Split Infinity

CHAPTER 8 - Music

They were both tired, but Stile felt compelled to put distance between him and his point of entry to this world. Neysa, having consented to be tamed, was the perfect mount; the slightest pressure of one of his knees on her side would turn her, and the shifting of his weight forward would put her into the smoothest of trots. But mostly he didn’t guide her; he let her pick her way.

“I need to hide, Neysa,” he explained. “I need a place to be safe, until I can learn what I need to know about this world. Until I can discover who is trying to kill me, and why, and what to do about it. Or whether my experience with the amulet-demon was mere coincidence, a random trap, nothing personal. But until I know this land better, I have no notion where to hide. Paradox.”

She listened, then made a gesture with her horn, pointing west, and tapped a forefoot. “It’s almost as if you understand me,” he said, amused. “At least you understand my need. If you know of a place to go, then by all means take me there, girl!”

But first he paused to gather some straw from a mature field and fashioned it into a crude saddle. “I don’t really need a saddle, Neysa, but my weight will make your back sore in time unless it is properly distributed. The human seat-bones don’t quite jibe with the equine backbone. This straw is not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. We have to get my weight off your ribs and over your withers, your shoulders; that’s where you can most comfortably support it. And a token girth to hold it on, so I won’t have to yank at your beautiful black mane anymore.”

Neysa submitted to this indignity, and carried him westward across the amber plain north of the purple mountains, her speed picking up as her strength re-turned. Something nagged at Stile; then he caught on. “You know, Neysa—this is like the old patriotic song of America, back on Earth. I’ve never been there, of course, but it describes amber waves of grain and purple mountains and fruited plains—which reminds me, I’m hungry! I haven’t eaten since I came into this world —I don’t know whether they really exist on Earth, those purple mountains, but they really do exist here! Do you mind if I whistle the tune?”

She cocked her ear back at him, listening, then cocked it forward. She had cute black ears, expressing her personality. She did not mind.

Stile whistled. He was good at it; whistling was, after all, a form of music, and good whistling was good music. Stile was good at anything that related to the Game, back on Proton. He had spent years constantly perfecting himself, and he had a special nostalgia for music. There had been a girl, once, whose memory he associated with it. He whistled the fields more amber, the mountains more purple, and the whole countryside more beautiful. And it really seemed to be so; the entire landscape seemed to assume a more intense grandeur, together with an atmosphere of expectancy. Expectant of what? Abruptly becoming nervous. Stile broke off.

Neysa paused by a tree. It was a pear tree, with huge ripe fruits. “Bless you!” Stile exclaimed. “Are these safe to eat?” He dismounted without waiting for an answer. What a comfort this unicorn was, now that she had joined him!

Neysa moved to the grain nearby and started grazing. She was hungry too. Horses—and unicorns!—could not proceed indefinitely without sustenance; they had to spend a good deal of their time grazing. So a horse was not really faster transportation, for a man; it was speed when he needed it, interspersed with rest. But it was a life-style he liked. His first hours in this world had not been dull, because of the demon-threat and his quest for a steed; but had he remained alone much longer, he would have become quite bored and lonely. Now, with this companionship, this world was delightful. Perhaps his need for transportation had merely been a sublimation of his need for company.

He would have to assume that they could camp here safely, at least for one night. Stile pulled down a pear. It certainly looked safe. If he starved, distrusting nature’s food, what would he gain? He took a juicy bite. It was delicious.

He consumed three of the large fruits, then desisted, just in case. He did not need to gorge. He made a bed of hay, under the pear tree, and lay down as darkness closed in. He hoped it would not rain—but what did it really matter? He would dry. The temperature was nice, here; he would not be cold, even when wet.

