Split Infinity (21 page)

Neysa turned and bore west again, away from the herd, and the other unicorn cut across to intercept her.
 
The other was male, larger than Neysa though not substantially so. His color was quite different: dark blue, with red socks. Really the same pattern as Neysa’s, but with completely unhorselike hues. Again Stile reminded himself: these were not horses.

As the two animals angled together, Neysa tooted her horn. The stranger answered with a similar toot.
 
His horn sounded more like a saxophone, however. Did every unicorn play a different instrument? What a cacophony when several ran together!

Neysa shifted into the five-beat gait and played a compatible tune. The other matched the gait and cadence, and played a complementary theme. The two blended beautifully. No wonder Neysa had played so well with Stile himself; she had done this sort of thing before, with her own kind. Stile listened, entranced. No cacophony, this; it was a lovely duet.

Who, then, was this young stallion she had summoned? Stile did not really want his presence advertised. But he knew Neysa understood that, and was acting in his interest. She had to have reason. This must be some friend she trusted, who could help them discover the nature of the magic—or protect them from it if necessary.

They ran until well clear of the herd. Then they slowed, their harmony slowing with them. Neysa finally deposited Stile by a handsome nut tree and started grazing. It was the middle of the day: lunch break. She would probably insist on grazing for an hour or more, and he did not begrudge her that. She needed her strength, still not entirely restored after yesterday’s trial. He removed the saddle and set it under the tree.

The strange unicorn did not graze. He watched Stile, looking him up and down. He took a step forward, horn pointed at Stile’s navel. The musical instrument was now a weapon, without doubt. Stile stood still, chewing on a nut, relaxed but ready to move in a hurry if the creature charged.

The unicorn blew a single derisive note, shimmered—and became a man. The man was clothed. He wore furry leather trousers, a blue long-sleeved shirt, solid low boots, red socks, and a floppy light-blue hat. His hands were covered by heavy fiber gloves. A rapier hung at his side.

Astonished, Stile stared. A Citizen—here?

“So thou’rt the creep who’s been messing with my sister!” the man said, his right hand fingering the hilt of the rapier.

Just what he needed: a protective brother! Now Stile saw the forehead spike, similar to Neysa’s. No Citizen; ordinary people wore clothing here, he remembered now. “It was voluntary,” Stile said tightly.

“Ha! I saw her charging up Snow Mountain yesterday, trying to shake thee off. Thou’rt lucky she changed not into a firefly and let thee drop in a crevasse!”

Oh. The unicorn was talking about the day, not the night. “She changes into a firefly, too?”

“And pray what’s wrong with that? Most beasts are lucky if they can change into one other form. We each have two.” He shimmered again, and became a hawk.
 
The bird winged upward at a forty-five-degree angle, then looped and dived toward Stile.

Stile threw himself aside—and the man was back, appearing just as the bird seemed about to crash into the ground. “Well, there’s no accounting for tastes.
 
Thou’rt a shrimp, and thou’rt naked, but if she lets thee ride her I can’t say nay. I want thee to know, though, that she’s the best mare in the herd, color or not.”

“Color?” Stile asked blankly.

“Don’t tell me thou noticed not! Let me warn thee, man-thing: an thou dost ever use the term ‘horse-hued’ in her presence, I will personally—“

Neysa had come up behind her brother. She blew a warning note.

“All right, already!” he snapped. “She is one season my senior; I may not talk back to her. But remember what I say: there is nothing wrong with Neysal”

“Nothing at all,” Stile agreed. “She’s the finest-performing and finest-looking mare I’ve encountered.”

The man, evidently braced for doubt or argument, was briefly nonplused. “Uh, yes. Exactly. Then let’s get on with it. What’s thy problem?”

“My name is Stile. I am a stranger in this world, without information or clothing, someone is trying to kill me, and magic is being performed around me whose ultimate purpose I can not fathom.” Stile had the gift for succinct expression, when required.

