Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Prue shook her head. “Terrible. They’re rounding up all the birds and imprisoning them. For no reason. Though . . .” Here she paused, thinking about the Governess’s earlier words. “Now I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” said the Governess, leaning forward. “Prue, listen to me. I’m the force for good in this land. I’m the one who can set these things to rights. Let the South Wooders and the Avians battle and imprison one another, fighting suspicion with suspicion—I will throw them both. Things have reached a boiling point. No one is safe until the entire place is brought back under proper leadership. Under my leadership.” She sat back in her throne. “If you know of my son, then you know of my husband, my late husband, Grigor. We ruled together, the three of us, in harmony. The Svik doctrine was one of liberty and fidelity among all species of the Wood. It wasn’t until the deaths of my husband and my son that those relations spiraled out of control. And it is my intention to renew that harmony.”

Prue nodded, silent.

“But these things shouldn’t concern a girl of your age, much less one from the Outside,” said the Governess. “I can assure you, Prue, that we will prevail. We will be victorious. And we will return your brother to you and your family. You can expect to return home today, safe in the knowledge that your family will be united once more.”

Prue nodded again. Her whole world seemed to be spinning about her, flipping on its axis; up was down, right was left. It was as if everything, her entire worldview, had abruptly switched polarity. “Okay,” she said.

Curtis’s frantic pacing in his cell as he waited for Septimus to return had elicited the interest of his fellow prisoners, and they whispered among themselves, venturing guesses as to Prue’s fate.

“Oh, she’s a goner, as sure as I’m standing here,” whispered Seamus.

“Aye,” concurred Angus. “She’s vulture meat, for sure. They’ll hang her from a hemlock, let the birds sort out the rest.”

“Oh, it’ll be much simpler than that,” surmised Cormac. “I’m thinking a quick decapitation. Bang. Over.”

Curtis stopped his pacing and glared at the bandits, each in turn. “Come on. I mean, seriously.”

Brendan gave a quiet stutter of a laugh, the first show of emotion since he’d arrived. “Ease up, lads,” he said. “You’ll drive the kid to ruin.”

A scraping of claws on wood announced the return of Septimus as he scampered out of a crack in the root-ball and launched himself onto the top of Curtis’s cage.

“Well?” prompted Curtis. “What did you see?”

The rat was nearly out of breath, and it took a moment before he could manage a word. “She’s there . . . in the throne room . . . I saw her . . . black-haired girl . . . looks pretty scraped up.”

“Scraped up?” asked Curtis. “Like, what way? Did they hurt her?”

Brendan spoke from his cage. “She’s got a bruised rib and a sprained ankle, I think. One of our lads had a look at her in the camp. She crashed from the sky, remember, riding a dead eagle. No doubt she’s scraped up.”

Septimus nodded before continuing, “But they’ve mostly just been talking. I can’t hear much—there’s a fair amount of noise from the main chamber—but it’s sounding like the Governess is going to let her go.”

“What?” asked Curtis, shocked.

One of the bandits murmured, “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Yeah,” said Septimus. “Says she doesn’t know where the baby is, but she’ll look for him. Lying through her teeth, basically.”

Curtis was outraged. “Someone has to tell her! Septimus! You have to tell Prue that she’s being lied to!”

Septimus was taken aback. “Me? Just outright yell that the Governess is a liar? You’ve got to be kidding. I’d be on a coyote’s skewer, a-roasting over an open fire, before you could say ‘rodent rillettes.’ And your friend would be thrown in here, likely. Or worse . . .” Here he ran his finger across his throat.

“But . . .” Curtis objected. “But . . . we can’t let her get away with this!” He had forgotten the volume of his voice, and he heard the warden grumble loudly in half sleep, “Keep it down up there!”

Curtis glared down at the warden, incensed. “And what are you gonna do, huh?” he shouted. “Cancel my dinner? Take away visitation rights? No television for six weeks? Things can’t really get much worse, man!”

The warden had stood up by this point and was staring up at Curtis, his arms akimbo. “I’m warning you . . .”

“Oh, spare me,” shouted Curtis before holding his face in between the bars of his cage and hollering, in the direction of the tunnel leading from the cavern, “PRUE! PRUE! DON’T BELIEVE HER! SHE’S LYING TO YOU!!!”

The warden’s face became beet red, and he began scrambling around, trying to find a way to quiet his insolent prisoner.

“MAC IS HERE!” Curtis shouted again, his voice cracking at the volume. “YOUR BROTHER IS HERE!”

“GUARDS!” shouted the warden, finally, and a group of coyotes came tramping into the room, their rifles raised to their shoulders.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” said Prue. She glanced briefly out the open door to the chamber beyond; some sort of ruckus had erupted, and a group of soldiers was being directed down one of the far tunnels. Alexandra followed her glance, curiously watching the activity before motioning to one of her attendants to close the door. The room was quiet again.