“Oy, stop your howlin’, or I’ll cut your feet off, eh? You wouldn’t like to hop about on your twiggy li’l knees, would yeh?”
“Oooooh,” replied Profigliano. “That sounds like wormy pudding compared to spinning around here for one more second. Ooooh. Why’d you have to mention pudding?”
“I didn’t say nothin’ about no pudding, you whiny little beetle.”
“Oooooooh.”
“I mean it. Shut up, or I’ll slice yeh into slivers.”
“Oh, please somebody make those trees take a break. They’ll forget where they used to be standing if they keep it up. Oh, if only I knew how good I had it when I was lying still. Ooooh. Aaaah.”
“That’s it, you half-witted bag of feathers,” Root hissed. He cut the line, sending Profigliano to the ground with a soft thud. “I don’t care whether yeh live or die,” he whispered. “I’m done pretending I care a grain of sand about any half-witted animal in this cursed forest. I’m going to the front lines to kill me a creature wot has a brain.”
Snatching the line from the ground, he padded to the bank of Ruby Creek, grumbling to himself as he dragged the bird along. Reaching the bank, Root reeled in the line to get a better look at his victim. “Do yeh think I’m going to let those two stumps drag me ’round this endless forest, picking off doves and mice whilst a real battle is going on? Do yeh?”
“Oh,” Profigliano replied, reorienting himself, “I should say not. No, no, no, no. Those animal-wallopers don’t know real brains when they see it.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve said wot hasn’t made me want to squeeze the life out of yeh.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“They think you’re so important? They can bloody well chase yeh down the creek if they like. And when the stupid idiots have pulled yeh from the water, I’ll be long gone.”
“Heeeeyyy now. This plan is lookin’ a bit thin, don’tcha think? Don’t get me wrong; it is brainy to the gills. Just a little tweaking is in order—”
“Now, don’t start screechin’ for a minute. I’ll need a head start. . . .”
Root slipped the line from Profigliano’s body, leaving the river reed that pinned his wings. Casting the line into the creek, Root observed its swift movement southward.
“Creek’s nice and full, eh?” Root winked at the towhee. “Must have been a bit of snowmelt up in those mountains. Off yeh—”
“The most unimaginable thing has just occurred, comrade.”
Root froze midtoss, with Profigliano hovering over the water. A little squawk of terror escaped the soldier’s lips.
“’Tenant Pilt, sir.”
His commanding officer leaned against a towering boulder by the creek bank, cracking his neck. “I happen to be a light sleeper, you see.”
Root swallowed, but stayed his hand over the water.
“It’s kept me alive. You wouldn’t believe the sorts of things people do while a man is asleep.”
“D-don’t you come any closer, ’Tenant.”
“For instance, the unimaginable matter to which I was referring.” Pilt untied his green sash, folded it neatly, and tossed it upon the bank. “I distinctly thought I heard a man call me a . . . what was it?” Pilt pulled off his jacket, folding it as before.
“I swear on me pa’s grave,” came Root’s shrill cry. “If you take one step closer, I’ll drown your precious bird.”
“It was ‘stupid idiot,’ Root. ‘Stupid idiot.’ Do you think I’m stupid, Root?” The lieutenant withdrew the miniature hatchet, which had threatened Root before. “I think I’ll remove your vocal cords for that.” He did not smile.
“Put it down,” Root shouted. He dropped to one knee and dunked Profigliano up to his head in the creek waters. “Do y’see now? You so much as wink at me, and this little idiot will drown and you’ll be knocking on mole hills for the rest of this bleedin’ war.” He submerged the bird.
A steady succession of bubbles burst on the creek’s surface as Profigliano fought for his life. Root growled with determination, driving his arm deeper.
Pilt glanced at the creek, then at Root. Taking his kerchief, he wiped his face and neck. Root breathed heavily, his face screwed up like buckled dough.
“Very well,” Pilt said at last as he rested his weapon against his shoulder.
Visibly relieved, Root withdrew his victim from the creek. The towhee sputtered and gasped as Root stated his terms.
“I’m leaving the bird right here on the bank, and you toss your weapon on the ground in front of me. Don’t follow me or report me, or I’ll tell them that I saw you take money from that fella Tynaiv for keeping your mouth shut, got me?”
Root had hit a nerve. The lieutenant’s eyelids flickered. He readjusted his grip, but the hatchet remained on his shoulder.
