Split Infinity

CHAPTER 12 - Black

“Who is the closest Adept?” Stile asked. “Not the Blue; we won’t check that one if you’re along.”

Kurrelgyre shifted to wolf-form and sniffed the breeze. He shifted back. “The Black, methinks.”

“Black it is!” Stile agreed. He would have preferred a more scientific selection—but science was not, it seemed, trustworthy in this frame. Convenience would have to do.

They left the palace together. Stile riding Neysa, the wolf ranging easily beside. They bore west again, toward the castle of the Black Adept. Now that the decision was made. Stile had second thoughts about purpose and safety. Was he really doing the right thing? All he could do now was see it through, and after checking out the Black Adept he could decide whether it was worth checking out others. This was hardly his idea of sword and sorcery adventure—which was per-haps just as well. He suspected that in real life, more evil magicians prevailed than barbarian heroes.

Neysa had located a supply of grain, and had some in a bag tied to the saddle; she would not have to make long halts for grazing. Traveling at speed, they made excellent progress, covering fifty of this frame’s miles in about two and a half hours. Stile had done some en-durance riding on Proton, and knew it would take an excellent horse to maintain even half this pace.

Thereafter, the way became bleak. The turf thinned, remaining verdant only in scattered oases. Stile realized that with a spell he might procure fresh water and extra food, but did not offer. They did not want magic, and the very notion was contrary to the spirit of his oath.

The mountains and valleys gave way to a broad and featureless dark plain that extended to the horizon, op-pressed by what seemed to be a permanently looming cloud. Gusts of cutting wind brought choking clouds of dust into their faces. Stile coughed. If this environment reflected the temperament of the Black Adept, the magician was vile indeed! But it was probably a misapprehension. Stile had friends and un-friends, but there were few people he considered to be as evil as his friends seemed to think Adepts were. It was said that familiarity bred contempt, but surely ignorance bred error.

At last, amid the gloom, a black castle showed. It stood in stark silhouette, no light illuminating it from within. The land about it was so bleak as to seem scorched. Had Stile not known the identity of its occupant, thanks to Kurrelgyre’s nose, he might readily have guessed. Everything was dead black.

As they neared it. Stile suffered intensifying pangs of doubt. Was his curiosity worth the risk of bracing this person? He was running the risk of whatever sorcery the Black Adept had in mind—for what? Just to know who he was, in this frame.

No—it was more than that, he reminded himself. Another Adept was trying to kill him, and until Stile knew his own identity, he probably would not know who was trying to kill him, or why. The Oracle agreed;

it had told him to know himself. Curiosity alone might not be worth it, but life, security—yes, that was worth it.

What should he do, though, if the lives of his friends were threatened on his behalf? Would he use his magic, then, to help them? No—he could not. His oath had been made, and Stile had never in his life broken his given word. Neysa had to give him leave, and now he knew she would not. Because she believed that to re-lease him would be to turn him into the monster that an Adept would be, and she would rather die. He had better see to their mutual health by mundane means, staying alert.

Yet there was no call to be foolish. “Neysa,” he murmured. “Is there any way to approach this castle secretly and depart in the same fashion? I don’t need to brace the magician directly; I think one look at him will tell me whether he is alive or dead, or whether he re sembles me. If we check, and the Black Adept is alive —not only is he not me, he is likely to do something horrible to me. And to thee, I fear.”

Kurrelgyre growled assent in an I-told-thee-so tone. The two of them expected this to be such a bad experience that Stile would no longer question the validity of their hatred of Adepts. Increasingly, Stile was being convinced.

Neysa halted. She nicked her nose, indicating that he should dismount. Stile did so. Then she reached back as she lifted one hind foot. She put her teeth to it, as if chewing an itch—and the white sock came off.

Stile stared. The term “sock” was descriptive, not literal; it was merely a patch of white hair about the foot. Yet she still held the white sock in her mouth, and her foot had turned black.

She nudged the sock at him, then went for the other hind foot. Soon Stile held a pair of white socks, one larger than the other. Neysa nudged him again.

“But I can’t wear these,” he protested. “These are your socks. Thy socks.”

Neysa nosed him impatiently again. Stile shrugged and tried donning a unicorn-sock over his boot. It was hoof-shaped at the extremity, yet it fit admirably: more unicorn magic, of course. In a moment he stood hand-somely garbed in unicorn socks.

But the white color extended beyond the socks, now.

