“Why?”

“Because, if what I am told is true, you have no home.”

The man grinned again and scratched his dirty cheek. “And if what I am told is true, you have no name!”

“What?”

“I have a name. It is Vinculus.” He grabbed Stephen’s hand. “Why do you try to pull away from me?”

“I do not,” said Stephen.

“Yes, you did. Just then.”

Stephen hesitated. “Your skin is marked and discoloured. I thought perhaps the marks meant you had a disease of some sort.”

“That is not what my skin means,” said Vinculus.

“Means?” said Stephen. “That is an odd word to use. Yet it is true – skin can mean a great deal. Mine means that any man may strike me in a public place and never fear the consequences. It means that my friends do not always like to be seen with me in the street. It means that no matter how many books I read, or languages I master, I will never be any thing but a curiosity – like a talking pig or a mathematical horse.”

Vinculus grinned. “And mine means the opposite of yours. It means you will be raised up on high, Nameless King. It means your kingdom is waiting for you and your enemy shall be destroyed. It means the hour is almost come. The nameless slave shall wear a silver crown; the nameless slave shall be a king in a strange country …”

Then, keeping tight hold of Stephen’s hand, Vinculus recited the whole of his prophecy. “There,” he said when he was done, “now I have told it to the two magicians and I have told it to you. The first part of my task is done.”

“But I am not a magician,” said Stephen.

“I never said you were,” answered Vinculus. Without warning he released Stephen’s arm, pulled his ragged coat tight around him, plunged into the darkness beyond the glow of the lanterns and was gone.

A few days later the gentleman with the thistle-down hair expressed a sudden desire to see a wolf hunt, something he had apparently not done for several centuries.

There happened to be one going on in southern Sweden just then and so he instantly transported himself and Stephen to the place. Stephen found himself standing upon a great branch that belonged to an ancient oak in the midst of a snowy forest. From here he had an excellent view of a little clearing where a tall wooden pole had been planted in the ground. On top of the pole was an old wooden cartwheel, and on top of the cartwheel a young goat was securely tied. It bleated miserably.