Split Infinity

Stile flung his arms around her neck and hugged her, burying his face in her glossy mane, feeling her equine warmth and firmness and strength. He did not need to thank her verbally for her sacrifice on his behalf; he knew she understood. He discovered her hair was wet, and realized that his own tears of reunion were the culprit.

Then he leaped to her back, still needing no words, and they galloped bareback in five-beat to the palace where Kurrelgyre waited in man-form.

Stile had spent his life on Proton, and only a week here in Phaze, but already Phaze seemed more like home. He had been gone only a night and day, but it seemed longer. Perhaps it was because he felt more like a person, here. Actually, the only other true human beings he had encountered in Phaze were the man at the curtain who had given him the demon-amulet, and the Black Adept; still—

Kurrelgyre shook hands gravely. “I am relieved to know thy escape was successful,” the werewolf said. “I reassured the mare, but feared privately thou mightst land between domes.”

“I did. But close enough to reach the nearest dome before I suffocated.” Stile took a deep breath, still reveling in it.

“I should have crossed with thee, to make sure; but Neysa was waiting outside, and I never thought of—“

“I understand exactly how it is. I never thought of it either. I could have walked a quarter-mile along the curtain and willed myself back through to you, outside the Black Castle. That never occurred to me until this moment.”

Kurrelgyre smiled. “We live; we leam. No confinement near the curtain shall again restrain us.” He squinted at Stile. “Thou lookest peaked; have a sniff of this.” He brought out a sprig with a few leaves and a dull yellow flower, dried.

Stile sniffed. Immediately he felt invigorated.  Strength coursed through his body. “What is that stuff?”

“Wolfsbane.”

“Wolfsbane? Something that curses wolves? How canst thou carry—“

“I am not in my lupine form. I would not sniff it then.”

“Oh.” Stile couldn’t really make much sense of this, but could not argue with his sudden sense of well-being.  “Something else,” he said. “Didst thou not tell me that most of the people were parallel, existing in both frames? There are about five thousand Proton Citizens, and ten times as many serfs, and countless robots, androids, cyborgs and animals—but I have not seen many people here on Phaze, and not many animals.”

“There are at least as many people here as on Pro-ton, plus the societies of werewolves, unicorns, vampires, demons and assorted monsters. But two things to note: first, we are not confined to domes. We have the entire planet to roam—many millions of square miles.  So-“

“Miles?” Stile asked, trying to make a fast conversion in his head and failing.

“We use what thou wouldst call the archaic measurements. One square mile would be about two and a half square kilometers, so—“

“Oh, yes, I know. I just realized—archaic measurements—would that by any chance affect magic? I tried to do a spell using the metric scale, and it flubbed.  Before I swore off magic.”

“That might be. Each spell must be correctly couched, and can only be employed once. That is why even Adepts perform sparingly. They hoard their spells for future need, as Citizens hoard wealth in Proton.  May I now continue my original discourse?”

“Oh, of course,” Stile said, embarrassed, and Neysa made a musical snort of mirth. Stile squeezed her sides with his legs, a concealed hug. He tended to forget that she understood every word he spoke.

“So there are very few people for the habitable area, and many large regions are as yet uninhabited by men.

Thou needst not be surprised at seeing none. The second reason is that many of the people here are not precisely the form of their Proton selves. They are vampires, elves, dwarves—“ He broke off.

Stile wished he hadn’t. It had almost seemed his size was irrelevant in his frame. Foolish wish! “I never judged values in terms of size,” Stile said. “A dwarf is still a discrete individual, surely.”

“Of course,” Kurrelygyre agreed. It was his turn to be embarrassed.

They were now in the Oracle’s palace. “I have less than a day before I have to go back to Proton,” Stile said.

Neysa stiffened. “Go back?” Kurrelgyre demanded.

“I understood thou hadst no commitment there. It was only to escape the prison of the Black Demesnes that thou-“

“I have a woman there,” Stile said. “She covered for me during mine absence. I have agreed to enter this year’s Tourney, that she be not shamed. Thus it is likely that my tenure on Proton will be brief.”

“The Tourneyl Thou presumes thou canst win?”

“Doubtful,” Stile said seriously. “I had planned to enter in two years, when some top players would be gone and my strength would be at its peak—and even then the odds would have been against me. It is hard to win ten or twelve consecutive Games against top competition, and luck can turn either way. I would rate my chances at perhaps one in ten, for I could lose to a poorer player with one bad break.”