The Source of Magic (3 page)

“Not if we get hoofing!” Chester said. “Let’s go unmask the zombie before it gets away!”

“Yes,” Bink agreed, embarrassed by his previous reaction.

They passed the sword, still stuck in the tree. “Finders keepers!” Chester exclaimed happily, and put his hand to it.

“That’s a gluebark; it won’t let go.”

But the centaur had already grasped the sword and yanked. Such was his strength there was a shower of bark and wood. But the sword did not come free.

“Hm,” Chester said. “Look, tree—we have a gluebark in
Centaur Village. During the drought I watered it every day, so it survived. Now all I ask in return is this sword, that you have no use for.”

The sword came free. Chester tucked it into his quiver of arrows, fastening it in place with a loop of the coil of rope he also carried. Or so Bink guessed, observing the contortions of the cactus. Bink had put a hand to his own sword, half-fearing a renewal of hostilities, but the other weapon was quiescent. Whatever had animated it was gone.

Chester became aware of Bink’s stare. “You just have to understand trees,” he said, moving on. “It’s true of course; a centaur never lies. I did water that tree. It was more convenient than the privy.”

So this gluebark had given up its prize. Well, why not? Centaurs were indeed generally kind to trees, though Chester had no particular love for needle-cactuses. Which was no doubt why the Queen in her humor had imposed this costume on him.

They came to the place where Bink had encountered the zombie, but the awful thing was gone. Only a slimy chunk of dirt lay in the path. Chester nudged it with one forehoof. “Real dirt—from a fake zombie?” he inquired, puzzled. “The Queen’s illusions are getting better.”

Bink nodded agreement. It was a disquieting note. Obviously the Queen had extended the illusion greatly—but why should she bother? Her magic was strong, far beyond the talents of ordinary people, for she was one of the three Magician-class citizens of Xanth. But it had to be a strain on even her power to maintain every detail of every costume of every person attending the masquerade. Bink and Chester’s costumes were visual only, or it would have been difficult for them to converse.

“Here is a fresh pile of dirt,” Chester remarked. “Real dirt, not zombie dirt.” He tapped at it with a cactus foot that nevertheless left a hoofprint. “Could the thing have gone back into the ground here?”

Curious, Bink scraped at the mound with his own foot. There was nothing inside it except more dirt. No zombie. “Well, we lost him,” Bink said, upset for a reason he could not
quite fathom. The zombie had seemed so real! “Let’s just find our way into the palace, instead of making fools of ourselves out here.”

Chester nodded, his cactus-head wobbling ludicrously. “I wasn’t guessing people very well anyway,” he admitted. “And the only question I could ask the Good Magician doesn’t have any answer.”

“No answer?” Bink asked as they turned into another channel.

“Since Cherie had the colt—mind you, he’s a fine little centaur, bushy-tailed—she doesn’t seem to have much time for me anymore. I’m like a fifth hoof around the stable. So what can I—?”

“You, too!” Bink exclaimed, recognizing the root of his own bad mood. “Chameleon hasn’t even had ours yet, but—” He shrugged.

“Don’t worry—she won’t have a colt.”

Bink choked, though it really wasn’t funny.

“Fillies—can’t run with them, can’t run without them,” Chester said dolefully.

Suddenly a harpy rounded a corner. There was another scramble to avoid a collision. “You blind in the beak?” Chester demanded. “Flap off, birdbrain.”

“You have a vegetable head?” the harpy retorted in a fluting tone. “Clear out of my way before I sew you up in a stinking ball with your own dull needles.”

“Dull needles!” Chester, somewhat belligerent even in the best of moods, swelled up visibly at this affront. Had he actually been a cactus, he would have fired off a volley of needles immediately—and none of those darts looked dull. “You want your grimy feathers crammed up your snotty snoot?”

It was the harpy’s turn to swell. Most of its breed were female, but this one was male: more of the Queen’s rather cutting humor. “Naturally,” the birdman fluted. “Right after you have the juice squeezed out of your pulp, greenface.”

“Oh, yeah?” Chester demanded, forgetting that centaurs were not common brawlers. Harpy and cactus squared off. The harpy was evidently a considerably larger creature, one that
never had to take any guff off strangers. That odd, half-musical mode of speech—

“Manticora!” Bink exclaimed.