His feet looked like hooves, his legs like hair. His arms—where were his arms?

Kurrelgyre growled appreciatively, seeming to think Stile’s appearance had improved.

Stile looked again, startled. He looked like a unicorn! A white unicorn. He remained human, but in illusion he was the forepart of the animal. Behind him stretched a ghost-body, equine.

Neysa had given him concealment. Who would worry about a unicorn poking about the premises?

“Every time I think I understand thee, Neysa, thou comest up with some new device!” he said admiringly.

“I’ll return thy socks when we’re away from here.

Thank thee most kindly.” And privately he thought: she didn’t mind him benefiting from magic, so long as it was not Adept magic. A useful distinction.

They went on: a white unicorn, a black unicorn, and a wolf. The dark fog swirled thickly about the castle, helping to conceal them. But could the Adept really be ignorant of their presence? It was possible; why should the Black Adept allow them to intrude, when he could so easily hurl a nasty spell at them, unless he were not paying attention? Surely he had better things to do than sit and watch for trespassers. And if the Adept happened to be dead, there should be no danger anymore. So Stile reasoned, reassuring himself.

Yet somehow he did not feel reassured.

Kurrelgyre made a low growl of warning. They stopped. The wolf had his nose to the ground, frozen there. Stile stooped to look—and his knees gave a warning shock of pain, and the unicorn image halfway buckled. Mustn’t do! But he saw what it was: a black line, stretching across the basalt.

Could it amount to a trip wire? It was a color-line, not a wire, but with magic it could perform the same function. That would explain why the Adept was not paying attention; he depended on his automatic alert. “We’d better pass without touching any lines,” Stile murmured. “They might be the Adept’s alert-lines, no pun.”

They all high-stepped carefully over the line. Soon there was another. This one was thicker, as if drawn with coagulating paint. Then a third, actually a ridge. And a fourth, set closer to the last, like a miniature wall.

“Something funny here,” Stile said. “Why make an alarm-line this solid? It only calls attention to itself.”

Yet there was nothing to do but go on over. Stile’s apprehension was abating as his perplexity grew. He had accepted the notion of magic as a way of life—but why should anyone surround himself with thickening lines? That hardly made sense.

The lines came more often now, each more formidable than the last. It became evident that the black castle was not a mere edifice of stone or brick, but the innermost manifestation of a rapidly solidifying net-work of line-walls. When the walls passed waist height on Stile, and were set only two meters apart, he concluded that jumping them was now too risky; they were bound to touch one accidentally and set off the alarm. If this really were an alarm system. Stile now feared it was something quite different, perhaps an elaborate architectural trap. But it might be no more than a progressive deterrent to intrusions such as theirs. A passive defense, showing that the Black Adept was not really the monster he was reputed to be. Maybe.

“I think we had better walk between walls for a while,” Stile said. “It is either that, or start climbing over them. This thing is turning into a maze, and we may be obliged to follow its rules.” And he wondered, nervously: was that the way of Adepts? To force intruders, stage by stage, into a set mold, that would lead inevitably into their corruption or destruction? Was that the way of all Adept-magic? In that case, the fears of the unicorn and werewolf with respect to Stile him-self could be well founded. Suppose he was, or had been, the Black Adept? That, given limitless power, he had chosen to isolate himself in this manner—and would do so again, given the power again? Helping no one, having no friends? Power corrupted ...

They turned left, walking between walls. As it happened, it was indeed a maze, or at least a complicated labyrinth. The inner wall turned at right angles, making a passage toward the interior, and gradually elevated in height. Soon a ceiling developed, from an extension of one wall, making this a true hall. The passage kept curving about, usually sharply, often doubling back on itself, so that it was impossible to try to keep track of direction. “Kurrelgyre, your nose can lead us out again?” Stile inquired nervously. The wolf growled assent.

The line-labyrinth seemed to continue on indefinitely. Wan light fused in from somewhere, allowing them to see—but there was nothing to see except more blank walls of black material. The castle—for they had to be well inside the edifice proper now—was as silent as a burial vault. That hardly encouraged Stile.

