The Source of Magic (5 page)

2
COND
, the slate continued,
YOU MUST HAVE A SPELL DOCTOR RESTORE YOUR TALENT TO OPTIMUM POTENCY
.

“Is there a spell doctor in the house?” the Queen inquired, looking about, her points flashing. “No? Very well, errand boy—point out the nearest spell doctor.”

Crombie started a snarl, but again was overcome by curiosity.
He closed his eyes, spun about, and extended his right arm. It came to rest pointing northeast.

“That would be the Gap Village,” the Queen said. There was a spell on the Gap that rendered the giant crevice that separated Xanth into the northern and southern sections unmemorable, but a spot counterspell had been applied to the Castle so that inhabitants and visitors could remember such things. The King would have had trouble governing properly if he could not remember so critical a feature of the landscape as the Gap! “Where is our transporter?”

“On my way, Your Highness,” a man said. He sighted along the line Crombie was pointing out, concentrated—and suddenly an old woman stood before them. She looked about, bewildered by the people and water, for they were still in the undersea illusion.

“You are a spell doctor?” the Queen demanded.

“Yes,” the old woman agreed. “But I don’t do no doctoring for foolish people sunk in the ocean. Especially when I get yanked from my laundry without a—”

“This is King Trent’s Coronation Anniversary Celebration Ball,” the Queen said haughtily. “Now you have a choice, old crone: doctor one spell for us, and have the run of the party and all the food and fun you want, in a costume like this—” The old woman was abruptly garbed like a matron of honor, courtesy of the Queen’s illusion magic. “Or
don’t
doctor the spell, and this creature will pickle you.” She held up the picklepuss, who hissed eagerly.

The old woman, like Crombie and Chester, looked rebellious, but decided on the expedient course. “What spell?”

“Millie’s spell,” the Queen said, indicating the ghost.

The spell doctor studied Millie, then cackled. “It is done,” she said, smiling broadly so that all four of her teeth showed.

“I wonder what is so funny?” Roland murmured. “Do you know what Millie’s talent is?”

“Ghosts don’t have talents,” Bink said.

“Her spell in life. It must be something special.”

“Must be. I guess we’ll find out, if she can fulfill the third requirement.”

3
IRD
, the slate continued,
IMMERSE YOUR SKELETON IN HEALING ELIXIR
.

“We have plenty of that” the Queen said. “Lackey—”

The soldier was already on his way. In a moment he returned with a bucket of elixir.

“Now—where is your skeleton?” the Queen demanded.

But at this point Millie balked. She seemed to be trying to speak, but was unable.

“A silence spell!” the Queen exclaimed. “You aren’t permitted to tell where it is! That’s why it has remained hidden all these centuries!”

Millie nodded sadly.

“This is better yet!” the Queen said. “We shall have a treasure hunt! In which closet is Millie’s skeleton? A special prize to whoever finds it first!” She pondered fleetingly. “I’m out of regular prizes … I know! The first date with Millie the mortal!”

“But what if a woman finds it?” someone asked.

“I’ll have my husband the King change her into a man for the occasion,” the Queen said.

There was an uneasy laugh. Was she joking—or serious? As far as Bink knew, the King could transform anything living into any other thing living—of the same sex. But he never used his talent capriciously. So it must be humor.

“But what about the food?” Chester demanded.

“That’s it!” she decided. “The women have already proved their superiority, so they’ll be barred from the treasure hunt. They’ll start in on the refreshments while the men go look for—” But she saw Chester swelling up, and realized she was going too far. “Oh, all right, the men can eat too, even those with appetites like horses. But don’t touch the Anniversary cake. The King will serve that—when the treasure hunt is over.” She looked momentarily pensive, which was unusual for her; was she sure the King would perform?

The cake was magnificent: tier on tier of scintillating icing embroidered with a huge number 1, crowned with a magically lifelike bust of King Trent. The Queen always promoted the King’s glory, because her own glory was a reflection of it.
Some poor chef had spent a lot of effort organizing the magic for this ornate pastry!

“Picklepuss, stand guard over that cake, and pickle anybody who durst touch it,” the Queen said, fastening the end of the puss’s leash to the leg of the cake’s table. “Now, men—on with the treasure hunt!”

