Bink put his arms up over his head and face against the hail and stepped out. His feet slid out from under, skidding on hailstones, and he fell headlong into the pile. Hailstones closed in over his head. Now he knew what had happened to Dee. She was buried somewhere out here.
He had to close his eyes, for powder from crushed stones was getting into them. This was not tree ice, but coalesced vapor, magic; the stones were dry and not really cold. But they were slippery.
Something caught his foot. Bink kicked violently, remembering the sea monster near the island of the Sorceress, forgetting that it had been an illusion and that there could hardly be a sea monster here. But its grip was tight; it dragged him into an enclosure.
He scrambled to his feet as it let go. He leaped on the troll shape he saw through the film of dust,
Bink found himself flying through the air. He landed hard on his back, the creature drawing on his arm. Trolls were tough! He squirmed around and tried to grab its legs-but the thing dropped on top of him and pinned him firmly to the ground. 'Ease up, Bink,' it said. 'It's me-Crombie.'
Bink did as much of a double-take as he was able to, considering his position, and recognized the soldier.
Crombie let him up. 'I knew you'd never find your way out of that mess, so I hauled you out by the one part I could reach, your foot. You had magic dust in your eyes, so you couldn't recognize me. Sorry I had to put you down.'
Magic dust-of course. It distorted the vision, making men seem like trolls, ogres, or worse-and vice versa. It was an additional hazard of such storms, so that people could not see their way out of them. Probably many victims had seen the tangle tree as an innocent blanket tree. 'That's okay,' Bink said. 'You soldiers sure know how to fight.'
'All part of the business. Never charge a man who knows how to throw.' Crombie raised one finger near his ear, signifying an idea. 'I'll show you how to do it; it's a nonmagical talent you can use.'
'Dee!' Bink cried. 'She's still out there!'
Crombie grimaced. 'Okay. I made her walk out; if it means so much to you, I'll help you find her.'
So the man did have some decency, even with regard to women. 'Do you really hate them all?' Bink asked as he girded himself to wrestle with the hail again. 'Even the ones who don't read minds?'
'They all read minds,' Crombie asserted. 'Most of them do it without magic, is all. But I won't swear as there's no girl in the whole of Xanth for me. If I found a pretty one who wasn't mean or nagging or deceitful?' He shook his head. 'But if any like that exist, they sure as hell wouldn't marry me.'
So the soldier rejected all women because he felt they rejected him. Well, it was a good enough rationale.
Now the storm had stopped. They went out into the piled hailstones, stepping carefully so as not to take any more spills. The colored storm clouds cleared, dissipating rapidly now that their magic imperative was spent.
What caused such storms? Bink wondered. They had to be inanimate-but the course of this journey had convinced him that dead objects did indeed have magic, often very strong magic. Maybe it was in the very substance of Xanth, and it diffused slowly into the living and nonliving things that occupied the land. The living things controlled their shares of magic, channelizing it, focusing it, making it manifest at will. The inanimate things released it haphazardly, as in this storm. There had to be a lot of magic here, gathered from a large area. All wasted in a pointless mass of hailstones.
Yet not all pointless. Obviously the tangle tree benefited from such storms, and probably there were other ways in which they contributed to the local ecology. Maybe the hail culled out the weaker creatures, animals less fit to survive, facilitating wilderness evolution. And other inanimate magic was quite pointed, such as that of Lookout Rock and the Spring of Life-its magic distilled from water percolating through the entire region, intensifying its potency? Perhaps it was the magic itself that made these things conscious of their individuality. Every aspect of Xanth was affected by magic, and governed by it. Without magic, Xanth would be-the very notion filled him with horror-Xanth would be Mundane.
The sun broke through the clouds. Where the beams struck, the hailstones puffed into colored vapor. Their fabric of magic could not withstand the heat of direct sunlight. That made Bink wonder again: was the sun antipathetic to magic? If the magic emanated from the depths, the surface of the land was the mere fringe of it. If someone ever delved down deep, he might approach the actual source of power. Intriguing notion!
In fact, Bink wished that he could set aside his quest for his own personal magic and make that search for the ultimate nature of reality in Xanth. Surely, way down deep, there was the answer to all his questions.
But he could not. For one thing, he had to locate Dee.
In a few minutes all the hail was gone. But so was the girl. 'She must have slid down the slope into the forest,' Crombie said. 'She knows where we are; she can find us if she wants to.'
'Unless she's in trouble,' Bink said worriedly. 'Use your talent; point her out.'
Crombie sighed. 'All right.' He closed his eyes, rotated, and pointed down the south side of the ridge.
They trotted down-and found her tracks in the soft earth at the fringe of the jungle. They followed them and soon caught up.
'Dee!' Bink cried gladly. 'We're sorry. Don't risk the jungle alone.'
She marched on determinedly. 'Leave me alone,' Dee said. 'I don't want to go with you.'
'But Crombie didn't really mean-' Bink said.
'He meant. You don't trust me. So keep away from me. I'd rather make it on my own.'
And that was that. She was adamant. Bink certainly wasn't going to force her. 'Well, if you need help or anything, call-or something-'