On and on they went. Every time it seemed they were getting somewhere, the passage doubled back and paralleled itself for another interminable distance—then doubled back again. Was this whole castle nothing but many kilometers—many miles, he corrected him-self—of passages? This passage continued to get narrower, becoming more like a tunnel, until Neysa was having difficulty making the turns. Her horn projected in front far enough to scrape a wall when she tried to make a hairpin turn, and her effort to avoid such con-tact put her into contortions and slowed her consider-ably. But she didn’t want to change form, in case they were still under observation; that would betray her special talent. In addition, she still wore the saddle, which would become a liability in her other form. It seemed her own clothing transformed with her, but not things originating externally. And their supplies were in the saddlebags.

“Enough,” Stile said at last. “We can wander forever in this mess, and die of starvation when our supplies run out. Let’s tackle the dread Adept forthrightly!” And he banged his fist into the wall.

That surface was oddly soft and warm, as if only recently extruded from some volcanic fissure. It gave under the impact, slightly, then sprang back with a twang. The sound reverberated along the hall, and on out of sight; it seemed to be traveling along the same convolutions they were traveling, but much faster, tirelessly amplifying as it went. Soon the whole region was humming with it, then the castle itself.

Gradually it fudged, as the harmonics of different walls overlapped and muted each other, and finally died away amorphously. “Must have come to the end of the line,” Stile said. “Let’s go on, not worrying about con-tact.”

They moved on more rapidly. At every sharp corner, Neysa’s horn scraped, and the twang reverberated.

Nothing else happened.

Then at last the walls opened out into a moderate chamber. In the center stood a great black dragon. The creature opened its mouth to roar, but no sound came forth, only a tongue like a line drawn by a pen.

Stile contemplated the creature. He had never seen a living dragon before, but recognized the general form from the literature of legend. Yet this was an unusual variant. The creature, like the castle, seemed to be made of thickened lines. Its legs were formed of loops, its body of closely interlocked convolutions, and its tail was like knitwork. It was as if it had been shaped meticulously from a single line, phenomenally intricate. Yet it was solid, as a knit sweater is solid.

The dragon stepped forward, showing its blackline teeth. Stile was so fascinated by the linear effect that he hardly was concerned for his own safety. He recalled the puzzle-lines that had intrigued him as a child, in which the pen never left the paper or crossed itself. The most intricate forms could be made along the way by the traveling line—flowers, faces, animals, even words —but the rules were never broken. The challenge was to find the end of the line, in the midst of the complex picture.

This dragon, of course, was three-dimensional. Its lines did touch, did cross, for it was tied together by loops and knots at key places. But the principle remained: the line, though knotted, never terminated, never divided. The whole dragon, as far as Stile could tell, was a construct of a single thread.

Stile became aware of the posture of his companions. Both were facing the dragon in a state of combat readiness, standing slightly ahead of Stile.

“Enough of this!” he exclaimed. “This is my quest; you two should not endanger yourselves in my stead. I’ll fight mine own battle.” He stooped to pull off his unicorn socks—and again his knees flared in pain, causing him to drop ignominiously to the floor. He kept forgetting his injury at critical times!

He righted himself tediously, then bent at the waist and drew off one sock, then the other. Now he was him-self again. He approached Neysa. “May I?” he inquired.

She nodded, her eyes not leaving the dragon. Stile picked up one real foot and pulled the sock over it until it merged with her hair. Then he moved around and did the other. In the midst of this he looked up—and met Kurrelgyre’s gaze. Yes—he was handling the unicorn’s very private feet. Horses did not like to have their feet impeded or restrained in any way; many would kick violently in such circumstance, even breaking a leg in the frantic effort to free it, or rebreaking it to escape the restraint of a splint. Thus a broken leg was often doom for a horse. Unicorns were no doubt worse. Neysa, when she joined him, had yielded her whole spirit to him.

Then she had discovered he was Adept. Anathema!

Now Stile stood before the dragon, drawing his rapier. He still was not expert in its use, but the dragon did not know that. Would the point be effective, or was it better to have a cutting edge so he could sever a line? Would the dragon unravel like knitwork if he did cut its line? These were questions he would have to answer by experiment.

The dragon was evidently assessing Stile at the same time. The white unicorn had suddenly become a man. Magic was involved. Was it safe to take a bite?

Stile, though quite nervous about the encounter, was experienced in dealing with animals. He had backed down hostile dogs and cats on his employer’s farm, as part of assorted initiations, and of course had calmed many a spooked horse. Later he had taken his turn in various Game arenas, moving larger beasts of prey about with whip and prod. He had never faced a dragon before, but the basic principles of animal management should apply. He hoped.

