Out of Phaze (34 page)

“I’m not giving up that machine!” Citizen Purple said. “You know why!”

“Then defend yourself, cretin,” Blue said. The screen went blank.

“No!” Agape cried. “Don’t let them hurt him! I’ll go back!”

Blue put his hand on hers. “Be not concerned, lovely creature. We shall have him soon safe.”

But Agape had seen the malice of Citizen Purple firsthand. She was terrified of what was about to happen.

When her keen equine ears picked up the distant commotion, Fleta knew it was time to act. Bane had used his magic to nullify the amulet tied to her horn; it no longer bound her.

She changed to hummingbird form, letting the harness drop. She darted to the magic screen, but could not pass. Her magic had been restored, but its magic had not been nullified. She needed the amulet.

She darted back and tried to pick up the fallen amulet, but it was too heavy for her present form to manage. Already the troll on guard was staring, about to cry the alarm. But the troll was outside the cell, and could not get in.

She changed to girl form, stooped, picked up the amulet, and hurled it at the barrier. There was a sparkle as it burned through, then dropped outside. She marked the place, then changed back to bird form and darted at that invisible hole. She folded her wings and slid through, feeling the terrible pressure of the barrier’s magic against her tiny body. A hole the diameter of a unicorn’s horn was a tight squeeze even for her present form!

She wriggled on out of it, spread her wings again, and darted under the troll’s ugly nose and on down the hall. She was out of the cell, but not really free yet. She had to win clear of the Purple Adept’s Demesnes entirely.

Fortunately her present form had a good sense of smell, especially for the things of nature, such as the bloom of flowers. She could trace the currents of fresh air. She flew upcurrent, following the freshness to its source: a vent-shaft leading to the surface. It was covered by a grille, but the holes in it were large enough for her to pass. She flew up and out—and almost into the clutches of a harpy.

Knowing that the harpy would snatch her and kill her, she changed immediately to girl form and dived for a stick with which to fight it off. Unicorn form would have been better, but she knew that any appearance of a unicorn here would alert the Adept; she couldn’t risk that.

Her ploy worked. “A vampire!” the harpy screeched, mistaking her fleeting glimpse of the hummingbird for a bat. “What do ye in Harpy Demesnes?”

“Just passing through,” Fleta said, holding the stick ready.

“Well, this will end thy travels!” the harpy screeched, and launched herself, talons extended.

Fleta smashed the dirty bird with her stick, with mixed result. The harpy was knocked to the ground, but the stick was rotten, and shattered.

“O, I’m going to skewer thee!” the harpy screeched, righting herself and spreading her gross wings again. Like all her kind, she was a tough old bird.

Fleta fled. She wanted no contact with those poisoned claws! As a unicorn, she was proof against most magic, regardless of the form she assumed. So the poison would not kill her, but it would make her sick and leave an ugly scar. She outdistanced the harpy and concealed herself in thick brush. Too bad it wasn’t that easy to foil an Adept! But of course nothing could foil an Adept, except another Adept.

But the harpy’s commotion attracted others of her kind. There was rustling all along the forested slope. Fleta knew she was in real trouble now; even in unicorn form she would have trouble breaking out of this. They would soon sniff her out.

Then she remembered Phoebe’s feather. She brought it out and set it on the ground. Then she changed to unicorn form and struck her hoof against a rock, making a spark. The spark jumped to the feather and started it burning. Then Fleta changed back to girl form, hoping Phoebe would quickly smell the smoke. That was the secret of that “magic,” of course: each harpy could detect her own essence from almost any distance. Some harpies used their own excrement to mark off hunting territories.

But Phoebe was some distance away, while the other harpies were close. And the wind was wrong. If the smoke did not reach her, or if it took too long to carry Fleta’s summons. . .

“I smell a bat!” a harpy screeched, close by. That was an exaggeration; it was the hummingbird she had winded.

