Free The Ragwitch by Garth Nix Page A

questions, particularly about Julia, and the pyramid of flaming sticks that had transported Paul from his world to that of Tanboule (as he put it).
    “So,” said Paul, when he had told all he could remember. “Will you help me?”
    Tanboule sighed, and rubbed his great white eyebrows with the back of a gnarled hand. “We will help you, Paul—but I fear that more than good advice is needed here. For your story is but a little part of a bigger story, one in which many people have played their parts, for better or for worse or for no effect at all.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Paul, who thought his troubles were complicated enough already. The fact that they might be like one tiny part of a huge puzzle was both terrifying and hard to understand.
    “It is partly your story,” said Tanboule, taking a great swig of his tea, “because it is the story of the Ragwitch. A long, and sadly true tale which has yet to find a happy ending. Since it will undoubtedly have some bearing on your troubles, I suppose I’dbetter tell it to you—though this particular tale is worth far more than the planting of one hundred and thirty-two cabbages. Fetch me another cup of tea, Paul, while I compose my voice.”
    Composing his voice seemed to entail Tanboule eating more bread, so Paul poured himself some more tea as well, while he was waiting. Not that the drink was exactly what he’d call tea—it was sweeter, and scented with lemon and raspberry, but it was made from similar leaves and boiling water.
    At last Tanboule finished eating and, stretching himself back, began, without introduction, his rambling tale—part history, part legend, but mostly a true account of an ancient evil.
    “Quite a few centuries ago, this Kingdom was a less settled place than it is now,” began Tanboule. “There were no northern towns or castles, and fell creatures held sway over the lands north of the river Twyn and regularly came south to raid the smaller towns and villages.
    “These raids, by such creatures as the Gwarulch, were an accepted part of life, albeit an unsavory part. But, as such acceptance is wont to do, it merely prolonged the crisis that was to arrive.
    “In this case, the raids became worse, and after a few years, the creatures were no longer merely raiding, but actually conquering the northern marches of the Kingdom.
    “The King in those times was a lazy fellow,addicted to the quiet contemplation of dragonflies on mirror-smooth lakes. In fact, he even had a mechanical dragonfly that flew over a pool of the stillest mercury. Without his active control, the Canton Lords each tried to deal with the problem individually—but they failed to check the hordes of North-Creatures that were pouring over the Twyn. At last, the creatures came to the inner cantons of Salace and Thrisk—and the King was forced to do something.
    “Fortunately, he did the right thing, which was to abdicate in favor of his son, who became King Mirran the Ninth. He was the total opposite of the old, dragonfly-watching King, and he gathered his army and attacked the North-Creatures, driving them back across the Twyn and into the far North.
    “This took several years, of course, and during that time, the nature of the war changed. And sadly, it was King Mirran who was responsible for the changes, and the destruction that was to come of them.
    “You see, all through this long war, magic had played no part. There were more Sorcerers, Wizards, Witches and even mere dabblers about in those days, but the Patchwork King would not allow them the use of Magic for war.”
    “The Patchwork King?” asked Paul. “Who was he?”
    “He ruled, and as far as I know still rules, in the land of Dreams and Shadows, where everythingthat could be is and isn’t at the same time—and if you can understand that, you’re Wiser than all of us here at Rhysamarn. But it is from this land that all Magic stems, and it is to this land that all Magic-Workers must go, though now I doubt