“Nay. Not mine. I can not love two.”
“With all the qualities I have seen, but versed in Proton culture.” Hulk smiled, liking the notion. “Then thou wouldst not oppose—?”
“That Proton-lady sure as hell is not mine,” Stile said, smiling as he echoed Hulk’s expression. “Go to Proton. It is a different frame. Thou knowest thou canst never bring her here.”
“Yet even for brief visits—it is all I could ask.”
“Cross the curtain, talk to Sheen. Her friends will locate the lady for thee.”
Hulk nodded. He stopped before Stile and put forth his hand. Stile shook it gravely, knowing this was their parting. Hulk would not come to the Blue Demesnes again. Stile felt a certain smouldering resentment that the big man had taken an interest in this particular woman, and a certain relief that there was in this case a solution, and a certain guilt for both the resentment and the relief. Hulk was a good man; he deserved the best, and the best was the Lady Blue. Her Proton alternate surely had similar qualities. So this was a triumph of fortune and common sense—yet it bothered him. He was simply not as generous in his private heart as he was externally. He had some growing to do, yet.
Now he had no guard for the Lady Blue. He could not leave her alone for any length of time; whatever enemy had struck down Stile’s alternate self, the true Blue Adept, would surely strike again now that it was known the Blue Adept had been reconstituted. Stile had been constantly devising and rehearsing spells and strategies to deal with such an attack, and felt reasonably confident he could handle the situation. But suppose the enemy took the Lady Blue hostage and used her against Stile? He could not risk that.
While he pondered, the Lady reappeared. “The ogre prepares to depart. Know ye why?”
“I know,” Stile said.
‘I like this not”
How did she feel about this arrangement? “He is a good man, worthy of the likes of thee, as I am not.” If she grasped his hidden meaning, she gave no sign.
“Worth is not the issue. I have a premonition of doom about him.”
“I confess to being uneasy. I thought it was jealousy or guilt.”
“Those, too,” she agreed, and then he was sure she understood. But she did not elaborate.
He changed the subject. “Now I fear to leave thee here alone—yet must I seek the Flute, lest mine enemy move against me. Neysa will go with me.”
“Is it security thou seekest—or vengeance?”
Stile grimaced, looking at her. “How is it thou knowest me so well?”
“Thou’rt very like my love.”
“Would he not have sought vengeance?”
“For himself, nay. For those he held dear—“ She halted, and he suspected she was remembering her vision of the fiery destruction of the trolls who had wiped out the Blue Adept’s village. Then she met his gaze again. “Without Hulk or Neysa, the Blue Demesnes be not safe for me now. I must go with thee to the Purple Mountains.”
“Lady, it may be dangerous!”
“More dangerous with thee and thy magic than without thee?” she inquired archly. “Have I misjudged thee after all?”
Stile looked askance at her. “I had thought thou dost not crave my company. For the sake of the good work done by the Blue Adept thou callest me lord, but in private we know it is not so. I do not mean to impose my presence on thee more than necessary.”
“And with that understanding, may not the Lady accompany the Lord?”
Stile sighed. He had made due protest against a prospect that in fact delighted him as much as it made him nervous and guilty. “Of course she may.”
The Lady rode a pale blue mare, the offspring of the foal of the Hinny and the Blue Stallion. As she had described, this mare’s color was mainly an echo of the blue harness, but the effect was there. The Blue Stallion had been alive but aging when the Blue Adept was killed; the horse, it was understood, had died of grief.
Stile rode Neysa. He had never ridden another steed since taming her. No horse could match her performance, but it was more than that. Much more.
They crossed the fields south of the Blue Castle and entered the forest adjacent to the Purple Mountain range. Soon they were in the foothills. According to Stile’s references, the geographical tomes collected by his other self, the tribe of the Dark Elves who worked platinum lived on a mountain about fifty miles east of where the convenient curtain-access to Proton was. The animals knew the way, once it had been determined; Neysa had ranged these lands for years and knew the location by description, though she was not conversant with the actual Elven Demesnes. Here the lay of the land was gentle, and the air balmy, with patchwork clouds making the sunshine intermittent. The ride became tedious despite the pleasure of the surroundings. Had Stile been riding alone, he would have slept, trusting Neysa to carry him safely, or have played his harmonica, or simply have talked to the unicorn. But the presence of the Lady Blue in her natural splendor inhibited him.
“It was across this country I rode the Hinny, so long it seems ago,” she remarked.