Fleta cast about desperately for some escape. She knew she could not make a break for it through the air; she could maneuver well, but could not outfly the harpies in a straight-line effort. But how could she hide, when they smelled her?

She spied a small hole in a nearby trunk. She did not trust such holes, for anything could be in them, but now she had to risk it. The harpy was already lumbering into sight. She shifted back to hummingbird form and darted in.

She was in luck. The hole was empty, though by the smell it had on occasion been used by a wren.

Almost immediately, the body of the harpy thunked into the trunk. A talon plunged into the hole. “Gotcha, batbrain!”

But again it was enthusiasm rather than accuracy. The hole was deep, and Fleta was able to wedge herself back beyond the range of the talon. The dirty birds couldn’t get her. Now she had only to wait. She hoped.

“So it be that way, eh?” the harpy screeched. “Well, I’ll spit on thee!”

Oops! A harpy’s spittle, like her poison, was vile stuff. If a globule of that caught Fleta, it would foul her unmercifully. It wouldn’t really hurt her, but it would be a singularly unpleasant experience.

The harpy spat. The stuff splatted against the side of the hole. The fumes from it wafted back, making Fleta want to retch. She had trouble breathing. How much of this could she take?

Then Phoebe arrived. Fleta spied her as she crossed that slit of the sky visible through the hole’s entrance. Even from a distance, her fright-wig hairstyle identified her. She thumped in as other harpies were clustering close, seeking to add their gross spittle to the game. “Mine! Mine!” Phoebe screeched.

“But I saw this vampire first!” another harpy screeched.

“And what kind of coiffure dost thou have?” Phoebe demanded.

That settled it. The others backed off. Fleta crawled out of the hole, avoiding the spittle as well as she could, and breathed the relatively fresh air outside with enormous relief.

Phoebe clung to the trunk with her talons. “So thou dost manifest as a vampire now?” she inquired in an uncharacteristically low tone so as not to be overheard by the others.

“Unicorns be not safe here,” Fleta said.

“That be for sure! Well, I will keep thy secret. Where be thy companion, the handsome apprentice?”

“Captive of the Purple Adept. But I think he can escape, if I be free, so as to be no burden to him.”

“I can free thee,” Phoebe said. “I will carry thee forth as prey, and none will challenge me.”

Could she trust this harpy this far? Phoebe was a friend, but she was a harpy, and might forget herself.

But it was a good idea. Fleta realized that this was a better gamble than trying to get away alone. “Canst catch me without hurting?”

“Aye. But fly not too far.”

Fleta spread her wings as if fleeing, and launched herself upward. The harpy spread her own wings almost simultaneously, whomped up, and performed a marvelous snatch. She took Fleta’s tiny form in a talon, not closing it tightly, and pumped on up into the sky. “I will consume this morsel at leisure!” she screeched to the others. “Begone, dullheads!”

Disappointed, the other harpies dispersed somewhat.

Phoebe bore northeast, toward the plains of the unicorns. Two other harpies hovered in the sky, peering about, but none challenged Phoebe. That coiffure really gave her status!

As the sun stood near its zenith, Phoebe set her down, well within unicorn territory. Fleta assumed her natural form and played a brief melody of thanks on her horn.

“Unicorns be no special friends o’ mine,” Phoebe said. “But they can play pretty, I confess!” She took off for the sky again.

The favor they had done the harpy had been well repaid. Fleta was free. She did a leap and a distance with the Unicorn Strut, the five-beat gait no other creature could match.

Then she came to ground, as it were. She was free— but what about Mach? Or Bane? Bane might even now be fighting his way free of the Purple Adept—but maybe not. She had better get to the Blue Demesnes and inform them of the situation.

She set off for the castle at a gallop. It was not far from the Unicorn Demesnes, and before long she arrived.

The Lady Stile come out to greet her. The Lady, Bane’s mother, was a handsome figure of a woman in her forties, well regarded by all the animals of the region. “Why, Fleta, what brings thee here?” she inquired.