The harpy paused. “One point for you, Centaur. Your voice sounds familiar, but—”

Startled, Bink reminded himself that he was in the guise of a centaur at the moment, so that it was himself, not Chester, the creature addressed. “I’m Bink. I met you when I visited the Good Magician, way back when—”

“Oh, yes. You broke his magic mirror. Fortunately he had another. Whatever became of you?”

“I fell upon evil times. I got married.”

The manticora laughed musically. “Not to this cactus, I trust?”

“Listen, thing—” Chester said warningly.

“This really is my friend, Chester Centaur,” Bink said quickly. “He’s the nephew of Herman the hermit, who saved Xanth from the—”

“I knew Herman!” the manticora said. “Greatest centaur there ever was, even before he gave his noble life for his country. Only one I know who wasn’t ashamed of his magic talent. His will-o’-the-wisps led me out of a dragon warren once. When I learned of his death, I was so sad I went out and stung a small tangle tree to death. He was so much better than those hoof-headed equines of the common herd who exiled him—” He broke off. “No offense, Cactus, you being his nephew and all. I may have a target to sting with you, but I would not affront the memory of that remarkable hermit.”

There was no surer route to Chester’s favor than praise of his hero-uncle, as perhaps the manticora knew. “No offense!” he said instantly. “Everything you said is true! My people exiled Herman because they thought magic in a centaur was obscene. Most of them still do. Even my own filly, as nice a piece of horseflesh as you’d care to—” He shook his cactus-head, becoming aware of the impropriety. “They
are
hoofheads.”

“Times are changing,” the manticora said. “One day all the centaurs will be flaunting their talents instead of flouting them.” He made a gesture with his harpy wings. “Well, I must
go identify some more people, not that I need the prize. It’s merely a challenge.”

He moved on. Bink marveled again at the humor of the Queen, to costume as a harpy such a formidable creature as a manticora, who possessed the head of a man with triple jaws, body of a lion, wings of a dragon, and tail of a monstrous scorpion. Certainly one of the most deadly monsters of the Land of Xanth—rendered into the likeness of one of the most disgusting. Yet the manticora was bearing up with grace, and playing the game of charades and costumes. Probably he felt secure in the knowledge that he had a soul, and so he cared little for appearances.

“I wonder if I have a magic talent?” Chester mused, sounding a trifle guilty. The transition from obscenity to pride was indeed a difficult one!

“If you won the prize, you could find out,” Bink pointed out.

The cactus brightened. “That’s right!” This was evidently the unanswerable question Chester had had in mind, unvoiced. Then the cactus dulled. “But Cherie would never let me have a talent, not even a little one. She’s awfully prudish about that sort of thing.”

Bink remembered the filly’s prim attitude, and nodded. Cherie Centaur was one fine figure of a filly, and well able to handle the general magic of Xanth, but she could not abide it in any centaur. It reminded Bink of his own mother’s attitude about sex in young humans. For animals it was natural, but when something like a wild-oats nymph was involved—well, Chester did have a problem.

They turned another corner—corners abounded in this infernal maze—and there was the palace gate, shining beyond the drawbridge over the moat. “Let’s get over there before the maze changes!” Bink exclaimed.

They ran toward it—but even as they did, the hedge-pattern shimmered and fogged. The awful thing about this puzzle-pattern was its instability; at irregular intervals it shifted into new configurations, so that it was impossible to solve it methodically. They were going to be too late to break out.

“I’m not stopping now!” Chester cried. The sound of cactus-galloping became louder. “Get on my back!”

Bink didn’t argue. He made a leap for the prickliest portion of the cactus, grimacing in half-expectation of a crotchful of needles. He landed neatly on Chester’s back, which felt quite equine. Phew!

At the feel of that impact, Chester accelerated. Bink had ridden a centaur before, when Cherie had kindly given him a lift—but never a powerhouse like this! Chester was husky even by centaur standards, and now he was in a hurry. The huge muscles pulsed along his body, launching him forward with such ferocity that Bink was afraid he would be hurled off as fast as he had landed. But he clutched two handfuls of mane and hung on, confident that his talent would protect him even from this.

