“After I married Blue, I went to the Oracle to inquire what kind of children I would have, wasting my lone question in girlish curiosity. The Oracle replied ‘None by One, Son by Two.’ I understood that not until my Lord died: that I would bear children not by my first husband. Oh, I grasped it in part, but did not realize that it was not truly a geas against fertility, but that he would die too soon. I thought he was cursed by sterility—“ Again she broke down, but almost immediately fought out of it. “Thou art my second husband—and before thou dost suicide in this awful mission of vengeance, thou must give me that son!” she concluded with determination.
“My son shall not be raised by a widow!” Stile said.
The Lady turned at last to face him. “I love thee. I have at last confessed it. Shame me not further by this denial. I must have at least this much of thee.”
But already Stile’s mind was working. He loved the Lady Blue, but this sudden force of her return love was too much for his immediate assimilation. He would be ready for it after due reflection; but now, this instant, it was too much like a windfall gift. He somehow feared it would be taken from him as rapidly as it had been bequeathed, and he wanted to protect himself against such loss before getting committed. Love did not make Stile blind; he had learned caution the hard way. So now he looked for the catch. He did not doubt the Lady’s sincerity, or question her desirability; he simply didn’t trust the magic vicissitudes of fate.
“The Oracle always speaks correctly.”
“Aye.” She looked at him questioningly. He was not reacting as her experience of him in two selves had led her to expect.
“Then I will not die until I have given thee thy son. Allow me to wait until I have disposed of the Red Adept, that I may have child and life with thee.”
Her lovely face was transformed by realization. “Yes! Thou must survive! There be no guarantee that thou mayest live one day after thou dost sire a child, unless the threat to thy life be abated before.”
That seemed to be the trap fate had set, the thing that would have made their union brief. Not her change of heart, but his death. Stile’s pause for thought could have saved his life.
But then the Lady Blue thought of something else. “Except that thou art not married to me. If thou dost desist, it may be fated that some other man—loathe the thought!-—will marry me and sire my son. It must be thee, I will not have it otherwise, and therefore—“ How fate wriggled to snare him anyway! Stile had almost missed that loophole.
“That is readily solved,” he said. He took her hands in his. “Lady of the Blue Demesnes, I beg thy hand in marriage.”
“Thou dost not say thou lovest me,” she complained.
“In good time.”
She fought him no longer. “I grant my hand and my heart to thee in marriage,” she agreed, radiant. They went outside. Neysa had returned from her mission, somehow knowing what was in the offing. “My friend,” he said to the unicorn. “I have proposed marriage to the Lady, and she has accepted my suit. Wilt thou be witness to this union?”
Neysa blew a single loud note on her horn. Immediately the wolfpack gathered, the werewolves charging in from all directions. Kurrelgyre changed to man-form. “The mare informs us thou hast won the Lady at last!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations!”
Stile marveled again at how much a unicorn could convey in one note. Then the wolves formed a circle, and Kurrelgyre stood before the couple, and Neysa stood between them in her natural form. There was no doubt in any creature what was happening. “By the authority vested in me as leader of the Pack, I perform this ceremony of mating,” Kurrelgyre said. “Neysa, as friend to each party, dost thou bear witness that this contract be freely sought by this man and this bitch?”
Neysa made a musical snicker.
“This mare—I mean, this woman,” the werewolf said quickly, finally getting it straight. The Lady Blue smiled; well she knew that the appellation “bitch” was no affront in the mouth of a wolf.
Now Neysa blew an affirmative note.
“Wolves and bitches of my pack, do you bear witness to the validity of this contract?” Kurrelgyre inquired rhetorically.
There was a general growl of assent, admixed by a yip or two of excitement. They were enjoying this. “Then I now proclaim the two of you man and mate. Wife,” Kurrelgyre said solemnly. Neysa stepped out from between them.
Stile and the Lady came together. Stile held her at half-distance one more moment. She remained in her blue dress, ordinary daywear, but she was the loveliest creature he could imagine. “Thee . . . Thee . . . Thee,” he said. Then he kissed her.
The shimmer of the oath surrounded them, stirring the Demesnes and touching the fur of the animals and momentarily coloring the grass. For a sweet eternity he embraced her, and when it ended she was in a light blue wedding dress, and a magic sparkle emanated from her.
“Now must I depart to brace the Red Adept,” Stile announced as they separated.
