20
I had half expected the new kingdom to look drastically different from our own and so was a little disappointed. We had burst in so dramatically that I had hoped for an equally dramatic arrival, but all we saw was the same grass, the same trees, the same road stretching ahead and behind.
I felt a prickle of excitement all the same, because we were really elsewhere , somewhere entirely new, where King Darius could not reach us. And it wasn’t exactly the same, if you stopped and really thought about it.
It had the brightness and clarity of a world without stolen hearts and beautiful, sinister women. Sylvester opened the carriage window so we could breathe the new air.
“It feels different,” commented Cornelius.
“Different how?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. It smells different,” he said. “I can’t say it in human.”
“I know what he means,” said Sylvester. “The air has a different texture.”
I took a deep breath. I couldn’t detect any of what Sylvester and Cornelius were feeling with their heightened senses, but I did feel free. I could stand straighter, knowing that we were safe from the king and the sorceresses. I just hoped Da and the villagers were safe as well.
“I suppose we should try to find a town and ask about this Weftwitch,” I said. “Unless you have some magic way of finding her.”
“Perhaps, but I think my magic might work differently here,” said Sylvester. He created a little fireball and let it play over his knuckles. It danced for a moment, then fizzled. He frowned down at it. “I don’t want to risk it. Nor use a heart. We do not know what kind of attention that could draw here.”
“Well, until you figure that out,” I said, “I think we should keep going along this road. It’s bound to lead somewhere, somewhere with people, and then we can ask about to find out where we have to go next.”
We followed the road, and, as I had suspected, we reached a village before too long. We stepped out of the carriage, its shining steps unfolding themselves under our feet, and looked around.
The village didn’t look all that different from mine, at first glance. I could see a cobbled road lined with shops, a smithy with a horseshoe hung over the doorjamb, and well-tended hedgerows lining lanes that led to houses and farms.
There was even a square like ours back home, where we held the markets and such, or gathered to gawp at the sorceresses. I felt that if I followed the rickety road, I would reach a pub with a sticky floor and a fat black-and-white cat sunning itself on the doorstep, just like back home.
But the village was empty.
I wondered if the entire populace was hiding behind bushes and trees and such, ready to jump out at us. The place had that sort of feel—like something might leap out at you at any second. I looked back at the carriage. Even the magical horses seemed wary, chuffing a little through their dinner plate-sized nostrils and shifting their weight uneasily from one massive foot to another.
“Is anyone here?” I called out to the empty air.
“I can’t smell anyone,” noted Cornelius from beside my ankle.
“Nor can I sense anyone,” added Sylvester. “My senses are duller here, though. Something like wearing gloves over your fingers. I can still feel things, but the impressions are blunted. Blurred. I could not say for sure that no one else is here.”
We kept walking, cautiously, peering in any windows and doorways we passed. The place did seem a little neglected, on closer inspection. Weeds and bright flowers poked through the cobblestones.
“It’s Foss,” I said suddenly, stopping.
Sylvester looked at me as if I had gone mad.
“The flower.” I stooped and picked it. It was delicate, greenish white, lacelike, with a distinctive curled petal that made the head look like a chalice. “The flower I’m named after.”
I felt foolish for pointing it out, but it was so comforting to come across something familiar in this strange, lonely place.
“May I see?” said the sorcerer.
Feeling even more foolish, I stuck out my hand, holding the flower between my thumb and index finger. The contrast between that intricately detailed and appealing little plant and my strong, red hand seemed laughable to me, but he plucked the flower gravely from between my fingers and examined it. I looked away, embarrassed.
“It is beautiful,” he said.
“You don’t have to say it,” I muttered. “I know it is a ridiculous name.”
“I think it suits you very well,” he said, holding my gaze with an intensity that made me flush.
“That looks like it was a bakery once,” I said, trying to change the subject and pointing at one of the buildings. “I see the chimneys for the big ovens.”
“Good place to look for mice, a bakery,” said Cornelius. “Lots of crumbs. Mind if I pop in for minute?”
He trotted off. My stomach growled. Like Cornelius, I was suddenly very focused on food.
“I’m going in, too,” I said. “There might be something left.”
Sylvester made a vague gesture and went back to studying the flower.
There was no one inside the bakery, either. The bread was stale, as I had expected, but only a few days stale. Someone had made it three, maybe four days ago at the most, and set it out for sale on what was probably a very ordinary morning. There was still a dusting of flour on the counter. A fly buzzed around my ear, the only noise in the place.
Cornelius emerged from an open larder door.
“Find any mice?” I asked.
“Not one,” he said. “I can see that there were mice here, not long ago, but I can’t find any.”
“This place was full of life not long ago,” I said, turning slowly to see the room. The fly followed. “Something happened.”
