“Aye.” She looked at him questioningly. He was not reacting as her experience of him in two selves had led her to expect.
“Then I will not die until I have given thee thy son. Allow me to wait until I have disposed of the Red Adept, that I may have child and life with thee.”
Her lovely face was transformed by realization. “Yes! Thou must survive! There be no guarantee that thou mayest live one day after thou dost sire a child, unless the threat to thy life be abated before.”
That seemed to be the trap fate had set, the thing that would have made their union brief. Not her change of heart, but his death. Stile’s pause for thought could have saved his life.
But then the Lady Blue thought of something else. “Except that thou art not married to me. If thou dost desist, it may be fated that some other man—I loathe the thought!—will marry me and sire my son. It must be thee, I will not have it otherwise, and therefore—”
How fate wriggled to snare him anyway! Stile had almost missed that loophole. “That is readily solved,” he said. He took her hands in his. “Lady of the Blue Demesnes, I beg thy hand in marriage.”
“Thou dost not say thou lovest me,” she complained.
“In good time.”
She fought him no longer. “I grant my hand and my heart to thee in marriage,” she agreed, radiant.
They went outside. Neysa had returned from her mission, somehow knowing what was in the offing. “My friend,” he said to the unicorn. “I have proposed marriage to the Lady, and she has accepted my suit. Wilt thou be witness to this union?”
Neysa blew a single loud note on her horn. Immediately the wolfpack gathered, the werewolves charging in from all directions. Kurrelgyre changed to man-form. “The mare informs us thou hast won the Lady at last!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations!”
Stile marveled again at how much a unicorn could convey in one note. Then the wolves formed a circle, and Kurrelgyre stood before the couple, and Neysa stood between them in her natural form. There was no doubt in any creature what was happening. “By the authority vested in me as leader of the Pack, I perform this ceremony of mating,” Kurrelgyre said. “Neysa, as friend to each party, dost thou bear witness that this contract be freely sought by this man and this bitch?”
Neysa made a musical snicker.
“This mare—I mean, this woman,” the werewolf said quickly, finally getting it straight. The Lady Blue smiled; well she knew that the appellation “bitch” was no affront in the mouth of a wolf.
Now Neysa blew an affirmative note.
“Wolves and bitches of my pack, do you bear witness to the validity of this contract?” Kurrelgyre inquired rhetorically.
There was a general growl of assent, admixed by a yip or two of excitement. They were enjoying this.
“Then I now proclaim the two of you man and mate. Wife,” Kurrelgyre said solemnly. Neysa stepped out from between them.
Stile and the Lady came together. Stile held her at half-distance one more moment. She remained in her blue dress, ordinary daywear, but she was the loveliest creature he could imagine. “Thee … Thee … Thee,” he said. Then he kissed her.
The shimmer of the oath surrounded them, stirring the Demesnes and touching the fur of the animals and momentarily coloring the grass. For a sweet eternity he embraced her, and when it ended she was in a light blue wedding dress, and a magic sparkle emanated from her.
“Now must I depart to brace the Red Adept,” Stile announced as they separated.
Astonishment was manifest among Neysa and all the wolves. There were growls and yips of confusion, and Neysa blew a volley of startled notes. “Not right at this hour!” Kurrelgyre protested. “Tomorrow, mayhap—”
“Right this minute,” Stile said, vaulting to Neysa’s back. “I shall see thee anon, wife.”
“Anon,” she agreed, smiling.
Neysa, responsive to his unspoken directive, set off at a canter eastward, toward the Red Demesnes.
When they were well clear of the Castle, Neysa blew an insistent note of query. Stile laughed. “Since thou wilt have it from me at the point of thy horn if I tell thee not, I will answer. The Oracle told the Lady ‘None by One, Son by Two.’ Now I be Two, her second husband, and—”
Neysa’s laughter pealed musically forth. How readily she understood! How many Adepts could arrange the Oracle’s assurance that they would survive a life-and-death encounter to sire a son? Stile had cleverly made the prophecy work for him.
