Blue Adept (18 page)

“Not metal, precisely, but mineral. Thou mayst know of it as Protonite.”

“Protonite!” Stile exclaimed. “The energy-mineral? I thought that existed only in Proton-frame.”

“It exists here too, but in another aspect, as do all things. Wert thou not aware that Phazite be the fundamental repository of magic here? In Proton-frame it yields physical energy in abundance; in Phaze-frame it yields magic. Every act of magic exhausts some of that power—but the stores of it are so great and full Adepts so few that it will endure yet for millennia.”

“But in Proton they are mining it, exporting it at a horrendous rate!”

“They are foolish, there. They will exhaust in decades what would otherwise have served them a hundred times as long. It should be conserved for this world.” So Phaze was likely to endure a good deal longer than Proton, Stile realized. That made Phaze an even better place to be. But why, then, was there this premonition of the Foreordained, and of the end of Phaze? Stile could appreciate why Pyreforge was disturbed; there were indeed hints of something seriously amiss.

What would happen when Proton ran out of Protonite?
 
Would Citizens start crossing the curtain to raid the sup-plies of Phazite? If so, terrible trouble was ahead, for Citizens would let nothing inhibit them from gratification of their desires. Only the abolition of the curtain would pre-vent them from ravishing Phaze as they had ravished Proton. Yet how could a natural yet intangible artifact like the curtain be removed?

Now the Flute was assembled and complete. It was the most beautiful instrument Stile had ever seen. He lifted it slowly to his mouth. “May I?” he asked.
 
“Do the best thou canst with it,” the elf said tightly.
 
“Never have we heard its sound; we can not play it. Only a mortal can do that.”

Stile applied his lips, set his fingers, and blew experimentally.

A pure, liquid, ineffably sweet note poured out. It sounded across the landscape, transfixing all the spectators.
 
Elder and elves alike stood raptly, and Neysa perked her ears forward; the Lady Blue seemed transcendentally fair, as if a sanguine breeze caressed her. There was a special flute-quality to the note, of course—but more than that, for this was no ordinary flute. The note was ecstatic in its force and clarity and color—the quintessence of sound.
 
Then Stile moved into an impromptu melody. The instrument responded like a living extension of himself, seeming to possess nerves of its own. It was impossible to miskey such a flute; it was too perfect. And it came to him, in a minor revelation, that this must be the way it was to be a unicorn, with a living, musical horn. No wonder those creatures played so readily and well!

Now the Mound Folk danced. Their sullenness vanished, compelled away by the music, and their feet became light.
 
They formed their ranks on the ground, not in the air, and kept their motions on a single plane, but they were abandoned in their sheer joy of motion. The elves scintillated as they turned, and their damsels glowed. They spun into convoluted patterns that nevertheless possessed the beauty of organization. They flung out and in; they kicked their feet in unison; the elves swung the maids and the maids swung the elves; they threaded their way through each other in a tapestry of ever-increasing intricacy. There were no tosses or acrobatic swings, merely synchronized patterns that coalesced into an artistic whole. Over and through it all passed the grandeur of the music of the Flute, fashioning from disparate elements an almost divine unity. It was not Stile’s skill so much as the talent bequeathed by the 1 perfect instrument; he could not shame it by delivering less than his ultimate.

Stile saw that the fog was lifting and thinning, as if dissipated by the music. The clouds roiled and struggled to free themselves of their confinement. He brought the recital to a close, and the dancing came to a neat halt as if it had been planned exactly this way. Again the Mound Folk stood still, but now they were smiling. Even the guards who had greeted Stile so inhospitably had relaxed their resentment.

“That was the loveliest music I ever did hear,” the Elder said. “It made our finest dance. Thou hast rare talent. Yet did the mountain not shake.”

“It did not shake,” Stile agreed, relieved.

“Thou art not the Foreordained.”

“Never did I claim to be.”

