Split Infinity

They left the palace together. Stile riding Neysa, the wolf ranging easily beside. They bore west again, toward the castle of the Black Adept. Now that the decision was made. Stile had second thoughts about purpose and safety. Was he really doing the right thing?  All he could do now was see it through, and after checking out the Black Adept he could decide whether it was worth checking out others. This was hardly his idea of sword and sorcery adventure—which was per-haps just as well. He suspected that in real life, more evil magicians prevailed than barbarian heroes.

Neysa had located a supply of grain, and had some in a bag tied to the saddle; she would not have to make long halts for grazing. Traveling at speed, they made excellent progress, covering fifty of this frame’s miles in about two and a half hours. Stile had done some en-durance riding on Proton, and knew it would take an excellent horse to maintain even half this pace.

Thereafter, the way became bleak. The turf thinned, remaining verdant only in scattered oases. Stile realized that with a spell he might procure fresh water and extra food, but did not offer. They did not want magic, and the very notion was contrary to the spirit of his oath.

The mountains and valleys gave way to a broad and featureless dark plain that extended to the horizon, op-pressed by what seemed to be a permanently looming cloud. Gusts of cutting wind brought choking clouds of dust into their faces. Stile coughed. If this environment reflected the temperament of the Black Adept, the magician was vile indeed! But it was probably a misapprehension. Stile had friends and un-friends, but there were few people he considered to be as evil as his friends seemed to think Adepts were. It was said that familiarity bred contempt, but surely ignorance bred error.

At last, amid the gloom, a black castle showed. It stood in stark silhouette, no light illuminating it from within. The land about it was so bleak as to seem scorched. Had Stile not known the identity of its occupant, thanks to Kurrelgyre’s nose, he might readily have guessed. Everything was dead black.

As they neared it. Stile suffered intensifying pangs of doubt. Was his curiosity worth the risk of bracing this person? He was running the risk of whatever sorcery the Black Adept had in mind—for what? Just to know who he was, in this frame.

No—it was more than that, he reminded himself.  Another Adept was trying to kill him, and until Stile knew his own identity, he probably would not know who was trying to kill him, or why. The Oracle agreed;

it had told him to know himself. Curiosity alone might not be worth it, but life, security—yes, that was worth it.

What should he do, though, if the lives of his friends were threatened on his behalf? Would he use his magic, then, to help them? No—he could not. His oath had been made, and Stile had never in his life broken his given word. Neysa had to give him leave, and now he knew she would not. Because she believed that to re-lease him would be to turn him into the monster that an Adept would be, and she would rather die. He had better see to their mutual health by mundane means, staying alert.

Yet there was no call to be foolish. “Neysa,” he murmured. “Is there any way to approach this castle secretly and depart in the same fashion? I don’t need to brace the magician directly; I think one look at him will tell me whether he is alive or dead, or whether he re sembles me. If we check, and the Black Adept is alive —not only is he not me, he is likely to do something horrible to me. And to thee, I fear.”

Kurrelgyre growled assent in an I-told-thee-so tone.  The two of them expected this to be such a bad experience that Stile would no longer question the validity of their hatred of Adepts. Increasingly, Stile was being convinced.

Neysa halted. She nicked her nose, indicating that he should dismount. Stile did so. Then she reached back as she lifted one hind foot. She put her teeth to it, as if chewing an itch—and the white sock came off.

Stile stared. The term “sock” was descriptive, not literal; it was merely a patch of white hair about the foot. Yet she still held the white sock in her mouth, and her foot had turned black.

She nudged the sock at him, then went for the other hind foot. Soon Stile held a pair of white socks, one larger than the other. Neysa nudged him again.

“But I can’t wear these,” he protested. “These are your socks. Thy socks.”

Neysa nosed him impatiently again. Stile shrugged and tried donning a unicorn-sock over his boot. It was hoof-shaped at the extremity, yet it fit admirably: more unicorn magic, of course. In a moment he stood hand-somely garbed in unicorn socks.

But the white color extended beyond the socks, now.

His feet looked like hooves, his legs like hair. His arms—where were his arms?

Kurrelgyre growled appreciatively, seeming to think Stile’s appearance had improved.