They neared the surface. Trool paused. “There is yet day,” he said. “Needs must I remain below.” For he lacked his voluminous clothing, having had to discard it in order to masquerade as an android.
“By all means,” Stile said. “Thou hast served us well, and fain would I call thee friend. We shall leave thee with our gratitude.”
“It behooves not the like of thee to bestow friendship on the like of me,” Trool said, gruffly pleased. He put his gnarled hands to the large flat rock that blocked the exit. “Beyond this point it curves to the surface.” He heaved.
Suddenly the roof caved in. Trool leaped back, shoving the other two clear. “Someone has tampered—”
Sunlight shone brilliantly down from above, angling in from the new hole in the ceiling to bathe the troll. “Sabotage!” Sheen exclaimed. “It would have crushed one of us—”
“Surely,” Stile agreed. “The trap was meant for me.”
“Look at Trool!” she cried, horrified.
Stile looked. The troll had been instantly destroyed by the light. He was now a figure of stone—a grotesque statue.
Suddenly it made a terrible kind of sense. Stile remembered how Serrilryan the werebitch had been fated to see the sidhe three times before she died; she had seen them the third time, then died. Trool had been fated to help Stile three times; he had done that, and had now been terminated.
“Damn it, this time I’m going to fight fate,” Stile said angrily.
CHAPTER 11
Xanadu
Clef was in the palace of the Oracle, playing the Platinum Flute. The perfect melody suffused the premises, more lovely than any tangible thing could be. He halted when Stile’s party arrived.
“I have another prophecy for thee,” he said to Stile. “Thou wilt be betrayed for thine own good by a young-seeming woman thou dost trust.”
“Too late on that,” Stile said. “Merle betrayed me three hours ago.”
Clef was embarrassed. “Sorry; I understood it was scheduled for a few hours hence. The Oracle must have slipped a cog.” He looked at Sheen. “I thought thou wast a creature of Proton,” he said, surprised.
“I am,” she agreed. “Now I am a creature of Phaze too, a golem.” She indicated the statue she supported. “This is Trool the troll, who sacrificed himself to save us. Stile says you may—thou mayest be able to—” She paused. “But doesn’t the juxtaposition suffer when thou dost stop playing?”
“Marginally. It’s a long process; inertia maintains the movement for brief interludes. Otherwise I could not take a breath. In any event, what you hear is not the juxtaposition theme; that is only part of it, a single-note exercise that reaches into the deeper firmament. It is not continuous; rather I must play it at the key intervals.” Clef considered the statue. “Thou dost wish the troll’s soul piped to Heaven?”
“Nay, not yet,” Stile said. “Canst thou pipe him back to life?”
Clef stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I fear not, Stile. There is a monstrous difference between directing traffic—that is, routing a soul to Heaven—and revivifying the dead. I can send the soul back into the body—but that in itself will not change stone or flesh. You need a different kind of magic for that. Perhaps there is a suitable spell in the book of magic. You did fetch that?”
“The book of magic!” Stile exclaimed, stricken. “I forgot all about it!”
“Merle has it,” Sheen said. “She deactivated me—and now the book is gone.”
“Is that why she betrayed me?” Stile asked. “To get that book?”
“I doubt she knew of it,” Sheen said. “She said nothing about it to me. I just happened to be carrying it.”
“She surely has some inkling now, though. She has access to the curtain, to Phaze; she can use those spells to become an instant Adept. We’ve got to get the book back before she does that!”
“For the sake of Phaze as well as for the troll,” Sheen agreed.
“I’ll surely find her at the Citizens’ business meeting.” Stile frowned, worried. “I don’t have much time for that, either; I’ve got to move.” His hope of studying the spells of the book before the Proton crisis came had been dashed; whatever preparations he might have made were moot.
“I’ll go with thee,” Sheen said.
“But first thou must marshal thy troops,” Clef said. “The time is nigh.”
“Oh, yes, the troops. I did alert the various creatures of Phaze, and all but the dragons, harpies, and goblins are with us. Has the Oracle finally condescended to inform us exactly how such troops are to be employed?”
