“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.”
