Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

So how should he proceed? Swearing off magic would not protect him from a jealous Adept, who would resent Stile’s mere potential. But if it were only a single Adept who was after him. Stile might try to locate that one and deal with him. Nonmagically? That could be dangerous! So—he would ask the Oracle for advice. Why not?

The Oracle lived in a palace. Manicured lawns and hedges surrounded it, and decorative fountains watered its gardens. It was open; anyone could enter, including animals. In this world, animals had much the same stature as human beings; that was one of the things Stile liked about it. In this palace and its grounds, as he understood it, no magic was permitted, other than that of the Oracle itself, and no person could be molested or coerced.

“No disrespect intended,” Stile said. “But this doesn’t seem like much. It’s beautiful in appearance and concept, but...”

Neysa left the saddle at the entrance and guided him to a small, plain room in the back. From its rear wall projected a simple speaking tube.

Stile studied the tube. “This is it? The Oracle?” he asked dubiously. “No ceremony, no fanfare, no balls of flame? No bureaucracy? I can just walk up and ask it anything?”

Neysa nodded.

Stile, feeling let down, addressed the tube. “Oracle, what is my best course of action?”

“Know thyself,” the tube replied.

“That isn’t clear. Could you elucidate?” But the tube was unresponsive.

Neysa nudged him gently away. “You mean I only get one question?” Stile asked, chagrined.

It was so. As with a spell, the Oracle could be invoked only once by any individual. But it had not been Neysa’s purpose to have all his questions answered here; she had brought him to this place only for his safety.

Stile, frustrated, left Neysa and went outside. She did not try to restrain him, aware that he had been disappointed. He proceeded to the first fountain he saw. A wolf sat on the far side, probably not tame, but it would not attack him here. Stile removed his shirt, leaned over the pool, and splashed the cold water on his face. So he was safe; so what? His curiosity was unsatisfied. Was he to remain indefinitely in this world without understanding it?

“Thou, too?”

Stile looked up, startled, blinking the droplets from his vision. There was a young man across the fountain. He had shaggy reddish hair and a dark cast of feature, with eyes that fairly gleamed beneath heavy brows. His beard and sideburns were very like fur.

“I regret; I did not see you,” Stile said. “Did I intrude?”

“Thou didst see me,” the man said. “But recognized me not, in my lupine form.”

Lupine. “A—werewolf?” Stile asked, surprised. “I am not used to this land. I did not think—I apologize.”

“That was evident in thy mode of speech. But apologize not to an outcast cur.”

Mode of speech. Suddenly Stile remembered: Clip the unicorn, Neysa’s brother, had used this same touch of archaic language. Evidently that was what prevailed here. He had better change over, so as not to make himself awkwardly obvious.

“I—will try to mend my speech. But I do apologize for mistaking thee.”

“Nonesuch is in order. This region is open to all without hindrance, even such as I.”

Stile was reminded of the robot Sheen, claiming to have no rights because of her metal origin. It bothered him. “Art thou not a person? If being outcast is a crime, I am surely more criminal than you. Thee. I fled my whole world.”

“Ah, it is as I thought. Thou art from Proton. Art thou serf or Citizen?”

“Serf,” Stile said, startled at this knowledge of his world. Yet of course others had made the crossing before him. “Werewolf, if thou hast patience, I would like to talk with thee.”

“I welcome converse, if thou knowest what ilk I be and be not deceived. I am Kurrelgyre, were.”

“I am Stile, man.” Stile proffered his hand, and the other, after a pause such as one might have when recalling a foreign convention, accepted it.

“In mine other form, we sniff tails,” Kurrelgyre said apologetically.

“There is so much I do not know about this world,” Stile said. “If you know—thou knowest of my world, thou wilt—wilst—thou shouldst appreciate the problem I have. I know not how came I here, or how to return, and the Oracle’s reply seems unhelpful.”

“It is the nature of Oracular response,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “I am similarly baffled. I queried the Oracle how I might regain my place in my society without performing anathema, and the Oracle told me ‘Cultivate blue.’ Means that aught to thee?”

Stile shook his head. “Naught. I asked it what was my best course of action, and it said ‘Know thyself.’ I have no doubt that is always good advice, but it lacks specificity. In fact it is not even an action; it is an information.”

“A most curious lapse,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “Come, walk with me about the gardens. Perhaps we may obtain insights through dialogue.”

“I shall be happy to. Allow me just a moment to advise my companion. She brought me here—“

“Assuredly.” They re-entered the palace, proceeding to the Oracle chamber where Stile had left Neysa.

She was still there, facing the speaking tube, evidently unable to make up her mind what to say to it. Kurrelgyre growled when he saw her, shifting instantly into his lupine mode. Neysa, hearing him, whirled, her horn orienting unwaveringly on the new-formed wolf.

“Stop!” Stile cried, realizing that violence was in the offing. “There is no—“

The wolf sprang. Neysa lunged. Stile threw himself between them.

All three came to a halt in a momentary tableau. The tip of Neysa’s horn was nudging Stile’s chest; the wolf’s teeth were set against his right arm, near the shoulder. Trickles of blood were forming on Stile’s chest and arm where point and fang penetrated.

“Now will you both change into human form and apologize to the Oracle for this accident?” Stile said.

There was a pause. Then both creatures shimmered and changed. Stile found himself standing between a handsome young man and a pretty girl. He was shirtless, with rivulets of blood on him; he had forgotten to put his shirt back on after splashing in the fountain pool.

He extricated himself. “I gather unicorns and were-wolves are hereditary enemies,” he said. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know. But this is no place for, uh, friendly competition. Now shake hands, or sniff tails, or what-ever creatures do here to make up.”

Neysa’s eyes fairly shot fire, and Kurrelgyre scowled. But both glanced at the Oracle tube, then at Stile’s bloodied spots, then at each other. And paused again.

Stile perceived, as if through their eyes, what each saw. The werewolf’s clothing had reappeared with the man, and it was a tasteful fur-lined jacket and leggings, complimenting his somewhat rough-hewn aspect. Neysa was in a light black dress that set off her pert figure admirably; it seemed she wore clothing when she chose, though at night she had not bothered. She was now the kind of girl to turn any man’s head—and Kurrelgyre’s head was turning.

“It is a place of truce,” the werewolf said at last. “I regret my instinct overcame my manners.”

“I, too,” Neysa agreed softly.

“I abhor the fact that I have drawn the blood of an innocent.”

“I, too.”

“Do thou draw my blood. Stile, in recompense.”

Kurrelgyre held out his arm. Neysa did the same.

“I shall not!” Stile said. “If you—if thou—the two of you—“

The werewolf smiled fleetingly. “Thou wert correct the first time, friend. It is the plural.”

“If you two feel you owe me aught, expiate it by making up to each other. I hate to be the cause of dissent between good creatures.”