“So.” The man frowned. “Well, my name is Clip. I’m Neysa’s little brother. She wants me to help thee, so I’ll help. I’ll fix thee up with information and clothing. And a weapon to defend thyself from thine enemy. As for the magic—concern thyself not about it. Unicorns are immune to magic.”

“Immune!” Stile expostulated. “Here you stand, a shape-changing unicorn, and you tell me—“

 
“Other magic, nit. Of course we do our own, though easy it is not. Like learning another language—which is part of shape-changing, of course; can’t be human if thou canst not talk human idiom. Can’t be avian if thou canst not fly. So most unicorns bother not. But none other can change a unicorn, or enchant one. Or anyone in contact with a unicorn. Was that not why thou didst desire her? So long as thou stayest with Neysa—“ He frowned. “Though why she’d want to stay with thee—“ Neysa’s note of protest cut him off again. “Well, there’s no comprehending the ways of mares.” He began to remove his clothing.

“No comprehending!” Stile agreed. “Look, Clip—I rode Neysa as a challenge, because I needed a mount.
 
In the end I couldn’t keep her—but she joined me by her own choice. I don’t know why she didn’t jump off the mountain and change into a firefly and let me drop to my death, as I gather she could have—“ And he had thought he was sparing her, when he released her at the ledge! “And I don’t know why she’s not talking to me now. When she—changed to human form, all she said was my name. She didn’t explain anything.” At the time he had thought no explanations were necessary; he had been naive!

“That last I can clarify. Neysa doesn’t like to talk much. I’m the talkative one in our family, as perhaps thou hadst not yet noticed. So where there’s talking to be done, she summons me.” Clip handed his shirt to Stile. “Go on, get dressed. I don’t need clothing, really, anyway, and I’ll get another outfit when convenient.” He glanced at Neysa. “I guess she saw something in thee she liked. Thou’rt not a virgin, art thou?”

Stile donned the shirt, shaking his head no, embarrassed both by the turn the conversation had taken and the act of assuming clothing. On Proton this would be socially and legally horrendous!

The shirt should have been large, but somehow turned out to fit him perfectly. He was coming to accept minor magic as the matter of course it was.

“Well, that’s overrated anyway,” Clip continued. “If I ever found a nubile but virginal human girl, it sure wouldn’t be my head I’d put in her lap!”

Stile smiled appreciatively, coming to like the expressive and uninhibited male. “What would a unicom—or, one in equine form—want with a human girl anyway?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” The trousers were passed over.
 
“The Herd Stallion co-opts all the best unicorn mares, which leaves us young males hard up. A unicorn does not live by grain alone, thou knowest! So though human flesh is less sweet than equine, even the touch of a fair maiden’s hand is—“

“I begin to get the picture.” The trousers fit perfectly also. Stile suppressed another twinge of guilt, donning clothing; this was not Proton, and clothing lacked the significance it had there. Out here in the wilderness, clothing became functional on more than a social basis.

“Yet that being the case, an attractive mare shouldn’t have any trouble—“

Neysa abruptly turned away. Clip lowered his voice. “All right, man. I see thou really knowest not, and thou’dst better. There are horses in unicorn ancestry— not nice to mention it, any more than the apes in thine ancestry—“

“There are no apes in my—“

“See what I mean? Sensitive subject. But on occasion there are throwbacks. When a unicorn is birthed without a horn—that is, without the horn-button; couldn’t have a full horn before birth, of course—it is killed in simple mercy. But color is a borderline matter.
 
If it is otherwise perfect, that unicom is permitted to survive. But there is always that stigma.” Clip frowned, glancing covertly at Neysa.

“Neysa—is colored like a horse,” Stile said, catching on. “So she is outcast.”

“Thou hast it. It is no official thing, for she is a full unicorn, but the Herd Stallion won’t breed her, and of course none of the lesser males dare. Nobody touches a young mare without the Herd Stallion’s permission, and he won’t give it—because that would seem to infringe on his prerogative. Our kind is like that; simple logic is no substitute for pride. Some would have it that mules are the stubbornest of equines, but that is a dastardly slight on the stubbornness of the unicorn. So for two seasons now Neysa has gone unbred—all because of her color. And maybe her size.”