As they settled into the hours of travel, Stile concentrated on his spells. He needed a variety of general-purpose defenses and counters. He should survive this encounter, but he had no guarantee that he would win it. He could emerge crippled or blind, able to sire a son but then unable to live in health and independence. Oracle prophecies tended to be slippery, and he had to be on guard against some loophole he had not anticipated. Yet he understood why such predictions were often devious. A person fated to die at a certain place at a certain time would strive to avoid that situation if he could, so the prophecy would be self-negating if clearly stated. Absolute clarity and hundred percent accuracy could not always be simultaneously accommodated, by the very nature of it. Also, there could be a certain flexibility in a situation; a man could die in a dozen different ways, or survive at an expense worse than death. The Oracle had to make a brief statement that covered all prospects, and that was often necessarily ambiguous. So Stile fully intended to fight for the best possible interpretation of this particular prediction. The Oracle had not truly pronounced his fate; it had merely defined the broadest parameters. Interpretation was the essence of his specific fate.
Send this spell straight to Hell, he thought, careful not to vocalize. Would that work against an amulet? It should, if he willed it properly. As he understood it, from his limited experience, an amulet was a solidified spell, quiescent until invoked. Some, like the healing or clothing amulets, worked on a slow, sustained basis. Others, like the throttle-demon, took a few seconds to achieve full strength. Just so long as he had time enough to sing a prepared counterspell. Maybe he could work out a number of easy variants that would lack full force but would suffice in a pinch. Send this spell into a dell, make this spell into a smell, make this spell fail to jell, banish this spell when I yell—all doggerel, but that was the way his magic worked. What he considered real poetry, where form, style and significance were more important than rhyme or meter, took time to create, and he was not sure how much time he would have. There was some evidence that better verse had more potent effect, for he deemed his verse-form oath of friendship to Neysa to have been a cut above doggerel—but he hardly had need of such potency in routine magic. So he kept working out his cheap spot rhymes, hoping to cover every contingency.
They passed the Unolympic site, now deserted. “Thou didst put on a fine show, Neysa,” Stile murmured. “Thou didst do credit to thy Herd.” And she snorted contentedly. Winning was less important to her than recognition of her right to compete.
They were nearing the Red Demesnes by nightfall. Stile considered where they might camp, since he did not want to engage his enemy by night. There were too many imponderables. He could conjure a suitable shelter, but hesitated to employ his magic here. The Red Adept might be alert to magic in the vicinity, and he wanted his arrival to be as much of a surprise as possible.
But Neysa was already zeroing in on a location. She drew up before a large cave and blew a note. Bats sailed out of it to swirl around the visitors. Then they dropped to the ground and converted to men and women.
“The vampires!” Stile exclaimed. “I didn’t realize they lived here!” But obviously Neysa had known; that was another reason he needed her along.
One came forward. It was Vodlevile, the one who had come to Stile during the Unolympics. “Adept! How goes my friend Hulk?”
Wrong question! “Alas, he was murdered in Proton-frame,” Stile said. “I seek vengeance of the Red Adept.”
“Dead?” the vampire asked, shocked. ?
??But I met him only so recently! He was the nicest ogre I knew!”
“He was that,” Stile agreed. “Red killed him, in lieu of me.”
Vodlevile frowned. Now the cutting edges of his teeth showed. “We have ever lived at peace with Red. She never helped us, but hindered us not. I dared not make petition to her for a charm for my son, for fear she would simply claim my son. We hold Adepts in low esteem. Thou art the first who helped. And Yellow, because of thee.” He lifted his hand, and a small bat fluttered down to be caught. “My son,” Vodlevile said proudly.
Stile nodded. “I was glad to do it. May we camp here the night?”
“Indeed. Our resources are at thy disposal. Dost thou wish to join our evening repast?”
“I think not, meaning no offense. Thy ways are not mine, and this is my wedding night, which I must spend alone. Also, I would not wish to cause thy kind trouble with the Adept, should she survive me; best that it be not known I dallied here.”
“Thy wedding night—alone! Thou’rt correct—our ways are not thine! We shall honor thy desire to be alone, and shall see that none intrude on thee.”
