried it and it worked: Hulk passed through the curtain. He stood amazed and gratified, looking around at the forest. It was dawn; Sheen had managed to hold Stile for more like eighteen hours, the last half of which was sleeping. Well, he had been in dire need of the rest, and she had treated him with assorted minor medical aids including a restorative heat lamp, so that he really felt much better now.

“I never saw anything so beautiful,” Hulk said, gazing at the brightening world.

“Yes, it is that,” Stile agreed. He had tended to for-get the sheer loveliness of this land, when involved in other things. If all else were equal, he would prefer Phaze to Proton, for its natural beauty.

Hulk had brought along a costume, per Stile’s advice. Now he watched Stile getting into his own. “Are you sure—?”

“That ordinary people wear clothes here? I’m sure. Another thing: the language differs slightly. You have to-“

He was interrupted by a sudden loud hissing. A smoke-exhaling serpent rose up, flapping its wings menacingly. It was a small dragon.

Stile backed off warily, but the dragon followed, sensing compatible prey. One spell could have banished it, but its fiery breath made a sword uncertain. In any event. Stile no longer had his sword. He retreated farther.

“Let me try my beast-man ploy,” Hulk said. He jumped forward, bellowed incoherently to get the dragon’s attention, then raised both arms in a dramatic muscleman pose. It was extraordinarily impresssive. He had spent years perfecting a body that was a natural marvel. He danced about, beating his chest and growling. He looked altogether, foolishly menacing.

The dragon turned tail and napped off, whimpering.

Stile dissolved in laughter.

Hulk abated his antics, smiling. “That was fun. You often don’t need to fight, if you just look as if you’d like to. Was that thing really what it looked like?”

“Yes. This really is a land of fantasy. When you struck that pose, you looked like an ogre.”

“Literal ogres exist here?”

“I believe they do. I’ve never actually seen one, but I’m sure that’s the correct analogy.”

Hulk looked dubiously at his costume, then started putting it on. “I didn’t really believe in the magic aspect. I thought it might be matter transmission and odd effects.”

“I had the same problem, at first. But it is better to believe; magic can kill you, here.”

“I’ll take my chances. It’s like another aspect of the Game, with its special subset of rules. But it puts me in doubt what to do here. I don’t know the first thing about magic.”

“Most people don’t practice it,” Stile said. “But you do have to be aware of it, and there are certain conventions. Maybe you’d better come with me, until you catch on. I’m going to the Blue Demesnes.”

“What would I do in colorful demesnes? I know even less about courtly manners than I do about magic, and if Sheen’s suspicions about your Lady are correct, I should not be a witness.”

“You might serve as my bodyguard.”

Hulk laughed. “Since when do you need a body-guard? You can beat anyone in your weight class in general combat, regardless of age.”

“Here opposition doesn’t necessarily come in my weight class. It comes in yours. Someone is trying to kill me, sending things like demon monsters after me. I would feel easier if a good big man were keeping an eye out. You are conversant with hand weapons—“

“All part of the Game,” Hulk agreed.

“You could play dumb, like a monster, until you picked up the ways of this world, then go out on your own. You can cross back to Proton any time, too, by making a spell to pass you through the curtain.”

“You have some status in this world? So it wouldn’t look strange to have a brute bodyguard?”

“It seems I do. Or will achieve it shortly. If I survive the efforts of my anonymous enemy. So I’d really appreciate it if you—“

“You are a generous man. Stile. You do me a favor in the guise of asking for one.”

Stile shrugged. Hulk was no fool. “I’ll tell people I removed a thorn from your paw. But don’t consider it too much a favor. There is danger. You could get killed, associating with me.”

“I could get killed just running the marathon! Let’s go.”

They went. Stile led the way north as the sun cleared the forest and angled its fresh bright shafts between the branches, seeking the ground. They trotted across the opening fields toward the Blue Demesnes. As the castle came into view, a sun ray reflected from its highest turret in brilliant blue. This too. Stile thought, had to be added to the class of most beautiful things. Then he paused. “Do you hear it. Hulk?”

Hulk listened. “Ground shaking. Getting louder.”

“I don’t know whether dragons stampede or whether they have earthquakes here. We’d better hurry.”

They hurried. As they crossed the plain around the castle they saw it; a herd of animals charging toward the same object.

“Look like wild horses,” Hulk said.

“Unicorns. What are they doing here?”

“A whole herd? Could be coming to the aid of one of their number. Wild animals can be like that.”

“Neysal” Stile cried. “If something happened to her-“

“We had better get over there and see,” Hulk said.

“I should never have let Sheen delay me!”

“I doubt you had much choice in the matter, and we both did need the rest. Is Sheen really a robot?”

“She really is. Not that it makes much difference.”

“And Neysa really is a horse—a unicorn who turns into a woman?”

“That too. And a firefly. You will see it soon enough —if all is well.” Stile was increasingly nervous about that.

They ran, moving into the marathon pace. Neither man was in condition for it, because this was too soon after the real one they had run. But this was not to be the full course. They approached the Blue Demesnes.

But the unicorns were moving faster. Now their music sounded across the field, like a percussion-and-wind orchestra. In the lead was a great stallion whose tone was that of a fine accordion; on the flanks were lesser males whose horns were muted or silent. Evidently unicorns were not gelded, they were muted in public. In the center ran the mass of mature mares, carrying the burden of the melody. The stallion would play the theme, and the mares would reiterate it in complex harmonies. It was an impressive charge, visually and sonically.

Now, from the west appeared another group, dark and low to the ground, moving faster than the unicorns. Stile struggled to make it out. Then he heard the baying of a canine-type, and understood. “Wolves! Probably werewolves!” he cried.

“I am ignorant of conventions here, apart from what Sheen told me of what you had told her,” Hulk puffed. “But is such convergence of herd and pack usual?”

“Not that I know of,” Stile admitted. “It could be Kurrelgyre, returning with friends—but I don’t see why. Or it could be the pack leader Kurrelgyre went to kill; if he were victorious, and sought revenge on the person who helped Kurrelgyre—I don’t know. They certainly look grim.”

“Werewolves and unicorns are natural enemies?”

“Yes. And both are normally unfriendly to man. Kurrelgyre and Neysa learned to get along, but—“

“Now I’m no genius and this is not my business, but it strikes me that the arrival of these two forces at this time strains coincidence. Could this relate to you? If there were some alert, some way they would be aware of the moment you re-entered this frame—“

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Stile said. “You see, I’m a natural magician in this frame—a focus of much power. But I have sworn off magic.”

“And your frame-wife would like you to break that oath,” Hulk said. “So you can preserve the Blue Demesnes from further harm. And the animals would want you to keep your oath, so you will not become anathema to them. These two types of animals may just be united—against you. You were not joking about needing a bodyguard!”

“You catch on rapidly,” Stile agreed.

The two of them picked up speed though both were tiring, in an effort to reach the castle before either herd or pack. But it soon became evident that they would not succeed. The unicorn herd would arrive first, then the wolves.

Now the wolf pack veered, orienting on Stile instead of the castle. There seemed to be ninety or a hundred of them, large dark animals with heavy fur and gleaming eyes and teeth that showed whitely with their panting. “I hope, despite my reasoning, that they’re on our side,” Hulk said, slowing to a walk.

The wolves ringed them. One came forward, and shifted into man-form. A fresh scar ran across one cheek, and his left ear was missing. But it was Stile’s friend.

