"There are spells to give true life?" Stile asked, amazed.
"Thou didst tell me to survey the complete book," she reminded him. "I found things hardly to be imagined."
"But the problem of souls," he protested.
"That is handled the same way the flesh is. A baby is started from the substance of its parents. A baby's soul starts as a piece separated from the souls of its parents. It's like taking a brand from a fire to make a new fire; once a piece of fire is separated, it develops its own individuality. So I don't need anyone else's soul — just a piece of soul, which can grow into the body."
"But a piece of whose soul?" Stile asked. Sheen, alive — would it make a difference? He wasn't sure. Part of her personality was her knowledge of her own inanimate nature.
"The Lady Brown has offered me a piece of hers," Sheen said diffidently. "She feels responsible for me, since she animated me in Phaze."
"We're wasting time," Stile said, not wanting to wrestle with personal considerations at the moment. "Where's Trool?"
"I am here, Adept," Trool said, appearing. "I have surveyed the course. Thou canst not proceed northward, for that the Adepts have set dragons there to guard against passage. They know not where thou wilt go, or if thou truly art alive, but they are watching everywhere. When the ball begins to move, they will converge. The course must go west, avoiding the dragons."
"We'll start west, then," Stile decided.
Now the elves appeared in force. They cranked open the wall to show a great rent in the mountain. The sun shone brightly outside, but these were light-tolerant elves, able to work by day. Pyreforge bade a hasty parting and retreated to the comfortable shadows; he could no more tolerate the direct glare of the sun than Trool could.
"Trool!" Stile exclaimed. "How could-?"
"I gave him a spell of automatic shade when I restored him," Sheen said. "I may be metal, but I do profit from experience. The sun can't touch him now."
Relieved, Stile watched the elves. The Little Folk applied their levers diligently, and the massive ball started to move. One hundred and fifty metric tons was a great weight, but the ball was perfectly balanced and the levers were skillfully applied. Once moving, the ball continued, its mass giving it formidable momentum. Then it started rolling grandly downhill, and the elves got out of the way.
The ball coursed down, up the opposite slope, and down again, neatly following the general channel Stile had determined for it, leaving a concave impression. But then it veered slightly, and he saw that it was going to strike a large pine tree. That could be disaster; probably the ball would crush the tree to the ground — and in the process be deflected off the route. Possibly the tree would resist, bouncing the ball back. Certainly a lot of useful momentum would be lost. This was going so smoothly he didn't want to interrupt it.
So he sang a little spell. The tree wavered into insubstantiality just before the boulder reached it, then became solid after the Phazite had passed through.
"I'm not sure you should have done that, Stile," Sheen said. "The enemy Adepts are highly attuned to your magic."
"I've got to use my magic when I need it," Stile said. "I'm sorry I can't use it directly on the Phazite." He remembered he had conjured Sheen's replacement power cell before, and that was the same mineral — but that had been a tiny fraction of a gram. He could no more move this 150-ton ball by magic than he could by hand, alone.
The ball crunched to a stop in the next depression. They walked along the smooth indentation path, catching up to it. "The golems are near," Trool's voice came from the air above them.
"Guide them here," Stile said.
Soon a column of wooden men marched up. Some were small and some were large; the Brown Adept rode piggyback on one of the giants. She waved cheerily as she spied them. "We'll get it moving!" she called.
Under her direction, the wooden men set to work with a will. They were very strong, and soon they were levering the ball slowly up the incline.
Suddenly a sheet of flame flashed across the terrain. The golems cried out, and the Brown Adept screamed. The wooden men were burning. Fire was the one thing such golems feared.
"You were right," Stile said. "The enemy has located us." He started to play his harmonica, getting ready for a fire-extinguishing spell. But Sheen lifted her hand, and the fire vanished.
"You told me to memorize any spells I thought might be useful," she said.
Stile stared at the golems, who were understandably confused. One moment they had been burning; the next all was well. "So I did," he agreed. "The sheer facility and potency of it keep setting me back. Can you protect the golems henceforth?"
