The tunnel continued interminably, winding about to avoid the giant roots of trees and buried boulders. Stripped of his magic, Stile began to feel claustrophobic. If there were a cave-in, what spell could he make? But he had to trust the troll—the one his other self had spared, long before Stile came to Phaze. For this creature felt he had a debt to the Blue Adept, and Stile now held that office. He could try to explain the distinction between himself and his dead other self to the troll, but doubted this would matter. What use to inform Trool that he had come too late, that the one who had spared him was already gone? Better to let the troll discharge his debt and be free.
At last they emerged beyond the Orange Adept’s garden. Stile straightened up with relief. They continued on until the troll halted beside a nondescript bush. “This is the plant,” Trool said. His voice was guttural and harsh, in the manner of his kind. What made it unusual was the fact that it was intelligible. He must have practiced hard on human speech.
The Lady leaned forward to peer at the growth in the waning light of the blue moon. Her face was somewhat gaunt, and Stile knew she feared betrayal; certainly the troll’s appearance was somewhat too providential. “This is the herb I need!” she exclaimed in gratified wonder. “It will cancel half the spell!”
Half? What else was needed?
“The touch of the horn of a unicorn,” she said, understanding his thought.
So he could not be cured until they returned to Clip. His magic would have to wait; he could not use it to facilitate things now.
The Lady took the leaves she needed and thanked the troll a bit diffidently. Trool, perhaps unaware of the cause of her mixed feelings, shrugged and departed, his deed done. They started the trip back to the Orange Demesnes.
It was no more pleasant traversing the tunnel the second time, but at least the route was familiar. Dawn was approaching as Stile finally felt the end and poked his head up through the surface of the ground—only to find it overgrown with vines. Were they too late?
He wrestled his broadsword out and around and began slashing and sawing. The plants, attacked from below, capitulated quickly, and soon Stile and the Lady stood in their own little hacked-out clearing.
He heard grunts and thumps in the direction of the hermit’s hut. The yellow moon was now out, showing two equine figures backed against the hut wall, still fighting off the encroaching foliage. Perhaps the plants were less active at night, unable to grow as fast without sunlight; or maybe the Orange Adept was saving the finale for morning, when he could see better. At any rate, the end was not quite yet.
Stile hacked a path across the writhing mass of vegetation, the Lady following and tidying things up with her knife. As the sun broke across the eastern horizon, they reached the equines.
Hinblue was sweating and bleeding from numerous scratches, and was so tired she hardly seemed able to stay on her feet. Clip was better off, but obviously worn; his horn swung in short vicious arcs to intercept each reaching tendril. There was very little room left for the two of them; soon the press of plants and their own fatigue would overwhelm them.
And the Orange Adept peered out of his window, grinning as if at an exhibition. This was his private arena, his personal entertainment, and he was enjoying it immensely. Stile experienced a flare of primal rage.
Now it was the Lady’s turn to act. “Take these leaves,” she told Stile, giving him the branch she had taken from the troll’s bush. “Clip—thy horn, please.” The unicorn paused in his combat with the foliage. Guided by the Lady, he touched his horn to the leaves in Stile’s hands.
Stile felt something ease, as if he had been released from an ugly threat. He heard his own breathing. “I thank thee,” he said.
Then he did a double take. “Hey, I can speak!”
“Do thou speak some suitable spell,” the Lady suggested, nipping off a reaching tendril with her small knife.
Quickly Stile summoned a general-purpose spell from his repertoire. “All save me, in stasis be,” he sang.
He had not taken time to coalesce his magic force with preliminary music, so the spell was not fully effective, but its impact was nevertheless considerable. The aggressive plants stopped advancing, and Stile’s three companions stood stunned.
Only the Orange Adept proved immune. His head swiveled to cover Stile. “What’s this?” the man demanded querulously. “Foreign magic in my Demesnes?”
Now Stile let out his long-accumulating wrath. “Oaf, didst know not against whom thou didst practice thy foul enchantment?”
