Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Cormac merely sat cross-legged on the floor of his cell, quietly murmuring to himself as he watched the proceedings. “We’ve lost,” Curtis thought he heard him whisper.

The warden attempted to quiet the prisoners by shouting them down, but it was no use; the bandits kept up their deafening protest. Pulling the ladder from where it rested against the wall, the warden grumpily hooked it to the bars of an unoccupied cage, and the Bandit King was released from his bonds and forced at sword-point up the ladder and into the dangling cell. His fellow bandits fell into a shocked, reverent silence as the key was turned in the lock and the entire scene was over as soon as it had begun: The ladder was returned, a few shouted epithets were thrown at the prisoners, and the warden and the soldiers walked from the room.

It was quiet for a time in the cavern. The rope above Brendan’s cage wheezed under the weight of the new occupant. Brendan sat in the middle, still blankly staring straight ahead.

Finally, Seamus hazarded a word. “King!” he said softly. “Our King! How did you . . . ?”

Brendan, not breaking his stare, simply said, “The war ain’t over, boys.”

“But what about the—did they find the—” stammered Angus.

“The camp is still hidden,” replied Brendan. “They’ll not be finding it. Everyone is safe.”

Cormac, still sitting in shock, said, “We’re lost.”

This simple declaration caused Brendan to erupt from his sitting position. Both hands gripping the bars of the cage, he shouted to Cormac, “Don’t for a moment think that. This war is a long shot from being over. We’ve still got blood in us yet!”

The cavern fell silent. No one said a word.

Prue’s head was spinning. She realized, as she was marched through the woods by the coyotes, that she’d not actually stood on her own since the crash landing, and she was noticing that there was a distinct, needling pain in her ankle as well as her chest. The abrasions on her skin were scabbed over and lined with bright red welts. She’d never felt like such a mess. Her thoughts just before the arrow had downed the eagle were replaying endlessly in her head. Now they seemed like a prophecy come true: My task is hopeless. My brother will not be found. She desperately fought the images that were crowding into her mind’s eye, macabre pictures of what might happen to a baby in a wild forest, unfed, a captive to a flock of violent crows. Perhaps the worst had passed. Perhaps he was at peace.

The coyotes, under instruction of their commander, were thankfully lenient, and she was allowed to move at a slower pace, hobbling along on her one good ankle. After they’d traveled for a time, they arrived at a wide cave opening dug into a large hillock, nearly covered by overhanging ferns, and they instructed her to walk inside. A tunnel led down into the earth, root tendrils hanging overhead. The air was cool and damp and smelled like dog

. Finally they came to a large, cavernous opening where a few coyote soldiers milled about. A cauldron boiled in the center. She was led through an open door in the wall and entered what looked to be some sort of rustic throne room.

In the throne sat the Dowager Governess. “Come,” she said, waving a finger. “Come closer.”

The few coyotes that had flanked her fell away and left the room, and Prue carefully limped forward until she was within feet of the throne.

The Governess looked at her fondly. A warm smile had spread across her face. “But I’m forgetting myself,” she said. “We haven’t been properly introduced. My name’s Alexandra. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

“The Dowager Governess,” croaked Prue. “Yes, I have.” She found it difficult to get the words out; her voice sounded alien to her, all raspy and weak.

Alexandra nodded, smiling. “Would you like a seat?”

Prue was relieved when a coyote attendant came forward, bearing a stool fashioned out of rough-hewn tree boughs and tanned deer hide. She gratefully sat.

“I’m hoping only good things,” continued Alexandra.

“What?”

She clarified: “I’m hoping you’ve heard only good things about me.”

Prue thought for a moment. “I don’t know. A bit of both, I guess.”

Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Such is the nature of fame.”

Prue shrugged. She was exhausted. In normal circumstances, she could imagine being terribly intimidated by the beautiful woman in the throne, but now she was just too tired.

“And your name?” prompted the Governess.

“Prue,” said Prue. “Prue McKeel.”

“Very nice to make your acquaintance,” said Alexandra. “I trust my soldiers have treated you gently?”

Prue ignored this question. “Where’s Brendan?” she asked.

Alexandra laughed quietly, running her finger along the armrest of the throne. “He’s gone somewhere where he’ll never be able to hurt people again. You know, don’t you, the man is quite honestly a menace to society.”