Jinx's Magic (4 page)

“You d-don't n-need that,” said Elfwyn, shivering. Her voice was raspy from being strangled by the nixie.

“Those b-beasts will be after us next, I swan.”

“No they won't,” said Jinx. He drew on the flame inside him to make the campfire burn higher and hotter.

“T-truce of the Path,” said Elfwyn, huddling closer to the fire and shooting Jinx a grateful glance.

Purple and pink uncertainty blopped around Reven's head. He lowered the ax.

“C-come to the fire before you f-freeze,” said Elfwyn.

Reven did, but he kept looking over to where the yapping and squalling had now becomes splashes and snarls. “They're only animals. Surely they w-won't obey the Truce?”

“Yeah, they will,” said Jinx. “Werewolves are thinking creatures. Unlike some people.”

“They're still m-monsters,” said Reven. “They would have eaten us, forsooth!”

“Probably,” said Jinx. “But now we're on the Path.”

“The Urwald is too dangerous for human habitation,” Reven said.

“It is not,” said Jinx. “If you're not a total idio—”

“You l-levitated us, Jinx,” said Elfwyn.

Jinx hadn't really had time to think about this yet.

Magic on anything that had a lifeforce was much harder than magic on mere objects. Jinx remembered all the elaborate preparations Simon had had to go through to do a spell on Jinx himself. And yet Jinx had just levitated two people and six nixies.

Jinx and the Urwald. It had been the Urwald's power, with Jinx telling it how to work. And now he felt exhausted. It was as if the force of the Urwald had passed through him and wrung him out.

And he realized he was even more aware of the Urwald than he had been before.

“Someone's cutting down trees,” he said.

“In the dark?” said Reven.

“No,” said Jinx. “I mean every day. They cut down more every day. I can feel it.”

“Less space for horrible monsters to hide in, then,” said Reven.

“The trees are
dying
,” said Jinx. “They're being killed.”

“Well, it's progress,” said Reven. “It has to happen.”

“It does not!” Jinx looked over at Elfwyn for help, but she was asleep.

“Get rid of all the trees, and you'll get rid of all these monsters, forsooth.” Reven tucked Elfwyn's blanket around her. Then he got out his own blanket and huddled into it. “You're sure about this Truce?”

“Utterly,” said Jinx.

He was really annoyed. How could Reven be such a fool? And it wasn't just Jinx's own feeling—it came rumbling through the Urwald, running along the roots, humming through the tree trunks.

The Terror must go,
said the trees.

He will,
said Jinx.
I'm taking him to the edge
.

Too slowly. Too long. You wander here and there. When will he leave?

Soon,
said Jinx.
We have to go talk to this Witch Seymour, and after that, we'll head straight to the edge
.

We made an agreement with you
.

Yes, I know,
said Jinx.
I take him out, and you don't hurt him
. A sudden thought occurred to him.
Those nixies and werewolves
—

We have no control over the Restless
.

Of course they didn't, Jinx thought. The nixies had behaved like nixies, that was all. And the werewolves—well, it was funny, now that he thought about it. The werewolves had attacked the nixies.

He got up and dragged a branch into the fire. And noticed glowing eyes watching him from just off the path.

He lay awake the rest of the night. You do, in a situation like that.

5

Witch Seymour

“T
he map says we turn right here,” said Elfwyn.

“Well, there are two rights,” said Jinx. “So which one of them are we turning?”

Go to the Edge,
said the trees.
The Terror must leave us
.

I'm working on it,
said Jinx.

“Can't you ask your trees where she lives?” said Reven.

“They don't know,” said Jinx. “Because witches don't live in clearings. The trees don't pay attention to where houses are, just to where trees aren't.”

“What if we look for butter churn tracks?” said Reven.

But when they looked, they found the telltale round tracks in the mud on both paths.

“Well, my mother said it's a mile,” said Elfwyn. “So we'll try one path for a mile and then we'll try the other.”

