Split Infinity

CHAPTER 10 - Magic

Stile woke suddenly, making a significant connection.

“Geography!” he cried. “This world is Proton!”

Neysa, in girl-form, was tending him. He realized, in a kind of supplementary revelation, that she was the same size as Tune; no wonder he had accepted her as a lover so readily, despite his knowledge of her nature. She was not a true woman, and would never be, but she was well worthwhile on her own account.

She looked at him questioningly, aware of his stare. Her appearance and personality were, of course, quite unlike Tune’s; no light-hued hair, no merry cleverness here. Neysa was dark and quiet, and she never told a lie.

“I had a memory,” he explained. “Beginning with my fencing lessons, because you were teaching me how to use the rapier when I—“ He paused, trying to assimilate it. “What happened to me?”

Reluctantly, she talked. “Sick.”

“Sick? You mean as in disease? But there’s no disease on Proton—“ Again he did a double take. “But this isn’t Proton, exactly. It’s another realm with the same geography. The purple mountains to the south-it’s what Proton might have been, had it had a decent atmosphere. An alternate Proton, where magic works. Maybe magic made the atmosphere, and the gravity. So with a complete planetary environment, a complete ecology, there are flies, there is dirt, there is disease. And I have no natural immunity, only my standard shots, which never anticipated the complete spectrum of challenges I found here. The micro-organisms in the food here, in the water, natural for natives but foreign to my system. Pollens in the air. Allergens. Et cetera. So it took a couple of days for the germs to incubate in my system, then suddenly they overwhelmed me. Reaching the point of explosive infestation. Thanks for explaining it so well, Neysa.”

She smiled acknowledgment.

“But how could you cure me? I should have died, or at least been sick longer than this. I’ve only been out a few hours, haven’t I? Now I feel fine, not even tired.”

She had to speak again. “Clip brought amulet.” She reached forward and touched a figurine hanging on a necklace that had been put on him.

Stile lifted it in his hand. “A healing amulet? Now isn’t that clever! Will I get sick again if I take it off?”

She shook her head no.

“You mean these things emit their magic in one burst, then are useless? But some are supposed to have continuing effect, like the clothing-simulator amulet I was given at the outset—uh-oh.” He hastily removed the chain from his neck. “That one tried to kill me. If this one was made by the same party—“

She shrugged.

“Do you mind if I dispose of this now?” he asked. “We could bury it and mark the spot so we can find it later if we want it. But I’d rather not have it with me. If I invoke a secondary function—well, Neysa, an amulet attacked me, before I met you. When I invoked it You invoked this one, so maybe that’s why it acted normally. I fear the amulets have murder in mind for me, when they recognize me. That’s why I needed a steed—to get away from my anonymous enemy.”

Neysa lifted her head, alarmed in the equine manner. “No, no, you didn’t bring the enemy here,” Stile reassured her. “The demon hasn’t been invoked.” He took her hands, smiling. “I chose better than I knew, when I chose you. You did right, Neysa. I think you saved my life.”

She allowed herself to be drawn in to him, and there followed what followed. He had not forgotten Sheen, but this was another world.

They buried the amulet and went on. It was morning; his illness had lasted only one night, coinciding with normal sleep, and the revelation of geography had almost been worth it. This accounted for the nagging familiarity he had sensed before; he had seen the surface of this world a decade ago, in its dead form.

What accounted for this difference? The concept of alternate worlds, or alternate frames of the same world, he could accept. But breathable atmosphere, a full living ecology, and magic in one, domes and science and external barrenness in the other—that dichotomy was harder to fathom. He would have expected parallel frames to be very similar to each other.

Still, it helped his sense of orientation. Now it was clear why people crossed over at certain spots. They were not matter-transmitting, they were stepping through the curtain at precise geographical locations, so as to arrive in domes and in private places. To cross elsewhere—well, if he tried that, he would have to pre-pare himself with a breathing mask.

‘You know, Neysa,” he said as he rode. “There is a lot I don’t know about this world, and my life is in danger here, but I think I like it better than my own. Out here, with you—I’m happy. I could just ride for-ever, I think, like this.” He shook his head. “But I suppose I would get tired of it, in a century or two;

must be realistic.”