“Kurrelgyre!” Stile exclaimed. “Thou wast victorious!”

“That was not in question, once thou hadst shown me the way,” the werewolf replied. He peered at Hulk. “This monster-man—friend or foe?”

“Friend,” Stile said quickly.

“Then I sniff tails with thee, ogre,” Kurrelgyre said, extending his hand to Hulk.

“Sure,” Hulk agreed awkwardly, taking the hand. He seemed to be having some trouble believing the trans-formation he had just seen.

“Hulk is from the other frame,” Stile said quickly.

“My bodyguard. He doesn’t talk much.” And he flashed Hulk a warning glance. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I fear I wronged thee inadvertently,” the werewolf said. “I returned to my pack, but could not kill my sire without first explaining why—“

“You killed your—“ Hulk began, startled.

Kurrelgyre turned, half-shifting into wolf-form. “Thou addressest me in that derogatory mode and tone?” he growled.

“He knows not our ways!” Stile cried. “Even as I did not, at first, and thou didst have to set me straight. He meant thee no offense.”

The werewolf returned all the way to man-form. “Of course. I apologize for mistaking thy intent,” he said to Hulk. “It remains a sensitive matter, and in a certain respect thou resemblest the type of monster that—“

“He understands,” Stile said. “We all make errors of assumption, at first. Why shouldst thou not explain to thy sire? It was the kindest thing thou couldst do for one already ill to death.”

Hulk nodded, beginning to understand. A mercy killing. Close enough.

“I came to my sire’s den,” Kurrelgyre said grimly. “He met me in man-form, and said, ‘Why comest thou here? This place is not safe for thee, my pup.’ I replied, *I come to slay thee, as befits the love I have for thee, my sire, and the honor of our line. Then will I avenge mine oath-friend Drowltoth, and restore my bitch to prominence in the pack.’ Hardly did he betray his dignity, or yield to the ravage of distemper I perceived in him; in that moment he stood as proud as I remembered him of old. T knew thou wouldst thus return in honor,’ he said. ‘How didst thou come to accept what must be done?’ I told him, ‘A man persuaded me, even as the Oracle foretold.’ And he asked, ‘Who was this good man?’ and I replied, ‘The Blue Adept,’ and he asked, ‘How is it that an Adept did this thing for thee?’

I said, ‘He was dead, and his double comes from the other frame to restore his demesnes.’ Then my sire looked beyond me in alarm, and I turned and discovered that others of the pack had come up silently during my distraction, and overheard. Thus the pack knew that the Blue Demesnes were in flux, and the word spread quickly. And my bitch spoke, and said, ‘Of all the Adepts, Blue alone has been known to do good works among animals, and if that should change—‘ “

“But that will not change!” Stile protested.

“I tried to tell them that. But mine own kind doubted, and when the unicorns learned that Neysa was prisoner at the Blue Demesnes—“

“Prisoner! She’s not—“ But Stile had to stop. “Is she?”

“We know not. But the unicorn stallion is of imperious bent.”

“Well, if she is a prisoner, that will cease the moment I get there. But thou hast not finished thy story.”

“It is simple enough,” Kurrelgyre said. “The pack leader came, and my sire said, ‘It is time.’ We changed to wolf-form, and quickly and cleanly I tore the throat out of my sire, and knew then that I had done right, and never did I see a wolf so glad to die. I then whirled and challenged the pack leader while yet my sire’s corpse lay steaming, and my right could not be denied before the pack. The pack leader was not so eager to die. He fought, and perhaps he injured me.” Kurrelgyre smiled briefly, touching the stump of his ear. “His throat I did not tear; that were too honorable a demise for such a cur. I hamstrung him, spiked both his eyes, tore out his tongue, and drove him with bitten tail into the wilderness to die lame and blind among the monsters. It was an excellent reckoning.”

Stile concealed his reaction to this savage tale of vengeance. Perhaps he would have done something similar, in a similar circumstance. “And thy bitch is well?” he inquired, glancing at the female wolf who stood nearest.

“As well as one might be, following exile of her stud, slaughter of his oath-friend, and forced heat to the pack leader. But she will recover. I am now pack leader, and she remains my chosen; all other bitches whine before her.”

“A fitting resolution,” Stile said, hoping that Hulk had now grasped enough of the situation to avoid any further errors of manner.

“Yet she is marked,” Kurrelgyre continued. “She it was who made me see that the mare needed support.”

“Neysa,” Stile agreed. “But I assure thee—“

Now the bitch shifted to woman-form. She was pretty enough, with a wild orange flare of hair, but did look peaked. She must have had as hard a recent life as the Lady Blue, and survived it as toughly. “What mode of man art thou,” she demanded of Stile, “to trust thy female friend to the power of thy wife?”

“The Lady Blue is not my wife,” Stile protested.

“Perhaps not so long as the mare lives. I know somewhat of these things.” Surely an understatement!

“When the mare is dead, thou wilt be freed of thine oath, and practice magic—“

“No!” Stile cried.

“I tried to tell her thou wert true,” Kurrelgyre said. “No way wouldst thou harm the mare—“

“And like my wolf, innocent of the ways of the bitch,” the female werewolf finished. “The mare is of a species we honor not, as they attempt to rival us as rulers of the wilds, but she brought thee to my love, and thou hast sent him home to me and to the honor he was due. I owe the mare. I perceive the danger thou dost not. The Lady Blue knows no limits to her determination to maintain her lord’s demesnes. If thou savest not the mare, I will avenge her in the manner of an oath-friend, though there be no oath between us.”

Could she be right? Had Stile sent Neysa to her doom in the Blue Demesnes? What a colossal miscalculation! Yet Neysa could take care of herself, and the Lady was no Adept. “If she is not safe, I will avenge her myself,” Stile said. But he could not make an oath of it. Suppose the Lady Blue had—

“Others know thee not as I do,” Kurrelgyre said. “So I felt it best to be on the scene when the herd arrived, lest unwarranted blame fall on thee. Thou mayest need guidance.”

“I may indeed,” Stile agreed. What a complex situation had blown up in his brief absence!

They proceeded toward the castle. The unicorns had drawn up before its gate, their music fading out. They were waiting for Stile to arrive. There were about fifty of them, almost evenly divided between mares and lesser males, with the huge stallion in front. The stallion stood some eighteen hands high at the shoulder, more than thirty centimeters—about a foot—above Stile’s head, and all his mass was functional. A truly impressive creature.

Hulk studied the stallion with open admiration. Indeed, the two were similar, in proportion to their species.

Stile halted, for the unicorns blocked the way. The werewolves ranged beside him, grim but neutral. They were here because their new pack leader had brought them at the behest of his bitch; they were not too keen on unicorns, but also not too keen on human beings. Hulk stood back, heeding Stile’s admonishment to be silent. There was much here that was not yet properly understood.

“Dost thou seek to bar me from my heritage?” Stile asked the stallion.

The unicorn did not answer. His glance fell on Stile from an impressive elevation, bisected by the long and deadly spiraling horn. His head was golden, his mane silver, and his body a nacreous gray deepening into black fetlocks and hooves. His tail matched his mane, beautifully flowing, reflecting the light of the sun al-most blindingly. No horse ever had this coloration or this rugged splendor.

After a moment the stallion snorted: a brief accordion treble punctuated by two bass notes. One of the lesser males stepped forward, shifting shape. It was Clip, Neysa’s brother. “I helped thee at my sister’s behest,” he said. “What hast thou to say for thyself now?”

