Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“Perhaps, then, your other self is helping you.”

Again Stile considered. “To make sure his sacrifice is not wasted. Subtly guiding me. He conjured his own soul into his harmonica. Surely a feat of magic no lesser person could achieve. He has been with me all along.” Stile sighed, half in amazement. “Now I must fulfill the destiny he could not. He is watching me.”

“He must have been a worthy man.”

“He must have been,” Stile agreed. “The Lady Blue said he had not lived up to his potential. Now it seems there was more to him than she knew.”

They let the matter drop. There was really not much else to say about it. Clef showed Stile to a cot, and he lay down and slept, reassured, literally, in spirit. In the morning, refreshed, they took the private shuttle east to the curtain. This was not in the region Stile had crossed it before, in the chasm. The curtain meandered all over the planet, as he and the Lady Blue had verified on their horrendous honeymoon. This was where it traveled almost due north-south, passing a few miles east of the palace of the Oracle; Stile and the Lady had ridden rapidly north along this stretch on their way to their rendezvous with the snow-demons. That had been the key word “flame” in his poem. Now the key word was “civil”—for he was about to launch a civil war, as Adept fought unicorn and Citizen fought serf. Still to come were the key words “flute” and “earth.” He could readily see how the first related, but the last remained obscure. “Those key terms!” Stile exclaimed. “I was given a dozen words to fashion into a poem in the finals of the Tourney. Where did those words originate?”

“With the Oracle, of course. You had to be provided some hint of your destiny.”

“That’s what I suspected.” The Oracle had been meddling in his life throughout, guiding or herding him in the prescribed direction.

Yet could he condemn it? The future of the two frames was certainly an overwhelming consideration, and the Oracle’s present avenues of expression were extremely limited. There had been rewards along the way. Stile had been given Citizenship in Proton and a worthy ally in the lady robot Sheen. He had been given the Lady Blue in Phaze and such close friends as Neysa the unicorn and Kurrel gyre the werewolf. He had seen his life transformed from the routine of serfdom to the wildest adventure—and de spite its hazards, he found he liked adventure. He also liked magic. When this was all over, and he had helped save or destroy Phaze—depending on viewpoint—he wanted to retire in Phaze.

But there was one other prophecy. “Is it true that Phaze will not be secure until the Blue Adept departs the frame forever?”

Clef was sober. “I fear it is true. Stile. Possession of the book of magic alone will make you dangerous. You will have great power in the new order anyway, and the book will make it so much greater that corruption is a distinct possibility. That book in any hands in Phaze is a long-term liability, after the crisis has been navigated. The Oracle takes no pleasure in such news—of course it is a machine without feelings anyway—but must report what it sees.” Stile loved the Lady Blue—but he also loved Phaze. She loved Phaze too; he did not want to take her from it. In the other frame there was Sheen, who loved him and whom he was slated to marry there. He did not quite love her, yet it seemed his course had been charted. He closed his eyes, suffering in anticipation of his enormous loss. His alternate self had yielded his life for the good of Phaze; now it seemed Stile would have to yield his happiness for the same objective. He would have to leave Phaze, once the crisis had passed, and take the book with him back to Proton.

Clef looked at him, understanding his agony. “Scant comfort, I know—but I believe the Oracle selected you for this mission because you alone possessed the position, skills, and integrity to accomplish it. No other person would make the sacrifice you will—that your alternate already has made—guided solely by honor. Your fitness for the office has been proved.”

“Scant comfort,” Stile agreed bitterly.

“There is one additional prophecy I must relay to you immediately, before we part,” Clef said. “You must marshal your troops.”

“Troops? How can they juxtapose the frames?” Clef smiled. “The Oracle prophesies the need for organized force, if Phaze is to be saved.”

“And I am to organize this force? For what specific purpose?”

“That has not yet been announced.”

“Well, who exactly is the enemy?”

“The Adepts and Citizens and their cohorts.”

“Common folk can’t fight Adepts and Citizens.”

“Not folk. Creatures.”

“Ah. The unicorns, werewolves, vampires—“

“Animalheads, elves, giants—“

“Dragons?”

“They are destined to join the enemy, along with the goblins.”

“I begin to fathom the nature of the battle. Half the animalheads will die.”

“And many others. But the alternative—“

“Is total destruction.” Stile sighed. “I do not see myself as a captain of battle.”

“That is nevertheless your destiny. I am foreordained to juxtapose the frames, you to equalize them. Without you, my task is useless.”

“These canny riddles by the Oracle are losing their appeal. If this is not simply a matter of picking up a book of magic and moving some Phazite the Little Folk will give me, I would appreciate some rather more detailed information on how I am to use these troops to accomplish my assignment. I don’t believe in violence for the sake of violence.”

Clef spread his hands. “Nor do I. But the prophecy tells only what, not how. Perhaps the Elven Folk will have more useful news for you.”

“Perhaps. But won’t the enemy Adepts be watching for me to go to the Elven Demesnes?”

“Surely so.”

“So I should avoid whatever traps they have laid for me there, for my sake and the elves’ sake. I can’t visit the Little Folk at this time, and I suspect I should also stay clear of the unicorns and werewolves. So it will be very difficult for me to organize an army among creatures who know me only slightly. Especially when I can’t give them any concrete instructions.”

“I do not envy you your position. I am secure; the Oracle is virtually immune from direct molestation. But you must perform under fire, with inadequate resources. Presumably your Game expertise qualifies you. As I said, the Oracle went to some trouble to secure the right man for this exceedingly awkward position.”

“Indeed,” Stile agreed, unpleased.

Now they reached the curtain. Stile doubted the Adepts would be lurking for him here; how could they know his devious route? But they would soon spot it when he started magic. He would have to move fast, before they oriented and countered.

Stile plotted his course and spells as they got out of the capsule and walked up a ramp to the surface. There was an air lock there. “The curtain is a few meters distant; best to hold our breath a few seconds,” Clef said.

“You have certainly mastered the intricacies in a short time.”

“The Little Folk are excellent instructors. They don’t like folk my size, but they do their job well. I will be sorry to depart Phaze.”

Not nearly as sorry as Stile would be! “I will make my spells rapidly, the moment we cross,” Stile said. “The Flute prevents magic from being blocked, so the enemy can not interfere, but it may resist a spell by a person not holding it.”

“Have no concern. I could block your magic by a single note, but don’t have to. I trust you to get me to the Oracle in good order.”

Stile paused in the air lock. “We may not meet again, but we shall be working together.” He proffered his hand.