"I think so. The book has an excellent section on countermagic. But if I block off Adept spells, this will stifle your magic too."
"The book magic is that strong?"
"That strong, Stile. The book is not a mere compendium of stray spells. It's a complete course — the atomic age of magic. It shows how to integrate all the modes — voice, vision, symbols, potions, touch, music — all. The Adepts of today are fragmentary magicians, severely limited. Thou also, I regret to say. None of you has done more than scratch the surface of the potential of magic. I haven't scratched the surface. There is so much more to be mastered-"
"I see. All right — block out all Adept magic here, and well talk about it while we supervise the moving of the ball."
She made a series of body motions and exclamations, concluding with a toe-sketched figure on the ground. Something happened in the air — an oblique kind of shimmer. "The visual effect is merely to identify it," she said. "We are now secure from new spells."
The golems resumed their labor on the sphere. Slowly they moved it up the slope. "When we have a moment," Stile said, "let's see about making up a good body for my other self."
"Your other self!" she exclaimed. "Yes, of course. The book has spells to convert wood or other substance to flesh, as we did for Trool. You have Blue's soul preserved. I don't think the soul can go to that body while you are in Phaze, but when the frames separate, Clef can pipe it in, and-"
"And my other self will be restored to life in Phaze," Stile finished. "He sacrificed his life to give me the chance to enter his frame and work with the Oracle. The least I can do is give it back to him when my task is done."
"But what of the prophecy? Phaze will not be safe until-"
"Until Blue departs it forever!" Stile finished. "In the confusion of great events, I forgot that!" He pondered, disturbed. "No, I can not be entirely governed by prophecy. I must do what I deem right; what will happen, will happen." But he remained disquieted, as did his other self.
"The body has to be crafted by hand," Sheen said. "It can't be made directly by magic, or it will perish when the magic diminishes. So we can't do it right this minute. But I won't forget to see to it before the end." She paused. "What does Blue think of this?"
Stile shifted to his alternate awareness. Now he had confirmation of his prior conjecture; Blue had, through a special divinatory spell, discovered what was developing and realized that the best thing he could do for the land he loved was to die. But, fearful that his sacrifice might be in vain, he had hedged. He had conjured his soul into his harmonica and given the instrument an affinity for his other self. Now he knew his act had been justified, for Stile had used the harmonica to achieve his necessary level of power.
As for having his life back in the new order, he had not expected this, and not even considered the possibility of resuming his life in Phaze. The notion had a certain guilty appeal. Yet if the presence of Blue meant ruin for Phaze, he would be better off dead. He would have to formulate some plans for a formerly blank future, knowing that he might again have to give it up if the prophecy were true. All he could do was try it and see; perhaps there would be interim tasks for him to do before he departed.
"I thank thee for thy consideration," Blue said to Sheen. "Glad am I to have facilitated thine entry here, lovely Lady Machine."
Again Sheen reacted with pl
eased embarrassment. "There's something about the people of Phaze," she murmured.
The Brown Adept rode up on her golem mount. "I think my golems can handle it, as long as nothing else bothers them. Art thou going to make the Lady Machine alive now? I will give her part of my soul."
"I've been thinking about that,"-Sheen said. "All my brief existence I have longed to be alive — but now I have the chance for it, I'm not sure. I don't think it would carry over into Proton — and if it did, there would still be a severe readjustment. I'd have to eat regularly, and eliminate regularly — both rather messy inconveniences — and sleep, which is a waste of useful time. My whole routine would be changed. I think I'm better off as a robot."
"But Blue could love thee as a woman," Brown said. "And thou couldst love him."
How intimately had the two consulted while they worked on the restoration of Trool? Brown seemed to know a lot more about Stile's business than he had told her. He decided to stay out of this conversation.
"I love him already," Sheen said. "Life could not change that. And his love will always be for the Lady Blue. My life would not change that, either, and I wouldn't want it to. So all I really have to gain, by marrying him in Proton, is the precedent for the self-willed machines — and if I were alive, that precedent would no longer exist."