“I mean to enter that castle and see how Neysa is doing,” Stile said. But Kurrelgyre’s remarks, and the apprehension of the bitch with regard to the conflict between the unicorn mare and the Lady Blue made him queasy. Had he really betrayed his steed and friend into doom? Had Neysa suspected it when she left him?

What kind of a woman was the Lady Blue, really, and what would she do with the associate of the man who had destroyed the golem impostor? Stile had thought she would be grateful, but she certainly had not greeted him with open arms.

Yet how could he believe that his alternate self, his likeness in every respect except environment, had married a woman who would callously murder any creature who stood in her way? Had the Lady Blue shown any-thing other than a sincere and praiseworthy dedication to her late husband’s cause and memory? Yet again, if she knew that Stile alone could restore the greatness of the Blue Demesnes, hindered only by a foolish oath—

“And if she lives, what then?” Clip demanded. “The Herd Stallion demands to know.”

“What does the Herd Stallion care about Neysa?” Stile retorted, knowing that in this respect he was voicing the sentiment Clip could not voice. “She was excluded from the herd for no valid reason. She’s as pretty and fine a mare as any in the herd, I’ll warrant. She should have been bred long ago.”

Clip hesitated, understandably. He was at the moment the mouthpiece for his superior, yet his sister’s welfare was dearest to his heart and he was loath to refute Stile’s statement. “Thou hast not answered the Stallion’s question. What will ye with Neysa—if she survives the treachery of Blue?”

“Treachery of Blue!” Stile cried in sudden fury. “I am Blue!” But he felt Hulk’s hand on his shoulder, warning him to restraint. Without his magic, he could not really be the Blue Adept.

The unicorn herd faced him silently, and so did Kurrelgyre’s bitch. Stile realized it was a fair question, and a hard one. No one had actually accused the Lady of murder; the question was about Stile’s own loyalties. He was, potentially, the most powerful person here. If the Lady were exonerated, what would he do then?

“If you take Neysa into the herd, and breed her and treat her as befits a mare of quality, I welcome it. Otherwise she is welcome to stay with me, and be my honored steed, as long as she wishes.”

“And what of thine oath to her?”

“What of it?” Stile snapped.

“What of Neysa, when thou breakest that oath?”

Stile suffered another abrupt siege of wrath. “Who claims I am a breaker of oaths?”

“The Stallion claims,” Clip said with a certain satisfaction.

For a moment Stile’s anger choked off his speech. His hand went for his sword, but slapped only cloth; he had no sword now. Only Hulk’s firm, understanding hand held him back from a physical and foolish assault on the huge unicorn.

Kurrelgyre stepped forward and spoke instead. “I was with this man when the Black Adept imprisoned him, but he did no magic, though he was dying of thirst and knew that the simplest spell, such as even any one of us might do, would bring him water and freedom. He freed us from the clutch of the Yellow Adept without magic. He slew the golem of the Blue Demesnes by hand, without magic. He showed me how to regain my status in the pack, using no magic. Now he comes again to this frame—without magic. Never in my presence has he violated his oath. If the Stallion snorts other-wise, the Stallion offends me.”

The Herd Stallion’s horn nicked, glinting in the sun. He pawed the ground with one massive forehoof. The lesser males drew in to flank him, and the mares shifted position, every horn lowering to point forward. The unicorns were beautiful, garbed in their naturally bright reds, blues and greens, but they meant business.

The hairs on Kurrelgyre’s neck lifted exactly like the hackles of a wolf, though he retained man-form. His pack closed in about him, wolves and bitches alike, with an almost subvocal snarling. They were quite ready to pick a quarrel with unicorns!

“Hark,” Hulk said. He was the only one with the height and direction to see over the massed unicorns. “The Lady comes. And a small unicorn.”

Stile felt abruptly weak with relief. The Herd Stallion turned, and snorted a triple-octave chord. The herd parted, forming a channel. Now everyone could see the Lady Blue and Neysa walking from the castle gate, side by side, both healthy. There had, after all, been no trouble. No overt trouble.

The Lady was lovely. She wore a pale-blue gown, blue flower-petal slippers, and pointed blue headdress. Stile had admired her form before, but now she had flowered into matchless beauty. He had, in the past hectic hours, forgotten the impact the touch of her hands had had on him. Now, with his fear for Neysa’s safety eased, his memory came back strongly, and his knees felt warm. What a woman she was!

And Neysa—what of her? She tripped daintily along beside the Lady, her black mane and tail in perfect order, her hooves and horn shining. She was beautiful too. Stile had never seen his relationship with her in terms of choice; he had tacitly assumed she would al-ways be with him. But Neysa was more than a steed, and his association with her had been more than that of a man and animal. If he became the Blue Adept, not only would he practice the magic that she abhorred, he would take to himself the human woman. Stile and Neysa—they could not continue what had been. That disruption had been inevitable from the moment of the discovery that he could perform powerful magic. The wolves and other unicorns had understood this better than he had; they were more familiar with the imperatives of this world. Yet how could he betray Neysa?

They came to stand before Stile. Stile inclined his head, honoring formalities, though he had no notion what was about to happen. One issue had been defused;

Neysa lived. The other issue remained to be settled.

“Hello, Neysa. Hello, Lady Blue.”

The two females made a slight nod, almost together, but did not speak. The Herd Stallion snorted another chord. “Choose,” Clip said, translating.

“By what right dost thou make such demand of me?” Stile cried, reacting with half-guilty anger.

“The Stallion is responsible for the welfare of his herd,” Clip replied. “He permitted thee to use a surplus mare, an she be not abused. But now she has yielded her loyalty to thee, thou mayst not cast her aside with impunity.”

“If I cast her aside, she returns to the herd,” Stile replied, hating the words, but his caution was being overridden by his emotion. “Art thou trying to force me to do this—or not to do this?”

“An thou dost cast her aside, it is shame to the herd, and that shame must be abated in blood. Thou kespest her—or thou payest the consequence. The Stallion has so decreed.”

“The Stallion is bloated with gas,” Kurrelgyre growled. “Knows he not that he challenges the Blue Adept? With a single spell this man could banish this whole herd to the snows.”

“Save that he made an oath of no magic to my sister,” Clip retorted. “An he honors that oath, he has no need to banish any creature.”

For the first time the Lady Blue spoke. “How convenient,” she said dulcetly, as she had the first time Stile had met her.

Kurrelgyre turned on her. Stile remembered that the werewolf had left them just before this subject came up, yesterday. “What meanest thou, human bitch?”

If this were an insult—and Stile could not be sure of that—the Lady gave no sign. “Knowest thou not, wolf, that I have harbored an impostor these past ten days, lest news escape of the murder of my husband?” she demanded disdainfully. “Now another image comes, claiming to be Blue—but Blue is distinguished chiefly by his magic, the strongest in all the Land of Phaze—and this impostor performs none, as thou thyself hast testified so eloquently. Were he in sooth the alternate of my husband, he could indeed banish the herd from these demesnes; since he is not, he pleads an oath. I have no slightest doubt he has been true to his oath, and will remain true; he is in fact incapable of breaking it. He is not Blue.”

Neysa’s head swung angrily about, and she made a harmonica-snort that made the other mares’ ears perk up in mute shock. The Lady’s lips thinned. “The mare believes he is Adept. She is enamored of him. Has any other person or creature witnessed his alleged magic?”

