The Source of Magic (2 page)

He shimmered—and suddenly his appearance changed. The Queen’s costume had arrived. Bink was the same person, mentally and physically, but now he looked like a centaur. The Queen’s illusion, so he could play the game she had devised, in her infinite capacity to generate minor mischief. Each person had to guess the identities of as many others as possible before making his way to the palace ballroom, and there was a prize for the one who guessed the most correctly.

In addition, she had set up a mock-maze-hedge around
Castle Roogna. Even if he did not play the people-guessing game, he would be forced to thread his way through the giant puzzle. Damn the Queen!

But he had to go through with it, as did everyone else. The King wisely did not interfere with household matters, and gave the Queen considerable play on her tether. With resignation Bink entered the maze and began the laborious chore of threading his way through the network of false paths toward the castle.

Most of the hedge was illusion, but enough of it was anchored in reality to make it safest simply to honor the maze, rather than barging through. The Queen would have her fun, especially on this important First Anniversary of the King’s coronation. She could get uglier than Chameleon when not humored.

Bink whipped around a corner—and almost collided with a zombie. The thing’s wormy face dripped earth and goo, and the great square eye-sockets were windows of putrefaction. The smell was appalling.

Morbidly fascinated, Bink stared into those eyes. Far within their depths there seemed to be a faint illumination, as of moonlight on a haunted plain or glow-fungus feeding on the corpse’s rotting brain. It was as if he could see through twin tunnels into the very source of its foul animation, and perhaps to the root of all the magic of Xanth. Yet it was nightmare, for the zombie was one of the living dead, a horror that should be quickly buried and forgotten. Why had this one ripped free of its unquiet grave? The zombies normally roused themselves only in defense of Castle Roogna, and they had been passive since King Trent took over.

The zombie stepped toward him, opening its fossil mouth. “Vvooomm,” it said, laboring to make the putrid gas that was its only breath form a word.

Bink backed away, sickened. He feared little in the Land of Xanth, for his physical prowess and magic talent made him one of the most subtly formidable people in the kingdom. But the peculiar discomfort and disgust entailed by dealing with a zombie unnerved him. He spun about and ran down a side
avenue, leaving the undead thing behind. With its decayed articulation of bones and moldy flesh it could not match his speed, and did not even try.

Suddenly a gleaming sword rose up before him. Bink halted, amazed by this second apparition. He saw no person, no connections, just the weapon. What was the purpose of this illusion?

Oh—it must be another cute little trick of the Queen’s. She liked to make her parties exciting and challenging. All he had to do was walk through the sword, calling the bluff of this
ad hoc
interference.

Yet he hesitated. The blade looked terribly real. Bink remembered his experience with Jama, as a youth. Jama’s talent was the manifestation of flying swords, solid and sharp and dangerous for the few seconds they existed, and he tended to exert his talent arrogantly. Jama was no friend of Bulk’s, and if he were in the area—

Bink drew his own sword. “On guard!” he exclaimed, and struck at the other weapon, half expecting his blade to pass through it without resistance. The Queen would be pleased her bluff had worked, and this way he was taking no risk, just in case—

The other sword was solid. Steel clanged on steel. Then the other weapon twisted about to disengage from his, and thrust swiftly at his chest.

Bink parried and stepped aside. This was no temporary blade, and no mindlessly flying thing! Some invisible hand guided it, and that meant an invisible man.

The sword struck again, and again Bink parried. This thing was really trying to get him! “Who are you?” Bink demanded, but there was no answer.

Bink had been practicing with the sword for the past year, and his tutor claimed that he was an apt student. Bink had courage, speed, and ample physical power. He knew he was hardly expert yet, but he was no longer amateur. He rather enjoyed the challenge, even with an invisible opponent.

But a serious fight … was something else. Why was he being attacked, on this festive occasion? Who was his silent,
secretive enemy? Bink was lucky that that person’s spell of invisibility had not affected the sword itself, for then he would have had an awful time countering it. But every item of magic in Xanth was single; a sword could not carry its necessary charms of sharpness and hardness and also be invisible. Well, it was possible, for anything was possible with magic; but it was highly unlikely. At any rate, that weapon was all Bink needed to see.

