Something to make it too small to harm him! "Dragon fall, become small!" he sang as it closed on him. And knew that it wasn't going to work.
The dragon seemed to hesitate. It lost control, passing over Mach's head, the downdraft from its wings almost blasting him off his feet. It lifted, and wobbled, seeming huge.
Huge? The thing was growing!
Mach realized that he had really blown his spell this time. It had not merely failed, it had had the opposite of the intended effect! Instead of making the dragon fall and get small, it was rising and getting larger. He had made things even worse for himself than they had been.
He scrambled through his mind, trying to come up with a better spell, trying to concentrate to make it work, trying to generate some more substantial music and having no success at any of these efforts. He watched, morbidly fascinated, as the dragon lifted and grew.
Then the monster stalled out and dropped. It flapped its wings desperately, but could not find enough purchase for them, and crashed into the ground. The contact was a hard one; Mach felt the earth shudder.
The dragon lay still. It was either dead or close to it. Mach decided not to investigate closely; the thing might not be as badly off as it seemed He took the opportunity to get himself as far from it as possible.
But he pondered. Granted that his spell had been another disaster, confirming his caution in avoiding magic where possible – why had the dragon crashed? It had gotten larger, so should have been even more formidable.
Larger? Did that mean it also increased its mass? Surely so; here in Phaze mass had no relevance, as was evident when Fleta changed from unicorn form to hummingbird form. If it got heavier as well as larger, the dynamics of its flight would change; it would require a proportionally greater wingspan to do the same job. Many of the laws of physics did not apply in the magic realm, but it seemed that some did – those not specifically countered by magic. So the dragon's ratios had gotten wrong; it was unable to fly, because though its wings had grown with the rest of it, they needed to grow faster than the rest of it, to keep it aloft. Thus it had stalled and crashed.
His spell had done the job after all. But through no great wit or magic of his! He had once again blundered to a kind of success. He was not phenomenally pleased.
At the rate he was going, he was surely losing headway. If Fleta had galloped by here a day ago, he would be two days behind by the time he reached the Blue Demesnes. But he remained reluctant to try too much magic. Magic seemed, to him, to be fraught with the same kind of dangers as would be working with complex equipment a person did not properly understand: the consequences of some seemingly minor misjudgment could be magnified disastrously.
Still, there were dangers here, as the recent episode of the dragon showed, and if he wanted to remain long in Phaze he would need to sharpen his survival skills. So it was necessary that he tackle magic, so as to be able to use it effectively at need. And his first need was travel.
He sat down and pondered. He didn't want to risk transporting himself; the fate of the dragon made that all too worrisome. But he could conjure something that would help him travel –
In Proton, if he wanted to travel outside, he would have requisitioned a vehicle of some sort. Could he do the same here?
What kind of vehicle would be best for mixed terrain without roads? Not a wheeled one, for there was grass and some rocks and gullies, and streams. One that floated.
An aircar, its cushion of air supporting it and moving it forward.
He thought up a suitable rhyme, then hummed to work up the music. He concentrated on what he wanted, in order to get it exactly right. Then he sang: "Bring me a car, to travel far."
Fog appeared and swirled. It dissipated, leaving an object. Success!
Or was it? As he got a closer look, he realized that this was not a car; it was more like a boat. In fact, it was a canoe, floating placidly. There were two paddles in it.
What could he do with a canoe, here in the middle of the plain? There was no water in sight! And if there were a navigable river, he would have to follow where it went, rather than where he wanted to go. He had bungled the spell again.
Floating?
He stared at the canoe. It was indeed floating – in air.
He had concentrated on a floating car. It seemed that he had gotten part of it right.
He put his hands against the side of the canoe and pressed down. It rocked, threatening to overturn. But it did not descend to the ground.
Well, now. He held it as steady as he could and threw a leg over. The thing depressed slightly as it took his weight, and seemed quite unstable, but it supported him. He got himself in and took a seat. Still it floated.
He picked up a paddle. He pretended there was water, and dipped the paddle where the water should be.
There was resistance. He stroked the paddle back, and the canoe slid smoothly forward.
Mach decided not to question this any further. He was experienced at canoeing; he could move along comfortably. He did so.
Progress was not swift, but this was far more pleasant than walking. The canoe developed some inertia, so that it continued moving forward between strokes, allowing him to economize on his effort.
Even so, it was obvious that he was not going to reach the Blue Demesnes by nightfall. So he guided his craft to a copse of trees he hoped bore fruit, for he was hungry now.
He was in luck. There was fruit, and a small spring. He pulled down some vine to tie his canoe, then drank deeply. He plucked enough fruit to eat, then some more to store in his craft.
He considered, then piled some brush in the canoe and settled down on it to sleep. He didn't want the craft to drift away during the night, and he felt safer in it anyway.
He woke in the morning, refreshed, and resumed his journey. He made good progress, and came to the place where the paths diverged. He took the east path, not caring to tempt the demons of the Lattice. Even so, he stroked swiftly and nervously by the region where he and Fleta had had to turn aside to avoid the goblins awaiting them. He doubted he could outpaddle goblins.
But there were none. He proceeded north without interference. In due course he spied the blue towers ahead. He had made it!
He drew up at the moat. Should he float right on across, or call out to make himself known?
He was saved from the decision by the emergence of a beautiful older woman. He knew her immediately, though he had never seen her before: The Lady Stile, Bane's mother.
"Tie thy boat and come in, Mach," she called to him. "Supper awaits thee."
So they had been expecting him! That meant that Fleta was here.
But she was not. The Lady explained that the mare had departed two days before, going to her Herd. "But the Adept has been long eager to meet thee," she assured him.
Stile looked exactly like his father, Citizen Blue. It was eerie. Mach cleaned up and joined them for the meal, and found them pleasant to be with. But it was Fleta he had come for.
Stile shook his head. "She hath a notion to marry thee, and this be impossible," he said abruptly.
"Why? I know her nature, and I love her. I returned to Phaze to be with her."
"Ne'er in all the history of Phaze has man married animal. Thou mayst be from a more liberal frame, but thou art not in that frame. Here thou art known as the son of an Adept. It would be shame on these Demesnes."
Now the difference between Blue and Stile was becoming apparent. Mach's father had encouraged the integration of the species, so as to break down the barriers that had stratified the Proton society. But it seemed that in these same twenty years Stile had gone the opposite direction, becoming more conservative.