The Source of Magic (4 page)

“Right you are!” Crombie agreed heartily. He was the original woman-hater. “And the ones with the strongest magic—who else would have dreamed up this idiocy of a masquerade? She just wants to show off her sorcery.”

“She hasn’t got much else to show off,” Chester said. “The King pays no attention to her.”

“The King’s one smart Magician!” Crombie agreed. “When she’s not making mischief like this, this palace guard duty is dull as hell. I wish I were out on a man’s mission, like the time when Bink and I—”

Bink smiled reminiscently. “Wasn’t that Technicolor hailstorm something? We camped out under the quiescent tangle tree—”

“And the girl ran off,” Crombie agreed. “Those were the days!”

Surprised, Bink found himself agreeing. The adventure had not seemed like fun at the time, but in retrospect it had a certain twilight luster. “You told me she was a threat to me.”

“And she
was
,” Crombie said. “She married you, didn’t she?”

Bink laughed, but it was a trifle forced. “We’d better get on in before the refreshments are gone.” He turned—and almost stumbled over another little mound of dirt. “You have moles around the palace?” he inquired with a certain edge.

Crombie squinted at the dirt. “That wasn’t there a moment ago. Maybe a magic mole was attracted by the party. I’ll notify the head groundskeeper, when I get offshift.”

Bink and Chester moved on in. The palace ballroom had been decorated by Queen Iris, naturally. It was an undersea setting, with streamers of seaweed rising from the rocky deeps, and brightly colored fish swimming through, and barnacles on the walls. Here and there were subaqueous beaches of fine white sand, which shifted location magically, so that if a person stood still the scenery would come to him. A large serpentine sea monster coiled around the entire area, its pulsing, convoluted coils showing here and there in lieu of walls.

Chester glanced around. “She’s a bitch, and she shows off, but I have to admit her magic is impressive. But I’m worried about the quantity of food; if there isn’t enough—”

There turned out to be no danger of a shortage. The refreshments were mountainous, and under the personal guard of Queen Iris. She had a picklepuss on a little leash. Whenever
someone had the temerity to take a delicacy, the picklepuss pickled it. “No one eats until the grand prize is awarded,” Iris announced, glaring about. Since she had garbed herself as a warrior-queen-mermaid, complete with spiked crown, trident, and powerful tail, and the points of the trident glistened with a coating of slime that was probably illusion too but just might possibly be genuine poison, this was an effective enough deterrent even without the picklepuss.

Bink and Chester separated, mixing with the other guests. Just about every creature of note in Xanth was present, except for Chester’s filly Cherie, who was no doubt still wrapped up in the colt, and Bink’s Chameleon, wrapped up in her misery. And the Good Magician Humfrey, who never socialized voluntarily.

Bink spotted his father Roland, down from the North Village. Roland was careful not to embarrass him by any overt show of affection. They shook hands. “Nice shoes, son.”

This was nevertheless a miscue, after the scene with Chameleon. “Fresh from the tree,” Bink said awkwardly.

“What have you been doing these past few months?” Bubbles rose from Roland’s mouth as he spoke, quivering spherically as they sought the surface of the ocean. When Queen Iris put on an illusion, it was some illusion! Ordinary citizens, with their motley individual magic talents, could only look upon the works of the Sorceress and despair. Which was, of course, why the Queen was putting on this show.

“Oh, practicing with the sword, tilling the garden, that sort of thing,” Bink said.

“I understand Chameleon is expecting momentarily.”

“That, too,” Bink said, again experiencing the frustration of his situation.

“A son will help fill the house.”

Provided it turned out to be a normal, talented son. Bink changed the subject. “We have a delicate young lady-slipper plant just blossoming; I think it will bear its first pair of slippers soon.”

“The ladies will be pleased,” Roland said gravely, exactly as if this were significant news. Suddenly Bink realized that he
had very little to show for his past year. What had he accomplished? Virtually nothing. No wonder he felt out of sorts!