Neysa had wandered off. Stile wasn’t worried; he was sure of her, now. She would not leave him—and if she did, it was her right. They had a tacit agreement, no more, subject to cancellation without notice by either party. Still he glanced across the field as the first moon came up. He would prefer to have her near him, just in case. He did not know what routine dangers there might be, here, but was sure Neysa could recognize and handle them. The way she had dispatched the crack-demon and the snow-monster—

The moonrise was spectacular. Far less intense than the sun, it had more appeal because he could look at it directly. This was a close, large moon, whose effulgence bathed the slowly crossing clouds in pastel blue. The thickest clouds were black silhouettes, but the thinner ones showed their substance in blue monochrome, in shades of one color, all the lines and curves and burgeonings of them, all inexpressibly lovely. Oh, to travel amidst that picture, in the magic of the night sky!

Slowly it faded. Moonrise, like sunrise, was a fleeting phenomenon, the more precious because of that. Stile was sure no two moonrises or moonsets would be the same; there would always be a different picture, as lovely as the last, but original. What splendor nature proffered to the eye of any man who had half the wit to appreciate it!

Something was coming. Not a unicorn. Alarmed, Stile peered through the slanting moonbeams. He remained naked, weaponless; he had seldom felt the need for weapons in Proton society, though he knew how to use them. This was a wilder world whose beauty was tempered, perhaps even enhanced, by its hazards. Was this a nocturnal predator?

No—it was a woman!

Yet she carried no weapon either, and wore no clothing, and seemed innocent rather than hostile. This could be another demonic trap, but Stile somehow doubted it. She was—there was something familiar about her.

As she came close, the moonlight caught her fully. The promising outline was fulfilled in blue light. She was small, very small, smaller even than he, but supremely healthy and full-fleshed. She was beautifully proportioned, with small hands and feet, slender yet rounded legs, and virginally firm breasts. Her finger-nails and toenails glistened like pearls, her hair was lustrous black, and she had an ivory decoration set in her forehead. Her face was quite cute, though she had a Roman nose. Her only flaw was a scratch on one arm, a fresh one only starting to heal.

“Stile,” she said, with an almost musical inflection.

“Neysa!” he replied, astonished.

She opened her arms to him, smiling. And Stile understood that the friendship of a unicorn was no in-consequential thing. When he had won her, he had won her completely.

She was of course a variant of demon. No ordinary creature could make such a transformation. But it was already clear that there were variations among demons, in fact whole phyla of them. What mattered was not how far removed her type was from his, but how they related to one another. He trusted Neysa.

Stile embraced her, and kissed her, and she was lithe and soft and wholly desirable. He lay down with her under the pear tree, knowing her for what she was, and loved her, as he had loved the robot Sheen.

In the morning Neysa was back in equine form, grazing. Stile glanced at her, covertly reflecting on the event of the night. Would she expect different treatment, now? Would she now decline to carry him safely?

As it turned out, Neysa’s attitude was unchanged. She was still his steed. The night had been merely a confirmation of their relationship, not a change in it.

But never again would he think of a unicorn as merely a horse with a horn.

Rested and fed, Neysa set out at an easy trot across the field, still bearing west. Trots could be rough or smooth; this one was the smoothest. She could have looked like a drudge, yet fetched a high price on Pro-ton, for the sake of this trot. As if such a creature could ever be sold, for any price! Then she moved into a nice canter with a syncopated beat: one-two-three-pause, one-two-three-pause. A canter, to his way of thinking, was a trot by the forefeet and a gallop by the rear feet;

it too could vary greatly in comfort, depending on the steed’s nature and mood. Stile enjoyed this; how nice it was to ride this fine animal without fighting her!

Neysa shifted into a variant of the trot: the pace, in which the left feet moved together, and the right feet together also. Two beats, throwing him from side to side, but covering the ground faster than an ordinary trot. Then back into a canter—but not an ordinary one. Her rear hooves were striking the ground together, synched with her right front hoof, so that this was an-other two-beat gait: a single foot alternating with three feet. One-TWO! One-TWO! He had to post over the shocks, lest his bones begin to rattle.