Even Kurrelgyre had to admit he had not. “The oath was made before I met him. Yet I have no reason to doubt—“

“Without magic, thou hast no debate with the Stallion about the impostor’s choice. He shall not be with me. Let him stay with the mare he has deluded.”

Neysa’s snort seemed to have the tinge of fire. So did the Stallion’s. Stile suddenly appreciated how cleverly the Lady was maneuvering them all. Neither wolves nor unicorns really wanted Stile to show his magic, and Neysa was dead set against it—yet now all of them were on the defensive as long as he did not. And if he did perform magic—the Lady won. She needed that magic to maintain the Blue Demesnes, and she would, as Kurrelgyre’s bitch had pointed out, do anything necessary to accomplish that purpose. Again he thought; what a woman she was!

“We have galloped here for the sake of a false Adept?” Clip demanded for the Stallion. “We have al- lowed the wish-fancy of a dwarf-mare to embarrass the herd?”

Once again Stile felt the heat rising. That word dwarf, now applied to Neysa...

Kurrelgyre looked at Stile, uncertain now. “Friend, I believe in thee, in thy honor and thy power. But I can not send my pack into battle on thy behalf without some token of thy status. Thou must be released from thine oath.”

Stile looked helplessly at Neysa, who snorted emphatic negation. Stile could not blame her; his magic had accidentally sent her once to hell. Without magic he would not be able to assume the role of the Blue Adept, so would not be tempted to leave her. He knew this was not entirely selfish on her part; she feared he would be corrupted by magic. Stile was not sure her fear was unfounded; the other Adepts had certainly been corrupted to some degree, either by their magic or by the circumstance of being Adept. Yellow had to commit the atrocity of animal slavery in order to secure her position with other Adepts; Black had to go to extraordinary extremes to isolate himself. If these people did not do such things, they could be killed by others who were less scrupulous. To be Adept was to be somewhat ruthless and somewhat paranoid. Could he, as Blue, withstand those pressures? The former Blue Adept seemed to have succeeded—and had been murdered. A lesson there?

“Without magic, there is no need for battle,” Stile said. “Let the wolves and unicorns go home. Neysa and I will go our way.” Yet he was not sure he could stay away from this castle or the Lady Blue. His destiny surely lay there, and until he understood the Blue Demesnes completely he had not really honored the Oracle’s directive. To know himself, he had to know the Blue Adept.

Now the Stallion blew a medley of notes. “If thou art false, and caused this trouble for naught, needs must I slay thee,” Clip translated. “If thou art true, thou wilst betray the mare who helped thee, and needs must I avenge her. Defend thyself in what manner thou canst; we shall have an end to this insult.” And the huge unicorn stepped toward Stile.

Stile considered jumping onto the Stallion’s back and riding him, as he had the first time with Neysa. But Stile was in worse shape than he had been then, and the Stallion was more than twice Neysa’s mass. The chances of riding him were slim. But so were the chances of defeating him in honest combat—even had Stile had his rapier.

Kurrelgyre stepped between them. “What coward attacks the smallest of men, knowing that man to be unarmed and bound to use no magic?”

The Stallion’s horn swung on the werewolf. The bitch shifted into wolf-form and came at the Stallion’s off-side, snarling. But Kurrelgyre retained man-form. “Dost thou challenge the pair of us, unicorn? That were more of a fair match.”

The lesser male unicorns stepped forward—but so did the other werewolves. Two for one. “Not so!” Stile cried, perceiving needless mayhem in the making. “This is my quarrel, foolish as it may be, not thine.”

“With bad knees, fatigue from a marathon run, separated ribs, and a bruised hand—against that monster?” Hulk inquired. “This is a job for your bodyguard. I daresay a karate chop at the base of that horn would set the animal back.”

The Stallion paused. He glanced at Kurrelgyre and his bitch, then at Hulk. He snorted. “No one dares call the Herd Stallion coward,” Clip said. “But his proper quarrel is not with thee, werewolf, nor with the ogre. It is with the impostor. Let Stile confess he is no Adept, and he will be spared, and the foolish mare chastened.”

“Yes,” the Lady Blue agreed. “It were indeed folly to fight because of an impostor.”

Such an easy solution! All parties agreed on the compromise. Except for Neysa, who knew the truth, and Kurrelgyre, who believed it, and Stile himself. “I abhor the prospect of bloodshed here, but I will not confess to a lie,” Stile said firmly.

“Then show thy magic!” Clip said.

“Thou knowest mine oath—“

The Stallion snorted. Neysa looked up, startled but adamant. “Release him of his vow,” Clip translated for Stile’s benefit.

“Now wait!” Stile cried. “I will not tolerate coercion! You have no right—“

Kurrelgyre raised a cautioning hand. “I hold no great affection for this horny brute,” he said, indicating the Stallion. “But I must advise thee: he has the right, friend. He is the Herd Stallion. Even as my pack obeys me, so must his herd, and every member of it, obey him. So must it ever be, in this frame.”

The Stallion snorted again, imperatively. Slowly Neysa bowed her horn. She played one forlorn note.

“Thou art released,” the werewolf said. “Now the challenge is fair. I may no longer interfere. Use thy magic to defend thyself. Adept.”

Stile looked again at Neysa. She averted her gaze. Obviously she had been overruled. She did not like it, but it was, as the werewolf had pointed out, legitimate.

By the custom of this frame. Stile had been released. He could use his magic—and would have to, for the Stallion was bringing his horn to bear, and there was no doubting his intent; and not one wolf would come to Stile’s defense. To avoid magic now would be in effect to proclaim a lie, and that would not only cost Stile his life, it would shame those who had believed in him. He had to prove himself—for Kurrelgyre’s sake and Ney-sa’s sake as well as his own. Even though that would give the Lady the victory she had so cleverly schemed for.

But Stile was unprepared. He had not formulated any devastating rhymes, and in this sudden pressure could think of none. His magic was diffuse, uncollected without music. In addition, he didn’t really want to hurt the Stallion, who seemed to be doing a competent job of managing his herd, with the exception of his treatment of Neysa. Why should anyone believe a man who claimed to be able to do magic, but never performed? Such a claimant should be put to the proof—and that was what the Stallion was doing.

Stile saw the Lady Blue watching him, a half-smile on her face. She had won; she had forced him to prove himself. He would either manifest as the Blue Adept—or die in the manner of an impostor on the horn of the Stallion. Vindication or destruction! Beside her, Neysa remained with gaze downcast, the loser either way.

“I am sorry, Neysa,” Stile said.

Stile brought out his harmonica. Now it was a weapon. He played an improvised melody. Immediately the magic formed. The Stallion noted the aura and paused, uncertain what it was. The wolves and other unicorns looked too, as that intangible mass developed and loomed. Ears twitched nervously.

Good—this gave him a chance to figure out an applicable verse. What he needed was protection, like that of a wall. Wall—what rhymed with wall? Ball, fall, hall, tall. Unicorn, standing tall—

Abruptly the Stallion charged. Stile jumped aside. He stopped playing his harmonica and cried in a singsong:

“Unicorn Stallion, standing tall—form around this one a wall.”

Immediately he knew he had not phrased it properly; he had technically asked the unicorn to form a wall around Stile, which was backward. But the image in his mind was a brick wall two meters high, encircling the Stallion—make that six feet high, to align the measurements with the standard of this frame—and that was what formed. His music was the power, his words the catalyst—but his mind did the fundamental shaping.

