Stile donned the shirt, shaking his head no, embarrassed both by the turn the conversation had taken and the act of assuming clothing. On Proton this would be socially and legally horrendous!
The shirt should have been large, but somehow turned out to fit him perfectly. He was coming to accept minor magic as the matter of course it was.
“Well, that’s overrated anyway,” Clip continued. “If I ever found a nubile but virginal human girl, it sure wouldn’t be my head I’d put in her lap!”
Stile smiled appreciatively, coming to like the expressive and uninhibited male. “What would a unicom—or, one in equine form—want with a human girl anyway?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” The trousers were passed over. “The Herd Stallion co-opts all the best unicorn mares, which leaves us young males hard up. A unicorn does not live by grain alone, thou knowest! So though human flesh is less sweet than equine, even the touch of a fair maiden’s hand is—“
“I begin to get the picture.” The trousers fit perfectly also. Stile suppressed another twinge of guilt, donning clothing; this was not Proton, and clothing lacked the significance it had there. Out here in the wilderness, clothing became functional on more than a social basis.
“Yet that being the case, an attractive mare shouldn’t have any trouble—“
Neysa abruptly turned away. Clip lowered his voice. “All right, man. I see thou really knowest not, and thou’dst better. There are horses in unicorn ancestry— not nice to mention it, any more than the apes in thine ancestry—“
“There are no apes in my—“
“See what I mean? Sensitive subject. But on occasion there are throwbacks. When a unicorn is birthed without a horn—that is, without the horn-button; couldn’t have a full horn before birth, of course—it is killed in simple mercy. But color is a borderline matter. If it is otherwise perfect, that unicom is permitted to survive. But there is always that stigma.” Clip frowned, glancing covertly at Neysa.
“Neysa—is colored like a horse,” Stile said, catching on. “So she is outcast.”
“Thou hast it. It is no official thing, for she is a full unicorn, but the Herd Stallion won’t breed her, and of course none of the lesser males dare. Nobody touches a young mare without the Herd Stallion’s permission, and he won’t give it—because that would seem to infringe on his prerogative. Our kind is like that; simple logic is no substitute for pride. Some would have it that mules are the stubbornest of equines, but that is a dastardly slight on the stubbornness of the unicorn. So for two seasons now Neysa has gone unbred—all because of her color. And maybe her size.”
Stile realized that his effort of the past night did not count. He was a man, not a stallion. He could play with a female like Neysa, but could never breed her, any more than a stallion in human form could breed a human girl. “This is outrageous! She’s a fine Unicom! The Stallion should either breed her or free her.”
“Thou knowest thou’rt only a man,” Clip said, handing Stile the rapier. “But thy personality hath its re-deeming aspects. Thou really likest Neysa?”
“I chose her because she was the finest steed I’d ever seen,” Stile said seriously. “I loved her in that fashion from the start. To me there is no better creature than a perfect—equine.”
“So thou never, until I spoke to thee, knew what was wrong with her?”
“There is nothing wrong with her!” Stile snapped.
“Agreed.” Clip was highly gratified. “Well, I’m supposed to fill thee in on our world. There is little to tell. We unicorns are the dominant animal form, except perhaps in some corners of the pasture where the were-wolves and vampires range, and we’re really better off than the human peasants. Anyone can do magic, but most humans don’t, because of the Adepts.”
“Adepts?”
“Like Herd Stallions or wolf Pack Leaders, only it’s magic, not mares or bitches they pre-empt. Each Adept has his special style of enchantment, and he’s awfully good in his specialization. I said unicorns were proof against foreign spells, but Adepts are another matter. If an Adept should be after thee—“
“I see. What defense would I have against one of these super-sorcerers?”
“No defense suffices, except to hide—and sooner or later an Adept will find thee. They have charms and amulets and familiars spread throughout the realm of Phaze, spying out the news. There’s hardly any limit to the powers of an Adept. In fact—that’s it! The Oracle!”
“A fortune-teller?”
“More than that. There is no magic in the temple of the Oracle, and nobody is coerced therein. It is sacred ground. I’ll bet that’s where Neysa is taking thee. Well, then, that covers it. I’ll be off.” He shimmered back into unicorn form and galloped away, his horn and hooves sounding the charge.
Stile had wanted to know more about Adepts and the Oracle. Well, perhaps Neysa would tell him, if he asked her nicely. Clip had certainly helped a great deal.
They rode west again, playing brief duets, enjoying themselves. Stile realized that the music of unicorns served another purpose: it alerted friends and foes to their presence. Unicorns were fighting animals; most creatures would prefer to avoid them, and so the sound of the horn cleared the way conveniently. Stile saw rabbits and turtles and an armadillo, but no predators. In short, only creatures that were noncompetitive with unicorns.
The terrain was highly varied, lush fields giving way to rocky slopes, swamps, open water and badlands sand. To the north and south the twin mountain ranges continued. The northern peaks were all snow-covered, virtually impassable to any creature with less power and determination than a unicorn; the southern ones seemed to be warmer, unless purple was the color of their snow. Curious! Something about this rugged landscape nagged him, a nascent familiarity, but he was unable to place it.
In the evening Neysa halted again, giving herself time to graze, and Stile foraged for his own sustenance. He found ripe corn growing, and blackberries. He thought of corn as fall produce, and blackberries as spring, but perhaps this world differed from others in its fruiting seasons too. On Proton anything could grow at any time, in the domes. Nonetheless, these edibles were suspiciously fortuitous—unless Neysa had known of this place and come here deliberately. Yes, of course that was it; she was taking excellent care of him.
In the night, after moonrise, she changed again. Stile hoped she would show him her firefly form, but she went directly to human. “You know, Neysa, you’re about the prettiest girl I’ve seen—but I think I like you best in your natural form.”
She smiled, flattered, and kissed him. She didn’t mind being complimented on her unicorn body. She had spent her life stigmatized for a supposedly defective color, and obviously appreciated Stile’s appreciation. This was no doubt the key to her initial acceptance of him. He really did admire her as she was, and was perhaps the first creature unrelated to her to do so. So though she had fought him, in the end she had not wanted to kill him.
“The Oracle—“ he began. But she only kissed him again.
She wasn’t talking. Ah, well. The stubbornness of unicorns! She had other virtues. He kissed her back.
Next morning she gave him some pointers on the use of the rapier. Stile had used a sword before, as fencing was one of the aspects of the Game. But by an anomaly of circumstance he had practiced with the broadsword, not the rapier. This light, thin sword was strange to him—and if it were the kind of weapon commonly used in this world, he had better master it in a hurry.
Neysa was expert. Stile had supposed a unicorn would not care to have the weapon of an opponent so close to the tender eyes, ears, and nose—but the proximity of her organs of perception gave her marvelous coordination with her weapon. Stile soon learned he could thrust without fear for her; his point would never score. Even if it should happen to slip through her guard, what would it strike? The heavy bone of her forehead, buttressing the horn. It would take more of a thrust than a man like him could muster to penetrate that barrier.