She was showing off her gaits, proving that no horse could match her in variety or facility. Yesterday she had demonstrated gaits from one-beat to five-beat; now she was doing the variations.

“This is great stuff, Neysa!” he said warmly. “You are the most versatile hoofer I know.” For this was an aspect of companionship: performing for an appreciative friend. Animals, like people, would do a lot, just for the satisfaction of having their efforts recognized. Though Neysa was not precisely an animal or a person.

Just when Stile thought he had experienced the whole of her repertoire, Neysa surprised him again. She began to play music through her horn. Not an occasional melodic note, but genuine tunes. Her hooves beat counterpoint to the sustained notes, making a dramatic march.

“The five-beat gait!” Stile exclaimed. “That’s what it’s for! Syncopation, going with your music!”

She moved into the five-beat, playing an intricate melody that fit that beat perfectly. This time her motion was easy, not designed to unseat him, and he liked it. Stile was no longer surprised by her comprehension; he had realized, in stages during the prior day and night, that she comprehended human speech perfectly, though she did not bother to speak it herself. When he had indulged in his soliloquy on the ledge above the Meander River, she had understood precisely what he said. His meaning, not his tone, had converted her. That was good, because he had meant exactly what he said.

Now he could give her detailed verbal instructions, but she preferred the body directives of legs and weight-shifting. She moved to his directives with no evidence of those messages apparent to any third party. That was the riding ideal. She was at home with what she was: a unicorn. Stile, too, preferred the closeness this mode entailed; it was the natural way, a constant communication with his steed.

Neysa’s horn-music resembled that of a harmonica. No doubt there were many small channels in her horn, with natural fiber reeds, and she could direct the flow of air through any channels she wished as she breathed. What a convenient way to play!

“You know, Neysa—I know something of music myself. Not just whistling. I was introduced to it by a girl a bit like you, in your girl-form: very small, pretty, and talented. I’m not the top musician in my world, but I am competent—because music is part of the competition of the Game. You wouldn’t know about that, of course; it’s like a—like a continuing contest, a race, where every day you race someone new, in a different way, and if you get really good you gain status. I have won Games by playing themes better than other people. The violin, the clarinet, the tuba—I’ve played them all. I wish I could accompany you! I suppose I could whistle again, or sing—“ He shrugged. “But I’d really like to show you what I can do with an instrument. One like yours. Another harmonica. So we could play together. A duet. There’s a special joy in that, as great in its way as—as the joy we had in our game of the night. With an instrument, I could come to you, as you came to me, sharing your frame.”

Neysa accepted this as she did most of his commentary: with a wiggle of one ear and tolerance. She didn’t mind if in his vanity he thought he could play the way she could. She liked him anyway.

Stile pondered briefly, then made a little verse of it. “The harmonica is what you play; I wish I had one here today.” He fitted the words to her melody, singing them.

Neysa made an unmelodic snort, and Stile laughed. “Corny, I know! Doggerel is not my forte. All right, I’ll quit.”

But the unicorn slowed, then stopped, then turned about to retrace her last few steps. “What’s the matter?” Stile asked, perplexed. “If I offended you, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your music.”

She fished in the tall grass with her horn. Something glittered there. Stile dismounted and walked around to examine it, fearing trouble. If it were another demon-amulet—

It was a large, ornate, well-constructed harmonica, seemingly new.

Stile picked it up, examining it in wonder. “You have a good eye, Neysa, spotting this, and it couldn’t have happened at a more fortuitous time. Why, this is from my world. See, it says MADE ON EARTH. Earth has a virtual monopoly on quality musical instruments. Most colonies are too busy to specialize in the arts.

This is a good brand. I’m no specialist in this particular instrument, but I’ll bet I could play—“ He looked around. “Someone must have lost it. I’m not sure it would be right to—“ He shook his head. “Yet it won’t help the owner, just to leave it here. I suppose I could borrow it, until I can return it to—“

Having rationalized the matter. Stile remounted his straw saddle—which seemed to be holding up extra-ordinarily well, packing into an ideal shape—and settled down for the resumption of the ride. Neysa moved into a smooth running walk, and played her horn, and Stile tried out the harmonica.

