Piers Anthony - The Source of Magic

He looked for a good one. Many of the trees of this forest seemed dead; perhaps they were merely dormant, in this new winter of the absence of magic. It might take months or years for the full ravages of that winter to become known. Some trees flourished; they must be the mundane varieties, freed from the competition of magic. Would he be better off in a healthy mundane tree, or a defunct magical one?

Bink shivered. It was getting chill, and he could find no blanket bushes. However, it was not merely temperature that affected him. He was tired and lonely and full of remorse for what he had done. Tomorrow he would have to face his friends at the palace and tell them-

But surely they would already have guessed his guilt. It was not confession that bothered him, but punishment. Jewel had been wise to avoid him; he had no future at home.

There seemed to be a certain vague familiarity about this region. There were trails through the brush like those of ant lions, and brambles, and regions of odoriferous plants-

"That's it!" he exclaimed. "Where we intersected the magic highway to the magic-dust village!"

He peered up through the languishing foliage. There it was-a walkway fashioned from logs and vines, suspended from the stoutest trees. It made no loops in air, but of course it wasn't magic now.

He climbed aboard the lowest loop and walked along it. The thing seemed dangerously insecure, sagging beneath his weight and swinging sidewise alarmingly, but it held. In due course it brought him to the village.

He had feared a scene of gloom. Instead, the entire village seemed to be celebrating. Another great bonfire was blazing, and men and women of all types were dancing around it.

Men? How had they gotten here? This was a village of women! Could it be another Wave of conquest from Mundania, with the brutish men reveling in this village of helpless women?

Yet there seemed to be no threat. The men were happy, of course-but so were the women. Bink walked on into the village, looking for Trolla, its leader.

A man spied him as he stepped off the hanging walk. "Hello, friend!" the man called. "Welcome home! Who's your widow?"

"Widow?" Bink asked blankly.

"Your woman-before the gorgon got you. She'll be overjoyed to have you back."

The gorgon! Suddenly Bink understood. "You're the stone men! Freed by the loss of magic!"

"And you weren't?" The man laughed. "You'd better come see the head man, then."

"Trolla," Bink said. "If she's still here-"

"Who's looking for Trolla?" someone demanded. It was a huge, ugly troll. Well, an average troll; they were all huge and ugly.

Bink's hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. "I only want to talk with her."

"'Sokay," the troll said genially. He cupped his mouth with his hands. "Bitch, get over here!"

A dozen young women glanced his way, startled, thinking he meant them. Bink covered a smile. "Uh, the gorgon," he said. "What happened to her?"

"Oh, we were going to string her up, after we, you know…" the troll said. "She was a good-looking slut, except for those snaky tangles in her hair. But she jumped into the lake, and before we realized there weren't any more monsters in it, she was too far off to catch. Last we saw she was headed north."

North. Toward Magician Humfrey's castle. Bink was glad she had escaped, but knew she would not find Humfrey at home. That was another aspect of the tragedy Bink had wrought.

Trolla, responsive to the summons, was arriving. "Bink!" she exclaimed. "You made it!"

"I made it," he agreed gravely. "I abolished magic from the Land of Xanth. I converted it to Mundania. Now I return home to pay the penalty."

"The penalty!" the troll cried. "You freed us all! You're a hero!"

This was an aspect Bink hadn't considered. "Then you aren't angry at the loss of magic?"

"Angry?" Trolla cried. "Angry that my husband is back, good enough to eat?" She hugged the troll to her in an embrace that would have cracked normal ribs. He was well able to sustain this, though he seemed momentarily uneasy about something.

A female griffin glided up. "Awk?" she inquired. "And here's the one who guided you, released from the midas-spell," Trolla said. "Where is your handsome griffin?"

Bink thought it best not to tell about the bottle. "He is…confined. He was actually a transformed man. He spoke well of the lady griffin, but he…sends his regrets."

The griffiness turned away, disappointed. Apparently she did not have a male of her own. Perhaps she would find a male of her kind soon-though with the alteration of form that was slowly taking place in such magical creatures, Bink wondered whether that male would be more like an eagle or more like a lion. Or would the present griffins retain their shapes, while their offspring would be eagles and lions? Suppose Crombie emerged from the bottle, but retained his griffin form; would he then find this griffiness worthwhile? If so, what would their offspring be? The loss of magic posed as many questions as the presence of magic!

"Come, we shall feed you royally tonight, and you shall tell us the whole story!" Trolla said.

"I, uh, I'm pretty tired," Bink demurred. "I'd rather not tell the story. My friend the Good Magician-is missing, and so is the centaur, and the memories-"

"Yes, you need distraction," Trolla agreed. "We do have a few leftover females, daughters of older villagers. They are very lonely at the moment, and-"

"Uh, no thanks, please," Bink said quickly. He had broken too many hearts already! "Just some food, and a place to spend the night, if there's room-"

"We're short of room; our population has just doubled. But the girls will tend to you. It will give them something to do. They'll be glad to share their rooms." Bink was too tired to protest further. But as it turned out, the "girls" were an assortment of fairies and lady elves who paid him flattering attention, but were not really interested in him as a man. They made a game out of feeding him odds and ends, each one putting her morsel in his mouth with her own little hands, twittering merrily. They wouldn't let him have a plate; everything had to be trotted in from another room, piecemeal. Then he lay in a bed made out of thirty small colored pillows, while the fairies flitted around, the breeze from their gossamer wings fanning him. They could no longer fly, of course, and soon their wings would fall off as they reverted to mundane forms, but at the moment they were cute. He went to sleep counting the creatures that leaped merrily over him in the course of their game of follow-the-leader.

But in the morning he had to face reality again: the bleak journey home. He was glad his quest had done at least this little bit of good; perhaps his talent had planned it this way, before being nullified by the loss of magic, so as to provide him with a good, safe place for this night. But as for the rest of Xanth-what hope remained for it?

The griffiness accompanied him for a distance, guiding him again, and in a surprisingly brief time he was up to the dead forest: halfway familiar territory. It was no longer so different from the rest of the wilderness. He thanked her, wished her well, and continued on alone, northward.

The loneliness closed in about him. The lack of magic was so pervasive and depressing! All the little amenities he was accustomed to were gone. There were no blue toads sitting on their squat vegetable stools, no Indian pipes wafting their sweet smoke aloft. No trees moved their branches out of his way, or cast avoidance-spells on him. Everything was hopelessly Mundane. He felt tired again, and not merely from the march. Was life really worthwhile, without magic?

Well, Chameleon would be locked in her "normal" phase, the one he liked best: neither pretty nor smart, but rather nice overall. Yes, he could live with that for some time before it got dull, assuming that he was allowed to-