Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

Neysa laid her warm horn against his cheek, suffering silently with him, forgiving him. She understood. They walked together back to the Herd Stallion. The noble creature was again in his natural form and had evidently assimilated the Lady’s story. He was stomping the turf with one forehoof, making sparks fly up, and steam was issuing from his nostrils.

When Stile rejoined him, the Stallion changed again to man-form, a wisp of steam still showing in his breath. “Thou art not at fault. Adept,” he said. “Clip was there to help and protect thee, not thou him.”

“Protect me he did,” Stile said. “I owe him my life. But he lost his freedom protecting not me but my Lady. I must restore him to freedom and avenge what he is suffering.”

“He is of my herd,” the Stallion said. “Ultimately, vengeance is mine. But thou art welcome to free him if thou canst.”

“First must I locate him,” Stile said. “And, if thou canst permit it, I would take another unicorn as temporary steed. The forces ranged against me, for whatever reason, are more than I can safely cope with alone, and no horse suffices. I need the kind of service only a unicorn can give.”

The Stallion hesitated. Neysa blew a faint note on her harmonica-hom, half pleading, half warning. She was subject to the Herd Stallion, but friend to the Blue Adept—and to many others. She was close blood kin to Clip. She wanted to be Stile’s steed again, despite her condition. The Stallion could say nay or yea and would be obeyed—but his life would be simplified if he placated this spirited little mare. Stile had a certain sympathy for the Herd Stallion’s predicament.

“I will provide thee with another unicorn,” the Stallion decided. “Thou art held in unusual respect in this herd, Adept; a number of these would do for thee what they would not do for any ordinary man. Yet may I not compel any in this matter; give me time to seek a volunteer.” The Stallion seemed less urgent about this than Stile felt, and was obliquely refusing Neysa’s offer. Yet it was a sensible course.

“It will take time to locate Clip and prepare a campaign to recover him without injury,” Stile said. “Adept magic is involved, making the matter devious, not subject to simple spells. I do not relish his captivity for even another hour, but it would be foolish to strike unprepared. Will a day and a night suffice? I do have business in the other frame.”

“It will suffice,” the Stallion agreed. “I shall query the animals of other kinds and send to the Oracle.” The Oracle! Of course! That would pinpoint Clip instantly—if the answer were not misunderstood. Except—what about the speculation the Translucent Adept had made about the Oracle? Maybe he should be careful of any advice received, without openly challenging its validity.

Stile turned to the Lady Blue. “Now must I return thee to the Blue Demesnes for safekeeping.”

Again Neysa protested. The Herd Stallion, shirting to natural form, blew an accordion-chord of irritated acquiescence.

“I have been invited to visit with the Herd during thine absence,” the Lady said. “I can be better guarded here, for no magic penetrates a herd on guard. By thy leave, my Lord—“

“I will make thee a pavilion,” Stile said, pleased. She would be much safer here, certainly.

“I need it not, my Lord.”

Stile nodded. The Lady Blue was no frail flower; she could survive well enough. “Then shall I—“ He paused, and the unicorns looked up from their grazing. A dragon was approaching—a huge flying creature, swooping up and down, evidently searching for something. It spied the herd and flew directly toward it. Immediately the unicorns formed a circle, horns pointing out. In the center were the foals and aged individuals —and Neysa, specially protected during her gestation. The Herd Stallion stood outside, flanked by several of the strongest of the lesser males, facing the monster alertly.

“I can deal with this,” Stile offered. He had a number of spells to bring down dragons.

But the dragon was not attacking. It was a steed, with an old woman holding the reins, perched between the great beating wings. She carried a white kerchief that she waved in her left hand.

“Flag of truce,” Stile said. Then, with a double take: “That’s the Yellow Adept!”

The Herd Stallion snorted angrily. He would honor the truce, but he had no love for the Yellow Adept, whose business it was to trap and sell animals, including unicorns. The dragon landed with a bump that made its passenger bounce, then folded its wings. The old woman scrambled down.

“I bear a message for Blue. It must be quick, for my potion can not hold this monster long.” Stile stepped forward, still surprised. Usually this witch only went out in public after talking a youth potion for cosmetic effect. What message could cause her to scramble like this?

“I am here. Yellow.”

“It is in the form of a package, my handsome,” she said, handing him a long box that appeared from her shawl. Stile suddenly became conscious of his own apparel: the outfit of a Proton Citizen. In the rush of events he had not bothered to conjure Phaze clothing. But it hardly mattered; an Adept, like a Citizen, could wear what he pleased. “I want thee to know I had no hand in this particular mischief. The item was delivered by conjuration with the message: Blue butt out. I hastened to bring it to thee, fearing further malice against thee an I delayed. My potions indicate that more than one Adept participates in this.”

She hurried back to her dragon-steed before Stile could open the package. “Wait, Yellow—I may wish to question thee about this!” Stile called. Something about the package gave him an extremely ugly premonition.

“I dare not stay,” she called back. “I would help thee if I could. Blue, for thou art a bonny lad. But I can not.” She spurred her dragon forward. The creature spread its wings and taxied along on six little legs, finally getting up to takeoff velocity. Once it was airborne, it was much more graceful. Soon it was flying high and away. Stile unwrapped the package with a certain misgiving. It surely did not contain anything he would be glad to see. Probably it was from Clip’s captor; some evidence that the unicorn was indeed hostage, such as a hank of his blue mane.

As the package unwrapped, two red socks fell out. Clip’s socks, which could be magically removed and used separately, in the same manner as Neysa’s white socks. But there was something else in the package. Stile un wrapped it—and froze, appalled. All the others stared, not at first believing it.

It was a severed unicorn horn.

Stile’s hands began to shake. He heard the Lady Blue’s quick intake of breath. Neysa blew a note of purest agony.

Slowly Stile lifted the horn to his mouth. He blew into the hollow base. The sound of an ill-played saxophone emerged. It was definitely Clip’s horn.

Neysa fell to the ground as if stricken by lightning. The Lady Blue dropped down beside her, putting her arms about the unicorn’s neck in a futile attempt to console her. Stile stood stiffly, his mind half numbed by the horror of it. To a unicorn, the horn was everything, the mark that distinguished him from the mere horse.

More than that, he realized, the horn was the seat of the unicorn’s magic. Without it. Clip could not change form or resist hostile spells. He would be like a man blinded and castrated—alive without joy. There could be no worse punishment.

The Herd Stallion was back in man-form. He put forth his large hand to take the horn. His eyes were blazing like the windows of a furnace, and steam was rising from him. “They dare I” he rasped, staring at the member.

“For this will I visit a conflagration on the Demesnes of every Adept involved!” Stile said, finding his voice at last. “On every creature who cooperated. I will level mountains to get at them. What the Blue Adept did to the trolls and jackals shall be as nothing.” Already the air was becoming charged with the force of his developing oath; dark coils of fog were swirling. “Only let me make my music, find my rhyme—“