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 Amolde 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 Amolde’s raft, drawn up just out of the water. “He moved it along, all right,” Grundy remarked. “He must be stronger than he looks.”
“It’s 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 Amolde 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.
Amolde 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,” Amolde 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,” Amolde 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 similar 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!” Amolde 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 guessed 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,” Amolde 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.
Amolde 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!”
“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
