“Oh, horrible!” the centaur moaned. “It must not be!”
“Let’s take another walk around the island,” Dor said. “Grundy, you go with Amolde and talk to the plants and creatures you encounter; ask them how long magic has been here. The rest of us win spread out and wait for Amolde to approach. If our magic fades out during his absence, and returns when he comes near-“
Grudgingly the centaur cooperated. He set out on a trot around the island, pretty spry for his age, the golem perching on his back.
No sooner were they on their way than Dor’s magic ceased. The sunstone no longer shone, and he could no longer talk to the inanimate. It was evident that Irene and Smash were similarly discommoded.
In a few minutes the circuit was complete. They compared notes.
“The magic was with us all along,” Grundy reported. “But all the plants and shellfish said it had come only when we were there.”
“When he go, me not rhyme,” Smash said angrily. “Not even worth a dime.”
That was extreme distress for the ogre. Dor had not realized that his rhyming was magic-related. Maybe frustration had flustered him-or maybe magic had shaped the lives of the creatures of Xanth far more than had been supposed. Irene’s hair, Smash’s rhymes . . .
“My potted petunia would not grow at all,” Irene said. “But when the centaur came near, it grew and got roaring drunk.”
“And my talent operated only when Amolde was near,” Dor said. “So my talent seems to be dependent on his presence here, as with the rest of you. Since I am a full Magician, what does that make him?”
“A Magician’s Magician,” Irene said. “A catalyst for magic.”
“But I never performed any magic in my life!” Amolde protested, still somewhat in shock. “Never!”
“You don’t perform it, you promote it,” Dor said. “You represent an island of magic, an extension of Xanth into Mundania. Wherever you go, magic is there. This is certainly a Magician’s talent.”
“How could that be true, when there was no indication of it in all my prior life? I cannot have changed!”
But now Dor had an answer. “You left Xanth only recently, you said. You came to this Mundane island for research. Good Magician Humfrey’s magic indicators never oriented on you before because you are completely camouflaged in Xanth proper; you are like a section of mist in the middle of a cloud. But when you left Xanth, your power manifested, triggering the alarms. Once the indicators had oriented on you, they continued to point you out; maybe your presence makes magic slightly more effective, since Centaur Isle is near the fringe of magic. It’s like a bug on a distant leaf; once you know exactly where it is, you can see it. But you can’t locate it when it sits still and you don’t even know it exists.”
Amolde’s shoulders slumped and his coat seemed to lose luster. He was an appaloosa centaur, with white spots on his brown flank, a natural blanket that made him quite handsome. Now the spots were fading out. “I fear you, are correct. My associates always considered this to be a Mundane island; I thought them mistaken. But oh, what havoc this wreaks on my career! The profession of a lifetime ruined! I can never return to the museum.”
“Do the other centaurs have to know?” Grundy asked.
“I may be contaminated by obscene magic,” Amolde said gravely. “But it is beneath me to prevaricate.”
Dor considered the attitude of the various centaurs he had known. He realized Amolde was right. The archivist could not conceal the truth, and the other centaurs would not tolerate a centaur Magician in their society. They had exiled Herman the Hermit in the past generation, then termed him a hero after he was dead. Some reward!
Dor’s quest had gained him nothing and had destroyed the livelihood and pride of a decent centaur. He felt responsible; he had never wanted to hurt anyone this way.
The moon had been descending into the ocean. Now, just before it got soaked, it seemed to have swelled. Great and round and greenish, its cheese was tantilizingly close. Dor gazed at it, pondering its maplike surface. Could a column of smoke lead all the way up to the moon, and could they use the salve some day to…then he suffered an awful realization. “The curse!” he cried.
The centaur glanced dourly at him. “You have certainly cursed me, King Dor.”
“The magic salve we used to tread the clouds-it had a curse attached. Whoever used it would do some dastardly deed before the next full moon. This is our deed; we have forced you out of your satisfied existence and made you into something you abhor. The curse made us do it.”
“Such curses are a readily avoidable nuisance,” the centaur remarked. “Ass that is required is an elementary curse-counterspell. There are dozens in our archives; we don’t even file them carefully. Ironic that this ignorance on your part should have such a serious consequence for me.”
“Do something, Dor,” Irene said.
“What is there to be done?” Amolde asked disconsolately. “I am rendered at one fell stroke into an exile.”
But Dor, cudgeling his brain under pressure, had a sudden explosion of genius. “You take magic with you anywhere you go,” he said. “Right into Mundania. This relates in all the three ways we were warned. It is certainly a matter I must attend to, for the existence of any new Magician in Xanth is the King’s business. It also could pose a threat to Xanth, for if you go out into Mundania on your own, taking that magic with you, bad people could capture you and somehow use your magic for evil. But most important, somewhere in Mundania is someone we fear is trapped or in trouble, who perhaps needs this magic to escape. Now if I were to take you into Mundania proper-“
“We could rescue my father!” Irene exclaimed, jumping up and down and clapping her hands in the manner of her kind. She bounced phenomenally, so that even the centaur paused to look, as if regretting his species and his age. “Oh, Dor, I could kiss you!” And without waiting for his reaction, she grabbed him and kissed him with joyful savagery on the mouth. In that moment of hyperanimation she became very special, radiant and compelling in the best sort of way; but by the time he realized it, she was already away and talking to the centaur.
“Amolde, if you have to be exiled anyway, you might as well come with us. We don’t care about your magic-not negatively, I mean-we all of us have talents. And think of the artifacts you can collect deep in Mundania; you can start your own museum. And if you help rescue my father, King Trent-“
The centaur was visibly wavering. Obviously he did not like the notion of exile, but could not return to his job on Centaur Isle. “And the centaurs around Castle Roogna are used to magic,” Irene continued apace.
“Chester Centaur plays a magic silver flute, and his uncle was Herman the Hermit. He would be glad for your company, and-“
“I believe I have little alternative,” Amolde said heavily.
“You will help us? Oh, thank you!” Irene cried, and she flung her arms about the centaur’s forepart and kissed him, too. Amolde was visibly startled, but not entirely displeased; his white spots wavered.
Dor suffered a wash of jealousy, thinking of the legend of the origin of the centaurs. Kisses between different species were not necessarily innocent, as that legend showed. But it seemed Irene had convinced the centaur Magician to help, and that was certainly worthwhile.
Then Dor remembered another complication. “We can’t just leave for Mundania. The Council of Elders would never permit it.”
“How can they prevent it?” Irene asked, glancing meaningfully at him.
“But we must at least tell them-“
“Chet can tell them. He has to go home anyway.”
Dor tried to dissemble. “I don’t know -?”