“Aye,” Bane agreed. He had devised many conjuration spells, so that he could jump from one spot to another at any time, as he had done to come here from the region of the harpies. “But—methinks a trial run first?”
Stile laughed. “A sensible precaution! We’ll try something innocuous, and complete the full process; then you will know what to expect. What form would you like to try?”
“I think for observation, something small and unnoticed. An insect, perhaps a bee.”
Stile had the spell. He spoke it, and it had no effect on him because he had already used it for himself. Then he described the reversion spell in bee-buzz, making sure Bane understood it. “If you confuse it, you could change back into the wrong form,” he warned. “I could devise a spell to correct the error for you, but I think it best that you handle it yourself.”
“Aye.” For when Bane became the Blue Adept, there would be no one to rescue him from his own errors.
Agape, Agape, Agape!
Bane jumped. “She invoked the spell I gave her!” he exclaimed. “She be in danger!”
“Your spell should protect her,” Stile said. “But you don’t want to interfere before she is ready. Still, you want to be sure she is safe.”
“How canst thou know my thought so perfectly?”
“I knew it when I first loved your mother. Change now, and I will conjure you to her vicinity; this is an ideal test situation.”
Bane realized it was true. He wanted, in effect, to spy on Agape, to be sure she was safe without intruding on her presence. He sang the bee spell, and in a moment was crashing to the floor, unable to fly.
“Think bee,” Stile said, looking down at him. “Rev up your wings gently, until you have the technique and the balance.”
Bane followed directions, and in a moment was hovering somewhat unsteadily, a few inches above the floor.
“Now I will conjure you to her vicinity,” Stile said. He sang a spell—and Bane was back at the open plain, still struggling to maintain equilibrium in air.
He flew in a wobbly circle, and ascended. His bee senses informed him that this was indeed the proper region. A bee wasn’t smart, but did have excellent positional awareness.
Not far distant a dragon was snorting. That was reason enough for concern! He put forth more energy and buzzed toward it, gaining proficiency in flight.
There was no sign of Agape. That was as it should be, for his spell made her undetectable by ordinary means. It was really a rhyming invocation, her name rhyming with itself as the inflections differed, and it was not her magic, but his; her speech triggered his performance. It was one of the useful devices he had mastered in his years of study: the Blue parallel to the Red amulets or the Brown golems, operating away from the creator. Most Adepts could do similar magic; only the forms of it differed.
The dragon was casting about, trying to find its vanished prey. Soon it flew away, frustrated. Bane relaxed; Agape was safe, and after a while the spell would wear off.
Then another shape winged in. It was a harpy! That was another kind of danger. But how did the harpy know where Agape was? For the ugly bird was definitely orienting on something. “Who calls? Who calls?” she screeched. “I smelled thy signal, but I see thee not!”
Smelled her signal?
“Damn!” the harpy fussed, mildly enough for her kind. “Mayhap the dragon got him, ere the smell o’ my burned feather reached me!”
Now Bane remembered. Mach had made friends with a harpy! There had been a passing thought about it. The harpy must have come to help.
“Here I am.” That was Agape’s voice. The spell allowed her to make herself known when she chose, and of course it was fading anyway.
Bane hovered nearby long enough to verify that the harpy was called Phoebe, and that she was helping. While it was true that the harpies were among the most dirty and vicious of flying creatures, it was also true that hardly any other creature sought to interfere with one. Agape should be safe enough for a time in the company of Phoebe.
He flew to a reasonable distance, then buzzed out the spell for the return transformation. He got it right; in a moment he was a man again. He stood in his normal clothing: part of the magic was the transformation of apparel into fur or skin, in the fashion of the unicorns or werewolves. Quickly he conjured himself back to the Blue Demesnes.
“She be safe for now,” he reported, vastly relieved. “She has a harpy friend.”
“Fleta made that friend,” Stile agreed. “I think I learned from my experience with Trool the Troll that any species, no matter how vile seeming, can have good representatives, if correctly approached.”
“I think I be ready now to spy on the Adepts,” Bane said. “The test was a success.”
“First rest a day,” Stile said. “Then we’ll send you out in the morning.”
Bane realized that much had happened recently, and he was tired. “The morning,” he agreed.
Thus it was that the next day he found himself in butterfly form—the flying mode of this creature was easier to relate to than that of the bee—near the Orange Demesnes. He had taken the precaution of becoming well adapted to his form before being conjured to this vicinity, so that he would not nutter about inadequately and perhaps call attention to himself. But in getting that practice he had used energy, and now in the presence of the many exotic blooms of the Orange Demesnes he was hungry. So he flitted from flower to flower, sampling as many as he could and thoroughly enjoying himself.
However, he did not forget his mission. He wanted to spy on the Orange Adept, and learn if he could what mischief the Adverse Adepts were plotting. Stile was not paranoid; if he suspected trouble, then trouble was surely in the making.
The Adept lived in a tiny shack in the center of an overgrown vale in a jungle forest. Bane fluttered closer to the shack, but it showed no sign of life. The Adept was either asleep or absent. In either event, Bane was not accomplishing much. It had not occurred to him that spying would be this dull!
Then a bird swooped down. Oops! Bane plunged for the tangled ground, avoiding the predator. But the bird swerved to follow, with marvelous accuracy. It had far more speed and power than Bane did, and was evidently determined to snap up this morsel.
Bane could not do other magic in this form. As the bird took his body, he invoked the conversion spell in butterfly language, and became a man.
The bird, startled, winged immediately for distant parts. Bane was safe—except that he now stood in his normal form in the heart of the Orange Demesnes. That was dangerous!
He took a step—and encountered ferocious brambles the butterfly hadn’t noticed. Indeed, they were coiling about his legs, nudging their thorns into position for best effect. No easy way out of this!
There was no help for it: he would have to conjure himself out, and hope that the Adept was absent, because magic of this magnitude would surely alert him otherwise. That could make him, and therefore all the Adverse Adepts, aware that they were being spied on by someone, and it would not take them long to guess whom.
He conjured himself to the center of the Purple Mountain range. He hoped that if Orange were aware of the conjuration, and traced it, he would assume that another Adept had stopped by. This might not be the best of ploys, but it was all he could think of in the pressure of the moment.
He was tempted to check on Agape and the harpy, if they remained together, but resisted the impulse. If an Adept were tracing his course, he hardly wanted to lead that hostile man to Agape!
He conjured himself to the White Mountain range, and finally home. He had expended a number of valuable spells, but it seemed a necessary precaution, doubly hiding his true destination.