Neysa made a musical snort, then broke into a two-beat gallop, front hooves striking precisely together, rear hooves likewise. It was a jolting gait.

“Think you can buck me off, huh?” Stile said play-fully. He brought out his harmonica—one advantage of clothing, he discovered, was that it had pockets—and played a brisk marching melody. The girl “Tune had taught him the beauty of music, and his growing talent in it had helped him on numerous occasions in the Game. His memory flashback had freshened his aware-ness that even had music been worthless in a practical sense, he would have kept it up. Music was fun.

But again a looming presence developed. Again they stopped. “Something funny about this,” Stile said. “Clip told me not to worry, that unicorns are immune to most magic—but this is eerie. I don’t like mysteries that may affect my health.”

Neysa blew a note of agreement.

“It seems to happen when we’re playing music,” he continued. “Now I’ve never been harmed by music, but I’d better be sure. Maybe something is sneaking up while we’re playing, hoping we won’t notice. I somehow doubt this is connected with the amulets; this is more subtle. Let’s try it again. If we feel the presence, I’ll stop playing and will try to search it out. You go on playing as if nothing is happening. We need to catch it by surprise.”

They resumed play—and immediately the presence returned. Stile left his harmonica at his lips but ceased playing; instead he peered about while Neysa danced on, continuing the melody. But even as he looked, whatever it was faded.

Experimentally Stile resumed play, matching Neysa’s theme, softly, so that an on-listener would not hear him. The presence returned. Neysa stopped playing, while Stile continued—and the presence loomed stronger, as if her music had restrained it. Stile halted abruptly—and the effect receded.

“It’s tied to me!” he exclaimed. “Only when I play-“

Neysa agreed. Whatever it was, was after Stile—and it advanced only when he was playing. It could hear him, regardless of other sounds that masked his own.

Stile felt an eerie chill. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

The unicorn took off. No clever footwork this time; she moved right into a racing gallop. They forged across the plain at a rate no horse could match, wove through copses of brightly green trees, and leaped across small streams. He could see the mountains sliding back on either side. They were really covering the kilometers!

At last Neysa slowed, for her breath was turning Eery. Stile brought out his harmonica and played once more—and instantly the presence closed in.

He stopped immediately. “We can’t outrun it, Neysa; that’s evident. But now that we’re aware of it, maybe we can do something about it. Why does it still come only when I play? It has to know that we are aware of it, and are trying to escape it; no further need to hide.”

Neysa shrugged—an interesting effect, while he was mounted.

“First the amulet, now this. Could they be con-nected? Could the harmonica be—“ He paused, alarmed. “Another amulet?”

After a moment he developed a notion. “Neysa—do you think you could play this instrument? With your mouth, I mean, human-fashion? If this is an enemy-summoning device, there should be the same effect whoever plays it. I think.”

Neysa halted and had him dismount and remove the saddle. Then she phased into human form. He had not seen her do it by day before, and it had not occurred to him that she would. He had thought of her playing the harmonica in her equine form, but of course this way made much more sense.

She took the instrument and played. She was not expert, since this was foreign to her mode, and the result was a jumble. No presence formed. Then Stile took the harmonica and played a similar jumble—and the presence was there.

“Not the instrument—but me,” he said. “Only when I play it.” He pondered. “Is it a symbiosis, or is the harmonica incidental?”

He tried humming a tune—and the presence came, though not as powerfully as before.

“That settles it: it’s me. When I make music, it comes. My music is better with the harmonica, so the effect is stronger, that’s all. The instrument is not haunted.” He smiled. “I’m glad. I like this harmonica. I’d hate to have to bury it in dirt.” He would hate to abuse any harmonica, because he retained a fond feeling for the keyboard harmonica and all its relatives. But this present instrument was the finest of its breed he had ever played.

Neysa had changed back to her natural form. Stile put the saddle back on. “I don’t think we can afford to ignore this matter,” he said.

The unicorn flicked one ear in agreement.

