Faun & Games
“Oh? It sounded like it to me. I suppose we'll have to play another game, then.”
“You bet! And this time I'll play to win.”
“But not crosses,” Forrest said. “I have a better game in mind.”
“There is no better game than crosses!”
“Yes there is. Let's have a contest to see who can free more folk in limbo.”
“But there aren't any penalties, so that's no fun. They just run off to their territories.”
“We can make our own penalties. If you lose, you must come with us west until you reach age thirty.”
“But I told you, I don't go into the green. I stay here in the yellow.”
“That's why it's a good penalty. You really don't want to do it, because you know that filly might catch you and make you disgustingly adult and responsible.”
“Yeah. A horrible fate.”
“And of course you might escape it, if you can run back east fast enough. You don't have to do anything there, just go and touch the spot where you are thirty.”
“Yeah. Then I can close my eyes and gallop back into the From before the fatal female shows up.” Then he glanced cannily at Forrest. “But what's your penalty, if you lose?”
Forrest gulped. “A day of playing crosses with you.”
“A year!”
“A week.”
“A month.”
Forrest yielded to horrible necessity. “A month.”
“Done! Let's go play.” Then he paused again. “But how will we know who wins?”
“We'll take turns questioning limbo folk. Whoever guesses more talents, so as to free more folk, wins.”
“But what if we miss?”
“If one of us misses, he loses a point. Then the other can question that same person, and if he succeeds, he wins a point. A two point advantage wins the contest.”
Contrary remained canny, seeking the catch. “How much time to question each? I mean, someone might not be able to guess, so he would just keep asking questions indefinitely.”
“Good point. We need a timer.”
There's some baby hourglasses growing nearby. We can harvest one that goes for five minutes.”
“Agreed. When its sand runs out, time is done.”
“Let's go. I'll really enjoy tromping you at Crosses for a month straight.”
“I hope you know what you're doing,” Imbri murmured as they went to harvest a minute glass. “If you get stuck for a month, you'll be too late returning to your tree.”
“I know. But we have to get him into her range. I'll just have to make sure to win the contest.”
They reached the hourglasses, which were actually the fruits of a large thyme plant. They were in all sizes, from two seconds to several days.
Contrary plucked one of the smallest. “This should do for three minutes.”
“How do you know?”
“See, it's got the number on it.” He held up the little timer, and sure enough, there was a 3 on it.
Then they went to the section of limbo, which wasn't far away. “Who goes first?” Forrest asked.
The centaur considered, trying to figure out where the advantage was.
The one who went first might win and be ahead-or might lose and be behind. The confidence of youth won. “I'll go first.”
“As you wish.”
They entered the fog. “How do we decide which one to start with?” Contrary asked.
“Each of you choose the subjects for the other,” Imbri suggested.
Both centaur and faun were startled by the notion. Then both agreed. It made a certain sense.
So Forrest got to choose for Contrary. He saw a number of statues; it seemed that they weren't allowed to speak until spoken to. Maybe that was what gave them their first suggestion of potential reality. One was a halfway handsome young man of almost princely mien. Forrest shrugged and indicated that one.
Contrary approached the figure. “Hi, you. What's your name?” As he spoke, Imbri set down the minute glass, and its sand began sifting to the lower section.
The figure came to life. “I am Crescendo.”
“Whose son are you?”
“I am the son of Prince Dolph and Princess Electra.”
That startled Forrest, because he knew only of the twins, Dawn & Eve.
But he realized that a given set of parents could have additional children-and in any event, the folk here were merely might-he's, who might never actually be delivered to Xanth parents. There could be hundreds of such children; there might be no limit.
“What's your talent?” Contrary asked.
It was a clever try, but it didn't work. “I regret I don't know it. If I did, I wouldn't be here.”
“Is there anything about your ancestry that would suggest your talent?”
“Yes. All the descendants of Bink, my great grandfather, have Magician caliber talents. So I must be a Magician.”
“But that's just a matter of opinion, isn't it? There's no way to be sure how a given talent will be judged.”
“True. But mine should be a good one.”
Forrest, watching, began to get a notion. That name, Crescendo, sounded like growing force, or something musical. When he played his panpipes, he sometimes crescendoed. Could this person's talent be associated with music?
“Your name sounds like a word,” Contrary remarked. “To what does it apply?”
“As a word? I wouldn't know.”
“Why wouldn't you know?”
“I don't know.”
“Is it because it relates to your talent?”
“I can't say.”
“If it doesn't relate to your talent, you ought to know. So it must relate to powerful music.”
“Why, I suppose so,” the figure said, surprised. Forrest saw that Crescendo had not been able to think of that himself, but could see it now that it had been suggested by an outside party.
“Can you play music?”
“I don't know.”
Contrary looked at Forrest. “May I borrow your panpipes?”
Forrest hesitated, but realized that it would not be fair to interfere.
