The Source of Magic (17 page)

Bink felt sudden alarm. Some female trolls ate their husbands. It was said that the only thing a troll was afraid of was his wife—with excellent reason. Was this predaceous female looking for another husband?

“Our village now is composed of every type of intelligent female,” Trolla continued. “And a number of supporting animals. The magic access route transports only intelligent creatures, but some animals drift in through the jungle. But the siren—that is what I meant by the danger to you. Once you
hear her call, you will disappear into the forest and never return. We would spare you this if we could, but we are helpless unless we resort to unconscionable measures.”

“What would those be?” Bink asked nervously.

“We might deafen you so you could not hear her,” Trolla explained. “Or geld you, so that you would not react to—”

“Why don’t some of you females go out and slay the siren?” Chester asked. “Meaning no offense, madam, but you could probably handle it.”

“The siren I would gladly tear apart and consume in bleeding chunks,” Trolla said. “But I can not pass the tangle tree. The siren has made a deal with the tangler; the tree lets the males through to her, but grabs the females.”

“Then you need to eliminate the tangle tree,” Bink said. “With magic as strong here as you’ve shown, it should be a fairly simple chore. A few fireflies, or some pineapple bombs—”

“This is no ordinary tangle tree,” Trolla said. “We have tried to destroy it, but though it is outside our village, it has absorbed enough extra magic to foil our efforts. We are, after all, only females—and the men will not fight it when they are in thrall to the siren.”

Bink took a deep breath. “I believe this is the service we can render, in return for your hospitality. Tomorrow we shall slay the tangler.”

Trolla merely shook her head sadly. “It is kind of you to think so,” she said. “But the siren will not permit it.”

The siren did not know about Bink’s talent. Since both siren and tangle tree were magical entities, his magic would protect him against them. Somehow. But considering the possible complications of the enhanced potency of magic here, he would do best to tackle the tree alone. He didn’t want his friends being hurt by the backlash. Maybe he could sneak out at night and do it, while the others slept.

Crombie squawked. “What is the village employment, crone?” the golem translated.

“We are situated atop the source-lode of magic,” Trolla said. “This is the origin of the magic of Xanth. The dust is highly
charged with magic, and were it allowed to accumulate, most of the rest of Xanth would slowly become mundane, while the village would develop a fatal concentration. Thus we must spread the dust about, maintaining a reasonable equilibrium.” She looked about. “We seem to have completed our repast. Allow me to show you our operations.”

“Umph,” Humfrey agreed. Now Bink was sure the Magician was only feigning disinterest, as was his fashion; the conclusion of their quest was at hand! Yet Bink found himself disappointed; he had expected more challenge to the acquisition of this knowledge than this.

Trolla showed them to a large central building fashioned of mundane stone. Inside, it was one huge gravel pit, where small female elves, gnomes, and fairies dug and scraped out sand with their little picks and scoops. They loaded it into wheeled wagons drawn by female centaurs, a manticora, and a small sphinx. Bink’s skin prickled when he approached the sand; strong magic was associated with it, no doubt of that! Yet this was the first time he had encountered indeterminate magic. That sand performed no magic of its own, and cast no spells; it merely
was
magic, waiting for direction. Bink was not quite sure he could believe that.

The sand was hauled to another structure, where three huge hephalumphs tromped it constantly into dust. The hephalumphs were animals, normally wild creatures of the wilderness, but these were evidently tame and well cared for, and seemed happy. Then a captive roc-bird blew the dust into the air, employing great sweeps of her monstrous wings. So powerful was this forced draft that small tornadoes formed in the turbulence.

“The Technicolor hailstorms!” Bink exclaimed. “Fallout from this operation!”