A shower of red bricks fell from nowhere, landing with uncanny precision in a circle around the Stallion, now forming row on row, building the wall before their eyes. The Stallion stood amazed, not daring to move lest he get struck by flying bricks, watching himself be penned. The pack and the herd watched with similar ‘astonishment, frozen in place. Hulk’s mouth hung open; he had not believed in magic, really, until this moment.

Kurrelgyre was smiling in slow, grim satisfaction, his faith vindicated. And the Lady Blue’s surprise was the greatest of all.

Only Neysa was not discomfited. She made an “I told thee so!” snort and turned her posterior on Stile, showing that she still did not approve. But Stile was sure she did approve, secretly. Whatever this might cost her.

After a moment, Kurrelgyre hitched himself up to sit on the just-completed wall. He tapped it with his fingers, verifying its solidity, as he spoke to the unicorn inside. “Thou desirest still to match thy prowess against the magic of the Blue Adept, here in the Blue Demesnes? Note that he spares thee, thou arrogant animal, only showing his power harmlessly. He could as easily have dropped these bricks on thy bone head. Is it not meet for thee to make apology for thy doubt?”

The Stallion glared at him in stony silence. He could readily have leaped out of the enclosure, but it was beneath his dignity to try. The issue was not his jumping ability, but Stile’s magic—which had now been resolved.

“Not the Stallion’s but mine is the apology,” the Lady Blue said. “I thought this man no Adept. Now I know he is. To a fine detail, this performance is like unto that of my love. Yet—“

All heads turned to her, as she hesitated. Slowly she worked it out. “My husband was murdered by an Adept. Now an Adept in the likeness of my love comes, yet I know my love is dead. This could therefore be an impostor, claiming to hail from another frame, but more likely an Adept from this frame, using his magic to change his aspect so that none will suspect his true identity. The Adept who murdered Blue.”

Now all heads turned to Stile, the gazes of wolves and unicorns alike turning uncertain and hostile. Stile realized with a chill that he had misjudged the nature of his challenge. His real opposition was not the Stallion —it was the Lady Blue. She would not suffer even the suspicion of an impostor in these demesnes. Not any longer. Her first line of defense had been broken down; this was her second. The Lady was dangerous; he could die by the sole power of her voiced suspicions.

Neysa snorted indignantly. She was mad at Stile now, but she believed in him. Yet it was apparent that most of the others were in doubt again. The infernal logic of the Lady!

How could he refute this new challenge? There was one other person who knew his identity—but that was the Yellow Adept. Best not to bring her into this! He would simply have to present his case, and give them opportunity to verify it.

“I am not the Blue Adept. I am his alternate self, from the other frame. Anyone who is able and willing to pass through the curtain and make inquiries can ascertain my existence there. I am like Blue in all things, but lack his experience of this world. I am not an impostor, but neither am I this Lady’s husband. Call me the brother of Blue. I apologize to those of you who may have had misconceptions; it was not my intent to mislead you.” It still felt funny, using “you” in this frame, but it was the correct plural form. “Were I some other Adept, I would have little reason to masquerade as Blue; I could set up mine own Demesnes of whatever color. My power of magic is real; why should I pretend to have another form than mine own?”

The others seemed mollified, but not the Lady Blue. “I would expect a murdering Adept to arrive prepared with a persuasive story. To come as a seeming savior, destroying the golem he himself had sent, to make him-self appear legitimate. To emulate the form of magic that is Blue’s. Why should he do this? I can think of two reasons, to begin. First, this would tend to conceal the murder he committed. Second, he might covet the things that are Blue’s.”

Kurrelgyre turned to her, his brow wrinkling. “An Adept of such power could create his own estate, as impressive as this, with less complication than this.”

“Not quite,” she said tightly. “What has this estate, that a foreign Adept might covet and not be able to duplicate?”

The Lady hesitated, her color rising, but she had to answer. “It has me. It is said by some that I am fair—“

Telling point! “Fair indeed,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “Motive enough. Yet if he honors the works of Blue and maintains the premises in good order—is this not what thou wishest?”

“To accept in these Demesnes the one who murdered my love?” she demanded, flashing. “I will not yield this proud heritage to that! The false Adept may destroy me with his magic, even as he destroyed my love, but never will he assume the mantle and privilege of Blue.”

Kurrelgyre swiveled on the wall to face Stile. “I believe in thee, friend. But the Lady has a point. The magic of Adepts is beyond the fathoming of simple animals like ourselves. We can prove no necessary connection between Blue’s alternate in Proton and thyself; that double could be dead also, and thou a construct adapted by magic, emulating the mode of Blue when in truth the real power lies in some other mode. We can all be deceived, and until we are assured of thv validity—

Stile was baffled. “If neither my likeness nor my magic can convince her, and she will not take my word—“

“If I may ask two questions?” Hulk put in tentatively.

Stile laughed. “We already have more questions than answers! Go ahead and throw thine in the ring.”

“For what was the Blue Adept noted, other than his appearance and his magic?”

“His integrity,” the Lady said promptly. “Never did he tell a lie or otherwise practice deceit, ever in his whole life.”

“Never has this one told a lie,” Kurrelgyre said.

“That remains to be demonstrated,” she retorted.

The werewolf shrugged. “Only time can demonstrate that quality. Was there nothing else, subject to more immediate trial?”

“His riding,” the Lady said, brightening. “In all Phaze, only he could ride better than I. His love for animals was so great, especially horses—“ She had to stop, for her emotion was choking her.

To have the love of such a woman! Stile thought. Her husband was dead, but she still defended him with all her power. She was right: another Adept might well covet her, and not merely for her beauty, and be willing to go to extraordinary lengths to win her.

Kurrelgyre turned to Stile. “How well dost thou ride?”

“I can answer that,” Hulk said. “Stile is the finest rider on Proton. I doubt anyone in this frame either could match him on horseback.”

The Lady looked startled. “This man can ride? Bareback on an untamed steed? I should be glad to put him to that test.”

“No,” Hulk said.

She glanced at him, frowning. “Thou guardest him, ogre, by preventing him from betraying incompetence on a steed?”

“I seek only to settle the issue properly,” Hulk said. “We have seen that careless application settles nothing—such as Stile’s demonstration of magic. For all the effect it had, he might as well not have bothered. To put him to a riding test now, when he has been weakened and injured—“

“There is that,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “Yet the importance of this proof—“

“Which brings me to my second question,” Hulk said. “Is the issue really between Stile and the Lady—or between the Lady and the mare?”

Lady and mare looked at each other, startled again. “He only looks like an ogre,” Kurrelgyre murmured appreciatively. Then, to Stile: “He speaks sooth. Thy destiny must be settled by Lady and mare. They are the two with claims on thee. If thou provest thou art the Blue Adept, one of them must needs suffer. This is what brought both wolves and unicorns here.”

Stile did not like this. “But—“

The Stallion honked from his enclave. “Only the finest of riders could break the least of unicorns,” Clip translated. “This man conquered Neysa; we accept him as the Blue Adept.”

Stile was astonished at this abrupt change on the part of the Stallion. “How couldst thou know I really—“

“We saw thee,” Clip said. “We rooted for her to throw thee, but we can not claim she did. We recognize that whatever else thou art or art not, thou art indeed the finest rider of thy kind.”