Roland shook his head. “Skeletons in closets are best left undisturbed,” he remarked. “I believe I will go congratulate your mother.” He glanced at Bink. “You will have to represent our family in the treasure hunt. You don’t have to search too hard.” He made a little gesture of parting and moved off through the glowing currents of the sea.

Bink stood in place a moment, reflecting. It was evident his father knew there was something wrong, but was not commenting directly.

And what
was
wrong? Bink knew he had a good life, now, with a fine if variable wife and the favor of the King. Why did he dream of adventures in far places, of using the sword whose art he had been studying, of danger and even death, though he knew his talent would protect him from all genuine threats? What was the matter with him? It somehow seemed he had been happier when his future was in doubt—and that was ridiculous.

Why wasn’t Chameleon here? She was near term, but she could have attended the Ball if she had wanted to. There was a magic midwife on the palace staff.

He decided. On with the treasure hunt! Maybe he could prove himself by locating that skeleton in the closet!

N
ow he had a challenge, however superficial. He had to start with his brain. Millie was not necessarily in a closet
per se
. Her bones had to be somewhere in the palace demesnes, because her ghost was here—but that could be anywhere within the moat or even the garden. Away from the regularly traveled sections. Unless the bones were buried under a floor or between walls. That seemed unlikely; the structure of the palace was quite solid, buttressed by durability spells; it would be a major undertaking to breach any floor or wall. Presuming that Millie had died suddenly, under suspicious circumstances (otherwise she would not have become a ghost), the murderer would have had to hide her body quickly, surreptitiously. No rebuilding of walls to conceal it! Old King Roogna would not have tolerated such a thing.

Where could a body have been hidden in minutes—so well as to withstand the scrutiny of centuries? The King’s renovations had covered every part of Castle Roogna, converting it to the royal palace of the present kingdom; the restorative artisans could not have missed anything like this. So the feat seemed mechanically impossible. There could be no skeletons in these closets.

Bink saw that other men were already busy rummaging in all the closets. No use to compete directly with them, even if the skeleton were there.

Mechanically impossible—ah, there was the clue! Not magically impossible! The bones must have been transformed to
something else, something innocuous, misleading. The question was,
what
? There were a thousand artifacts in the palace, and any one could be it. Yet transformation was major magic, and what Magician would be fooling around with a mere chambermaid? So her bones might after all remain in their natural state, or perhaps dissolved in solvent or ground up into powder. Regardless, there should be some clue to their identity, if only it could be correctly fathomed. Yes, a most intriguing puzzle!

Bink walked up to the refreshment table. There were tarts and donuts and cookies and cakes and pies and assorted beverages. Chester was stuffing himself. Bink circled the table, searching for something interesting. As he neared the Anniversary cake, the picklepuss hissed at him warningly. It was cat-bodied, with a snout that was green and prickly like a pickle, and its eyes were moist with brine. For a moment he was tempted to advance on it, to try his magic against its magic. He could not be harmed by magic, yet surely the feline would try to pickle him. What would happen?

No—he was not a juvenile daredevil compelled to prove himself by foolish exploits. Why force his talent to labor unnecessarily?

He spotted a smiling-face cookie and picked it up. As he brought it to his mouth, the smile became an O of horror. Bink hesitated, knowing this was merely another of the Queen’s illusions, but loath to bite anyway. The cookie screwed its face in anticipation of the awful end; then when the bite did not come, slowly reopened one icing-dab eye.

“Here, puss—you take it,” Bink said, extending the cookie to the leashed creature. There was a faint
zoop
! and the cookie was pickled, one of its eyes opened, the other closed. Now it reeked of brine. He set it down on the floor, and the picklepuss slunk forward and took the pickle-cookie in its mouth. Bink no longer felt hungry.

“Your spell is ailing,” said a woman beside him. It was the old spell doctor, enjoying her unexpected participation in the proceedings. The party was theoretically open to all, but few garden-variety citizens had the nerve to attend. “But it is too potent for me to fix. Are you a Magician?”