He acted with apparent confidence, advancing on the dragon with his rapier point orienting on the creature’s black knot-nose. The noses of most animals were ten- der, and often were more important psychologically than the eyes. “Now I’m not looking for trouble, dragon,” Stile said with affected calmness. “I came to pay a call on the Black Adept. I only want to meet him, not to hurt him. Kindly stand aside and let us pass.”

Stile heard a snort of amazement behind him. Neysa had never imagined bracing a dragon in its lair this way!

The dragon, too, was taken aback. What manner of man approached it with such imperious confidence? But it was a beast, not a man, and could not reason well, and it had its orders. In fact anything constructed from loops of cord might have trouble reasoning well; what kind of a brain could be fashioned from knotted string? It opened its jaws and took a snap at Stile.

Stile stepped smoothly to the side. His rapier flicked out, neatly pricking the sensitive nose. The dragon jerked back with a soundless yipe.

“That was a gentle warning,” Stile said evenly, privately overjoyed at his success. The thing did feel pain! “My patience has limits. Begone, dragon!”

Baffled more by Stile’s attitude than his physical prowess, the dragon scuttled back. Stile stepped for-ward, frowning. The dragon whimpered, again without sound—then unraveled.

Stile stared. The creature was disintegrating! First its hurting nose tightened into a close knot, then popped into nonexistence. Then its muzzle and teeth went, the latter becoming tangles in a string that disappeared as the string went taut. Then the eyes and ears. Headless, the thing still faced Stile, backing away. The neck went, and the front legs, the pace of unraveling speeding up as it continued. Very soon there was nothing but a line—and this snapped back into the wall like a rubber band.

The whole dragon had indeed been no more than an intricately wrought string. Now it was gone. Yet that string, when shaped, had seemed formidable, and had reacted with normal brute reflexes. Surely it would have chomped him, had he allowed it to. It could have killed him.

“The whole thing—string,” Stile breathed. “And this whole castle—more string? For what purpose?”

Unicorn and wolf shrugged. Who could understand the ways of an Adept?

Neysa made a little nose back the way they had come, inquiring whether he had seen enough and was ready to get out of here. But Stile shook his head no, grimly. More than ever, he wanted to identify the proprietor of this castle. He wanted to be absolutely certain it was not now and never had been he.

They walked on down the passage, which narrowed again beyond the dragon’s lair, but did not constrict as much as before. Again the way folded back, and back again, and yet again, endlessly.

“Damn it!” Stile swore. “We could die of old age in here, looking for the master of this castle—if he lives. I’m going to force the issue.”

Kurrelgyre looked at him warily, but did not protest. This was Stile’s venture, to foul up as he pleased. Stile made a fist and banged repeatedly on the wall, making the reverberations build tremendously until the whole castle seemed to shake. “Black Adept, show thyself!” he bawled. “I demand only to see thy face; then I depart.”

“Follow the line,” a voice replied. And a double line snaked into view ahead, looping into itself. As they approached it, the lines retreated like string drawn in from a distance. It resembled the dragon in this respect, constantly disappearing into itself. But it was not part of the wall.

Soon the line led them to a large central hall they were unlikely to have found thus expeditiously by themselves. A man stood there, facing them. He was garbed completely in black, and seemed to have a black tail. But the tail was the line they had just followed!

“The line,” Stile said, finally putting it all together. “It is from thee! This whole castle is thou—the solidified line of thy past!”

“Now thou knowest,” the Black Adept said coldly. “I have met thy demand, intruder.”

“Yes,” Stile agreed, not liking the man’s tone. This was definitely not himself! The Adept stood half a meter taller, and his appearance and voice were unlike anything Stile was or could be. Not that the Adept was grotesque; he really looked rather ordinary. But he was certainly not Stile. “Now I shall depart, thanking thee for thy courtesy.”

“No courtesy, intruder. Thine animals shall go, for they are of dark complexion, even burdened with thy supplies; it were a shame I must free them from. Thou shalt remain.” And the Black Adept cast out his line. It amplified immediately into an intricate prison-bar wall, hardening in place between Stile and his two companions. Alarmed, he stepped to it—but the bars were already like steel. He tried to go around it, but the wall extended itself faster than he could move. He drew his rapier—but realized the bars were as hard as its metal was, even if it had had a cutting edge. He was trapped.

Stile turned to the Adept. “Why?” he asked. “Why hold me here?”

