Jinx's Magic (18 page)

“If that's what it takes,” said Jinx. “I have to find Simon. And rescue him, if he needs it.”

Malthus's golden eyes flashed green in the firelight. “I've never understood humans. Now, werewolves are much more practical. When one of our number is in trouble, we eat him.”

“That
is
practical,” said Jinx.

“In this way, werewolves survive.”

“Some of them, anyway,” said Jinx.

“That's the point. But enough chitchat about how our cultures diverge. I'm sure it's very interesting, but I'll eventually succumb to the urge to eat you, and that would be, on the whole, disastrous. As would your present plan. Any explosions will harm you more than him.”

“I have to rescue Simon, so that I can rescue Sophie,” said Jinx. “Because they're—” What were they exactly?

“They are your pack.” The werewolf raised his eyebrows. “Yes, you stand to lose everything. Heroes generally do lose everything.”

“I'm not a—”

“Wicks are nearly always heroes or villains. Mind you, a few have led nice quiet lives.”

“So fire is good, and ice is evil?”

“Whatever gave you that idea? They're forces, that's all.”

“But if ice is death, then—”

“Death isn't evil,” said Malthus. “Life doesn't end in evil. Many people end their lives as delicious meals for werewolves.”

“Then I might be the villain?” said Jinx.

“You might. But in werewolves' tales, the Listener is a hero. A Listener's job is to keep things balanced, steady. The Urwald needs this. You can do far more good by not trying to rescue your Simon—by surviving, that is. I suggest you go home.”

“Sorry, but no,” said Jinx. “People aren't like werewolves.”

“Not at all like werewolves,” said Malthus. “Humans are frightfully affectionate folk. Take your stepfather. He abandoned you in the forest when you were scarcely whelped.”

“Yes, but—”

“He could just as well have killed and eaten you himself. Lucky for werewolves that humans are so squeamish.”

“How did you know about that?”

“My aunt followed you,” said Malthus, with a furry shrug. “Both of you wandering so deliciously in the dusk—she couldn't decide whether to try for the pair, and risk getting neither, or wait till the tough, stringy stepfather abandoned the tender tidbit. Then that wizard came along and cheated her out of a good dinner.”

“Right, well, that's the wizard I'm going to look for now,” said Jinx. “So if there's nothing else—”

Malthus sighed, a rather canine sound with a slight howl to it. “There is something else. If I can't dissuade you—please, please, don't take the Urwald's fire with you.”

“I need it.”

“There's a very good chance that when your power meets the Bonemaster's, that fire will kill you. There may come a time when you can face him with all that fire inside you and survive. But that time is not yet.”

Jinx looked at the werewolf's thoughts. They were mostly a disturbing level of hunger, hedged around with a golden-green determination not to eat Jinx just now—but other than that, Malthus seemed perfectly sincere.

“Whose side are you on, Malthus?”

“The Urwald's,” said the werewolf promptly.

Is that true?
Jinx asked the trees.

True? True,
sighed the trees.
Who can say what the Restless mean?

Is it true what he said about the lifeforce and the deathforce, and fire and ice and all that?

There have always been wicks,
said the trees.
Wicks of fire, wicks of ice
.

“Excuse me,” said Malthus. “Are you talking to the trees?”

“Yeah,” said Jinx. “D'you mind?”

“Not at all,” said the werewolf. “I consider it a very good sign. But I'll just be running along. You grew a bit abstracted there for a second, and a werewolf does tend to pounce in those situations, even if he regrets it afterward.”

As he spoke, his upper body slid downward, his snout lengthened, his arms became legs. He turned and ran off into the dusk. Jinx had missed what happened to the notebook.

Can I trust him?
Jinx wanted to ask the trees. But trees weren't very good with that sort of question. Jinx had to decide on his own.

He looked toward Bonesocket. Going there
without
the Urwald's power seemed crazy. And why should he trust a werewolf?

Well. When someone freely admits that they want to eat you, they're probably not going to lie about a little thing like power and explosions.