The illumination dimmed. It was as if dusk were falling, causing the sea to darken, too. But the diffused daylight was replaced by nocturnal fluorescence. The flotation sacs on the seaweed glowed like little lamps, and the neon-coral was brightly outlined in assorted colors. Even the puffy sponges emitted wan beams. The animal life had sharper light, with electric eels flashing searchlight beams, and assorted fish shone translucently. The overall effect was bewilderingly beautiful.

“If only her personality were as excellent as her taste,” Roland murmured, referring to the Queen.

“We shall now award the door prize,” Queen Iris announced. She glowed most of all: streams of light emanated from the points of her crown and trident, and her beautifully bare mermaid torso was clearly outlined. She was the mistress of illusion; she could make herself as lovely as she chose, and she chose well.

“I understand it was a marriage of convenience,” Roland continued. Though no Magician himself, Roland was the King’s regent north of the Gap, and did not hold royalty in awe. “It must be extremely convenient at times.”

Bink nodded, slightly embarrassed by his father’s evident appreciation of the well-displayed if illusory charms of the Queen. The man was bordering on fifty, after all! Yet it had to be true. The King professed no love for the Queen, and governed that temperamental woman with a subtly iron hand that amazed those who had known Iris before her marriage. Yet she thrived under that discipline. Those who knew the King well understood that not only was he a more powerful Magician than she, he was also a stronger person. In fact, it looked as if the magic Land of Xanth had its most effective King since the Fourth Wave Reign of Roogna, the builder of this castle-palace. Already formidable changes were occurring; the magic shield that had protected Xanth from intrusion had been removed, and Mundane creatures were allowed to cross the border. The first to cross had been the members of the King’s former Mundane army; they had been settled in wilderness regions
and were becoming productive citizens of Xanth. The requirement that each citizen demonstrate a magic talent had been abolished—and to the amazement of some conservatives, chaos had not resulted. People were becoming known and respected for their total qualities, not just the accident of their magic. Selected parties were exploring nearby Mundania, where no magic existed, and outlying guard posts were being established so that no invasion could happen by surprise. The King had not destroyed the shieldstone; he would restore the shield if it were ever needed.

At any rate, Bink was sure King Trent had an eye for all things good and useful, including the flesh of fair women, and the Queen was his to command. She could and would be anything the King wished, and he would not be human if he did not avail himself of this, at least on occasion. The question was, what did he want? This was common palace speculation, and the prevailing opinion was that the King wanted variety. The Queen seldom appeared in the same guise twice.

“Palace Guard, your report,” the Queen demanded peremptorily.

Soldier Crombie came forward slowly. He was resplendent in his palace uniform, every inch the soldier in a kingdom that hardly needed soldiers. He could fight well and savagely with sword or bare hands and did not like serving as lackey to a woman—and he showed it. Therefore she enjoyed ordering him about. But she could not push him too far, for his loyalty was to the King, and the King’s favor lay on him.

“The winner—” Crombie began, consulting his notes.

“No, not that way, idiot!” she exclaimed, blotting him out with a cloud of diffusing dye. More illusion, of course, but quite effective. “First you give the runner-up,
then
you give the winner. Do something right, for a change.”

Crombie’s scowling face emerged from the thinning dye. “Women!” he muttered with caustic freighting. The Queen smiled, enjoying his ire. “The runner-up, with nine correct identifications, is—” He scowled again. “A woman. Bianca of the North Village.”

“Mother!” Bink breathed, surprised.

“She always did enjoy guessing games,” Roland said with pride. “I think you inherit your intelligence as well as your looks from her.”

“And my courage and strength from you,” Bink said, appreciating the compliment.

Bianca walked sedately to the stage area. She was a handsome woman who in youth had been beautiful, and unlike the Queen she was genuine. Her talent was the replay, not illusion.

“So the distaff proves itself again,” the Queen said, smirking at Crombie the woman-hater. “The prize is—” She paused. “Doorman, fetch the second prize. You should have had it ready.”

Crombie’s scowl became truly ominous, but he walked to a cabinet half concealed by seaweed and brought out a covered container.

“The prize is,” the Queen repeated, then whipped off the cover. “A potted snapdragon!”

