“Doubtful,” Stile said seriously. “I had planned to enter in two years, when some top players would be gone and my strength would be at its peak—and even then the odds would have been against me. It is hard to win ten or twelve consecutive Games against top competition, and luck can turn either way. I would rate my chances at perhaps one in ten, for I could lose to a poorer player with one bad break.”
Neysa tooted questioningly. “Well, one chance in twelve, perhaps,” Stile amended. “I did not mean to brag.”
“The mare means to inquire what thou meanest to do if thou shouldst win the Tourney,” the werewolf said. “Since thou wouldst then be a Citizen, with permanent tenure—no need ever to depart Proton.”
Stile wondered in passing how the werewolf had come to know the unicorn well enough to translate her notes, in only one day. Maybe shape-changing creatures had natural avenues of comprehension. “A Citizen has virtually complete freedom and power. I would be under no onus to choose between frames. But I like Phaze; I think I would spend much of my time here anyway. Much depends on my situation here; if I should turn out to be a vicious person like the Black Adept, I think I’d prefer to vacate.” Yet the Citizen who was the Black Adept’s other self had not seemed to be a bad man; perhaps it was solely the absolute power that corrupted—power beyond that of any Citizen. What would an Adept be like, if he had residence in both frames and free access between them?
“It is a fair response,” Kurrelgyre said. “If thou must return for a Game within a day, only the Yellow Adept is within range to check, without the employ of magic. Would it not be better to yield this quest, being satisfied as thou art now?”
“Not while someone is trying to kill me here. That person must know who I am. If I can discover who I am in Phaze, I may know more about the nature of mine enemy. Then I can see about making this world safe for mine own existence. I gather mine other self failed to take such precaution.”
“Spoken like a werewolf,” Kurrelgyre said approvingly. Neysa sighed; she did not seem to agree completely, but neither did she disagree. Men will be men, her attitude said.
“Neysa, I want to be honest with thee,” Stile said, feeling the need to provide a better justification. “I like Phaze, I like thee—but this is not truly my world. Even if there were no threat to my welfare, I could not commit myself absolutely to stay here. I would need to know that my presence served in some way to benefit this world; that there was some suitable challenge to rise to. Something that needed doing, that perhaps only I could do. If there seems to be more of a need and challenge in the other frame—“
Neysa made another musical snort. “She inquires whether thou wouldst feel more positive if she released thee from thy vow of no magic,” the werewolf translated.
Stile considered. He understood that the acceptance of such a release would subtly or overtly alienate him from the unicorn. It was only his vow that made it possible for her to associate with him on their original basis. “No. I only want to know who I am. If I can’t survive without magic, maybe it’s best that I not remain here. I never want to be like the Black Adept. All I need is someone to spell me into the other frame in time for mine appointment there. Then I’ll return here for another look at another Adept. One way or another, I will settle my accounts in both frames. Only then will I be in a position to make a proper decision about residence.”
“I will spell thee through,” Kurrelgyre said. “In fact, rather than send thee pointlessly into new danger, I will investigate the Yellow Adept myself, and return with news. I think I can now recognize thy likeness, if I encounter it.”
“There is no call for thee to risk thyself on my account!” Stile protested.
“There is no call for me to impose my presence when the mare wishes to converse with thee alone.” And the man merged into the wolf, who bounded away to the north.
“Damn it, if I start sending others on my foolish quests, where will it end?” Stile demanded. “I’ve got to follow him, stop him—“
But the wolf was already beyond reach, traveling with the easy velocity of his kind. Probably Neysa could catch him, but only with difficulty. Stile knew Kurrelgyre thought he was doing Stile a favor, preserving him from risk, giving him time alone with Neysa—but this was not the sort of favor Stile cared to accept. It was not, he told himself, that Sheen had artfully depleted his sexual initiative immediately before sending him across the curtain. There was the principle of responsibility for one’s own actions.
The unicorn caught his mood. She started moving north. “Thanks, Neysa,” he said. “I knew thou wouldst understand.” Then, as an afterthought: “How art thou getting along with the wolf?”
She blew a noncommittal note. “Glad to hear it,” Stile said. He reached down around her neck and hugged her again.
Neysa quickened her gait into a gallop. “I don’t know what finer life I could have than galloping across the wilderness with you,” Stile said. “The only thing I miss—“
She made a musical inquiry. “Well, that’s it,” he said. “I like music. But since we found that music connects with my magic, I don’t dare play.”
This time her note was comprehensible. “Play!”
“But then the magic gathers,” he protested. “I have no wish to abbreviate mine oath. I played a little when I was alone in the Black Castle, but I am not alone now, and I do not want thee angry with me.”
“Play,” she repeated emphatically.
“Very well. No spells, just music.” He brought out his harmonica and improvised a melody to the beat of her hooves. She played a harmony on her horn. The duet was lovely. The magic gathered, pacing them, but now that he understood it he was not alarmed. It was merely a potential, until he implemented it—which he would not do.
He played for an hour, developing his proficiency with the instrument. He was getting into the feel of the harmonica, and playing about as well as ever in his life. This was a unique joy!
Neysa lifted her head, sniffing the wind. She seemed disturbed.
“What is it?” Stile inquired, putting away his harmonica.
The unicorn shook her head, unsure. She slowed to a walk, turning this way and that as if casting for something. Then she oriented on whatever it was, and resumed her northward trek. But there was something disquieting about her motion; her gait seemed unnatural.
“Art thou all right?” Stile inquired, concerned.
Neysa did not respond, so he brought out his harmonica again and played. But she immediately blew a harsh note of negation. He desisted, concealing his hurt feelings.
Stile thought she would relax after a short while, but she did not. Instead her gait became more mechanical, quite unlike her normal mode.
“Neysa, I inquire again: art thou all right?”
She ignored him. She seemed to be in a trance.
Alarmed, Stile tugged sharply on her mane. “Something is wrong. I must insist—“
She threw down her head and bucked. The action was untelegraphed, but Stile was too experienced a rider to be caught. He stayed in place, then slid to the ground when she resumed her odd walk. “Neysa, something evidently compels thee. I don’t know what it is—but since we are approaching the locale of the Yellow Adept, I suspect it relates. For some reason the compulsion does not affect me. Give me thy socks, and I will walk with thee in disguise.”
She halted, swishing her tail in annoyance, and let him remove the white socks from her rear feet. Then she marched on.
Stile donned the socks and walked beside her, imitating her walk. If something were summoning unicorns, he wanted to resemble such a captive as closely as possible—until he understood the situation better. The wolfsbane he had sniffed still buoyed his strength; he was ready for anything, and felt no trace of the prior ravages of hunger and thirst. If Neysa had fallen into some spell cast by the Yellow Adept—