So it was that Stile found himself ensconced in a warm cave guarded by bloodthirsty bats. He certainly felt secure here; very few creatures would even attempt to intrude, for fear the vampires would suck their blood.
Neysa brought him some fruit she found, then went outside to graze. She slept while grazing at night; Stile had never quite figured out how she did that, but was used to it by now.
Before he slept, feeling extraordinarily lonely, Stile looked up to spy a small bat fluttering in. There was a manner of skulking about it. It converted to a lad about six years old. “Adept, I am not supposed to bother thee—but can I talk a moment?” the boy asked hesitantly.
“Thou’rt the one the potion helped,” Stile said, making an educated guess. “Welcome; I am glad to converse with thee.”
The lad smiled gratefully. “My father would cut off my blood, if he knew I bothered thee. Please don’t tell him.”
“Not a word,” Stile agreed. Children did not take adult rules as seriously as they took the prospect of punishment. “I’m glad to see thee flying.”
“It was Yellow’s potion, but thy behest, my father says. I owe thee—”
“Nothing,” Stile said quickly. “Thy father repaid any favor that might have been owing. He helped me match the unicorn Herd Stallion.”
“Yet thou didst lose, he says,” the lad insisted. “His help was not enough.”
“My skill was not enough,” Stile said. “All I wanted was a fair match, with shame on neither party. That I had. The unicorn was the better creature.”
The lad had some trouble grasping this. “In a pig’s eye—my father says. He says thou dost give away more than can ever be repaid, and dost gain more than can ever be reckoned thereby. Does that make sense?”
“None at all,” Stile said cheerfully.
“Anyway, methinks I owe thee, for that thou madest my life complete. Yet I know not what favor I can do thee.”
“Thou dost need do none!” Stile insisted. Then he saw that the lad was near tears. The vampire child was serious, and wanted to repay his debt as he perceived it. “Uh, unless—” Stile thought fast. “There is much I do not know, yet I am most curious about things. Canst thou keep an eye or an ear out for what might be of use to me, and tell me when thou findest it? Perhaps a sick animal I might heal, or something pretty I might fetch for my Lady.” Stile smiled reminiscently, and a little sadly. “Fain would I give my love something nice.”
The lad’s eyes brightened, and his little bloodsucking tusks showed cutely. “I’ll look, Adept!” he exclaimed happily. “Something important, something nice!” He changed to bat-form and zoomed from the cave.
Stile lay down again to sleep, satisfied. The lad would have a happy quest, until he forgot the matter in the press of other entertainments.
In the morning Stile bade the vampire colony parting. “Thou dost understand,” Vodlevile said apologetically. “We dare not accompany thee to the Red Demesnes or help thee too directly on thy quest. If ever the Adept supposed we had taken action against her—”
“Well I understand,” Stile said. “This be not thy quarrel.”
“Not overtly. Yet when I remember the ogre—”
“Bide a while,” Stile said. “That may be avenged.”
Vodlevile looked startled, but said nothing. Stile mounted Neysa, who was well fed and rested after her night of sleep-grazing, and they trotted off south to the Red Demesnes.
The Red Castle looked more like a crazy house. It perched atop a miniature mountain, with a narrow path spiraling up to the tiny hole that was the front entrance. It was obviously the home of an Adept; a faint glow surrounded it, like a dome of Proton.
A magic dome? Of course! This castle was probably situated on the curtain, so the Adept could pass freely across, unobserved, to do her mischief in either frame. That would explain much. The Blue Demesnes had not been constructed on the curtain because the Blue Adept had not been able to cross it.
They circled around the castle. It was so; Stile spied the curtain. Just to be certain, he spelled himself across. Sure enough, it was the same castle, with the force-field dome enclosing it. He willed himself back. “This is a sophisticated setup,” he told Neysa. “She’s been operating in both frames for years.”
The unicorn snorted. She did not like this. Neysa could not cross the curtain, probably because she was a magical creature, so could not protect him in the other frame.
