Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

Stile nudged Clip. The unicorn charged back. His horn touched the vines, and they writhed out of the way, repelled by the counternagic. Meanwhile, Stile used his sword to chop at the nether vines, freeing the horse. The weapon normally carried by men in Phaze was the rapier, but Stile felt more comfortable with the broadsword, and now the cutting edge was useful indeed. There was a renewed baying of animalheads, catching up yet again. Stile’s party moved forward once more. The plants got worse. Tree branches dropped down to bar their way, dangling poisonous-looking moss. Stile cut the moss away with his sword, clearing the path for the Lady and steeds. Ichor from the moss soon covered the blade, turning it gray-green. The stuff reeked with a pun gent odor, almost like dragon’s blood. Stile did not like this at all. Yet he had to keep hacking the encroaching growth away, afraid to let any of the party get caught. At last the sounds of pursuit diminished. The animal heads had been foiled by this vicious jungle too. But the trees, bushes, and brambles had closed in be hind, forming a virtually impenetrable barrier. Stile’s sword was already stained and pitted under the ichor, and holes were appearing in his clothing where drops had spattered. He didn’t want to hack through any more of this! Clip blew a musical note. Stile dismounted, and the unicorn phased into the hawk and flew up. The sky was the one open route!

The Lady Blue also dismounted and came to him. “Mayhap I can help thee,” she offered. She laid her hands on his throat, and their healing power warmed skin and muscle deep inside. But the silence was not any constriction in his throat, but a cloud of nonsound that surrounded him. He could not be healed because he wasn’t ill; the spell itself had to be abated, somehow. “Mayhap a potion?” the Lady mused, fishing in her purse. But none of the elixirs she had with her seemed promising, and she did not want to expend them uselessly. “Clip may find something,” she said hopefully. “From the air, more can be seen.”

The jungle was not being idle, however. Plants were visibly growing toward them. This time they were ugly, jointed things, with great brown thorns hooked at each juncture. These things were structured to engage a retreating form, and not to disengage, and they looked as if they had hollow points. Bloodsuckers, surely. Stile brought out his knife and sawed off the nearest thorn stem, severing it with difficulty; the fiber was like cable. By the time he completed the cut, several other tendrils were approaching his boots. He had to draw his sword again, hacking the fibers apart by brute force, clearing a circle around the Lady and horse. He had almost forgotten how formidable nature could be for those who lacked the convenience of magic. It was a reminder in perspective—not that that helped much at the moment.

The hawk returned, changing into man-form. “There is a domicile ahead, and the land is clear around it,” Clip reported. “An old man lives there, a hermit by his look; mayhap he will guide us out, can we but reach him. Or we can follow the curtain; it passes through that clearing. I have scouted the most direct approach to the curtain. I can not cross it, but if thou and the Lady and Hinblue can—the clearing is but a quarter mile from there.” Stile squeezed Clip’s arm in thanks. The unicorn had really come through for them! They could hack their way to the curtain, cross to Proton, hurry forward, and recross to recover breath. It would not be fun, but it should be feasible.

They chopped through the undergrowth with renewed will. This time the plants were rigidly fan-shaped leaves on tough stems, the edges of the leaves as sharp as knives. They did not move to intercept people, but they were extraordinarily difficult to dear from the path because the stems were almost inaccessible behind the leaves. When Stile reached under to sever one stem, the leaves of an other plant were in his way; if he sliced through anyway, he risked brushing the knife-edges along his wrist or fore arm. Without magic to heal cuts, he found this nervous business, though he knew the Lady could help heal him. Progress was slow, and his sword arm grew tired. Clip stepped in, using the tip of his horn to reach past the leaves to break the stems. This enabled them to go faster, and soon they intersected the curtain. Stile could not even perform the simple curtain-crossing spell. The Lady did it for him and Hinblue—and suddenly the three of them were in Proton, on a barren plain, gasping for air. Clip changed to hawk-form and flew directly to their rendezvous in the clearing.

They were able to walk on the bare sands, but breathing was labored, and Hinblue, as the Lady had feared, did not understand at all. The horse’s nostrils flared, and she was skittish, squandering energy better saved for forward progress. Hinblue was a very fine mare, who could have been a prizewinner in Proton, but she had had no experience with this. The Lady led her, though the Lady herself was gasping.

Stile heard his own labored breathing—and realized what it meant. “I’m not silent any more—no magic in this frame!” he exclaimed.

“But when thou retumest—“ the Lady responded.

When he crossed again, the spell would still be on him. He could not escape it this way, except by traveling in this frame back to the region of the Blue Demesnes, where he could cross to get the Lady’s reserve spells. But no Proton dome was near; even if he wanted to risk entering one, the trip wasn’t feasible.

The horse was in increasing trouble. “My Lord, I must take her back,” the Lady gasped. “She does not under stand.”

Stile had handled a horse in these barrens before. He recognized the symptoms of the growing panic. “Take her across; maybe we’re far enough.”

They willed themselves across at what seemed to be a clearing. It was—but also turned out to be no safe resting place. The ground writhed with sucker leaves that sought to fasten to the flesh of human or equine. Hinblue stamped her hooves, trampling down the suckers, but already some were fastening on the sides of the hooves, trying to drink from the hard surface. Stile tried to cut off the plants, but they were too low to the ground, making his blade ineffective.

“We can not stay here,” the Lady said, her feet moving in a dance of avoidance. “We must cross again.” Stile agreed. The horse had recovered her wind. They crossed back to Proton and made a dash for the better clearing ahead. This time they made it. Now they were in sight of the hermit’s hut. Clip re joined them, remaining in hawk-form so as not to betray his nature before the watching hermit. They saw the old man’s eyes peering from the dark window.

“He sees us,” the Lady said. “We shall need his help, for we cannot go through more of this jungle or through Proton.”

Stile could only nod. He didn’t like this situation at all.

Some honeymoon they were having!

The Lady went up to talk to the hermit. But the old man slammed the rickety door and refused to answer her call.

Stile began to get angry. The hawk made a warning cry, and Stile stayed back. Clip had caught on to something important, by his attitude.

The Lady Blue gave it up. “Surely the hermit knows our predicament, but he will help us not,” she said. The touch of a flush on her cheeks betrayed her irritation.

The hawk spoke again, then flew to the ground and scratched a place bare. In that spot he gouged out a word:

ORANGE.

The Lady was first to catch on. “The Orange Adept! No wonder he is such a curmudgeon!”

Stile signaled, pointing to himself and raising an eyebrow questioningly. He wanted to know whether the Orange Adept was aware of the identity of his visitors. Clip thought not. This was merely the way the Adept treated all strangers. Few Adepts cared what happened to those who intruded on their Demesnes, and those Adepts who did care, generally were malignant. Stile had encountered the syndrome before, but he did not like it any better with repetition.