Split Infinity

Kurrelgyre yielded. He led his animals through the gate, along the broad front passage, and into the central court. This was similar to one of the courts of the palace of the Oracle, but smaller; it was dominated by a beautiful blue-blossomed jacaranda tree in the center.  Beneath the tree was a deep blue pond fed by a rivulet from a fountain in the shape of a small blue whale that overhung one side. The Blue Adept evidently liked nature in all its forms, especially its blue forms. Stile found his taste similar.

There were several other animals in the yard: a lame jackrabbit, a snake with its tail squished, and a partly melted snow monster. Neysa eyed the last nervously, but the monster was not seeking any trouble with any other creature.

A maidservant entered the yard, wearing a blue print summer dress. “The Lady will be with thee soon,” she said to Kurrelgyre. “Unless thou art in immediate pain?”

“No pressing pain,” the werewolf said. He was evidently as perplexed by all this as Stile was. Where was the foul nature an Adept was supposed to have? If the Blue Adept were dead, where was the grief and ravage?

They might have had to fight their way into the castle; instead it was completely open and serene.

The girl picked up the snake carefully and carried it into the castle proper.

What was this. Stile wondered—an infirmary? Certainly it was a far cry from the Black or Yellow De-esnes, in more than physical distance. Where was the catch?

The girl came for the rabbit. The snake had not reappeared; was it healed—or dead? Why did the animals trust themselves to this castle? Considering the reputation of Adepts, these creatures should have stayed well clear.

Now another woman emerged. She wore a simple gown of blue, with blue slippers and a blue kerchief tying back her fair hair. She was well proportioned but not spectacular in face or figure. She went directly to the snow-monster. “For thee, a freeze-potion,” she said. “A simple matter.” She opened a vial and sprinkled its contents on the monster. Immediately the melt disappeared. “But get thee safely back to thy mountain fastness; the lowlands are not safe for the likes of thee,” she admonished it with a smile that illuminated her face momentarily as if a cloud had passed from the face of the sun. “And seek thee no further quarrels with fire-breathing dragons!” The creature nodded and shuffled out.

Now the woman turned to Kurrelgyre. Stile was glad he was in disguise; that daylight smile had shaken him.  The woman had seemed comely but ordinary until that smile. If there were evil in this creature, it was extraordinarily well hidden.

“We see not many unicorns here, sir,” she said, echoing the sentiment of the guard at the gate. Stile was startled by the appellation, normally applied only to a Citizen of Proton. But this was not Proton. “Which one has the injured knees?”

The werewolf hesitated. Stile knew his problem, and stepped in. The unicorn costume was for sight only; any touch would betray the humanness of the actual body.

 “I am the one with the knees,” he said. “I am a man in unicorn disguise.”

The Lady turned her gaze on him. Her eyes were blue, of course, and very fine, but her mouth turned grim. “We serve not men here, now. Why dost thou practice this deceit?”

“I must see the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “Adepts have not been hospitable to me, ere now. I prefer to be anonymous.”

“Thou soundest strangely familiar—“ She halted.  “Nay, that can not be. Come, I will examine thy knees, but I can promise nothing.”

“I want only to see the Adept,” Stile protested. But she was already kneeling before him, finding his legs through the unicorn illusion. He stood there helplessly, letting her slide her fingers over his boots and socks and up under his trouser legs, finding his calves and then at last his knees. Her touch was delicate and highly pleasant. The warmth of it infused his knees like the field of a microwave therapy machine. But this was no machine; it was wonderfully alive. He had never before experienced such a healing touch.

Stile looked down—and met the Lady’s gaze. And something in him ignited, a flame kindled in dry tinder.  This was the woman his alternate self had married.

“I feel the latent pain therein,” the Lady Blue said.  “But it is beyond my means to heal.”

“The Adept can use magic,” Stile said. Except that the Blue Adept was dead—wasn’t he?

“The Adept is indisposed,” she said firmly. She released his knees and stood with an easy motion. She was marvelously lithe, though there were worry-lines about her mouth and eyes. She was a lovely and talented woman, under great strain—how lovely and how talented and under how much strain he was now coming to appreciate by great jackrabbit bounds. Stile believed he knew what the nature of that strain might be.

Kurrelgyre and Neysa were standing by, awaiting Stile’s decision. He made it: he bent carefully to draw off the unicorn socks, revealing himself undisguised.

“Woman, look at me,” he said.