“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,” Amolde 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,” Amolde 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,” Amolde 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?” Amolde’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.
Amolde 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?”
Amolde 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!” Amolde protested. “Here, take it back, and stand by that mirror so I can see its face.”
Dor did as bid, and Amolde 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,” Amolde 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 took 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 Amolde 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 m 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.