That seemed to be the trap fate had set, the thing that would have made their union brief. Not her change of heart, but his death. Stile’s pause for thought could have saved his life.
But then the Lady Blue thought of something else. “Except that thou art not married to me. If thou dost desist, it may be fated that some other man—loathe the thought!-—will marry me and sire my son. It must be thee, I will not have it otherwise, and therefore—“ How fate wriggled to snare him anyway! Stile had almost missed that loophole.
“That is readily solved,” he said. He took her hands in his. “Lady of the Blue Demesnes, I beg thy hand in marriage.”
“Thou dost not say thou lovest me,” she complained.
“In good time.”
She fought him no longer. “I grant my hand and my heart to thee in marriage,” she agreed, radiant. They went outside. Neysa had returned from her mission, somehow knowing what was in the offing. “My friend,” he said to the unicorn. “I have proposed marriage to the Lady, and she has accepted my suit. Wilt thou be witness to this union?”
Neysa blew a single loud note on her horn. Immediately the wolfpack gathered, the werewolves charging in from all directions. Kurrelgyre changed to man-form. “The mare informs us thou hast won the Lady at last!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations!”
Stile marveled again at how much a unicorn could convey in one note. Then the wolves formed a circle, and Kurrelgyre stood before the couple, and Neysa stood between them in her natural form. There was no doubt in any creature what was happening. “By the authority vested in me as leader of the Pack, I perform this ceremony of mating,” Kurrelgyre said. “Neysa, as friend to each party, dost thou bear witness that this contract be freely sought by this man and this bitch?”
Neysa made a musical snicker.
“This mare—I mean, this woman,” the werewolf said quickly, finally getting it straight. The Lady Blue smiled; well she knew that the appellation “bitch” was no affront in the mouth of a wolf.
Now Neysa blew an affirmative note.
“Wolves and bitches of my pack, do you bear witness to the validity of this contract?” Kurrelgyre inquired rhetorically.
There was a general growl of assent, admixed by a yip or two of excitement. They were enjoying this. “Then I now proclaim the two of you man and mate. Wife,” Kurrelgyre said solemnly. Neysa stepped out from between them.
Stile and the Lady came together. Stile held her at half-distance one more moment. She remained in her blue dress, ordinary daywear, but she was the loveliest creature he could imagine. “Thee . . . Thee . . . Thee,” he said. Then he kissed her.
The shimmer of the oath surrounded them, stirring the Demesnes and touching the fur of the animals and momentarily coloring the grass. For a sweet eternity he embraced her, and when it ended she was in a light blue wedding dress, and a magic sparkle emanated from her.
“Now must I depart to brace the Red Adept,” Stile announced as they separated.
Astonishment was manifest among Neysa and all the wolves. There were growls and yips of confusion, and Ney-sa blew a volley of startled notes. “Not right at this hour!”
Kurrelgyre protested. “Tomorrow, mayhap—“
“Right this minute,” Stile said, vaulting to Neysa’s back.
“I shall see thee anon, wife.”
“Anon,” she agreed, smiling.
Neysa, responsive to his unspoken directive, set off at a canter eastward, toward the Red Demesnes. When they were well clear of the Castle, Neysa blew an insistent note of query. Stile laughed. “Since thou wilt have it from me at the point of thy horn if I tell thee not, I will answer. The Oracle told the Lady ‘None by One, Son by Two.’ Now I be Two, her second husband, and—“ Neysa’s laughter pealed musically forth. How readily she understood! How many Adepts could arrange the Oracle’s assurance that they would survive a life-and-death encounter to sire a son? Stile had cleverly made the prophecy work for him.
As they settled into the hours of travel. Stile concentrated on his spells. He needed a variety of general-purpose defenses and counters. He should survive this encounter, but he had no guarantee that he would win it. He could emerge crippled or blind, able to sire a son but then unable to live in health and independence. Oracle prophecies tended to be slippery, and he had to be on guard against some loophole he had not anticipated. Yet he understood why such predictions were often devious. A person fated to die at a certain place at a certain time would strive to avoid that situation if he could, so the prophecy would be self-negating if clearly stated. Absolute clarity and hundred percent accuracy could not always be simultaneously accommodated, by the very nature of it. Also, there could be a certain flexibility in a situation; a man could die in a dozen different ways, or survive at an expense worse than death. The Oracle had to make a brief statement that covered all prospects, and that was often necessarily ambiguous. So Stile fully intended to fight for the best possible interpretation of this particular prediction. The Oracle had not truly pronounced his fate; it had merely defined the broadest parameters. Interpretation was the essence of his specific fate.
Send this spell straight to Hell, he thought, careful not to vocalize. Would that work against an amulet? It should, if he willed it properly. As he understood it, from his limited experience, an amulet was a solidified spell, quiescent until invoked. Some, like the healing or clothing amulets, worked on a slow, sustained basis. Others, like the throttle-demon, took a few seconds to achieve full strength. Just so long as he had time enough to sing a prepared counterspell.
Maybe he could work out a number of easy variants that would lack full force but would suffice in a pinch. Send this spell into a dell, make this spell into a smell, make this spell fail to jell, banish this spell when I yell—all doggerel, but that was the way his magic worked. What he considered real poetry, where form, style and significance were more important than rhyme or meter, took time to create, and he was not sure how much time he would have. There 2was some evidence that better verse had more potent effect, for he deemed his verse-form oath of friendship to Neysa to have been a cut above doggerel—but he hardly had need of such potency in routine magic. So he kept working out his cheap spot rhymes, hoping to cover every contingency. They passed the Unolympic site, now deserted. “Thou didst put on a fine show, Neysa,” Stile murmured. “Thou didst do credit to thy Herd.” And she snorted contentedly. Winning was less important to her than recognition of her right to compete.
They were nearing the Red Demesnes by nightfall. Stile considered where they might camp, since he did not want to engage his enemy by night. There were too many imponderables. He could conjure a suitable shelter, but hesitated to employ his magic here. The Red Adept might be alert to magic in the vicinity, and he wanted his arrival to be as much of a surprise as possible.
But Neysa was already zeroing in on a location. She drew up before a large cave and blew a note. Bats sailed out of it to swirl around the visitors. Then they dropped to the ground and converted to men and women. “The vampires!” Stile exclaimed. “I didn’t realize they lived here!” But obviously Neysa had known; that was another reason he needed her along.
One came forward. It was Vodlevile, the one who had come to Stile during the Unolympics. “Adept! How goes my friend Hulk?”
Wrong question! “Alas, he was murdered in Proton-frame,” Stile said. “I seek vengeance of the Red Adept.”
“Dead?” the vampire asked, shocked. “But I met him only so recently! He was the nicest ogre I knew!”
“He was that,” Stile agreed. “Red killed him, in lieu of me.”
Vodlevile frowned. Now the cutting edges of his teeth showed. “We have ever lived at peace with Red. She never helped us, but hindered us not. I dared not make petition to her for a charm for my son, for fear she would simply claim my son. We hold Adepts in low esteem. Thou art the first who helped. And Yellow, because of thee.” He lifted his hand, and a small bat fluttered down to be caught. “My son,” Vodlevile said proudly.