Blue Adept

  “Yes,” she said, quickly getting the mask. “You are a bold, brave man, and I think I could love you in time. Follow me if you can; I will go for help.”

  She walked toward the force-field. “Stop her!” the captor shouted.

  The robot went for the lady—and Hulk went for the robot, smashing violently at its face. But the robot threw up an arm to ward off the blow, and grappled with Hulk.

  Bluette fled, limping. She knew she could not help, here.

  The robot tried to go after her, but Hulk clung, using his wrestling expertise. “Deal with him first,” the captor decided. “Kill him, then catch the woman!”

  Given this unequivocal directive, the robot applied its full force to the task at hand. It had no human weaknesses; it could not be choked or kneed in the crotch or made to yield by pain, and it was the stronger creature here. It was bound by no human scruples. It put one hand in Hulk’s face and closed its metal fingers in the vise-constriction, simultaneously gouging the man’s eyes and ripping out the cartilage of his nose.

  Hulk smashed desperately with his weapon, but his leverage was not good. His face was a blind mask of blood. It was, Stile thought with horror, like fighting a wooden golem: no harm could be done to the inanimate, and no mercy was expected. Hulk’s blows dented the metal in several places, but he could not put the machine out of commission. He made one more effort, lifting the machine and squeezing it in a bear-hug and smashing it against the wall, trying to destroy it along with himself.

  The robot remained functional. It put its other hand up to Hulk’s head, clasped the man with its legs, and twisted the head. There was a snap.

  “Oh, God—” Stile cried, anguished.

  “Leave this. Go after the woman!” the captor cried. “I will shut down the field.”

  The robot disengaged itself from Hulk’s body and lumbered in the direction Bluette had gone. It had suffered some damage; its motion was hardly faster than hers had been. Meanwhile, the force-field clicked off; the air puffed out of the chamber.

  If Hulk was not already dead, he would suffocate shortly. With a broken neck and no air his situation was hopeless.

  The holograph faded out. The recording was over.

  CHAPTER 8

  Quest

  Stile emerged in Phaze at the familiar spot south of the Blue Demesnes. Suddenly his will coalesced. He opened his bag and brought out the magic Flute and played it hard and long. His power gathered to him as the platinum notes pealed forth. Almost, it seemed, the mountain trembled—but not quite. This instrument was the finest he had played, but he knew he could not keep it. When he found the person who could play it better than he—

  But at the moment something else preempted his attention. As he played, the words came to him. In a moment he stopped playing and cried it out savagely: “Of the one who killed mine other self, the one who slew my friend, I, Stile, the Blue Adept, swear to make an end!”

  The magic oath flung outward, making the ground ripple, the trees tremble, and the welkin waver. Pine needles burst into flame. From the Purple Mountains a rumbling echo came back like the voice of a monster: “end … end … end.” Then lightning flashed across the sky and thunder rolled down. A startled griffin shot up and away to the west. A quick wash of water descended, extinguishing the local flame, leaving wet ashes. His oath had shaken the firmament, but it couldn’t bring his friend back. Stile leaned against a scorched tree and cried.

  Neysa and the Lady Blue were waiting for him expectantly at the Demesnes. As soon as they saw him, they knew something was wrong.

  “Hulk is dead,” Stile said bluntly. “Mine enemy killed him, in lieu of me. I have sworn vengeance.”

  “The sudden storm to the south,” the Lady said. “Thine oath! I thought it no natural occurrence.”

  “Mine oath,” Stile agreed. Quickly he filled in the details of the tragedy. “And I know not whether thine other self survives, Lady,” he finished. “I fear I have unwittingly brought demise upon Bluette. I should not have suggested to Hulk that he—”

  “Nay,” the Lady said. She exchanged glances with Neysa, and the unicorn blew a small note of assent and left the room.

  Stile felt his burden increase. “It is meet that she rebuke me,” he said. “Others have paid the penalty for mine errors.”

  “She rebuked thee not,” the Lady said. “She knows thou didst seek only to do a favor for thy friend. It was thine enemy at fault.”

