“Something like that, but it has a sort of intelligence. There are souls trapped in there, of some sort. And it is of my father’s creation, as we suspected,” he said.
“And I can’t imagine it’s the sort of thing you can just wander through without something nasty happening,” I said.
“No.”
“Could you tell what particular nature of nasty thing would happen?”
“Not precisely,” he said. “There is a spell of forgetfulness bound in it, and one of hunger, and some other strands that I do not recognize. Knowing my father, whatever happens when you pass through the mist is bound to be exceedingly painful, if not altogether fatal.”
I told him about the man in the carriage who had seemed to become confused and disoriented. Sylvester listened, his lips pressed together.
“If my father wanted to keep his people within the kingdom, a spell of forgetfulness and confusion would serve to hold them from the mist without causing unnecessary fear or concern,” he mused. “And then, if they somehow managed to break free of the confusion, the mist itself would stop them from leaving.”
“So, no one can leave,” I said, half to myself.
Sylvester suddenly gasped and doubled over as if someone had punched him in the gut.
“What? What is it?” I cried.
“My father is awake,” he gasped, still bent in half, his dark hair hanging down and shrouding his face so I could not see his expression.
“How long will it take him to find us?” I said, urgently.
Sylvester looked up, shaking back his hair. Even as my mind worked frantically, trying to think of a way out, I couldn’t help admiring how his hair settled back into perfect waves around his face without him even having to smooth it down.
“Not long enough,” he said. “We have to leave. Now.”
He crumpled again. Instinctively, I reached out to help him, then curled my fingers into fists instead.
“What is he doing to you?”
“He is not at full strength yet,” panted Sylvester, breath ragged. “But he is trying to reach out to me.”
“And can he?”
“Easily, once he is back to himself. He might even be able to kill me at this distance, if he was willing to use up enough of the good hearts he has left. And he may just be angry enough to do that.”
I turned to look at the terrible, churning mist.
“All right, so we have to get through now. But how are we going to get through that? Use a heart?”
My desperation was such that even I, who was so opposed to using them at all, was becoming accustomed to the idea of burning the hearts up in order to get where, and do what, we needed to. I could see how someone like Sylvester could swiftly stop thinking of them as parts of a person at all and instead see them merely as fuel. Kindling for the fire.
He shook his head. “I cannot see a way.”
I stared at him. “What do you mean, you can’t see a way?”
“Just what I said. I don’t know how to pass through the barrier without harm, even with heart magic.” He spread his fingers wide in a show of helplessness. “There is no spell of mine that could bring us safely through.”
“Nospell?”
“My father’s magic is too powerful.”
“How many hearts do we have left? Use all of them!”
“Not enough,” he said.
“What are we supposed to do, then?” I almost shouted. “We can’t go back!”
