The Water and the Wild

by Katie Elise Ormsbee

  “Keats is sorry that he lost you,” Oliver said. “He got scared outside the dungeons and came flying back to me. You don’t know how glad we all were to hear that he had found you, that you were okay.”

  “Then after what Adelaide heard up there in the throne room,” said Fife, “we thought the king might have killed you on the spot.”

  “He’s going to kill us anyway,” whispered Adelaide. “He’s going to have us all executed as traitors.”

  That was when Lottie remembered the guard Dorian and what he had whispered in her ear. That whisper suddenly made sense.

  “Listen, everyone,” she said, waving frantically and lowering her voice. “I think there might be a spy outside. A spy for the Northerlies. Someone on our side.”

  Mr. Wilfer stepped back in surprise. “Whatever makes you say that, Lottie?” he asked.

  “His name,” she said. “One of the guards called him by his last name, Ingle.”

  “You mean like Mr. Ingle?” asked Fife.

  Lottie nodded. “I think so. Don’t you remember what Roote and Crag told us in the forest? That Mr. Ingle had a nephew in high places. Mr. Ingle told me so himself. Well, I think this might be the one. He told me he’d be listening to us.” She pointed to Adelaide. “He’s got a hearing keen, I think, like yours. Which means—”

  “—that he can hear everything we’re saying right now,” finished Adelaide. “But what about the other guard?”

  “He has another sort of keen,” said Lottie. “The king’s screaming was only bothering the Ingle guy.”

  “So,” Oliver said slowly, “this spy is waiting outside for us to make a plan?”

  “A plan of escape!” said Fife.

  “Is that it, spy?” said Adelaide. “Are you just waiting for us to come up with a plan you think won’t get us all fifthed in the process? All you’ve got to do is give me a whisper.” She tensed for a listen, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, that’s what he’s waiting for.”

  Fife rubbed at his neck. “What kind of escape plan will get us out of the dungeons? This place is a maze.”

  “But Dorian could help us with that,” said Lottie. “He’s a guard, so he knows his way through the dungeons. What we have to worry about is running into trouble on our way out.”

  “Dorian?” Fife snorted. “What a stupid name. Only great-grandfathers are named Dorian.”

  Adelaide smacked Fife. “Can you focus for half a second? Our lives are at stake! Anyway, I think Dorian sounds sophisticated. It’s charmingly old-fashioned.”

  “So, Lottie,” said Mr. Wilfer, who Lottie thought was being frustratingly calm in light of their present predicament. “What do you think is a feasible plan of escape?”

  “I’ve been thinking of something,” said Lottie, “but it might be a terrible idea.”

  “Tell us,” encouraged Mr. Wilfer.

  “Well,” said Lottie, “in his throne room, the king has a collection of rare concoctions. One of the jars is full of Piskie Dust.”

  “You mean,” said Fife, “you want to dust us out of here?”

  “Well, why can’t we break in, throw a little dust on ourselves, and be out of here?” said Lottie.

  “That could work,” Oliver said. “Couldn’t it?”

  Mr. Wilfer nodded slowly. “It certainly could. But how will we get to the throne room undetected?”

  “Adelaide can help us there,” said Lottie. “She can use her keen to tell us where the king and his guards are.”

  “There are three guards in the throne room, by the sound of it,” said Adelaide, “but the king’s in another wing of the palace. He’s been throwing things around for the past minute.” She winced. “It’s loud.”

  Lottie nodded. “So, three guards to take on in the throne room, if we go now.”

  “What are we supposed to do, fight them off?” said Adelaide.

  “You bet we’re gonna fight!” Fife said. “Our lives are at stake, Miss Priss.”

  “We’ll have Dorian with us, too,” said Lottie, “and he knows the guards. If they see him leading us, it should confuse them, maybe even take them a few minutes to figure out what’s really going on.”

  “I think it’s a good plan,” said Oliver. “The king would never expect for us to be let loose, and definitely not in his own throne room. If we’re quick about it, like Lottie says, and if this Dorian really does help us, there’s a chance that we could make it.”

  “And if we can’t?” whispered Adelaide.

  “We’ve got nothing to lose,” Fife said grimly.

  “But Dorian,” said Oliver. “He has something to lose. Revealing his identity this way could cost him his head.”