  “I should have anticipated—”

  “So should my Lord have anticipated the threat against him, by the ill hands of the same enemy. So also should I have known to warn him. There is guilt enough to go around.” She crossed to him and put her hands on his shoulders, and he felt their healing power. “We were all of us well-meaning and naive. We could not believe that genuine evil stalked us.”

  “And thee,” Stile said, not meeting her gaze. “It was thine other self I involved in this. I had no right—”

  “To pass her to another man? She surely has will of her own! Thy friend was no bad person; I think she might have warmed to him, had she no other commitment. Certainly she would make her own choice, in her own time.”

  And the Lady Blue surely knew. “Thou hast no resentment, that I did not—?”

  “Did not court her thyself, and bereave the Blue Demesnes a second time? Even were the danger naught, it matters not. An I decline thy suit for myself, why should I be jealous of what attention thou mightest pay to mine other self? She would like thee well enough, I think.”

  “But I did not court her!” Stile protested, in his distraction looking into her lovely face.

  “And am I to feel insulted that it is I alone thou seekest, not my likeness in another frame?”

  “Thou hast a marvelously balanced perspective.”

  “It was a quality thine other self selected for, methinks,” she said with a half rueful smile. “I could not otherwise have maintained the Demesnes in his absence. Surely this, not any wit or beauty, was what caused the Oracle to identify me as his ideal wife.”

  “Thou hast those other qualities too,” Stile said. “I beg thee, Lady, let me go now, lest I embarrass us both by—”

  She did not let him go. “Thou’rt very like my Lord. Well I know what thou wouldst do with me, were I amenable.”

  “Then well thou knowest that I like not to be toyed with!”

  “Thou’rt now the Blue Adept. Thy power is proven. Fain would I have thee remain here, not risking thy life in any quest for vengeance.”

  “I have made an oath,” Stile said, somewhat stiffly.

  “Well do I know the power of thine oaths! Yet there be ways and ways to implement, and here is thy bastion. Let thine enemy come to thee here, where thy magic is strongest; do not put thyself in jeopardy in hostile Demesnes.”

  “There is merit in thy view,” Stile said, still overwhelmingly conscious of her nearness, of her hands upon him. He kept his own hands at his sides. “Yet I fear that it is folly to wait for attack. Already mine enemy’s traps have imperiled my life in both frames, and destroyed my friend and perhaps thine other self too. I want no others to suffer in my stead. I prefer to take the initiative, to do boldly what has to be done. Thereafter will I retire to the Blue Demesnes.”

  “I fear to lose thee, as I lost him! As has so nearly happened already. What becomes of me, of the Blue Demesnes, if thou goest the way of my Lord?”

  That moved him. “Never would I place thee in jeopardy, if I could avoid it, Lady. Yet I dare not take thee with me on my quest for vengeance.”

  Her grip on his shoulders tightened. “It is my vengeance too, to have or to renounce. If thou lovest me, heed my plea! Leave me not!”

  “I have no right to love thee, now less than ever,” Stile said. “I may only guard thee.”

  “Thou’rt the Blue Adept! Thy right is as thou makest it!”

  “My right is as my conscience dictates. I seek not the spoils of mine other self’s Demesnes. Fain would I return thy Lord t
o thee, if I could.”

  She shifted her grip and drew him savagely in to her. She kissed him. Stile’s heart seemed to explode with longing, but with an iron will he held himself passive.

  She shook him. “Respond, Adept. These Demesnes are thy spoils, and I too. Take what is thy right. Leave me not bereft of Lord and of power. I will grant thee whatever thou dost desire. I will give thee a son. No one, I swear, will ever suspect by word or gesture or deed of mine that in truth I love thee not. Only remain to preserve these Demesnes.”

  It was that truth that cut him almost as savagely as the murder of his friend. Gently but firmly Stile disengaged from her. “If the occasion comes when I do not suspect, then I may act as thou hast in mind. This scene becomes thee not.”

  She slapped him stingingly across the cheek. “How dost thou dare prate to me of scenes, thou who dost seek futile vengeance that will only exterminate thee and bring down what remains of what my Lord created?”