He dug out his panpipes and handed them over. As he did so, a piece of paper fluttered away in the breeze; it must have been stuck to the panpipes. Contrary in turn handed the pipes to Crescendo. “Play this.”
The pipes began to play beautiful panpipe music. But Crescendo wasn't playing them; he was just holding them. They were playing themselves.
Contrary took the pipes back and returned them to Forrest. Then he picked up a stone. “Play this.”
Crescendo took the stone, and it immediately played rock music. Contrary gave him a cup of water, and it made water music. He gave him a handful of air, and it made air music. Crescendo's talent was coming clear.
“You have the talent of touching anything and making it make music,” Contrary said. “That's must be close to Magician level, considering the beauty and power of the music.”
“Yes!” Crescendo exclaimed, and suddenly the very ground around him was playing earth music. “That's it! Oh, thank you! What can I do for you in return for enabling me to become halfway real?”
The centaur considered, but Imbri intervened. “He has done you a service already, by giving you a point.”
“Oh, yeah,” Contrary agreed, remembering. “Depart, Crescendo; you are free.”
The man needed no further urging. He took off at a run for wherever his territory was. Forrest realized that the geography/time effect must be suspended for the limbo folk, until they took their places where they belonged. Bit by bit, he was learning the devious ways of the Idea planet.
But now it was his turn. Contrary walked among the statues, and stopped by one that looked much like the last. “This,” he told Forrest.
Imbri turned the minute glass over, and the sand started sifting.
Forrest addressed the figure. “Who are you, and what is your lineage?”
It was best to be efficient, so as to co
nserve time for more questions.
“I am Revy, son of Magician Grey and Sorceress Ivy.”
Another Magician, then! Powerful magic should be easier to guess, as it was more comprehensive. Still, this wasn't easy. So he borrowed a device the centaur had employed. “Does your name suggest your talent?”
“I can't answer that.”
He was getting warm. What could “Revy” mean? Revered? That didn't seem quite like a talent. Revelry? Again, it didn't seem apt. Reverse?
Aha! “Could your talent be to reverse things?”
“It could.”
That helped. “Can you make hot things cold?”
“No.” Interesting; a talent couldn't be confirmed, but it could be denied if wrong. No-it could be confirmed; the centaur had done so. It was just necessary to find the right thing to confirm.
“Can you reverse the flow of a river?”
“No.”
Hm. This was trickier than anticipated. Revy could probably reverse something, but not ordinary things. How could it be a Magician caliber talent, if it was so limited? Unless “Can you reverse magic itself?”
“Yes!” Revy exclaimed with happy realization. “My father can nullify magic, so I can reverse it. He prevents magic from happening; I can send it in the opposite direction.”
“Good for you,” Forrest said, well satisfied. “Go find your range.”
“Thank you!” The man ran off.
“You're welcome,” Forrest murmured. He hoped he was getting the hang of this.
But now he had to select another candidate for the centaur. What might be tough enough for Contrary to miss, but easy enough for Forrest to get? He wasn't sure. So he looked for something different-and found a demon child, The figure was male, with small horns, and looked about five years old. Of course apparent age didn't matter much, because of the time/geography factor. Still, this one might do. “This.”
Contrary approached the child. “Who are you, and what is your derivation?”
“I am Demos, and I am the son of Prince Demon Vore and Princess Nada Naga, Xanth's most handsome couple. Also the brother of DeMonica, who had the undeserved fortune to make it to Xanth instead of me.”
“So you are not a descendant of Bink,” the centaur remarked.
“Of who?”
“Never mind. Demons generally don't have magic talents, other than their demonly qualities, and neither do the naga folk, because they can already shift from full human to full serpent to their natural combination form. So you may not have an actual talent.”
“Oh, but I do! I'm sure of it. I just don't know what it is.”
“Curses,” the centaur muttered. “Then it could be anything.”
“Yes. I hope you can discover it.”
The centaur considered, as the sand ran through the minute glass. “Could it relate to the changeability of your parents?”
“Yes.”
“Ha! So you can change yourself.?”
“Oh, sure. To human or naga or serpent form, or any other, because of my half demon heritage.”
“That doesn't count,” Contrary muttered, disappointed. “A magic talent isn't quite that way. Can you affect other things with your magic?”
“I wouldn't know.”
The centaur pondered again. Forrest saw the sand running low.
Unfortunately he couldn't figure this one out either. “Can you take magic away from things?”
“No.”
“Then can you give magic to things?”
“Yes.”
That meant he was suddenly very close. The centaur oriented on it with greater precision than he had shown thus far. “Can you make a non-magic object in some way magic?”
“Yes.”
“Like, for example, a candlestick: could you imbue it with the power to burn without using up its wax?”
“Yes! That's it! I can do that.”
Contrary looked surprised, then relieved. Forrest realized that he had been guessing more desperately than was apparent, and had been lucky.
But now it was Forrest's turn to guess. The centaur walked among the statues, and selected a boy with a fish's tail. “This.”