“Only that thou must dispose them as for battle.”
“Dispose them where? Against whom?”
Clef shrugged, embarrassed. “I know not.”
“That is not a phenomenal help.”
“Thou knowest that prophecies work out regardless of comprehension.’ ”
“Look, if I miss that Citizens’ business meeting, I’m finished in Proton. I have scarcely an hour as it is. Can’t the Phaze side wait at least until I’ve recovered the book of magic?”
“The Oracle says the troops must be disposed first.”
“Damn!” Stile swore. “Send my coldest regards to that inscrutable machine. I’ll do what I can.”
“I shall keep thy friend the troll statue safe for thy return with the book.”
“Thanks,” Stile said gruffly. He played a bar of music on the harmonica, took Sheen by the hand, and spelled them to the Brown Demesnes.
They popped in at the main receiving hall. The child Adept was waiting. “Oh, I’m so glad thou art back, Blue!” she exclaimed. “And thou too, Lady Machine. Dost thou like being a golem?”
“It’s wonderful, Lady Adept,” Sheen agreed.
The child’s mouth went round with astonishment. Then she giggled. “I guess thou meanest me. Nobody ever called me Lady before, ’cause I’m just a girl.”
“That’s more than I’ll ever be,” Sheen said.
Stile had to interrupt. He had very little time. “Brown, a troll rescued me from confinement, but he got turned to stone by the sun. Can you animate stone?”
“Oh, sure, some. But you know, it doesn’t change the substance. He’d be awful heavy if thou didst not spell him back to flesh, and he’d crack when struck hard. I work with wood because it is strong and light, and the Lady Machine was pre-formed, so she was okay. But a stone troll—”
“I see the problem. I think I could turn him to wood, but I’m not sure about flesh.”
“Perhaps with the aid of the book of magic,” Sheen reminded him.
“Of course. That should do it.”
“Thou couldst just about create a troll from scratch,” Sheen pointed out. “Make a figure, enchant it to flesh, have the Brown Adept animate it, and Clef could pipe a soul into it.”
“If we had a soul,” Stile agreed. “That’s the one thing magic can’t generate.”
“I know,” she said sadly.
“My golems and the wolves have spread the word among all the creatures of Phaze,” Brown said. “All but the goblins and monsters have joined. But they know not what to do now.”
“I wish I could tell them,” Stile said. “I am the victim of a prophecy. I don’t know where to tell them to go.”
“Well, maybe thou canst improvise,” Brown suggested. “The troops will dissipate if not encouraged.”
“So the Oracle seems to think, though I hardly have time to—”
“Which means we must hurry,” Sheen said, enjoying this.
“And I thought Citizenship was uncomplicated!” Stile worked out several travel-spells, and they were off.
First stop was the werewolves. Kurrelgyre was there, but the Pack had been depleted by the wolves and bitches assigned to accompany the wooden golems. Kurrelgyre shifted immediately to man-form to shake Stile’s hand. “But this bitch—I know her not,” he said, looking at Sheen. “Unless—could it be?”
“This is the robot-golem Sheen, my Proton fiancée,”
Stile said. “Thy suggestion was good; the Brown Adept animated her.”
“At least conjure her fitting apparel,” the werewolf said. “She is too luscious a morsel to go naked hereabouts.”
Clothing! Stile had forgotten all about that for Sheen. Quickly he conjured her a pretty dress and slippers, as befitted a Lady of Phaze.
“But I can not wear clothing!” she protested. “I’m a serf!”
“Not here,” Stile assured her. “In this frame all people wear clothes.” He eyed her appraisingly. “They do befit thee.”
“We are ready for action,” Kurrelgyre said eagerly. “But where is it? Whom do we fight?”
“I know not,” Stile admitted. “The prophecy decrees it; that is all.”
The werewolf sighed. “Prophecies are oft subject to misinterpretation. I had hoped this would be not that type.”
