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Authors: Piers Anthony
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hid? It remained not at the Blue Demesnes.”
“True,” she agreed thoughtfully. “Long and long I searched for it, but it was not with his body.”
“Which is strange,” Stile said. “He might have conjured it away from him in the instant he knew he would die—but why then did he not use his magic to protect himself? And why did he deny thee the inheritance of his prize possession? Such malice was not his nature, I am sure.” For Stile himself would not have done that. Not without excellent reason.
“He could not have conjured it!” she said, disturbed.
“Then he must have placed it in the field, or hidden it elsewhere, before he died. And that suggests—“
“That he knew he was slated to die!” she exclaimed, shocked. “He deprived himself of his most valued possession. But even without it, no one could have lulled him, were he on guard!”
“Unless he intended to permit it,” Stile said.
Her shock turned to honor. “No! Nothing I did, no will of mine should have caused him—“
“Of course not,” Stile agreed quickly. “He would never have done it because of thee.”
“Then what is thine import?”
“That perhaps he knew something, received an omen, that caused him to accept what was coming.”
She considered that for some time, her hand clenching and unclenching in his. “Yet what could possibly justify—what was fated?”
“I wish I knew.” For Stile’s own passage across the curtain had been enabled by that demise of his alternate self. If the Blue Adept had sought to eliminate his brand of magic from the frame, he had acted in vain, for Stile performed it now.
That night they did not make love. They lay and watched the blue moon, and Stile played gently on the mysterious harmonica, and it was enough. Slowly sleep overtook them.
“Be at ease,” a man’s voice came from nearby. “We have met before. Adept.”
Stile controlled his reaction. He still held the harmonica; he could summon his power rapidly. In a moment he placed the half-familiar voice: “Yes, at the Unolympics, Green Adept.” He did not want trouble with another Adept —especially not when the Lady Blue was close enough to be hurt by the fallout. He was as yet unable to see the man; probably Green had employed a spell of invisibility, with related obfuscations. Otherwise he could not have gotten by the alert equines.
“I come in peace. Wilt thou grant truce for a dialogue?”
“Certainly.” Stile was relieved. By custom verging on law. Adepts did not deceive each other in such matters. What in Phaze could this man want with him at this time? The Adept became visible. He was a pudgy man of middle age, garbed in green. He looked completely inoffensive—but was in fact one of the dozen most powerful people of Phaze.
“Thank thee. I will intrude not long.” A hawk appeared silently behind the Adept. Stile gave no sign. He did not expect treachery, but if it came, there would suddenly be a unicorn’s horn in action. If dip attacked the Green Adept, he risked getting transformed into a clod of dung, but Stile knew he would take that risk if necessary.
“Surely thou hast reason.”
“It is this. Blue: my sources give thee warning. Go not to the West Pole. Great mischief lies there.”
“There is no mischief there,” the Lady Blue protested. “It is a sacred place, under truce, like the palace of the Oracle.”
“Dost thou think no mischief lies with the Oracle?”
Stile chuckled. “Excellent point. Green. But the Lady and I are on our honeymoon, and our excursion to the West Pole has private significance. Canst thou be more explicit?”
“Why shouldst thou care if mischief comes to a rival Adept?” the Lady demanded. “Thou didst evince no concern. Green, when the life of Blue hung in peril before.”
That was an understatement. No other Adept had lifted a finger or made a spell either to warn or to assist the Blue Adept in his severe crisis that had left two Adepts dead.
“True,” she agreed thoughtfully. “Long and long I searched for it, but it was not with his body.”
“Which is strange,” Stile said. “He might have conjured it away from him in the instant he knew he would die—but why then did he not use his magic to protect himself? And why did he deny thee the inheritance of his prize possession? Such malice was not his nature, I am sure.” For Stile himself would not have done that. Not without excellent reason.
“He could not have conjured it!” she said, disturbed.
“Then he must have placed it in the field, or hidden it elsewhere, before he died. And that suggests—“
“That he knew he was slated to die!” she exclaimed, shocked. “He deprived himself of his most valued possession. But even without it, no one could have lulled him, were he on guard!”
“Unless he intended to permit it,” Stile said.
Her shock turned to honor. “No! Nothing I did, no will of mine should have caused him—“
“Of course not,” Stile agreed quickly. “He would never have done it because of thee.”
“Then what is thine import?”
“That perhaps he knew something, received an omen, that caused him to accept what was coming.”
She considered that for some time, her hand clenching and unclenching in his. “Yet what could possibly justify—what was fated?”
“I wish I knew.” For Stile’s own passage across the curtain had been enabled by that demise of his alternate self. If the Blue Adept had sought to eliminate his brand of magic from the frame, he had acted in vain, for Stile performed it now.
That night they did not make love. They lay and watched the blue moon, and Stile played gently on the mysterious harmonica, and it was enough. Slowly sleep overtook them.
“Be at ease,” a man’s voice came from nearby. “We have met before. Adept.”
Stile controlled his reaction. He still held the harmonica; he could summon his power rapidly. In a moment he placed the half-familiar voice: “Yes, at the Unolympics, Green Adept.” He did not want trouble with another Adept —especially not when the Lady Blue was close enough to be hurt by the fallout. He was as yet unable to see the man; probably Green had employed a spell of invisibility, with related obfuscations. Otherwise he could not have gotten by the alert equines.
“I come in peace. Wilt thou grant truce for a dialogue?”
“Certainly.” Stile was relieved. By custom verging on law. Adepts did not deceive each other in such matters. What in Phaze could this man want with him at this time? The Adept became visible. He was a pudgy man of middle age, garbed in green. He looked completely inoffensive—but was in fact one of the dozen most powerful people of Phaze.
“Thank thee. I will intrude not long.” A hawk appeared silently behind the Adept. Stile gave no sign. He did not expect treachery, but if it came, there would suddenly be a unicorn’s horn in action. If dip attacked the Green Adept, he risked getting transformed into a clod of dung, but Stile knew he would take that risk if necessary.
“Surely thou hast reason.”
“It is this. Blue: my sources give thee warning. Go not to the West Pole. Great mischief lies there.”
“There is no mischief there,” the Lady Blue protested. “It is a sacred place, under truce, like the palace of the Oracle.”
“Dost thou think no mischief lies with the Oracle?”
Stile chuckled. “Excellent point. Green. But the Lady and I are on our honeymoon, and our excursion to the West Pole has private significance. Canst thou be more explicit?”
“Why shouldst thou care if mischief comes to a rival Adept?” the Lady demanded. “Thou didst evince no concern. Green, when the life of Blue hung in peril before.”
That was an understatement. No other Adept had lifted a finger or made a spell either to warn or to assist the Blue Adept in his severe crisis that had left two Adepts dead.
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