Fleta changed to girl form. “Bane be captive of the Purple Adept!” she panted.

“Nay, no longer,” the Lady said.

‘Thou dost know?”

“Come talk with Stile,” the Lady said.

Fleta followed her inside. In an interior study the Adept sat, smaller than Fleta’s human form, but awing her with his aura of power. He was of course garbed in blue.

“Bane be on the way here,” Stile said to Fleta. “He has just finished talking with a mermaid.”

“A mermaid?”

Stile smiled. “He was saved from harm by Translucent, who wishes to persuade him to carry messages to Proton for the other Adepts. Now he must decide. His problem is that he fears a friend in Proton is held captive by enemy Citizens. I think he will wish to return there to free her, or to verify her safety.”

“Thou dost know all this—and didst do nothing?” Fleta asked, confused.

“I have been attuned to my son since seeing the two of you yesterday. After your capture by Purple, I watched closely. Mach returned to Proton, and Bane returned to his own body. Thee I did not watch, Fleta; it be no easy thing to snoop undetected on the affairs of another Adept, and my son I had to guard against harm.”

“Thou couldst have rescued Bane—and did not?” Fleta asked, appalled.

“I could have, and would have. But there were two counter-indications. First, Bane must learn to handle his own problems, and experience be the finest teacher. Had he been near death, I would have snatched him from it, but I hoped not to have to do that. Second, I had to know exactly what the Adverse Adepts contemplated—and that, thanks to Bane, I have now determined. I am glad thou didst win free, too.”

Fleta was no human being, but she found this to be more cynical than she could accept. To allow his own son to be in danger of death, just to snoop on the plans of other Adepts! She could not express her anger openly, for Stile was an Adept who had greatly benefited her Herd and many other animals, but it prompted her to to something almost as foolish. “Dost thou know I love Mach?” she asked.

Stile gazed at her with disturbing speculation. “I know that thou didst always care for Bane,” he said.

“Not Bane. Mach. From Proton-frame. I love him—and methinks he loves me.”

“That can never be,” Stile said, and turned away.

Fleta started to speak, but the Lady caught her by the arm and urged her out. When they were clear of the room, the Lady said softly: “Bait not my husband, Fleta. He hath much on his mind.”

Bait? They did not believe her!

And why should they? A human man, the son of an Adept, loving a unicorn? Or a golem from the other frame, with a unicorn? Why should anyone take that seriously?

She had struggled to come here, to bear news they didn’t need. The love she felt was a thing of no consequence to them.

“I thank thee, Lady,” she said. “I shall go to my Herd.”

But the Lady’s hand was on her arm. “Dost thou suppose I know not what it means to love one from the other frame? But Mach can come here only at the expense of our son.”

And how could that be? Of course they would not give up their son!

Then the Lady was holding her, and Fleta was sobbing into her shoulder. The Lady did understand—but understood also the cost. It was not a cost Fleta could ask of them.

Fleta disengaged and left the castle. About to change back to her natural form, she spied an approaching figure.

It was Bane. He had returned, as his father had said he would. Now the bad Adepts had no hostages.

Bane looked at her. He looked exactly like the man she loved. “How dost thou feel about Mach?” he asked.

Fleta dissolved into tears again.

“I know not what be right,” Bane said.

“Thy father will tell thee,” she said. Then she changed, and galloped away, ashamed of her longing. Of course she could not condemn her friend Bane to exile in Proton-frame, for the sake of her own private joy with his other self.

She proceeded back to the Herd Demesnes, knowing she had to talk to her dam, Neysa. She had to know— what she did not know.

She located the Herd by nightfall. She checked in with the Herd Stallion, who was her uncle Clip. She was safely out of heat now, so this visit was all right. Belle, Clip’s first mare and still his favorite, grazed nearby, her mane glinting iridescently. But it was Neysa she had come to see.