“Exactly,” Trolla agreed. “We try to feed the dust high into the sky so that it will ride the upper currents all over Xanth before it falls, but localized storms bring it down prematurely. The region immediately downwind of us is untenable for intelligent life; the concentration of airborne dust disrupts the local ecology and leads to madness. Thus there are risks associated
with our operation—but we must continue. We should be pleased if you males would remain here, encouraging our females—but we know you must flee before the siren calls. Unfortunately our access route is one-way; we have been too busy recently to construct a departure ramp. You can escape only through the Region of Madness. Yet this is preferable to the siren. We shall help you all we can, but—”

“Not until we render our service,” Bink said. “We have assorted talents, and should be able to handle this.” But privately he was uneasy; he found it hard to believe that they should prevail where all other men had failed. And he wondered again why the source of the magic of Xanth had remained unknown all these centuries, if the people of this village had known about it all along. Maybe the fact that no one ever seemed to leave this village and live—or maybe the magic dust fogged up other magic, so that things like magic mirrors could not focus on this area. There were probably a lot of secrets in the Land of Xanth that remained to be discovered …

“We shall have a gathering this evening,” Trolla said. “Some of our younger girls have never seen a male, and deserve this chance. You will meet everyone, and we shall plan how we can best help you to escape the siren. So far, no way has been found to block off her sound from the males, though we females can not hear it. We can, with your permission, confine you in cages so that you can not respond to—”

“No!” Bink and Chester said together, and Crombie squawked.

“You are true males, always ready for a challenge,” Trolla said with sad approval. “In any event, we would have to let you out sometime, and then the siren would get you, so cages are no solution. We need to be rid of the siren!” Her face, for a moment, assumed the aspect of savage hate that was normal to trolls. But then she softened. “I will show you to your lodging, and call for you again at dusk. Please be courteous to our villagers; your presence here is a considerable event, and the girls are untrained in social decorum.”

When they were alone, Bink addressed the Magician.
“Something is funny here. Will you use your magic to fathom the true situation?”

“Do I have to do everything?” Humfrey grumped.

“Listen, you dwarfish gnome!” Chester snapped. “We’ve been working our tails off, while you just loaf along.”

Humfrey was unruffled. “Anytime you wish to have your payment for your efforts—”

Bink decided he had better intercede, though he had considerable sympathy for the centaur’s position. He had not realized there would be so many problems in leadership! “We seem to be at our objective, the source of magic. But it has been too easy, and the villagers are too accommodating. Only you can tell us whether we have in fact completed our quest, or whether we have walked into a man-consuming trap. Surely this is the occasion to employ your magic, if you would be so generous.”

“Oh, all right,” Humfrey said ungraciously. “You don’t deserve it after the way you loosed Beauregard, but I’ll take a look.”

The Magician drew out a mirror. “Mirror, mirror in my hand, are you the finest in the land?”

The mirror clouded, turning deep red. “Oh, stop blushing!” Humfrey snapped. “I was only testing.”

Bink remembered a mirror like this. It answered only in pictures, and somewhat circuitously; a too-direct question about a too-delicate matter could crack it up.

“Are you aware of the source of the magic of Xanth?” the Magician asked.

A picture of a baby appeared, smiling. That evidently meant “Yes.”

“Can you tell me the location of that source?” Aside to the others he murmured: “This is the crucial point. At home, the mirror never could reveal this information, but here with stronger magic—”

The baby smiled again. Humfrey echoed that smile, anticipating victory. “Will you tell me that location?”

Again the cherubic smile. Bink felt his pulse pounding. He realized the Magician was approaching the subject with extreme caution. The mirror took each question literally, and
did not volunteer anything; this circuitous approach insured that the mirror would not be overwhelmed by too abrupt a challenge.

“Please show that location on your screen.”

The mirror went dark.

“Oops,” Bink murmured. “Is it broken?”

The mirror brightened. A crying baby appeared.

“It tells you no,” Humfrey snapped. “Kindly allow me to continue my investigation.” He returned to the mirror. “Are you showing me a scene of underground?”

The baby smiled.

“In short, you verify that the source of magic is not in this village we are presently sitting in?”

A big question mark appeared.

“You are saying the source of magic
is
in this village?” the Good Magician asked sharply.

The question mark returned. “Hm, a problem of resolution here,” Humfrey muttered. “The mirror can’t choose between truths. Anybody have another approach?”

“It’s a matter of perspective,” Chester said. “If the magic dust is the source, there may be more than one cache of it. More likely, a channel of it, welling up from the depths. Thus the source has a multiple definition, depending on whether you are thinking of the source on the surface, or the source of the source.”

“Now there is a creature with a disciplined mind,” Humfrey said approvingly. “If only he would discipline it more often instead of quarreling with the soldier.” He faced the mirror. “Is the centaur’s analysis correct?”

