Split Infinity

“Yes,” Stile agreed, not liking the man’s tone. This was definitely not himself! The Adept stood half a meter taller, and his appearance and voice were unlike anything Stile was or could be. Not that the Adept was grotesque; he really looked rather ordinary. But he was certainly not Stile. “Now I shall depart, thanking thee for thy courtesy.”

“No courtesy, intruder. Thine animals shall go, for they are of dark complexion, even burdened with thy supplies; it were a shame I must free them from. Thou shalt remain.” And the Black Adept cast out his line. It amplified immediately into an intricate prison-bar wall, hardening in place between Stile and his two companions. Alarmed, he stepped to it—but the bars were already like steel. He tried to go around it, but the wall extended itself faster than he could move. He drew his rapier—but realized the bars were as hard as its metal was, even if it had had a cutting edge. He was trapped.

Stile turned to the Adept. “Why?” he asked. “Why hold me here?”

“Why didst thou intrude on my demesnes?” the Adept replied.

This was awkward. Stile did not care to give his reason, and would not lie. “I can say only that I meant thee no harm,” he said.

“Know ye not I suffer no human intrusion into my premises? The penalty is to remain.”

To remain. Never to depart? Death, here?

Neysa tried to get through the wall separating them, but could not. Even the wolf was too large to fit be-tween the bars. They could not help him, directly. “You two had better leave,” Stile said. “I will have to settle with the Adept myself.”

Neysa hesitated. Stile knew she could get through the bars by changing into her firefly form, but he didn’t want her to betray her talents to the Black Adept, who could readily make a line-cage to confine the insect. No sense getting her trapped too! “Get out of here!” he snapped. “I’ll be all right. Just leave the supplies—“ “Do not!” the Black Adept warned. “Lest I throw out a net to capture thee too.” A net. Did the Adept know about her firefly form after all, or was that merely a manner of speaking? This was risky! Stile made a violent signal to Neysa to go.  She seemed dubious, but retreated. The wolf followed her, tail held low. This was evidently part of the Adept’s revenge: the separation of friends.

Stile faced the Adept, drawing his sword—but the Adept was gone. Only the new wall remained, extending in either direction into corridors that curved out of sight. Yet the Adept was aware of him; the wall itself was evidence of that. Catching the Adept in the maze of his own castle would surely be an impossible task; the Adept could form a jail cell around Stile at any time.

Why hadn’t the magician done just that? Why permit an intruder the limited run of the castle? The Black Adept, logically, should either kill him or throw him out, and seemed to have the power to do both. Only the magic of another Adept could—

No! He had made a vow to do no magic himself. He would muddle through without magic, whatever came.

Stile walked along the barred wall. It carried on through folded passages, bisecting rooms, halls, even stairs. It led him through turrets and down into deep dungeons. There seemed to be no dead ends; the way was continuous. The Adept, it seemed, was showing off his premises, unable to resist allowing another person to appreciate their extent. Ah, vanity, however obliquely it manifested!

Stile continued on into a chamber where a human skeleton lay. It was complete and clean, sprawled on the floor.

He pondered that for some time. Why would such a grisly artifact be tolerated in the castle? It was unlikely to be artificial; the Adept’s magic was evidently tied up in lines, proof enough that he was not Stile’s alternate self, had any doubt remained. In fact, Stile could have saved himself a certain amount of mischief by recognizing that and turning back when he spied the very first line. Or when he recognized the dragon as a construct of lines. The hints were there to be interpreted, had he only been paying proper attention. Ah, hindsight!

This skeleton was a separate entity, not part of a line, so it had to be authentic. Stile kicked at an arm—and it broke away from the floor with a crumbling snap.

It had lain there so long it had adhered!