Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

“The penalty of blood need not be onerous,” Kurrel-gyre murmured. He made a courtly bow to Neysa. “Thou art astonishingly lovely, equine.”

Neysa responded with a curtsey that showed more decolletage and leg than was strictly necessary. Oh, the tricks that could be played with clothing! No wonder the Citizens of Proton reserved clothing to themselves. “Thank thee, lupine.”

Then, cautiously, Neysa extended her hand. Instead of shaking it, Kurrelgyre lifted it slightly, bringing it to his face. For a moment Stile was afraid the werewolf meant to bite it, but instead he kissed her fingers.

Stile, relieved, stepped forward and took an arm of each. “Let’s walk together, now that we’re all friends.

We have much in common, being all outcasts of one kind or another. Neysa was excluded from the herd because of her color—“

“What is wrong with her color?” the werewolf asked, perplexed.

“Nothing,” Stile said as they walked. He spied his shirt by the fountain, and moved them all toward it. “Some unicorns have distorted values.”

Kurrelgyre glanced sidelong past Stile at the girl. “I should say so! I always suspected that Herd Stallion had banged his horn into one rock too many, and this confirms it. My taste does not run to unicorns, under-stand, but the precepts of physical beauty are universal. She is extremely well formed. Were she a were-bitch—“

“And I am outcast because I refused to—to perform a service for my employer,” Stile continued. “Or to honor an illegal deal proffered by another Citizen.” He washed his small wounds off with water from the pool, and donned his shirt. “What, if I may inquire, was thy problem, werewolf?”

“Among my kind, where game is scarce, when the size of the pack increases beyond the capacity of the range to support, the oldest must be eliminated first. My sire is among the eldest, a former leader of the pack, so it fell to me to kill him and assume the leader-ship. Indeed, there is no wolf in my pack I could not slay in fair combat. But I love my sire, long the finest of wolves, and could not do it. Therefore mine own place in the pack was forfeit, with shame.”

“Thou wert excluded for thy conscience!” Stile ex-claimed.

“There is no conscience beyond the good of the pack,” the werewolf growled.

“Yes,” Neysa breathed sadly.

They came to a hedged-in park, with a fine rock garden in the center. Neysa and Kurrelgyre sat down on stones nearer to each other than might have seemed seemly for natural enemies.

“Let us review thy situation. Stile,” the werewolf said. “Thou knowest little of this land—yet this alone should not cause thee undue distress. Thou wilt hardly be in danger, with a fair unicorn at thy side.”

“Nevertheless, I am in danger,” Stile said. “It seems an Adept is trying to kill me.”

“Then thou art beyond hope. Against Adepts, naught suffices save avoidance. Thou must remain here at the Oracle’s palace forever.”

“So I gather, in the ordinary case. But it also seems I have Adept powers myself.”

Kurrelgyre phased into wolf-form, teeth bared as he backed away from Stile.

“Wait!” Stile cried. “Neysa reacted the same way! But I have sworn off magic, till Neysa gives me leave.”

The wolf hesitated, absorbing that, then phased warily back into the man. “No unicorn would grant such leave, even were that not the stubbomest of breeds.” Neysa nodded agreement.

“But I am just a stray from another world,” Stile said. “It is mere coincidence that I have the talent for magic.”

“Coincidence?” Kurrelgyre growled. “Precious little in this frame is coincidence; that is merely thy frame’s term for what little magic operates there. Here, all things have meaning.” He pondered a moment. “Have ye talent in the other frame?”

“I ride well-“

The werewolf glanced at Neysa, who sat with her fine ankles demurely exposed, her bosom gently heaving. “Who wouldn’t!”

“And I am expert in the Game,” Stile continued.

“The Game! That’s it! Know ye not the aptitude for magic in this frame correlates with that for the Game in that frame? How good at the Game be ye, honestly?”

“Well, I’m tenth on my age-ladder—“

Kurrelgyre waved a warning finger at him. “Think ye I know not the way of the ladders? If ye rise to fifth place, thou must enter the annual Tourney. No obfuscation, now; this is vital. How good art thou when thou tryest, absolute scale?”

Stile realized that this was not the occasion for concealment or polite modesty. “I should be among the top ten, gross. On a good day, fourth or fifth.”

“Then thou art indeed Adept caliber. There are no more than ten Adepts. They go by colors: White, Yellow, Orange, Green and such: no more than there are clear-cut hues. Therefore thou art of their number. One Adept must be dead.”

“What art thou talking about? Why must an Adept be dead, just because I’m good at the Game in the other—“ Stile caught himself about to make an impromptu rhyme and broke off lest he find himself in violation of his oath.

“Ah, I forget! Thou hast no basis yet to comprehend. Know this. Stile: no man can cross the curtain between frames while his double lives. Therefore—“

“Double?”

“His other self. His twin. All true men exist in both frames, and are forever fixed where they originate— until one dies out of turn. Then—“

“Wait, wait! Thou sayest people as well as geography match? That can not be so. The serfs of Proton are constantly brought in and deported as their tenures expire; only the Citizens are a constant population.”

“Perhaps ‘tis so, now; not always in the past. Most people still equate, Phaze to Proton, Proton to Phaze. The others are partial people, like myself. Perhaps I had a serf-self in the past, and that serf departed, so now I alone remain.”

“Thou travelest between frames—because were-wolves don’t exist on Proton?”

Kurrelgyre shrugged. “It must be. Here there are animals and special forms; there, there are more serfs. It balances out, likely. But thou—thou must travel be- cause thy magic self is dead. And thy magic self must be—“

“An Adept,” Stile finished. “At last I get thy drift.”

“Know thyself,” Neysa said. “Adept.” She frowned.

“That’s it!” Stile cried. “I must figure out which Adept I am!” Then he noticed Neysa’s serious de-meanor. “Or must I? I have sworn off magic.”

“But only by exerting thy powers as an Adept canst thou hope to survive!” Kurrelgyre exclaimed. Then he did a double take. “What am I saying? Who would want to help an Adept survive? The fair ‘corn is right: abandon thy magic.”

Corn? Oh, unicorn. “What is so bad about being an Adept?” Stile asked. “I should think it would be a great advantage to be able to perform magic.”

The werewolf exchanged a glance with the unicorn.

“He really knows not,” Kurrelgyre said.

“I really don’t,” Stile agreed. “I am aware that magic can be dangerous. So can science. But you both act as if it’s a crime. You suggest I would be better off dying as a man than living as an Adept. I should think a lot of good could be done by magic.”

“Mayhap thou shouldst encounter an Adept,” Kurrelgyre said.

“Maybe I should! Even though I’m not doing magic myself, at least I’d like to know who I am and what manner of creature I am. From what thou sayest, some-thing must have happened to my Adept double and, considering my age and health, it couldn’t have been natural,” He paused. “But of course! All we need to do is check which Adept died recently.”

“None has,” Kurrelgyre assured him. “At least, none we know of. Adepts are secretive, but even so, someone must be concealing evidence.”