“We can not bear the direct light of the sun, being Dark Elves,” the Elder said. “Should a sunbeam strike us, we turn instantly to stone. That is why the fog is so important, and why we reside in these oft-shrouded mountains, and seldom go abroad from our mounds by day. Yet like all our kind we like to dance, and at night when it is safe and the moons be bright we come out. I was in my youth careless, and a ray pierced a thin cloud and transfixed me ere I could seek cover; I turned not to stone but became as I am now. It was the wan sun, not mine age, that scorched me.”
“I might heal thee of that,” Stile said. “If thou wishes! A spell of healing—“
“What I might wish is of no account. I must needs live with the consequence of my folly—as must we all.” Now an elf brought, with an air of ceremony, a somber wooden case. “Borrow the Flute for the hour only,” the Elder told Stile. “Ascertain for thyself and for us thy relation to it. The truth be greater than the will of any of us; it must be known.”
Stile took the precious case. Inside, in cushioned splendor, lay the several pieces of gleaming metal tubing. Platinum, yes—a fortune in precious metal, exclusive of its worth as a music instrument, which had to be considerable, and its value as a magic talisman. He lifted out the pieces carefully and assembled it, conscious of its perfect heft and workmanship. The King of Flutes, surely! Meanwhile the Mound Folk watched in sullen silence, and the Elder talked, unable to contain his pride in the instrument. “Our mine be not pure platinum; there is an admixture of gold and indium. That provides character and hardness. We make many tools and weapons and utensils, though few of these are imbued with magic. There is also a trace of Phazite in the Flute, too.”
“Phazite?” Stile inquired, curious. “I am not familiar with that metal.”
“Not metal, precisely, but mineral. Thou mayst know of it as Protonite.”
“Protonite!” Stile exclaimed. “The energy-mineral? I thought that existed only in Proton-frame.”
“It exists here too, but in another aspect, as do all things. Wert thou not aware that Phazite be the fundamental repository of magic here? In Proton-frame it yields physical energy in abundance; in Phaze-frame it yields magic. Every act of magic exhausts some of that power—but the stores of it are so great and full Adepts so few that it will endure yet for millennia.”
“But in Proton they are mining it, exporting it at a horrendous rate!”
“They are foolish, there. They will exhaust in decades what would otherwise have served them a hundred times as long. It should be conserved for this world.” So Phaze was likely to endure a good deal longer than Proton, Stile realized. That made Phaze an even better place to be. But why, then, was there this premonition of the Foreordained, and of the end of Phaze? Stile could appreciate why Pyreforge was disturbed; there were indeed hints of something seriously amiss.
What would happen when Proton ran out of Protonite? Would Citizens start crossing the curtain to raid the sup-plies of Phazite? If so, terrible trouble was ahead, for Citizens would let nothing inhibit them from gratification of their desires. Only the abolition of the curtain would pre-vent them from ravishing Phaze as they had ravished Proton. Yet how could a natural yet intangible artifact like the curtain be removed?
Now the Flute was assembled and complete. It was the most beautiful instrument Stile had ever seen. He lifted it slowly to his mouth. “May I?” he asked. “Do the best thou canst with it,” the elf said tightly. “Never have we heard its sound; we can not play it. Only a mortal can do that.”
Stile applied his lips, set his fingers, and blew experimentally.
A pure, liquid, ineffably sweet note poured out. It sounded across the landscape, transfixing all the spectators. Elder and elves alike stood raptly, and Neysa perked her ears forward; the Lady Blue seemed transcendentally fair, as if a sanguine breeze caressed her. There was a special flute-quality to the note, of course—but more than that, for this was no ordinary flute. The note was ecstatic in its force and clarity and color—the quintessence of sound. Then Stile moved into an impromptu melody. The instrument responded like a living extension of himself, seeming to possess nerves of its own. It was impossible to miskey such a flute; it was too perfect. And it came to him, in a minor revelation, that this must be the way it was to be a unicorn, with a living, musical horn. No wonder those creatures played so readily and well!