Reluctantly, not at all sure he was doing the right thing, Jinx let the Urwald's power seep back down through his feet. He felt the mighty green fire inside him diminish until it was no more than the flame that was always there.

 

It took about half an hour to clamber over the rocky ground to the spot where the Bone Bridge crossed the stream and sloped up the cliff to the island.

It was more ladder than bridge, really, with the spaces between the bones. Jinx felt sick looking at it. This was the exact spot where he had acquired his fear of heights.

But this wasn't like last time, when he'd been captured by the Bonemaster and forced to climb the Bone Bridge or die. Jinx had more power now, and more knowledge, and he even knew one or two more spells. And it was his choice whether to climb the bridge or not.

He remembered Witch Seymour's advice. He thought three times about what he was going to do. Was it wise to confront the Bonemaster in his own lair?

Nope. Definitely not wise.

He began the long, terrifying climb.

22

The Truthspeaker

“J
inx, is it?” The Bonemaster stood waiting at the top, smiling his kindly smile. His thoughts were twirling, flickering knives, flashing black and silver.

If you didn't know better, thought Jinx, you might mistake him for a benevolent old wizard, long white beard, pointy hat, and all.

Jinx felt his heart clench. He hadn't meant to be afraid of the Bonemaster. He really hadn't.

“I saw your message,” said the Bonemaster. “A word of advice: we don't announce ourselves with bursts of green fire nowadays. That sort of thing is”—he made a gesture of distaste—“overstated. Vulgar.”

“Not like destroying a clearing and turning all the people in it into skulls and bones,” said Jinx.

“It's all in how it's done,” said the Bonemaster. “Taste is terribly important. Won't you come inside?”

“Where's Simon?”

“Come inside, and you'll find out,” said the Bonemaster. “Besides, I couldn't think of sending you away without dinner—if I send you away at all. You're quite clearly exhausted, hungry, and one might say, in no shape to do battle.”

“I want you to tell me where Simon is,” said Jinx. “Have you seen him?”

“Oh, yes.” The knives went flick, flick, flick. “And in a sense, quite recently.”

“What do you mean ‘in a sense'?” Jinx demanded.

“Really, Jinx, I don't care for your tone,” said the Bonemaster. “Manners. Now, will you come inside?”

“You can answer my question out here.”

“There's someone inside I'm sure you'll want to see. And it would be such a waste to kill you here,” the Bonemaster added.

Jinx could feel the fire inside him—his own fire, which wasn't much. The Bonemaster undoubtedly had more power. From where he was standing, Jinx couldn't sense very much, and he couldn't be sure if Malthus had told him the truth about that ice stuff or whatever it was. But Jinx had come here to find things out, and for now, the best way to do that was probably to go along.

“All right,” he said. “Let's go, then.”

 

Jinx stepped into the great hall of Bonesocket. The heavy door creaked shut behind him.

“Where's Simon?”

“Really, Jinx,” said the Bonemaster. “One begins a social visit with ‘So how have things been' or ‘What have you been doing lately.'”

“I know what you've been doing. Killing people. How did you escape from Simon's wards?”

“It really wasn't difficult at all,” said the Bonemaster. “With the aid of an extremely careless wagoner—”

“—who you murdered?” said Jinx.

“—I obtained a bit of deathforce power and was able to part Simon's crude spell with little difficulty. Dinner will be ready shortly. Would you care for a cup of wine in the meantime? Or, no, on an empty stomach, perhaps some cider?”

He waved his hand. There was a clattering in the kitchen, and two flagons—made of silver, not of skulls—came sailing down the hall. The Bonemaster caught one in each hand.

“You choose,” he said, offering them both to Jinx.

Jinx took one randomly. “You killed thirty-two people in Cold Oats Clearing.”

“They weren't important,” said the Bonemaster. “Except insofar as their deaths provided me with a considerable amount of power.”

“Of course they were important,” said Jinx. “They had people they cared about, and who cared about them.”

“You think so? Even Simon didn't care about them. He pretended to, but he was really just offended that I took something that was his—even if he didn't want it.”