There was a murmur of well-meaning awe and envy from the ladies present as the plant’s several flower-heads flexed about on their stems, snapping viciously. Snapdragons were very good for eliminating insect and animal pests, and served as useful guards for houses. Woe to the intruder who stepped in or near such a plant! But they did not take readily to potting, so that a special and rather difficult spell was necessary to confine them. Thus wild snapdragons were common enough, but potted ones rare and much prized.

Bianca showed her pleasure as she accepted the plant, turning her face away with a smile as a little dragon-head snapped at her nose. Part of the potting process included a spell to render the plant harmless to its owner, but it took a while for it to get to know that owner. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you, Queen Iris.” Then, diplomatically: “You’re beautiful too—but not the same way.”

The Queen snapped her teeth in mock imitation of the snapdragon, then smiled graciously. She craved the recognition and praise of such established and reputable citizens as Bianca, for Iris had lived in semi-exile for years before assuming the
crown. “
Now
the top winner, servitor,” she said to Crombie. “This time give it some flair, if you have any.”

“The winner, with thirteen correct identities,” Crombie drawled without flair, “is Millie the ghost.” And he shrugged as if to express bemusement at yet another female success. He had made the count, so he knew the contest wasn’t rigged. However, it was generally understood that the men had not been trying very hard.

The pretty, young-seeming ghost floated up. She was in her fashion both the youngest and the oldest of Castle Roogna’s inhabitants. She had been in her teens when she died over eight hundred years before. When Bink first saw her she had been a formless blob of vapor, but since the occupancy of the castle by mortals she had shaped up until her outline was as firm and sightly as that of any living woman. She was a very sweet ghost, well liked by all, and there was applause at her victory.

“And the grand prize is—” The Queen spread her hands dramatically. “This certificate for one free Answer by the Good Magician Humfrey!” There was background fanfare, punctuated by magically augmented applause, as she handed the paper to the ghost.

Millie hesitated. Having no physical substance, she could not carry the certificate.

“That’s all right,” the Queen said. “I’ll just write your name on it, and Magician Humfrey will know it’s yours. In fact, he’s probably watching us in his magic mirror at this moment. Why don’t you ask your question now?”

Millie’s reply was inaudible, for she could hardly speak above a ghostly whisper.

“Don’t be concerned; I’m sure everyone will be glad to help,” the Queen said. “Here—we’ll write it down on the magic slate, and Magician Humfrey can respond in the same way.” She gestured at Crombie. “Flunky, the slate!”

Crombie paused, but his curiosity made him go along with it. He fetched the slate. The Queen conscripted the nearest centaur, who happened to be Chester (who had been trying without success to sneak a cookie from the refreshment stand without having it pickled), to transcribe the ghost’s inaudible
words. Centaurs were literate; many of them were teachers, so writing chores fell naturally to them.

Chester did not like the Queen’s attitude much better than Crombie did, but he also played along. What possible Question could a ghost have for the Magician? He wrote in flourishing capitals:
HOW CAN MILLIE LIVE AGAIN
?

There was more applause. The guests liked that Question. It was a challenging one—and the Answer, given publicly, might provide insights for them all. Usually Magician Humfrey’s Answers cost the asker a year’s service, and were given only to the one who asked. This party was getting interesting!

The words disappeared as if erased by an invisible sponge. Then the Magician’s Answer showed:
THE REQUIREMENTS ARE
3
REE:
1
RST—YOU MUST HAVE THE TRUE WILL TO BECOME MORTAL
.

It was evident that Millie did. She gestured imploringly at the slate to continue, so that she could know whether the other requirements were similarly easy—or impossible. Technically, as the common saying went, nothing was impossible with magic, but in practice some spells were prohibitively difficult. Bink yearned with her: he had once longed as ardently for a magic talent, upon which his citizenship, welfare, and self-respect then depended. To one who had died prematurely, but not expired, what a tremendous hope mortality might be! Of course, if Millie lived, she would also die, in due course. But really she would be completing the life she had started, so many centuries ago. As a ghost she was in hiatus, unable to affect her destiny materially, unable to love and fear and feel.

Well, no, Bink corrected himself. Obviously she did feel—but not in the fashion physical people did. She could not experience bodily pleasure or pain.