Split Infinity

She was still there, facing the speaking tube, evidently unable to make up her mind what to say to it.  Kurrelgyre growled when he saw her, shifting instantly into his lupine mode. Neysa, hearing him, whirled, her horn orienting unwaveringly on the new-formed wolf.

“Stop!” Stile cried, realizing that violence was in the offing. “There is no—“

The wolf sprang. Neysa lunged. Stile threw himself between them.

All three came to a halt in a momentary tableau. The tip of Neysa’s horn was nudging Stile’s chest; the wolf’s teeth were set against his right arm, near the shoulder.  Trickles of blood were forming on Stile’s chest and arm where point and fang penetrated.

“Now will you both change into human form and apologize to the Oracle for this accident?” Stile said.

There was a pause. Then both creatures shimmered and changed. Stile found himself standing between a handsome young man and a pretty girl. He was shirtless, with rivulets of blood on him; he had forgotten to put his shirt back on after splashing in the fountain pool.

He extricated himself. “I gather unicorns and were-wolves are hereditary enemies,” he said. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know. But this is no place for, uh, friendly competition. Now shake hands, or sniff tails, or what-ever creatures do here to make up.”

Neysa’s eyes fairly shot fire, and Kurrelgyre scowled.  But both glanced at the Oracle tube, then at Stile’s bloodied spots, then at each other. And paused again.

Stile perceived, as if through their eyes, what each saw. The werewolf’s clothing had reappeared with the man, and it was a tasteful fur-lined jacket and leggings, complimenting his somewhat rough-hewn aspect. Neysa was in a light black dress that set off her pert figure admirably; it seemed she wore clothing when she chose, though at night she had not bothered. She was now the kind of girl to turn any man’s head—and Kurrelgyre’s head was turning.

“It is a place of truce,” the werewolf said at last. “I regret my instinct overcame my manners.”

“I, too,” Neysa agreed softly.

“I abhor the fact that I have drawn the blood of an innocent.”

“I, too.”

“Do thou draw my blood. Stile, in recompense.”

Kurrelgyre held out his arm. Neysa did the same.

“I shall not!” Stile said. “If you—if thou—the two of you—“

The werewolf smiled fleetingly. “Thou wert correct the first time, friend. It is the plural.”

“If you two feel you owe me aught, expiate it by making up to each other. I hate to be the cause of dissent between good creatures.”

“The penalty of blood need not be onerous,” Kurrel-gyre murmured. He made a courtly bow to Neysa.  “Thou art astonishingly lovely, equine.”

Neysa responded with a curtsey that showed more decolletage and leg than was strictly necessary. Oh, the tricks that could be played with clothing! No wonder the Citizens of Proton reserved clothing to themselves.  “Thank thee, lupine.”

Then, cautiously, Neysa extended her hand. Instead of shaking it, Kurrelgyre lifted it slightly, bringing it to his face. For a moment Stile was afraid the werewolf meant to bite it, but instead he kissed her fingers.

Stile, relieved, stepped forward and took an arm of each. “Let’s walk together, now that we’re all friends.

We have much in common, being all outcasts of one kind or another. Neysa was excluded from the herd because of her color—“

“What is wrong with her color?” the werewolf asked, perplexed.

“Nothing,” Stile said as they walked. He spied his shirt by the fountain, and moved them all toward it. “Some unicorns have distorted values.”

Kurrelgyre glanced sidelong past Stile at the girl. “I should say so!  I always suspected that Herd Stallion had banged his horn into one rock too many, and this confirms it. My taste does not run to unicorns, under-stand, but the precepts of physical beauty are universal.  She is extremely well formed. Were she a were-bitch—“

“And I am outcast because I refused to—to perform a service for my employer,” Stile continued. “Or to honor an illegal deal proffered by another Citizen.” He washed his small wounds off with water from the pool, and donned his shirt. “What, if I may inquire, was thy problem, werewolf?”

“Among my kind, where game is scarce, when the size of the pack increases beyond the capacity of the range to support, the oldest must be eliminated first.  My sire is among the eldest, a former leader of the pack, so it fell to me to kill him and assume the leader-ship. Indeed, there is no wolf in my pack I could not slay in fair combat. But I love my sire, long the finest of wolves, and could not do it. Therefore mine own place in the pack was forfeit, with shame.”

“Thou wert excluded for thy conscience!” Stile ex-claimed.

“There is no conscience beyond the good of the pack,” the werewolf growled.

“Yes,” Neysa breathed sadly.

They came to a hedged-in park, with a fine rock garden in the center. Neysa and Kurrelgyre sat down on stones nearer to each other than might have seemed seemly for natural enemies.