“Why didst thou intrude on my demesnes?” the Adept replied.

This was awkward. Stile did not care to give his reason, and would not lie. “I can say only that I meant thee no harm,” he said.

“Know ye not I suffer no human intrusion into my premises? The penalty is to remain.”

To remain. Never to depart? Death, here?

Neysa tried to get through the wall separating them, but could not. Even the wolf was too large to fit be-tween the bars. They could not help him, directly. “You two had better leave,” Stile said. “I will have to settle with the Adept myself.”

Neysa hesitated. Stile knew she could get through the bars by changing into her firefly form, but he didn’t want her to betray her talents to the Black Adept, who could readily make a line-cage to confine the insect. No sense getting her trapped too! “Get out of here!” he snapped. “I’ll be all right. Just leave the supplies—“ “Do not!” the Black Adept warned. “Lest I throw out a net to capture thee too.” A net. Did the Adept know about her firefly form after all, or was that merely a manner of speaking? This was risky! Stile made a violent signal to Neysa to go. She seemed dubious, but retreated. The wolf followed her, tail held low. This was evidently part of the Adept’s revenge: the separation of friends.

Stile faced the Adept, drawing his sword—but the Adept was gone. Only the new wall remained, extending in either direction into corridors that curved out of sight. Yet the Adept was aware of him; the wall itself was evidence of that. Catching the Adept in the maze of his own castle would surely be an impossible task; the Adept could form a jail cell around Stile at any time.

Why hadn’t the magician done just that? Why permit an intruder the limited run of the castle? The Black Adept, logically, should either kill him or throw him out, and seemed to have the power to do both. Only the magic of another Adept could—

No! He had made a vow to do no magic himself. He would muddle through without magic, whatever came.

Stile walked along the barred wall. It carried on through folded passages, bisecting rooms, halls, even stairs. It led him through turrets and down into deep dungeons. There seemed to be no dead ends; the way was continuous. The Adept, it seemed, was showing off his premises, unable to resist allowing another person to appreciate their extent. Ah, vanity, however obliquely it manifested!

Stile continued on into a chamber where a human skeleton lay. It was complete and clean, sprawled on the floor.

He pondered that for some time. Why would such a grisly artifact be tolerated in the castle? It was unlikely to be artificial; the Adept’s magic was evidently tied up in lines, proof enough that he was not Stile’s alternate self, had any doubt remained. In fact, Stile could have saved himself a certain amount of mischief by recognizing that and turning back when he spied the very first line. Or when he recognized the dragon as a construct of lines. The hints were there to be interpreted, had he only been paying proper attention. Ah, hindsight!

This skeleton was a separate entity, not part of a line, so it had to be authentic. Stile kicked at an arm—and it broke away from the floor with a crumbling snap.

It had lain there so long it had adhered!

The Black Adept had said that the penalty for intrusion was to remain. He had not actually said he would kill the intruder. Perhaps he had obscure scruples, not liking to get blood directly on his lines. But to remain here indefinitely without food or water was to die. That, it seemed, was to be Stile’s fate—with the two “animals” permitted to escape to carry some hint or warning to others. They could tell the world they had seen a man imprisoned for annoying the Black Adept. Thoroughly reasonable, effective, and nasty. The Adept really did not care for the favor of others; he just wanted them to stay away. This was no show-off tour Stile was on; it was a fiendish punishment-tour. His demise would be more painful, now that he understood exactly what was coming. Truly, the Adepts were not to be trifled with—or liked.

But Stile knew he had asked for this. He had been warned that Adepts were dangerous, but had charged in anyway. Perhaps he had not really believed in the threat This fantasy land of Phaze had not seemed wholly real to him; he had not taken its threats seriously enough. Now, as he wandered, and his thirst grew, his perspective shifted. This frame was becoming more real than that of Proton. Somehow the attacks by monsters hadn’t impressed him deeply; those encounters had been like individual Games, serious yet also unserious. But thirst, hunger, boredom, fatigue, and loneliness—these compelled belief of a fundamental nature. By the time he died, he would really believe!

He thought of appealing to the Black Adept, of begging for mercy—and knew immediately that that would be useless. The punishment was to die in confinement and hopelessness, without further communication. Without dignity or recognition. Those who violated the Adept’s privacy were doomed to share it—completely.