  The cell door swung open. Dorian was looking in, and his fellow guard lay unconscious at his feet.

  “That’s a risk spies sign up for,” he said. “Now get out, and let’s get moving.”

  They piled into the hallway, Dorian in the lead. Though Lottie had been down these halls twice already, she felt just as daunted by the distorted reflections and dozens of identical turns. She wondered how the king’s guards ever managed to learn their way around. Dorian, however, did not pause or falter for a moment. He led them straight to the spiral stairs. At their base, he turned.

  “There are four guards in the hall above,” he said, “and the three in the throne room.”

  “I hear five in the hall,” said Adelaide.

  “Four guards,” Dorian said.

  “Lead us up,” Mr. Wilfer whispered, “and we shall deal with whatever surprise lies in the hallway.”

  They climbed the stairs, Lottie just behind Dorian. When they reached the top landing, Dorian pushed open the door to the palace hallway.

  Four guards stood crowded at the entrance, waiting for them.

  “What’s this, Dorian?” said a burly voice. “Taking an unauthorized stroll?”

  Lottie could not make out what happened next. Arms tugged under hers. There was a sudden, confusing jumble of loud thuds and growls. She felt wet fur brush across her legs. She saw a flash of deep red cloaks and deeper black hair. She was knocked down. She heard Adelaide scream. Then everything came into focus again, and Lottie was lying facedown with a mouthful of velvet rug. She pushed herself up, coughing, and found her shoulder seized in the hand of one of the guards. The guard hoisted Lottie up, pressing her back hard against the wall. He jabbed the cold, blunt end of his mace under Lottie’s chin.

  “You there!” he barked back to indistinguishable shapes. “Wilfer! Let him go, or I swear I’ll—”

  Then his mouth went a funny shape. The mace fell from Lottie’s neck. The guard gagged and shuddered, his face blooming a shade of sickly orange, then green, then deep charcoal. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped off Lottie, unconscious but twitching, his discolored face turned up toward his attacker.

  “Oliver.” Lottie rubbed her throat, trembling. “Th-th-thanks.”

  Oliver’s eyes were a frightening shade of red. He was still staring at the unconscious guard. Slowly, he nodded.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Lottie stumbled to her feet, grabbing Oliver’s elbow for support. She looked around. Two crumpled guards lay on the floor, and a Barghest—her Barghest!—stood panting over them. A fourth guard was still standing, locked in the arms of Mr. Wilfer.

  “Don’t look!” screamed Adelaide, dragging Lottie to her feet. “Just go!”

  The candles in the hall sputtered out as Lottie and the others ran past, straight for the golden tapestry that hid the throne room doors. The Barghest scampered ahead of them. The tapestry swung back, and the three guards that Adelaide had predicted piled out just in time for the Barghest to leap on one of them, dragging him down in a howling heap. The fallen guard’s mace swung out of his hand and cracked into another guard’s ankles. He screamed and buckled to his knees.

  The remaining guard stood facing them, his mace shaking in his hands.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he said. “I’m warning you, the res
t of the Guard will be here soon enough.”

  “But they aren’t here now,” said Dorian, swiftly plunging a fist into the guard’s stomach.

  “You’re a traitor,” the guard grunted, stumbling back.

  “We’re both bad guards,” Dorian agreed, lobbing a punch at his eye. The guard dodged the blow and lifted his mace over Dorian’s head. But before the blow could fall, another mace clonked the guard’s head from behind. He collapsed, senseless, revealing a hovering, triumphant-looking Fife.

  “Nice mace, that,” Fife commented, tossing the weapon aside.

  “Thanks,” Dorian said curtly. He pushed open the throne room doors.

  Lottie hurtled straight to the shelf of rare concoctions. The jar marked ROYAL PISKIE DUST was right where she had remembered it, a third full of powder the color of robin’s eggs. She lifted the jar down with both hands and unscrewed its lid.

  “Wait!” cried Adelaide. “Wait for Father!”

  Mr. Wilfer stumbled into the room with the Barghest.

  So did Grissom, and a dozen red guards just behind him.

  “Draw close,” Mr. Wilfer ordered the others. Then to Lottie, “Throw the dust! Now!”

