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William Devarre did not believe in magic. It was irrational; something resorted to by the ignorant to explain things they could not understand. But then he did not understand many things on this strange world. This place simply could not be, it defied all rational explanation. Yet, there must be one here somewhere; he simply didn't know what it was yet. He did know one thing: Charles Wentworth was lost here somewhere. Somewhere on this alien world. If he was honest with himself he would admit he didn't care particularly, the man was a fool. Sooner or later the locals would pick him up and try him for heresy. This 'Inquisition' sounded like trouble. It would serve him right. It was a pity the survival of his own people lay in the balance, depending on Wentworth returning home for his coronation. If the throne of Good King Page remained empty the Alliance would surely fail. Otherwise he would probably have left him here to rot. With the unnatural creatures and wizards. Magic! What madness.