Blue Adept (17 page)

“We do work platinum,” the elf agreed. “But we do no favors for outsiders. Thou art now our prisoner, and thy human companion.” He gestured with his shining sword.
 
“Now proceed into the mound, the two of you. Thine animals will join our herds outside.”

Neysa turned on the arrogant elf, but Stile laid a cautioning hand on her back. “We came to petition; we must yield to them,” he murmured. “If they treat us ill, thou canst then act as thou seest fit. An thou dost find me fettered, free me to play my music.”

Neysa made an almost imperceptible nod with her horn.
 
Once Stile had access to his music, he could bring his powers of magic into play, and would then be able to handle himself. So the risk was less than it seemed. He and the Lady suffered themselves to be herded into the mound.
 
Inside it was gloomy, with only wan light filtering in through refractive vents. Several other armed elves were there, garbed like the first. Their leader stepped up and appraised Stile and the Lady as if they were newly purchased animals. He sniffed as he approached Stile. “This one be Elven,” he pronounced. “But the woman is human.
 
Him we shall spare to labor at our forges; her we shall use as tribute to the beast.”

“Is this the way thy kind welcomes those who come peaceably to deal with thee?” Stile asked. There was no way he would permit the Lady Blue to be abused.
 

“Silence, captive!” the elf cried, striking at Stile’s face with a backhand swing of his arm.

The blow, of course, never landed. Stile ducked away from it and caught the elf’s arm in a punishing submission hold. “I can not imagine the elders of thy kind being thus inhospitable,” he said mildly. “I suggest that thou dost summon them now.”

“No need,” a new voice said. It was a frail, long-bearded old elf, whose face and hands were black and wrinkled.
 
“Guards, begone! I will deal with this matter myself.” Stile let go his captive, and the young elves faded into the crevices and crannies of the chamber. The oldster faced Stile.

“I am Pyreforge, chief of the tribe of Platinum Mound Folk of the Dark Elves. I apologize for the inhospitability shown thee by our impetuous young. It is thy size they resent, for they take thee to be a giant of our kind.”

“A giant!” Stile exclaimed, amused. “I’m four feet eleven inches tall!”

“And I am four feet five inches tall,” Pyreforge said. “It is the odor of thy potion that deceives us, as well as thy size. To what do we owe this visit by the Lady and Blue Adept?”

Stile smiled ruefully. “I had thought not to be so obvious.”

“Thou art not. I was delayed researching my references for thy description. I pored all through the Elven species in vain. It was the unicorn that at last betrayed thee, though we thought Blue recently deceased.”

“Neysa would never—“

The old elf held up a withered hand. “I queried the ‘corn not. But no man save one rides the unicorn, or travels with the fairest of human ladies. That be the imposter Blue Adept—who I think will not be considered imposter long.”

Stile relaxed. “Oh. Of course. Those must be comprehensive references thou hast.”

“Indeed. Yet they are oft tantalizingly incomplete. Be it true that thou didst come recently on the scene in the guise of thy murdered self, and when the unicorns and were-wolves challenged thee performed two acts of magic, the first of which was inconsequential and the second enchantment like none known before, that established thee as the most powerful magician of the frame despite being a novice?”

“It may be true,” Stile agreed, taken aback. He had rather underestimated his magical strength on that occasion! Probably it had been the strength of his feeling that had done it, rather than any special aptness at magic.
 
Then, perceiving that the Elder was genuinely curious, he amplified: “I am of Proton-frame, come to take up the mantle of my Phaze-self and set to right the wrong of his murder. When the unicorn Herd Stallion challenged me to show my magic, I made a spell to wall him in. When my unicorn steed yielded her ambition on my behalf, I made an oath of friendship to her. It had a broader compass than I expected.”

The Elder nodded. “Ah. And the ‘corns and ‘wolves have not warred since. Thou art indeed Adept.” “Yet not omnipotent. Now must I need meet the Herd Stallion again, at the Unolympics, and I am not his match without magic. The Oracle sent me to borrow the Platinum Flute.”

