Unicorn Point (2 page)

The shadow of the monster was coming close, and the griffin itself was descending, its front talons reaching down. Stile readied his spell, but withheld it; he did not want to affront Neysa by demonstrating a lack of faith in her effort. Now she had reached the Lattice, and her hot hooves were clattering on its pattern of little cracks. Those cracks were widening into crevices, and the crevices to deep clefts, as they penetrated to the center of the region.

Soon Neysa was stepping across enlarging gaps, and then jumping over them. The gaps were now broader than the landing places, and the ratio continued to shift. That was the devastating thing about the Lattice; the farther it went, the worse it got. There was a way across it, but that way was devious, like a route through a maze, and could not be navigated blindly. The griffin hovered above as if uncertain how to proceed; perhaps it was not familiar with this network.
 
Then it folded its wings and dropped down toward them.
 
Neysa leaped down into a channel, surprising Stile. Now the walls of it rose up on either side. In a moment the two of them were below the level of the surface, and the griffin could not follow, because its wingspan was far too broad. Neysa had succeeded in avoiding it!

But at a price. Now the demons of this domain showed, and they were not friendly to man or unicorn. They ducked into cross-passages to avoid the spearing unicorn point, but only just far enough to let Neysa pass; then they closed in behind. She could of course run on through and up and out the far side of the Lattice—but the griffin hovered above, evidently waiting for that. Had they played into its trap?
 
“Maybe if we go on through, I can throw a spell at the griffin as we come out,” Stile suggested. “There has to be Adept involvement, so—“ She sounded a note of agreement. They both knew that they could not afford to dally long here in the Lattice, for the demons would surround them and set up a barrier to stop the plunging unicorn. Then they would have to deal with the demons, and it would be messy, because this was the demons’ home territory. But this intrusion had caught the demons by surprise, so they had not yet massed or organized sufficiently, and would not be able to do so before Neysa galloped on out.
 
They passed the nadir of the Lattice, and began the gradual incline toward the escape at the far side. Stile watched the griffin above, ready to time his spell so as to stun it as their heads came out of the chasm.

Suddenly Neysa faltered. Her stride broke, and she ground to a painful halt. Stile was almost thrown from her back, because he had been watching the sky rather than the Lattice, and had not seen the obstruction. Now his eyes wrenched down—and there was no obstruction.

The demons were advancing, appearing from all the inter locking crevices of the demon warren. This was evidently no surprise to them!

“Neysa—what happened?” he cried, dismounting. He could see that she was in pain.

She changed form, becoming a woman of about his own age, petite and fit and attractive, but graying in the forehead, exactly as in her mare form. “Founder,” she breathed in anguish.

Now he saw that her hands were held awkwardly, the fingers gnarling, the joints swelling. Her feet, also, were swollen. She was in serious trouble. “Change to firefly form,” he urged her. “That will take the weight off your feet.” But demons were closing in, and some had nets; they were prepared for this also.

Stile sighed. He knew better than to try to reason with this type of demon. He would have to back them off with magic.
 
He took a breath.

Abruptly the demons froze in place. Stile gaped; he hadn’t done it! This was very powerful magic; who had interceded?
 
The griffin landed just above. It changed form. Suddenly a young man stood there, hair tousled, handsome.
 
“Bane!” Stile cried, surprised and relieved.
 

“No, Mach,” the man replied. “I am sorry; I did not mean to drive you into the Lattice. I see Neysa ran afoul of the demons’ founder spell. My fault; I will abate it,”

“Mach!” Stile said. Normally he could tell them apart, though they used the same body; their manners differed. His distraction of the moment had dulled his perception. “Why were you pursuing us?”

“You can be hard to locate, Adept,” Mach said with a smile. “The other Adepts watch you, of course, but I never bothered to spy on you. I prefer to search you out at need.
 
So I assumed a form I knew you would recognize as alien to Phaze. But then you wanted to make a game of it, so I played that game. I did not realize that would put Neysa in the way of the founder spell.”

