Centaur Aisle (24 page)

She took a bottleneck seed. "Grow," she ordered.

The seed began to sprout, hesitated, then fell limp.

"Is there anything you can talk to, Grundy?" Dor asked.

The golem spied some kelp in the water. He made strange sounds at it. There was no response.

"Smash, try a feat of strength," Dor said.

The ogre picked up one of his feet "Uh, no," Dor said quickly. "I mean do something strong. Stand on one finger, or squeeze juice from a log."

Smash put one paw on the end of one of the raft's log-supports. He squeezed. Nothing happened. "Me unprepared, me awful scared," he said.

Dor brought out his midnight sunstone. Now it possessed only the faintest internal glimmer—and in a moment that, too, faded out.

"So that answers two questions," Dor said, trying to sound confident, though, in fact, he was deeply alarmed. "First, we are passing out of the region of magic; the propulsion-spell is defunct. I can't talk to the inanimate, and Irene can't grow plants magically. Second, it's only our magic that fades, not our bodies. Grundy can't translate the talk of other creatures, and Smash has lost his superhuman strength—but both are alive and healthy. Irene's plants won't grow, but she—" He paused, looking at her. "What happened to your hair?"

"Hair?" She took a strand and pulled it before her face. "Eeek, it's faded!"

"Aw, just the green's gone," Grundy said. "Looks better this way."

Irene, stunned, did not even try to kick at him. She, like Dor, had never realized that her hair tint was magical in nature.

"So Mundania doesn't hurt us," Dor continued quickly. "It just inconveniences us. We'll simply have to paddle the rest of the way to the island."

They checked the raft's supplies. The centaurs were a practical species; the raft was equipped with several paddles and a pole. Dor and Irene took the former and Smash the latter, and Grundy steadied the tiller. It was hard work, but they resumed progress toward the island.

"How did Arnolde ever get so far ahead alone?" Irene gasped. "He would have had an awful time paddling and steering."

Finally they reached the beach. There was Arnolde's raft, drawn up just out of the water. "He moved it along, all right," Grundy remarked. "He must be stronger than he looks."

"This is a fairly small island," Dor said. "He can't be far away. We'll corner him. Smash, you stand guard by the rafts and bellow if he comes back here; the rest of us will try to run him down."

They spread out and crossed the island. It had a distinctly Mundanian aspect; there was green grass growing that did not grab at their feet, and leafy trees that merely stood in place and rustled only in the wind. The sand was fine without being sugar, and the only vines they saw made no attempt to writhe toward them. How could the centaur have mistaken this for a spot within the realm of magic?

They discovered Arnolde at his refuge—a neat excavation exposing Mundane artifacts: the scholar's place of personal identification. Apparently he was more than a mere compiler or recorder of information; he did some field work, too.

Arnolde saw them. He had a magic lantern that illuminated the area as the moon sank into the sea. "No, I realize I can not flee the situation," he said sadly. "The truth is the truth, whatever it is, and I am dedicated to the truth. But I can not believe what you say. Never in my life have I evinced the slightest degree of magic talent, and I certainly have none now. Perhaps some of the magic of the artifacts with which I associate has rubbed off on me, giving the illusion of—"

"How can you use a magic lantern here in Mundania?" Irene asked.

"This is not Mundania," Arnolde said. "I told you that before. The limits of magic appear to have extended, reaching out far enough to include this island recently."

"But our magic ceased," Dor said. "We had to paddle here."

"Impossible. My raft spelled forward without intermission, and there is no storm to disrupt the magic ambience. Try your talent now, King Dor; I'll warrant you will discover it operative as always."

"Speak, ground," Dor said, wondering what would happen.

"Okay, chump," the ground answered. "What's on your slow mind?"

Dor exchanged glances with Irene and Grundy, astonished—and saw that Irene's hair in the light of the lantern was green again. "It's back!" he said. "The magic's back! Yet I don't see how—"

Irene threw down a seed. "Grow!" she ordered.

A plant sprouted, rising rapidly into a lively raspberry bush. "Brrrppp!" the plant sounded, making obscene sounds at them all.

"Is this really a magic island?" Grundy asked the nearest tree, translating into its language. The tree made a rustling response. "It says it is— now!" he reported.