“Halt!” he cried. “Desist, or I must counter you.”

Again the enemy sword slashed at him ferociously. Bink was already aware that he faced no expert; the swordsman’s style was more bold than skilled. Bink blocked the weapon off, then countered with a half-hearted thrust to his opponent’s exposed midsection. There was only one place that midsection could be, visible or not, for a certain balance and position were essential in swordplay. Bink’s strike was not hard enough to maim, but was sufficient to—

His blade passed right through the invisible torso without resistance. There was nothing there.

Bink, startled, lost his concentration and balance. The enemy sword thrust at his face. He ducked barely in time. His instructor, Crombie the soldier, had taught him such avoidance; but this escape was at least partly luck. Without his talent, he could have been dead.

Bink did not like to depend on his talent. That was the point in learning swordsmanship: to defend himself his own way, openly, with pride, without suffering the private snickers of those who assumed, naturally enough, that mere chance had helped him. His magic might stop or blunt an attack by having the attacker slip on a littered fruit rind; it didn’t care about his pride. But when he won fairly with his sword, no one laughed. No one was laughing now, but still he did not like being attacked by a—what?

It must be one of the magic weapons of the King’s private arsenal, and it was consciously directed. No way this could be the action of the King, however; King Trent never played practical jokes, and permitted no tampering with his weapons. Someone had activated this sword and sent it out to do mischief,
and that person would shortly face the formidable wrath of the King.

That was little comfort to Bink at the moment, though. He didn’t want to seem to hide behind the protection of the King. He wanted to fight his own battle and win. Except that he would have some problem getting at a person who wasn’t there.

As he considered, Bink rejected the notion that a distant person could be wielding this weapon. It was magically possible, but as far as he knew he had no enemies; no one would want to attack him, by magical or natural means, and no one would dare do it with one of the King’s own swords, in the garden of Castle Roogna.

Bink fenced with the enemy sword again, maneuvered it into a vulnerable position, and sliced through the invisible arm. No arm was there, of course. No doubt about it: the sword was wielding itself. He had never actually fought one of these before, because the King didn’t trust the judgment of mindless weapons, so the experience was a novel one. But of course there was nothing inherently odd about it; why
not
do battle with a charmed sword?

Yet why should such a sword seek his life, assuming it was acting on its own? Bink had nothing but respect for bladed weapons. He took good care of his own sword, making sure the sharpness charm was in good order and never abusing the instrument. Swords of any type or creed should have no quarrel with him.

Perhaps he had inadvertently affronted this particular sword. “Sword, if I have caused you distress or wronged you, I apologize and proffer amends,” he said. “I do not wish to fight you without reason.”

The sword cut ferociously at his legs. No quarter there!

“At least tell me what your grievance is!” Bink exclaimed, dancing away just in time.

The sword continued its attack relentlessly.

“Then I must put you out of commission,” Bink said, with mixed regret, ire, and anticipation. Here was a real challenge!
For the first time he took a full offensive posture, fencing the sword with skill. He knew he was a better man than it.

But he could not strike down the wielder of that weapon, because there was none. Nobody to pierce, no hand to slice. The sword showed no sign of tiring; magic powered it. How, then, could he overcome it?

This was more of a challenge than he had supposed! Bink was not worried, because he found it hard to worry about a skill less than his own. Yet if the opposition were invulnerable—

Still, his talent would not allow the sword to hurt him. A sword wielded by a man in ordinary fashion could damage him, because that was mundane; but when magic was involved, he was safe. In Xanth, hardly anything was completely unmagical, so he was extremely well protected. The question was, was he going to prevail honestly, by his own skill and courage, or by some fantastic-seeming coincidence? If he didn’t do it the first way, his talent would do it the second way.

Again he maneuvered the sword into a vulnerable position, then struck it across the flat of the blade, hoping to snap it off short. This did not work; the metal was too strong. He had not really expected such a ploy to be effective; strength was one of the basic charms built into modern swords. Well, what next?