“I know not and care not, peasant!” Orange snapped, sneering.
“Then learn, thou arrogant lout!” Stile cried. He took his harmonica, played a few savage bars to summon his power, then sang: “Let every single spellbound plant, against its master rave and rant!”
Instantly there was chaos. The magic plants rotated on their stems, reorienting on the Orange Adept. Now the tendrils reached toward the hut, ignoring the visiting party.
“Hey!” Orange screamed, outraged. But a thorny tendril twined about his hand, causing him to divert his attention to immediacies.
Stile made a subspell nullifying the remaining stasis-spell, and equines and Lady returned to animation. Stile and the Lady mounted their steeds, and Stile made a spell to heal and invigorate them. Then they rode out through the vicious plants, which ignored this party in their eagerness to close on the hut.
“That was not nice, my Lord Blue,” the Lady murmured somewhat smugly.
“Aye,” Stile agreed without remorse. “The plants can’t really hurt Orange. He will find a way to neutralize them. But I dare say it will be long before every plant is back the way it was. And longer before he bothers passing strangers again.”
When they emerged from the Orange Demesnes, Stile guided them southeast, back toward the region of the animalheads. The Lady glanced at him questioningly, but did not comment.
The animalheads appeared. “Know, O creatures, that I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “Guide me to your leader.”
When they pressed forward menacingly, he resorted to magic. “Animalhead, be friend instead,” he sang. And the attitude of each one changed. Now they were willing to take him where he had asked.
Soon they encountered an elephanthead, with a giant fat body to support so large an extremity. The creature trumpeted in confusion.
“Each to each, intelligible speech,” Stile sang.
“To what do we owe the questionable pleasure of this visit?” the nasal trumpetings translated, now having the semblance of ordinary human speech.
“I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “This is my Lady Blue. We are on our honeymoon, touring the curtain with our steeds. We seek no quarrel and do not believe we provoked thy creatures. Why did they attack us?”
The elephanthead considered, his trunk twisting uncertainly. He was evidently loath to answer, but also wary of openly defying an Adept. “We sent a person to inquire of the Oracle, after the shaking of the mountains alarmed us. Hard times may be coming to Phaze, and we are concerned about survival.”
“So are we,” Stile said. “But we understand we have a safe fortnight for our pleasure journey to the West Pole, and thereafter the Lady Blue will have time to bear my son. So the end of Phaze is not quite yet. But why should you interfere with us?”
“The Oracle advised us that if we permitted a man riding a unicorn to pass our demesnes, half our number would perish within the month.”
Suddenly the attitude of the animalheads made sense. “The Oracle claims I am a threat to thy kind?” Stile asked incredulously. “I have had no intention of harming thy creatures!”
“The Oracle did not say thou hast intent; only the consequence of thy passage.”
“Let me meet the bearer of this message.”
A snakehead came forward. Rendered intelligible by Stile’s spell, she repeated the message: “Let pass the man on ’corn, and half will die within the month.”
The Lady Blue’s brow furrowed. “That
is an either- or message, unusual. Can it be a true Oracle?”
“The Oracle is always true,” the elephanthead said.
“But just let me check the messenger,” Stile said, catching on to the Lady’s suspicion. He faced the snakehead, played his harmonica, and sang: “Lady Snakehead, tell me true: what the Oracle said to do.”
And she repeated: “Let pass the man on ’corn, and half will die within the month. Prevent him, and in that period all will die.”
The elephanthead gave a trumpet of amazement. “Half the message! Why didst thou betray us so, snake?”
“I knew not—” she faltered.
“She was enchanted,” the Lady Blue said. “By someone who bore ill will to us all.”
The elephanthead was chagrined. “Who would that be?”
“Ask first who could have done it,” Stile said.
“Only another Adept,” the elephanthead said. “We are enchanted creatures, resistant to ordinary magic, else we would change our forms. Only Adepts can play with our bodies or minds.”
