Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

“This is not another world in space, but another dimension? Why should I be able to cross, if others

can’t?”

“Because you came here as a serf. You weren’t born here; you had no family here. So probably you don’t exist in Phaze.”

“I don’t follow that.”

“It is hard to follow, unless you see it directly. I will help you try to cross—if you want to.”

Hulk’s eyes narrowed. “You have more on your mind than just another place to live. Where’s the

catch?”

“There is magic there.”

Hulk laughed. “You have suffered a delusion, little giant! I shall not go with you to that sort of realm.”

Stile nodded sadly. He had expected this response, yet had been moved to try to make it up to the man he had humbled. “At least accompany me to the curtain where I cross, to see for yourself to what extent that world is real. Or talk to my girl Sheen. Perhaps you will change your mind.”

Hulk shrugged. “I can not follow you today, but leave your girl with me. It will be a pleasure to talk with her, regardless.”

“I will return to talk with you,” Sheen told Hulk.

They shook hands again, and Stile left the room.

Sheen accompanied him. “When I return to Phaze this time—“ he began.

“I will tell Hulk what you know of that world,” she finished. “Be assured he will pay attention.”

“I will come back in another day to challenge for Rung Five. That will qualify me for the Tourney.”

“But you are too tired to challenge again so soon!” she protested.

“I’m too tired to face the Yellow Adept too,” he said. “But my friends must be freed. Meanwhile, we’ve already set the appointment for the Rung Five Game. I want to qualify rapidly, vindicating your judgment; nothing less will satisfy my new employer.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed weakly. “It’s logical.”

She turned over the special materials he had ordered and took him to the proper section of the curtain. “My friends had an awful time gathering this stuff,” she complained. “It really would have been easier if you had been a reasonable robot, instead of an unreasonable man.”

“You have a reasonable robot in my image,” he re-minded her. “Be sure to reanimate him.”

She made a mock-strike at him. “You know a robot can’t compare to a real live man.”

Stile kissed her and passed through.

CHAPTER 16 - Blue

Stile emerged, as planned, just beyond the yellow fog that demarked the Yellow Demesnes. He could not, per his agreement and the curse Yellow had set against his return, enter that for himself—but he shouldn’t need to. He set down the cage containing the owl and donned his clothing. In the pockets were a folded null-weight wetsuit and a metalsaw: the one to protect against thrown potions, the other to sever the cage bars. He hoped Kurrelgyre or Neysa would have the common sense to saw out a bar-section and use it as a lever to break the locks of the other cages. If they didn’t, or if anything else went wrong—

Stile stifled that thought. He had to free his friends, one way or another. If he could not do it harmlessly, he would have to make arrangements to destroy the Yellow Adept—and he did not want to do that. She was not really a bad witch.

He stretched the pliant wetsuit into a cord and knotted it about the saw. He brought the owl out. “All right, owl. One service for me and you are free in this world, never again to serve man or to be caged.” This was a modified owl, of high intelligence for its kind; it understood him. “Take this and drop it in the cauldron inside the yellow house.” Stile presented the package of dry ice. “Take this and drop it in the unicorn’s cage.” He gave the bird the wetsuit-saw knot.

The owl blinked dubiously.

“Oh, you don’t know what a unicorn is? Like a horse with a horn.” The owl was reassured. “Then wing out of here—and out of there, quickly. You will be free. And if you should ever need me, let me know and I’ll help you.”

The owl took a package in each claw, spread its wings, and launched into the sky. “And don’t let any liquid touch you, there!” Stile called after it.

He watched it go, hoping for the best. This was a jury-rigged effort, the best he could think of under the pressures of the moment. He wasn’t sure what Proton artifacts would operate in Phaze, so was keeping it as simple as possible.

He was in luck. Soon he heard a scream from the witch. That would be the dry ice in the cauldron, making it bubble and steam through no agency of the Adept, interfering with the potion’s effectiveness and releasing the owl from its spell, as well as distracting Yellow. Next could come the delivery of the suit and saw. After that, with luck, hell would break loose.

He waited nervously. So many things could go wrong! Then he heard the trumpeting of Darlin’ Corey the pink elephant, and an increasing commotion among the captives. It grew into a considerable din, with bangings and crashes. Then at last shapes moved through the fog. A unicorn galloped toward Stile. It was Neysa —and she had a rider. Kurrelgyre, in man-form.

They arrived, and the werewolf dismounted. “My thanks to thee, fair mare. At such time as I may, I will return the favor.” Then he handed the sword to Stile and changed back into wolf-form.

Stile stood for a moment, assimilating this. Why hadn’t the werewolf simply run as a wolf, instead of performing the awkward, for him, feat of riding the unicorn? To carry the rapier, that he would otherwise have had to leave behind. His own clothing transformed with him, but the sword was foreign. He had wanted to return it to Stile. Why had Neysa tolerated this strange rider? Because she too had felt the need to return the sword. Yet it was no special weapon. It was the gift of her brother, belonging now to Stile—that was its only distinction. So they had both done it for him. Or so his present logic suggested. He was touched. “I thank you both. But I am chiefly glad you both are free without injury.”

Kurrelgyre made a growl, and Neysa a note of assent. Neither was talking much, it seemed. Was this because they had not liked the necessity of working so closely together—or because they had liked it? That could be a serious complication for hereditary enemies.

“The Yellow Adept—was she hurt?”

Kurrelgyre changed back to man-form. “The witch brought me forth from my cage, fathoming my disguise,” he said. “She claimed thou hadst sent her to me.

And I, knowing not whether she spoke truth or lie, had to play along with her until I knew thy fate, intending to kill her if she had done thee harm. But she showed me thy prints going through the curtain, and told me how thou wouldst try to rescue us from afar, and said she would lay no traps against thee if I—“

“Yellowette is some fair witch,” Stile said.

“I have been long absent from my were-bitch,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “Yellow performs her business, as do we all. But ere she moved me, the potion wore off. . . .” He shrugged. “So I returned to my cage, to await thine effort. I could not flee in wolf-form because her summoning potion would have brought me back, and my man-form no longer wished to slay her.”

“I believe she was willing to let thee go,” Stile said. “But to save face, she could not do it until I launched mine effort. I suspect I owe her a favor.”

“It seems some Adepts are people too,” Kurrelgyre agreed grudgingly. “No animal harmed Yellow in the escape; they merely fled in different directions, and we too came here as soon as we winded thee.” He returned to lupine form.

“Yellow told me who I am,” Stile said.

The eyes of wolf and unicorn abruptly fixed on him.

“I am the Blue Adept.” Stile paused, but neither gave any sign, positive or negative. “I know neither of you approve, but I am what I am. My alternate self was Blue. And I must know myself, as the Oracle said. I must go and set things straight at the Blue Demesnes.”