It was a lovely instrument. It had sixteen holes, which would translate into thirty-two notes: four oc-aves. It was, in addition, chromatic; it had a lever at the end which, when depressed, would shift the full scale into the half-tones. There were also several buttons whose purpose he did not fathom; he would explore those in due course.

Stile put his mouth to it, getting the feel of it, blowing an experimental note. And paused, surprised and gratified; it was tremolo, with the peculiar and pleasant beat of two closely matched reeds. He blew an experimental scale, pursing his lips to produce a single note at a time. This harmonica was extremely well constructed, with no broken reeds, and every note was pure and in perfect pitch.

Very good. Neysa had halted her music, curious about his activity. Stile essayed a melody. He kept it simple at first, playing no false notes, but the instrument was so conducive and the sound so pleasant that he soon broke into greater complexities.

Neysa perked her ears to listen. She turned her head to glance obliquely back at him, surprised. Stile paused.

“Yes, I really can play,” he said. “You thought I was a duffer? That whistling represented the epitome of my achievement? I love music; it is another one of those things that come easily to a lonely person. Of course I’m not as sharp on the harmonica as I am on other instruments, and I can’t play elaborately, but—“

She blew a note of half-negation. “What, then?” he inquired. “You know, Neysa, it would be easier for me if you talked more—but I guess you’d have to change to your human form for that, and then we couldn’t travel properly. You know, you really surprised me when you—do you call it shape-changing? Permutation? Reformulation? It was an aspect of you I had never suspected—“

She blew another note, three-quarter affirmation. He was getting better at grasping her communications. “You’re still trying to tell me something,” he said. “I’m pretty good at riddles; that’s another aspect of the Game. Let’s see—is it about your manifestation as—no? About my reaction to it? You say half-right. About my surprise—your surprise? Ah, now I get it! You were just as amazed to discover I could play a musical instrument as I was to see you in human form.”

Neysa made an affirmation. But there was still a slight reservation. Stile pursued the matter further. “And, just as your change of form enabled us to inter-act in a new and meaningful way—though not more meaningful than this joy of traveling together across this beautiful land—my abruptly revealed facility with music enables us to interact in yet another way.” He smiled. “Which is what I was trying to tell you before —oh, you mean now you agree! You—no, you couldn’t be apologizing! Unicorns never make mistakes, do they?”

She made a little buck, just a warning. He laughed. “Well, let’s get to it,” he said, pleased. He put the harmonica to his mouth and played an improvised theme, sending the perfect notes ringing out over the plain between the mountain ranges. Now Neysa joined in, and they made beautiful harmony. Her hooves beat the cadence, in effect a third instrument. The resulting duet was extremely pretty.

Stile experimented with the mystery buttons, and discovered that they were modes, like those of a good accordion; they changed the tones so that the harmonica sounded like other instruments, to a degree. One canceled the tremolo effect; another brought into play an octave-tuned scale. Another rendered the instrument into a diatonic harmonica, with the popular but incomplete scale and slightly differing tone arrangement. This was the most sophisticated harmonica he had ever played. That only increased his wonder that it should have been so carelessly lost out here. If he dropped such an instrument, he would search for hours to locate it, for it was a marvel of its kind. Who could have left it without a search?

Stile taught Neysa a song, and she taught him one. They played with improvisations to the beat of differing gaits. They did responsive passages, one taking the main theme, the other the refrains. They played alto and tenor on a single theme.

But soon something developed in the atmosphere—a brooding presence, an intangible power. It intensified, becoming almost visible.

Stile broke off his playing. Neysa halted. Both looked about.

There was nothing. The presence was gone.

“You felt it too?” Stile asked. Neysa flicked an ear in assent. “But what was it?”

