Blue Adept by Piers Anthony Page A

land that was the face of the moon. Larger it grew, and clearer, its landscape ever-better denned.
    As I came near it I saw the little blue men on its surface, blacksmiths hammering out blue steel.   Bluesmiths, I suppose. Then I saw a lady in blue, and her hair was fair like mine, and she wore a lovely blue gown and blue slippers set with blue gems for buttons, and on her head a blue tiara, and she was regal and beautiful beyond belief. She turned and fixed her gaze on me, and her eyes were blue like mine—and she was me.   Amazed, flattered and alarmed, I retreated. I flew back past the blue mists like a feather-shafted arrow, and suddenly I was on the ground again. The boy stopped playing, and the melody faded hauntingly.
    I realized it not then, but he had shown me the first of the three foundations of my later love for him: his music.   Never in all Phaze was there a man who could make such—
    (The Lady Blue paused, resting her head against her hand, suffering. Stile started to speak, but she cut him off savagely. “And thou, thou image, thou false likeness! Thou comest to these Demesnes bearing his harmonica, using it—“ (“His?” Stile asked, astonished.
    (“Has it not the word ‘Blue’ etched upon it?” she demanded. “He had it imported from the other frame, to his order.”
    (Stile brought out the harmonica, turning it over. There, in small neat letters, was the word. “I conjured his instrument,” he murmured, awed and chagrined. “I must return it to his widow.”
    (She softened instantly. “Nay, it is thine. Thou art the Blue Adept, now. Use it well, as he did.” Then she re-turned to her narrative.)
    I shook my head. “Never have I heard the like, thou darling child!” I said. “How could a lad thine age master music so well?”
    He thought a moment, pensive in his concentration, as though pondering some weighty ethical matter. Then he replied: “May I show thee my village on the morrow? It is not far out of our way.”
    “Was not that village destroyed?” I asked thoughtlessly.
    “Aye, it was.”
    I was sorry for my question. “Of course we can go there, if it please thee. Unless the trolls remain—“ “No trolls remain,” he assured me gravely, and I remembered that lightning had destroyed the trolls.   Next day we came to the site. It was nothing, only a glade of greenest grass and a few mounds. All had been destroyed and overgrown. I was vaguely disappointed, having anticipated something more dramatic—yet what is dramatic about long-past death?
    “May I show thee how it was?” he inquired, his small face serious.
    “Of course,” I said graciously, not understanding what he meant.
    “Go and graze;” he said to our steeds. They moved out gladly, and little Snowflake with them.   Then the blue lad played his harmonica again. Once more the absolutely lovely music leaped out, encompassing us, and some intangible presence formed. I saw a cloud about the glade, and then it thinned to reveal a village, with people going about their business, washing clothing, eating, hammering horseshoes, playing. I realized that this was a vision of his home as it had been, years ago, before the disaster. A village very like mine own.   The village was perhaps a little better organized than mine, however, more compact, with the houses in a ring and a central court for socializing and supervision of the children. Mine was a sea-village, mainly, open to the water; this was an inland establishment, closed against the threats of the land. The sun was shining brightly—but then the shadows moved visibly, and I knew this was to show time passing. Night fell, and the village closed down.   Then in the stillness of dark the trolls came, huge, gaunt and awful. Somehow they had broken through the enchantment that protected the village, and they descended on it in a ravening horde. Faintly I heard the screams as the monsters pounced upon sleeping villagers. Men woke fighting, but each troll was