“I wonder why your mother called her Witch Seymour,” said Reven as they started down the path. “Aren't witches usually called Dame?”

“Yes,” said Elfwyn. “Perhaps Mother doesn't like her, and that's her way of saying so. There are quite a few people she doesn't like.”

They soon reached a little thatched cottage overhung with tall spruce trees, with chickens pecking around the doorstep.

There was no butter churn at the door. That was odd. Jinx thought that the witch might not be home.

They knocked.

At first there was no sound. Then they heard heavy footfalls crossing the floor. The door creaked open. A head stuck out.

“Yes?”

“Er,” said Elfwyn. “We're looking for Witch Seymour.”

“And you've found Witch Seymour. Who are you?”

“Elfwyn. And, um, these are my friends, Reven and Jinx. Are you
sure
you're Witch Seymour?”

The witch laughed, not very pleasantly. “Why, yes, I am sure. A great deal more sure than you are. But come in.”

The door swung wide. The three of them looked at each other, and then they wiped their feet vigorously on the doormat and went in.

“You're awfully damp,” said the witch.

“We, um, fell into a pond last night,” said Elfwyn.

“How lucky nixies didn't get you. Come stand by the fire, lest you catch your death.”

The fire crackled pleasantly, and there was a small goat curled up on the hearth. It looked up and gave a mild bleat of greeting. Reven bent down to scratch its horn buds, trying to conceal the green-pink cloud of confusion around his head, Jinx thought.

“You're not quite what we were expecting,” said Elfwyn.

“I didn't know there were male witches,” said Jinx.

Witch Seymour made a
harumph
noise, which mostly came through his nose. “One dislikes the term ‘male witch.' It de-emphasizes the essential. I am a witch.”

“Er, why?” said Jinx.

“What do you mean, why? One's mother was a witch, and one learned witching from her, and now one is a witch, if it's quite all right with you.”

“He meant no offense,” said Reven. “But it is, perhaps, a bit unusual, sir, isn't it?”

“A bit,” Witch Seymour conceded.

He was a stout man, bald on the top and with a great deal of black hair sticking out the sides of his head and face to make up for it.

“But let's assume you didn't come here to question one about one's career choice,” said the witch. “And you're too big to eat, even if one went in for the gingerbread-and-ovens routine, which one doesn't. So to what does one owe the rather dubious honor?”

“My mother said maybe you could answer some questions for us,” said Elfwyn. “About Keyland.”

“And your mother might be?”

“Berga of Butterwood Clearing.”

“Ah, Berga.” The witch smirked. “Dear Berga. Then you're the girl with the interesting curse on her, aren't you?”

“Yes,” said Elfwyn, embarrassed.

“Word does get around. Oh, and . . . you must be Dame Glammer's granddaughter, then.”

Jinx could see that the witch was reluctantly impressed. Jinx had noticed this on their travels. As far as the witches were concerned, Dame Glammer was Somebody. And that meant Elfwyn was somebody, too, although with a small
s
.

“In that case, you'd better have some brew.” Witch Seymour busied himself in the cupboards, getting cups and bundles of leaves.

“One had half been expecting you,” said the witch, when they were sitting around the table with warm mugs of summer-smelling brew. “One heard rumors. Three strange children traveling with Simon Magus.” He pointed to each of them in turn. “Nine-year-old boy, wizard's apprentice, lifts mighty fallen oak trees with one finger. Unexplained lad, not an Urwalder, terribly polite. Red-caped girl, sees deepest secrets of one's soul.”

“That's not true,” said Elfwyn.

“I'm thirteen,” said Jinx. Well, he almost was. He didn't
look
nine, did he?

“I think you'll find rumor has its own truth,” said Witch Seymour. “We are who people say we are.”

“Who
who
says we are?” Elfwyn demanded.

“Rumor,” said Witch Seymour. “Who rumor says. Do you know how fast rumor travels in the Urwald?”

