Juxtaposition (48 page)

“It was an eyeblink,” the troll said. “One moment I stood in the tunnel; next was I in the hall of the Oracle.
 
I knew not thy metal golem was an enchantress.”

“Women of any type have secret talents; hers manifested during your eyeblink,” Stile said. “Thou, too, dost have ability. We saw thy figurines. Are all trolls sculptors?”

“Nay,” Trool said, embarrassed. “I have gone mostly apart from my kind, and in the lonesome hours do I entertain myself with idle shapings. It is of no import.”

“Art is of import,” Stile said. “Many creatures can do conventional labors; few can fashion raw material into beauty. Phaze can be made prettier by thy efforts.”

“Nay, I am ugly,” Trool demurred. “I have no aspirations, now that mine onus is done.”

His onus had been to save Stile three times. Surely the good troll would not accept any reward, but Stile disliked the notion of departing this frame without returning some suitable favor. Something began to develop in his mind, an improbable connection.

“If thou didst have the power of an Adept, what then would be thine aspiration?” The troll shrugged in the ungainly manner of his kind.
 
“I have no use for power. For generations my kind has abused what powers it had, and on that history do I turn my gnarled back. All I crave is a little rock to tunnel in, and time to fashion mine images in stone, and perhaps a friend or two. The life of a troll is not much. Adept.” Not much, indeed! Stile decided to experiment.

“I shall grant thee power, for a time, so that thou canst help me now. I must devise a route to roll this ball of Phazite and must avoid the enemy forces that oppose this motion.” He turned to Sheen. “Thou hast surveyed the book of magic?”

“Aye,” she agreed.

“Canst thou give Trool the powers of flight, invisibility, and resistance to hostile magic?”

She looked surprised. “That and more. But—“

“Do it.”

“But, Adept!” Trool protested. “I am a troll!”

“Methinks I misjudged trolls once. Thou hast helped me three times; now I beg thee to help me again, though no prophecy requires thee.”

“Certainly will I help thee! But—“

Sheen did something obscure. Trool paused as if experiencing something strange.

“Try thy talents,” Stile suggested.

“I can not fly!” Trool said, rising into the air. He looked down, astonished. “This is as impossible as turning invisible!” He faded from view.

“Thou hast bequeathed dangerous power to such a creature,” Pyreforge said gravely. “He can leave thee and go abroad to do harm, answerable to no one.”

“Power corrupts some less than others,” Stile said.
 
“Trool has shown his constancy, and I am giving him leave to show it more. Sheen has more power than any other person now, yet she is unchanged.”

“I’m not human,” Sheen said. “I am as I am programmed to be, regardless of my power. Only living things are corruptible.”

“Yet with the magic of that book,” Pyreforge pointed out, “thou couldst become alive. The power thou hast shown be but an inkling of the potential.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I perceive that potential.”

“There are spells to give true life?” Stile asked, amazed.
 
“Thou didst tell me to survey the complete book,” she reminded him. “I found things hardly to be imagined.”

“But the problem of souls,” he protested.
 
“That is handled the same way the flesh is. A baby is started from the substance of its parents. A baby’s soul starts as a piece separated from the souls of its parents. It’s like taking a brand from a fire to make a new fire; once a piece of fire is separated, it develops its own individuality.
 
So I don’t need anyone else’s soul—just a piece of soul, which can grow into the body.”

“But a piece of whose soul?” Stile asked. Sheen, alive—would it make a difference? He wasn’t sure. Part of her personality was her knowledge of her own inanimate nature.

“The Lady Brown has offered me a piece of hers,” Sheen said diffidently. “She feels responsible for me, since she animated me in Phaze.”

“We’re wasting time,” Stile said, not wanting to wrestle with personal considerations at the moment. “Where’s Trool?”

“I am here. Adept,” Trool said, appearing. “I have surveyed the course. Thou canst not proceed northward, for that the Adepts have set dragons there to guard against passage. They know not where thou wilt go, or if thou truly art alive, but they are watching everywhere. When the ball begins to move, they will converge. The course must go west, avoiding the dragons.”

“We’ll start west, then,” Stile decided.
 
Now the elves appeared in force. They cranked open the wall to show a great rent in the mountain. The sun shone brightly outside, but these were light-tolerant elves, able to work by day. Pyreforge bade a hasty parting and retreated to the comfortable shadows; he could no more tolerate the direct glare of the sun than Trool could.

“Trooll” Stile exclaimed. “How could—?”

“I gave him a spell of automatic shade when I restored him,” Sheen said. “I may be metal, but I do profit from experience. The sun can’t touch him now.” Relieved, Stile watched the elves. The Little Folk applied their levers diligently, and the massive ball started to move. One hundred and fifty metric tons was a great weight, but the ball was perfectly balanced and the levers were skillfully applied. Once moving, the ball continued, its mass giving it formidable momentum. Then it started rolling grandly downhill, and the elves got out of the way.
 
The ball coursed down, up the opposite slope, and down again, neatly following the general channel Stile had determined for it, leaving a concave impression. But then it veered slightly, and he saw that it was going to strike a large pine tree. That could be disaster; probably the ball would crush the tree to the ground—and in the process be deflected off the route. Possibly the tree would resist, bouncing the ball back. Certainly a lot of useful momentum would be lost. This was going so smoothly he didn’t want to interrupt it.

So he sang a little spell. The tree wavered into insubstantiality just before the boulder reached it, then became solid after the Phazite had passed through.
 
“I’m not sure you should have done that. Stile,” Sheen said. “The enemy Adepts are highly attuned to your magic.”

“I’ve got to use my magic when I need it,” Stile said.
 
“I’m sorry I can’t use it directly on the Phazite.” He remembered he had conjured Sheen’s replacement power cell before, and that was the same mineral—but that had been a tiny fraction of a gram. He could no more move this 150 ton ball by magic than he could by hand, alone.
 
