Split Infinity

“Yes. When thou didst not break thine oath to save thyself from the Black Demesnes, I knew thy word was constant. I expect no different of thee here in the Yellow Demesnes. But now it is not thy life at stake, but Neysa’s. The witch will sell her to another Adept—“

“Why don’t Adepts conjure their own creatures, in-stead of buying them?”

“Because some spells are more complex than others. An Adept may conjure a dozen monsters via a single summoning spell with less effort than a single one by creation. So they store captive creatures in cells, and prepare spells to bring them upon need—“

“I get the picture. To be an Adept is to maintain dungeons where others languish—and the Yellow Adept caters to this need by trapping the necessary animals. I dare say she traps wild fowl and sells the eggs to the Black Adept, too; he has to get his food from somewhere. Maybe he pays her off by making strong cages from black line-bars, that she paints yellow. How does she summon the hapless victims? Neysa seemed to go into a trance.”

“Yellow’s magic is exerted through potions, I now have learned. She boils a cauldron whose vapors mesmerize animals, bringing them here to be caged. She could summon men similarly, but does not, lest men unite against her and destroy her. Had I been in my man-form, or Neysa in her girl-form—“

“Yes.” Stile moved across to Neysa. “Wilt thou release me from mine oath, that I may cast a spell to free thee? I fear thy fate at the hands of the witch.”

Neysa, dulled by the summoning potion, was not dull enough to forget her antipathy to Adept-class magic.  She shook her head no. She would not condone such sorcery to free herself.

“Say,” Stile said, trying again. “Thou canst also change into a firefly, and these bars would not hold—“

But Neysa’s eyes were half lidded and her head hung low. The effort of will that such transformation required was beyond her present capacity.

“Or if thou couldst assume thy human form, the potion would not affect thee—“

There was a growl from another cage. Kurrelgyre looked up nervously. “Hark! The witch comes!”

Stile jumped to the werewolfs cage, on inspiration drawing off his socks. “Don these!” he whispered, shoving them through Kurrelgyre’s cage bars. “And this.” He put the sword through, with its harness. “She will assume—“

“Right.” In a moment the white unicorn image formed. The sword was concealed by the illusion.

“Remember: thou darest not eat nor drink aught she offers thee, for her potions—“

“Uh-oh! Did Neysa drink?”

But the Yellow Adept appeared before the werewolf could answer. Still, Stile hardly needed it. Neysa, like most equines, drank deeply when she had opportunity, and could have done so automatically while still under the influence of the summoning vapor. That would explain why she hadn’t made any real effort to save herself. That also explained why the smarter animals here refused to eat.  Kurrelgyre had avoided this trap, and was alert. But the situation of all these animals remained bleak, for evidently none of them had the strength to break out of the strong cages. Eventually they would have either to eat or to starve. Not a plea-ant choice; Stile’s memory of his confinement in the Black Castle remained fresh.

Stile was not idle during these realizations; he ducked behind the werewolfs cage, trying to hide. He knew it was foolish of him to hesitate about dealing with the witch; obviously she had little to recommend her, and would happily wipe him out. But he could not murder a human being heartlessly. Just as he was bound by an oath of no magic, he was bound by civilized restraints. Demons and monsters he could slay, not people.

“Eeeek!” Yellow cried, pronouncing the word exactly as it was spelled. “The cage is empty! The valuable white ‘corn stallion!” But then she inspected the situation more carefully. “No, the stallion remains. It is the wolf who is gone. I could have sworn his cage was—“ She glared across the compound. “Darlin’ Corey!” she screamed. “Didst thou move the cages about?”

Stile watched the pink elephant. The creature had seen what happened; which side was it on? If it told the truth—

The elephant waddled past the cages toward the witch. Suddenly it flung its trunk to the side, catching Stile by the nape of his shirt and hauling him into view.  It trumpeted.

“Well, now, dearest!” the crone cried, scratching idly at a wart on her nose. “So it was a werewolf! Changed to its man-form and squeezed out of its cage.”

The elephant squealed, trying to correct her misimpression.

“Oh shut up, Darlin’ Corey,” she snapped. “What shall we do with the werewolf? I don’t have a cage small enough at the moment. He’s pretty shrimpy.” She peered at Stile more closely, as he hung in midair. “But healthy and handsome enough, my lovely. Maybe he would do for my daughter. Hold him there a moment, my tasty; I will send the wench out.”