"Oh. I guess so," Brown said. "I think thou art just fine as thou art, Lady Machine. So I guess thou canst just use the magic book to cure Blue's knees, and maybe make him a little taller, and-"
Now Stile had to join in. "My knees are part of my present life; I no longer care to have them fixed. And my height-I always wanted to be taller, for that is the human definition of status, however foolish we all know it to be — I share Sheen's opinion. I would be a different person, with new problems. I stand to gain nothing by changing what I am."
Brown shrugged. "Okay. Actually, the Little Folk are perfect the way they are, and thou art not much different." That jarred Stile, but he tried not to show it. "I'll make up a golem in thine image; the book can make it flesh, and the other Blue can move into it when he's ready." She rode off.
In due course an enemy contingent arrived-a small squadron of tanklike earthmovers, borers, and personnel transports. The Citizens of Proton had no formal armed forces, since no life existed outside the domes, ordinarily. Construction vehicles tended to be enclosed and airtight, but some were remote-controlled or robotic. The present group was of the last type.
"Low-grade machines," Sheen said. "The Citizens know better than to trust the sophisticated robots, though in truth only a small percentage is self-willed."
"I hope your friends are not suffering unduly as a result of betraying their nature to the Citizens," Stile said. He was uncertain which form of language to use in the juxtaposition zone, and decided to stick to Proton unless addressing a Phaze creature.
"The juxtaposition has proved to be enough of a distraction," she said. "It is not easy to identify a specific self-willed machine when it wants to conceal itself. If the enemy wins this war, all my kind of machines will be destroyed." Stile knew she was speaking literally; there would be absolutely no mercy from the Citizens.
The enemy machines formed up before the ball of Phazite. One fired an excavation bomb at it, but nothing happened. "Phazite protects itself," Sheen remarked. "You can move it or use it, but you can't damage it with less than a nuclear cannon."
Several laser beams speared toward the sphere, but again without effect. Regardless of magic, Phazite was extremely tough stuff, twice as dense as anything ordinarily found in a planet; unless subjected to the key environment, it was virtually indestructible. The Brown Adept rejoined Stile and Sheen, staying clear of the dangerous region.
Now the vehicles moved up to push against the ball itself. The golems pushed on the other side. The machines had more power, but only one unit at a time could contact the Phazite, compact as it was, while the golems could apply all their force. The boulder rocked back and forth, then rolled to the side and forward. The golems were able to maneuver better, and were making progress again.
The machines regrouped. Another vehicle lined up and pushed on the boulder. Again the golems nudged the ball around the machine. Their brains were wooden, but they did learn slowly from experience.
Unfortunately, so did the machines. They consulted with each other briefly, then lined up again — and charged the golems.
"No!" the Brown Adept cried as a truck smashed into a golem. It was as if she felt the blow herself. "That's cheating!"
"There are no rules to this game," Stile said.
"Oh, is that so?" Brown's small face firmed, and she called new instructions to her minions.
Now the golems fought back. When the vehicles charged, the golems stepped aside, then leaned in close to pound at the vulnerable regions as Stile explained them to Brown. Tires burst under the impact of pointed wooden feet; plastic cracked under wooden fists. But the machines, though dented, continued to fight.
"These are not like animals," Sheen said. "They don't hurt. Thou must disrupt their power trains or electrical systems."
The Brown Adept had no knowledge of technology. "Obey the Lady Machine!" she called to the golems.
Sheen called out instructions. Now the golems went after more specific things. They unscrewed the fastenings for maintenance apertures and ripped out wiring; they punched holes in lubrication lines. Soon all the machines were out of commission.
The golems had won this engagement. But time had been lost. The juxtaposition would remain only a few hours, and in that time the Phazite had to be moved across into the frame of Proton. The next obstacle would surely be more formidable; this had been merely a token engagement, a first testing of strength.
Stile brought out his map again. "We'll have to plan strategy, arrange a diversion. Now our obvious route is curving north, through the unicorn demesnes, to pass between the Oracle's palace and the central lake, in a generally descending lay of land. So they'll have that region well guarded. We'll send a contingent of creatures there, clearing a path for the ball. Our least likely route would be back toward the Purple Mountains, through the sidhe demesnes, where my friend Clef traveled when he first entered Phaze. The terrain is forested, irregular, and infested by harpies. So that's where we had better go."