The ball crunched to a stop in the next depression. They walked along the smooth indentation path, catching up to it.

“The golems are near,” Trool’s voice came from the air above them.

“Guide them here,” Stile said.

Soon a column of wooden men marched up. Some were small and some were large; the Brown Adept rode piggy back on one of the giants. She waved cheerily as she spied them.

“We’ll get it moving!” she called.
 
Under her direction, the wooden men set to work with a will. They were very strong, and soon they were levering the ball slowly up the incline.

Suddenly a sheet of flame flashed across the terrain. The golems cried out, and the Brown Adept screamed. The wooden men were burning. Fire was the one thing such golems feared.

“You were right,” Stile said. “The enemy has located us.” He started to play his harmonica, getting ready for a fire-extinguishing spell. But Sheen lifted her hand, and the fire vanished.

“You told me to memorize any spells I thought might be useful,” she said.

Stile stared at the golems, who were understandably confused. One moment they had been burning; the next all was well.

“So I did,” he agreed. “The sheer facility and potency of it keep setting me back. Can you protect the golems henceforth?”

“I think so. The book has an excellent section on countermagic. But if I block off Adept spells, this will stifle your magic too.”

“The book magic is that strong?”

“That strong. Stile. The book is not a mere compendium of stray spells. It’s a complete course—the atomic age of magic. It shows how to integrate all the modes—voice, vision, symbols, potions, touch, music—all. The Adepts of today are fragmentary magicians, severely limited. Thou also, I regret to say. None of you has done more than scratch the surface of the potential of magic. I haven’t scratched the surface. There is so much more to be mastered—“

“I see. All right—block out all Adept magic here, and well talk about it while we supervise the moving of the ball.”

She made a series of body motions and exclamations, concluding with a toe-sketched figure on the ground.
 
Something happened in the air—an oblique kind of shimmer.

“The visual effect is merely to identify it,” she said.
 
“We are now secure from new spells.”

The golems resumed their labor on the sphere. Slowly they moved it up the slope. “When we have a moment,” Stile said, “let’s see about making up a good body for my other self.”

“Your other self!” she exdaimed. “Yes, of course. The book has spells to convert wood or other substance to flesh, as we did for Trool. You have Blue’s soul preserved.
 
I don’t think the soul can go to that body while you are in Phaze, but when the frames separate. Clef can pipe it in, and—“

“And my other self will be restored to life in Phaze,” Stile finished. “He sacrificed his life to give me the chance to enter his frame and work with the Oracle. The least I can do is give it back to him when my task is done.”

“But what of the prophecy? Fhaze will not be safe until—“

“Until Blue departs it forever!” Stue finished. “In the confusion of great events, I forgot that!” He pondered, disturbed. “No, I can not be entirely governed by prophecy. I must do what I deem right; what will happen, will happen.” But he remained disquieted, as did his other self.

“The body has to be crafted by hand,” Sheen said. “It can’t be made directly by magic, or it will perish when the magic diminishes. So we can’t do it right this minute. But I won’t forget to see to it before the end.” She paused.

“What does Blue think of this?’^

Stile shifted to his alternate awareness. Now he had confirmation of his prior conjecture; Blue had, through a special divinatory spell, discovered what was developing and realized that the best thing he could do for the land he loved was to die. But, fearful that his sacrifice might be in vain, he had hedged. He had conjured his soul into his harmonica and given the instrument an affinity for his other self. Now he knew his act had been justified, for Stile had used the harmonica to achieve his necessary level of power.

As for having his life back in the new order, he had not expected this, and not even considered the possibility of resuming his life in Phaze. The notion had a certain guilty appeal. Yet if the presence of Blue meant ruin for Phaze, he would be better off dead. He would have to formulate some plans for a formerly blank future, knowing that he might again have to give it up if the prophecy were true.
 
All he could do was try it and see; perhaps there would be interim tasks for him to do before he departed.
 

“I thank thee for thy consideration,” Blue said to Sheen.
 
“Glad am I to have facilitated thine entry here, lovely Lady Machine.”

Again Sheen reacted with pleased embarrassment.
 
“There’s something about the people of Phaze,” she murmured.

The Brown Adept rode up on her golem mount. “I think my golems can handle it, as long as nothing else bothers them. Art thou going to make the Lady Machine alive now? I will give her part of my soul.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Sheen said. “All my brief existence I have longed to be alive—but now I have the chance for it, I’m not sure. I don’t think it would carry over into Proton—and if it did, there would still be a severe readjustment. I’d have to eat regularly, and eliminate regularly—both rather messy inconveniences—and sleep, which is a waste of useful time. My whole routine would be changed. I think I’m better off as a robot.”

“But Blue could love thee as a woman,” Brown said. “And thou couldst love him.”

How intimately had the two consulted while they worked on the restoration of Trool? Brown seemed to know a lot more about Stile’s business than he had told her. He decided to stay out of this conversation.
 

“I love him already,” Sheen said. “Life could not change that. And his love will always be for the Lady Blue. My life would not change that, either, and I wouldn’t want it to. So all I really have to gain, by marrying him in Proton, is the precedent for the self-willed machines—and if I were alive, that precedent would no longer exist.”

“Oh. I guess so,” Brown said. “I think thou art just fine as thou art. Lady Machine. So I guess thou canst just use the magic book to cure Blue’s knees, and maybe make him a little taller, and—“ Now Stile had to join in. “My knees are part of my present life; I no longer care to have them fixed. And my height—I always wanted to be taller, for that is the human definition of status, however foolish we all know it to be—I share Sheen’s opinion. I would be a different person, with new problems. I stand to gain nothing by changing what I am.”