“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. “Nothiskind,” 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?”