Cornelius hopped up gracefully onto the counter and chewed on a morsel of bread, making a face.
“We’re not going to get anywhere if we can’t find people to talk to,” I said. “And we’re clearly not going to find any here. We need to keep moving.”
The magic-made horses never required food, water, or rest, and so we were able to continue our journey without interruption. The white horror of the mist diminished behind us, and I was even able to enjoy our progress a little. The morning was cold but sunny, and the air tasted sweet as an autumn apple.
I think we all felt optimistic, even Sylvester, who still did not believe that hearts could be repaired. That made it even more of a shock when the horses came to a halt, and we found ourselves at a roadblock, surrounded by men and women holding weapons.
“Stay here,” said Sylvester. “I will talk to them.”
“Not a chance,” I said. “We don’t know how people here are going to react to a magic-worker. They might start poking at you with their sharp sticks without listening to a word you say. Let me talk to them. I don’t look like a threat. And as for you,” I turned to Cornelius, “don’t let on that you can talk. Just pretend to be an ordinary cat. All right?”
Cornelius mewed.
“Yes, like that.” I took a deep breath and pushed open the carriage door. The people outside stared to see such a homely, everyday person emerge from such an elaborate carriage. It must have been like seeing a sparrow hatch from a swan’s egg.
“Good morning,” I said to the nearest person, who was holding a spear, for want of any better ideas.
He looked me up and down. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said politely. “No one has traveled this road for a long time. We have been charged with the duty of stopping anyone—or anything—who comes this way.”
“Why?”
“Am I right in assuming you have traveled here from the Invisible Kingdom?” he asked.
“I have never heard that name,” I replied. “We have come here from another kingdom, it is true.”
“The kingdom beyond the mist?”
“Oh. Yes,” I said. “We traveled through the mist.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Concern, at the very least, and maybe even fear.
“You are the first in many years,” said the spearman. “We have to take you to our headwoman.”
“All right,” I said cautiously. “And what will she do with us?”
“It has been so long that I do not know what she will do,” said the man. “Truthfully, we never expected to see anyone traveling this road again.”
Sylvester opened the carriage door, clearly thinking that I didn’t have things under control. I waved at him to go back in, but they had spotted him.
“A magic-worker!” cried the spearman, who seemed to be in charge. A susurration ran through the crowd, and not a pleasant one. “I am sorry, but he will have to travel under guard and in bonds.”
Sylvester opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, I said, “Fine. Whatever you say.”
Sylvester, I knew, could probably have magicked himself right out of any bonds if he chose, but he submitted to them, allowing his wrists to be tied behind his back.
The person binding him was clearly a little intimidated by the sorcerer’s height, beauty, and rich clothing, and he handled him gently, making sure not to chafe Sylvester’s perfect skin when he tightened the ropes.
I don’t think they knew what to make of him. They had probably never seen a magic-worker before. I did notice that, although they were fascinated by him, they were not in thrall. He did not seem to have the same effect on them as he had on me, or as he had had on those back home who weren’t even Snagged. If people in our village had gotten this close to him, they would have been fawning and worshipful; these people were polite, perhaps a little awed, but not enslaved.
“You may leave your carriage here,” the leader told me. “We can bring your horses, if they need food and water.”
“Uh, no, they will be fine,” I said awkwardly. He did not seem too surprised. I suspected that he recognized magical constructions when he saw them. “I do need to bring my cat, though.”
He shrugged. Cornelius, who had been waiting in the carriage’s doorway for a signal, leaped in one fluid movement and landed on my shoulder, digging in a little with his claws to keep purchase.
The people led Sylvester, Cornelius, and me to what turned out not to be a town at all but a tent city of wooden poles and stretched cloth—large but clearly temporary.
There were animals grazing in makeshift pens, chickens pecking about the dirt paths, and even a gang of children playing some mysterious game involving a broken wagon wheel and a length of rope.
They stopped to watch Sylvester pass, grubby faces wide-eyed and wondering. With his gleaming hair and luxurious, bejeweled clothing, he looked like a butterfly floating through a bevy of moths. Even with his hands tied, he intimidated.
As we walked, we passed a child absorbed in play. He was an ordinary-looking sprog, round in the face and snub of nose. He held his little fingers apart, and a web of light appeared between them, like the cat’s cradles with which I had seen Sylvester tinker.
Sylvester watched him, fascinated. The boy twiddled with it a bit, then lost interest, and threw it to the ground, where it popped and wiggled like a firecracker before disappearing.
“So, you do have magic-workers here,” I said to the man who was leading us.
“Of a sort,” he said. “Not his kind,” indicating Sylvester, “and no heart magic, either.”
“So, spells then? Books? Herbs?”