A game! Stile realized that he had been dull; he should have realized that. Had he just taken the trouble to sing an identification spell, instead of letting Neysa run—

“Dam Neysa, if I may ...” Mach said. Abruptly the woman straightened, her pain gone, her hands and feet unkinking. The Robot Adept had freed her without showing any sign of magic; no sung spell, no gesture. It was a power Stile could only envy. Originally Mach had been clumsy with magic, his attempted spells going awry, but after the Red Adept had trained him with the Book of Magic he had be come the most powerful of all the Adepts, Bane included. He should have been on Stile’s side—had Stile not blundered calamitously.

Neysa resumed her unicorn form, and Stile mounted. They moved out of the Lattice. Mach awaited them at the edge.
 
“I thought we weren’t associating,” Stile said with a smile as they emerged. “Aren’t you on the other side?”

“Would I be, if we had the past five years to live over?”

“No.” Indeed, the major reason for Stile’s opposition to Mach’s union with Fleta had been nullified by events. He had needed an heir who was Adept, and offspring by that heir who would also be Adept, so as to have the continuing power to hold off the Adverse Adepts. He had thought that there could be no offspring of man and unicorn, and that a robot could not become Adept. Had he known what was to happen, he would have welcomed Mach as a savior, instead of opposing him as an interference.

“I gave my word, and Bane gave his,” Mach said. “We would have chosen otherwise, and still our sympathies lie with you, but our word is sacred, so we work for the other side. Because the Adepts know we can be trusted, we have complete freedom.”

“I would not have it otherwise,” Stile said sadly.

“But there are advantages for you also,” Mach continued.
 
“Because of this, the Adepts are bound to take no action against you personally, and the children are free to visit you and Citizen Blue. We are also working to make the shift in power more compatible; the status of the unicorns, were wolves and vampires is being safeguarded. There will not be the disaster there might otherwise have been.”

“But once the Adepts achieve power, will their guarantees be honored?” Stile asked grimly.

“Translucent’s will.”

“But how long will he retain power, once the others see no further need for his leadership?”

“That is not our business,” Mach said, frowning.
 
“But it is mine. We all know the nature of the leadership I represent; none know the nature of the leadership that will emerge from the Adverse Adepts once their present constraints are gone, but it will surely be inimical to Phaze.”

“My word binds me,” Mach said tightly. “I would not use my power directly against you, and do not use it for the Adepts, but to the extent they can profit from my contact with Bane, they are entitled. I think it is fair to say that this profit is significant.”

“It is overwhelming,” Stile admitted. “If I can not stop it soon, I will lose hope of ever doing so.”

“I have no comment.”

Of course he didn’t. He knew that what he was doing was shifting the balance to favor the Adverse Adepts in Phaze, and the Contrary Citizens in Proton, but he was bound by his word. Surely he hoped that Stile would somehow prevail, but doubted that this was possible. Thus had events mocked their preferences. “Why did you seek me?” Stile asked.
 
“It is personal. In three days Flach will visit you for a week, as he has been doing every month. We are concerned about him, and hope you can help.”

 
“Flach is a fine lad,” Stile said. “A joy to Neysa as much as to me, despite our foolishness in opposing his generation.
 
He thrives as both man and unicorn, and we always look forward to his presence.”

“But we expect more of him,” Mach said. “By this time he should be developing his third form, and perhaps progressing to others, as well as learning magic. But he shows no sign of this, and has become increasingly withdrawn. Fleta fears he is retarded.”

Neysa made a musical snort of negation. “He is not retarded,” Stile said.

“But four-year-old unicorn colts generally have mastered their third forms,” Mach said. “And they are open, expressive, inquiring. Flach is not. We fear that something is bothering him, or that he is coming to recognize his inadequacy compared to the unicorns, so is withdrawing. Will you explore this?”