Dor brought out the sunstone again. It was shining brightly.

"How could the magic return so quickly?" Irene asked. "My father always said the limit of magic was pretty constant; in fact, he wasn't sure it varied at all."

"The magic never left this Island," Arnolde said. "You must have passed through a flux, an aberration, perhaps after all a lingering consequence of yesterday's storm."

"Maybe so," Dor agreed. "Magic is funny stuff. Ours certainly failed— for a while."

The centaur had a bright idea. "Maybe the magic compass was affected by a similar flux and thrown out of kilter, so it pointed to the wrong person."

Doubt nagged Dor. "I guess that's possible. Something's certainly wrong. If that's so, I must apologize for causing you such grief. It did seem strange to me that you should so suddenly manifest as a Magician when such power remains with a person from birth to death."

"Yes indeed!" Arnolde agreed enthusiastically. "An error in the instrument—that is certainly the most facile explanation. Of course I could not manifest as a Magician, after ninety years of pristine nonmagic."

So they had guessed correctly about one thing: the centaur was close to a century old. "I guess we might as well go back now," Dor said. "We had to borrow a raft to follow you, and its owner will be upset if it stays out too long."

"Feel no concern," Arnolde said, growing almost affable in his relief. "The rafts are communal property, available to anyone at need. However, there would be concern if one were lost or damaged."

They walked back across the island, the magic lantern brightening the vicinity steadily. As they neared the two rafts they saw Smash. He was holding a rock in both hands, squeezing as hard as he could, a grimace of concentration and disgust making his face even uglier than usual.

Suddenly the rock began to compress. "At length, my strength!" the ogre exclaimed as the stone crumbled into sand.

"You could never have done it, you big boob, if the magic hadn't come back," the sand grumbled.

"The magic returned—just now?" Dor asked, something percolating in the back of his mind.

"Sure," the sand said. "You should have seen this musclebrained brute straining. I thought I had him beat. Then the magic came back just as you did, more's the pity."

"The magic—came with us?" Dor asked.

"Are you dimwitted or merely stupid, nitbrain?" the sand asked with a gravelly edge. "I just said that."

"When was the magic here before?" Dor asked.

"Only a little while ago. Horserear here can tell you; he was here when it happened."

"You mean this is normally a Mundane island?"

"Sure, it's always been Mundane, except when ol' hoof-leg's around."

"I think we're on to something," Grundy said.

Arnolde looked stricken. "But—but how can—this is preposterous!"

"We owe it to you and ourselves to verify this, one way or another," Dor said. "If the power of magic travels with you—"

"Oh, horrible!" the centaur moaned. "It must not be!"

"Let's take another walk around the island." Dor said. "Grundy, you go with Arnolde and talk to the plants and creatures you encounter; ask them how long magic has been here. The rest of us will spread out and wait for Arnolde to approach. If our magic fades out during his absence, and returns when he comes near—"

Grudgingly the centaur cooperated. He set out on a trot around the island, pretty spry for his age, the golem perching on his back.

No sooner were they on their way than Dor's magic ceased. His sun-stone no longer shone, and he could no longer talk to the inanimate. It was evident that Irene and Smash were similarly discommoded.

In a few minutes the circuit was complete. They compared notes. "The magic was with us all along," Grundy reported. "But all the plants and shellfish said it had come only when we were there."

"When he go, me not rhyme," Smash said angrily. "Not even worth a dime."

That was extreme distress for the ogre. Dor had not realized that his rhyming was magic-related. Maybe frustration had flustered him—or maybe magic had shaped the lives of the creatures of Xanth far more than had been supposed. Irene's hair, Smash's rhymes . . .

"My potted petunia would not grow at all," Irene said. "But when the centaur came near, it grew and got roaring drunk."

"And my talent operated only when Arnolde was near," Dor said. "So my talent seems to be dependent on his presence here, as with the rest of you. Since I am a full Magician, what does that make him?"

"A Magician's Magician," Irene said. "A catalyst for magic."

"But I never performed any magic in my life!" Arnolde protested, still somewhat in shock. "Never!"

"You don't perform it, you promote it," Dor said. "You represent an island of magic, an extension of Xanth into Mundania. Wherever you go, magic is there. This is certainly a Magician's talent."

