Piers Anthony - Blue Adept

“I have made an oath,” Stile said, somewhat stiffly.

“Well do I know the power of thine oaths! Yet there be ways and ways to implement, and here is thy bastion. Let thine enemy come to thee here, where thy magic is strongest; do not put thyself in jeopardy in hostile Demesnes.”

“There is merit in thy view,” Stile said, still overwhelmingly conscious of her nearness, of her hands upon him. He kept his own hands at his sides. “Yet I fear that it is folly to wait for attack. Already mine enemy’s traps have imperiled my life in both frames, and destroyed my friend and perhaps thine other self too. I want no others to suffer in my stead. I prefer to take the initiative, to do boldly what has to be done. Thereafter will I retire to the Blue Demesnes.”

“I fear to lose thee, as I lost him! As has so nearly happened already. What becomes of me, of the Blue Demesnes, if thou goest the way of my Lord?”

That moved him. “Never would I place thee in jeopardy, if I could avoid it. Lady. Yet I dare not take thee with me on my quest for vengeance.”

Her grip on his shoulders tightened. “It is my vengeance too, to have or to renounce. If thou lovest me, heed my plea! Leave me not!”

“I have no right to love thee, now less than ever,” Stile said. “I may only guard thee.”

“Thou’rt the Blue Adept! Thy right is as thou makest it!”

“My right is as my conscience dictates. I seek not the spoils of mine other self’s Demesnes. Fain would I return thy Lord to thee, if I could.”

She shifted her grip and drew him savagely in to her. She kissed him. Stile’s heart seemed to explode with longing, but with an iron will he held himself passive. She shook him. “Respond, Adept. These Demesnes are thy spoils, and I too. Take what is thy right. Leave me not bereft of Lord and of power. I will grant thee whatever thou dost desire. I will give thee a son. No one, I swear, will ever suspect by word or gesture or deed of mine that in truth I love thee not. Only remain to preserve these Demesnes.”

It was that truth that cut him almost as savagely as the murder of his friend. Gently but firmly Stile disengaged from her. “If the occasion comes when I do not suspect, then I may act as thou hast in mind. This scene becomes thee not.”

She slapped him stingingly across the cheek. “How dost thou dare prate to me of scenes, thou who dost seek futile vengeance that will only exterminate thee and bring down what remains of what my Lord created?”

“I apologize for my foolishness,” Stile said stiffly. He hated everything about this situation, while loving her for the sacrifice she was attempting. To preserve the memory and works of her Lord, she would do anything. She had thrown away her pride in that effort. “I am the way I am. I will fulfill mine oath in the best way I know.”

She spread her hands. Surprisingly she smiled. “Go then, with my blessing. I will aid thee in whatever manner I am able.”

This startled Stile. “Why the sudden change. Lady?”

“It is now thy welfare I value, for whatever reason. If I can not preserve thee from thy folly my way, I must help thee do it thy way. Ever was it thus, in these Demesnes.”

Stile nodded. “Thy balanced perspective, again. I thank thee. Lady, for thy support.” He turned to go.

“Thou’rt so very like my Lord,” she repeated as he passed through the doorway. “Nor wiles nor logic nor rages could move him iotas from his set course, when honor was involved.”

Stile paused. “I am glad thou understandest.”

She hurled a blue slipper at him. “I do not understand! My love died of that stubbornness—and so wilt thou!” Stile found Neysa in the courtyard, cropping the perpetual bluegrass patch. “We must move swiftly to surprise the enemy and allow me time to get to my next match in Proton-frame. But I dare not leave the Lady unguarded, especially in her present mood. Without Hulk—“ Neysa tooted reassuringly and led the way outside. Shapes were racing toward the castle. “The werewolves!”

Stile exclaimed.

Soon the pack arrived, panting. The leader metamorphosed to man-form. It was Stile’s friend Kurrelgyre, wild-haired and scarred but trustworthy. “The Pack greets thee, Adept.”

“I have need of thy assistance,” Stile said. “But how didst thou know?”

“Know? We know nothing,” the werewolf said. “We but came to visit our oath-friend the mare.”

“But Neysa and I are leaving,” Stile protested.

“Then we shall be forced to take advantage of the hospitality of thy Demesnes to await her return. Can a pack do less, for an oath-friend?”

Stile understood. Neysa had somehow summoned the pack, all of whose members had sworn an oath of friend-ship with her, and they would guard the Blue Demesnes during his absence. An Adept enemy could get around such a defense, but not easily; who would voluntarily tackle a full pack of werewolves? The Lady Blue would be as safe as she reasonably could be, for the duration. “Methinks true friends appear when needed most,” Stile said gratefully.

The White Adept was female, so Stile rode Neysa toward the White Demesnes. White did not resemble the woman he had seen in the Hulk holo-tape, but of course she had been in disguise at the Unolympics. So he would go and defy her to show him her true form, establishing at one stroke her guilt or innocence. Armed with the Platinum Flute, he felt he could successfully brace the Adept in her own Demesnes.

Neysa knew the way. Stile slept on her back, refreshing his strength. He knew she would protect him well, and this approach would be less obvious than the use of magic. It was also a salient principle in Phaze: do not waste magic. He would use one of his rehearsed spells to travel away from the White Demesnes, if hard-pressed, instead of expending it unnecessarily now.

It was good to be with Neysa for another reason. Stile was sick at heart, angry about his ludicrous loss of a Game in the Tourney, guilty for Hulk’s brutal demise, and disturbed by the Lady Blue’s attempt to seduce him away from his purpose. He needed to sort out his feelings and get them settled, and he needed the solid support of an understanding person. Neysa was that person. She did not have to say a word or play a note; she settled him by her presence. She had been right about the importance of her assistance to him; he needed her for more than physical Blue Adept 213 reasons. With her he felt secure, emotionally as well as physically.

They traveled northeast, angling toward the great White Mountain range. At dawn they arrived at a narrow pass. Now Neysa threw herself into a slow gallop, forging up into the snows, while Stile hunched within his cloak. Such was the energy she expended that thin fire shot from her nostrils, and her hot hooves melted indentations into the packed snow. Her body heat warmed Stile’s own body, and soon he leaned forward and hugged her about the neck, burying his face in her sweet black mane. She was his best friend in the frame of Phaze, the one he most depended on. It was joy to be afield with her again like this.

At the height of the pass a cruel wind sliced through. Beyond, the terrain opened out into a bleak frozen lake many miles across. The ice was not flat; it pushed up in cracked mounds, where the stresses of expansion had prevailed.

And in the center of that ragged surface rose the icy castle of the White Demesnes, formed of ice bricks partially melted together and refrozen. Flying buttresses of ice braced the walls. It was pretty in its fashion, but rather squat and solid to be truly esthetic artistically. Neysa walked down to the lake’s edge. The ice was a problem for her, as her hot hooves were not suitable for skating. She would have trouble crossing this! “I can conjure skates for thee—“ Stile offered dubiously. She blew a note of negation. Then she shifted into her firefly form.