She shrugged, almost dislodging his impromptu saddle. Stile checked his woven-straw cinch to see if it was broken. It wasn’t; the strap had merely worked loose from the ring, as happened on occasion. He threaded it through again, properly, so that it would hold.

And did a double take. Strap? Ring?

He jumped to the ground and looked at his handiwork. Loose straw was shedding from it, but underneath it was a well-made if battered leather saddle, comfortable from long use.

He had fashioned a padding of straw. It had been straw this morning when he put it on her. Where had the saddle come from?

“Neysa—“ But how would she know? She could not have put it there.

She turned her head to gaze directly at him. Then she turned it farther, touching the saddle with her horn. And looked at him, surprised.

“Someone has given us a saddle,” Stile said. “Yet there was no way—it was straw this morning—I was riding you the whole time—“

She blew a nervous note. She didn’t know what to make of it either.

“Magic,” Stile said. “This is a realm of magic. There was magic in the air just now. A—spell?”

Neysa agreed. “Could it be my nemesis, the one I think tried to kill me?” Stile asked. “Showing his power? Yet the saddle is helpful, not harmful. It’s something I needed, and it’s a good one. And—“ He paused, partly nervous, partly awed. “And the harmonica—that appeared like magic when I wanted it—

Neysa, is someone or something trying to help us? Do we have a gremlin friend as well as an enemy? I’m not sure I like this—because we can’t be sure it is a friend. The way that amulet turned into a demon—“

Neysa turned abruptly and began galloping at right angles to her prior course, carrying him along. She was bearing south, toward the purple mountains. Stile knew she had something in mind, so let her take her own route.

Soon they approached a unicorn herd. Neysa must have been skirting the herd all along, aware of it though Stile was not, and now sought it out. She sounded a peremptory note on her horn before drawing close. A single unicorn at the edge of the herd perked up, then galloped toward them. A friend?

Neysa turned and bore west again, away from the herd, and the other unicorn cut across to intercept her. The other was male, larger than Neysa though not substantially so. His color was quite different: dark blue, with red socks. Really the same pattern as Neysa’s, but with completely unhorselike hues. Again Stile reminded himself: these were not horses.

As the two animals angled together, Neysa tooted her horn. The stranger answered with a similar toot. His horn sounded more like a saxophone, however. Did every unicorn play a different instrument? What a cacophony when several ran together!

Neysa shifted into the five-beat gait and played a compatible tune. The other matched the gait and cadence, and played a complementary theme. The two blended beautifully. No wonder Neysa had played so well with Stile himself; she had done this sort of thing before, with her own kind. Stile listened, entranced. No cacophony, this; it was a lovely duet.

Who, then, was this young stallion she had summoned? Stile did not really want his presence advertised. But he knew Neysa understood that, and was acting in his interest. She had to have reason. This must be some friend she trusted, who could help them discover the nature of the magic—or protect them from it if necessary.

They ran until well clear of the herd. Then they slowed, their harmony slowing with them. Neysa finally deposited Stile by a handsome nut tree and started grazing. It was the middle of the day: lunch break. She would probably insist on grazing for an hour or more, and he did not begrudge her that. She needed her strength, still not entirely restored after yesterday’s trial. He removed the saddle and set it under the tree.

The strange unicorn did not graze. He watched Stile, looking him up and down. He took a step forward, horn pointed at Stile’s navel. The musical instrument was now a weapon, without doubt. Stile stood still, chewing on a nut, relaxed but ready to move in a hurry if the creature charged.

The unicorn blew a single derisive note, shimmered—and became a man. The man was clothed. He wore furry leather trousers, a blue long-sleeved shirt, solid low boots, red socks, and a floppy light-blue hat. His hands were covered by heavy fiber gloves. A rapier hung at his side.

Astonished, Stile stared. A Citizen—here?

“So thou’rt the creep who’s been messing with my sister!” the man said, his right hand fingering the hilt of the rapier.