Stile agreed. “The animalheads are prophesied to lose half their number. I fear this will be typical. I presume much of the damage will be done by enchantments hurled by the enemy Adepts, and by the ravages of their minions. But the other creatures of Phaze will be on thy side—the unicorns, elves, ogres, and such. Do thou gather thy wolves and be ready for action at any time. I know no more. I am but a chip afloat on a stormy sea, doing what I must do without much personal volition.”
Sheen smiled knowingly. This was a concept a robot was in a position to understand.
“Surely the enemy will seek to destroy thee,” the wolf said.
“The enemy Adepts have been trying! I hope to jump around swiftly in a random pattern, avoiding them until I return to Proton.”
“I fear for thee, friend. I have a few wolves left who can guard thee—”
“Nay, I’d best travel light. Just be ready with thy Pack when I need thee!”
“Aye, I shall, and the other wolf packs too.” They shook hands.
Stile spelled himself and Sheen to the next stop: the ogres. These ones certainly were ready for action. Each huge creature was armed with a monstrous club and seemed capable of smashing boulders with single blows. This was a truly impressive army. There were perhaps four hundred fighting creatures in view.
As quickly as possible, Stile explained to the ogre leader that the moment for action was just about at hand. “But we don’t know exactly where trouble will begin,” he said. “Only that it will be terrible, horrible, violent, and bloody.”
Slow smiles cracked the ogres’ brute faces. They were eager for this sort of fun. Stile knew he had struck the right note.
“Just remember,” he cautioned them. “All the organized creatures of Phaze will be on thy side, except the Goblins. So don’t attack elves or giants or werewolves—”
“Awww,” the leader grumbled. But he had it straight. No unauthorized bloodshed.
Stile spelled on to the vampires, where he consulted with his friend Vodlevile, who was no chief but whom Stile trusted. The flock promised to be alert.
So it went, touching bases with the animalheads, snow-demons, giants, trolls, and Little Folk. He did not go to the Platinum Elves, fearing an Adept trap there; instead he met with the gnomes of the Purple Mountains. These Little Folk were akin to the goblins of the White Mountains, but had elected to join the compatible elves. It was as if the more pleasant climate made them nicer creatures.
The gnome males were ugly, but the females, the gnomides, were quite pretty little misses, each holding a fine bright diamond. These were, indeed, the workers of precious stones, and their wares were even more valuable than those of the Platinum Mound Folk. They quickly agreed to pass the word among the elven tribes. “There will be thousands of little warriors awaiting thy call to action, Adept. Only save Phaze, and all is even!”
Stile hoped he could! “Dost thou know of any Adept presence in the Elven Demesnes?” Stile asked as he got ready to leave. “I fear an ambush and marvel that none has occurred.”
“We know of none, and our prophecy book has no mention of harm to thee here, Adept,” the gnome chief answered. “But Adepts are devious—no offense proffered.”
“Devious indeed!” Stile agreed.
“Surely it is the Lady Blue they will stake out,” Sheen murmured.
“Aye. Yet must I see her and advise the Herd Stallion.”
“Send me first, to spring the trap,” she offered.
Stile demurred, but she insisted. Conscious of the danger and of his vanishing time, he had to agree. He spelled her to the unicorn herd for two minutes, then brought her back to the gnome demesnes.
“No sign of trouble there,” she reported, seeming exhilarated by the excursion. “Belle, the pretty unicorn mare, is there, asking to join the herd. They have not admitted her, but are considering it. Thy friend Clip is quite worked up.”
“He would be. He’s smitten by her. No Adepts?”
“The Herd Stallion is sure there are no Adepts there, and no Adept magic in the vicinity.”
“Good enough.” Stile spelled the two of them to the herd.
It was as Sheen had said. All was peaceful. The unicorns were grazing in a loose circle on an open hillside, with Neysa remaining in the center. Stile and Sheen landed beside the circle, for magic was repulsed within it.
“May I go in and meet Neysa this time?” Sheen inquired wistfully.
Stile knew she identified with the unicorn, for Sheen and Neysa had been his two closest companions before he encountered the Lady Blue. “I’ll ask the Herd Stallion,” he said.
