Blue Adept

by Piers Anthony

  “I am he,” Stile responded guardedly. “I seek no quarrel with thy kind.”

  “I am Vodlevile. I encountered thine ogre-friend, Hulk, and thereafter through thine intercession the Yellow Adept did forward to me a potion that cured my son. I owe thee—”

  Stile put up a disclaiming palm. “It was in abatement of Hulk’s debt to thee for the help thou didst give him in the course of his mission for me. Thou hast no debt to me. I am glad to hear of thy good fortune, and I wish thee and thy son well.”

  “I helped Hulk from mere camaraderie,” Vodlevile protested. “Repayment for that were an insult.” He paused. “No offense, Adept; a figure of speech.”

  “Understood,” Stile said, liking this creature. “Yet would I have helped thy son regardless, had I known of his condition. The Lady Blue is a healer, and it is ever her pleasure to help the creatures of Phaze. Can I do less?”

  “Apology,” Vodlevile said. “I spied thy Lady not. I recognized thee from thy music on the Flute, forgetting her. A greeting to thee, fair one.”

  “And to thee, sociable one,” the Lady Blue replied. She turned to Stile. “We ask no recompense for the work we do, yet neither do we deny the proffered gratitude of those we help.”

  Stile smiled. “Methinks I have been directed to accept what thou mayst proffer, though I feel thou hast no obligation.”

  “I bring naught tangible,” the vampire said. “If there is anything I may do for thee—”

  “What I must do, no one can do for me,” Stile said gravely.

  “What is that?”

  “I must match the Herd Stallion in fair combat.” Stile quickly outlined the situation.

  “Why, sir, that is merely a matter of face. We vampires, being naturally stealthy, have ready means to handle such questions.”

  “You vampires must be smarter than I am,” Stile said ruefully.

  Then Vodlevile explained the recommended strategy. Stile clapped the heel of one hand to his forehead. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “There is no better service thou couldst have done me than this simple advice.”

  The vampire made a gesture of satisfaction. “Every time I see my son change form and fly, I think of Blue.” He shifted back to bat-form and flew away.

  “Thou art very like my Lord,” the Lady Blue murmured. “His friendships were many, his enmities few.”

  Except for the enemy who killed him, Stile thought bleakly. That one had undone all the rest.

  The final match was decided and the victorious unicorn paraded off the field. Now it was time for the special event—Herd Stallion vs. Blue Adept—in a combat supposedly immune to magic.

  The Herd Stallion strutted out, resplendent in his natural color and musculature. Stile started forward, but found himself restrained by the Lady Blue’s hand. He turned to her, uncertain what she wanted.

  She was always beautiful, but at the moment she seemed to him to be transcendentally lovely. “Go with care, my Lord,” she said, and somehow it was the greatest compliment he could have imagined.

  “I thank thee, Lady,” he said. Then he proceeded on out to meet the Stallion, carrying the Platinum Flute.

  The unicorns formed a great ring around the two, sealing off external magic. They thought Stile would be unable to draw on the background power, and ordinarily this would be true. But the Oracle had enabled him to nullify that nullification. This was the real debt he owed Hulk, for Hulk had donated his one lifetime question to the Oracle for Stile’s benefit; that was why Stile had taken Hulk’s debt of a favor on himself. Now the vampire had repaid it, and by Stile’s logic he owed a major favor to Hulk.

  Perhaps his gift of the pursuit of the Proton-self of the Lady Blue had abated that; perhaps not. He remembered that he had agreed to Hulk’s visit to the Oracle at the subtle behest of the Lady Blue, who had been aware of what was developing. She had acted to defuse the issue before it came to Stile’s attention. So where was the right of it? Stile knew he would have to think about the matter some more; right was not always simple to ascertain. Yet such deliberations were always worthwhile.

  Now he stood in the center of the huge arena, before the Stallion. The contrast in their sizes was striking; a large equine, a very small man. But there was no snicker from the audience, for Stile was the Blue Adept.