“I hear of some who meddle with those,” he said, “but for most, it is not needed. We use magic for little more here than chasing a kettle to the boil, or persuading bread to rise more easily. Or for pretty toys, as you see.”
I couldn’t fathom it. So magic was an everyday, throwaway thing here, so simple that even the sprouts could play with it? I had always known it as something red and predatory—something to be dreaded.
Perhaps the people here didn’t have the kind of power the king and the magic-workers wielded, but that seemed like a fair trade to me in exchange for a life without fear. It looked to be a good life.
The people, though wary, seemed kind, and were neatly dressed and healthy. The settlement, though humble, was orderly and comfortable.
We reached a tent that was perhaps a little larger than the others, and a woman emerged. She had a kind, plain face, and a brown headscarf covered her hair. She greeted us pleasantly enough, even Sylvester.
“We shall talk,” she said. “But first, your magic-worker needs to go in there.”
She indicated a rudimentary cage made of wooden planks—the kind of thing in which you would transport pigs to market. Sylvester and I exchanged glances.
“He could break out of that cage before you could spit,” I pointed out.
“As a sign of good faith,” she said, and made a polite but insistent gesture.
I rolled my eyes, but Sylvester acquiesced easily enough, folding himself small to pass through the door. He sat cross-legged on the bare boards as they closed and padlocked the door behind him. The sight was rather comical.
“We haven’t had visitors from the Invisible Kingdom in many years,” said the headwoman, “and certainly not magic-workers. But there are certain rules we must follow when we do. Confining the magic-workers is one of them.”
“All right,” I conceded. “Am I allowed to ask questions?”
The woman looked at me for a long moment. “Are you hungry?” she surprised me by asking.
My stomach had been so tight with worry since we left the empty village that I hadn’t had time to even think about food. But as soon as she said this, it growled.
“Yes,” I said.
“Let’s get you something to eat , then. And don’t worry, I’ll give some to your man over there, too. And we can talk.”
She led me to the bonfire in the center of the encampment, which was surrounded by rudimentary benches made from logs and stumps. People sat and ate, talking quietly. It was an ordinary scene, and one that made my heart ache for the villagers back home.
How were they faring? Were they hidden? Were they safe? Or would they at least be safe enough until we returned? And what would they do if we never returned, or if we weren’t able to find a way to get rid of the corruption and give the king his usable hearts again?
I was so roiled and muddled in my own head that I tripped over a log and almost sprawled full-length.
“Here,” said the woman, giving me a plate of stew when I had settled myself. It was good stew, thick and brown, with a strong, gamey taste that made me think it must be venison. Coins of carrot bobbed to the surface.
“Thank you,” I said.
“We gave a plate to the magic-worker as well. If he’ll stoop so low as to eat peasant food.”
“He loves peasant food,” I said, shoveling the stew into my mouth. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten properly since before I was taken to the palace.
She gave me an odd look. “You seem to know him well.”
“I have little choice,” I explained. “I am bound to him, and he to me. A heart-harvesting spell gone wrong.”
“Or so he says,” she said.
I felt too full of stew and goodwill to argue.
“So why have you come to us from the Invisible Kingdom?” she asked. “We rarely get visitors from beyond the mist, and even more rarely do they survive the journey.”
“We were told to seek the Weftwitch.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And why do you need the Weftwitch?”
“You know of her?”
“First tell me why you seek her.”
I explained as best I could about the mold that was destroying the king’s hearts and his plan to cull half the population to replace them. She watched me with an unreadable gaze.
“And you believe that if you repair the hearts, he will be content with what he has and return to the old ways?” she asked.
“Well, no,” I said. “But it is all we could think to do. We couldn’t stay, and I had to do something to help repair myself. And it would slow down his harvest. If he does what he is planning to do, he’ll destroy whole villages at once.”
“Even if you succeed, you will still be enslaved to a king who picks your hearts like apples whenever he has the need.”
“What choice do we have?” I said. “At least before the mold started destroying his hearts, it was peaceful, for the most part. They took bits and pieces of us—rarely a whole heart. We might have been trapped inside the kingdom, yes, but it’s not a bad place. And there hasn’t been a war in a century.”
“No war?” She laughed and spat out a wad of chewed bay leaf from the stew. It splattered on the stone, looking like a fat bug someone had stepped on. “Girl, there is a war. There has been a war for a hundred years or more. You just don’t know about it.”
“There can’t be,” I said.
She snorted.
“I’m not an imbecile,” I argued. “I may never have known war, but I know what one should look like. There would be soldiers, weapons, shortages of food. We have always lived in peace. We have always had plenty. Our boys grow to old men, get fat, and die without ever holding so much as a wooden play-sword.”
