Jinx's Magic by Sage Blackwood Page B

elf’s spell,” said Malthus. “At least partially. How unusual, and how encouraging. Think about flames, and wicks, and balance. I must leave you now. I’m really getting quite hungry.”
    The werewolf shook hands again—it wasn’t any less creepy the second time—and then went down on all fours and ran off into the forest.
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    When night fell Jinx could walk no farther. He hardly had the strength to gather firewood—he just hauled one dead branch onto the path, lit it, and lay down to sleep. The tree roots murmured and mumbled beneath him. Jinx lay as close as he could to the fire and shivered until he went to sleep.
    He dreamed he was walking along an icy path, with high glass cliffs on either side of him. A cold wind blew and there were no trees anywhere. He looked down at his feet and found that they had been replaced with glass ones, and that an icy transparency was creeping up his body.
    Someone shook him, hard. “Hey! Are you alive?”
    This seemed to Jinx a very difficult question and he couldn’t think how to answer it. He opened his eyes to see how much of him had turned to glass. It seemed none of him had.
    â€œBring blankets.” A woman’s voice. “Get some firewood.”
    Then people were pulling Jinx upright, wrapping blankets around him, and the smoke from a new fire was stinging his eyes. He heard the murmur of the Wanderer language. In the predawn light he could make out the shapes of the Wanderers arranging themselves around the fire—seven people, eight donkeys, and a small donkey cart. Jinx recognized them—they’d camped in Simon’s clearing many times.
    And he guessed they’d saved his life. He meant to say thank you, but what came out was, “Do you have anything to eat?”
    â€œOh good, he’s talking. Get him some bread,” said the woman.
    â€œA long time ago, Keyland used to be part of the Urwald,” said Jinx.
    â€œHe’s babbling.” A boy’s voice. “He’s crazy. Oh, it’s that wizard’s boy.”
    Jinx wasn’t babbling—he’d only just realized what the lone oak by the river had meant when it showed him forest all around it. The boy—whose name, Jinx remembered, was Tolliver—shoved a chunk of bread into Jinx’s hands. Jinx ate it.
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    Jinx rode in the donkey cart, which he didn’t like much—it jolted, and it made him feel silly. But Quenild, the chief Wanderer, insisted that he was too weak to walk.
    So he bumped and jostled along all day, wrapped in blankets and burrowed in among sacks of woolen cloth and small kegs of sugarplum syrup. Tolliver walked beside him.
    â€œSo did you learn to do any magic yet?” Tolliver said.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œLet’s see some.”
    Jinx thought of doing something really spectacular, but then he remembered Siegfried. Using the Urwald’s power was dangerous. He used the fire inside him, and levitated a sack of cloth a few feet in the air.
    Tolliver looked reluctantly impressed. “You’re still short, though.”
    Jinx dropped the sack back into the cart. The donkey stopped, turned around, flicked its ears, and shot Jinx an annoyed look.
    â€œNow you’ve upset Biscuit.” Tolliver sang a little song in Wanderer language, something about carrots and warm straw, and Biscuit snorted and started walking again.
    â€œSeriously? You sing to your donkey?” Jinx felt he had some lost ground to make up, because Tolliver was right—he was short.
    Tolliver reddened. “What were you doing freezing on the path, anyway? Did the wizard kick you out?”
    â€œOf course not. I’m traveling.” Jinx remembered Tolliver had once accused him of never having been anywhere. “I just came from Keyland.”
    â€œYou should’ve brought blankets with you. And food. That’s what people do when they travel.” Tolliver jumped up and touched