"It sees the most delicious morsel in two frames. I see-"
"Never mind what thou seest," she said with mock severity. "I take thy meaning." She was neither self-conscious nor angry. She had one of the finest bodies in the frame and knew it.
A hawk arrived, swooping low and converting to unicorn-form. Clip was ready to resume the journey.
Soon the curtain veered north, crossing the mountain range again. Fortunately this occurred at a natural pass, so they were able to get past expeditiously.
They emerged into the rolling countryside that was the main grazing range of the unicorns. Now progress was swift — but the distance was long. They were not yet near the Oracle's palace before night overtook them and forced another halt.
Again the animals grazed, and Stile was about to conjure another tent when the Lady stayed him. "Expend not thy magic superfluously, my Lord. Tonight the open sky suffices for us."
"If that is what thou dost desire, that is what thou shalt have," he agreed. He gathered straw and moss to fashion a bed, and they lay down side by side and looked up at the moons.
"Oh, see — the blue moon rises!" she cried, squeezing his hand.
"Our moon," he agreed. This was sheer delight, being with her, sharing her incidental pleasures.
"Oh, play, my Lord, play," she begged.
Obediently Stile found his harmonica and brought it to his mouth. But something stayed him — an ominous though not unpleasant feeling. He concentrated and placed it. "It was not far from here that I first found this instrument, or thought I found it. Here in the open, riding with Neysa. I conjured it without knowing."
"It is all that remains of my former Lord," she said. "His music and power have since found lodging in thee. Great was my grief at his loss, yet greater is my joy in thee."
"Still it bothers me how he died. Surely he could have saved himself, had he tried."
She stiffened. "I told thee how the demon amulet choked him, so that he could make neither music nor spell."
"Aye. But was not this harmonica always with him?"
"Always. But he could not play it, either, if-"
"And the golem did not remove it?"
"Nay. It was gone ere the golem came."
"Then how did it get out here in the fields for me to conjure? Or, if it were not here, how did it get wherever it hid? It remained not at the Blue Demesnes."
'True," she agreed thoughtfully. "Long and long I searched for it, but it was not with his body."
"Which is strange," Stile said. "He might have conjured it away from him in the instant he knew he would die — but why then did he not use his magic to protect himself? And why did he deny thee the inheritance of his prize possession? Such malice was not his nature, I am sure."
For Stile himself would not have done that. Not without excellent reason.
"He could not have conjured it!" she said, disturbed.
"Then he must have placed it in the field, or hidden it elsewhere, before he died. And that suggests-"
"That he knew he was slated to die!" she exclaimed, shocked. "He deprived himself of his most valued possession. But even without it, no one could have killed him, were he on guard!"
"Unless he intended to permit it," Stile said.
Her shock turned to horror. "No! Nothing I did, no will of mine should have caused him-"
"Of course not," Stile agreed quickly. "He would never have done it because of thee."
"Then what is thine import?"
"That perhaps he knew something, received an omen, that caused him to accept what was coming."
She considered that for some time, her hand clenching and unclenching in his. "Yet what could possibly justify — what was fated?"
"I wish I knew." For Stile's own passage across the curtain had been enabled by that demise of his alternate self. If the Blue Adept had sought to eliminate his brand of magic from the frame, he had acted in vain, for Stile performed it now.
That night they did not make love. They lay and watched the blue moon, and Stile played gently on the mysterious harmonica, and it was enough. Slowly sleep overtook them.
"Be at ease," a man's voice came from nearby. "We have met before, Adept."
Stile controlled his reaction. He still held the harmonica; he could summon his power rapidly. In a moment he placed the half-familiar voice: "Yes, at the Unolympics, Green Adept." He did not want trouble with another Adept — especially not when the Lady Blue was close enough to be hurt by the fallout. He was as yet unable to see the man; probably Green had employed a spell of invisibility, with related obfuscations. Otherwise he could not have gotten by the alert equines.
"I come in peace. Wilt thou grant truce for a dialogue?"
"Certainly." Stile was relieved. By custom verging on law, Adepts did not deceive each other in such matters. What in Phaze could this man want with him at this time?
The Adept became visible. He was a pudgy man of middle age, garbed in green. He looked completely inoffensive — but was in fact one of the dozen most powerful people of Phaze. "Thank thee. I will intrude not long."
A hawk appeared silently behind the Adept. Stile gave no sign. He did not expect treachery, but if it came, there would suddenly be a unicorn's horn in action. If Clip attacked the Green Adept, he risked getting transformed into a clod of dung, but Stile knew he would take that risk if necessary. "Surely thou hast reason."
"It is this, Blue: my sources give thee warning. Go not to the West Pole. Great mischief lies there."
"There is no mischief there," the Lady Blue protested. "It is a sacred place, under truce, like the palace of the Oracle."
"Dost thou think no mischief lies with the Oracle?"
Stile chuckled. "Excellent point, Green. But the Lady and I are on our honeymoon, and our excursion to the West Pole has private significance. Canst thou be more explicit?"
"Why shouldst thou care if mischief comes to a rival Adept?" the Lady demanded. "Thou didst evince no concern, Green, when the life of Blue hung in peril before."
That was an understatement. No other Adept had lifted a finger or made a spell either to warn or to assist the Blue Adept in his severe crisis that had left two Adepts dead or ruined. This sudden concern was suspicious.
"Needs must I then elaborate," Green said heavily. "My Demesnes lie athwart thy route. I would let thee pass unscathed, knowing thy mission — but by that acquiescence I commit myself to thy fate. This is not my desire. I want no part of what befalls thee. Go not to the West Pole — but an thou must go, then go not through the Green Demesnes."
That made sense. The Green Adept had no personal interest in Stile; he merely wanted to make certain he was not implicated in what happened to Stile. If a prophecy decreed doom to all who might facilitate Stile's approach to the West Pole, this step exonerated the Green Adept.
"Now I seek no trouble with thee," Stile began. "But the Lady and I planned to follow the curtain to its terminus, and-"
"And we can bypass the Green Demesnes, in the interest of courtesy," the Lady Blue finished.
Stile shrugged. "The Lady has spoken. Set out warners at thy boundaries, and we shall there detour."
"I shall," Green agreed. "Since thou dost humor my preference, I offer one final word: my sources suggest that if thou dost go to the West Pole, thou wilt suffer grievously in the short term, and in the moderate term will incur the enmity of the most powerful forces of the frame. I urge thee once more to give up this quest. There are other suitable places to honeymoon. The Green Demesnes themselves will be opened to thee, shouldst thou care to tarry there instead."
"I thank thee for thy advice," Stile said. "Yet it seems the end of Phaze draws nigh, and powerful forces already dispose themselves in readiness. The Foreordained has appeared. What is fated, is fated, and I am ready if not eager to play my part."