"But though he found Xanth delightful, he was lonely. He had, it seemed, fled his home tribe--we like to think he was an honorable man who had run afoul of an evil King--such things do happen in Mundania, we understand--and could not safely return there. Indeed, in time a detachment of other warriors came after him, intent on his murder. There is an opacity about the manner Mundanes may enter Xanth; normally people from the same Mundane subsociety may enter Xanth only If they are grouped together, not separately, but it seems these ones were, after all, able to follow--I don't pretend to understand this, but perhaps it is a mere distortion of the legend--at any rate, they were less able than he and fell prey to the natural hazards of Xanth. All but two of them died--and these two, severely wounded, survived only because this first good man--we call him Alpha, for what reason the record does not divulge--rescued them from peril and put healing balm on their wounds. After that they declined to attack him any more; they owed life-debts to him, and swore friendship instead. There was a kind of honor in those days, and we have maintained it since.
"Now they were three men, with three fine mares they had salvaged. None of them could leave Xanth, for news of their betrayal had somehow spread, and enemies lurked just beyond the realm of magic. Or perhaps the Mundane culture had somehow become alien, one variant of the legend has reference to their attempt to return, and discovery of Babel--that they could no longer speak the language or comprehend the culture of the Mundanians. One of them had been a mercenary, a paid soldier, who it seemed spoke a different Mundanian dialect, but he spoke the same language as the others when they met in Xanth. We know this is a property of the magic of Xanth; all cultures and languages become one, including the written language; there is no language barrier between creatures of the same species. For whatever reason--I might wish that the legend was absolutely firm and clear, but must deal with a story line that fragments into mutually incompatible aspects, each of which has elements that are necessary to the continuation of the whole--a most intriguing riddle!--the three men and their mounts were safe, as long as they remained within the realm of magic they had come to understand and use so well--but they longed for the companionship of women of their kind. They wished to colonize the land, but could only live alone. Then, exploring deep in new territory, they came upon a spring on a lovely offshore island, and all three drank deeply and watered their horses. They did not know it was a spring of love that would compel instant love with the first creature of the opposite sex spied after drinking. And so it happened that each man, in that critical moment, saw first his good mare--and each mare saw her master. And so it was that the species of the centaur began. This is another of the perplexing distinctions between Xanth and Mundania; in the latter Kingdom representatives of different species are unable to interbreed to produce offspring, while in Xanth it is a matter of course, though normally individuals are most attracted to their own species. The offspring of these unions, perceiving that their parents differed from themselves and that the masters were human beings who were possessed of the greater part of the intellect while the mares possessed the greater part of the strength, learned to respect each species for its special properties. The men taught their offspring all the skills they knew so well, both mental and physical, and commanded in return the right to govern this land of Xanth. In time the mares died, after foaling many times, and eventually the men died, too, leaving only the continuing species of centaur on the island. But the tradition remained, and when, centuries later, other men came, and women, too, the centaurs accorded them the dominance of the Kingdom. So it continues to the present day."
"That's beautiful," Irene said. "Now I know why you centaurs have always supported us, even when our kind was unworthy, and why you served as our mentors. You have been more consistent than we have been."
"We have the advantage of cultural continuity. Yet it is a legend," Arnolde reminded her. "We believe it, but we have no detailed proof."
"Bring me an artifact," Dor said, moved by the story. He had no desire to mate with a creature of another species, but could not deny that love matches of many types existed in Xanth. The harpies, the merfolk, the manticora, the werewolves and vampire-bats--all had obvious human and animal lineage, and there were also many combinations of different animals, like the chimera and griffin. It would be unthinkable to deny the validity of these mixed species; Xanth would not be the same at all without them. "I'll get you the proof."
But now the centaur hesitated. "I thought I wanted the proof--but now I am afraid it would be other than the legend. There might be ugly elements in lieu of the beautiful ones. Perhaps our ancestors were not nice creatures. I sheer away; for the first time I discover a limit to my eagerness for knowledge. Perhaps it is best that the legend remain unchallenged."
"Perhaps it is," Dor agreed. Now at last he felt the time had come to express his real concern. "Since centaurs derive from men, and men have magic talents--"
"Oh, I suppose some centaurs do have some magic," Arnolde said in the manner of an open-minded person skirting a close-minded issue. "But it has no bearing on our society. We leave the magic, like the governing, to you humans."