  First he had to establish his power, making it instantly and compellingly evident to the entire assembly. That was the first stage of the vampire’s excellent advice. He had to prove that the ring of unicorns could not impinge upon the Blue Adept’s practice of magic. At the moment, only a few understood the full properties of the Platinum Flute, like the Yellow Adept; after the demonstration, everyone would know.

  Stile brought out the Flute. The Herd Stallion waited, as if curious to see what his opponent was up to.

  Stile played. Again the enchanting melody poured forth, the finest sound a flute could make. The unicorns listened raptly, yet perplexed. How could mere music stop the great Stallion?

  When the magic had gathered, Stile halted and went into a singsong spell: “Show us the story of the Dragon’s Tooth, from death to bloom, from birth to youth.” But the real shaping of it was in his mind; the words only initiated the sequence.

  In the sky a dot appeared. It expanded rapidly into the shape of a dragon, with six legs, six wings, and a tremendously toothed mouth. A shadow almost the size of the entire arena fell as the monster crossed the sun. The unicorns looked up, alarmed; seldom did any dragon approach a unicorn herd, and this one was the largest ever seen locally.

  Stile raised his right hand to point at the dragon. Then he put the Flute to his mouth again, to intensify the magic and keep his complex spell operating at full strength.

  The dragon folded its wings and dived at the field. Folded, it was much smaller. It crashed headfirst into the chewed turf and exploded. This was the “death” of his spell. Teeth flew out in a splash, to land all across the field; the rest of the dragon puffed away in smoke.

  Where each tooth fell, something sprouted. This was the “bloom.” As Stile continued to play the Flute, the teeth grew into leafy vines. Each vine fruited in a gourd, and each gourd hatched into a human baby, and each baby grew rapidly into an armed soldier. This was the “birth to youth” sequence. The soldiers formed into a phalanx, marched once around the field, shifted into a sinuous formation that suddenly sprouted wings and flew as a mass into the sky. It was the original dragon, departing as it had come. In moments it was a mere speck in the sky, and then it was gone.

  The unicorns stood in silence. They had just been shown that they could no longer restrict the magic of the Blue Adept, even when their force was greatest. The Adepts, too, were riveted; not one of them could match this performance. Was one of them the murderer he sought? Stile hoped that one was quaking, now, for fear of the vengeance of Blue. Most magic was fun to Stile, but in this regard it was deadly serious.

  The Herd Stallion, however, had not budged. Stile had feared this would be the case. He had fashioned a demonstration of magic that was spectacular enough to enable the Stallion to withdraw without shame; obviously no ordinary creature could prevail against power like this. But the Stallion was stubborn; he would not back off regardless. He might face impossible odds but he would not yield to opposition. Stile respected that; he was that way himself. It was another reason why he was going to so much trouble to avoid humiliating the fine animal. How fortunate that the vampire had been available for advice!

  Stile sang another spell: “Flute of class, grant equal mass.” Suddenly a giant appeared, in Stile’s own image, standing in his footprints, towering above him. The giant’s mass was equal to that of the Herd Stallion; anyone could see that. Then the giant shrank in on Stile until at last it disappeared in Stile. He now had the mass of the unicorn, though he remained his own size and felt no different. He held the Flute—which was now the broadsword.

  The Herd Stallion stepped forward. He certainly understood; Stile was using his magic only to make the contest
even. It depended only on their skills. If the Stallion was good with his natural weapon, he might outfence Stile and win. If not, Stile would prevail. The nullification of shame could go no further than this. Vampire Vodlevile’s advice had taken them to this stage; what followed would follow.

  The Stallion seemed to be proceeding with guarded confidence. Stile could guess why; Stile was known to be inexpert with the rapier. Neysa had had to drill him in its use, and he had been an apt student, but a few lessons could not bring him to the level of the Herd Stallion.

  Stile, however, was not now holding a rapier. He was holding an excellent broadsword, perfect in weight and length and temper and balance and all the subtleties of general feel, and with this weapon he was proficient. He had trained with this type of sword for a dozen years, and won many Proton-frame Games with it. While he could not match the Stallion’s protection against being disarmed, he could, if he had to, throw his blade at his opponent. So it was reasonably even. That was the way he wanted it. Vodlevile had shown him how to ease his crisis of conscience.

