Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

To protect the freedom and interests of the poor

To liberate the wealthy from their wealth

To put no person’s labor before another’s

To work for the communal good of my fellow bandits

To hold no allegiances over my fellow bandits

To hold all plants, animals, and humans as equals

And to live and die by the bandit band.

A quiet overcame the glade, broken when Angus spoke. “There you go,” he said. “Step forward, Bandit Curtis.”

Brendan slapped Curtis on the back. “Congratulations, boyo,” he said, taking the knife back and sliding it into its sheath.

Curtis smiled and said, “Thanks.” He held his palm to his mouth, tasting the sharp saltiness of the blood on his tongue.

Curtis was surrounded by the rest of the bandits, each shaking his hand and patting his shoulder in congratulations. “You’ll make a fine thief,” said Seamus. “I knew it as soon as I’d laid eyes on you.”

A stir in the ring of vegetation bordering the glade announced the approach of a pair of bandit sentries. “Sir,” one said, his face etched with concern, “the scouts have returned. The coyote army has crossed the Gap Bridge and is marching on the Old Woods.”

Brendan frowned. “Sooner than I expected,” he said, knitting his brow. “They’ll be at the Ancients’ Grove by morning.” He looked back at Curtis and the bandits who stood by the stone altar. “Ready yourselves,” he said. “We march tonight.”

The clearing was immediately emptied of bandits as they ran back down the trail toward the camp. Only Curtis remained, standing frozen in thought by the stone altar. He held his palm to his mouth and sucked at the little cut. Pulling his hand away to inspect the wound, he heard himself say, “What did I just do?”

A bitter wind tonight, thought Alexandra as she trotted the horse across the dark boards of the bridge. The winds blowing down the ravine set the horse’s bit to rattling. The sea of soldiers extended out before her, unending, the noise of their myriad boot steps a rhythmic drumbeat against the silent forest. This bridge, she thought, will be gone when the ivy comes. This ancient bridge. How long has it spanned the Gap? Since before the Svik dynasty, before the Mystics fled South Wood. The last unbroken remnant of the Ancients’ great civilization, its wooden boards laced with magic. But as the Ancients fell, so will the usurpers of South Wood.

How they will fall, she thought, how they will beg for forgiveness. Little Lars, my beloved’s idiot brother. What gall to assume that he could succeed me. That he could succeed my darling Alexei. And send me into frozen exile. He will be the first to pay.

The tree branches moaned against the wind, a new shower of dead leaves drifting like snow on the neat columns of uniformed soldiers. The baby in her arm kicked at its swaddling and babbled.

This is how I will show them their impertinence, she thought.

This.

Prue woke with a start. She’d had a dream: A low bell tone sounded and she found herself standing on a great bridge. She tried to run across, but the wooden surface disappeared below her feet, and she fell to the rushing river water below. The sensation dragged her from her deep slumber. A bunched stand of grass had etched little

dimpled lines into her cheek, and her clothes felt damp from the cold dew that spangled the meadow. It was pitch-black. The moon’s glow shone from beneath a wide curtain of clouds, and shades of mist clung to the high treetops at the meadow’s edge. She sat up, wiping sleep from her eyes, and looked down toward the Council Tree. Several torches had been lit around the meadow, and they cast flickering shadows on the ground. By the tree, one of the Mystics had stood and was running a wooden striker around the bowled interior of a brass bell, creating a long, sustained peal that covered the entire meadow—the very sound from Prue’s dream. At the sound, the Mystics began to move from their seated positions.

As Prue watched breathlessly, she saw Iphigenia stir and open her eyes. The Elder Mystic began searching the surrounding meadow. When her look landed on Prue, she stood up and began walking toward her. Prue leapt up and ran to meet her.

“Young girl,” Iphigenia began saying before they’d even met, “dear girl, we have work to do.”

“What work?” asked Prue. “What are you talking about? What did the tree say?”

“A great wrong is unfolding,” said the Mystic, her voice devoid of its earlier easiness, “a threat to every living thing in the Wood.”

“What’s happening?” asked Prue. “Did it say anything about my brother?”

Iphigenia paused and stared into Prue’s eyes. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I’m afraid the news is very bad.” She gripped Prue’s hands in her own. “The Council Tree is the foundation of the Wood itself, its roots entwined into every inch of soil beneath us, from North to South. And so, it feels every perturbation in the fabric of the Wood, from the topple of an ancient oak to a moth’s wing beat. It has felt the ivy waken and has for some time. Something has been disrupting its slumber. It is now clear; the ivy thirsts for blood. A great army marches on the Ancients’ Grove, the ruined heart of a long-dead civilization, where the taproot of the ivy sleeps. At the head of this army rides the exiled Governess, and she carries with her an infant human child, a half-breed Outsider like you.”

Prue stared. “What’s she going to do?”

Iphigenia shook her head sorrowfully. “Something more terrible than you can imagine: She means to feed the child to the ivy. The blood will revive the slumbering plant and make it subject to the Governess’s will. Gaining that, she means to wipe out everything, every plant and animal in the Wood.”

“She’s—she’s going to kill him?” Prue could feel the color drain from her face. Her knees began to wobble. She hadn’t known what to expect, but this was certainly the worst she could imagine. “No,” she said, leaning into the Mystic for support. “She . . . can’t.”