“Ah, now it comes clear. That would of course avail thee.” Yet the elf seemed cold.

 
“That I am glad to hear,” Stile said. “I have heard it said that music has charm to soothe the savage breast, but whether it soothe the breast of a beast—“

The Elder frowned. “Yet it is forbidden for us to yield this instrument, however briefly, to a human person, and doubly forbidden to lend it to an Adept. Knowest thou not its power?”

Stile shook his head. “I know only what the Oracle advised.”

“No need for mystery. The wielder of the Flute is immune from the negation of magic. There are other qualities about it, but that is the primary one.” Stile thought about that. For an ordinary person, the Flute would provide little advantage. But for a magic creature, such as a werewolf, it would protect his ability to shape-change, and that could on occasion be a matter of life and death. For an Adept—

With the Flute in his possession. Stile could draw on his full powers of magic, even within the magic-negating circle of unicorns. The Herd Stallion would not be able to stand against him. The Oracle had spoken truly; this was the instrument he needed.

But at the same time, he could understand why the Mound Folk did not want him to have it. The existence of various magic-nullifiers prevented the Adepts from being overwhelmingly powerful. If an Adept obtained possession of the Platinum Flute, there would be no effective limit to his will.

“I appreciate thy concern,” Stile said. “In fact, I agree with it. The likes of me should not possess the likes of this.”

The Lady Blue’s head turned toward him questioningly.

‘Thou dost not abuse thy power.”

“How could the Mound Folk be assured of that?” Stile asked her. “There is corruption in power. And if the Flute were taken from me by another Adept, what then would be the limit?”

“It is good that thou dost understand,” the Elder said.
 
“The Oracle oft does give unuseful advice, accurate though it be. We Elves have great pride in our artifacts, and trade them freely for things of equal value. But the Flute is special; it required many years labor by our finest artisans, and is our most precious and potent device. It has no equal value. No other tribe has its match; not the goldsmiths or the silversmiths or the ironsmiths or the woodsmiths or bonesmiths. We alone work the lord of metals; we alone control the platinum mine and have the craftsmen and the magic to shape it into usable form. Thou art not asking for a trifle. Adept.”

“Yes,” Stile agreed. “Yet is the Oracle wont to provide advice that can in no wise be implemented?”

“Never. I termed it unuseful, in the sense that surely there is some simpler way to achieve thy mission with the Herd Stallion than this. Misinterpretations may abate the worth of an Oracle’s message, but always the essence is there and true. There must be some pattern to this. There-fore must we deal with thee, can we but find the way. Thou knowest that even for the briefest loan we must extract a price.”

“I am prepared to offer fair exchange, though I know not what that might be.”

“There is little we need from thy kind.”

“I do have resources, shouldst thou choose to tolerate the practice of magic in thy Demesnes. Is there anything that requires the talent of an Adept?”

Pyreforge considered gravely. “There be only two things.
 
The lesser is not a task any man can perform, and the greater is unknown even to us. We know only that it must be performed by the finest mortal musician of Phaze.”

“I do not claim to be the finest musician, but I am skilled,” Stile said.

The wizened elf raised a shriveled eyebrow. “Skilled enough to play the Flute?”

“I am conversant with the flute as an instrument. I should be able to play the Platinum Flute unless there be a geas against it.”

The Elder considered again. He was obviously ill at ease.
 
“It is written that he who plays the Flute well enough to make our mountain tremble will be the foreordained savior of Phaze. Dost thou think thou art that one?”

Stile spread his hands. “I doubt it. I was not even aware that Phaze was in jeopardy.”

“The Oracle surely knows, however. If the Time of Decision draws nigh . . .” Pyreforge shook his head dolefully.
 
“I think we must try thee on the Flute, though it grieves me with spreading misgiving.” He glanced at a crevice, where a guard lurked. “How be the light outside?” The guard hurried outside. In a moment he returned.

