He clucked to his horse, which wheeled around with entirely too many hoofs in the air, and trotted away. Lord Badgertoe’s horse followed sedately after.
Without saying anything, the people who had been kneeling on the ground got to their feet and began to shuffle across the bridge.
Only the young lady remained. She looked down from her horse and frowned. “Who are you, really?”
She spoke to Reven. It was as if Jinx and Elfwyn weren’t there.
“Reven of Bragwood, my lady.” Reven bowed.
“And I am Lady Nilda.” She reached down and took Reven’s hand (Elfwyn fumed) and examined it. “Such courtly manners—but calluses on your hands. Reven of Bragwood is a name we’ve heard. I wonder if it’s true, what we’ve heard.”
“That depends on what you’ve heard, forsooth,” said Reven.
“And you want to see Mistress Franca.” She still hadn’t let go of his hand.
“How did you know that?” Jinx demanded. “You weren’t here when he said it.”
Lady Nilda looked at Jinx as if trying to decide whether he was worth answering. “I waited on the other side of the bridge and listened.”
“Spied, you mean,” said Elfwyn.
“Perhaps I can help you meet Lady Franca,” Lady Nilda told Reven. “Will you tell her who you are, I wonder?”
Reven kissed her hand (which Jinx thought was a bit much) and said nothing.
“Interesting,” said the girl. “Come to the palace. Third postern gate, midnight tonight.”
She let go of Reven’s hand, turned her horse, and trotted away into the darkness.
“It’s probably a trap,” Jinx said.
But he went along to keep an eye on Elfwyn. He was worried about the way she kept thinking pink fluffy thoughts at Reven.
They followed a wide road toward the city, passing through sleeping villages that all looked as rich as Butter-wood Clearing. Here and there were small stands of moonlit trees, but not enough to keep Jinx from feeling exposed and uncertain.
The city smelled of smoke and bad drains. They made their way through winding cobblestone streets, skirted some men singing loudly on a street corner, and came into a wide square that reminded Jinx of the market in Samara. The palace filled one side of the square: arches and towers, merlons and machicolations.
They had to turn down an alley to find the third postern gate, which was actually a small wooden door.
“Shouldn’t there be a guard or something?” said Jinx.
“Ssh,” said Elfwyn.
Reven tapped at the door.
The door opened.
“Come in,” said Lady Nilda. “And keep quiet. I shall take you to Dame Franca.”
Reven stepped inside. Elfwyn and Jinx followed.
The lady led them through wide green marble halls. Reven looked around with great interest, and Jinx had an impression Reven was thinking this wouldn’t be a bad place to live. Jinx thought it looked cold and uninviting. He thought houses should be mostly kitchen.
At least there were no cats.
Lady Nilda led them into a small chamber lit by a crackling fire.
Dame Franca was a mound of flower-printed skirt and shawl in a chair, very wrinkled and old, but her eyes went snap-snap, taking everything in.
The eyes settled on Reven. “And who might you be, young man?”
“Reven, good dame.” He knelt down at her feet and looked up into her face. Jinx could see the orange edges of his curse.
“Hm,” said the witch. “Well, that’s interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” said Elfwyn. “Do you recognize him?”
“He looks like a silly young man who wants to do far too much and doesn’t have the least idea how to begin.”
“But . . . do you know his real name?”
“What do you think his name is, girl?”
“Raymond. Prince Raymond.”
There was a silence, into which Reven dropped, “Elfwyn can’t lie.”
Jinx was furious at this betrayal of Elfwyn. “She can too lie, if she wants.”
“Indeed not. You know about her curse, good Jinx.” Reven turned to Dame Franca. “You can ask her if you like.”
Dame Franca narrowed her eyes at him. “So, Elfwyn, this is Prince Raymond?”
“Yes,” said Elfwyn.
“And you have a curse on you that you must tell the truth?”
“No,” said Elfwyn.
Elfwyn was managing her curse, Jinx thought. The witch hadn’t described the curse exactly right when she’d asked the question.
