Split Infinity

A shower of red bricks fell from nowhere, landing with uncanny precision in a circle around the Stallion, now forming row on row, building the wall before their eyes. The Stallion stood amazed, not daring to move lest he get struck by flying bricks, watching himself be penned. The pack and the herd watched with similar ‘astonishment, frozen in place. Hulk’s mouth hung open; he had not believed in magic, really, until this moment.

Kurrelgyre was smiling in slow, grim satisfaction, his faith vindicated. And the Lady Blue’s surprise was the greatest of all.

Only Neysa was not discomfited. She made an “I told thee so!” snort and turned her posterior on Stile, showing that she still did not approve. But Stile was sure she did approve, secretly. Whatever this might cost her.

After a moment, Kurrelgyre hitched himself up to sit on the just-completed wall. He tapped it with his fingers, verifying its solidity, as he spoke to the unicorn inside. “Thou desirest still to match thy prowess against the magic of the Blue Adept, here in the Blue Demesnes? Note that he spares thee, thou arrogant animal, only showing his power harmlessly. He could as easily have dropped these bricks on thy bone head. Is it not meet for thee to make apology for thy doubt?”

The Stallion glared at him in stony silence. He could readily have leaped out of the enclosure, but it was beneath his dignity to try. The issue was not his jumping ability, but Stile’s magic—which had now been resolved.

“Not the Stallion’s but mine is the apology,” the Lady Blue said. “I thought this man no Adept. Now I know he is. To a fine detail, this performance is like unto that of my love. Yet—“

All heads turned to her, as she hesitated. Slowly she worked it out. “My husband was murdered by an Adept. Now an Adept in the likeness of my love comes, yet I know my love is dead. This could therefore be an impostor, claiming to hail from another frame, but more likely an Adept from this frame, using his magic to change his aspect so that none will suspect his true identity. The Adept who murdered Blue.”

Now all heads turned to Stile, the gazes of wolves and unicorns alike turning uncertain and hostile. Stile realized with a chill that he had misjudged the nature of his challenge. His real opposition was not the Stallion —it was the Lady Blue. She would not suffer even the suspicion of an impostor in these demesnes. Not any longer. Her first line of defense had been broken down; this was her second. The Lady was dangerous; he could die by the sole power of her voiced suspicions.

Neysa snorted indignantly. She was mad at Stile now, but she believed in him. Yet it was apparent that most of the others were in doubt again. The infernal logic of the Lady!

How could he refute this new challenge? There was one other person who knew his identity—but that was the Yellow Adept. Best not to bring her into this! He would simply have to present his case, and give them opportunity to verify it.

“I am not the Blue Adept. I am his alternate self, from the other frame. Anyone who is able and willing to pass through the curtain and make inquiries can ascertain my existence there. I am like Blue in all things, but lack his experience of this world. I am not an impostor, but neither am I this Lady’s husband. Call me the brother of Blue. I apologize to those of you who may have had misconceptions; it was not my intent to mislead you.” It still felt funny, using “you” in this frame, but it was the correct plural form. “Were I some other Adept, I would have little reason to masquerade as Blue; I could set up mine own Demesnes of whatever color. My power of magic is real; why should I pretend to have another form than mine own?”

The others seemed mollified, but not the Lady Blue.  “I would expect a murdering Adept to arrive prepared with a persuasive story. To come as a seeming savior, destroying the golem he himself had sent, to make him-self appear legitimate. To emulate the form of magic that is Blue’s. Why should he do this? I can think of two reasons, to begin. First, this would tend to conceal the murder he committed. Second, he might covet the things that are Blue’s.”

Kurrelgyre turned to her, his brow wrinkling. “An Adept of such power could create his own estate, as impressive as this, with less complication than this.”

“Not quite,” she said tightly.  “What has this estate, that a foreign Adept might covet and not be able to duplicate?”

The Lady hesitated, her color rising, but she had to answer. “It has me. It is said by some that I am fair—“

Telling point! “Fair indeed,” Kurrelgyre agreed.  “Motive enough. Yet if he honors the works of Blue and maintains the premises in good order—is this not what thou wishest?”

“To accept in these Demesnes the one who murdered my love?” she demanded, flashing. “I will not yield this proud heritage to that! The false Adept may destroy me with his magic, even as he destroyed my love, but never will he assume the mantle and privilege of Blue.”