"But some centaurs do--even Magician level--"
"Oh, you mean Herman the Hermit Centaur," Arnolde said. "The one who could summon the Will-o'-Wisps. He was wronged, I think; he used his power to save Xanth from the ravage of wiggles, and gave his life in that effort, eighteen years ago. But of course, though some magic has perforce been accepted recently in our society, if another centaur Magician appeared, he, too, would be outcast. We centaurs have a deep cultural aversion to obscenity."
Dor found his task increasingly unpleasant. He knew Cherie Centaur considered magic in her species to be obscene, though her mate Chester, Chet's father, had a magical talent. Cherie had adjusted to that situation with extraordinary difficulty. "There is one, though."
"A centaur Magician?" Arnolde's brow wrinkled over his spectacles. "Are you certain?"
"Almost certain. We have had a number of portents at Castle Roogna and elsewhere."
"I pity that centaur. Who is it?"
Now Dor was unable to answer.
Arnolde looked at him, the import dawning. "Surely you do not mean to imply--you believe it is I?" At Dor's miserable nod, the centaur laughed uncertainly. "That's impossible. What magic do you think I have?"
"I don't know," Dor said.
"Then how can you make such a preposterous allegation?" The centaur's tail was swishing nervously.
Dor produced the compass. "Have you seen one of these?"
Arnolde took the compass. "Yes, this is a magic compass. It is pointing at you, since you are a Magician."
"But when I hold it, it points to you."
"I cannot believe that!" Arnolde protested. "Here, take it back, and stand by that mirror so I can see its face."
Dor did as bid, and Arnolde saw the needle pointing to himself.
His face turned a shade of gray. "But it cannot be! I cannot be a Magician! It would mean the end of my career! I have no magic."
"It doesn't make sense to me," Dor agreed. "But Good Magician Humfrey's alarms point to a Magician on Centaur Isle; that's what brought me here."
"Yes, our Elders feared you had some such mischief in mind," Arnolde agreed, staring at the compass. Then, abruptly, he moved.
"No!" he cried, and galloped from the room.
"What now?" Irene asked.
"We follow," Dor said. "We've got to find out what his talent is and convince him. We can't leave the job half done."
"Somehow I'm losing my taste for this job," she muttered.
Dor felt the same. Going after an anonymous Magician was one thing; tormenting a dedicated archivist was another. But they were caught in the situation.
They followed. The centaur, though hardly in his prime, easily outdistanced them. But Dor had no trouble picking up the trail, for all he had to do was ask the surrounding terrain. The path led south to the ocean.
"He to
ok his raft with the magic motor," Irene said. "We'll have to take another. He must be going to that Mundane island."
They preempted another raft, after Dor had questioned several to locate one with a suitable propulsion-spell. Dor hoped this would not be construed as theft; he had every intention of returning the raft, but had to catch up with Arnolde and talk to him before the centaur did something more foolish than merely fleeing.
The storm had long since passed, and the sea was glassy calm in the bright moonlight. The centaur's raft was not in sight, but the water reported its passage. "He's going for the formerly Mundane island," Grundy said. "Good thing it is magic now, since we're magical creatures."
"Did you suffer when the magic faded near the storm?" Irene asked.
"No, I felt the same--scared," Grundy admitted. "How about you, Smash?"
"This freak feel weak," the ogre said.
"In the knees," Irene said. "We all did."
"She's knees please me's," Smash agreed.
Irene's face ran a peculiar gamut from anger to embarrassment.
She decided the ogre was not trying to tease her. He really wasn't that smart. "Thank you, Smash. Your own knees are like the holes on twisted ironwood trunks."
The ogre went into a small bellow of delight that churned up waves behind them and shoved the raft forward at a faster pace. She had found the right compliment.
The spell propelled them swiftly, and soon the island came into sight. Then progress slowed. "Something's the matter," Dor said.
"We're hanging up on something."
But there was nothing; the raft was free in the water, unbothered by waves or sea creatures. It continued to slow, until it was hardly moving at all.
"We would get one with a defective go-spell," Irene complained.
"What's the matter with you?" Dor asked it.
"I--ugnh--" the raft whispered hoarsely, then was silent.
"The magic!" Irene cried. "We're beyond the magic! Just as we were during the storm!"
"Let's check this out," Dor said, worried. At least they were not in danger of falling from a cloud, this time! "Irene, grow a plant."
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 cannot flee the situation," he said sadly. "The truth is the truth, whatever it is, and I am dedicated to the truth. But I cannot 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.
"Bffrppp!" 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 storms 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 gu
essed 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' hoofleg’s around."
"I think were 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 an other," Dor said. "If the power of magic travels with you--?"
"Oh, horrible!" the centaur moaned. "It must not be!"