"You were hardly in a position to see anything," she said, straightening so that her excellent figure showed to advantage. He had been mistaken; she was in no way inferior to Wynne, just different, and certainly more intelligent. More on a par with Sabrina. The manifest mind of a woman, he realized, made a great deal of difference in her appeal. Lesson for the day.
There were sailors and servants aboard the yacht, but they remained unobtrusively in the background, and Iris adjusted the sails herself. No idle female, she!
The yacht moved out to sea. Soon it bore upon an island--and what an island it was! Lush vegetation grew all around it, flowers of all colors and sizes: polka-dot daisies the size of dishes, orchids of exquisite splendor, tiger lilies that yawned and purred as the boat approached. Neat paths led from the golden pier up toward a palace of solid crystal, which gleamed like a diamond in the sun.
Like a diamond? Bink suspected it was a diamond, from the way the light refracted through its myriad faces. The largest, most perfect diamond that ever was.
"I guess I owe you my life," Bink said, uncertain as to how to handle the situation. It seemed ridiculous to offer to chop wood or pitch animal manure to earn his keep for the night; there was nothing so crude as firewood or animal refuse on this fair island! Probably the best favor he could do her was to remove his soaking, bedraggled presence as rapidly as possible.
"I guess you do," she agreed, speaking with a surprising normality. He had somehow expected her to be more aloof, as befitted pseudo-royalty.
"But my life may not be worth much. I don't have any magic; I am to be exiled from Xanth."
She guided the yacht to the pier, flinging a fine silver chain to its mooring post and tying it tight.
Bink had thought his confession would disturb her; he had made it at the outset so as not to proceed under false pretenses. She might have mistaken him for someone of consequence. But her reaction was a surprise. "Bink, I'm glad you said that. It shows you are a fine, honest lad. Most magic talents aren't worthwhile anyway. What use is it to make a pink spot appear on a wall? It may be magic, but it doesn't accomplish anything. You, with your strength and intelligence, have more to offer than the great majority of citizens."
Amazed and pleased by this gratuitous and probably unjustified praise, Bink could make no answer. She was correct about the uselessness of spot-on-wall magic, certainly; he had often thought the same thing himself. Of course, it was a standard remark of disparagement, meaning that a given person had picayune magic. So this really was not a sophisticated observation. Still, it certainly made him feel at ease.
"Come," Iris said, taking him by the hand. She guided him across the gangplank to the pier, then on along the main path to the palace.
The smell of flowers was almost overwhelming. Roses abounded in all colors, exhaling their perfumes. Plants with sword-shaped leaves were even more common; their flowers were like simplified orchids, also of all colors. "What are those?" he inquired.
"Irises, of course," she said.
He had to laugh. "Of course!" Too bad there was no flower named "Bink."
The path passed through a flowering hedge and looped around a pool and fountain to the elaborate front portico of the crystal palace. Not a true diamond after all. "Come into my parlor," the Sorceress said, smiling.
Bink's feet balked, before the significance penetrated to his brain. He had heard about spiders and flies! Had she saved his life merely to--
"Oh, for God's sake!" she exclaimed. "Are you superstitious? Nothing will hurt you."
His recalcitrance seemed foolish. Why should she revive him, then betray him? She could have let him choke to death instead of pumping the water out of him; the meat would have been as fresh. Or she could have tied him up and had the sailors bring him ashore. She had no need to deceive him. He was already in her power--if that was the way it was. Still...
"I see you distrust me," Iris said. "What can I do to reassure you?"
This direct approach to the problem did not reassure him very much. Yet he had better face it--or trust to fate. "You--you are a Sorceress," he said. "You seem to have everything you need. I--what do you want with me?"
She laughed. "Not to eat you, I assure you!"
But Bink was unable to laugh. "Some magic--some people do get eaten." He suffered a vision of a monstrous spider luring him into its web. Once he entered the palace--
"Very well, sit out there in the garden," Iris said. "Or wherever you feel safe. If I can't convince you of my sincerity, you can take my boat and go. Fair enough?"