"But it will take forever to roll the ball through that region!" Brown protested.
"Not if we can figure out a good way through. Magic could be used to prepare the way, such as the construction of sturdy bridges over gulfs. Could you handle that, Sheen?"
"Certainly. The enemy Adepts will never know what I'm doing. But I need to be on hand to guard you."
"Fear not for Blue, loyal Lady," Stile's alternate self said. "The Adepts will strike not until they fathom our purpose, fearing to waste their magic on distractions. I know them, I know their minds. Go thy way, and we shall meet anon."
"Meanwhile, I will come with thee, Blue, to plot the false route," Brown said, enjoying this adventure.
Trool the troll reappeared. "The ogres, giants, and animalheads are marching from the west to join thee," he reported. "But the goblins are marching south to intercept them and thee. There will be a battle when they meet."
Stile consulted his map again. "How fast are they moving?"
"The animalheads are slowest, but also nearest. They will be here-" Trool indicated a spot within the unicorn demesnes on the map. "The ogres move faster, but the Black Demesnes are directly in their path, and the Green Demesnes to the south. They must veer north, then south, and should be here by dusk." He indicated a spot near the Oracle's palace. "The giants are farthest distant, but stride so large they will be with thee by late afternoon."
Late afternoon. Stile realized it was near midday now. But it had seemed like only an hour since the Citizens' business meeting, which had been in the evening. What had happened to the intervening night? Sheen must have slipped in a stasis-spell before letting him leave her temporary dome in the ogres' demesnes, and he had
never even noticed. It was probably for the best; he had needed a good night's rest. So much was happening, the picture changing so radically, it was hard to keep track. But he had to keep going. "And the goblins?"
"The enemy Adepts are helping them move, but the goblins are so many that no spell can conjure them all — and the Lady Golem-Adept's counterspell prevents their coming all the way here by magic anyway. Logistics is a problem. They will be in this spot by dusk." He indicated the Oracle's palace.
"That means the ogres and goblins will meet somewhat to the north of the Oracle," Stile said grimly, tracing the likely paths on the map. "We'd better send a detachment of unicorns to help the ogres. After all, that's right in the path of our decoy effort. We have to take it seriously enough to fool them." He glanced at the golems, who were moving the ball again. "Have them go slowly, maybe pushing the ball farther uphill than necessary, so we can roll it down quickly — in an unanticipated direction. I want to give the enemy every chance to rush its forces to the wrong rendezvous."
Brown gave instructions to a messenger golem, then accompanied Stile on the mock survey excursion. Stile would have preferred to fly, but Sheen's antimagic spell stopped him as well as the enemy Adepts. He had to go on foot, at least until a unicorn arrived. Fortunately he was quite capable afoot. He set out at a running pace, covering each mile in about seven minutes. Brown's big golem steed kept pace with huge strides.
Then the unicorn he had hoped for came into sight. "Clip!" Stile cried. "Thou didst know I needed thee!"
Clip played a saxophone tune of agreement. Stile vaulted to his back, and they were off at a much faster pace. "Aw, the troll told him," Brown said disparagingly.
Of course that was true. In this frame of magic, coincidence was seldom unassisted.
Stile experienced the peculiar wrenching of separation again. They had once more passed outside the zone of juxtaposition, and his soul was all his own. The boundaries of the expanded curtain seemed to be quite irregular. He had supposed north would lead into the center of it. His other self had not intruded, letting Stile handle things his way, but the other's presence was increasingly comfortable, and his absence increasingly jarring. Now the terrain seemed less familiar, for his other self's experience with the land was absent. Also, now the overlapping terrain of Proton was gone; this was mostly barren rock and sand, in the science frame, easy to ignore in the presence of the Phaze vegetation, but still present when one cared to perceive it. Well, at least he would suffer no Citizen malice here; only the enemy Adepts could reach him.
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