“Overcast, shrouded by fog. It will not lift this hour.”

“Then may we gather outside. Summon the tribe this instant.”

The guard disappeared again. “This be no casual matter, Adept. The Flute extends its force regardless, protecting the magic of the holder. An thou shouldst betray us, we must die to a man to recover it, killing thee if we can. I think thou canst be trusted, and on that needs must I gamble; my life be forfeit an I be in error.” Stile did not like this either, but he was not sure how to alleviate the elf’s concern.

“Let thy warriors fix their threats on me,” the Lady Blue said. “My Lord will not betray thee.” Pyreforge shook his head. “This be not our way. Lady, despite the ignorance of our commoners. And it would not avail against the typical Adept, who values nothing more than his power.”

“Well I know the justice of thy concern. Yet would I stake my life upon my Lord’s integrity.”

The Elder smiled. “No need. Lady. Already have I staked mine. No lesser hostage preserves the peace in these Demesnes, when an Adept manifests here. I do this only for that the Oracle has cast its impact on us, and my books suggest the ponderosity of the situation. Fate draws the string on every creature, inquiring not what any person’s preference might be.” He returned his attention to Stile.
 
“The Flute’s full power is available only to the one who can master it completely, the one for whom it is destined.
 
We made it, but can not use it; only the Foreordained can exploit it ultimately. When he comes, the end of the present order will be near. This is why we can not give up the Flute to any lesser person.”

“I seek only to borrow it,” Stile reminded him. But this did not look promising. If he were not the Foreordained, they would not let him borrow the Flute; if he were, there was a great deal more riding on this than his encounter with the Herd Stallion!

They walked outside. The cloud-cover had intensified, shrouding all the mountain above their level, leaving only a low-ceilinged layer of visibility, like a huge room. The elves of the tribe had gathered on the knoll, completely surrounding the mound—young and old, women and children too. Most were slender and handsome, and among them the women were phenomenally lovely, but a few were darkened and wrinkled like the Elder. Stile was the cynosure of all their eyes; he saw them measuring him, discomfited by his large stature; he did indeed feel like a giant, and no longer experienced any exhilaration in the sensation. All his life he had privately longed for more height; now he understood that such a thing would not be an unmixed blessing, and perhaps no blessing at all. Hulk had tried to tell him. The problem was not height; it was in being different, in whatever manner.

“We can not bear the direct light of the sun, being Dark Elves,” the Elder said. “Should a sunbeam strike us, we turn instantly to stone. That is why the fog is so important, and why we reside in these oft-shrouded mountains, and seldom go abroad from our mounds by day. Yet like all our kind we like to dance, and at night when it is safe and the moons be bright we come out. I was in my youth careless, and a ray pierced a thin cloud and transfixed me ere I could seek cover; I turned not to stone but became as I am now. It was the wan sun, not mine age, that scorched me.”

“I might heal thee of that,” Stile said. “If thou wishes!
 
A spell of healing—“

“What I might wish is of no account. I must needs live with the consequence of my folly—as must we all.” Now an elf brought, with an air of ceremony, a somber wooden case. “Borrow the Flute for the hour only,” the Elder told Stile. “Ascertain for thyself and for us thy relation to it. The truth be greater than the will of any of us; it must be known.”

Stile took the precious case. Inside, in cushioned splendor, lay the several pieces of gleaming metal tubing. Platinum, yes—a fortune in precious metal, exclusive of its worth as a music instrument, which had to be considerable, and its value as a magic talisman. He lifted out the pieces carefully and assembled it, conscious of its perfect heft and workmanship. The King of Flutes, surely!
 
Meanwhile the Mound Folk watched in sullen silence, and the Elder talked, unable to contain his pride in the instrument. “Our mine be not pure platinum; there is an admixture of gold and indium. That provides character and hardness. We make many tools and weapons and utensils, though few of these are imbued with magic. There is also a trace of Phazite in the Flute, too.”

“Phazite?” Stile inquired, curious. “I am not familiar with that metal.”