Piers Anthony - Blue Adept

“I hope we are not going to have another scene,” Stile said uneasily. “Dearly would I like thy favor, as thou knowest, but I shall not be swayed from—“

“Methinks we shall have a scene,” she said. “But not quite like the last. Shamed am I to have tested thee as I did. I agreed to support thine effort, and I shall not renege. I like not playing the role of the contrary advocate. But now I must inform thee of misinformation thou hast.”

“It is not the Red Adept who is mine enemy?” Stile asked, suddenly alarmed.

“Forget the Red Adept for the moment!” she snapped. “This relates to us.”

“Have I offended thee in some fashion? I apologize; there remain social conventions in this frame I do not—“

“Apologize not to me!” she cried. “It is I who have wronged thee!”

Stile shook his head. “I doubt thou’rt capable of that, Lady.”

“Listen to me!” she said, her blue eyes flashing in the way they had, momentarily brightening the curtains. “I have to tell thee—“ She took a breath. “That never till thou didst come on the scene was I a liar.”

Stile had not been taking this matter too seriously. Now he did. “Thou knowest I do not tolerate a lie in these Demesnes. I am in this respect the mirror of mine other self. Why shouldst thou lie to me? What cause have I given thee?”

The Lady Blue was obviously in difficulty. “Because I lied first to myself,” she whispered. “I denied what I wished not to perceive.” Now tears showed in her eyes. Stile wanted to comfort her, to hold her, but held him-self rigidly apart. She was not his to hold, whatever she might have done. Yet he recalled his own recent reluctance to recognize Clef as the one destined to receive the Flute, and knew how the Lady might similarly resist some noxious revelation. This was not necessarily the sort of lie he could completely condemn.

“Lady, I must know. What is the lie?” Once before a woman had lied to him, in kindness rather than malice, and that had cost him heartbreak and had changed his life. He could not even blame her, in retrospect, for from that experience had come his affinity with music. Yet the Lady Blue was more than that serf-girl had been, and her lie might wreak greater havoc. He knew she could not have done such a thing lightly.

She stood and faced away from him, ashamed. “When I said—when I told thee—“ She was unable to continue. Stile remembered now how Sheen had at first tried to deceive him about her nature. He had forced the issue, and regretted it. Associations relating to Sheen had led him to this world of Phaze, making another phenomenal change in his life.

Somehow it seemed that the greatest crises of his existence had been tied in to the lies of women. “Thou’rt so like my Lord!” the Lady Blue burst out, her shoulders shaking.

Stile smiled grimly. “By no coincidence. Lady.” He thought of how similar her alternate self in Proton, Bluette, was to her. Had Bluette escaped the robot? He hardly dared check on that. Bluette dead would be a horror to his conscience; Bluette alive—how could he deal with her, he for whom the trap had been set?

“When I said—“ The Lady Blue paused again, then forced it out. “I loved thee not.”

Stile felt as he had when declared the winner of the harmonica contest. Was he mishearing, indulging in a wish fulfillment? “Thou dost love thy Lord the real Blue Adept, whose likeness I bear. This have I always under-stood.”

“Thee,” she said. “Thee ... Thee.”

She had told him of that convention of love—but even if she had not done so, he would have understood. There was a ripple in the air and in the curtains of the window, and a tiny brush of wind touched his hair in passing. For a moment there was a blueness in the room. Then the effects faded, and all was as before.

Except for the lie, now demolished. For this was the splash the world of Fhaze made in the presence of deep truth. She had confessed her love—for him. Stile found himself inadequate to rise to the occasion in any fashion. He had been so sure that the Lady’s love, if it ever came, would be years in the making! There was an obvious rejoinder for him to make, but he found himself unable.

The Lady, her statement made, now began her documentation. “When thou didst prove thine identity by performing magic, and I saw the animals’ loyalty to thee, it was my heart under siege. I thought thou wouldst be either like the golem, all wood and lifeless and detestable, or that thou wouldst use thy magic as the Yellow Witch suggested, to force my will to thy design.”