“But had she turned into a firefly—“

“She would then have admitted she could not conquer thee in her natural form,” Clip said. “It matters not, now. No man ever rode like thee. The Stallion resented that, but now that he knows that was the mark of Blue—“

“I didn’t really do it by myself,” Stile said, remembering something. “I hummed, and that was magic, though I knew it not at the time. I used magic to stay on her.”

“And unicorns are immune to magic,” Clip said. “Except the magic of Adepts. Another Adept could have destroyed her, but never could he have ridden her. There is only one Adept we know of who can ride at all, and that is Blue. All this the Stallion considered before accepting thee.”

“But I do not accept thee!” the Lady flared. “The unicorns could be in league with the false Adept, to foist an impostor on the Blue Demesnes. My love was a horseman, never partial to unicorns, nor they to him, though he would treat them on occasion if they deigned to come to him. The mare could have allowed this impostor to ride—“

Clip reacted angrily, but Kurrelgyre interposed. “Didst ever thou hear it mooted. Lady, that werewolves would collude with unicorns in aught?”

“Nay,” she admitted. “The two are natural enemies.”

“Then accept this word from this were: I have come to know this mare. She did not submit voluntarily, except in the sense that she refrained from using her own magic to destroy him. He conquered her physically—and then, when she saw what manner of man he was, the kind of man you describe as your lord, he conquered her emotionally. But first he did ride.”

“Almost, I wish I could believe,” the Lady murmured, and Stile saw the agony of her decision. She was not against him; she merely had to be sure of him, and dared not make an error.

Then she stiffened. “The mare could be easier to ride than other unicorns like to think,” the Lady sniffed. “She is small, and not of true unicorn color; she could have other deficiencies.”

Neysa stomped the ground with a forefoot, but did not otherwise protest this insult.

“She has no less spirit than any in this herd,” Clip said evenly, speaking for himself now. “And even were she deficient, she remains a unicorn, a breed apart from common horses. No one but this man could have ridden her.”

The Lady looked at him defiantly. “If he could ride an animal I could not, then would I believe.”

“Therefore thou hast but to ride Neysa,” Kurrelgyre pointed out to her. “Thou hast not the magic humming he had, but the mare remains tired from her long hard ride to reach this castle yestermorn. I ran with her all the way, unburdened, and I felt the strain of that travel —and I am a wolf. So I judge the challenge equivalent. In that manner thou canst prove Stile is no better rider than thee.”

“She can’t ride the unicorn!” Stile protested.

But the Lady was nodding, and so were the unicorns and werewolves. All were amenable to this trial, and thought it fair. Neysa, too, was glancing obliquely at the Lady, quite ready to try her strength.

“I maintain that anything thou canst ride in thy health, I can ride in mine,” the Lady informed him. “There was no comparison between my lord and other men. He could have ridden a unicorn, had he so chosen.”

The Stallion snorted angrily, and Stile needed no translation. The unicorns did not believe any normal human being could ride one of them, involuntarily. They had reason. Stile himself had not guessed what a challenge Neysa would be—until he was committed. “Lady,” Stile said. “Do not put thyself to this ordeal. No one can ride Neysa!”

“No one but thee?” Her disdain was eloquent.

Stile realized that it had to be. The issue had to be settled, and this was, by general consensus, a valid test. Any choice he. Stile, made between Lady and mare would mean trouble, and it seemed he could not have both. If the Lady and the unicorn settled it themselves, he would become the prize of the winner.

Or would he? If the Lady won, the Blue Demesnes would fall, for there would be no accredited Adept to maintain them, and the news would be out. If Neysa won, there would be no Lady Blue, for she would be dead. As he would have been dead, had Neysa thrown him, that first challenge ride. It was the way of the unicorn, the way of life in Phaze, and all of them knew it, including the Lady. She was putting her life on the line. Either way, Stile lost.

With all his magic power restored to him, he was helpless to affect the outcome, or to determine his own destiny. Beautiful irony! “Know thyself,” the Oracle had said, without informing him what the knowledge would cost.

“I know this be hard for thee,” the werewolf said. “Even as it was for me to do what I had to do, when I faced my sire. Yet thou must submit to the judgment of this lot. It is fair.”

Fairl he thought incredulously. The outcome of this lot would be either death or a lie!

The lines of animals were expanding, forming a tremendous ring, bounded by the castle on one side and the magic wall on the other. The unicorns formed a half-circle, the werewolves another, complementing eachother.

Neysa stood in the center of the new ring, the Lady beside her. Both were beautiful. Stile wished again that he could have both, and knew again that he could not. When he accepted the benefits of magic, he had also to accept its penalties. How blithely he had walked into this awful reckoning! If only he had not parked Neysa at the Blue Demesnes when he returned to Proton—yet perhaps this confrontation was inevitable.

The Lady made a dainty leap, despite her flowing gown, which was no riding habit. The moment she landed, Neysa took off. From a standing start to a full gallop in one bound, her four hooves flinging up circular divots—but the Lady hung on.

Neysa stopped, her feet churning up turf in parallel scrape-lines. The Lady stayed put. Neysa took off—sidewise. And backward. The Lady’s skirt flared, but the Lady held on.

“She does know how to ride,” Hulk remarked, im-pressed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that was you, Stile, in a dress. I’ve watched you win bronco-busting in the Game.”

Stile was glumly silent. The Lady Blue could indeed ride, better than he had expected—but he knew she could not stay on the unicorn. When she fell, Neysa would kill her, if the fall itself did not. It was legitimate; it was expected. And what would he want with Neysa then?

The unicorn performed a backflip, then a four-spoked cartwheel, then a series of one-beat hops, fol-lowed by a bounce on her back. The Lady stayed on until the last moment, then jumped clear—and back on when Neysa scrambled to her feet.

Hulk was gaping. “What sort of animal is that? Those tricks are impossible!”

There was a chord-snort next to Stile. He glanced—and discovered the Herd Stallion beside him, front hooves comfortably crossed on the wall, eyes intent on the competition. “Not bad moves,” Clip translated from the far side.

Neysa whirled and leaped, spinning about in air. The Lady’s slippers flew off and her gown flung out so violently it rent; a fragment of blue gauze drifted to the ground. But her hands were locked in the unicorn’s mane, and she was not dislodged.

Neysa did a sudden barrel-roll on the ground. Again the Lady jumped free—but a tattered hem of her garment was caught under the weight of the unicorn, trapping her. As the roll continued, the Lady was squeezed by the tightening cloth. She ripped her own gown asunder and danced free, abruptly nude.

“That is some figure of a woman!” Hulk breathed. Neysa started to rise. The Lady grabbed her mane—and Neysa threw down her head on the ground, pinning the Lady’s streaming golden hair beneath it. The Lady grabbed for the unicorn’s ears, and Neysa lifted her head quickly; human hands could really hurt tender equine ears when they had to. Stile had not gone for the ears during his challenge ride; it was not his way. The Lady knew the tricks, all right! But Neysa had the end of the Lady’s tresses clamped between her teeth, now. The unicorn knew the tricks too. Human intelligence in equine form—devastating! As the Lady tried to mount again, Neysa yanked her off balance by the hair.

“Beautiful!” Clip murmured.

But the Lady grasped her own hair with one hand and jammed her other fingers into Neysa’s mouth where the bit would go on a horse. There was a separation there between the front teeth, used for ripping grass free of the ground, and the back teeth, used for chewing. Pressure in that gap could cause pain. Neysa’s mouth opened under that expert inducement, and the Lady’s hair was free. Then, as Neysa leaped away, the Lady sprang to her back again, Neysa ran—but now the Lady was free of the liabil-ity of clothing, and had a more secure lodging than before. “She’s winning!” Hulk said, obviously rooting for the Lady, forgetting in the excitement what this would mean to Stile.