  “I apologize for my foolishness,” Stile said stiffly. He hated everything about this situation, while loving her for the sacrifice she was attempting. To preserve the memory and works of her Lord, she would do anything. She had thrown away her pride in that effort. “I am the way I am. I will fulfill mine oath in the best way I know.”

  She spread her hands. Surprisingly she smiled. “Go then, with my blessing. I will aid thee in whatever manner I am able.”

  This startled Stile. “Why the sudden change, Lady?”

  “It is now thy welfare I value, for whatever reason. If I can not preserve thee from thy folly my way, I must help thee do it thy way. Ever was it thus, in these Demesnes.”

  Stile nodded. “Thy balanced perspective, again. I thank thee, Lady, for thy support.” He turned to go.

  “Thou’rt so very like my Lord,” she repeated as he passed through the doorway. “Nor wiles nor logic nor rages could move him iotas from his set course, when honor was involved.”

  Stile paused. “I am glad thou understandest.”

  She hurled a blue slipper at him. “I do not understand! My love died of that stubbornness—and so wilt thou!”

  Stile found Neysa in the courtyard, cropping the perpetual bluegrass patch. “We must move swiftly to surprise the enemy and allow me time to get to my next match in Proton-frame. But I dare not leave the Lady unguarded, especially in her present mood. Without Hulk—”

  Neysa tooted reassuringly and led the way outside. Shapes were racing toward the castle. “The werewolves!” Stile exclaimed.

  Soon the pack arrived, panting. The leader metamorphosed to man-form. It was Stile’s friend Kurrelgyre, wild-haired and scarred but trustworthy. “The Pack greets thee, Adept.”

  “I have need of thy assistance,” Stile said. “But how didst thou know?”

  “Know? We know nothing,” the werewolf said. “We but came to visit our oath-friend the mare.”

  “But Neysa and I are leaving,” Stile protested.

  “Then we shall be forced to take advantage of the hospitality of thy Demesnes to await her return. Can a pack do less, for an oath-friend?”

  Stile understood. Neysa had somehow summoned the pack, all of whose members had sworn an oath of friendship with her, and they would guard the Blue Demesnes during his absence. An Adept enemy could get around such a defense, but not easily; who would voluntarily tackle a full pack of werewolves? The Lady Blue would be as safe as she reasonably could be, for the duration.

  “Methinks true friends appear when needed most,” Stile said gratefully.

  The White Adept was female, so Stile rode Neysa toward the White Demesnes. White did not resemble the woman he had seen in the Hulk holo-tape, but of course she had been in disguise at the Unolympics. So he would go and defy her to show him her true form, establishing at one stroke her guilt or innocence. Armed with the Platinum Flute, he felt he could successfully brace the Adept in her own Demesnes.

  Neysa knew the way. Stile slept on her back, refreshing his strength. He knew she would protect him well, and this approach would be less obvious than the use of magic. It was also a salient principle in Phaze: do not waste magic. He would use one of his rehearsed spells to travel away from the White Demesnes, if hard-pressed, instead of expending it unnecessarily now.

  It was good to be with Neysa for another reason. Stile was sick at heart, angry about his ludicrous loss of a Game in the Tourney, guilty for Hulk’s brutal demise, and disturbed by the Lady Blue’s attempt to seduce him away from his purpose. He needed to sort out his feelings and get them settled, and he needed the solid support of an understanding person. Neysa was that person. She did not have to say a word or play a note; she settled him by her presence. She had been right about the importance of her assistance to him; he needed her for more than physical reasons. With her he felt secure, emotionally as well as physically.

  They traveled northeast, angling toward the great White Mountain range. At dawn they arrived at a narrow pass. Now Neysa threw herself into a slow gallop, forging up into the snows, while Stile hunched within his cloak. Such was the energy she expended that thin fire shot from her nostrils, and her hot hooves melted indentations into the packed snow. Her body heat warmed Stile’s own body, and soon he leaned forward and hugged her about the neck, burying his face in her sweet black mane. She was his best friend in the frame of Phaze, the one he most depended on. It was joy to be afield with her again like this.