Then there was a sound overhead. They all looked up. “Oh no!”
Imbri exclaimed. “The dragons are back.”
“Dragons?” Contrary asked. “Who stirred them up?”
“I think we did,” Forrest said. “When we were headed for ogre country.”
“Well, get rid of them, then.”
Forrest thought of something. “Imbri, can you diffuse to dream form and plant a thought in their minds?”
“Yes. But what thought would distract them from us?”
“Maybe if you gave them something else to chase, like a wild goose.
Dragons like to eat geese.”
“Because they don't like getting goosed,” she agreed. “So they try to eat the geese first. It's a personal thing. I'll see what I can do.”
She expanded, fading into mist as her density decreased.
The dragons had been drawing up their formation, about to go into strafing mode. Suddenly they hesitated. Then they winged rapidly away.
Imbri had given them a dream of wild geese on the wing.
Soon Imbri reappeared, condensing into her small human form.
“That should hold them a while. But we had better not dally, because I won't be able to distract them that way again.”
Forrest approached the figure Contrary had designated, as Imbri set the minute glass again. “Who are you, and what is your derivation?”
“I am Nigel, son of Prince Naldo Naga and Mela Merwoman.”
“I don't know of your parents. What are their qualities?”
“My father is a prince of the naga folk, who are a serpent/human crossbreed whose natural form is a serpent with a human head. My mother is a human/fish crossbreed, like a mermaid only better developed in front, and able to turn her tail into legs so she can walk on land.
There was some notoriety when she was advised to put on clothing, so she went to a pantree and harvested a panty, and freaked out every male she encountered.”
“Oh, that one. News of her did penetrate my corner of the forest. So does your talent relate to either of your parents' natural abilities, such as changing from human to serpent or fish form?”
“No.”
“Is it a minor talent, of the spot on the wall variety?”
'No.”
Forrest was getting the hang of this. The folk of limbo knew what their talents weren't, so it was the fast way to zero in on what they were.
“Is it a major talent, Magician class?”
'No.”
“Then it must be a significant talent, neither major nor minor.”
“I wouldn't know.”
Uh-huh. “Does it relate to yourself?”
“No.”
“Does it relate to objects?”
'No.”
“Does it relate to other people?”
“I wouldn't know.”
Forrest paused. “Does it relate to anything other than other people?”
“No.
He was definitely developing technique. But he saw the sand running low in the minute glass. He needed to identify the talent readily. “Does it affect other people?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“Does it change their mood?”
'No.
“Does it change their appearance?”
Nigel hesitated. “I'm not sure.”
Now that was interesting. A qualified response. But the sand was almost out, and he had to get it in the next couple of questions. “Does it change their nature?”
“Yes.”
“Can it heal them?”
“No.”
“Hurt them?”
“Maybe.”
The last gasp of sand was going. He had only one more chance. What would change appearance without necessarily healing or hurting? So he took a halfway wild guess: “Can it change their age???
?
“Yes! I can rejuvenate others.”
And there he had it, as the sand ran out. It had been a close call.
“Hey, you cheated!” Contrary protested, looking at the minute glass.
“What are you talking about?”
“You got an extra minute.”
Forrest looked at the glass. It now had the number 4 on it. Four minutes. How had that happened?
Imbri had the answer: “We moved west-toward the To. So we got a little older-and so did the minute glass. So it's bigger.”
The centaur nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Maybe I got an extra minute too. Okay.”
Forrest looked for another subject. He needed to find one that would stymie the centaur, because otherwise he would be stymied himself all too soon. He found a reasonably pretty young woman. It was a foolish notion, but maybe a woman would be trouble for Contrary, who was trying to avoid meeting a filly centaur. “This.”
Contrary approached the woman. “What is your name and heritage?”
“I am Scintilla. My father is Crony and my mother is Vendetta.
They don't get along too well, so I'm not sure they'll ever get around to signaling the stork to deliver me.”
“Too bad,” the centaur said without sympathy. “Does your talent relate to your name?”
'No.
The centaur continued to question her, establishing that her talent affected herself rather than others, but not in any obvious way. Indeed, it was not obvious to Contrary, who finally ran out of time without establishing her talent.
Unfortunately Forrest was no better. “Does your talent help you or others?”
“Not usually.”
“Does it hurt anyone?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does it annoy you or anyone else?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does it do anything physical?”
“Not really.”
“Mental?”
“Possibly.”
“Emotional?”
“Perhaps.”
These indefinite answers were balking Forrest just as they had balked Contrary. He was unable to center on any particular talent, and time ran out for him too.
The worst of it was, they couldn't even admit defeat and ask for the correct answer, just to satisfy their curiosity. They were left to their infuriating ignorance.
“Whose turn is it to pick the next?” Forrest asked.
“You picked the last; now it's my turn.” He scouted around, looking for a winner for him. “This.”