“Let’s get down to some good grazing land, and I’ll challenge it. I want to see what will happen. I don’t like running from a threat anyway. I’d rather draw it out and settle the account, one way or another. If it is an enemy, I want to summon it by daylight, with my sword in hand, not have it sneak up on me at night.”

Neysa agreed again, emphatically.

They moved downslope until good grass resumed. Neysa grazed, but she did not wander far from Stile, and her eye was on him. She was concerned. Bless her;

it had been a long time since someone had worried about him. Except for Sheen—and that was a matter of programming.

Stile began to play. The presence loomed. He tried to see it, but it was invisible, intangible. This time he did not stop his music. The grass seemed to wave, bending toward him and springing back as if driven by a wind, but there was no wind. The air seemed to sparkle. A faint haze developed, swirling in barely discernible colored washes. Stile felt the hairs on his body lighten, as if charged electrostatically. He thought at first it was his own nervousness, for he did not know what thing or force he summoned, but he saw Neysa’s mane lifting similarly. There was potential here, and it centered on him—but it never acted. It just loomed.

Stile stopped playing, growing weary of this—and yet again the effect faded. “Almost the form of an electrical storm,” he mused. “Yet—“

He was cut off by a sheet of rain blasting at him. Lightning cracked nearby. The sudden light half-blinded him, and a gust of wind made him stagger. He was soaked as if dunked in a raging sea, feeling the eerie chill of the violent water. There was a swirling of fog reminiscent of a developing tornado. The flashes of light were continuous.

Neysa charged back to him, seeking to protect him from the elements with her body and her anti-magic.

Both helped; Stile flung his arms about her neck and buried his face in her wet mane, and the swirling wind had less force there. Her mass was more secure than his, and the rain struck her less stingingly. They settled to the ground, and that was more secure yet. “Now I’m embracing you in your natural form,” he told her laughingly, but doubted she heard him over the wind.

What had happened? A moment ago there had been no slightest sign of bad weather. Stile knew storms could develop quickly—he had taken a course in primitive-world meteorology, and often visited the weather dome for demonstrations—but this had been virtually instantaneous. He had been playing his harmonica, trying to trigger whatever monstrous force was lurking, to bring it somehow to bay, then idly likened the effect to—

“I did it!” he cried. “I invoked the storm!” Like the amulet, it had been there to be commanded, and he had innocently done so.

“Storm abate!” he cried.

The two of them were almost swept from their impromptu nest by another savage bout of wind. The storm was not, it seemed, paying heed.

Yet this power was somehow keyed to him. He had invoked the storm; was he unable to banish it? He had evoked the demon from the amulet, before; that had evidently been a one-way thing. But a storm? Was it impossible to put this genie back in the bottle?

It was hard to concentrate, in this buffeting and wet and light and noise. But he tried. What, specifically, had he done to bring this about? He had played music, and the storm-spirit had loomed close without striking. Then he had said, “Almost the form of an electrical storm.” An accidental rhyme, of no significance.

Rhyme? Something nagged him. When the harmonica had appeared, so fortuitously—what had he said? Hadn’t it been—yes. “A harmonica is what you play. I wish I had one here today.” Something like that.

Joke doggerel. Two times he had spoken in rhyme, and two times he had been answered. Of course there had been other magic, like the attacking demon of the amulet. No rhymes there. But—worry about that later; it might be a different class of magic. Now, try to abate this tempest. Abate—what rhymed with that? Fate, late, plate. Try it; all he could do was fail.

“Storm abate; you’re making me late!” he cried.

The storm lessened, but did not disappear. He was on to something, but not enough. Half a loaf. What else had he done, those other two times?

Neysa played a note on her horn. The storm had eased, so she preferred to stand. She felt most secure on all four feet

That was it! He had been blowing his horn—in a manner. The harmonica. Making music, either singing or playing.

Stile brought out his wet harmonica and played a soggy passage. Then he stopped and sang in an impromptu tune: “Storm abate. You’re making me late!”

This time the storm lessened considerably. The lightning stopped, and the rain slacked to a moderate shower. But it still wasn’t gone.

