“Yes,” the Lady Blue agreed. “It was 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 Neysa’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 himself 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 thy 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 t
he 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.”
Fair! 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 each other.
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, impressed. “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.”