Split Infinity

Now Stile stood before the dragon, drawing his rapier. He still was not expert in its use, but the dragon did not know that. Would the point be effective, or was it better to have a cutting edge so he could sever a line?  Would the dragon unravel like knitwork if he did cut its line? These were questions he would have to answer by experiment.

The dragon was evidently assessing Stile at the same time. The white unicorn had suddenly become a man.  Magic was involved. Was it safe to take a bite?

Stile, though quite nervous about the encounter, was experienced in dealing with animals. He had backed down hostile dogs and cats on his employer’s farm, as part of assorted initiations, and of course had calmed many a spooked horse. Later he had taken his turn in various Game arenas, moving larger beasts of prey about with whip and prod. He had never faced a dragon before, but the basic principles of animal management should apply. He hoped.

He acted with apparent confidence, advancing on the dragon with his rapier point orienting on the creature’s black knot-nose. The noses of most animals were ten- der, and often were more important psychologically than the eyes. “Now I’m not looking for trouble, dragon,” Stile said with affected calmness. “I came to pay a call on the Black Adept. I only want to meet him, not to hurt him. Kindly stand aside and let us pass.”

Stile heard a snort of amazement behind him. Neysa had never imagined bracing a dragon in its lair this way!

The dragon, too, was taken aback. What manner of man approached it with such imperious confidence? But it was a beast, not a man, and could not reason well, and it had its orders. In fact anything constructed from loops of cord might have trouble reasoning well; what kind of a brain could be fashioned from knotted string?  It opened its jaws and took a snap at Stile.

Stile stepped smoothly to the side. His rapier flicked out, neatly pricking the sensitive nose. The dragon jerked back with a soundless yipe.

“That was a gentle warning,” Stile said evenly, privately overjoyed at his success. The thing did feel pain!  “My patience has limits. Begone, dragon!”

Baffled more by Stile’s attitude than his physical prowess, the dragon scuttled back. Stile stepped for-ward, frowning. The dragon whimpered, again without sound—then unraveled.

Stile stared. The creature was disintegrating! First its hurting nose tightened into a close knot, then popped into nonexistence. Then its muzzle and teeth went, the latter becoming tangles in a string that disappeared as the string went taut. Then the eyes and ears. Headless, the thing still faced Stile, backing away. The neck went, and the front legs, the pace of unraveling speeding up as it continued. Very soon there was nothing but a line—and this snapped back into the wall like a rubber band.

The whole dragon had indeed been no more than an intricately wrought string. Now it was gone. Yet that string, when shaped, had seemed formidable, and had reacted with normal brute reflexes. Surely it would have chomped him, had he allowed it to. It could have killed him.

“The whole thing—string,” Stile breathed. “And this whole castle—more string? For what purpose?”

Unicorn and wolf shrugged. Who could understand the ways of an Adept?

Neysa made a little nose back the way they had come, inquiring whether he had seen enough and was ready to get out of here. But Stile shook his head no, grimly. More than ever, he wanted to identify the proprietor of this castle. He wanted to be absolutely certain it was not now and never had been he.

They walked on down the passage, which narrowed again beyond the dragon’s lair, but did not constrict as much as before. Again the way folded back, and back again, and yet again, endlessly.

“Damn it!” Stile swore. “We could die of old age in here, looking for the master of this castle—if he lives.  I’m going to force the issue.”

Kurrelgyre looked at him warily, but did not protest.  This was Stile’s venture, to foul up as he pleased. Stile made a fist and banged repeatedly on the wall, making the reverberations build tremendously until the whole castle seemed to shake. “Black Adept, show thyself!” he bawled. “I demand only to see thy face; then I depart.”

“Follow the line,” a voice replied. And a double line snaked into view ahead, looping into itself. As they approached it, the lines retreated like string drawn in from a distance. It resembled the dragon in this respect, constantly disappearing into itself. But it was not part of the wall.

Soon the line led them to a large central hall they were unlikely to have found thus expeditiously by themselves. A man stood there, facing them. He was garbed completely in black, and seemed to have a black tail. But the tail was the line they had just followed!

“The line,” Stile said, finally putting it all together.  “It is from thee! This whole castle is thou—the solidified line of thy past!”

“Now thou knowest,” the Black Adept said coldly.  “I have met thy demand, intruder.”