“No,” said Elfwyn.

Jinx hadn't thought it traveled at all. “The clearings never talk to each other.”

“The clearings! No.” Witch Seymour sniffed. “Little islands in the wilderness, the clearings. But the Wanderers do. And the Witchline does. Rumor travels fast. Wheeled on wagons and hopped about on butter churns.”

“The Witchline?” said Reven.

“The butter churn brigade. And witches have a few other . . . methods . . . that one doesn't discuss with, pardon, outsiders.”

“But you don't have a butter churn,” said Elfwyn.

“One does not churn. One's center of gravity is too high.”
If it's any of your business,
his expression added. “One hears things, however. The Witchline has been humming for weeks about that alarming Simon Magus, hither-and-yonning with a bunch of strange children, bothering everybody about the Bonemaster.”

“It's not
bothering
people,” said Jinx. “The magicians need to do something about the Bonemaster. Simon put wards to hold him in Bonesocket—”

“Oh, Simon. Spare me Simon.” The witch rolled his eyes. “You think anybody's going to put themselves out helping Simon fight the Bonemaster? So that Simon can set up as Bonemaster in his place?”

“Simon doesn't want to do that!” said Jinx. “The Bonemaster killed a whole lot of people, in case you didn't know.”

“I did know.” The witch was frowning, but the clouds around his head said Jinx was amusing him. “Killed a lot of people with the help of his apprentice. And do you know who his apprentice was?”

Oh. That.

“Who?” said Elfwyn.

“Simon,” said the witch, with grim satisfaction.

“Really?” said Reven.

“I don't think he
helped
him,” said Jinx. “He was just—” He stopped. All he really knew was that there was a wall inside Simon's thoughts, beyond which Jinx couldn't read, and that Simon's time with the Bonemaster was behind the wall. “There,” he finished lamely.

“Oh, yes, he was just . . . there,” said Witch Seymour. “And you know the funny thing? One didn't hear very much about the Bonemaster before Simon was
there
. One knew who he was, of course, but he was just a wizard among other wizards, wanting power like they all do, but not especially having any. And then suddenly the Bonemaster was the biggest, most powerful, most dangerous wizard in the Urwald. And as far as one knows, the only difference was, he had got himself an apprentice named Simon.”

Jinx could see the surprise and dismay floating around Elfwyn's and Reven's heads. They didn't know Simon like Jinx did. Simon wasn't, Simon wouldn't—

“Simon isn't like the Bonemaster,” said Jinx. “He doesn't go around killing people for power.”

“Perhaps we know different Simons,” said the witch. “I find people behave quite differently toward different people, don't you? You're his apprentice, I take it. Poor you.”

“
Not
poor me,” said Jinx. “Simon took me in when I didn't have anywhere to go. So, lucky me.”

“Oh? One now learns, at any rate, that Simon is kind to children. It shows there's some good in the worst of us. Now let's hear from the young man with the foreign accent,” said the witch, nodding at Reven. “Bragwood?”

“I grew up in King Rufus's court in Bragwood, good, er, witch,” said Reven. “But I'm headed . . .” He stopped.

“To Keyland?” said the witch. He turned to Elfwyn. “Now I shall be brutally unfair. Why Keyland?”

“Because Reven is the king of Keyland,” said Elfwyn.

“Ha.” Witch Seymour looked down at the goat, which was nibbling on the cuff of his trousers. “Didn't one say when one got up this morning, Whitlock, that today was going to be an interesting day?” He turned back to Elfwyn. “Keyland already has a king, you know.”

“Yes,” said Elfwyn. “We were hoping you could tell us how he came to be king.”

“Ah. Now the situation becomes clearer, Whitlock, eh?” The witch rubbed the goat's head with the back of a finger. “But first one wants to know what you already know. Ah, I won't ask you, dear.” He held up a hand to stop her. “Let's hear it from the King of Nowhere, shall we?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Reven. “There's not much that I can tell you. I was born in—” he stopped. “And then I—” he stopped again. “Bragwood. With my stepmother. And I was raised there.”

