“It is good that thou dost understand,” the Elder said. “The Oracle oft does give unuseful advice, accurate though it be. We Elves have great pride in our artifacts, and trade them freely for things of equal value. But the Flute is special; it required many years labor by our finest artisans, and is our most precious and potent device. It has no equal value. No other tribe has its match; not the goldsmiths or the silversmiths or the ironsmiths or the woodsmiths or bonesmiths. We alone work the lord of metals; we alone control the platinum mine and have the craftsmen and the magic to shape it into usable form. Thou art not asking for a trifle. Adept.”
“Yes,” Stile agreed. “Yet is the Oracle wont to provide advice that can in no wise be implemented?”
“Never. I termed it unuseful, in the sense that surely there is some simpler way to achieve thy mission with the Herd Stallion than this. Misinterpretations may abate the worth of an Oracle’s message, but always the essence is there and true. There must be some pattern to this. There-fore must we deal with thee, can we but find the way. Thou knowest that even for the briefest loan we must extract a price.”
“I am prepared to offer fair exchange, though I know not what that might be.”
“There is little we need from thy kind.”
“I do have resources, shouldst thou choose to tolerate the practice of magic in thy Demesnes. Is there anything that requires the talent of an Adept?”
Pyreforge considered gravely. “There be only two things. The lesser is not a task any man can perform, and the greater is unknown even to us. We know only that it must be performed by the finest mortal musician of Phaze.”
“I do not claim to be the finest musician, but I am skilled,” Stile said.
The wizened elf raised a shriveled eyebrow. “Skilled enough to play the Flute?”
“I am conversant with the flute as an instrument. I should be able to play the Platinum Flute unless there be a geas against it.”
The Elder considered again. He was obviously ill at ease. “It is written that he who plays the Flute well enough to make our mountain tremble will be the foreordained savior of Phaze. Dost thou think thou art that one?”
Stile spread his hands. “I doubt it. I was not even aware that Phaze was in jeopardy.”
“The Oracle surely knows, however. If the Time of Decision draws nigh . . .” Pyreforge shook his head dolefully. “I think we must try thee on the Flute, though it grieves me with spreading misgiving.” He glanced at a crevice, where a guard lurked. “How be the light outside?” The guard hurried outside. In a moment he returned.
“Overcast, shrouded by fog. It will not lift this hour.”
“Then may we gather outside. Summon the tribe this instant.”
The guard disappeared again. “This be no casual matter, Adept. The Flute extends its force regardless, protecting the magic of the holder. An thou shouldst betray us, we must die to a man to recover it, killing thee if we can. I think thou canst be trusted, and on that needs must I gamble; my life be forfeit an I be in error.” Stile did not like this either, but he was not sure how to alleviate the elf’s concern.
“Let thy warriors fix their threats on me,” the Lady Blue said. “My Lord will not betray thee.” Pyreforge shook his head. “This be not our way. Lady, despite the ignorance of our commoners. And it would not avail against the typical Adept, who values nothing more than his power.”
“Well I know the justice of thy concern. Yet would I stake my life upon my Lord’s integrity.”
The Elder smiled. “No need. Lady. Already have I staked mine. No lesser hostage preserves the peace in these Demesnes, when an Adept manifests here. I do this only for that the Oracle has cast its impact on us, and my books suggest the ponderosity of the situation. Fate draws the string on every creature, inquiring not what any person’s preference might be.” He returned his attention to Stile. “The Flute’s full power is available only to the one who can master it completely, the one for whom it is destined. We made it, but can not use it; only the Foreordained can exploit it ultimately. When he comes, the end of the present order will be near. This is why we can not give up the Flute to any lesser person.”
“I seek only to borrow it,” Stile reminded him. But this did not look promising. If he were not the Foreordained, they would not let him borrow the Flute; if he were, there was a great deal more riding on this than his encounter with the Herd Stallion!
They walked outside. The cloud-cover had intensified, shrouding all the mountain above their level, leaving only a low-ceilinged layer of visibility, like a huge room. The elves of the tribe had gathered on the knoll, completely surrounding the mound—young and old, women and children too. Most were slender and handsome, and among them the women were phenomenally lovely, but a few were darkened and wrinkled like the Elder. Stile was the cynosure of all their eyes; he saw them measuring him, discomfited by his large stature; he did indeed feel like a giant, and no longer experienced any exhilaration in the sensation. All his life he had privately longed for more height; now he understood that such a thing would not be an unmixed blessing, and perhaps no blessing at all. Hulk had tried to tell him. The problem was not height; it was in being different, in whatever manner.
“We can not bear the direct light of the sun, being Dark Elves,” the Elder said. “Should a sunbeam strike us, we turn instantly to stone. That is why the fog is so important, and why we reside in these oft-shrouded mountains, and seldom go abroad from our mounds by day. Yet like all our kind we like to dance, and at night when it is safe and the moons be bright we come out. I was in my youth careless, and a ray pierced a thin cloud and transfixed me ere I could seek cover; I turned not to stone but became as I am now. It was the wan sun, not mine age, that scorched me.”
“I might heal thee of that,” Stile said. “If thou wishes! A spell of healing—“
“What I might wish is of no account. I must needs live with the consequence of my folly—as must we all.” Now an elf brought, with an air of ceremony, a somber wooden case. “Borrow the Flute for the hour only,” the Elder told Stile. “Ascertain for thyself and for us thy relation to it. The truth be greater than the will of any of us; it must be known.”
Stile took the precious case. Inside, in cushioned splendor, lay the several pieces of gleaming metal tubing. Platinum, yes—a fortune in precious metal, exclusive of its worth as a music instrument, which had to be considerable, and its value as a magic talisman. He lifted out the pieces carefully and assembled it, conscious of its perfect heft and workmanship. The King of Flutes, surely! Meanwhile the Mound Folk watched in sullen silence, and the Elder talked, unable to contain his pride in the instrument. “Our mine be not pure platinum; there is an admixture of gold and indium. That provides character and hardness. We make many tools and weapons and utensils, though few of these are imbued with magic. There is also a trace of Phazite in the Flute, too.”
“Phazite?” Stile inquired, curious. “I am not familiar with that metal.”
“Not metal, precisely, but mineral. Thou mayst know of it as Protonite.”
“Protonite!” Stile exclaimed. “The energy-mineral? I thought that existed only in Proton-frame.”
“It exists here too, but in another aspect, as do all things. Wert thou not aware that Phazite be the fundamental repository of magic here? In Proton-frame it yields physical energy in abundance; in Phaze-frame it yields magic. Every act of magic exhausts some of that power—but the stores of it are so great and full Adepts so few that it will endure yet for millennia.”