The baby smiled.

“Now,” the Magician continued. “Are you aware of the motivation of these villagers?” When he received the smile, he asked: “Do they mean well by us?” The smile confirmed it. Bink felt relief. “And Trolla spoke the truth about the curse of the siren?” Another smile.

Humfrey looked up. “Now it gets difficult,” he said, seeming pleased. Bink realized that this man, too, enjoyed a challenge. The magic ability the Good Magician had held in reserve was
now being used, and it was good magic. “So far we have merely been confirming what we already knew. Now we must venture into the unknown.” He returned to the mirror. “Are you able to tell us how to deal with the villagers’ problem?”

The cherub smiled. “Unusually responsive,” Humfrey remarked, aside. “The local magic-enhancement is indeed multiplying the mirror’s power. We have a major research tool, now, rather than a minor one.” He returned once more to the mirror. “How—”

“Are you males ready?” Trolla inquired from the door.

They jumped. Bink was about to explain, then saw Humfrey’s quick negative nod. The mirror had disappeared. The Good Magician did not want to reveal the secret of his magic to these villagers. Not just yet.

Well, they had gleaned a lot already, and could resume the use of the mirror when convenient. “That’s a pretty dress,” Bink said to Trolla. This was no lie; the dress was very pretty, though she remained a female troll. Evidently a festive occasion was in the making. They followed her out.

The center circle of the village had been transformed, non-magically. A genuine wood bonfire blazed, sending sparks and smoke up to the sky. It was dusk, and the stars were beginning to show. It was as if the sparks went up into the sky to become those stars—and perhaps, Bink thought, the potent magic of this region made that so. The stars had to get up there somehow, didn’t they?

The females of the village were lovely in their party apparel. There were many more young ones than had been evident before, and now that their work shift was over they were eager and more than eager to mingle with the strange guests. Bink was surrounded by nymphs, sprites, and human maids, while Humfrey was mobbed by fairies, lady elves, and minionettes. Three fetching centaur fillies attended Chester. A pair of griffin cows eyed Crombie, but they hardly had a chance with this transformed woman-hater. They were, after all, animals. There was even a female golem for Grundy.

Yet how sad the remaining females looked—the manticora, the sphinx, and the harpies. They had no males to cater to.

“Uh, girls—I’m a married man,” Bink protested as his covey pressed in.

“She will never know,” a buxom blue-maned lass informed him. “We need you more than she does.” And she planted a firm kiss on his left eye—the only part of him she could reach, because of the density of other girls.

“Yes, no man leaves this village, except at the call of the singing bitch,” a furry beauty added. “It is our duty to hold you here, to save your life. Wouldn’t your wife rather have you used than dead?”

Awkward question! How
would
Chameleon feel about that? In her lovely, stupid phase she would be hurt, confused, and forgiving; in her ugly, smart phase she would comprehend the situation and be realistic. So she would accept what had to be accepted, and certainly not want him to die. Still, he had no wish or intent to indulge himself with any of these—

Something distracted him. It was a faint, eerie, but somehow most intriguing sound.

He tried to listen, but the clamor of the girls almost drowned it out. “Please, I want to hear—there is a melody—”

“It is the siren!” a fairy screamed. “Sing, girls, sing! Drown out the bitch!”

They sang, loudly, passionately, and tunelessly. Still, that insidious melody penetrated, the single clear theme cutting through the nearby cacophony, compelling Bink to respond. He started toward it.

Immediately the girls restrained him. They flung their arms about him, dragging him back and down, burying him in their exposed softness. Bink collapsed in a tangle of arms, legs, breasts, and assorted other aspects of distaff anatomy he didn’t bother to define.

The girls meant well—but the siren’s call was not to be denied. Bink fought, and caught glimpses of other thrashing mounds where his male companions fought similarly. Bink was stronger than any of the nymphs, for they were delicate, shapely things; he did not want to hurt any of them. Yet he had to free himself of their near-suffocating embrace. He heaved them off his body, cuffing their hands loose, shoving wherever
his hands made contact. There were eeeks and cries and giggles, depending on the type of contact he made; then he was on his feet, charging forward.