It was too fair; it made him feel like an ungrateful lout. Now it occurred to Bink that the whole island was a trap. He could not swim to the mainland--not with the sea monsters there--and the yacht's crew might grab him and tie him up if he tried to sail across.
Well, it wouldn't hurt to listen. "All right."
"Now, Bink," she said persuasively--and she was so lovely in her intensity that she was very persuasive indeed. "You know that though every citizen of Xanth has magic, that magic is severely limited. Some people have more magic than others, but their talents still tend to be confined to one particular type or another. Even Magicians obey this law of nature."
"Yes." She was making sense--but what was the point?
"The King of Xanth is a Magician--but his power is limited to weather effects. He can brew a dust devil or a tornado or a hurricane, or make a drought or a ten-day downpour--but he can't fly or transmute wood into silver or light a fire magically. He's an atmospheric specialist.''
"Yes," Bink agreed again. He remembered Donald the shade's son, who could make dust devils, those evanescent swirls of dust. The boy had an ordinary talent; the King had a major one--yet they differed in degree, not type.
Of course, the King's talent had faded with age; perhaps all he could conjure now would be a dust devil. It was a good thing the Shield protected Xanth!
"So if you know a citizen's talent, you know his limitations,'' Iris continued. "If you see a man make a storm, you don't have to worry about him forming a magical pit under you or changing you into a cockroach. Nobody has multiple fields of talent."
"Except maybe Magician Humfrey," Bink said.
"He is a powerful Magician," she agreed. "But even he is restricted. His talent is divination, or information; I don't believe he actually looks into the future, just the present. All his so-called hundred spells relate to that. None of them are performance magic."
Bink did not know enough about Humfrey to refute that, but it sounded correct. He was impressed with how the Sorceress kept up with the magic of her counterpart. Was there professional rivalry among those of strong magic? "Yes--talents run in schools. But--"
"My talent is illusion," she said smoothly. "This rose--" She plucked a handsome red one and held it under his nose. What a sweet smell! "This rose, in reality, is...''
The rose faded. In her hand was a stalk of grass. It even smelled grassy.
Bink looked around, chagrined. "All of this is illusion?''
"Most of it. I could show you the whole garden as it is, but it would not be nearly as pretty." The grass in her hand shimmered and became an iris flower. "This should convince you. I am a powerful Sorceress. Therefore I can make an entire region seem like something it is not, and every detail will he authentic. MY roses smell like roses, my apple pies taste like apple pies. My body--" She paused with half a smile. "My body feels like a body. All seems real--but it is illusion. That is, each thing has a basis in fact, but my magic enhances it, modifies it. This is my complex of talents. Therefore I have no other talent--and you can trust me to that extent."
Bink was uncertain about that last point. A Sorceress of illusion was the last type of person to be trusted, to any extent! Yet he comprehended her point now. She had shown him her magic, and it was unlikely that she would practice any other magic on him. He had never thought of it this way before, but it was certainly true that no one in Xanth mixed types of magic talents.
Unless
she were an ogre, using illusion to change her own appearance, too...No. An ogre was a magical creature, and magical creatures did not have magical talents. Probably. Their talents were their existence. So centaurs, dragons, and ogres always seemed like what they were, unless some natural person, animal, or plant changed them. He had to believe that! It was possible that Iris was in collusion with an ogre--but unlikely, for ogres were notoriously impatient, and tended to consume whatever they could get hold of, regardless of the consequence. Iris herself would have been eaten by this time.
"Okay, I trust you," Bink agreed dubiously.
"Good. Come into my palace, and I will tend to all your needs."
That was unlikely. No one could give him a magic talent of his own. Humfrey might discover his talent for him--at the price of a year's service!--but that would be merely revealing what was there, not creating it.
