In the course of a little over an hour the preliminary trials were done. Four contestants had been selected from the local group, to advance to the next round. The contestants moved to new stations. Now four musicians came to stand before the Adept pavilion. Each played a melody on his or her horn, and these were marvelously pleasant. One unicorn sounded like an oboe, another like a trumpet, a third like a violin, and the fourth like a flute. The violin made the highest score, but the flute and oboe were tied at twenty-two.
“I mislike this,” Yellow said. “They are so close, I can not select between them. Have you other judges more firmly entrenched opinions?”
Demon and Hawkman shook their heads. They agreed the two contestants were even. “I mislike being arbitrary,” Yellow said. “Yet it has been long since I heard the flute, and I know not which sound is the more perfect representation. If we but had an instrument for comparison—“
The Lady Blue stood with an air of minor mischief. “If it please the judges—“
Yellow glanced back at her. “Speak, Lady, if it be relevant.”
“My Lord the Blue Adept is skilled in music, and has with him an excellent flute—“
“Hey, I’m not in this!” Stile protested. But Yellow was smiling with a certain friendly malice.
“Methinks Blue owes me a favor.”
Stile spread his hands. He was caught. “What dost thou wish. Yellow?”
“Didst hear the theme played by the flute-‘com? If thou wouldst play the same as it should be played, that we may compare—“ Stile sighed inwardly and walked to the front of the pavilion. He did not object to playing; his concern was that the larger nature of the borrowed Platinum Flute would manifest as his magic power gathered. But if he willed no magic, maybe it would be all right. He did owe Yellow a favor, and this was a modest one.
He assembled the Flute, brought it to his mouth, and played the theme. The magic instrument gave him perfect control, making him a better flutist than he otherwise could be. The notes issued like ethereal honey. The magic gathered, but subtly.
As he played, the routine noises of the Unolympics abated, in a widening circle. Unicorn spectators down the line rotated their ears, orienting on him. When the last note faded, the entire arena was silent. The three judges remained seated, quiet for a moment. The other Adepts seemed frozen in their places. Then Yellow shook her head. “There be flutes and there be Flutes,” she said. “That is the Platinum Flute, of Elven craft, the Emperor of flutes. There is none like it. Favored indeed is the one, whether common or Adept, who gains its loan from the Little Folk. I fear the crisis of Phaze draws nigh. After that sound, I have no further doubt; the unicorn does not compare.”
But the two other judges demurred. “Play oboe,” the demon grunted.
“Ah, yes,” Yellow agreed. “Thank thee, Horrawful, thou’rt correct. We must compare that sound too.” She focused on Stile. “Play the oboe. Blue.”
“But I have no oboe,” he protested.
“Pretend not to be ignorant of the nature of the instrument thou boldest,” she said sharply. “Play the oboe, that we may get on with this matter.”
Baffled, Stile looked at the Flute he held—and it had become a fine platinum oboe. So the magic shifts were not merely with weapons! He brought it to his mouth and played the oboe-‘com’s theme. The notes rolled out like elixir, impossibly mellow, the most perfect oboe-sound he had ever heard. Again the Unolympics halted to listen. Even the jaded Adepts sat riveted until it finished. “Now we can judge,” Yellow said. She consulted again with her associate-judges, and rendered the decision: “The oboe is closer to true. The oboe-‘corn qualifies.” Now there was applause—but somehow it seemed to orient more on Stile than the qualifying unicorn.
“Only my Love played like that,” the Lady Blue murmured as Stile resumed his seat beside her. “I never thought to hear such sound again.”
“The instrument is magic,” he replied shortly. “It lends skill to the player.”
“Mayhap,” she agreed, and said no more. Soon it was time for the finals. Now the entire field became a single arena, and the separate panels of judges merged to become a single large panel. Everyone would witness the category victories.
Stile was gratified. At last he would get to see Neysa perform—if she had made it this far. He had been confident of her prowess before this ever started, but now he was aware of the strength of the competition. She could have been eliminated.
But she had made it! She and Clip were finalists, and in due course their event came up. One werewolf judge disqualified himself at that point, explaining that he was an oath-friend to a contestant and could not judge her objectively. A substitute was found, and the show went on.
Neysa and Clip trotted out in perfect step, playing their own music for the dance, she with her harmonica-horn, he with his saxophone. It was a beautiful duet, harmonizing precisely with the beat of their hooves. Neysa’s colors now complemented Clip’s, and she was beautiful even in unicorn terms. Both animals were small for their species, but as a pair, alone in the arena, they were perfectly matched and did not seem small at all.
They plunged forward, horns lunging at an invisible foe, then whipped back together with a dissonant note, as of a foe dying. Stile could almost see the implied monster. So could some of the judges, who happened to be monsters; they scowled. The two went on through different gaits, then got fancy. Neysa leaped, and Clip trotted beneath her. As she landed, he leaped over her. They continued in a fantastic leapfrog sequence, their music playing without a break. Then they came together, bucked in unison, and leaped together in a backward somersault. In midair they changed shape, landing neatly in human-form, he garbed in bright trousers and cloak, she in white-fringed black dress. They swung, now humming the music their horns could no longer play. Faster they swung, becoming almost a blur—and suddenly they were hawk and firefly, whirling about in air about a common center, then back to equine-form with a final, lovely bar of music, in time for the expiration of time.
The judges held out printed cards: 9,9, 8, 9, 7, 8 ... an excellent rating from all except the monsters. Then the applause began, loudest from Neysa’s own Herd; but there was an appreciative baying from several wolves of the pack who had also taken the oath of friendship with her. Stile saw now that his friend Kurrelgyre was among them. Then the other unicorn couple went into its act. Both were handsome specimens, and both had remarkable tones. He sounded like a bassoon, with all its deep beauty and trick effects, while she rang like bells. Stile was amazed at what the unicorn horn could do; it was not confined to wind instruments, perhaps because of its magic. This combination was unusual and effective, and they made the most of it.
These unicorns, too, changed shapes in the middle of the dance, manifesting as great cats and then as white and blue herons. Their equine states were special, too; he had a mane like rippling fire, and her mane was iridescent; it shone as it flexed, with precious luster. She was a truly lovely creature. But it was the artistry of their dance that 1 made it outstanding, and in the end they were judged the winners. Stile could not contest the decision; it was fair. Yet Neysa and Clip had made a formidable showing. He was proud of them.
The finals continued with marvelous exhibits, but Stile’s attention wandered again. When all this was done, he would have to meet the local Herd Stallion. He had the Platinum Flute, so could employ his magic; he was not in danger. Yet it bothered him, for he did not wish to humili-te the Stallion. He just wanted the postponement of Neysa’s breeding. Should he try to talk to the Stallion again? He doubted that would be effective. Unicorns were extremely stubborn animals. Yet if he fought the unicorn and used his magic to prevail, it would be unfair; if he did not use magic, he could lose. Was there no satisfactory alternative? Stile mulled it over while the Unolympics progressed to the close. In the present excitement and distraction, he found himself unable to work out a strategy that would satisfy all needs. Since he was not about to let himself be wounded by the horn of a unicorn, he would just have to use his magic and damn the social consequence. He hated to do it, though; he knew how important pride was for the dominant creatures of Phaze. Pride, really, had motivated the Herd Stallion to challenge him; the animal hoped to force Stile to capitulate ignominiously, and yield Neysa to the scheduled breeding.