He assembled the Flute, brought it to his mouth, and played the theme. The magic instrument gave him perfect control, making him a better flutist than he otherwise could be. The notes issued like ethereal honey. The magic gathered, but subtly.
As he played, the routine noises of the Unolympics abated, in a widening circle. Unicorn spectators down the line rotated their ears, orienting on him. When the last note faded, the entire arena was silent. The three judges remained seated, quiet for a moment. The other Adepts seemed frozen in their places. Then Yellow shook her head. “There be flutes and there be Flutes,” she said. “That is the Platinum Flute, of Elven craft, the Emperor of flutes. There is none like it. Favored indeed is the one, whether common or Adept, who gains its loan from the Little Folk. I fear the crisis of Phaze draws nigh. After that sound, I have no further doubt; the unicorn does not compare.”
But the two other judges demurred. “Play oboe,” the demon grunted.
“Ah, yes,” Yellow agreed. “Thank thee, Horrawful, thou’rt correct. We must compare that sound too.” She focused on Stile. “Play the oboe. Blue.”
“But I have no oboe,” he protested.
“Pretend not to be ignorant of the nature of the instrument thou boldest,” she said sharply. “Play the oboe, that we may get on with this matter.”
Baffled, Stile looked at the Flute he held—and it had become a fine platinum oboe. So the magic shifts were not merely with weapons! He brought it to his mouth and played the oboe-‘com’s theme. The notes rolled out like elixir, impossibly mellow, the most perfect oboe-sound he had ever heard. Again the Unolympics halted to listen. Even the jaded Adepts sat riveted until it finished. “Now we can judge,” Yellow said. She consulted again with her associate-judges, and rendered the decision: “The oboe is closer to true. The oboe-‘corn qualifies.” Now there was applause—but somehow it seemed to orient more on Stile than the qualifying unicorn.
“Only my Love played like that,” the Lady Blue murmured as Stile resumed his seat beside her. “I never thought to hear such sound again.”
“The instrument is magic,” he replied shortly. “It lends skill to the player.”
“Mayhap,” she agreed, and said no more. Soon it was time for the finals. Now the entire field became a single arena, and the separate panels of judges merged to become a single large panel. Everyone would witness the category victories.
Stile was gratified. At last he would get to see Neysa perform—if she had made it this far. He had been confident of her prowess before this ever started, but now he was aware of the strength of the competition. She could have been eliminated.
But she had made it! She and Clip were finalists, and in due course their event came up. One werewolf judge disqualified himself at that point, explaining that he was an oath-friend to a contestant and could not judge her objectively. A substitute was found, and the show went on.
Neysa and Clip trotted out in perfect step, playing their own music for the dance, she with her harmonica-horn, he with his saxophone. It was a beautiful duet, harmonizing precisely with the beat of their hooves. Neysa’s colors now complemented Clip’s, and she was beautiful even in unicorn terms. Both animals were small for their species, but as a pair, alone in the arena, they were perfectly matched and did not seem small at all.
They plunged forward, horns lunging at an invisible foe, then whipped back together with a dissonant note, as of a foe dying. Stile could almost see the implied monster. So could some of the judges, who happened to be monsters; they scowled. The two went on through different gaits, then got fancy. Neysa leaped, and Clip trotted beneath her. As she landed, he leaped over her. They continued in a fantastic leapfrog sequence, their music playing without a break. Then they came together, bucked in unison, and leaped together in a backward somersault. In midair they changed shape, landing neatly in human-form, he garbed in bright trousers and cloak, she in white-fringed black dress. They swung, now humming the music their horns could no longer play. Faster they swung, becoming almost a blur—and suddenly they were hawk and firefly, whirling about in air about a common center, then back to equine-form with a final, lovely bar of music, in time for the expiration of time.