“Elfwyn has to tell the truth if she’s asked a question,” said Reven.
Jinx grabbed Reven by the shoulder, pulling him over backward. “Shut up! You’ve got no business telling people about her curse!”
“Children, children.” Dame Franca smiled in a way that made Jinx’s neck itch. “Perhaps we should test him. I’m not certain whether this young man is Raymond.”
“Well, I am!” said Elfwyn.
“And why is that?”
“I just am. I’m sure.”
“Oh ho, you’re sure, are you! So it’s that kind of truth you tell!”
“What do you mean?” said Reven. “She has to tell the truth.”
“Some truth,” said Dame Franca. “The same truth as everybody’s truth. The truth she knows.”
Jinx had half noticed this before. If Elfwyn was wrong about something, she’d tell the wrong truth.
“A curse where you really had to tell the truth, whether you knew it or not, now that would be a curse worth having,” said the witch.
She summoned Lady Nilda, who’d been standing by the door, and whispered something in her ear. Lady Nilda nodded and swept out of the room.
“Didn’t the prince have—I don’t know, a birthmark or something?” said Elfwyn. “Or a scar? Or—anything?”
“No,” said the witch. “Prince Raymond was a very ordinary baby. Nothing to mark him off from the rest. Until he got that curse put on him, of course.”
“The one that keeps him from saying who he is,” said Jinx.
“Now you’re giving away Reven’s curse,” said Elfwyn, turning on him.
“It’s not the same,” said Jinx. “Your curse can hurt you. People can use it. Reven’s using you.”
“Reven’s curse can hurt him too!” said Elfwyn.
“Not like yours can.” How could she be so stupid about Reven? “He’s going to use you as long as you let him!”
“I’m helping him,” said Elfwyn. “That’s not the same thing as being used!”
“And I appreciate it, good lady,” Reven put in. He smiled at her. Elfwyn glowed.
“He doesn’t feel the same way about you that you feel about him,” said Jinx.
The silence that followed this remark was ice cold, and Elfwyn’s bright-red pool of hurt spread out into it.
“You—” Elfwyn started.
“Really—” said Reven.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Elfwyn.
“All those pink fluffy thoughts.” Jinx dug himself in deeper. “Reven’s not thinking pink fluffy thoughts at you. He’s—”
Elfwyn turned and ran out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her.
“Was that necessary?” said Reven.
Before Jinx could answer, the door burst open again.
The two men who’d been with Lady Nilda in the forest swept in. Lazy Lord Badgertoe, moving faster than Jinx would have thought possible, grabbed Jinx by the collar and lifted him right off the floor. Jinx flailed and kicked, choking, and then got slammed up against the marble wall. There he was allowed to breathe again, but when he tried to struggle free, Lord Badgertoe kicked him.
Dame Franca got to her feet. “The tall one says he’s Prince Raymond, my lord.” She smiled tightly. “Why don’t you find out?”
“Oh, we’ll find out.” Lord Badgertoe laughed, a sound like empty barrels falling down stairs. “We always do.”
Dame Franca hobbled out of the room, and the door shut behind her.
8
The King of Nowhere
Sir Thrip had wrestled Reven into a corner. “Who are you?” he spat.
“Reven of Bragwood,” Reven said. He had one eye swollen shut, and a gash on his forehead.
“I thought you said you were Prince Raymond, hey.” Sir Thrip, fingers twitching madly, drew his sword. The sword jumped and jerked in his hand, dancing less than an inch from Reven’s throat. “Tell me who you really are.”
“Reven.”
“Kill the other one,” said Sir Thrip.
Something sharp bit into Jinx’s neck. He felt blood trickling down into his collar. He reached for the fire inside him, and discovered to his horror that it wasn’t there.
“Don’t!” said Reven. “I’ll tell you who I am.”
“You can’t,” said Jinx, fighting down panic. Why couldn’t he do magic? Where was his power?
“I can! I’m—”
Jinx watched Reven struggle to speak. The blood running down Jinx’s neck was puddling behind his collarbone. He struggled to stay calm. He knew he could do magic, he knew the fire must be there—
“Yes?” said Sir Thrip.
