Split Infinity (29 page)

We have much in common, being all outcasts of one kind or another. Neysa was excluded from the herd because of her color—“

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

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

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

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

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

“Thou wert excluded for thy conscience!” Stile ex-claimed.

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

“Yes,” Neysa breathed sadly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ride well-“

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

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

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

“Well, I’m tenth on my age-ladder—“

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

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

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

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

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

“Double?”

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

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

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

“Thou travelest between frames—because were-wolves don’t exist on Proton?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The werewolf exchanged a glance with the unicorn.

“He really knows not,” Kurrelgyre said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sadly, she nodded.

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

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

Slowly Kurrelgyre shook his head. “We can not deny thee that. Yet we wish—“

“I must know myself,” Stile said. “The Oracle said so.”

“And the Oracle is always right,” the werewolf agreed. “We can not oppose our paltry judgment to that.”

“So I will go on a quest for myself,” Stile concluded.
 
“When I have satisfied my need-to-know, I will return to mine own frame, where there is no problem about magic. So thou needst have no fear about me turning into whatever ogre thou dost think I might. I have to return soon anyway, to get my new employment, or my tenure will expire.”

Neysa’s gaze dropped.

“Why carest thou about tenure?” Kurrelgyre inquired. “Remain here, in hiding from thine enemy; thou hast no need to return.”

“But Proton is my world,” Stile protested. “I never intended to stay here—“

The werewolf stood and drew Stile gently aside.

“Needs must I speak to thee in language unbecoming for the fair one to hear,” he said. Neysa glanced up quickly at him, but remained sitting silently by the garden.

“What’s this nonsense about unbecoming language?”

Stile demanded when they were out of Neysa’s earshot.
 
“I don’t keep secrets from—“

“Canst thou not perceive the mare is smitten with thee?” Kurrelgyre demanded. “Canst not guess what manner of question she tried to formulate for the Oracle?”

Stile suffered a guilty shock. He had compared Neysa in various ways to Sheen, yet missed the obvious one.
 
“But I am no unicorn!”

“And I am no man. Yet I would not, were I thee, speak so blithely of departure. Better it were to cut her heart quickly, cleanly.”

“Uh, yes. No,” Stile agreed, confused. “She—we have been—I assumed it was merely a courtesy of the form. I never thought—“

“And a considerable courtesy it is,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “I was careless once myself about such matters, until my bitch put me straight.” He ran his fingers along an old scar that angled from his shoulder dangerously near the throat. Werewolves evidently had quite direct means of expressing themselves. “I say it as should not: Neysa is the loveliest creature one might meet, in either form, and no doubt the most constant too. Shamed would I have been to lay a tooth on her, ere thou didst halt me. Considering the natural antipathy that exists between man and unicorn, as between man and were-wolf and between unicorn and werewolf, her attachment to thee is a mark of favor most extreme. Unless—chancest thou to be virginal, apart from her?”

“No.”

“And most critical of all: canst thou touch her most private parts?”

Stile reddened slightly. “I just told thee—“

“Her feet,” Kurrelgyre said. “Her horn. No stranger durst touch a unicorn’s magic extremities.”

 
“Why yes, I-“

“Then must it be love. She would not else tolerate thy touch. Mark me, friend: she spared thee, when she learned thou wert Adept, because she loved thee, and therein lies mischief with her herd. Thou canst not lightly set her aside.” He touched the scar near his throat again.

“No,” Stile agreed fervently, thinking again of Sheen.
 
He had always had a kind of personal magnetism that affected women once they got to know him, though it was usually canceled out by the initial impression his size and shyness made. Thus his heterosexual relation-ships tended to be distant or intimate, with few shades between. But with that situation went a certain responsibility: not to hurt those women who trusted them-selves to him.

He remembered, with another pang of nostalgia, how the jockey girl Tune had stimulated his love, then left him. He had never been able to blame her, and would not have eschewed the affair had he known what was coming. She had initiated him into a world whose dimension he had hardly imagined before. But he did not care to do that to another person. He had no concern about any injury from Neysa; she would never hurt him. She would just quietly take herself away, and off a mountain ledge, and never transform into a firefly. She would spare him, not herself. It was her way.

Kurrelgyre’s question was valid: why couldn’t Stile remain here? There was a threat against his life, true—but he had fled Proton because of that, too. If he could nullify that threat in this frame—well, there were appeals to this world that rivaled those of the Game.