Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“From the fringes of black holes,” Stile repeated, amazed at the information the elf had. To reside in a magical frame was not necessarily to be ignorant of science! “I’ll bet it’s scarce! No wonder phenomenal force is bound up within it, like a really tightly coiled spring. How much is here?”

“In Proton, Protonite has been mined at the controlled rate of approximately one metric ton a year, for three hundred years, with nine tenths of it exported, the rest reserved as Citizen wealth. To equalize the frames, we must replace half of three hundred metric tons. This ball of Phazite weighs near one hundred and seventy of our tons, the equivalent.”

“I don’t want to wait until my allies locate me,” Stile said. “My enemies may arrive at the same time. I will need some help moving that thing, if I am not to employ magic.”

“We will help, within our demesnes. We have numbers and levers.”

Stile brought out his map of Phaze, which had survived all his adventures in the magic way such things had. He had wondered how unicorns managed to carry things while shifting into forms such as hawks and fireflies; now he had carried map, clothing, and harmonica while swimming as a fish. He still didn’t know how it was done.

“The simplest thing would be to roll the ball due north across the central region, which is relatively level, until we pass the north aspect of the curtain. Somehow I don’t think that will work.”

“Thine enemies be alert. At some point they will discover thy location. Then will all their resources be brought to bear in opposition,”

“That’s the nature of the game.” Stile agreed. “Both teams push on the earthball, and the one with more power and/or better strategy prevails. The problem is, I’m not sure we have more power or better strategy.”

“I can help,” Sheen said.

“Yes, I’ll take all the help I can—“ He looked at her, startled. “When didst thou arrive?”

She smiled. “Just now, when the curtain caught up with thee. Didst thou not notice it?”

Stile, distracted by the wonder of the ball of Phazite, sixty times the mass of his record Proton personal fortune, had not noticed. Now he realized that he had heard the Flute again, at the fringe of his consciousness, and that his experience had broadened as his other self rejoined him. He also realized that Sheen could not cross the curtain, this side, without going back into Proton; to go all the way into Phaze, she would have to proceed past the north part of the curtain, then double back. Best for her simply to remain in the zone of juxtaposition, using the superspells of the book of magic to overcome the interference-enchantment of the enemy Adepts.

“So the curtain is still expanding,” he said. “I had somehow thought it had stabilized.”

“Nay, it be unstable,” Pyreforge said. “Only the ultimate skill of the Foreordained expands it, and his power be at its limit. The boundary flexes back and forth, some what like the winds of a changing day. The mass of many people can move it a short distance, as it were pushing it. Our elves did push it across just now so that thy friend could join thee.”

“And here is Trool,” Sheen continued. “His troll friends are making a tunnel through hills for the boulder, so we will not have to roll it uphill.”

“I do not plan to roll it uphill! I’ll roll it along the contour.”

“And the Lady Brown is marching her golems here to push.”

Stile looked at Trool. “Glad I am to see thee! Thou hast survived thine ordeal in good order, it seems. It is not every person who is restored from stone.”

“It was an eyeblink,” the troll said. “One moment I stood in the tunnel; next was I in the hall of the Oracle. I knew not thy metal golem was an enchantress.”

“Women of any type have secret talents; hers manifested during your eyeblink,” Stile said. “Thou, too, dost have ability. We saw thy figurines. Are all trolls sculptors?”

“Nay,” Trool said, embarrassed. “I have gone mostly apart from my kind, and in the lonesome hours do I entertain myself with idle shapings. It is of no import.”

“Art is of import,” Stile said. “Many creatures can do conventional labors; few can fashion raw material into beauty. Phaze can be made prettier by thy efforts.”

“Nay, I am ugly,” Trool demurred. “I have no aspirations, now that mine onus is done.”

His onus had been to save Stile three times. Surely the good troll would not accept any reward, but Stile disliked the notion of departing this frame without returning some suitable favor. Something began to develop in his mind, an improbable connection.

“If thou didst have the power of an Adept, what then would be thine aspiration?” The troll shrugged in the ungainly manner of his kind. “I have no use for power. For generations my kind has abused what powers it had, and on that history do I turn my gnarled back. All I crave is a little rock to tunnel in, and time to fashion mine images in stone, and perhaps a friend or two. The life of a troll is not much. Adept.” Not much, indeed! Stile decided to experiment.

“I shall grant thee power, for a time, so that thou canst help me now. I must devise a route to roll this ball of Phazite and must avoid the enemy forces that oppose this motion.” He turned to Sheen. “Thou hast surveyed the book of magic?”

“Aye,” she agreed.

“Canst thou give Trool the powers of flight, invisibility, and resistance to hostile magic?”

She looked surprised. “That and more. But—“

“Do it.”

“But, Adept!” Trool protested. “I am a troll!”

“Methinks I misjudged trolls once. Thou hast helped me three times; now I beg thee to help me again, though no prophecy requires thee.”

“Certainly will I help thee! But—“

Sheen did something obscure. Trool paused as if experiencing something strange.

“Try thy talents,” Stile suggested.

“I can not fly!” Trool said, rising into the air. He looked down, astonished. “This is as impossible as turning invisible!” He faded from view.

“Thou hast bequeathed dangerous power to such a creature,” Pyreforge said gravely. “He can leave thee and go abroad to do harm, answerable to no one.”

“Power corrupts some less than others,” Stile said. “Trool has shown his constancy, and I am giving him leave to show it more. Sheen has more power than any other person now, yet she is unchanged.”

“I’m not human,” Sheen said. “I am as I am programmed to be, regardless of my power. Only living things are corruptible.”

“Yet with the magic of that book,” Pyreforge pointed out, “thou couldst become alive. The power thou hast shown be but an inkling of the potential.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I perceive that potential.”

“There are spells to give true life?” Stile asked, amazed. “Thou didst tell me to survey the complete book,” she reminded him. “I found things hardly to be imagined.”

“But the problem of souls,” he protested. “That is handled the same way the flesh is. A baby is started from the substance of its parents. A baby’s soul starts as a piece separated from the souls of its parents. It’s like taking a brand from a fire to make a new fire; once a piece of fire is separated, it develops its own individuality. So I don’t need anyone else’s soul—just a piece of soul, which can grow into the body.”

“But a piece of whose soul?” Stile asked. Sheen, alive—would it make a difference? He wasn’t sure. Part of her personality was her knowledge of her own inanimate nature.

“The Lady Brown has offered me a piece of hers,” Sheen said diffidently. “She feels responsible for me, since she animated me in Phaze.”

“We’re wasting time,” Stile said, not wanting to wrestle with personal considerations at the moment. “Where’s Trool?”