Stile began to wonder. Was it possible that the Lady Blue could ride Neysa? She was, next to himself, the most expert rider he had seen.

The Stallion made an irate snort. “What’s the matter with that mare?” Clip said. “She should have wiped out the rider by this time.”

“She is torn by indecision,” Kurrelgyre said. “If Neysa loses, she proves the Lady’s belief that Stile is false. If Neysa wins, she vindicates him as the Blue Adept she wants him not to be. Would I could take from her that choice.”

Stile kept his eyes forward, but felt a shiver. The werewolf had his bitch in the pack, even as Stile had Sheen in Proton. But Kurrelgyre obviously had developed a separate interest that cut across the lines of species—even as Stile had. Yet who could know Neysa and not like her and respect her?

“Yes,” Stile agreed. He saw no acceptable outcome for this contest; whoever lost took away a major part of his own commitment. Neysa was his friend; the Lady represented his heritage. Which one was he to choose? Which one was fate about to choose for him? To choose—and eliminate, simultaneously?

“In the future, I will manage my destiny myself,” Stile muttered. And heard, to his surprise, a snort of agreement from the Stallion.

Neysa galloped so fast that her mane and the Lady’s hair flew out behind, the black and gold almost merging. Shadow and sunlight. She made turns that struck sparks from the rocks of the ground. She bucked and reared. But the Lady remained mounted.

Now the unicorn charged the castle. She hurdled the small moat with a magnificent leap, landed on her forefeet, and did her forward flip into the wall. There were growls of amazement from the wolves, and even an appreciative snort from the Stallion. Neysa was really trying now—but the Lady had been smart enough to disengage in time. When the unicorn’s hind feet re-turned to the ground, the Lady was on again.

They hurdled the moat, outward bound, and charged across the arena toward the magic brick wall. Now Stile saw the fire jetting from Neysa’s nostrils and the bellows-heaving of her barrel as she put forth her critical effort. The Lady was almost hidden, as she rode low, her head down beside Neysa’s neck.

Stile watched in growing disquiet as the unicorn’s horn bore on the wall. Stile was directly in its path; he saw the horn endwise, as a compressed spiral on Neysa’s forehead, coming at him like the point of a rotary drill. Her eyes were wide and turning bloodshot, and her flaring nostrils were rimmed with red. Neysa was near her limit—and still the Lady clung fast. Stile felt mixed relief for the Lady, sorrow for the unicorn, and apprehension for himself; he was at the focus of this agony.

Then Neysa swerved aside, kicking up her rear. Her flank smashed into the wall, knocking loose the top row of bricks and breaking the mortar-seal on several lower courses. She rebounded, getting her footing, breathing fire—and the Lady was clinging to her side, away from the wall. Otherwise the Lady’s leg would have been crushed—and Stile himself might have been struck, as he had been too absorbed in the charge to move out of its way. Only the curvature of the wall and Neysa’s swerve had spared him. Stile caught a glimpse of the Lady’s neck, shoulder and breast behind one blood- streaked arm; then steed and rider were away, prancing to the center of the arena.

The Stallion shook a brick off his back. Neither he nor Kurrelgyre had flinched, either. All three of them were powdered with reddish brick dust. But some of that red was sticky: whose blood was it?

“They’re playing for keeps,” Hulk murmured, awed.

“It is the way, in Phaze,” Kurrelgyre assured him.

But now Neysa was tiring. She had extended herself for a day and a night to bring Stile here, and the intervening day had not been enough to restore her to full vitality. Her maneuvers were becoming less extreme. Her brushoff pitch against the wall had been her last fling. The Lady’s head lifted, her gaze triumphant—and at the same time her mouth was sad. Had she, in her secret heart, wanted Stile to be vindicated, though it cost her her life? What kind of existence did this indomitable woman face with her husband gone, and her vulnerability now known to the world? Had she lost, she would have been dead—but would have died with the knowledge that the Blue Demesnes would survive.

Then, desperately, without real hope, Neysa experimented with alternate gaits. The one-, two-, three-, and four-beat gaits gave the Lady no trouble—but evidently she had not before encountered the unicorn specialty of the five-beat. Immediately Neysa felt the uncertainty in her rider; she picked up the pace, exaggerating the peculiar step. Her strength returned, for this last fling.

“What is that?” Hulk asked, amazed.

The Stallion snorted with satisfaction. “That is the unicorn strut,” Clip answered. “We use it mostly in special harmonies, for counterpoint cadence. We had no idea she could do it so well.”

Suddenly the tables had been turned. The Lady clung to the mane, but her body bounced about with increasing roughness, unable to accommodate this unfamiliar motion. Stile knew exactly how it felt. Riding was not simply a matter of holding on; the rider had to make constant adjustments of balance and position, most of them automatic, based on ingrained experience. A completely unfamiliar gait made these automatic corrections only aggravate the problem. Stile himself had analyzed the gait in time, but the Lady-One of the Lady Blue’s hands tore away from the mane. Her body slid half off. One good lunge, now, and Neysa would dump her. “Kill her!” Clip breathed.

Abruptly Neysa halted. The Lady recovered her grip, hung on for a moment—then released the mane and slid to the ground. The ride was over.

“The little fool!” Clip exclaimed. “She had the win! Why didn’t she finish it?” And the Stallion snorted in deep disgust.

“She has forfeited her place in the herd,” Kurrelgyre said sadly. “In thy parlance, she threw the game.”

Stile jumped off the wall and walked toward the unicorn and Lady, who both stood as if frozen, facing away from each other. As he walked, understanding came to him. Stile played his harmonica as he worked it out, gathering the magic to him.

Neysa, after the specter of defeat, had had the victory in range. But Neysa wanted Stile’s welfare more than she wanted her own. She had finally, unwillingly, recognized the fact that he could fulfill his destiny only as the Blue Adept, complete with magic. Once she had proven that he alone could ride the unicorn, what could she gain by killing or even humbling the Lady—who was his natural mate? Neysa had ceded him to the Lady, so that he could have it all, knowing himself and his Demesnes exactly as the Oracle had decreed. She had understood that he was already half-smitten with his alternate’s wife, and understood further that the Lady Blue was indeed worthy of him.

Neysa had sacrificed her own love for Stile’s. She had shown the one person she had to, the Lady Blue, that Stile was no impostor; wolves and unicorns could doubt it if they wished, but the Lady could not. For Stile had mastered the unicorn strut without being thrown; he really was the better rider. That was Neysa’s gift to Stile. And he—had to accept it. Neysa was his ultimate steed, but the Lady was his ultimate woman. He hardly knew her yet, but he knew his other self would have chosen wisely, and everything he had observed so far confirmed this. He also knew his alternate self of Phaze would have wanted Stile to take over—for the Blue Adept was him, in other guise.

The Lady Blue, however, was not yet his woman. Stile had merely qualified for the Tourney, in this sense, and had won the right to court her. He would have to prove himself in other ways than magical and in riding ability, showing that he was worthy of her love. He would have to demonstrate convincingly to her that he was as good as her husband had been. Perhaps he would not succeed, for she was so steadfastly loyal to her first love that a second love might be impossible. But in the interim, he knew she would accept him as the master of the Blue Demesnes, and support him publicly as she had the golem—for the sake of the reputation and works of Blue. That was all he had a right to expect. It was, for the moment, more than enough.