Few residents of Xanth were aware of Bink’s talents, and he himself had been ignorant of it the first twenty-five years of his life. This was because of the way the talent clouded itself, hiding from publicity. It prevented him from being harmed by magic—but anyone who knew this could then harm him by mundane means. So Bink’s talent shrouded itself in seeming coincidence. Only King Trent, besides Bink himself, knew the truth. Good Magician Humfrey probably suspected, and Chameleon had to have an idea.

A new hedge formed between them and the gate. It was probably illusion, since they had just seen the gate. Chester plunged through it—and sent branches flying. No illusion; this time it must have been the gate that was the illusion. The Sorceress Queen could make things disappear, by creating the illusion of open space; he should have remembered that before.

What drive this creature had! Invisible foliage tore at Bink like the winds of a tempest, but he clung tight. Another barrier appeared; Chester veered to follow a new channel that went his way, then smashed past another cross-hedge. Once this centaur got moving, pity the man, beast, or plant that got in his way!

Suddenly they were out of the maze and at the moat. But Chester’s veer had brought him to it twenty paces to the side of
the drawbridge, and there was no room to make a course correction. “Hang on!” Chester cried, and leaped.

This time the thrust was so great that Bink ripped a double handful of mane out of the centaur’s hide and still slid off the rear. He tumbled end over end and splashed into the moat.

Immediately the moat-monsters converged, jaws gaping eagerly. They were ever alert; they would have been fired, otherwise. A huge serpent looped down, each glistening tooth as long as one of Bink’s fingers. From the other side a purple croc opened its gnarly proboscis, showing off teeth that were even longer. And directly under Bink, rising from the swirling moat-mud, came a behemoth, its back so broad it seemed to fill the entire moat.

Bink thrashed madly in the water, trying to swim to safety, knowing that no man could escape any one of these monsters, let alone all three. The behemoth came up, lifting him half out of the water; the croc came across, its jaws parting cavernously; the serpent struck with lightning velocity from above.

And—croc and serpent collided, their teeth throwing off sparks as they clashed. Both monsters were shunted aside by the mass of the rising behemoth—and Bink slid down that lifting slope as on a greased skid, away from the teeth and safely to the stone-lined inner wall of the moat. An amazing coincidence—

Ha. That was his talent operating, saving him once again from his own folly. Trying to ride a galloping centaur that looked like a cactus—he should have picked his way out of the maze the way the others were doing. He was just lucky that both centaurs and moat-monsters were magical, so that his talent could function.

Chester had landed safely, and was on hand to haul him out of the moat. With one hand the centaur lifted Bink clear, hardly seeming to exert himself. But his voice shook. “I thought—when you fell among those monsters—I never saw anything like—”

“They weren’t really hungry,” Bink said, preferring to disparage the significance of the event. “They were just playing
with their food, and overdid it. Let’s go on inside. They must be serving the refreshments by now.”

“Hey, yes!” Chester agreed. Like all powerful creatures, he had a chronic appetite.

“Hay, yes,” Bink muttered. But it was not a good pun; centaurs did not eat hay, despite what detractors might imply.

They moved to the castle—and the illusions faded. The spell was off, here; they were themselves again, man and centaur. “You know, I never realized how homely my face was, until I saw it on you,” Chester said musingly.

“But you have an exceedingly handsome posterior,” Bink pointed out.

“True, true,” the centaur agreed, mollified. “I always said Cherie didn’t become my mate for my face.”

Bink started to laugh, but realized his friend was serious. Also, they were at the entry now, and others were within earshot.

The guard at the palace gate frowned. “How many did you guess, Bink?” he inquired, pad poised for a note.

“One, Crombie,” Bink said, indicating Chester. Then he remembered the manticora. “Two, rather.”

“You’re out of the running, then,” Crombie said. “The leading contestant has twelve.” He glanced at Chester. “You?”

“I didn’t want the prize anyway,” the centaur said gruffly.

“You folk haven’t been trying,” Crombie said. “If I’d been out there, instead of stuck here running errands for the Queen—”

“I thought you liked this palace job,” Bink said. He had first encountered Crombie when the man soldiered for the prior King.

“I like it—but I like adventure better. The King’s okay, but—” Crombie scowled. “Well, you know the Queen.”

“All fillies are difficult,” Chester said. “It’s their nature; they can’t help it, even if they wanted to.”