Jinx was dismayed by this use of the past tense to describe Simon.

“Useless, dismal little Clearing lives,” said the Bonemaster. “Scratching at the earth and fearing the world outside. But I made them worthwhile—converted them into power they never had when they were alive.”

The Third Truth, Jinx thought.
No one is ever wrong.
The Bonemaster thinks he's doing good. Weird.

“And you killed a woman from Badwater Clearing,” Jinx said.

The Bonemaster frowned, as if searching his memory, though the knife blades were razor sharp and twirling easily. “A woman . . . ? Ah, yes. She came to sell me bread. It was terrible bread.”

“It probably was,” said Jinx. “But you can't kill people for that.”

“No? We shall have to agree to disagree.”

“Where's Simon?” said Jinx.

“You're not drinking your cider.”

Jinx set the flagon down on a table.

“Really, Jinx, this is tedious. Have you come all this way to discuss Simon?”

“Not to discuss him. To rescue him.”

The Bonemaster laughed lightly. “Oh, we
are
going to do battle. Excellent. I'm afraid it will be rather brief, and the ending inevitable, but your deathforce will be worth far more if it's won in battle.
Although.” He took a sip of cider. “I see you have your lifeforce back in you. Simon let you keep it?”

“I kept it.”

“For me. How kind. Perhaps I'll bottle it, if I succeed in restraining you alive. It all remains to be seen, doesn't it? But for now, let us dine.”

He turned and called up the stairs, “Time to set the table, my dear.”

Jinx felt a jolt of horror. There couldn't be very many people the Bonemaster called “my dear.”

Elfwyn came halfway down the stairs, froze, and stared at Jinx.

Great,
Jinx thought.
Now I have to rescue her, too.

Elfwyn's emotions were a green blob of alarm, quickly washed over and obliterated by a roiling purple thundercloud of fear. Her face remained impassive.

“Oh, it's Jinx,” she said.

She turned and waved a hand toward the kitchen, and plates, cups, and silverware came tumbling end over end through the air and clattered down in a heap on the table.

“Not quite as gently done as it could have been, my dear,” said the Bonemaster. “Remember that the setting down is the real test of a summoning spell. It requires finesse.”

Elfwyn brushed past Jinx and went and set the table. Jinx went over to help her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her.

“I'm the Bonemaster's apprentice. Bonemaster, tell the boy not to ask me questions, please.”

Concentrating on lining the spoon handles up (the Bonemaster was very particular about that), Jinx caught her eye and mouthed,
I'll get us out of here
.

She ignored him.

“Ah, excellent,” said the Bonemaster, coming to sit at the head of the table. “One day, my dear, you'll be able to make the plates and spoons arrange themselves, but everything in small steps.”

He nodded toward the kitchen, and platters and bowls of food came sailing gently through the arched kitchen doorway and settled themselves on the cloth without spilling a drop.

“You see how it's done, my dear? Just a little pause before descent, to adjust the spell. Please, sit down.”

“I don't want to sit down and eat with someone who's killed hundreds of people,” said Jinx.

“You've done so on many previous occasions.” The Bonemaster turned to Elfwyn. “My dear, is the food poisoned?”

He's using her curse, Jinx thought. Like Reven did.

“Of course not,” said Elfwyn, in a bored voice. “Why would you waste his life by poisoning him? There's no power in that. Don't be stupid, Jinx. You have to eat.”

If Jinx hadn't been able to see her emotions, he would have been hurt by her coldness. Actually, he was kind of hurt by it anyway. He sat down.

And ate, because he was extremely hungry. There was fricasseed chicken, and mashed sweet potatoes, and roasted beets, and pea soup, and it was all, as usual, very good.

“The advantage to me of bottling your life,” said the Bonemaster, swirling wine in his cup and gazing at it thoughtfully, “is that I'll get much more power from your trapped life than I would from your transformed death.”

“But you could also bottle his death, couldn't you, Bonemaster?” said Elfwyn.