He suffered himself to he led into the palace. It was exquisite inside, too. Rainbow-hued beams of light dropped down from the prismatic roof formations, and the crystal wails formed mirrors. These might be illusion--but he saw his own reflection in them, and he looked somehow healthier and more manly than he felt. He was hardly bedraggled at all. More illusion?
Soft pretty pillows were piled in the corners in lieu of chairs or couches. Suddenly Bink felt very tired; he needed to lie down for a while! But then the image of the skeleton in the pine forest returned to him. He didn't know what to feel.
"Let's get you out of those wet clothes," Iris said solicitously.
"Uh, I'll dry," Bink said, not wanting to expose his body before a woman.
"Do you think I want my cushions ruined?" she demanded with housewifely concern. "You were floundering in salt water; you've got to rinse the salt off before you start itching. Go into the bathroom and change; there is a dry uniform awaiting you."
A uniform awaiting him? As though she had been expecting him. What could that mean?
Reluctantly, Bink went. The bathroom was, appropriately, palatial. The tub was like a small swimming pool, and the commode was an elegant affair of the type the Mundanes were said to employ. He watched the water circle around the bowl and drain out into a pipe below, disappearing as if by magic. He was, fascinated.
There was also a shower; a spray of water, like rain, emerged from an elevated nozzle, rinsing him off. That was sort of fun, though he was not sure he would want it as a regular thing. There must be a big tank of water upstairs somewhere, to provide the pressure for such devices.
He dried with a plush towel embroidered with images of irises.
The clothing was hung on a rack behind the door: a princely robe, and knickers. Knickers? Ah, well--they were dry, and no one would see him here in the palace. He donned the uniform, and stepped into the ornate sandals awaiting him. He strapped his hunting knife on, concealing it beneath the overhang of the robe.
Now he felt better--but his cold was developing apace. His sore throat had given way to a runny nose; he had thought this was merely aggravation by the salt water he had taken in, but now he was dry and it was apparent that his nose needed no external supply of fluid. He didn't want to sniff overtly, but he had no handkerchief.
"Are you hungry?" Iris asked solicitously as he emerged. "I will fetch you a banquet."
Bink certainly was hungry, for he had eaten only sparingly from his pack since starting along the chasm, depending on foraging along the way. Now his pack was soaked with salt water; that would complicate future meals.
He lay half buried in cushions, his nose tilted back so that it wouldn't dribble forward, surreptitiously mopping it with the corner of a pillow when he had to. He snoozed a bit while she puttered in the kitchen. Now that he knew this was all illusion, he realized why she did so much menial work herself. The sailors and gardeners were part of the illusion; Iris lived alone. So she had to do her own cooking. Illusion might make for fine appearance, texture, and taste, but it would not prevent her from starving.
Why didn't Iris marry, or exchange her services for competent help? Much magic was useless for practical matters, but her magic was extraordinary. Anyone could live in a crystal palace if he lived with this Sorceress. Bink was sure many people would like that; appearance was often more important than substance anyway. And if she could make ordinary potatoes taste like a banquet, and medicine taste like candy--oh yes, it was a marketable talent!
Iris returned, bearing a steaming platter. She had changed into a housewifely apron, and her crownlet was gone. She looked less regal and a good deal more female. She set things up on a low table, and they sat crosslegged on cushions, facing each other.
"What would you like?" she inquired.
Again Bink felt nervous. "What are you serving?"
"Whatever you like."
"I mean--really?"
She made a frown. "If you must know, boiled rice. I have a hundred-pound bag of the stuff I have to use up before the rats catch on to the illusory cat I have guarding it and chew into it. I could make rat droppings taste like caviar, of course, but I'd rather not have to. But you can have anything you want--anything at all." She took a deep breath.
So it seemed--and it occurred to Bink that she was not restricting it to food. No doubt she got pretty lonely here on her island, and welcomed company. The local farmers probably shunned her--their wives would see to that!--and monsters weren't very sociable.
"Dragon steak," he said. "With hot sauce."
