Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

Again, Prue was set to interject and explain to Seamus what several generations of forest-living bandits had apparently failed to grasp, that those shining lights were, in fact, shining suns burning in far-off galaxies of their own, but it seemed a lot to put on him now, when he had such a head of steam going. “Go on,” she said.

“Now, stand up. Come over here, in the middle of these flagstones.”

Prue did as the bandit instructed, pushing herself up from her seated position against the ruined wall, and joined him in the center of the courtyard.

“Perspective is key. Imagine yourself one such celestial being, for whom human and animal existence, in its entirety, is one strand of hair on their knuckle. One such celestial being for whom time and its passing is such that a million years pass in the blinking of a single eyelid. Now, once again, let’s, in our minds, catalog those few trivial events that transpire against us from the perspective of such a being. And how we and our struggles must appear to it. These flagstones, these bones. Our very bodies. The wheeling seabirds in the sky—how little they must appear! How infinitesimally small!?

?

Prue was really falling for this bit; she had her eyes closed and was gently swaying to Seamus’s calming tone of voice. She let herself be lost in it, envisioning herself watching everything that had happened to her, all these tumultuous events at this perspective-transforming height.

“Very small . . .” A pause.

“Just, really, really small . . .” His voice trailed off. Then: “Though you have to admit, that’s a pretty big bird.”

Prue opened her eyes and saw, just on the horizon, amid a flock of swooping seagulls, a birdlike shape. At its present distance, it seemed to be roughly the same size as its neighboring birds, except for the fact that it was even farther off than the little shapes amid the flock; indeed, it appeared that it dwarfed its fellow seabirds by a good amount. As it drew closer it became clear that it was not just a big bird, but a massive bird, a gigantic bird, unlike Prue had ever seen before.

Or, actually, she had—once before.

“Is it . . . ?” she began, but stopped for fear of dashing her expectations. Instead, she grabbed Seamus by the hand and together they ran up the ruined staircase to the top of the ramparts. From here, it seemed, they could see to eternity. Clouds, lit red and pink by the setting sun, swept the distant horizon. The large, dark shape flew through the flock of seabirds and scattered them in a torrent of frightened cawing. Prue could now make out the little spikes at the top of the figure’s silhouette: the horns of a great horned owl. It was, without a doubt, the Crown Prince of the Avian Principality, Owl Rex.

“See?” said Seamus, his voice steeped in disbelief. “See what a little bandit-sense gets you?”

The owl, its huge wings splayed, came up near the rock and lengthened his mighty trunk, his wings all mottled gray and white and his large black eyes wise beyond their years. His long body cast a wide shadow over Prue and Seamus as they backed away from the top of the fort’s balustrade; they found themselves cowed by the bird’s size and majesty, and not a little bit of fear was struck in both of their hearts at the sight of their rescuer.

When the giant bird made landfall on the top of the broken staircase, his weight set chunks of rock falling to the bone-strewn courtyard below. Settled, he shook his wings and curled them against his body, nicking something out of the corner of his shoulder with a quick peck of his beak. He then looked down at Prue and Seamus and smiled, if a bird could be said to do so.

“Hello, friends,” he said.

“Owl!” shouted Prue. She let go of Seamus’s hand and ran to the bird, wrapping her arms around his feathery chest.

The owl, returning the embrace, enfolded his wings around the small girl, enshrouding her completely. Seamus the bandit came up behind the two, giving a low bow.

“Hello, Seamus,” said the owl. “I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

“Very long story,” replied Seamus. “One that I myself am just sort of clear on.”

The owl seemed to frown then, and looked down at the girl in his wings. “We have much work to do,” he said simply.

“Where have you been?” asked Prue, her face still burrowed in the bird’s chest feathers. “I’ve been through so much. So much. And you were . . . gone.”

“An unfortunate turn of events, I’ll admit,” said Owl Rex. “But I found I was needed elsewhere. I knew you could manage on your own.”

The girl pulled away from their embrace and looked up into the owl’s eyes. “You did? I’m not sure I have managed very well.”

“Oh, you’ve done fine,” said the owl reassuringly. “As fine as anyone, considering the circumstances. I got the occasional report, from some migrating bird here and there, while you were out adventuring. It seems to me you’ve handled things perfectly well.” He looked around their present environment: the weathered flagstones, rife with bones, the courtyard below, the broken ramparts, the churning sea. “Just fine, I suppose, till now. Some kind geese alerted me to your imprisonment at the hand of the Synod, your conveyance to this forsaken place. Have to admit, this is a bit of a sticky one, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Prue, feeling sheepish. “It is.”

“No matter,” said Owl. “That’s precisely why I’ve returned. No doubt you felt the tremor last night. There are many, many things unfolding in the Wood at present. Some good, some extremely bad. Such that it doesn’t quite behoove one as important as you to just be sitting here, moldering away, on this heap of rocks. You’re needed, Prue McKeel.” He looked over at the robed bandit and said, “And you too, Seamus, I suppose. Though I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a bandit in such a strange getup. Robes don’t necessarily lend themselves to forest crawling. If I’m not mistaken, I’d say that those were the robes of the Synod, the Mystics of the Blighted Tree.”

“You’d be right, there, mate,” said Seamus.

“Then things have taken quite a turn. No matter. For every action there is a counteraction. We may find that the domination of the Synod did not enjoy much time in the sun. A new era has begun, my friends, and if it is not directed properly, it may have dire consequences for the coming generations.”

“Of the Wood?” asked Prue.

“And beyond. Even now, as we speak, the very ribbon of magic that separates the world of the Wood from the Outside is being challenged. The time of the First Trees is passing. A new One Tree is being born.”