Stile realized that his effort of the past night did not count. He was a man, not a stallion. He could play with a female like Neysa, but could never breed her, any more than a stallion in human form could breed a human girl. “This is outrageous! She’s a fine Unicom! The Stallion should either breed her or free her.”

“Thou knowest thou’rt only a man,” Clip said, handing Stile the rapier. “But thy personality hath its re-deeming aspects. Thou really likest Neysa?”

“I chose her because she was the finest steed I’d ever seen,” Stile said seriously. “I loved her in that fashion from the start. To me there is no better creature than a perfect—equine.”

“So thou never, until I spoke to thee, knew what was wrong with her?”

“There is nothing wrong with her!” Stile snapped.

“Agreed.” Clip was highly gratified. “Well, I’m supposed to fill thee in on our world. There is little to tell.
 
We unicorns are the dominant animal form, except perhaps in some corners of the pasture where the were-wolves and vampires range, and we’re really better off than the human peasants. Anyone can do magic, but most humans don’t, because of the Adepts.”

“Adepts?”

“Like Herd Stallions or wolf Pack Leaders, only it’s magic, not mares or bitches they pre-empt. Each Adept has his special style of enchantment, and he’s awfully good in his specialization. I said unicorns were proof against foreign spells, but Adepts are another matter. If an Adept should be after thee—“

“I see. What defense would I have against one of these super-sorcerers?”

“No defense suffices, except to hide—and sooner or later an Adept will find thee. They have charms and amulets and familiars spread throughout the realm of Phaze, spying out the news. There’s hardly any limit to the powers of an Adept. In fact—that’s it! The Oracle!”

 
“A fortune-teller?”

“More than that. There is no magic in the temple of the Oracle, and nobody is coerced therein. It is sacred ground. I’ll bet that’s where Neysa is taking thee. Well, then, that covers it. I’ll be off.” He shimmered back into unicorn form and galloped away, his horn and hooves sounding the charge.

Stile had wanted to know more about Adepts and the Oracle. Well, perhaps Neysa would tell him, if he asked her nicely. Clip had certainly helped a great deal.

They rode west again, playing brief duets, enjoying themselves. Stile realized that the music of unicorns served another purpose: it alerted friends and foes to their presence. Unicorns were fighting animals; most creatures would prefer to avoid them, and so the sound of the horn cleared the way conveniently. Stile saw rabbits and turtles and an armadillo, but no predators. In short, only creatures that were noncompetitive with unicorns.

The terrain was highly varied, lush fields giving way to rocky slopes, swamps, open water and badlands sand.
 
To the north and south the twin mountain ranges continued. The northern peaks were all snow-covered, virtually impassable to any creature with less power and determination than a unicorn; the southern ones seemed to be warmer, unless purple was the color of their snow. Curious! Something about this rugged landscape nagged him, a nascent familiarity, but he was unable to place it.

In the evening Neysa halted again, giving herself time to graze, and Stile foraged for his own sustenance.
 
He found ripe corn growing, and blackberries. He thought of corn as fall produce, and blackberries as spring, but perhaps this world differed from others in its fruiting seasons too. On Proton anything could grow at any time, in the domes. Nonetheless, these edibles were suspiciously fortuitous—unless Neysa had known of this place and come here deliberately. Yes, of course that was it; she was taking excellent care of him.

In the night, after moonrise, she changed again. Stile hoped she would show him her firefly form, but she went directly to human. “You know, Neysa, you’re about the prettiest girl I’ve seen—but I think I like you best in your natural form.”

She smiled, flattered, and kissed him. She didn’t mind being complimented on her unicorn body. She had spent her life stigmatized for a supposedly defective color, and obviously appreciated Stile’s appreciation.
 
This was no doubt the key to her initial acceptance of him. He really did admire her as she was, and was perhaps the first creature unrelated to her to do so. So though she had fought him, in the end she had not wanted to kill him.