  Lottie heaved the jar up with all the strength she had. The Piskie Dust did not come out at all like Lottie had expected, like an emptied pack of sugar. Instead, it remained suspended in midair, and then it shifted upward in a swirling spiral of blue. The spiral flung outward, wrapping around her in a powdery vapor.

  Lottie opened her mouth to shout a destination. Then her lips froze. She hadn’t taken the time to think of where to take them. She hadn’t thought of a place to say! Piskie Dust whirled into Lottie’s mouth, sending her into a coughing fit.

  “NO!” shouted Grissom, leaping toward their circle.

  Then an image flashed in Lottie’s mind: her green apple tree. That was where they needed to go!

  “Tree!” Lottie coughed out. “Apple tree!”

  The dust swirled faster, blowing so hard into Lottie’s face that she had to shut her eyes. When she opened them again, she was standing outside.

  But they had not been transported to her apple tree in Thirsby Square.

  They were in a heap of vines, standing before the sickliest apple tree that Lottie had ever seen. The Piskie Dust had only taken them just outside the Southerly Court walls, to the plagued orchard.

  “No,” said Lottie. “This wasn’t what I meant!”

  She stumbled back, her foot lodged in the tangled curl of a vine. Mr. Wilfer steadied her by the shoulder. Fife and Adelaide were stooped nearby, and Oliver was pulling himself out of a tangle of ivy. The Barghest lay at Lottie’s feet. He was bent, as though in a reverent kneel, before Dorian.

  “Dorian Ingle,” the Barghest rasped, pressing his muzzle into Dorian’s outstretched hand. “Servant of Rebel Gem, it is an honor to be at your service.”

  “I—I—thank you,” Lottie sputtered. “Thank you for saving me. For saving all of us.”

  Dorian nodded. “My uncle sent his genga to court after his house was raided by the Guard a few days back. He said to be on the lookout for his friend Moritasgus Wilfer, and for the last surviving Fiske. It wasn’t until the Barghest found me that I knew just what sort of danger you were in.”

  “Danger that you’re still in,” said Mr. Wilfer. “We must move quickly.”

  Lottie knew what had to be done. She’d seen it done before, and a tug—soft but insistent within her—guided her hand by instinct. She reached deep into her pocket and curled her hand around the warm bundle that was Trouble. Carefully, she lifted him out, placed her lips against his downy black feathers, and whispered, “Take us home.”

  Trouble did not hesitate. He flew directly to a branch hanging just over Lottie’s head. The branch was pallid, its branches peeling with the ravage of sickness. Lottie pulled it down as carefully as she could manage. Then, gently, she pocketed Trouble in her periwinkle coat.

  She was not so shocked this time as she had been in Thirsby Square when she heard the violent groaning and watched the apple tree writhe its splintering bark into an opening.

  “Quickly,” said Mr. Wilfer.

  Adelaide stepped inside, and Oliver and Fife filed in next. Mr. Wilfer stood guard at the tree’s entrance; he motioned for Lottie to step inside.

  “Grissom!” she said, the thought sudden and awful. “We can’t go back to Thirsby Square. He knows where I live.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself with that,” said Dorian, smirking. “I know what route he’ll take, and I’m not the only spy in the Southerly Court. You’re with me, aren’t you, Barghest?”

  The dog bent its head in assent.

  With a gracefulness that would have put even Adelaide’s best curtsy to shame, Dorian swept a leg over the Barghest’s back and gripped its mane.

  “Only remember,” said Dorian, “two Northerlies just saved your life, Heir of Fiske. You owe our court a life debt. Think on that while you are in Earth.”

  Then he bent and whispered something into the Barghest’s ear. Before Lottie could say a word more, the Barghest grunted and set off in a rough bound toward the court walls.

  “Come, Lottie,” said Mr. Wilfer. He climbed into the apple tree and beckoned to her. “We cannot linger here.”

  Lottie shook herself. “Sorry. I’m coming.”

  She took a step, and something clutched her foot.

  A hand had emerged from the vine-covered ground, pinching into the hollows around Lottie’s anklebone. Her leg buckled in pain, and Lottie fell. She tried desperately to shake off the hand, but its bony fingers only clenched harder. Their owner now sat up from where he had been buried in the vines.

  Lottie had not spoken fast enough in the throne room.