Just what he needed: a protective brother! Now Stile saw the forehead spike, similar to Neysa’s. No Citizen; ordinary people wore clothing here, he remembered now. “It was voluntary,” Stile said tightly.

“Ha! I saw her charging up Snow Mountain yesterday, trying to shake thee off. Thou’rt lucky she changed not into a firefly and let thee drop in a crevasse!”

Oh. The unicorn was talking about the day, not the night. “She changes into a firefly, too?”

“And pray what’s wrong with that? Most beasts are lucky if they can change into one other form. We each have two.” He shimmered again, and became a hawk. The bird winged upward at a forty-five-degree angle, then looped and dived toward Stile.

Stile threw himself aside—and the man was back, appearing just as the bird seemed about to crash into the ground. “Well, there’s no accounting for tastes. Thou’rt a shrimp, and thou’rt naked, but if she lets thee ride her I can’t say nay. I want thee to know, though, that she’s the best mare in the herd, color or not.”

“Color?” Stile asked blankly.

“Don’t tell me thou noticed not! Let me warn thee, man-thing: an thou dost ever use the term ‘horse-hued’ in her presence, I will personally—“

Neysa had come up behind her brother. She blew a warning note.

“All right, already!” he snapped. “She is one season my senior; I may not talk back to her. But remember what I say: there is nothing wrong with Neysal”

“Nothing at all,” Stile agreed. “She’s the finest-performing and finest-looking mare I’ve encountered.”

The man, evidently braced for doubt or argument, was briefly nonplused. “Uh, yes. Exactly. Then let’s get on with it. What’s thy problem?”

“My name is Stile. I am a stranger in this world, without information or clothing, someone is trying to kill me, and magic is being performed around me whose ultimate purpose I can not fathom.” Stile had the gift for succinct expression, when required.

“So.” The man frowned. “Well, my name is Clip. I’m Neysa’s little brother. She wants me to help thee, so I’ll help. I’ll fix thee up with information and clothing. And a weapon to defend thyself from thine enemy. As for the magic—concern thyself not about it. Unicorns are immune to magic.”

“Immune!” Stile expostulated. “Here you stand, a shape-changing unicorn, and you tell me—“

“Other magic, nit. Of course we do our own, though easy it is not. Like learning another language—which is part of shape-changing, of course; can’t be human if thou canst not talk human idiom. Can’t be avian if thou canst not fly. So most unicorns bother not. But none other can change a unicorn, or enchant one. Or anyone in contact with a unicorn. Was that not why thou didst desire her? So long as thou stayest with Neysa—“ He frowned. “Though why she’d want to stay with thee—“ Neysa’s note of protest cut him off again. “Well, there’s no comprehending the ways of mares.” He began to remove his clothing.

“No comprehending!” Stile agreed. “Look, Clip—I rode Neysa as a challenge, because I needed a mount. In the end I couldn’t keep her—but she joined me by her own choice. I don’t know why she didn’t jump off the mountain and change into a firefly and let me drop to my death, as I gather she could have—“ And he had thought he was sparing her, when he released her at the ledge! “And I don’t know why she’s not talking to me now. When she—changed to human form, all she said was my name. She didn’t explain anything.” At the time he had thought no explanations were necessary; he had been naive!

“That last I can clarify. Neysa doesn’t like to talk much. I’m the talkative one in our family, as perhaps thou hadst not yet noticed. So where there’s talking to be done, she summons me.” Clip handed his shirt to Stile. “Go on, get dressed. I don’t need clothing, really, anyway, and I’ll get another outfit when convenient.” He glanced at Neysa. “I guess she saw something in thee she liked. Thou’rt not a virgin, art thou?”

Stile donned the shirt, shaking his head no, embarrassed both by the turn the conversation had taken and the act of assuming clothing. On Proton this would be socially and legally horrendous!

The shirt should have been large, but somehow turned out to fit him perfectly. He was coming to accept minor magic as the matter of course it was.