“I don’t think you know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t I? You and that boy think I’m such an ox, but I got ears just like anyone else, see? And I for sure got eyes.”
Pilt stroked his face, squinted at the treetops, and spoke.
“That was a mistake, Root. Telling me you witnessed my exchange with General Tynaiv was a grave mistake.”
Needing no further incentive, Root bolted, leaving the gasping towhee on the bank. He sprinted for the nearest boulder, covering his head with his hands. But Pilt had already loosed the hatchet with frightening power, and the weapon sank deep into Root’s back. He howled in agony, colliding with the boulder and falling to the ground. His arms and legs twitched as blood spilled on the dirt beneath him. Ten gruesome seconds later, he was still.
Pilt reached for his sash on the creek bank and was just about to tie it on when the staccato thudding of hooves sounded in the distance. Agitated, Pilt started for his hatchet, still buried in Root’s back.
“Stand aside,” came a boy’s cry amid the trees. Jesse burst from the shadows with Ryon astride, a stone poised in the boy’s spinning sling. The stallion came to a jolting halt between Pilt and Root’s body.
The lieutenant’s eyes shifted toward the camp as he slowly raised his hands in surrender.
“Your friend back at the camp is unconscious,” Ryon said, guessing the meaning behind Pilt’s glance. “Either he thought he was quick, or”—the young boy lowered his sling a bit to grin at Pilt—“he thought I was slow.”
Pilt smiled back with a wink. “Aren’t you a sharp lad.”
Ryon flicked hair from his forehead, keeping his sling at the ready. “We found you, Fig. Me and Jesse have been looking along the creek since morning.”
“Oh, young master, this soggy red-breaster needs a three-day nap.”
“Just as soon as we take care of this Atheonian.” Ryon stared hard at the Atheonian. “Get on your stomach and put your nose in the dirt.”
Pilt remained still.
“Do as the boy commands,” Jesse said. He did not shout, but the sound startled Pilt. After a moment, the lieutenant lowered himself to the ground and placed his forehead in the grass. Ryon dismounted.
But the moment Ryon’s feet touched the ground, Pilt rose to his knees, reached into his sleeve, and drew his knife.
“No, sir, Loo-tenant,” came the towhee’s throaty baritone just as Pilt let loose his blade. A burst of gold light crackled in the air. The bird’s magic shattered Pilt’s knife into harmless specks that fell to the ground like dust. Almost without thinking, Ryon aimed a stone at Pilt’s throat and let it loose. His aim was true. Clutching his neck, Pilt flailed and fell backward with a gurgle.
Ryon stumbled to his friend to free the bird from his bondage. “Well done, Fig. I was half a breath away from death.”
“Just doin’ my duty, m’lad.” Profigliano bowed unsteadily. Clearing his throat, he made a second attempt, then tipped over altogether.
Ryon stood, watching Pilt writhe. He made sure he could
see the man’s hands, in case there were any more surprises. But it was hard to look in Pilt’s direction without seeing the poor fellow who died. The hatchet in the dead man’s back made Ryon’s insides feel out of sorts. A wave of guilt washed over him, as he wondered what his father would have to say about the sling in his hand. But then Ryon looked to his brave friend, and remembered where the little towhee would be if Ryon and Jesse had not come to rescue him.
“Why didn’t you use magic when the Atheonian was holding you over the water?” Ryon said, distracting himself from his inner debate.
“Believe me, I concentrated all of my bird-brains on it. But it wouldn’t take, ya know? Just like before when I couldn’t get a good bubble going.”
“That’s odd. I wonder what the difference—”
“Hullo? Don’t leave me here!”
“What was that?” Ryon brandished his sling. The voice had come from Pilt’s camp. “Do you think that other Atheonian is awake already?”
“Now, Master Ryon, I think we’ve had enough chucking stones. It’s sleep time. It’s time to put on the old nightie and put out the candles.”
“Hold on, Fig. Jesse, guard that one. I’ll be right back.” Pilt was now lying still, his hands cradling his throat. A thin and steady squeaking suggested he could now breathe.
Ryon led Profigliano back up the bank toward the camp, and keeping to the long shadows of the trees, he paused to listen.
“Is anyone there? For the love of life, don’t leave me. I’ve got a mate and seven pups to feed.”