  “Finally,” said Grissom. “I’ve got you all to myself.”

  “Let her go!” Oliver shouted.

  “Grissom,” said Mr. Wilfer, gripping the threshold of the apple tree, “your quarrel isn’t with the girl.”

  “Fair enough, Moritasgus,” said Grissom. “But considering none of you can step across that enchanted threshold, I’ll bide my time with the Heir of Fiske.”

  Grissom shoved Lottie’s ankle from his grip so that she fell painfully to the ground, the air knocked from her lungs. Then he rose to his full height, towering over her, and kicked her in the ribs. A hot pain tore through Lottie. She screamed, clutching at her side.

  “You thought it would be that easy? That you could defy the Southerly King and traipse off to Earth scot-free?”

  Lottie did not answer. She could not. The pain in her ribs was claustrophobic. And on top of it there was a tightening, thickening sensation in her chest that she had known since she was a little girl. Lottie squeezed her eyes shut and tried to steady her breathing.

  “Grissom, stop this!” Mr. Wilfer shouted from the tree, but Grissom only sneered in his direction before turning his full attention back to Lottie.

  “Typical,” he said. “Fiskes have always been known for their duplicity—fraternizers with wisps and Northerlies alike. Your mother was the worst of them all, consorting with the filth that reside in Earth. Of course you have none of the Fiskes’ keen. Not with that excuse for a father.”

  Lottie tried to speak again, but her throat had seized up in the same tightening strain that raged in her chest.

  “What’s that, halfling?” said Grissom with a mocking smile. “What are you trying to say? Why don’t you get up and tell me?”

  Suddenly, Lottie’s bad spell was fading, and a new sensation had begun to grow in her chest and burn like acid against her rib cage. Lottie did not feel frightened anymore. She only felt angry. The sensation boiled in her blood and strengthened her bones, pushing Lottie up to her knees. She gripped the ivy beneath her, panting. Her throat warmed and loosened, and words unbundled from her mouth.

  “Vesper Bells.”

  The ivy burst into motion. Vines snaked up Grissom’s legs, cinching tight. They crawled up his potbelly and strapped his ar
ms down to his sides. Grissom’s eyes went wide with terror. A vine shot under Lottie’s foot and she lost her balance, tumbling back toward the apple tree, where Mr. Wilfer caught her and pulled her inside.

  “How?” Grissom screamed. “No! No!”

  Vine and leaves swallowed up Grissom’s shouts, and his body went rigid under the winding, thick shoots of the Northerly vines. Mr. Wilfer tugged Lottie deeper into the apple tree, and the bark sealed up and cast them all into darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Bad Spell

  “THAT,” SAID FIFE, “is going to leave some permanent psychological damage. Ouch! What, Ada? It is.”

  “You all right, Lottie?” said Oliver.

  “I’m f-f-fine,” Lottie sputtered, “but is Grissom—?”

  “The Northerly vines are relentless,” Mr. Wilfer answered her unfinished question. “It will take the king a long time to free Grissom from those vines—if he chooses to free him at all.”

  Lottie gulped. “So what do we now?”

  “You must think, Lottie,” said Mr. Wilfer, “of the best place to go in Earth.”

  “The Barmy Badger,” Lottie said immediately. “Eliot.”

  Then something very important occurred to Lottie.

  “Wait! There’s no tree—”

  But an aching sensation had already started in Lottie’s legs, and she suddenly felt like she was in the palm of a giant who was slowly squeezing her to death, snapping her bone by bone. She had gotten it wrong, but it was too late to change now. So Lottie kept on thinking of Eliot’s painted room. She thought of ye ol’ porthole. The squeezing stopped. Lottie felt weightless and thoughtless for a second. Then came the whoosh.

  “Well, we’re going somewhere,” Mr. Wilfer called encouragingly. “Get ready for the flip. Oliver, keep your hands tucked in!”

  Lottie thought that turning a somersault in midair had been painful enough when she had ridden with Adelaide, but this time her knees whacked into someone else’s back, her nose bonked against someone’s foot, and some of her own hair flew into her mouth. Then all five of them dropped to the ground. Everyone was upright and looked perfectly unflustered. Everyone but Lottie, who was sprawled on the floor. Fife broke the silence.