"How could that be true, when there was no indication of it in all my prior life? I can not have changed!"

But now Dor had an answer. "You left Xanth only recently, you said. You came to this Mundane island for research. Good Magician Humfrey's magic indicators never oriented on you before because you are completely camouflaged in Xanth proper; you are like a section of mist in the middle of a cloud. But when you left Xanth, your power manifested, triggering the alarms. Once the indicators had oriented on you, they continued to point you out; maybe your presence makes magic slightly more effective, since Centaur Isle is near the fringe of magic. It's like a bug on a distant leaf; once you know exactly where it is, you can see it. But you can't locate it when it sits still and you don't even know it exists."

Arnolde's shoulders slumped and his coat seemed to lose luster. He was an appaloosa centaur, with white spots on his brown flank, a natural blanket that made him quite handsome. Now the spots were fading out. "I fear you are correct. My associates always considered this to be a Mundane island; I thought them mistaken. But oh, what havoc this wreaks on my career! The profession of a lifetime ruined! I can never return to the museum."

"Do the other centaurs have to know?" Grundy asked.

"I may be contaminated by obscene magic," Arnolde said gravely. "But it is beneath me to prevaricate."

Dor considered the attitude of the various centaurs he had known. He realized Arnolde was right. The archivist could not conceal the truth, and the other centaurs would not tolerate a centaur Magician in their society. They had exiled Herman the Hermit in the past generation, then termed him a hero after he was dead. Some reward!

Dor's quest had gained him nothing and had destroyed the livelihood and pride of a decent centaur. He felt responsible; he had never wanted to hurt anyone this way.

The moon had been descending into the ocean. Now, just before it got soaked, it seemed to have swelled. Great and round and greenish, its cheese was tantalizingly close. Dor gazed at it, pondering its maplike surface. Could a column of smoke lead all the way up to the moon, and could they use the salve some day to—

Then he suffered an awful realization. "The curse!" he cried.

The centaur glanced dourly at him. "You have certainly cursed me, King Dor."

"The magic salve we used to tread the clouds—it had a curse attached. Whoever used it would do some dastardly deed before the next full moon. This is our deed; we have forced you out of your satisfied existence and made you into something you abhor. The curse made us do it."

"Such curses are a readily avoidable nuisance," the centaur remarked. "All that is required is an elementary curse-counterspell. There are dozens in our archives; we don't even file them carefully. Ironic that this ignorance on your part should have such a serious consequence for me."

"Do something, Dor," Irene said.

"What is there to be done?" Arnolde asked disconsolately. "I am rendered at one fell stroke into an exile."

But Dor, cudgeling his brain under pressure, had a sudden explosion of genius. "You take magic with you anywhere you go," he said. "Right into Mundania. This relates in all the three ways we were warned. It is certainly a matter I must attend to, for the existence of any new Magician in Xanth is the King's business. It also could pose a threat to Xanth, for if you go out into Mundania on your own, taking that magic with you, bad people could capture you and somehow use your magic for evil. But most important, somewhere in Mundania is someone we fear is trapped or in trouble, who perhaps needs this magic to escape. Now if I were to take you into Mundania proper—"

"We could rescue my father!" Irene exclaimed, jumping up and down and clapping her hands in the manner of her kind. She bounced phenomenally, so that even the centaur paused to look, as if regretting his species and his age. "Oh, Dor, I could kiss you!" And without waiting for his reaction, she grabbed him and kissed him with joyful savagery on the mouth. In that moment of hyperanimation she became very special, radiant and compelling in the best sort of way; but by the time he realized it, she was already away and talking to the centaur.

"Arnolde, if you have to be exiled anyway, you might as well come with us. We don't care about your magic—not negatively, I mean—we all of us have talents. And think of the artifacts you can collect deep in Mundania; you can start your own museum. And if you help rescue my father, King Trent—"

The centaur was visibly wavering. Obviously he did not like the notion of exile, but could not return to his job on Centaur Isle. "And the centaurs around Castle Roogna are used to magic," Irene continued apace. "Chester Centaur plays a magic silver flute, and his uncle was Herman the Hermit. He would be glad for your company, and—"