It was Neysa he had to deal with. She who had made it all possible—and now would go, excluded from the herd, departing in shame to fling herself off the same cliff where they had first come to terms. She had lived always with the hope that eventually the Herd Stallion would relent and allow her full membership in the herd. He would have, had she destroyed the Lady in approved fashion. But for a creature who yielded a draw in a contest she could have won, shaming the vanity of the herd, there would be no forgiveness. The rigors of species pride were harsh.

Stile had, in the naivete of his conscience, turned Neysa loose when he had conquered her, making a sacrifice no other man would have—and won a better friend than he had known. Now she had returned the favor.

Stile’s head turned as he walked, his gaze passing over the unicorns and werewolves. All were somber, watching him, knowing what had to be, knowing this was his parting with his most loyal friend. They felt sympathy for him, and for the mare, and it was a minor tragedy, but this was the way of it—in Phaze.

Damn it! he thought. He was not truly of this world, and this proved it. He had been raised to a different order of integrity, where blood sacrifices were not re-quired. How could he tolerate this senseless loss? Yet he knew it was not senseless, here. The laws of this society were harsh but valid.

The magic gathered close as he played. The strange cloud of it spread about him—and, as he approached, about the Lady and the unicorn. But what good was magic, in an ethical dilemma? What spell could he make, to eliminate the need for what he knew had to be?

Stile came to stand before Neysa, playing the music that had been inspired by the sound of her horn. Her body was heaving with the recent extremity of her effort. Her mane was disheveled, with dry leaves in it and several strands hanging over the left side. There were flecks of blood on her back; she must have scratched herself when she did the back-smash against the castle wall. He wished he could make a little spell to heal it for her, but knew this was not proper now.

Her gaze met his, dully; she was waiting only for him to bid her farewell.

File-well? What irony! It was death he would bid her.

This reminded Stile obscurely of his race in the marathon, in the other frame. He had been almost dead on his feet, as Neysa was now, but he had won—as she had—and then tried to give it back to an opponent he respected. Again, he had made a friend. Surely he could salvage his relationship with Neysa, if only he had the wit to find the way!

What had the werewolf said about oaths? They superseded all relationships, conflicting with none, not even the male-female ones. Kunrelgyre’s oath-friend could do no wrong by Kurrelgyre’s bitch; the oath made that irrelevant. The marathon. The oath. What had passed through his mind, when ... ?

And he had it.

Stile set the harmonica aside. With the magic intense about him, he sang with impromptu melody: “My name is Stile, called the Blue Adept; Standing before thee I proffer mine oath: To the unicorn Neysa, companion and steed—Friendship forever, uniting us both.”

For an instant it was as if a dense cloud had darkened the sun. A sudden, odd, insweeping breeze rustled the distant trees and fluttered the blue pennants on the castle and stirred the manes and hackles of the animals.

Neysa’s eyes widened. Her ears switched back and forth as comprehension came. She phased into girl-form, equine-form, firefly-form and back to unicorn, entirely nonplused.

The ripple of enchantment imploded about the two of them in soft heat, then rebounded outward in a circle. The turf changed color, passing through the hues of the rainbow and back to normal in a swiftly expanding ring. The ripple intersected the naked Lady, whose tangled hair scintillated momentarily, and went on, leaving that hair smoothly brushed.

The Lady turned, “Only perfect truth makes such splash,” she murmured. “Only my lord had such power of magic.”

Stile spread his arms. Neysa, overwhelmed, stepped forward, her horn lifted clear. Stile reached around her neck and chest and hugged her. “Never leave me, oath-friend,” he murmured. He heard her low whinny of assent, and felt her velvet nuzzle at his shoulder. Then he disengaged and stepped back.

The Lady Blue came forward. She put her arms about Neysa. “Never again be there strife between us,” she said, tears in her eyes. Neysa made a tiny snort of acceptance.

Now the wolves and unicorns came in, forming a ragged line, heedless of the mixing of species. In turn, each wolf sniffed noses with Neysa and each unicorn crossed horns, and went on. All of them were joining in the Oath of Friendship. Even her brother Clip came, and Kurrelgyre, and Hulk. Neysa accepted them all.

It was. Stile knew, the power of his spell. When he had phrased his oath in verse and music, he had performed magic—and wrought a greater enchantment than he had anticipated. The spell he had envisioned, though not completed in words, had flung outward to embrace the entire circle of creatures, compelling them all to share Stile’s feeling. Neysa would not now be banned from the herd—or from the pack. She was friend to all. But she would remain with Stile, having accepted his power with his oath.

Only the Herd Stallion stood apart. He alone had resisted the compulsion of the enchantment. He did not interfere; he waited within his enclosure until the ceremony was over. Then he blew a great summoning blast of music and leaped over the wall. It had never truly restrained him; it had merely been the proof of the power of the Blue Adept, which power could as readily have been turned to a more destructive manifestation. Once the Herd Stallion had seen Stile was no impostor, his objection had ended. Now the unicorns rallied to him, galloping to form their formation. Playing as a mighty orchestra, they marched away.

Kurrelgyre shifted to wolf-form and bayed his own summons. His faith had also been vindicated, and his bitch had been satisfied. The wolves closed in about him, and the pack loped away in the opposite direction.

In a moment only Stile, Neysa, the Lady Blue and Hulk remained by the Blue Demesnes.

Stile turned to the woman he would now be dealing with. Nothing was settled, either with her or with his anonymous murderer, or in the other frame. But it was a beginning. “Lady, wilt thou ride my steed?” he asked. There was no need to ask Neysa; as a friend she would do anything for him, and he for her. By the phrasing of his invitation, he was acknowledging that he had as yet only a partial claim on the Lady, and could not take her for granted. She was a challenge, not a friend.

The Lady Blue inclined her head, as regal in her nakedness as she had been in the gown. Lightly she mounted Neysa. Stile walked on one side. Hulk on the other. Together they approached the open castle.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

It was not necessary, in England in 1934, to name a baby instantly; there was a grace period of a number of days. As the deadline loomed, the poor woman simply gave all the names she could think of: Piers Anthony Dillingham Jacob. The child moved to America, where it took three years and five schools to graduate him from first grade, because he couldn’t learn to read. It was thus fated that he become a proofreader, an English teacher, or a writer. He tried them all, along with a dozen other employments—and liked only the least successful one. So he lopped off half his name, sent his wife out to earn their living, and concentrated on writing. That was the key to success; publishers would print material by an author whose name was short enough.

He sold his first story in 1962 and had his first novel, Chthon, published in 1967. His first fantasy in The Magic of Xanth Trilogy, A Spelt/or Chameleon, won the August Derleth Fantasy Award as the best novel in 1977. He has written ap-proximately forty novels in the genres of science fiction, fan-tasy, and martial arts.

He was married in 1956, right after graduating from college, to Carol Ann Marble. Their daughter Penny was born eleven years later, and their final daughter Cheryl in 1970. That was the beginning of a whole new existence, because little girls like animals. In 1978 they bought nine horses, and that experience, coupled with knee injuries in judo class, became Split Infinity. Piers Anthony is not the protagonist—he says he lacks the style—but Penny’s horse Blue is the mundane model for the unicorn Neysa.