Blue Adept (50 page)

Yet there had seemed to be developing purpose in his life, however it had been shaped. The way his need to meet the Herd Stallion had brought him and the Lady Blue to the Little Folk, and he had acquired the Platinum Flute, lost to the Stallion anyway, and delivered the Flute to Clef.
 
Maybe all coincidence, but if Clef was indeed the Fore-ordained, then it all had meaning. Stile had been a vital part of that chain—

A part that had ended with the relaying of the Flute.
 
Stile could have become surplus thereafter, no longer needed in the chain. An actor whose part had terminated.
 
So Purpose was no answer. He was on his own. And in trouble. What use to survive this Dance, if his loss of the Game meant only that Red would have him assassinated shortly after he sired a son for the Lady Blue?
 
At last the dance led Prince Kamar to Princess Budur.
 
He had traversed the civilized world, taking many months, to locate her. It was to be an ecstatic reunion, as the lovers joined after a quest that had often seemed hopeless. Stile abhored the notion, but forced himself to carry on. Whatever he might wish, this was evidently not to be the occasion for his destruction of Red.

There were of course various definitions of destruction.
 
Perhaps Red was destined to win the Tourney, become a Citizen, and destroy herself in riotous living. Yet that would not be Stile’s agency. Why would the Oracle warn her that Blue would destroy Red, if Blue was merely one hurdle among many to be overcome? The whole thing now suggested a misinterpretation of the Oracle’s meaning.
 
Where did that leave him?

With his oath of vengeance. It didn’t matter what the Oracle predicted. Stile would make an end of Red, one way or another, and he would not return to love the Lady Blue until he did. If he could not accomplish this through the Game, it would have to be some other way. But it would be. Because he had sworn. Right now he would play this Round out as well as he could, taking his loss with the same dignity he had taken his wins.

Yet as the dance drew to its close. Stile’s case looked hopeless. He was so far behind on points that only a figurative knockout punch could salvage a win—and this was no boxing match. How much he would have preferred that boxing match! Red was proceeding smoothly to a victory that wasn’t even close.

Then Stile had an idea. Perhaps he could after all score a knockout! It would require discipline and courage that strained the limits of his ability, and there was no guarantee he could make it work. But from what he had learned of Red’s nature, it was a chance. Stile nerved himself for it.

“And now at last the lovers are rejoined,” the Narrator said. “They rush together. Kamar takes Budur in his arms—“ Stile had the wit to stand on the raised back portion of the stage, so that his height almost matched Red’s. Now he concentrated, throwing himself into a half-trance. Pretend she is the Lady Blue, he told himself. The woman you love.

“Their expression of joy and love knows no bounds,” the Narrator continued. This was the finale.
 
The Lady Blue. And, almost, he made himself believe.
 
As they went into the concluding Dance of Rapture, Stile threw himself into the full feeling of it, conveying to audience, panel and Red herself the power of his passion. He was ready to act out the full spirit of this reunion, to love her in the dance exactly as Prince Kamar loved Princess Budur. Internal rebellion seethed in him, but he suppressed it savagely. He could destroy his enemy only by loving her.

And she—had to go along with it. How could a Princess, Moon of Moons, reunited with her lost love after extended and agonized separation, do other than accede to his natural desire? Stile had seized the lead—and what a lead it was!

Now the audience caught on. “Do it!” someone whispered audibly, and the Computer did not react. Because this was a legitimate conclusion of this script. What was a dance, except the rationalization and dramatization of human passion?

Red was not slow to catch on. Seeing herself trapped in this interpretation, anathema to her, she broke. Instead of kissing him, she bit him. Blood flowed from his lip. Instead of accepting his embrace, she struck him with fist and elbow.

The members of the judging panel began to react. Some violence was permissible in lovemaking; was this merely an interpretation?

“Beloved!” Stile whispered to her.

Red’s face transformed to the semblance of a demon.
 
She caught Stile’s head in her hands and shoved it hard against the wall. Stile’s consciousness exploded in sparkles, but he offered no resistance. Furious, she threw him to the floor. He feared a back injury, but he lay there. She started throttling him, so angry that tears were flowing from her eyes. “I’ll kill thee! I’ll kill thee!” she raged. “Thou dost dare love me! Death be the penalty!”

She was a creature of hate, and deserved her fate. Yet even as her maniacal fury lashed him. Stile felt regret, knowing that she, like himself, was a victim of circumstance, of fate. Some unknown party had set them both up for this cruel denouement.

As Stile sank into unconsciousness, he felt the stasis field take hold, and knew that he had won. His difficult, desperate ploy had been effective against the man-hater. Even for victory in the Tourney, even for Citizenship, even for life itself, she could not bring herself to submit to this ultimate humiliation—to be loved, even in pretense, by a man. Red had disqualified herself.