“I’m—” Reven spluttered.
“Where do you come from?”
“Bragwood.”
“The truth. Who is your father? Who is your mother?”
Reven opened his mouth and closed it, like a startled goldfish.
“You’ll tell us who you are by the count of five, or your friend dies. One. Two.”
There! Jinx’s magic was just barely there, a tiny flicker inside him. He tried to set Lord Badgertoe’s clothes on fire. Power and concentration. He hardly had any power, so he concentrated as hard as he could. A tiny brown dot appeared on Lord Badgertoe’s sleeve, and then widened, painfully slowly.
“I’m—” said Reven again.
“Three.”
A thin thread of smoke rose from the brown spot as Reven struggled to speak. The spot became an ashy gray circle. Still no flames.
“Four . . .”
“I’m—” said Reven.
Finally a tongue of flame licked up from Lord Badgertoe’s velvet sleeve.
“Five. Five, five, FIVE!” Sir Thrip turned to Lord Badgertoe. “What do you think?”
“It’s definitely him,” said Lord Badgertoe. “Prince Raymond.” The flame crawled from his shirt cuff up to his shoulder.
“Yes, obviously. But do we let him live?”
“That was the whole point in the first place, wasn’t it?” said Lord Badgertoe.
“Great Keys, man, you’re on fire! Burning like a pretty little candle!”
Lord Badgertoe looked down and yelped. He swatted furiously at his sleeve. Jinx pushed past him and rushed for the door. Then he stopped. There was Reven, still held prisoner, Sir Thrip’s sword leaping and wriggling at his throat. Lord Badgertoe tore off his velvet doublet, threw it on the floor, and stamped on it. Jinx had no more magic left to use. Before he could decide what to do, Lord Badgertoe lunged forward and tackled him. Jinx hit the stone floor hard, and for a moment everything went black.
“. . . red-hot iron shoes,” he heard when he came around again. It was Lord Badgertoe talking.
“No.” Reven’s voice. “There will be no red-hot iron shoes.”
“But he’s obviously some sort of magician.”
“Nonsense,” said Reven. “He’s my friend.”
Jinx scrambled to his feet. But Sir Thrip and Lord Badgertoe barely glanced at him. They had lowered their swords and were talking to Reven, who was making no effort to get away.
“As you are a friend to us,” said Lord Badgertoe.
Reven fixed him with a look that positively dripped disdain. “Indeed?”
“A safety net,” said Sir Thrip. “You were our escape hatch. If King Bluetooth got out of hand, all we had to do was remind him that we could feed his guts to geese whenever we chose, and bring back his nephew.”
“We hardly expected you to bring yourself back, though,” said Lord Badgertoe. “It complicates things.”
“Complicates things? Not necessarily,” said Sir Thrip. “I’ve grown weary of our old king. It’s time for a fresh face. And Bluetooth’s pretty hard to manage.”
“You might find me hard to manage too,” said Reven. Rather unwisely, in Jinx’s opinion, but then wisdom wasn’t really what you expected from Reven.
“If we found you hard to manage, we’d take steps,” said Sir Thrip.
Reven turned his gaze on Sir Thrip. Sir Thrip took a step backward.
“Then you’d have no one,” said Reven.
Lord Badgertoe and Sir Thrip looked at each other.
“Notice the air of nobility,” said Sir Thrip. “Born to command.”
“With a certain amount of guidance,” said Lord Badgertoe. “No one commands without guidance.”
“He’s a natural leader. Quite unlike this woodrat.” Sir Thrip nodded at Jinx. “Royal blood always shows.”
“Certainly it does with such assistance as yours,” said Reven, dabbing at the cut on his forehead. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to look for a friend of mine. Come along, Jinx.”
He started toward the door, and Jinx, annoyed at being summoned like a dog, nonetheless started to follow. Sir Thrip seized him. Jinx felt a knife point jab into his back.