"The man is bold," she murmured, lifting the silver cover. The rich aroma wafted out, and there lay two broiled dragon steaks steeped in hot sauce. She served one expertly onto Bink's plate, and the other onto her own.
Dubiously, Bink cut off a piece and put it to his mouth. It was the finest dragon steak he had ever tasted--which was not saying much, since dragons were very difficult prey; he had eaten it only twice before. It was a truism that more people were eaten by dragons than dragons eaten by people. And the sauce--he had to grab for the glass of wine she had poured for him, to quench the heat. But it was a delicious burn, converting to flavor.
Still, he doubted. "Uh--would you mind...?"
She grimaced. "Only for a moment," she said.
The steak dissolved into dull boiled rice, then back into dragon meat.
"Thanks" Bink said. "It's still a bit hard to believe."
"More wine?"
"Uh, is it intoxicating?"
"No, unfortunately. You could drink it all day and never feel it, unless your own imagination made you dizzy."
"Glad to hear it." He accepted the elegant glass of sparkling fluid as she refilled it, and sipped. He had gulped down the first too fast to taste it. Maybe it was actually water, but it seemed to be perfect blue wine, the kind specified for dragon meat, full-bodied and delicately flavored. Much like the Sorceress herself.
For dessert they had home-baked chocolate-chip cookies, slightly burned. That last touch made it so realistic that he was hard put to it to preserve his disbelief. She obviously knew something about cooking and baking, even in illusion.
She cleared away the dishes and returned to join him on the cushions. Now she was in a low-cut evening gown, and he saw in more than adequate detail exactly how well-formed she was. Of course, that too could be illusion--but if it felt the same as it looked, who would protest?
Then his nose almost dripped onto the inviting gown, and he jerked his head up. He had been looking a mite too closely.
"Are you unhappy?" Iris inquired sympathetically.
"Uh, no. My nose--it--"
"Have a handkerchief," she said, proffering a lovely lace affair.
Bink hated to use such a work of art to honk his nose into, but it was better than using the pillows.
"Uh, is there any work I can do before I go?" he inquired uneasily.
"You are thinking too small," Iris said, leaning forward earnestly and inhaling deeply. Bink felt the flush rising along his neck. Sabrina seemed very far away--and she would never have dressed like this, anyway.
"I tol
d you--I have to go to the Good Magician Humfrey to find my magic--or be exiled. I don't really think I have any magic, so--"
"I could arrange for you to stay, regardless," she said, nudging closer.
She was definitely making a play for him. But why would such an intelligent, talented woman be interested in a nobody like him? Bink mopped his nose again. A nobody with a cold. Her appearance might be greatly enhanced by illusion, but mind and talent were obviously genuine. She should have no need of him--for anything.
"You could perform magic that everyone would see," she continued in that dismayingly persuasive way of hers, nudging up against him. She certainly felt real--most provocatively so. "I could fashion an illusion of performance that no one could penetrate." He wished she hadn't said that while touching him so intimately. "I can do my magic from a distance, too, so there would be no way to tell I was involved. But that is the least of it. I can bring you wealth and power and comfort--all genuine, non-illusive. I can give you beauty and love. All that you might desire as a citizen of Xanth--"
Bink grew more suspicious. What was she leading up to? "I have a fiance--"
"Even that," Iris agreed. "I am not a jealous woman. You could have her as a concubine, provided you were circumspect."
"As a concubine!" Bink exploded.
She was unshaken. "Because you would be married to me."
Bink stared at her, aghast. "Why should you want to marry a man with no magic?"
"So I could be Queen of Xanth," she said evenly.
"Queen of Xanth! You'd have to marry the King."
"Precisely."
"But--"
"One of the quaint, archaic laws and customs of Xanth is that the nominal ruler must be male. Thus some perfectly capable magical females have been eliminated from consideration. Now the present King is old, senile, and without heir; it is time for a Queen. But first there must be a new King. That King could be you."
"Me! I have no knowledge of governing."
"Yes. You would naturally leave the dull details of government to me."
A Spell for Chameleon Page 9