  At the height of the pass a cruel wind sliced through. Beyond, the terrain opened out into a bleak frozen lake many miles across. The ice was not flat; it pushed up in cracked mounds, where the stresses of expansion had prevailed.

  And in the center of that ragged surface rose the icy castle of the White Demesnes, formed of ice bricks partially melted together and refrozen. Flying buttresses of ice braced the walls. It was pretty in its fashion, but rather squat and solid to be truly esthetic artistically.

  Neysa walked down to the lake’s edge. The ice was a problem for her, as her hot hooves were not suitable for skating. She would have trouble crossing this! “I can conjure skates for thee—” Stile offered dubiously.

  She blew a note of negation. Then she shifted into her firefly form.

  “But it’s too cold for that form here,” Stile protested. “Thou mayest be fireproof, but not freezeproof. Thou wilt fly only minutes before thy little insect body stalls out.”

  She flew to his shoulder and lighted there, already cold. “Oh,” Stile said. “I’m to carry thee. Of course! Then I shall put thee in my jacket where it is warm.” He did so. Neysa made one flash of thanks and settled down in comfort.

  Then he conjured a good pair of skates for himself. Stile was an excellent skater; he had developed power and artistry for use in the Proton Game.

  He moved out. The ice was firm, and the curvatures of its surface did not bother him. He skated smoothly yet swiftly toward the ice castle, not even bothering to use an invisibility spell. He was here for a challenge, not a sneak attack. He had only to discover the true appearance or mode of the White Adept’s magic. If it did not relate to amulets or golems, she was not the one he wanted. A demon amulet had almost killed him when he first crossed the curtain into the frame of Phaze; four goons had been set on his trail by his use of a healing amulet later. Now he was wary of amulets—but at least it gave him the most promising hint about the identity of his enemy.

  One strange thing—the woman who had sprung the trap in Proton had suggested that the Blue Adept had attacked her, rather than the other way around. Why? Surely his other self had been innocent. He would not have attacked another Adept without reason, especially not a woman. So she had to be wrong. Yet it bothered him, for the woman had not known she was being recorded; she had been speaking from her cold heart, not for an audience.

  He skated on, drawing near the ice castle. Now it was time to go into his act. He singsonged a spell: “Garb this one in a suit of fun.” His clothing changed, becoming a brightly colored clown-suit that was, not incidentally, a good dea
l warmer than his prior garb.

  The thing was, the average Adept had all he or she needed or wanted, materially. The Adept could conjure food, and use magic to build a castle or other residence to his liking, and could make deals for other necessities. But he was liable to get lonely and bored in his guarded fastness. That was why so many Adepts elected to participate as judges and spectators in functions like the Unolympics. It gave them something to do in a public but protected situation. Yellow had obviously thrived on her job as head judge for the Adept pavilion, being all dressed up with her finest youth potion for the occasion. It followed, then, that Adepts could use entertainment at home, too. An Adept’s own magic would not amuse himself, even if he chose to waste it that way. So now Stile looked the part of an entertainer—and should be admitted to the White Demesnes with no more than the usual suspicion.

  So he leaped and looped and whirled into occasional spins. He did a cartwheel and took a fancy, deliberate spill. He was a clown, a joker, a fool. Until he had his chance to brace the White Adept and discover the nature of her magic.

  He skated close to the castle. So far so good. No hostile spell had been hurled at him.

  There was a moat of ice-free water surrounding the castle: an effective barrier to a skater. Stile drew up. “Ho!” he called. “Grant ye access for a fool?”

  A human guard appeared. It seemed there was modest employment for a number of villagers in the various Adept castles. “Why come ye?”

  “To entertain—for a fair fee. To glean what information I can.”

  “A spy?”

  “Naturally.”

  The guard lowered his voice. “Fool art thou indeed, if thou wouldst enter these Demesnes. The Adept is ill of humor. Depart, lest thou losest thy gizzard.”

  “I thank thee for thy warning,” Stile said. “But I have come far, and must complete my mission. Do thou announce me to the Adept and let me take my chance.”

  “On thy insecure head be it. I tried to warn thee.” The guard retreated inside the castle.