“Nay, never that!” Stile protested. “Thou’rt thy Lord’s widow!”

“Always didst thou safeguard me, with Hulk or Neysa or the wolves or some potion. Even as my Lord did.”

“But of course! The Lady of the Blue Demesnes must ever be protected!”

“Wilt thou be quiet a moment!” she flared. “I am trying to tell thee why I love thee. The least thou canst do is listen.”

Stile, perforce, was silent.

“Three things distinguished my Lord,” she continued after a moment. “He was the finest rider in Phaze—and so art thou. He was the strongest Adept—and so art thou. And he was of absolute integrity—as so art thou. No way can I claim thou art his inferior. In fact—long have I fought against the realization, but no more shall I lie—thou art in certain respects his superior.”

“Lady—“

“Damn me not with thy modesty!” she cried fiercely, and Stile was suppressed again.

“Never did he actually ride a unicorn,” she continued. “Never did he enchant an entire assembly into friendship with one. Never did he win the active loyalty of the wolf-pack. I think he could have done these things, had he chosen, but he chose not. And so he was less than thee, because he exerted himself less. Always had he his magic to lean on; mayhap it made him drive less hard. Thou—thou art what he could have been. And I—I love what he could have been.”

Stile started one more protest, and once more she blocked him with a savage look. “When thou sworest friendship to Neysa, such was the power of that oath that its backwash enchanted us all. Thy magic compelled me—and I knew in that moment that never more could I stand against thee. The emotion thou didst feel for the unicorn became my emotion, and it has abided since, and I would not choose to be rid of it if I could. Always will Neysa be my friend, and I would lay down my life for her, and my honor too. Yet I know it was no quality in her that evoked this loyalty in me, though she has qualities that do deserve it. It was thy spell, like none before in this world. I love Neysa, and Neysa loves thee, and through her I too must love thee—“ Yet again Stile tried to interrupt, and yet again could not.

“I tell thee this to show that I know the extent to which thy magic has acted on me—and thus am assured it does not account for the fullness of my feeling. I love thee in part because I have experienced the depth of thy love for Neysa, and hard it is to deny feeling of that sincerity. Thou lovest well. Adept, and thereby thou dost become lovable thyself. But I do love thee more than I can blame on magic.”

She paused, and this time Stile had the wit not to interrupt her. “When thou didst take me along on thy trip to the Mound Folk,” she continued, “and the Sidhe toyed with us, and thou didst dance with the Faerie-maid, then did I suffer pangs of jealousy. Then when thou didst dance with me, as my Lord used to do—“ She broke off and walked around the room.

“Ever was I a fool. I thought I could withstand thy appeal. But when I heard thee play the magic Flute—0 my Lord, that sound!—not since the days of mine other courtship have I heard the like! But then thou didst go to fight the Worm, and I cursed myself for my callousness to thee, swearing to make it up to thee an I should ever see thee again alive—and yet I hardened again when thou didst survive, telling myself it could not be. The lie was on me, and I could not cast it off. Then at the Unolympics when thou didst so readily defend me against the seeming slur of Yellow—alas, I am woman, I am weak, my heart swelled with gratitude and guilt. And I could not help myself, I had to hear thee play again, and so I betrayed thy possession of the Flute to Yellow. And saw thee nearly killed by the Herd Stallion. Yet again had I played the fool, even as Yellow knew. And then at last, when thou didst come to me suffering from thy loss of thy Game and of thy friend Hulk—I longed to comfort thee with all my being, but the lie lay between us like a festering corpse, making foul what would have been fair, adding to thy grief, making of me a fishwife—and yet in that adversity didst thou steer thy narrow course exactly as he would have done, and I knew that I was lost. And I feared that thou wouldst die before ever I had chance to beg the forgiveness I deserved not—“