“Well, that’s overrated anyway,” Clip continued. “If I ever found a nubile but virginal human girl, it sure wouldn’t be my head I’d put in her lap!”

Stile smiled appreciatively, coming to like the expressive and uninhibited male. “What would a unicom—or, one in equine form—want with a human girl anyway?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” The trousers were passed over. “The Herd Stallion co-opts all the best unicorn mares, which leaves us young males hard up. A unicorn does not live by grain alone, thou knowest! So though human flesh is less sweet than equine, even the touch of a fair maiden’s hand is—“

“I begin to get the picture.” The trousers fit perfectly also. Stile suppressed another twinge of guilt, donning clothing; this was not Proton, and clothing lacked the significance it had there. Out here in the wilderness, clothing became functional on more than a social basis.

“Yet that being the case, an attractive mare shouldn’t have any trouble—“

Neysa abruptly turned away. Clip lowered his voice. “All right, man. I see thou really knowest not, and thou’dst better. There are horses in unicorn ancestry— not nice to mention it, any more than the apes in thine ancestry—“

“There are no apes in my—“

“See what I mean? Sensitive subject. But on occasion there are throwbacks. When a unicorn is birthed without a horn—that is, without the horn-button; couldn’t have a full horn before birth, of course—it is killed in simple mercy. But color is a borderline matter. If it is otherwise perfect, that unicom is permitted to survive. But there is always that stigma.” Clip frowned, glancing covertly at Neysa.

“Neysa—is colored like a horse,” Stile said, catching on. “So she is outcast.”

“Thou hast it. It is no official thing, for she is a full unicorn, but the Herd Stallion won’t breed her, and of course none of the lesser males dare. Nobody touches a young mare without the Herd Stallion’s permission, and he won’t give it—because that would seem to infringe on his prerogative. Our kind is like that; simple logic is no substitute for pride. Some would have it that mules are the stubbornest of equines, but that is a dastardly slight on the stubbornness of the unicorn. So for two seasons now Neysa has gone unbred—all because of her color. And maybe her size.”

Stile realized that his effort of the past night did not count. He was a man, not a stallion. He could play with a female like Neysa, but could never breed her, any more than a stallion in human form could breed a human girl. “This is outrageous! She’s a fine Unicom! The Stallion should either breed her or free her.”

“Thou knowest thou’rt only a man,” Clip said, handing Stile the rapier. “But thy personality hath its re-deeming aspects. Thou really likest Neysa?”

“I chose her because she was the finest steed I’d ever seen,” Stile said seriously. “I loved her in that fashion from the start. To me there is no better creature than a perfect—equine.”

“So thou never, until I spoke to thee, knew what was wrong with her?”

“There is nothing wrong with her!” Stile snapped.

“Agreed.” Clip was highly gratified. “Well, I’m supposed to fill thee in on our world. There is little to tell. We unicorns are the dominant animal form, except perhaps in some corners of the pasture where the were-wolves and vampires range, and we’re really better off than the human peasants. Anyone can do magic, but most humans don’t, because of the Adepts.”

“Adepts?”

“Like Herd Stallions or wolf Pack Leaders, only it’s magic, not mares or bitches they pre-empt. Each Adept has his special style of enchantment, and he’s awfully good in his specialization. I said unicorns were proof against foreign spells, but Adepts are another matter. If an Adept should be after thee—“

“I see. What defense would I have against one of these super-sorcerers?”

“No defense suffices, except to hide—and sooner or later an Adept will find thee. They have charms and amulets and familiars spread throughout the realm of Phaze, spying out the news. There’s hardly any limit to the powers of an Adept. In fact—that’s it! The Oracle!”

“A fortune-teller?”

“More than that. There is no magic in the temple of the Oracle, and nobody is coerced therein. It is sacred ground. I’ll bet that’s where Neysa is taking thee. Well, then, that covers it. I’ll be off.” He shimmered back into unicorn form and galloped away, his horn and hooves sounding the charge.