“No, just a strongly talented nonentity,” Bink said wishing that were as facetious as it was intended to sound.

She concentrated. “No, I am mistaken. Your spell is not sick, just balked. I think it suffers from lack of exercise. Have you used it in the last year?”

“Some,” Bink said, thinking of his recent escape from the moat-monsters. “Not much.”

“You have to use magic, or you lose it,” she said wisely.

“But what if there is no occasion to use it?”

“There is always an occasion for magic—in Xanth.”

That hardly seemed true, for him, here in the palace. His talent protected him from most harm—but so did the favor of the King. So his talent got little exercise, and might indeed be getting flabby. His fight with the animated sword had been the first real occasion for his talent to manifest in some time, and he had sought to avoid invoking his magic there. So his moat dunking was about it. He remained a little wet, but the undersea decor concealed that. Would he have to seek danger, to keep his talent healthy? That would be ironic.

The woman shrugged and moved on, sampling other delicacies. Bink looked about—and caught the ghostly eye of Millie.

He went to her. “How is it proceeding?” he inquired politely.

At close range, the ghost was audible. Perhaps the movement of her white lips helped. “It is so exciting!” she exclaimed faintly. “To be whole again!”

“Are you sure being mortal is worth it?” he asked. “Sometimes when a person achieves his dream, it sours.” Was he really addressing her—or himself?

She gazed at him with sympathy. He could see the other guests milling about beyond her, for she was translucent. Milling through Millie! It was slightly hard to focus on her. Yet she was beautiful in a special way: not merely her face and figure, but her sheer niceness and concern for others. Millie had helped Chameleon a lot, showing her where things were, what fruits were edible and what were dangerous, explaining castle protocol. It was Millie who had inadvertently shown Bink himself another facet of the Magician Trent, back when Bink had
believed the man to be evil. “It would be so nice if you found my bones,” Millie said.

Bink laughed, embarrassed. “Millie, I’m a married man!”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Married men are best. They are—broken in, experienced, gentle, durable, and they do not talk gratuitously. For my return to life, for the first experience, it would be so nice—”

“You don’t understand,” Bink said. “I love my wife, Chameleon.”

“Yes, of course you are loyal,” Millie replied. “But right now she is in her ugly phase, and in her ninth month with child, and her tongue is as sharp as the manticora’s stinger. Right now is when you need relief, and if I recover my life—”

“Please, no more!” Bink exclaimed. The ghost was striking right on target.

“I love you too, you know,” she continued. “You remind me of—of the one I really loved, when I lived. But he is eight hundred years dead and gone.” She gazed pensively at her misty fingers. “I could not marry you, Bink, when I first met you. I could only look and long. Do you know what it is like, seeing everything and never participating? I could have been so good for you, if only—” She broke down, hiding her face, her whole head hazing before his eyes.

Bink was embarrassed and touched. “I’m sorry, Millie, I didn’t know.” He put his hand on her shaking shoulder, but of course passed right through it. “It never occurred to me that your life could be restored. If I had—”

“Yes, of course,” she sobbed.

“But you will be a very pretty girl. I’m sure there are many other young men who—”

“True, true,” she agreed, shaking harder. Now her whole body was fogging out. The other guests were beginning to stare. This was about to get awkward.

“If there is anything I can do—” Bink said.

Millie brightened instantly, and her image sharpened correspondingly. “Find my bones!”

Fortunately that was not easily accomplished. “I’ll look,” Bink agreed. “But I have no better chance than anyone else.”

“Yes, you do. You know how to do it, if only you put your marvelous mind to it. I can’t tell you where they are, but if you really try—” She looked at him with ardent urgency. “It’s been so many centuries. Promise me you’ll try.”

“But I—what would Chameleon think if—”

Millie put her face in her hands. The stares of the other guests hardened as the ghost’s outline softened. “All right, I’ll try,” Bink promised. Why hadn’t his talent protected him from this? But he knew the answer: his magic protected him from physical, magical harm. Millie was magical but not physical—and what she intended for him when she became physical would not ordinarily be construed as harm. His talent had never concerned itself with emotional complications. Bink would have to solve this triangle by himself.