“All right,” Stile said. “She killed me by stealth. I shall kill her honorably.” He singsonged a spell: “Shake a leg, fetch a meg.” And a fine big megaphone appeared in his hand. It was not artificially powered, for that was no part of magic, but he was sure it would do the job.
But first a precaution: “Sword and mail: Do not fail.” And he was clothed in fine light woven metal armor, with a small sharp steel sword swinging in its scabbard from his hip. The Platinum Flute would have been nice, but that was gone. An ordinary weapon would have to do.
He raised the megaphone. “Red, meet the challenge of Blue.” The sound boomed out; it could hardly go unheard.
There was no response from the Red Demesnes. Stile bellowed another challenge, and a third, but had no visible effect.
“Then we brace to meet the lioness in her den,” Stile said, not really surprised. The worst traps would be there.
Neysa did not seem thrilled, but she marched gamely forward. It occurred to Stile that he might need more than armor to protect Neysa and himself. Suppose monsters hurled rocks or spears from ambush? He needed to block off any nonmagical attack. “Missiles spend their force,” he sang. “Return to their source.” That should stop that sort of thing. He wasn’t sure how far such spells extended, particularly when opposed by other Adept magic, but this precaution couldn’t hurt. The spells of Red could not be abated this way—but that was limited to amulets. He should have a fair fighting chance—and that was all he wanted. A fair match—so that he could kill the Red Adept without compunction.
Neysa walked up the spiraling path. There was no attack. Stile felt nervous; he really would have preferred some kind of resistance. This could mean that no one was home—but it could also mean an unsprung trap.
A trap—like that of Bluette, in the other frame? Bluette herself had obviously known nothing of it; she had been cruelly used. Stile hoped she had managed to survive, though he knew he still would not follow that up; now that he was married to the Lady Blue, there could be no future in any association with Bluette. Meanwhile, his rage at the fate of Hulk burgeoned again, and Stile had to labor to suppress it. Hulk, a truly innocent party, sent by Stile himself to his doom. How could that wrong ever be abated?
There were a number of deep emotional wounds Stile bore as a result of the malicious mischief of the Red Adept; he could not afford to let them overwhelm them. His oath of vengeance covered it all. Once Red was dead, he could let
the tide of buried grief encompass him. He simply could not afford grief—or love—yet. Not while this business was unfinished.
They rose up high as they completed the first loop. From a distance the castle had seemed small, but here it seemed extraordinarily high. The ground was thirty feet below, the building another sixty feet above. Magic, perhaps, either making the hill seem smaller than it was, when viewed from a distance, or making it seem higher than it was, from here.
Stile brought out his harmonica and began to play. The magic coalesced about him, making the castle shimmer—and the perspective changed. His gathering magic was canceling Red’s magic, revealing the truth—which was that the castle was larger than it had seemed, but the hill lower than it now seemed. So it was a compromise effort, drawing from one appearance to enhance the other. Pretty clever, actually; the Adept evidently had some artistic sensitivity and sense of economy.
Now they arrived at the door. It was open, arched, and garishly colorful, like an arcade entrance. From inside music issued, somewhat blurred and off-key. It clashed with Stile’s harmonica-playing, but he did not desist. Until he understood what was going on here, he wanted his magic close about him.
They stepped inside. Immediately the music became louder and more raucous. Booths came alive at the sides, apparently staffed by golems, each one calling for attention. “How about it, mister? Try thy luck, win a prize. Everybody wins!”
This was the home of an Adept? This chaotic carnival? Stile should have worn his clown-suit!
Cautiously he approached the nearest booth. The golem-proprietor was eager to oblige. “Throw a ball, hit the target, win a prize! It’s easy!”
Neysa snorted. She did not trust this. Yet Stile was curious about the meaning of this setup, if there was any meaning to it. He certainly had not expected anything like this! He had become proficient in the Game of Proton in large part because of his curiosity. Things generally did make sense, one way or another; it was only necessary to fathom that sense. Now this empty carnival in lieu of the murdering Red Adept—what did it mean? What was the thread that unraveled it?