He asked, and the Stallion acquiesced with suitable grace. Sheen left them to enter the circle, while Stile briefed the Stallion. “That’s all I know,” he concluded. “I conjecture that the Adepts will move in force when I try to transport the Phazite, perhaps sending dragons to interfere. Someone will need to intercept those monsters.”
“We shall be there,” the Stallion agreed grimly.
The Lady Blue had remained back until Stile finished with the Stallion. Then she came up to kiss Stile. “So nice to meet the Lady Sheen again,” she murmured. “She will make thee an excellent wife in Proton.”
No use to remind her that all he wanted was one wife, anywhere! She knew it.
Sheen and Neysa approached. “We’d like to interview Belle,” Sheen said. “We want to know if she was involved in the luring of Clip, or whether only her image was used without her knowledge. She may be innocent.”
Stile was curious about that himself. A few minutes remained. He glanced askance at the Herd Stallion, who blew a short chord of assent, permitting Neysa to depart the circle of the herd briefly for that purpose, since there was no immediate danger.
“I can question her with a spell,” Stile said. “Time is short, but this concerns me too.” For that luring had been part of the trap for him; it had made Clip hostage and brought Stile to the goblin demesnes. If Belle were actually an agent of the Adepts—
Clip joined them. He was the most concerned of all. Belle could never be his, of course; if she joined this herd, she would be serviced by this Herd Stallion. Still, Stile was sure Clip would rather know her to be innocent and have her near and safe.
The five—Stile, two women, two unicorns—approached Belle. Stile worked out a suitable truth-spell in his mind. It would take only a moment to ascertain Belle’s guilt or innocence, and her prospective admittance to this herd probably depended on his finding.
Belle stopped grazing and raised her head as the party drew near. She was indeed the prettiest unicorn Stile had seen. Her coat was a deep purple, and in the bright sunlight her mane, tail, hooves, and horn glittered iridescently. Stile remembered how she had changed forms to a large cat and a blue heron during the Unolympics dance. She blew a lovely bells-ringing note of inquiry.
“I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “I have come to—”
Belle abruptly shook herself, as an animal would to dry off after a soaking. Droplets flew out all over. Clip and Neysa leaped between Stile and Belle, intercepting the spray. Sheen and the Lady Blue flung their arms around Stile, embraci
ng him from either side, their dresses flaring out to wrap about him.
“Hey, I’m not afraid of a little water!” he exclaimed, struggling free. Both his unicorn companions were wet, and the dresses of both ladies were dripping.
The Lady Blue contemplated him wide-eyed. “Who art thou?” she asked. “Do I know thee?”
Sheen laughed. “Dost thou forget thy husband, Lady? I doubt it!”
But the Lady Blue’s confusion seemed genuine. “I know him not. I know thee not. What am I doing amidst these animals?”
Stile now observed that Clip and Neysa seemed similarly bemused. They were backing off from Belle and each other as if encountering strangers.
“I think it’s amnesia,” Sheen said. “I don’t think they’re fooling.”
“Lethe!” Stile exclaimed. “Water of Lethe—Belle was doused with it!”
“I thought it was poison,” Sheen said. “It can’t affect me, of course—but I think your friends have just given up their memories for you. For thee.”
“They shall have them back!” Stile cried, his knees feeling weak at the narrowness of his escape. Everyone had caught on except him! He cudgeled his brain to evoke the proper counterspell. Lethe was one of the streams of Hades, mythologically; what was the opposite one, the stream of memory? Every magic had its countermagic.
Mnemosyne, that was it! Had he been doused by Lethe, he never would have been able to remember that bit of mythology! In fact, this had been a devastatingly neat trap. Water was harmless, so would not alert the unicorns; the water of Lethe was natural to Phaze, so did not reek of Adept enchantment. Stile, struck by it, would not suffer physically and would experience no mental anguish in his forgetfulness. Therefore the trap had not been obvious to the Oracle, who would have been alert for more dramatic mischief. Only the instant reaction of his companions had saved Stile. For they could not have restored his memory, had he been caught; they were not Adepts. He was the one person who had to be protected.