He heard the clop-clop of someone approaching. He had to wrap this up quickly, or suffer the embarrassment of being rescued. His talent didn’t care about his pride, just his body.

Bink found himself backed up against a tree—a real one. The hedge-maze had been superimposed on existing vegetation, so that everything became part of that puzzle. This was a gluebark tree: anything that penetrated the bark was magically stuck to it. Then the tree slowly grew around the object, absorbing it. Harmless, so long as the bark was intact; children could safely climb the trunk and play in its branches, as long as they did not use cleats. Woodpeckers stayed well away from it. So Bink could lean against it, but had to be careful not to—

The enemy sword slashed at his face. Bink was never sure, afterward, whether his inspiration came before or after his action. Probably after, which meant that his talent was in
operation again despite his effort to avoid that. At any rate, instead of parrying this time, he ducked.

The sword passed over his head and smacked into the tree, slicing deeply into the bark. Instantly the tree’s magic focused, and the blade was sealed in place. It wrenched and struggled, but could not escape. Nothing could beat the specific magic of a thing in its own bailiwick! Bink was the victor.

“Bye, Sword,” he said, sheathing his own weapon. “Sorry we couldn’t visit longer.” But behind his flippancy was a certain grim disquiet: who or what had incited this magic sword to slay him? He must, after all, have an enemy somewhere, and he didn’t like that. It wasn’t so much any fear of attack, but a gut feeling of distress that he should be disliked to that extent by anyone, when he tried so hard to get along.

He ducked around another corner—and smacked into a needle-cactus. Not a real one, or he would have become a human pincushion; a mock one.

The cactus reached down with a prickly branch and gripped Bink by the neck. “Clumsy oaf!” it snorted. “Do you wish me to prettify your ugly face in the mud?”

Bink recognized that voice and that grip. “Chester!” he rasped past the constriction in his neck. “Chester Centaur!”

“Horseflies!” Chester swore. “You tricked me into giving myself away!” He eased his terrible grip slightly. “But now you’d better tell me who
you
are, or I might squeeze you like this.” He squeezed, and Bink thought his head was going to pop off his body. Where was his talent now?

“Fink! Fink!” Bink squeaked, trying to pronounce his name when his lips would not quite close. “Hink!”

“I do
not
stink!” Chester said, becoming irritated. That made his grip tighten. “Not only are you homely as hell, you’re impertinent.” Then he did a double take. “Hey—you’re wearing my face!”

Bink had forgotten: he was in costume. The centaur’s surprise caused him to relax momentarily, and Bink snatched his opportunity. “I’m Bink! Your friend! In illusion guise!”

Chester pondered. No centaur was stupid, but this one tended to think with his muscles. “If you’re trying to fool me—”

“Remember Herman the hermit? How I met him in the wilderness, and he saved Xanth from the wiggle swarm with his will-o’-the wisp magic? The finest centaur of them all!”

Chester finally put Bink down. “Uncle Herman,” he agreed, smiling. The effect was horrendous on the cactus-face. “I guess you’re okay. But what are you doing in my form?”

“The same thing you’re doing in cactus form,” Bink said, massaging his throat. “Attending the masquerade ball.” His neck did not seem to be damaged, so his talent must have let this encounter be.

“Oh, yes,” Chester agreed, flexing his needles eloquently. “The mischief of Good Queen Iris, the bitch-Sorceress. Have you found a way into the palace yet?”

“No. In fact, I ran into a—” But Bink wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about the sword just yet. “A zombie.”

“A zombie!” Chester laughed. “Pity the poor oaf in
that
costume!”

A costume! Of course! The zombie had not been real; it had merely been another of the Queen’s illusion-costumes. Bink had reacted as shortsightedly as Chester, fleeing it before discovering its identity. And thereby encountering the sword, which certainly had not been either costume or illusion. “Well, I don’t much like this game anyway,” he said.

“I don’t go for the game either,” Chester agreed. “But the prize—that is worth a year of my life.”

“By definition,” Bink agreed morosely. “One Question Answered by the Good Magician Humfrey—free. But everyone’s competing for it; someone else will win.”