As Reven spoke, Jinx watched the orange and red lines of his curse weave and bounce around him, interrupting his speech.

“And by means of fairy tales and other devices, she managed to make it known to me that I was—” said Reven. A cloud of sorrow, shot through with anger. “And then King Rufus killed her.”

By rolling her downhill in a barrel stuck about with nails, Jinx remembered. He winced.

“Hm. That is, indeed, not much. Curse, eh?” said the witch.

Reven reached down and petted the goat. He couldn't even say that it was a curse.

“Any stepmother might tell stories about lost kings,” said the witch. “It doesn't mean you are one.”

“It was more than stories,” said Reven.

“Was the curse on her too?”

Reven couldn't answer that either.

“If that curse wasn't put on you by Dame Morwen herself, I miss my guess,” said Witch Seymour. “Ah, she was an artist, was Morwen. Well, one can hardly resist the chance to ingratiate oneself to a possible king, can one, Whitlock? I shall tell you what I know.”

He took a sip of brew, wiped his mustache with the back of his hand, stuck his hands into his vest pockets, leaned back in his chair, and began.

“Fifteen years ago, in Keria, the capital of Keyland, a boy was born to King Kyle and his young bride, Queen Kalinda. We shall say, for the sake of argument”—he nodded at Reven—“you. All very proper, an heir to the throne, as required. Then—”

“What was the boy's name?” said Elfwyn.

“Raymond,” said Witch Seymour, frowning at the interruption. “Prince Raymond. I suppose they ran out of
K
s. About six months later, the queen died. And this was unusual. Had she died sooner, it might have been childbed fever. But why wait six months, and then die? People thought it very improper. Poison was spoken of. Not, of course, publicly. That could have led to beheadings and dancing in red-hot shoes and all that sort of thing.”

“For the poisoners?” said Jinx. “Did they know who they were?”

“No, for the people who spoke of it, of course. Keyland is that kind of place. Naturally one assumed the king had done it. He promptly married one of Queen Kalinda's attendants, a Lady Esmeralda, who was, you'll forgive me, much better-looking than your alleged mother, young man.”

“You saw my mother?” said Reven.

“Once or twice, once or twice. Well, there was muttering, naturally, why wouldn't there be, especially among the family of the late queen. So when the king's brother, Duke Bluetooth of Bayland—”

“Was he really named Bluetooth?” Jinx interrupted.

“Yes,” said the witch, with a purple puff of annoyance. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Sorry,” said Jinx.

“Where was I?”

“The Duke of Bayland,” Elfwyn said.

“Yes. Duke Bluetooth. Yes, well, he seized the throne. Killed his brother. Did it himself, very properly, no assassins or poison or anything like that. He ran him through very nicely with a sword, as brothers ought, and he meant to do the same for the queen and the baby prince, only somehow or other in the confusion—” The witch stopped, took a sip of brew, and looked around at all of them.

“Yes?” said Elfwyn.

“What happened?” said Reven.

Jinx didn't say anything, because he was still annoyed at being shushed.

Witch Seymour smacked his lips over the brew. “That just happens to be the little bit that nobody knows. The lovely young queen grabbed up her baby stepson and fled from her brother-in-law. Some say he caught up with them and slew them both, and wiped his bloody sword on his sky-blue velvet pantaloons. I myself do not believe that. If they had been crimson, he might have, but sky-blue? Ridiculous. Others say she fled into the forest—that's the Urwald to us—and was immediately devoured by werewolves. Or possibly vampires, I forget. Myself, I have always wondered if she might have known her way around the Urwald better than that. She had the look, to me, of an Urwald girl.”

“Lots of Urwald girls get devoured by werewolves,” said Jinx.

“Your friend doesn't seem to think that's what happened.”