Authors: Piers Anthony
They went in. Arnolde had artifacts spread out all over a main table and was attaching tags to them and making notes. There were fragments of stone and crockery and rusted metal. "I wish the archaeologists would get these classified sooner," he grumbled. "This table is not available by day, so I have to tag them at night" Then he did a startled double take. "What are you doing here? The guest tour is over."
Dor considered making a bald statement of purpose and decided against it. He needed to get to know the centaur a little better before broaching so delicate a subject. "I have an important matter to discuss with you. A, uh, private matter. So I didn't bring it up during the tour."
Arnolde shrugged. "I have no inkling what the King of Xanth would want with me. Just keep your hands off the artifacts, and I will listen to what you have to impart. Mundane items are difficult to come by."
"I'm sure they are," Dor agreed. "We came here by air, riding the clouds, and almost went beyond the limit of magic. We were lucky we didn't fall. Mundania is no place for the creatures of Xanth."
"Oh?" the centaur said without much interest. "Did you see the southern island?"
"No. We weren't that far south. We came down in sight of Centaur Isle."
"There should have been plenty of magic. My raft was powered by a propulsion spell, and it never failed. I was needlessly concerned; evidently that island was Mundane historically, but is now magic." The centaur's hands were busy affixing each tag neatly and making careful entries in a ledger. He evidently liked his work, tedious as it seemed, and was conscientious.
"I think we were north of it, but we certainly had trouble," Dor said. "But there was a storm; that could have disrupted the magic."
"Quite possible," Arnolde agreed. "Storms do seem to affect it."
The centaur seemed sociable enough, now that they were not taking him away from his beloved work. But Dor still did not feel easy. "Uh, the Elder Gerome mentioned a—some kind of pact the centaurs made with my kind, back at the beginning. Do you have artifacts from that time?"
"Indeed I do," Arnolde said, growing animated. "Bones, arrowheads, the hilt of an iron sword—the record is fragmentary, but documents the legend. The full truth may never be known, sadly, but we do have a fair notion."
"Uh, if you're interested—I'm a Magician. I make things talk. If you'd like to question one of those old artifacts—"
Now Arnolde grew excited. "I had not thought of that! Magic is all right for you, of course. You're only human. I pride myself on being reasonably realistic. Yes, I would like to question an artifact. Are you familiar with the legend of centaur origin?"
"No, not really," Dor said, growing interested himself. "It would help me if I did know it; then I could ask the artifact more specific questions."
"Back CBP 1800—that's Circa Before Present one thousand, eight hundred years," the archivist intoned reverently, "the first man and first horse—you are aware of the nature of that animal? Front of a sea horse merged with the rear of a centaur—"
"Yes, like a nightmare, only in the day," Dor said.
"Exactly. These two, the first of each kind we know of, reached Xanth from Mundania. Xanth was already magic then; its magic seems to have existed for many thousands of years. The plants were already well evolved—you do know what I mean by evolution?"
"How nickelpedes developed from centipedes."
"Um, yes. The way individual species change with the times. Ah, yes, the King always has a centaur tutor, so you would have been exposed to such material. Back then the dragons dominated the land—one might term it the Age of Reptiles—and there were no human hybrids and no dwarves, trolls, goblins, or elves. This man saw that the land was good. He was able and clever enough to stay clear of the more predatory plants and to balk the dragons; he was a warrior, with a bow, sword, spear, club, and the ability to use them, and a valiant spirit.
"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 on it.
"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 can not 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 can not be! I can not 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 took his raft with the magic motor," Irene said. "We'll have to take another. He must be going to that Mundane island."
They pre-empted 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 boles 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."