Piers Anthony - Robot Adept

“But if I were to use similar magic to do some spying—”

“I could cover for you,” Stile concluded. “They surely have a tracer on you, too, but I could enchant a humanoid golem to resemble you and divert their awareness to it. Then you would be unsuspected.”

“Aye,” Bane agreed, liking the challenge. “But e’en so, I could go not in mine own form.”

“You have been studying blue magic for several years. I think you’re ready for full Adept-level techniques, such as form-changing. I have long since used up most of the best forms for me, and cannot assume them with the same spells. But those spells will still be good for you, and perhaps it is time for you to use them.”

“Aye,” Bane said, gratified. This was a tacit promotion to adult status. He realized that his decision to favor the welfare of the frame over his personal love had won his father’s respect, and this was an immediate result.

“The main problem with form-changing is the reversion,” Stile said. “Blue magic is spoken, or sung, and other forms cannot duplicate the human sounds. What is required is a translation of the spells to the language of the other form. Once you have that, you can always revert to human form. But then that form is done for you; the magic will not work a second time.”

“Aye.”

“Therefore you will need a form that the Adverse Adepts will not suspect, that you can remain in until you are done, and will not need again. It is true that there are many available forms, and a variant of the original spell will work as new for changing into similar species. Still, caution is best.”

“Aye.” Bane was really pleased; his father had never before trusted him with magic of this nature.

“Select a form that you find suitable, and when you assume it, I can conjure you to one of the Adverse Demesnes,” Stile said. “Thereafter you will be on your own. If you get in trouble, you will have to revert to your natural form, then conjure yourself back here. You should be able to handle that.”

“Aye,” Bane agreed. He had devised many conjuration spells, so that he could jump from one spot to another at any time, as he had done to come here from the region of the harpies. “But—methinks a trial run first?”

Stile laughed. “A sensible precaution! We’ll try something innocuous, and complete the full process; then you will know what to expect. What form would you like to try?”

“I think for observation, something small and unnoticed. An insect, perhaps a bee.”

Stile had the spell. He spoke it, and it had no effect on him because he had already used it for himself. Then he described the reversion spell in bee-buzz, making sure Bane understood it. “If you confuse it, you could change back into the wrong form,” he warned. “I could devise a spell to correct the error for you, but I think it best that you handle it yourself.”

“Aye.” For when Bane became the Blue Adept, there would be no one to rescue him from his own errors.

Agape, Agape, Agape!

Bane jumped. “She invoked the spell I gave her!” he exclaimed. “She be in danger!”

“Your spell should protect her,” Stile said. “But you don’t want to interfere before she is ready. Still, you want to be sure she is safe.”

“How canst thou know my thought so perfectly?”

“I knew it when I first loved your mother. Change now, and I will conjure you to her vicinity; this is an ideal test situation.”

Bane realized it was true. He wanted, in effect, to spy on Agape, to be sure she was safe without intruding on her presence. He sang the bee spell, and in a moment was crashing to the floor, unable to fly.

“Think bee,” Stile said, looking down at him. “Rev up your wings gently, until you have the technique and the balance.”

Bane followed directions, and in a moment was hovering somewhat unsteadily, a few inches above the floor.

“Now I will conjure you to her vicinity,” Stile said. He sang a spell—and Bane was back at the open plain, still struggling to maintain equilibrium in air.

He flew in a wobbly circle, and ascended. His bee senses informed him that this was indeed the proper region. A bee wasn’t smart, but did have excellent positional awareness.

Not far distant a dragon was snorting. That was reason enough for concern! He put forth more energy and buzzed toward it, gaining proficiency in flight.

There was no sign of Agape. That was as it should be, for his spell made her undetectable by ordinary means. It was really a rhyming invocation, her name rhyming with itself as the inflections differed, and it was not her magic, but his; her speech triggered his performance. It was one of the useful devices he had mastered in his years of study: the Blue parallel to the Red amulets or the Brown golems, operating away from the creator. Most Adepts could do similar magic; only the forms of it differed.

The dragon was casting about, trying to find its vanished prey. Soon it flew away, frustrated. Bane relaxed; Agape was safe, and after a while the spell would wear off.

Then another shape winged in. It was a harpy! That was another kind of danger. But how did the harpy know where Agape was? For the ugly bird was definitely orienting on something. “Who calls? Who calls?” she screeched. “I smelled thy signal, but I see thee not!”

Smelled her signal?

“Damn!” the harpy fussed, mildly enough for her kind. “Mayhap the dragon got him, ere the smell o’ my burned feather reached me!”

Now Bane remembered. Mach had made friends with a harpy! There had been a passing thought about it. The harpy must have come to help.

“Here I am.” That was Agape’s voice. The spell allowed her to make herself known when she chose, and of course it was fading anyway.

Bane hovered nearby long enough to verify that the harpy was called Phoebe, and that she was helping. While it was true that the harpies were among the most dirty and vicious of flying creatures, it was also true that hardly any other creature sought to interfere with one. Agape should be safe enough for a time in the company of Phoebe.

He flew to a reasonable distance, then buzzed out the spell for the return transformation. He got it right; in a moment he was a man again. He stood in his normal clothing: part of the magic was the transformation of apparel into fur or skin, in the fashion of the unicorns or werewolves. Quickly he conjured himself back to the Blue Demesnes.

“She be safe for now,” he reported, vastly relieved. “She has a harpy friend.”

“Fleta made that friend,” Stile agreed. “I think I learned from my experience with Trool the Troll that any species, no matter how vile seeming, can have good representatives, if correctly approached.”

“I think I be ready now to spy on the Adepts,” Bane said. “The test was a success.”

“First rest a day,” Stile said. “Then we’ll send you out in the morning.”

Bane realized that much had happened recently, and he was tired. “The morning,” he agreed.

Thus it was that the next day he found himself in butterfly form—the flying mode of this creature was easier to relate to than that of the bee—near the Orange Demesnes. He had taken the precaution of becoming well adapted to his form before being conjured to this vicinity, so that he would not nutter about inadequately and perhaps call attention to himself. But in getting that practice he had used energy, and now in the presence of the many exotic blooms of the Orange Demesnes he was hungry. So he flitted from flower to flower, sampling as many as he could and thoroughly enjoying himself.

However, he did not forget his mission. He wanted to spy on the Orange Adept, and learn if he could what mischief the Adverse Adepts were plotting. Stile was not paranoid; if he suspected trouble, then trouble was surely in the making.