“Oh, yes. But that produces only slightly more power than deathforce magic—and, of course, is less decorative.”

Jinx remembered the tunnel lined with bones down in the dungeon.

“Bottling my life would take a human sacrifice,” said Jinx. The Bonemaster wouldn't sacrifice Elfwyn, would he?

“Oh really?” said the Bonemaster. “Is that what Simon did? This Simon you're so eager to rescue? I'm not surprised. What human did he sacrifice?”

Jinx cursed himself for opening his big mouth. He'd forgotten the Bonemaster's tendency to find useful clues in almost anything you said.

“Perhaps he didn't sacrifice anyone,” said the Bonemaster. “There's a way around most things in magic, if you know where to look.”

Jinx busied himself with his chicken.

“Perhaps he used ghast-roots,” said the Bonemaster. “Which, of course, also come from a human sacrifice.”

A little red wavelet of disgust from Elfwyn.

“There must be other ways besides ghast-roots,” said Jinx.

“Oh really? Have you been reading about the bottle spell? You know, the book that Simon stole from me contained only the human sacrifice version. I suppose Simon worked out the ghast-roots. Or he read more books. Perhaps
you've
read more books. You can read, can't you?”

“Pretty much,” said Jinx. “But I think
you
can't do the bottle spell at all without your book. It's not possible, is it?”

“I think that it's not,” said Elfwyn.

The Bonemaster frowned at her.

“I'm sorry, Bonemaster. He asked me a question.”

Jinx hadn't been asking her at all, of course. And she knew that, he thought. She really was learning to manage her curse.

The Bonemaster turned back to Jinx. “How do you know I didn't go to Simon's house and recover my book?”

“Because—” Jinx shut himself up.

“Because you've seen the Crimson Grimoire recently? Perhaps you have it yourself. But you wouldn't have brought it here. You left it at Simon's house, perhaps.

“What a pity I can't get into Simon's house,” the Bonemaster continued. “I went, of course. And noted your mysterious absence. But the ward spells around Simon's clearing are extremely strong. More so than I'd expect from such a mediocre wizard as Simon. Perhaps he had help.

“It was while I was there that I had the good fortune to encounter my new apprentice. She was staying in the house—apparently the wards had a rather sentimental intentional flaw that allowed her to pass through. She wasn't able to extend the exception to me, however. Of course I asked her to bring me the required objects, the book and the bottle, but alas, they were behind a bespelled door, through which she could not pass.”

The Bonemaster paused, and the knives in his thoughts gleamed bright pink with suspicion. “Unfortunately she is making little progress with the door spell.”

“But I was going to come here anyway,” said Elfwyn.

“Does Simon have other books about the bottle spell, Jinx?” the Bonemaster asked.

“No.”

“Ah. A direct response, no evasion. So he's read the books somewhere else, then, and so, perhaps, have you. Your skin is a bit darker than I remember. As if you'd spent time somewhere sunny. What was it you said before—a place with no trees?”

“Where's Simon?” said Jinx.

“You know, Simon said to me, ‘I've sent the boy where you'll never find him.' I paraphrase—his actual language was appalling. I surmised that he meant Samara, of course. I don't know why he thought I would want to find you.”

“When did he say that?” Jinx demanded.

“Oh, let me see. . . .” The Bonemaster looked up as if in thought, and the knives spun hungrily. “It was quite a while ago. January, I think.”

“Where did he say it to you?”

“Why, right here, of course. He kindly came to visit his old master.”

“And what did you do to him?”

“Well, it's interesting,” said the Bonemaster. “Now that we've eaten, why don't you come upstairs, and I'll show you.”

Purple-green horror from Elfwyn.

“What happens if I go upstairs?” Jinx asked her.

“I don't know.” She sounded bored.

The Bonemaster looked at her and the knives glimmered with suspicion. “My dear, I don't think this conversation need involve you. You may go into the laboratory and practice your potions.

“And stay there until I call you, dear,” the Bonemaster added, as Elfwyn left the room without so much as glancing at Jinx. “No matter what you hear.”