“Neysa, I think I’m on to something,” he said. “But I don’t really have the hang of it yet. I think I can do magic, if I can only get the rules straight.”

The unicorn gave him a long look whose import was unclear. Evidently she distrusted this development, but she made no comment. And he marveled at it himself: how could he, .the child of the modem civilized galaxy, seriously consider practicing magic?

Yet, after what he had experienced in this frame, how could he not believe in magic?

They resumed their journey, plodding through the drizzle. After an hour they got out of it, and the sun warmed them. They did not make music. Stile knew he had learned something, but not enough. Yet.

Now they settled down to serious grazing and eating—except that he had nothing to eat. Neysa had been willing to continue until she brought him to a fruit tree, but he had felt her sustenance was more important than his, at the moment. She was doing most of the work.

If he could actually do magic, maybe he could conjure some food. If he made up a rhyme and sang it-why not? What rhymed with food?

Stile was actually a poet, in a minor sense; this was yet another aspect of his Game expertise. A person had to be extremely well rounded to capture and hold a high rung on an adult ladder. He was probably more skilled in more types of things of a potentially competitive nature than anyone not involved in the Game. But he had preferred meaning to rhyme and meter, in poetry, so was ill prepared for this particular exercise.

Still, he did know the rudiments of versification, and with a little practice it should come back to him. Iambic feet: da-DUM da-DUM. Pentameter: five feet per line. I wish I had a little food—iambic tetrameter, four beats. If unicorns spoke words while running, they would be excellent at poetic meter, for their hooves would measure the cadence.

“I wish I had a little food; it would really help my mood,” he said in singsong. He was not as good at improvising tunes with his voice as with an instrument.

Before him appeared a tiny cube. It dropped to the ground, and he had to search for it in the grass. He found it and held it up. It was about a centimeter on a side, and in tiny letters on one face was printed the word FOOD. Stile touched his tongue to it. Nutro-peanut butter. He ate it. Good, but only a token.

Well, he had specified “little.” That was exactly what he had gotten.

He was gaining understanding. Music summoned the magic; that was the looming power they had been aware of. Words defined it. The rhyme marked the moment of implementation. A workable system—but he had to make his definitions precise. Suppose he conjured a sword—and it transfixed him? Or a mountain of food, and it buried him? Magic, like any other tool, had to be used properly.

“I wish I had one liter of food; it would really help my mood.” Nothing happened. Obviously he was still missing something. Neysa lifted her head, perking her ears. Her hearing was more acute than his. Her head came around. Stile followed the direction her horn was pointing—and saw shapes coming toward them.

Had he summoned these? He doubted it; they hardly looked like food, and certainly not in the specified quantity. This must be a coincidental development.

Soon the shapes clarified. Four monsters. They were vaguely apelike, with huge long forearms, squat hairy legs, and great toothy, horny, glary-eyed heads. An-other variant of demon, like the one he had fought alone, or the crack-monsters, or the snow-monsters. They all seemed to be species of a general class of creature that wasn’t in the conventional taxonomy. But of course unicorns weren’t in it either.

Neysa snorted. She trotted over to stand by Stile. She knew this was trouble.

“Must be a sending of my enemy,” Stile said. “When you used the amulet to heal me, it alerted the master of amulets, who it seems is not partial to me, for what reason I don’t yet know. He sent his goon squad—but we were no longer with the amulet, so they had to track us down. I’ll bet the storm messed them up, too.”

Neysa made a musical laugh through her horn—a nice effect. She liked the notion of goons getting battered by a storm. But her attention remained on those monsters, and her ears were angling back. She looked cute when her ears perked forward, and grim when they flattened back.

“I think it must be an Adept against me,” Stile continued. “Obviously it is no common peasant. But now I know I can do some magic myself, I am more confident. Do you think we should flee these monsters, and worry about when they might catch up again—such as when we are sleeping—or should we fight them here?”

It was a loaded question, and she responded properly. She swished her tail rapidly from side to side and stomped a forehoof, her horn still oriented on the goons.

“My sentiments exactly,” Stile said. “I just don’t like leaving an enemy on my trail. Let me see if I can work out a good spell to abolish them. That should be safer than indulging in physical combat. They look pretty mean to me.”