  They met in the center of the arena and ceremoniously crossed weapons. Then each took a step back. Now it began.

  The Stallion lunged. The horn shot forward. Stile jumped aside, his point jabbing to tag the unicorn’s shoulder—but the animal was not to be caught that way, and was out of range.

  Now Stile lunged. The Stallion’s horn parried his thrust powerfully. Had Stile not possessed equal mass, he could have been disarmed then; as it was, sparks flew from the colliding weapons and both parties felt the impact.

  So much for the feeling-out. Stile valued surprise, without sacrificing good technique. He fenced with the Stallion’s horn, setting himself up for disarming, and when the Stallion made the move, Stile slipped by his guard and sliced at his neck. The unicorn, suckered, shifted instantly to man-form so as to duck under it, then back to equine form. He had a sword in man-form, but lacked Stile’s mass; there was no conservation of mass, in magic.

  Stile wheeled to engage the Stallion again. He knew now that he was the superior swordsman, but he guarded against overconfidence. This shape-changing—that could be tricky.

  Indeed it was. Suddenly he faced a small flying dragon. The creature spread batlike wings and flew over Stile’s head, out of reach of his sword.

  Well, Stile was also out of reach of the dragon’s talons. It was a standoff, for the moment. Since he didn’t really want to hurt the Herd Stallion, that was all right.

  Then the dragon shot fire from its mouth. Stile dived out of the way. This was more complicated than he had thought! Evidently the unicorn had built up some heat in the course of the match, and was able to use that to fuel his dragon-form.

  The dragon oriented for another shot. Stile raised his sword—and it was a shiny, mirror-surfaced shield. It caught the jet of fire and bounced it back at the dragon. The creature took evasive action.

  Stile could bring the dragon down by magic—but he remained unwilling to do that. He wanted to win as he was. His weapon could change according to his need; the Stallion could change his shape. They remained even. Except that Stile could not reach the dragon.

  Or could he? Suddenly his weapon became an eighteen-foot pike. Stile heaved it upward at a sharp angle, poking at the dragon. The creature squawked with a sound like an accordion—which was the tone of the Stallion’s horn—and flapped higher. Another jet of fire came down, but petered out short of the mark. Stile’s pike was keeping the dragon beyond flame-range.

  Standoff. Neither could hurt the other. Unless—

  Stile’s spike became a powerful platinum bow, with a long, sharp arrow. He aimed it at the dragon—but already the creature was diving to earth, changing back to the unicorn, who formed in midcharge toward Stile.

  Stile’s weapon shifted back to broadsword, and the fencing resumed. Stile was the better swordsman, but every time he pressed his advantage the Stallion changed shape and they went through a quick series of animal and weapon forms before returning to the more conventional fray.

  It became apparent to the audience that there was unlikely to be a winner here; neither party could hurt the other. Stile was satisfied with that; they could negotiate a reasonable extension of Neysa’s time.

  Stile outfenced the Stallion again, the Stallion shifted to dragon-form, Stile’s sword became the bow …

  And the dragon became the man-form, who plummeted toward Stile. Stile flung himself aside, his grip on his weapon slackening, and the man-form snatched it from Stile’s grasp. He hurled it far across the arena. In air, the bow reverted to its natural state, the Flute, and bounced on the grass. Stile had been careless, and abruptly disarmed.

  His first impulse was to run for the Flute, for he had no chance without it. His mass had reverted to normal the moment he was separated from the Flute. The ring of unicorns now deprived him of his magic. How foolish he had been not to retain his grip; he could never have been disarmed had he willed himself not to be.

  A large hand caught his shoulder. The man-form was preventing him from going after the weapon.

  Stile reacted instantly. He caught the hand on his shoulder, whirled about, and applied pressure to the man-form’s elbow joint. It would have been a submission hold, ordinarily—but the form shifted back to equine and the hold was negated.

  Freed, Stile sprinted for the Flute. But the Stallion galloped after him. No chance to outrun that! Stile had to turn and dodge, staying clear of that horn.