The Black Adept was neither noble nor wicked; he merely enforced his strictures effectively. No one bothered an Adept without good reason! Which was what Neysa and Kurrelgyre had tried to tell him. He had simply had to learn the hard way.

And Stile himself—was he really an Adept? Had his Phaze-self been like this, an aloof, cynical magician? No wonder his companions distrusted that! If his possible exercise of his magic talent meant this, meant that he would lose all sense of friendship, honor and decency—then certainly his magic should be banned. It was better to die a feeling man, than to live as an inhuman robot.

No, correct that; he was thinking in a false cliche. Not all robots were unfeeling. Sheen—where was she now? His week, if he counted correctly, was just about over; the immediate threat of death in Proton—on Pro-ton? No, these were two frames of the same world, and he was in one or in the other—this threat had been abated by time. Now it was Phaze he had to escape, and Proton that represented relief.

Stile wandered along the wall until darkness closed. Then he eased himself to the floor carefully, taking care of his knees. He leaned his back against the bars and experimentally flexed one knee. It actually bent fairly far before hurting; had it begun to heal? Unlikely; other parts of the body healed, but knees did not. Their con-glomeration of ligament and bone prevented blood from circulating well there. Elbows could heal; they did not have to support constant weight. Knees had to be tough—and so, paradoxically, were more vulnerable than other joints. The anonymous enemy had struck well, lasering his knees, condemning him to a lingering torture similar in its fashion to what the Black Adept was now inflicting. Food for thought there? But when not under pressure, his knees could bend almost all the way. He could assume a squatting posture—when not squatting. A fine comfort that was! As if his knees mattered, when his body was doomed.

After a time he climbed back to his feet—this remained a chore, without flexing his knees under pressure—and walked to an interior chamber to relieve a call of nature. He did not like soiling the castle floor, but really had no choice—and perhaps it served the Adept right. Then he returned to the barred wall, settled down again, and nodded off to sleep.

He dreamed he was a robot, with no flesh to warm his metal, no true consciousness to enliven his lifeless-ness. He woke several times in the night, feeling the deepening cold, much more thirsty than he ought to be. Psychological, of course, but still bothersome. He wished he had warm Neysa, in any form, to sleep against. Neysa had given him companionship too—a warmth of the spirit. After his years basically as a loner, he had adapted very quickly to that association; it filled a need. She had changed to human form to please him—but would have pleased him anyway. At least he had done the right thing, sending her away; she could return to her grazing and perhaps the werewolf would keep her company sometimes.

So cold! He hunched within his insubstantial clothing. One little spell could so readily cure this. Give me some heat to warm my feet—no! No magic! It might be crazy, but he would not violate his oath. Only if a firefly flew up and cried “Stile, do magic!” would he indulge—and he didn’t want Neysa risking herself that way anyway. He curled into an uncomfortable ball and slept again; it was better than being awake.

By morning Stile’s whole mouth was so dry it felt like leather. He must have been sleeping with it open. He worked his rocklike tongue around, moving his jaws, and managed to find a small pocket of saliva to spread about. Now he had to get up and—

And what? The bars remained, and would not disappear until his skeleton joined the other. He had no-where to go, nothing to do.

Yet he had to do something. He was still cold; exercise was the only answer. His hunger and thirst had abated for the nonce, but his body was stiff. He climbed to his feet and limped to his makeshift privy. Shame to waste fluid, but as long as life remained, the bodily processes continued.

He resumed his trek along the barred wall, moving rapidly enough to generate some heat, slowly enough to conserve energy. Pointless travel, except that it was better than just lying down and dying. Plenty of time for the latter later.

There was no escape. The labyrinth of the castle was interminable, and the barred wall was too. The Black Adept only had one kind of magic, but he was very thorough about that! Theoretically there should be an end to the wall somewhere—but that end was the Adept himself. What use, then, to search for it? No logic, no reasonable discussion could move a man with the power and alienation this one had shown. The Black Adept was in his fashion like a Proton Citizen.

A Citizen! Kurrelgyre had said the people of Phaze were the same as those of Proton—or had been, before the shifting of serfs had become extensive. An Adept could indeed be a Citizen, in his alternate self. In the one frame, the instrument of power was wealth; in the other, magic. In both cases, arrogance reigned supreme.

Stile kept moving. He had won marathons in the Game; he could survive for some time when he put his will to it. If he caught up to the Black Adept, he might incapacitate the man and escape. Or kill him, since the Adept seemed willing to let Stile die. No, he did not want to be a killer himself; monsters were one thing, but the Adept was a man. Stile was willing merely to circle around the Adept, to get outside the barrier and escape.