Pretty mean indeed. His tone had been light, but he already had healthy respect for the fighting capacity of demons. They were like the androids of Proton: stupid, but almost indestructible. Yet he distrusted this magic he could perform. like all sudden gifts, it needed to be examined in the mouth before being accepted whole-heartedly. But at the moment he simply had to use what was available, and hope it worked.

He concentrated on his versification as the goons approached. He could not, under this pressure, think of anything sophisticated, but so long as it was clear and safe, it would do. It had to.

The first monster loomed before them. “Monster go—I tell you sol” Stile sang, pointing.

The monster puffed into smoke and dissipated. Only a foul-smelling haze remained.

So far, so good. He was getting the hang of it. Stile pointed to the second monster. “Monster go—I tell you so!” he sang, exactly as before. Why change a winning spell?

The monster hesitated as if fazed by the bite of a gnat, then plunged ahead.

Neysa lunged by Stile and caught the demon on her horn. With one heave she hurled it over and behind. The creature gave a great howl of expiration, more in fury than in pain, and landed in a sodden heap.

Why had the magic worked the first time, and not the second? He had done it exactly the same, and nearly gotten his head bitten off.

Oh, no! Could it be that a spell could not be repeated? That it worked only once? Now he remembered something that had been said by the man he met, the one who had given him the demon amulet. About having to devise a new spell each time, to step through the curtain. He should have paid better attention!

The third and fourth goons arrived together.

No time now to work up another spell! Stile drew his rapier. “I’ll take the one on the right; you take the left,” he said to Neysa.

But these two monsters, having seen the fate of their predecessors, were slightly more cautious. To be ugly was not necessarily to be stupid, and these were not really androids. They evidently learned from experience. They halted just outside the range of horn and sword. They seemed to consider Neysa to be the more formidable opponent, though Stile was sure it was him they wanted. They had to deal with her first; then they would have him at their dubious mercy. Or so they thought

While one goon tried to distract her, backing away from the unicorn’s horn, the other tried to get at her from the side. But Stile attacked the side monster, stabbing at it with his point. He wished he had a broad-sword; then he could have slashed these things to pieces. He wasn’t sure that a simple puncture would have much effect.

He was mistaken. He pricked his monster in the flank, and it howled and whirled on him, huge ham-hands stretching toward him. Stile pricked it again, in its meaty shoulder. Not a mortal wound, but it obviously hurt. At least these demons did have pain sensation; Stile had half-feared they would not. Still, this was basically a standoff. He needed to get at a vital spot, before the thing—

The goon’s arm swung with blinding speed and swept the weapon out of Stile’s hand. The thing’s eyes glowed. Gratified, it pounced on him.

Stile whirled into a shoulder throw, catching the monster’s leading arm and heaving. With this technique it was possible for the smallest of men to send the largest of men flying. But this was not a man. The creature was so large and long-armed that Stile merely ended up with a hairy arm dangling over his shoulder. The monster’s feet had not left the ground.

Now the goon raised its arm, hauling Stile into the air. He felt its hot breath on his neck; it was going to bite off his head!

“Oh, swell! Go to hell!” Stile cried with haphazard inspiration.

He dropped to the ground. The monster was gone.

Stile looked around, pleased. His impromptu spell had worked! It seemed this frame did have a hell, and he could send—

He froze. The other goon was gone too. So was Neysa.

Oh, no!

Quick, a counterspell. Anything! What rhymed with spell?

“I don’t feel well; cancel that spell,” he singsonged.

The two monsters and Neysa were back. All three were scorched and coated with soot.

“Monsters away; Neysa stay!” Stile sang. The goons vanished again.

Neysa looked at him reproachfully. She shook herself, making the powdered soot fly. There were sulfur smears on her body, and her mane was frizzled, and her tail was only half its normal length. Her whole body was a mass of singed hair. The whites showed all around her eyes; sure signal of equine alarm.

“I’m sorry, Neysa,” Stile said contritely. “I wasn’t thinking! I didn’t mean to send you to hell!” But he realized that wasn’t much good. She was burned and hurting. He had to do more than merely apologize.

