"Maybe not directly," Stile said. He was getting tired of running afoul of other Adepts! "But I can change us into little fishes, and swim through the mesh and escape."
"Me thou canst change," she agreed. "But thyself thou couldst not change back, since fish can neither speak nor sing. And the hostile Adept might have a monster lurking to pounce on such little fish. Risk it not, my Lord."
It was the voice of common sense. In his present form, Stile could guard them against further evil; anything else was too much of a risk. "Yet needs must we slip this net," he grumbled.
Clip blew a note. "There is that," Stile agreed. "I will watch and guard thee until thou dost clear this vicinity."
The unicorn converted to hawk-form, then squeezed through the net where Stile parted the strands for him. The hawk flew swiftly upward while Stile watched, defensive spells ready.
Now a man walked up. He was ordinary in physical appearance, but wore a robe of translucent material that distorted the light and made him seem one with the water. "Thy friend can not help thee from outside, either," he said. "Thou wilt never escape my Demesnes, Blue."
Stile nodded. "Thou must be the Translucent Adept. I have read of thee, but knew not thy residence."
"No one knows my residence," Translucent said. "Who intrudes, pays the price of silence."
"Why shouldst thou harbor evil against me, who has done thee no ill?"
"Thine ill lies in the future, Blue. An thou dost reach the West Pole, the final battle shall be upon us, and no augur knows what will then befall."
"Dost thou mean to say thou hast had a hand in the mischief I have suffered?" Stile inquired. These might be the Translucent Demesnes, but Stile could strike out if he had reason.
"This net is mine, useful to snare intruders. I have not otherwise wrought ill on thee. Dost thou know the nature of thine adversary?"
"I dispatched the Red Adept," Stile said shortly.
"Red was but an instrument, deluded by a false interpretation of an Oracle — as were the beastheads. Another trap was laid for thee near the Green Demesnes, but Green wished not to be implicated, so he nullified it. Adepts bother not Adepts without cause."
This man was surprisingly informed about Stile's business. "Thou dost consider I gave thee cause for this?" Stile indicated the net.
"By intruding on these my Demesnes thou hast given me cause. I tolerate that not. The net was not set for thee, but for intruders. Never have I let an intruder go, and I need make no exception for thee. This does not implicate me in the conspiracy."
"Conspiracy? Since thou art not involved, not implicated, tell me who is."
"Obviously it is the Oracle itself."
Stile was stunned. "The Oracle? But the Oracle has always helped me and spoken true!"
"Has it?" Translucent's lip curled in a practiced sneer.
And Stile had to wonder. The root of many of his problems did seem to lie with the Oracle. He had assumed that mistakes in interpretation or delivery caused the mischief — but why did the Oracle couch its messages in language that so readily lent itself to confusion? The Oracle knew the future; it must therefore also know the effect of its own words. In some cases, a ready understanding of a prediction might cause a person to change his course of action, making the Oracle's message invalid. Since the Oracle was always correct, some obfuscation became necessary to avoid paradox. Or the message could be couched as an either-or situation, as in the case of the animalheads. But why set it up to cause trouble? The animalheads could have been told, "Let the man on the unicorn pass," and done as well for themselves as possible. It did seem that the message had been couched to discriminate against Stile.
"Why would the Oracle seek to do thee mischief?" the Lady asked.
"I shall leave thee to ponder that at leisure," the Translucent Adept said, and departed.
"At leisure — until we starve?" the Lady asked.
"Maybe I'd better transform us," Stile said.
"Nay," the Lady said. "We are not in immediate danger. Thou canst conjure in food while we await the unicorn's return."
Stile did not feel easy. For one thing, he could not afford to wait indefinitely; he had promised to return to Proton at a specified time, and that time was near. For another, he did not trust the Translucent Adept to let things be; the man knew he could not long keep another Adept captive. He might even now be preparing some more threatening measure. It would be no easier for him to devise a way to destroy Stile than it was for Stile to find a safe escape; they were at an impasse at the moment. How long would that last?
But he hardly had time to worry before the move came. Monstrous pincers forged down from above, closing inexorably on the net. Each section was six feet in diameter, rounded, with a homy surface on one side. No physical way to resist that mass! Stile readied his transformation-spell.
"Wait!" the Lady cried. "That is the giantess!"
Of course! How could he have failed to recognize her colossal fingers? Clip had brought the one creature capable of lifting the net!
The giantess' fingers closed on the net, while Stile and the Lady herded Hinblue as far to one side as possible, avoiding the central pinch. The tremendous rocky finger-nails caught in the ropes. The hand lifted — and the net came up. They were hauled up with it, through the water to the surface, and swung across to land.
Now, too late, it occurred to Stile that he could have done this himself, conjuring a sky hook to lift them all free. Or he might have summoned superpowerful cutting pincers to sever individual strands. Under the pressures of the moment, he had not been thinking well. He would have to school himself to perform better under magical pressure.
Here, beyond the Translucent Demesnes, Stile's magic could overcome the enchantment of the net directly. The strands melted and flowed into the sand, freeing them at last.
"I thank the giantess," Stile said, his voice booming through a conjured megaphone.
"I owe thee for my thimble," she boomed back. "Thank thy friend for showing me the way." She turned and strode northeast, toward the demesnes of the giants. She hummed as she went, making a sound like distant thunder.
Clip was there in natural form, having arrived unobtrusively. "I do thank thee, unicorn," Stile said sincerely. "Again thou hast gotten me out of mischief. I would do thee some return favor."
Clip shifted to man-form. "My sister Neysa bid me look after thee in her stead. She loves thee, and I love her. Say no more, Adept." He shifted back.
Stile said no more. Clip was certainly fulfilling his commission! Most unicorns would not tolerate a human rider at all and had little use for Adepts. Stile had won the respect of the Herd Stallion, so was permitted to ride a unicorn — yet Clip's service was more than that of a mere steed. No friend could have done more. There would have to be a repayment of some sort. He would continue to
language that so readily lent itself to confusion? The Oracle knew the future; it must therefore also know the effect of its own words. In some cases, a ready understanding of a prediction might cause a person to change his course of action, making the Oracle's message invalid. Since the Oracle was always correct, some obfuscation became necessary to avoid paradox. Or the message could be couched as an either-or situation, as in the case of the animalheads. But why set it up to cause trouble? The animalheads could have been told, "Let the man on the unicorn pass," and done as well for themselves as possible. It did seem that the message had been couched to discriminate against Stile.
"Why would the Oracle seek to do thee mischief?" the Lady asked.
"I shall leave thee to ponder that at leisure," the Translucent Adept said, and departed.
"At leisure — until we starve?" the Lady asked.
"Maybe I'd better transform us," Stile said.