“Still, thou canst play marvelously well. If the Oracle decrees that the Flute be loaned to thee, it may be that we are constrained to oblige.”

“This I would appreciate,” Stile said, taking apart the instrument and returning it carefully to its case. “If thou dost trust me with it.”

But now the circled Mound Folk frowned and muttered.
 
The roil of the clouds had stilled when the music stopped, but the disturbance seemed to have passed into the elves.
 
“Nay, my people will not so lightly tolerate that. Perhaps if we borrowed thy service in exchange—“ The muttering subsided.

“I am willing to do what service I may,” Stile said. “But I can not remain here long. I have commitments elsewhere. I will need the Flute for a number of days, until the Unolympic.”

The muttering began again. “Desist this noise!” the Elder cried at the elves, annoyed. “We shall fashion a fair bargain or not part with the Flute.” He accepted the Flute-case from Stile; in this judgment, at least, he had not been mistaken. Stile had neither abused the Flute nor sought to retain it without permission. “Now get under cover before the cloud breaks!” There was little danger of that now, but the Mound Folk hurried away. Stile and the Lady returned inside the nearest mound with the Elder, while Neysa and Hinblue returned to their grazing.

“It could be said,” Pyreforge said after reflection, “that thou dost borrow the Flute only to bring it to the one for whom it is intended. The Foreordained.”

“But I do not know the Foreordained!”

“Then shalt thou quest for him.”

Stile understood the nature of the offer. Such a quest could take as long as he needed for the Flute. Yet it would have to be a true mission. “How could I know him?”

“He would play the Flute better than thee.”

“There may be many who can do that.”

“I think not. But thou wouldst send him to us, as we can not fare forth to seek him, and we would know by the tenor of the mountain his identity. If he played well, but was not the Foreordained, we at least would have the Flute back.”

“This seems less than certain. I think, at least for the acquiescence of thy people, I need to earn this borrowing.
 
Thou didst mention two tasks, the lesser of which no man might perform. Yet I am Adept.”

“Canst thou wield a broadsword?”

“I can,” Stile replied, surprised.

“This task bears the threat of ugly death to any but the most skilled and persistent swordsman.”

“I have faced such threats before. I would feel more secure from them with the Flute in my hands and a broad-sword ready.”

“Assuredly. Then listen. Adept. There is beneath our Mound Demesnes and below our platinum mine, deep in a cave hewn from out of the Phazite bedrock, one of the Worms of the fundament, ancient and strong and savage and fiery.”

“A dragon!” Stile exclaimed.

“Even so. But not one of the ordinary reptiles of the southern marches beyond these mountains. This monster has slowly tunneled through the mountain range during all the time we have mined here. Now we have come within awareness of each other. The Worm be centuries old, and its teeth are worn and its heat diminished so that it can no longer consume rock as readily as in bygone centuries, yet it is beyond our means to thwart. It requires from us tribute—“

“Human sacrifice!” Stile exclaimed, remembering the threat the elves had made concerning the Lady Blue.
 

“Even so. We like this not, yet if we fail to deliver on schedule, the Worm will exert itself and undermine our foundations and melt our platinum ore and we shall be finished as smiths. We are smithy elves, highly specialized; it took us a long time to work up to platinum and become proficient with it. We can not go back to mere gold, even if other tribes had not already filled in that specialty. We must maintain our present level, or become as nothing. My people would sooner go out in sunlight.”

“So thou dost need that dragon eliminated,” Stile concluded.

“For that I believe my people would abate their disquietous murmurings about the loan of the Flute.”

“Even so,” Stile said warily. “This is a large dragon?”

“Enormous.”

“Breathes fire?”

“Twenty-foot jets from each nostril.”

“Armored?”

“Stainless steel overlapping scales. Five-inch claws. Six-inch teeth. Lightning bolts from eyes.”

“Temperament?”

“Aggressive.”

“Resistive to magic?”