“I hardly need to,” Stile said. “I know the lad is advanced rather than retarded, and is developing powers we hardly anticipate. Your concern is groundless.”

Mach shook his head grimly, not wanting to contradict his elder, but certain he knew better. “Fleta and I know you will do what you can for him,” he said.

“Always,” Stile agreed gruffly. “I assure you that your son will surprise you.”

“I hope so,” Mach said. He glanced at Neysa. “Fleta asks your forgiveness.”

Neysa faced away. This had become almost routine: Fleta had alienated her dam by marrying Mach and joining the cause of the Adverse Adepts, and that remained unforgiven.
 
Neysa well understood and respected Fleta’s reason, but felt she should not have surrendered principle for love. Neysa herself had not. Thus Neysa did not associate with Fleta any more than the barest minimum necessary to fetch Flach and return him. Fleta longed for a change, but it never came.
 
Unicorns of the old school were unyielding.
 

“Then we part,” Mach said regretfully. “I shall return to Proton; Bane will be in touch.” He became the griffin, spread his wings, and launched into the air. Soon he was gone.
 
“I know you want to restore relations with Fleta,” Stile said as they resumed their journey. “Perhaps some day some thing will enable it.”

Neysa did not answer, but that was answer enough. Her nature prevented her from forgiving her offspring, but she loved Fleta, and hoped that some legitimate avenue of forgiveness would develop. Just as Stile hoped that he would somehow be able to prevail over the Adverse Adepts. Perhaps both hopes were futile—but perhaps not.
 
For there was much that was not spoken. All of them knew that the Adverse Adepts kept constant watch on Stile and Neysa and the Lady Blue, so as to block any action they might initiate against the Adepts. Anything spoken was over heard and analyzed. Perhaps the Adepts were foolish enough to believe that there were no unspoken plans, but Stile doubted that.

So he said nothing truly private aloud. This had become automatic these past five years. But he spoke freely of other things, so as to maintain the semblance of carelessness, and also to fatigue the snoopers with trivia. That way if some thing private slipped out, it just might be overlooked. After all, constant surveillance was also a constant drain on their magic.

“Mach’s power is greater than I had thought,” he said.
 
“He cured your founder without seeming effort. I could have done it, but not nearly so readily.”

She made a musical agreement. Unicorns were resistive to incidental magic, but Adept magic was hardly incidental. The demons must have plotted for a long time to obtain and place that founder spell, and it had been devastatingly effective. Yet Mach had nullified both the demons and spell as if such magic was child’s play—which perhaps it was, now, to him. Stile was glad that the Robot Adept was not his enemy, even if he was not his ally.

They traveled north, now, not running but not dawdling.
 
Stile had an appointment to meet Icebeard, the snow demon leader who was also a chess master. They had played several correspondence games since getting started when the demon agreed to train Mach in chess; the demon had wanted to play Stile to determine who was the ultimate chess master of Phaze. Since Stile preferred a fair game, even though Mach was on the other side, he agreed, and had played the demon, and it had been an excellent game. But it had concluded in a draw, and so had the following ones. Finally the demon had suggested that they play a “live” game, with time limits, and another, and another, until they had one that did not draw, and that would determine who was champion. Of course there were variants of chess that prohibited draws, but both of them were conservatives in this respect: for the championship they preferred the classic game. So Stile was on his way to play, though Icebeard was of the enemy camp; this was another advantage of the truce. But there was more to it than chess, as Neysa knew.

For Stile had spoken accurately when he said that his grandson (and Neysa’s) was advanced rather than retarded, and would surprise his father. Mach had dismissed that as optimism or encouragement, but it was neither. Stile had been training the lad, and soon the extent of Flach’s progress would become known. But that revelation had to be coordinated with action in the frame of Proton relating to Nepe, the child of Bane and Agape, because the moment one child’s abilities were revealed, the other would be suspect.
 
Flach was only four years old, and indeed he could change freely between his human and unicorn forms. But he could also assume other forms, unknown to his parents.