Stile had wanted to know more about Adepts and the Oracle. Well, perhaps Neysa would tell him, if he asked her nicely. Clip had certainly helped a great deal.

They rode west again, playing brief duets, enjoying themselves. Stile realized that the music of unicorns served another purpose: it alerted friends and foes to their presence. Unicorns were fighting animals; most creatures would prefer to avoid them, and so the sound of the horn cleared the way conveniently. Stile saw rabbits and turtles and an armadillo, but no predators. In short, only creatures that were noncompetitive with unicorns.

The terrain was highly varied, lush fields giving way to rocky slopes, swamps, open water and badlands sand. To the north and south the twin mountain ranges continued. The northern peaks were all snow-covered, virtually impassable to any creature with less power and determination than a unicorn; the southern ones seemed to be warmer, unless purple was the color of their snow. Curious! Something about this rugged landscape nagged him, a nascent familiarity, but he was unable to place it.

In the evening Neysa halted again, giving herself time to graze, and Stile foraged for his own sustenance. He found ripe corn growing, and blackberries. He thought of corn as fall produce, and blackberries as spring, but perhaps this world differed from others in its fruiting seasons too. On Proton anything could grow at any time, in the domes. Nonetheless, these edibles were suspiciously fortuitous—unless Neysa had known of this place and come here deliberately. Yes, of course that was it; she was taking excellent care of him.

In the night, after moonrise, she changed again. Stile hoped she would show him her firefly form, but she went directly to human. “You know, Neysa, you’re about the prettiest girl I’ve seen—but I think I like you best in your natural form.”

She smiled, flattered, and kissed him. She didn’t mind being complimented on her unicorn body. She had spent her life stigmatized for a supposedly defective color, and obviously appreciated Stile’s appreciation. This was no doubt the key to her initial acceptance of him. He really did admire her as she was, and was perhaps the first creature unrelated to her to do so. So though she had fought him, in the end she had not wanted to kill him.

“The Oracle—“ he began. But she only kissed him again.

She wasn’t talking. Ah, well. The stubbornness of unicorns! She had other virtues. He kissed her back.

Next morning she gave him some pointers on the use of the rapier. Stile had used a sword before, as fencing was one of the aspects of the Game. But by an anomaly of circumstance he had practiced with the broadsword, not the rapier. This light, thin sword was strange to him—and if it were the kind of weapon commonly used in this world, he had better master it in a hurry.

Neysa was expert. Stile had supposed a unicorn would not care to have the weapon of an opponent so close to the tender eyes, ears, and nose—but the proximity of her organs of perception gave her marvelous coordination with her weapon. Stile soon learned he could thrust without fear for her; his point would never score. Even if it should happen to slip through her guard, what would it strike? The heavy bone of her forehead, buttressing the horn. It would take more of a thrust than a man like him could muster to penetrate that barrier.

No, he had to look out for himself. Neysa was better on the parry than on the lunge, for the merest twitch of her head moved the horn-tip several centimeters, but to make a forward thrust she had to put her whole body in motion. Thus she was best equipped for defense against a charging adversary, either allowing the other to impale himself on her firm point, or knocking aside his weapon. Stile, forced to attack, found himself disarmed repeatedly, her horn bearing instantly on his vulnerable chest. She could lunge, and with horrible power—but did not, when she fenced a friend. How could he match the speed and power of her natural horn?

But Stile was a quick study. Soon he did not try to oppose power with power. Instead he used the finesse he had developed with the broadsword, countering power with guile. Soon Neysa could no longer disarm him at will, and sometimes he caught her out of position and halted his point just shy of her soft long throat. In a real match he could not hope to overcome her, but he was narrowing the gap.

But he was also getting tired. His throat felt sore, and his eyes got bleary. He could feel a flush on his face, yet he was shivering. Neysa made a feint—and he almost fell across her horn.

“Hostile magic!” he gasped. “I’m weak—“

Then he was unconscious.