Split Infinity (48 page)

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.