  But he would not be able to dodge it long! Stile made a phenomenal, acrobatic leap, feeling his weakened knees giving way in the effort, and flipped through the air toward the Stallion’s back. If he could ride the animal long enough to get near the Flute—

  Then, in the moment he was in the air, he saw that terrible unicorn horn swinging about to bear on him. The Stallion had reacted too quickly. Stile would land—directly on the point.

  He landed—in the arms of the man-form. The creature set him down carefully. “I seek not to injure thee, Adept, for thou hast been kind to my kind. I merely deflect thee. Thou’rt disarmed of thy weapon and thy magic. Dost thou yield?”

  It had been a fair fight. The unicorn had outmaneuvered him. Stile might be able to hold his own against the manform, but not against the equine-form or dragon-form, and he refused to stoop to any subterfuge. He had lost. “I yield,” he said.

  “Fetch thy weapon ere hostile magic comes,” the manform said, and shifted back to unicorn-form.

  Stile walked across the arena and picked up the Flute, then rejoined the Stallion before the main judging stand. The Stallion did not speak, so Stile did. “We have met in fair encounter, and the Stallion defeated me. The Blue Adept yields the issue.”

  Now the Herd Stallion blew an accordion medley on his horn. Neysa’s brother Clip trotted up. “The Stallion says the Adept is more of a creature than he took him for. The Adept had magic to win, and eschewed it in favor of equality, and fought fairly and well, and lost well. The Stallion accepts the pride of that victory—and yields back the issue.”

  Then the applause began. Unicorns charged into the field, forming into their discrete herds. Neysa found Stile and carried him away separately to rejoin the Lady Blue. The Unolympics were over.

  So all the Herd Stallion had really wanted was the notoriety of defeating the Blue Adept and redeeming the pride he had lost during their prior encounter at the Blue Demesnes. Granted that, the Stallion had been generous, and had granted Neysa the extension she wanted. All Stile had lost was a little pride of his own—and that had never been his prime consideration.

  In future, he would pay better attention to the hidden motives of the creatures of Phaze—and to the pitfalls of battling a shape-changing creature. These were useful lessons.

  CHAPTER 7

  Hulk

  Sheen took Stile to a private chamber deep in the maintenance section of the dome they lived in. He carried his harmonica and the Platinum Flute with him in a small bag, not being willing to leave them el
sewhere lest he have sudden need for them, or risk their theft.

  He spoke with an anonymous machine through a speaker. This reminded him of the mode of the Oracle—but of course the Oracle could not be a machine. It was evident that Sheen had not brought him here without reason. “What is your interest?” he inquired.

  “We have a partial report for you concerning the recent attempt made on your life.”

  “Partial,” Stile repeated, excited and disappointed. Any progress was good, but he needed the whole story.

  “The message from your Citizen Employer was legitimate, but the address was changed. A chip had been modified in the message annex to substitute that address for the proper one in any message directed to you from a Citizen, one time. It was a one-shot trap.”

  “Sending me to intrude on a Citizen who didn’t like the Tourney and was apt to exterminate intruders,” Stile said, thinking of the Black Adept in Phaze, who acted similarly.

  “Correct. We conclude this was the work of other than a Citizen.”

  “Because a Citizen would not have had to bother with a hidden trap,” Stile said, realizing that he should not so blithely have assumed his enemy was a Citizen.

  “Correct. We were unable to trace the instigator. We remain alert for more direct devices, but your enemy is evidently no machine.”

  He hadn’t even thought of having a machine-enemy! “Because my enemy has more imagination than a machine does.”

  “Correct. Like you, that person is a quick and original thinker.”

  “This helps,” Stile said. “A serf is considerably more limited than a Citizen. A serf’s motives should differ from those of a Citizen. But could a serf have lasered my knees or sent Sheen to me?”

  “The knees affirmative. Sheen negative. She had to come from a Citizen. That Citizen covered his traces carefully; we can trace her manufacture but not the identity of the one issuing the directive that sent her to you.”

  “So already we have a seeming divergence of elements. A Citizen sent Sheen to protect me from a serf.”