He could do magic—if he sang a new spell every time. Could he make her well?

“To show how I feel—I say ‘Neysa, heal!’”

And before his eyes she unburned. Her mane grew out again and her tail became long and black and straight Her coat renewed its luster. Her hooves bright, but she must have had a truly disturb-ing emotional experience. A visit to hell! How could he erase that horror? Could he formulate a spell to make her forget? But that would be tampering with her mind, and if he made any similar error in definition—no, he dared not mess with that.

Neysa was looking at him strangely, as she had be-fore. Stile feared he knew why.

“Neysa—how many people on this world can perform magic like this?” he asked her. “I know most people can do minor magic, like stepping through the curtain, the way most people can pick out clumsy melodies on the harmonica. But how many can do it well? Professional level? Many?”

She blew a negative note.

“That’s what I thought. A lot of people have a little talent, but few have a lot of talent, in any particular area. This sort of thing is governed by the bell-shaped curve, and it would be surprising if magic talent weren’t similarly constrained. So can a moderate number match my level?”

She still blew no.

“A few?”

This time the negation was fainter.

“A very few?”

At last the affirmative.

Stile nodded. “How many can exert magic against a unicorn, since unicorns are largely proof against magic?”

Neysa looked at him, her nervousness increasing. Her muzzle quivered; her ears were drawing back. Bad news, for him.

“Only the Adepts?” Stile asked.

She blew yes, backing away from him. The whites of her eyes were showing again.

“But Neysa—if I have such talent, I’m still the same person!” he cried. “You don’t have to be afraid of me! I didn’t mean to send you to hell! I just didn’t know my own power!”

She snorted emphatic agreement, and backed another step.

“I don’t want to alienate you, Neysa. You’re my only friend in this world. I need your support.”

He took a step toward her, but she leaned away from him on all four feet. She feared him and distrusted him, now; it was as if he had become a demon, shuffling off his prior disguise.

“Oh, Neysa, I wish you wouldn’t feel this way! The magic isn’t half as important as your respect You joined me, when you could have killed me. We have been so much to each other, these past three days!”

She made a small nose at him, angry that he should try to prevail on her like this. He had sent her to hell; he had shown her how demeaning and dangerous to her his power could be. Yet she was moved; she did not want to desert him.

“I never set out to be a magician,” Stile said. “I thought the magic was from outside. I had to know the truth. Maybe the truth is worse than what I feared.”

Neysa snorted agreement. She was really dead set against this caliber of magic.

“Would it help if I swore not to try any more magic? To conduct myself as if that power did not exist in me? I am a man of my word, Neysa; I would be as you have known me.”

She considered, her ears nicking backward and for-ward as the various considerations ran through her equine mind. At last she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“I swear,” Stile said, “to perform no magic without your leave.”

There was an impression of faint color in the air about him, flinging outward. The grass waved in concentric ripples that expanded rapidly until lost to view. Neysa’s own body seemed to change color momentarily as the ripples passed her. Then all was normal again.

Neysa came to him. Stile flung his arms about her neck, hugging her. There was a special art to hugging an equine, but it was worth the effort. “Oh, Neysa! What is more important than friendship!”

She was not very demonstrative in her natural form, but the way she cocked one ear at him and nudged him with her muzzle was enough.

Neysa returned to her grazing. Stile was still hungry. There was no suitable food for him here, and since he had sworn off magic he could not conjure anything to eat. Actually, he found himself somewhat relieved to be free of magic—but what was he to say to his stomach?

Then he spied the monster Neysa had slain. Were goons edible? This seemed to be the occasion to find out. He drew his knife and set about carving the demon.

Neysa spied what he was doing. She played a note of reassurance, then galloped around in a great circle several times, while Stile gathered brush and dead wood and dry straw to form a fire. When he had his makings ready, Neysa charged in, skidded to a halt, and snorted out a blowtorch blast. She had evidently not yet cooled off from the battle—or from hell—and needed only a small amount of exertion to generate sufficient heat. The brush burst into flame.

As it turned out, monster steak was excellent.