“So I suspected,” Stile said. “I could not prevail against thy kind until I used my magic. Could this be the handiwork of the Orange Adept?”
“Nay. He dislikes us, as he dislikes all animate creahires, even himself. But he has no power over aught save plants.”
“Still, a plant can affect a person,” Stile said, thinking of the silence-spell that had so inconvenienced him.
But when he used another spell to check what had happened to the snakehead, it showed her being intercepted by a weaselhead woman, seemingly her own kind, who drew a diagram in the dirt that made a flash of light.
“The White Adept!” Stile exclaimed. “I know her mode of magic and know she likes me not.”
“We also do not get along with her,” the elephanthead agreed. “We apologize to thee, Blue, for our misunderstanding. We shall not again attempt to do thee ill.”
“Accepted,” Stile said. “Let us part friends, and if we meet again, it shall be to help each other.”
“Thou art generous.”
“I like animals.” Stile did not see fit to remind the animalheads that they still stood to lose half their number soon. Real mischief was brewing, according to the prophecy.
“We like not Adepts, but to thee we shall be friend.” And so they parted on a positive note.
Stile and the Lady proceeded north along the curtain. But they were tired; they had not slept the past night. When a suitable camping spot manifested, they camped. There was a streamlet, a fine old apple tree, and a metal object lying on its side. It was about six feet in diameter, roughly cup-shaped, with a number of depressions on the outer surface, as if someone had dented it with small boulders. It seemed to be made entirely of silver; anywhere except Phaze, it would have been phenomenally valuable. Here, of course, such artifacts could be conjured magically.
A storm was rising. “Would this be a good chamber in which to spend the day and night?” Stile inquired. “It seems watertight.”
Clip glanced up from his grazing, blowing a single negative note.
Stile shrugged. “The unicorn says no; who am I to argue with such authority?” And he conjured a suitable tent beside the metal structure.
They slept in the shade of the tent while the equines grazed and slept on their feet and stood guard simultaneously.
In the late afternoon, Stile woke to an awful shuddering of the ground. He leaped out of the tent.
Clip stood there in man-form. “If thou pleasest, Adept, make a flare above us in the sky that anyone can see.”
Stile obeyed. “Make a flare up there,” he sang, pointing upward. It was like a rocket exploding in brilliant colors.
The shuddering increased. A monstrous shape appeared, towering above the trees. “WHERE?” it bellowed.
It was a female human-form giant, so big Stile could not even estimate her height.
“Tell her there,” Clip said, indicating the metal structure.
Stile magicked a bright arrow in the sky, pointing toward the silver artifact. The giant saw this, followed the direction with her gaze, and leaned down to grasp the thing. Her near approach was harrowing; it seemed as if a building were falling on them, but the small party stood its ground.
“My silver thimble!” the giantess exclaimed, lifting the tiny object into the sky. “My lost thimble! Who found it for me?”
Stile made sky writing: BLUE ADEPT, with an arrow pointing to himself.
She squinted down from above the clouds. “I thank thee, Blue Adept,” she boomed. “What favor may I return thee?”
ONLY THY GOOD WILL, Stile skywrote, daunted. One small misstep and the giantess could crush this entire region flat.
“Granted,” she said, and departed with her prize.
“Thou knewest!” Stile accused Clip. “A giantess’ silver thimble, six feet across!”
“Giants are good people,” Clip agreed smugly. “They have long memories too. Best to be on the right side of a giant.”
“I should think so,” Stile agreed. “And best not to sleep in a giant thimble.”
He conjured a modest repast for himself and the Lady, and some grain to supplement the diet of the equines, since they had used so much of their strength the prior night. Then he and the Lady returned to the tent for the night. As he drifted off to sleep the second time, it occurred to Stile that Clip had been giving excellent service. Stile’s favorite was Neysa, his oath-friend, but Clip was certainly a worthy substitute. He would have to ponder some favor to do for the unicorn after this was over, as a suitable reward for such things as helping to save Stile’s life and dignity. It was hard to do favors for unicorns, because all of them were subject to their Herd Stallions. But perhaps Stile could clear something with the unicorn hierarchy.