“There are other kinds of wars,” the headwoman said, “with a king such as yours.” She heaved herself to her feet, sucking noisily at her teeth, and wandered over to the fire to give it a poke. “You will see.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Your king has been invading us for a hundred years,” she said. “He doesn’t need an army. He has his heart magic.”
She took a packet of tobacco and some cigar papers from a pouch at her waist and started rolling.
“We used to be able travel back and forth,” she began. “I have relatives in your kingdom. Or had. I don’t know if they’re still alive, or what happened to them. For more than a hundred years now, that barrier has stood, cutting cousins and friends and sweethearts off from one another. We would have almost forgotten you, if it weren’t for the mist pushing ever outward.”
“Pushing outward?”
She nodded. I listened in silence and growing horror as she spoke, and the comfortable fiction of my kingdom gave way to reality.
She told me that the mist pushed out further every year. Early on, before people knew to fear it, and when it was still moving quickly, it had swallowed any settlement in its path. Whole villages—men, women, and children—disappeared as the mist flowed over them and consumed them. Worse than consumed them: swallowed up their souls and made them part of itself.
The powerful and near-impenetrable heart magic that Sylvester had sensed came from all those people, eaten up and transformed into an army of ghosts, their hearts fuel for an endlessly growing, endlessly hungry spell.
Everyone who had lived near the mist picked up and moved, leaving their buildings and fields abandoned. It had slowed over the years, but King Darius’s mist was still invading the neighboring kingdoms by increments, growing the size of his own realm and pushing back all others.
“Then why do you live like this, so close to the mist?” I asked. “If it’s so dangerous?”
“We are charged with protecting the borders as best we can,” she said. “We map its edges and record the speed of its movements, along with any unusual behavior. We have magic-workers of our own, who are sometimes able to stall it for a time. Every few months, we have to pick up sticks and move our settlement farther in, so that we can keep our people safe while still fulfilling our duty.”
“And who is this Weftwitch? Is she one of your magic-workers?”
“Not really,” she said. “But she is someone who has to live apart from us. You will see.”
This sounded ominous.
“So, you will let us go to her?”
“Yes. She will know what to do with you.”
We were allowed to take our carriage to the very edge of the Weftwitch’s realm, which turned out to be a wood not far from the mist, with a guard of several men riding alongside.
Cornelius and I sat inside the carriage, but Sylvester was still in the cage. It had wheels, and two men on horseback pulled it behind them. None of them spoke to us.
“What do you make of all this?” I said to Cornelius.
“I’m not sure why they didn’t throw you both into the mist as soon as they saw he was a magic-worker.”
“They certainly don’t have much reason to help us.”
“Perhaps they think this Weftwitch will take care of their problem for them.”
“Very reassuring, thank you.”
The carriage stopped. I looked out of the window and saw that our guard had stopped us at the edge of a thick wood. Their horses seemed restless, snorting feathers of mist into the cold air and pawing at the frozen ground. The road continued, but from here on it was shadowed with trees.
“We’re here,” said one of the men, opening the carriage door.
“So, we go on without you?”
“Yes, but you won’t be able to take this in with you. No magic can survive in there.” He knocked his fist against the side of the carriage.
No magic could survive? What would that mean for Sylvester and Cornelius? I stepped down from the carriage, and Cornelius followed.
I stood, blowing on my hands to warm them as they opened Sylvester’s cage and unbound him. He unfolded himself, his limbs stiff. The guards kept their distance from him, I noticed. Even the horses shifted away a little.
“Good luck,” said one of the men, smiling a little. He pointed to where the path wound between the trees. “That way.”
They left us. Cornelius stretched luxuriously and said, “I didn’t know how hard it would be, not talking to anyone. I suppose I’ve gotten used to it.”
“It was for the best,” I said. “If they reacted that way to a magic-worker, I can’t imagine they would have been too thrilled with a talking cat.”
Sylvester rubbed at the faint rope marks on his wrists.
“Thank you for not ... magicking anything,” I said to him.
“It would not have helped,” he said.
We stared at the wood—this supposed magic-less place—and it seemed to stare back at us. There was a sense of something watching and listening. Not something unfriendly, necessarily, but something that was assessing us and waiting to see if we would be friend or foe.
“I’m not going anywhere near it,” said Cornelius. “What if it snatches my voice away, and I can’t get it back?”
“Fair point,” I agreed. “You can wait here for us.”
“How long will you be?”
“How am I supposed to know that?” I said. “I have no idea what we’re going to find in there.”
“Fine.” Cornelius sharpened his claws on a tree trunk, then settled himself neatly at its base.
“Ready?” I said to Sylvester, who looked a little apprehensive. He nodded.
“Right,” I said, and stepped over an invisible boundary.