“Jinx is coming with me, good sir,” said Reven, even more icily.
“He’s a magician,” said Sir Thrip. “Magicians dance in red-hot iron shoes, hey. It’s the law.”
“The law has changed,” said Reven.
“You can’t change the law,” Sir Thrip said. “You’re not king.”
“Not yet.” Reven shoved Sir Thrip aside, knife and all, and grabbed Jinx. “Let’s go.”
Out in the cold night air, Jinx’s head cleared. “Why did they just let us leave?”
“Because they need me,” said Reven. “Where do you think the Lady Elfwyn went?”
“Back to the Urwald,” said Jinx.
“Perhaps we can catch her. It’s terribly dangerous for her to go there alone.”
“It’s safe enough,” said Jinx. “For Urwalders.”
Reven shot him a disbelieving look.
“She can handle stuff,” said Jinx. “You remember her and those wolves? And the werebear?” It was his personal opinion that Elfwyn was safer with monsters than with Reven. “You’ve got no right to use her curse.”
“She offered, very kindly, to tell people who I am since I have no way of telling them myself.”
“But telling people about her curse, and asking her questions in front of people—that’s not fair.”
“Before you leap to the lady’s defense, why not find out if the lady wants defending?”
Jinx didn’t answer that, because he couldn’t think of anything sufficiently cutting to say. “I still don’t see why they let us leave.”
“If they accept that I am—” the blank seemed to fit naturally into Reven’s conversation now—“then they can hardly expect me to take orders from them.”
“But . . .” Jinx stopped walking. They were in the palace square. No one was around except a small yellow dog snuffling for scraps between the cobbles. “They want to use you. You heard them. They want you so they can overthrow this guy.” He jerked his head at the palace. “If you won’t cooperate—”
“Then they’re stuck,” said Reven. “They have no revolution without me.”
Jinx shook his head. He didn’t understand.
“They need someone to put in King Bluetooth’s place,” said Reven, in a very quiet voice.
“But they can put just anybody in his place!”
“Keep your voice down, please. No, they can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” Reven’s eyes glittered in the darkness. “People believe in kings.”
“I don’t,” said Jinx. “I don’t think there’s anything special
about—well, you. Okay, so I suppose you are this Raymond person. So what? He was a baby. How can a baby be better than some other baby?”
“If you can’t keep your voice down,” said Reven, “then we’d better get away from the palace.”
They walked on, through an iron gate and down a dark street.
“There will be no more dancing in red-hot shoes,” said Reven after a moment. “They will have to accept that.”
“What will you do to magicians?”
“Employ them,” said Reven. “There will be no boiling of people alive and no . . . rolling people down hills in barrels stuck about with nails.”
There was a gray cloud of pain when he said this, and Jinx knew he was thinking about his stepmother.
“I wish for no cruelty of any kind,” said Reven.
“I don’t see how you’ll get to be king without being cruel,” said Jinx.
“I may have to fight,” said Reven. “But I won’t kill unnecessarily.”
“What about the trees?” Jinx demanded. They had come to a stop in a narrow street that led down to the river.
“What about them?”
“Are you going to stop the treecutting? If you’re king?”
Reven looked down the street, which was lined with small stone houses. He looked back at Jinx. “You see how it is here. People are poor.”
“Not especially,” said Jinx. “Not as poor as Urwald people. You didn’t answer my question. Which I suppose means actually you did.”
“Why should Urwald people be poor when they’re surrounded by valuable timber?”
“Maybe we don’t care if we’re poor,” said Jinx.
“You’re not poor. You live with a wealthy wizard who gives you everything you need.”
“But—”
“Half the Urwalders are shivering in leaky huts. At least half. Don’t you think they’d prefer—”
“If they sold the trees there wouldn’t be an Urwald anymore. Besides, you’re not buying trees from them, you’re just cutting them down. Stealing them. Nobody has the right—”
“I’m not doing anything.” Reven’s eyes glittered again. “I’m not king. It seems to me those trees are just places for monsters to hide.”
Jinx's Magic Page 6