In the morning, refreshed, they resumed the journey. The assorted interruptions had put them behind Stile’s schedule; now they had to move along to reach the West Pole before he had to return to Proton.
The curtain curved west through the land of the giants. To Stile’s relief they encountered no more of the gigantic people. At noon they came to the ocean.
“But the curtain goes right into the water,” Stile protested.
“Of course. The West Pole is on an island,” the Lady said. “Conjure a boat.”
“But I want to follow the curtain where it touches land.” Stile had no special reason for this; he had merely envisioned walking along the curtain, not sailing.
“Then conjure away the ocean,” she said gaily.
Instead, Stile enchanted them so that the water became like air to them. They walked down into the ocean as if passing through mist, the steeds stepping over the green-coated rocks of the bottom. Fish swam by, seemingly in midair. Seaweed waved in breezelike currents, always surprising Stile since they seemed to lack sufficient support.
Deep down, the light faded, so Stile sang a spell of night vision, making things seem bright. Interesting, how he could use his underwater speaking ability, which was the result of one spell, to make a new spell; magic could be cumulative. Thus it was possible to get around certain limitations in stages. It helped explain how one Adept could kill another, indirectly, by modifying a message so that it caused animalheads to attack an Adept and drive him into the Demesnes of a hostile Adept. Perhaps there were no real limits, only techniques of procedure.
At the deepest level of the sea there was a stirring, and a merman appeared. “Lost thy way?” he inquired of Stile. “We see not many fork-limbed creatures here.” He was evidently possessed of the type of enchantment Stile had employed to penetrate the water. It seemed there were natural principles of magic that came into play, whether by spell or by endowment. Stile’s understanding of Phaze was constantly expanding.
“I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “This is my Lady, and these our steeds. We merely pass through, following the curtain, seeking no quarrel.”
“Then permit us to guide thee, for there are traps for the unwary.” The me
rman pointed ahead. “Not far from here a hungry sea serpent straddles the curtain. It cares not for the peaceful intent of travelers.”
“I thank thee for thy concern. But we are on our honeymoon, and promised ourselves to travel the length of the curtain where possible, seeking the West Pole. We are late on our schedule and prefer not to detour.”
“That serpent is fearsome,” the merman warned. “None of us dare go near it. Yet if that is thy will, we will not hinder thee.” He swam off.
“See thou hast an apt spell ready,” the Lady advised, smiling, making the water brighten in her vicinity.
Stile reviewed the spells in his mind, and they rode on. He enjoyed the scenery here, so different from the normal land vistas. Clams of all sizes were waving their feeding nets in the water, and coral-like growths were spreading everywhere. A small yellow octopus eyed them, then noted the menacing unicorn horn and scurried hastily away on all tentacles, leaving a purple ink cloud behind. Stile smiled; this was exactly the kind of honeymoon he liked!
Then they arrived at the lair of the serpent. It was not impressive—merely a tunnel under piled stones. In a moment the ugly snout of the serpent poked out. This creature was not large, as such monsters went; probably one man would represent a sufficient meal for it. But there was no sense taking chances. “Please freeze,” Stile sang, and the serpent went still. The freezing was not literal, for Stile had willed only a temporary cessation of motions; his mind controlled the interpretation.
They moved on past. A large, heavy net rose up about them and twined itself together overhead. Stile reacted immediately, whipping out his sword and slashing at the strands—but the blade could not penetrate this net.
Clip ran his horn through it, but again the material held. “This net is magic,” the Lady said. “The fibers are enchanted to be strong.”
So it seemed. The net itself was magically weighted, so that they could not lift it free of the sea floor, and it was impossible to cut or break.
Stile worked out a spell: “Pesky net, begone yet!” he sang. But though color shimmered across the net’s surface, the net remained intact.