Did his mental decision not to kill a man differentiate him from the Adept-mode? Could it be taken as evidence that he would not be as thoroughly corrupted by the power of magic as other Adepts had been? He hoped so.

Strange that there was no food in this bleak castle. Didn’t the Black Adept eat? Probably his food supplies were well hidden in a convoluted storehouse, which would naturally be outside this barrier. Still, that raised more conjectures. Since this Adept did not conjure things from nothing, the way Stile’s magic had done, he must have to obtain natural food elsewhere. Did the Black Adept have to trade with peasants for supplies of grain, eggs, cabbages? He could not, then, live in absolute seclusion. His ready use of language suggested the same. He had contact with others; he just didn’t like it.

Would any of those others be coming here to the castle? Would they help Stile? No, that seemed unlikely; the Adept could have supplies for a year at a time.

Stile moved slowly, conserving his strength, balancing his generated warmth against his thirst and hunger. He gave up following the interminable wall, and cut across the center of the castle as well as he could. But all the interior passages were dead ends; the configuration differed here. He wished he had some quick way to analyze the lines, but the castle was too complex; it would take him far longer than he had left to grasp its layout and locate the Adept. He also wished he had a good cutting tool to sever a line; since all of this was a single line, he could cut the Adept off from his castle anywhere. From his past. Would everything unravel, in the manner of the dragon? But there was nothing. His dagger could not damage the stonelike hardness of the material. The outer walls had had some give, but here they had none. Only a diamond drill or saw could do the job, or magic—

No!

All day Stile fought with himself, the thought of magic becoming more attractive as his physical condition deteriorated. But he refused to yield. It didn’t matter that no one would know if he conjured a cupful of water to drink; an oath was an oath. He would expire with his integrity intact; that was one thing the Black Adept could not deprive him of.

At last, night seeped into the castle again. Stile sank down to sleep but could not. He did not want to yield himself up so quietly to extinction!

He found the harmonica in his hand, unbidden. He had avoided making music, because of its magical con-notation. Magic could occur in the ambience of music, even when he did not voice it. His saddle had appeared, obviously conjured by his unconscious wish while he made music. But wouldn’t it be all right to play, now, so long as he willed no magic? Music reminded him of Tune, so long ago, and it was fitting to think of her again as he concluded his own tenure.

He played. The music wafted out, permeating the corridors and windows and convolutions of the castle, striking harmonics in the walls. He was making the sound, but he was listening too, and it was absolutely beautiful. He was mastering the harmonica, playing it with his heart, evoking a feeling of melody he had seldom before achieved. Perhaps it was his swan song, his final gesture. Nevertheless it was a satisfying way to At last, tiring even of this, he put the instrument away and dropped into sleep. This time it was more peaceful, as if his fast had freed him of material concerns.

He was awakened by a low growl. Stile’s eyes cracked open, but his body did not move. He knew where his sword was; he needed to locate the animal. And to decide whether it was worth trying to fight. Why trade a quick death for a slow one?

Then, in the dark, a voice: “Stile.”

“Kurrelgyre!” he said. Stile put his face to the bars, to get closer. “This isn’t safe for thee!”

“Neysa went to the Oracle. It said ‘Curtain.’ Neysa did not understand what that meant, but I do. I sniffed around the castle. One corner of it intersects the curtain. Follow me.”

The curtain! Of course! Except— “I can’t do it; I swore no magic. It takes a spell to pass through.”

“Thou art true to thine oath. Thou couldst have escaped ere now, hadst thou been otherwise. But fear not; I will put thee through.”

Relieved, Stile followed the werewolf, pacing him on the other side of the wall. So Neysa had donated her single question the Oracle permitted to his cause! He would not have asked her to do that, yet now accepted the gesture gratefully.

It seemed only moments before Kurrelgyre brought him to the curtain. One small section of his prison intersected it. Apparently the Black Adept was not aware of it. That suggested the Adept was alive in both frames, unable to perceive or cross the curtain.

“We shall wait for thee at the Oracle’s palace,” Kurrelgyre said as Stile approached the glimmer. “Be mindful of the trust the mare places in thee, setting thee free of this frame.”

“I don’t know how long it will take me to—“

But the werewolf was already casting the spell. Stile passed through.