“Extremely. The Worm beds in Phazite, so has developed a considerable immunity.”

“I wonder what it was like in its prime?” Stile mused.
 

“No matter. In its prime it needed not the tribute of our kind.”

“But if the Platinum Flute were employed—“

“The magic of the Flute be stronger than the anti-magic of the Worm.”

“Then it is possible that an Adept carrying the Flute could dispatch the creature.”

“Possible. But hardly probable. The Worm cannot be abolished by magic alone.”

“Well, I’d be willing to make the attempt.”

 
“Nayl” the Lady Blue cried. “Few dragons hast thou encountered; thou knowest not their nature. Accept not this perilous mission!”

“I would not borrow a thing of value without giving service in return,” Stile said. “But if I could borrow the Flute to brace the Worm, thereafter I would feel justified in borrowing it for one task of mine own. There might be other uses I could make of it besides matching a unicorn stallion, until I locate the one for whom the Flute be intended.”

“Thou meanest to brace the Worm?” the Elder asked.
 

“At least to make the attempt. If I fail to dispatch it, I will return the Flute immediately to thee, if I remain able to do so.”

“Nay!” the Lady cried again. “This is too high a price to risk, for the mere postponement of the breeding of one mare. She is mine oath-friend, yet—“

“For that trifle thou dost this?” the Elder demanded, abruptly suspicious. “Thou dost risk thy life against the Worm, and thy pride against the Stallion, for ... ?”

“She is a very special mare, also mine oath-friend,” Stile said stiffly, not wanting to admit that things had pyramided somewhat.

“I fear my people will not support this,” the Elder said.
 
“They will fear thou wouldst borrow the Flute merely to abscond with it, facing no Worm. Who would stop thee, armed with it?”

Both Stile and the Lady reacted with anger. “My Lord Blue does not cheat!” she flared. “I thought we had already made proof of this. Again will I stand hostage to that.”

“Nay,” Stile said, touched by her loyalty, though he knew it was the honor of the Blue Demesnes she was protecting rather than himself. “Thou’rt no hostage.”

The Elder’s canny gaze passed from one to another.
 
“Yet perhaps this would do, this time. Let the Lady be my guest, here, for a few hours; do we care if others assume she be security for this loan of the Flute? Methinks no man would leave his love to be sacrificed to a dragon. If the Worm be slain, thy mettle is proved, and the loan is good.”

“The Lady is not my—“ Stile started, then reconsidered.

It was a matter he preferred not to discuss here. Also, he would be operating on an extremely tenuous footing if he denied his love for her. He would not permit her to be fed to the dragon, whatever her feeling for him.
 

“Others be not aware of that,” the Elder said, delicately skirting the issue. “Few know that the Lord of the Blue Demesnes has changed. Let her remain with me, and none of my people will hold thy motive in suspicion. She will not be ill-treated.” He glanced at the Lady. “Dost thou perchance play chess?”

“Perchance,” she agreed, smiling.

Stile realized that the Elder had proffered a viable compromise. It was a way to suppress the objections of the Mound Folk, without really threatening the Lady. Certainly Stile was not about to take her with him to meet the dragon!

“Do thou keep the harmonica during mine absence,” Stile said to the Lady, handing her the instrument. “This time I must use the Flute.”

“I like this not,” she said grimly. But she took the harmonica. If Stile did not return, she would at least retain this memento of her husband.

Pyreforge, meanwhile, was setting up the chessmen.
 
Stile carried the Flute with him into the depth of the crevice. Now he knew the origin of the hot wind and demonic odor from this crevasse. The Worm lurked below!
 
He had never fought a real dragon before, as the Lady had mentioned, and was not entirely sanguine about this one. The closest approach to a dragon he had made was the one in the Black Demesnes, actually formed from a line, and when balked it had unraveled literally into its component string. The Worm surely would not do that!
 
Adept-quality magic should prevail—but still, if anything went wrong—