“Never. I termed it unuseful, in the sense that surely there is some simpler way to achieve thy mission with the Herd Stallion than this. Misinterpretations may abate the worth of an Oracle’s message, but always the essence is there and true. There must be some pattern to this. There-fore must we deal with thee, can we but find the way. Thou knowest that even for the briefest loan we must extract a price.”
“I am prepared to offer fair exchange, though I know not what that might be.”
“There is little we need from thy kind.”
“I do have resources, shouldst thou choose to tolerate the practice of magic in thy Demesnes. Is there anything that requires the talent of an Adept?”
Pyreforge considered gravely. “There be only two things. The lesser is not a task any man can perform, and the greater is unknown even to us. We know only that it must be performed by the finest mortal musician of Phaze.”
“I do not claim to be the finest musician, but I am skilled,” Stile said.
The wizened elf raised a shriveled eyebrow. “Skilled enough to play the Flute?”
“I am conversant with the flute as an instrument. I should be able to play the Platinum Flute unless there be a geas against it.”
The Elder considered again. He was obviously ill at ease. “It is written that he who plays the Flute well enough to make our mountain tremble will be the foreordained savior of Phaze. Dost thou think thou art that one?”
Stile spread his hands. “I doubt it. I was not even aware that Phaze was in jeopardy.”
“The Oracle surely knows, however. If the Time of Decision draws nigh . . .” Pyreforge shook his head dolefully. “I think we must try thee on the Flute, though it grieves me with spreading misgiving.” He glanced at a crevice, where a guard lurked. “How be the light outside?” The guard hurried outside. In a moment he returned.
“Overcast, shrouded by fog. It will not lift this hour.”
“Then may we gather outside. Summon the tribe this instant.”
The guard disappeared again. “This be no casual matter, Adept. The Flute extends its force regardless, protecting the magic of the holder. An thou shouldst betray us, we must die to a man to recover it, killing thee if we can. I think thou canst be trusted, and on that needs must I gamble; my life be forfeit an I be in error.” Stile did not like this either, but he was not sure how to alleviate the elf’s concern.
“Let thy warriors fix their threats on me,” the Lady Blue said. “My Lord will not betray thee.” Pyreforge shook his head. “This be not our way. Lady, despite the ignorance of our commoners. And it would not avail against the typical Adept, who values nothing more than his power.”
“Well I know the justice of thy concern. Yet would I stake my life upon my Lord’s integrity.”
The Elder smiled. “No need. Lady. Already have I staked mine. No lesser hostage preserves the peace in these Demesnes, when an Adept manifests here. I do this only for that the Oracle has cast its impact on us, and my books suggest the ponderosity of the situation. Fate draws the string on every creature, inquiring not what any person’s preference might be.” He returned his attention to Stile. “The Flute’s full power is available only to the one who can master it completely, the one for whom it is destined. We made it, but can not use it; only the Foreordained can exploit it ultimately. When he comes, the end of the present order will be near. This is why we can not give up the Flute to any lesser person.”
“I seek only to borrow it,” Stile reminded him. But this did not look promising. If he were not the Foreordained, they would not let him borrow the Flute; if he were, there was a great deal more riding on this than his encounter with the Herd Stallion!
They walked outside. The cloud-cover had intensified, shrouding all the mountain above their level, leaving only a low-ceilinged layer of visibility, like a huge room. The elves of the tribe had gathered on the knoll, completely surrounding the mound—young and old, women and children too. Most were slender and handsome, and among them the women were phenomenally lovely, but a few were darkened and wrinkled like the Elder. Stile was the cynosure of all their eyes; he saw them measuring him, discomfited by his large stature; he did indeed feel like a giant, and no longer experienced any exhilaration in the sensation. All his life he had privately longed for more height; now he understood that such a thing would not be an unmixed blessing, and perhaps no blessing at all. Hulk had tried to tell him. The problem was not height; it was in being different, in whatever manner.