Profigliano landed on Ryon’s shoulder—not without teetering—and whispered in the boy’s ear.
“That’s not skinny-face talking; it’s that gobbling fox. He was picking my feathers from his teeth, that rascal. If you’ll take my advice, Master Ryon, you’ll shoot a whole bucketful of rocks at him.”
“Hush, Fig. I’m thinking.”
While Ryon and Profigliano spoke, the burlap bundle holding the fox was still. Then it stirred.
“Forgive me, kind sirs,” the fox from the bundle said. “But I could not help but overhear your exchange. Might I offer a suggestion?”
“No,” Profigliano said.
“I suggest,” the fox continued, “that you allow me to explain how I came to be bagged, tell my side of the story. If you still don’t trust me then, you can put me back in this sack and leave me to die. I am a captive of the Atheonians, just like you were, sir bird.”
Profigliano scoffed. “There’ll be no sir birdin’ from you. It’s Julius the Eleventh, Duke of Magic to you. Do you know what I’ll call you? I’ll call you Sir Nasty Breath. Ha ha.”
“Oh, Fig.” Ryon rubbed his face.
“Do you even have seven pups?” Profigliano sneered.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“My sister has two.”
“Ha ha ha,” bellowed the towhee triumphantly. “Your story will never soak.”
Another uncomfortable silence.
“Oh, I’m going to let him out,” Ryon said.
“Suit yourself. But if that fox starts rollin’ you around in his mouth like a hard candy, don’t count on old Figliano to save you.”
Ryon stepped around the unconscious Grift and over to the bundle to untie the cords. A dusty, slender black fox crawled forth. His eyes were rich amber, and half of one ear was sliced away.
“Many thanks, good master.” He blinked indulgently at the afternoon sun as a bushy tail curled about his paws. “My name is Evening.”
Chapter 21
Tess pressed her back against the tower wall and waited to hear the cell door close. She had not dared look through the window during Linden’s harrowing inquisition, but she could easily gather he was weak and in pain. This alone might not have inspired much sympathy in Tess’s heart. But the prince had also not betrayed her secrets, despite caring so little for her and even less for the shenìl. She had to admit: although Prince Linden was an arrogant, delusional heel, he didn’t deserve to be left to starve.
Tess stooped to the cell window. “Your Highness?” she whispered.
Linden sat below with his back to her, bent over something in concentration. Wyndeling hopped to the window as well. Slowly, the prince looked into the light from over his shoulder.
“Lady Tessamine? But, how could you possibly—?”
“By accident, Your Highness. Is there no one else but you and . . . ?” She swallowed the name.
“No one,” Linden answered, his expression dark.
“Then it won’t be any trouble to free you. A friend of mine is dealing with the man.”
“I—I can’t believe this.” Linden struggled to stand.
Tess lowered awkwardly to her knees to see better through the arched window. She saw Linden squinting at the owl next to her. “This is Wyndeling.”
“Wyndeling the Red, Your Highness,” the owl said with a slight bow. “Member of the Fourth Council of the Nest.”
Linden bowed in kind, which seemed to please Wyndeling. But Tess noticed he could hardly open his swollen eyes, and his bare feet were shackled and bloody.
“I am grateful to you, Your Highness, for keeping my secrets.” She managed a slight smile.
“That man knew a great deal about us.” His voice dragged with dehydration. “He claimed to know you personally.” He glanced at her through strands of dusty hair.
Tess opened her mouth to answer, but a tremor in the ground forced her to steady herself on the tower wall. She got to her feet, looking for the source. But then she caught Wyndeling’s eye.
“The bear, my lady,” the owl said.
Tess felt a wash of panic. If Osiris killed Tynaiv, how would she ever learn the truth about him, and who he told about the shenìl?
“I must see to my friend,” she called to Linden, trying to hide her anxiety. “I shall only be a moment.”
She hurried from the western tower toward the center of the Ruins, with Wyndeling close behind. Pausing in the brambles surrounding a column, Tess caught sight of Tynaiv’s camp. There she saw the foreigner on his knees, raising his hands in surrender before the towering figure of Osiris, who had lifted himself to his hind legs. The ground trembled again as golden magic poured from his snout.
“Stop.” Tess rushed to the campfire.
Tynaiv turned, keeping his hands in the air. His eyes scanned Tess. A corner of his mouth lifted. “Well, hello,” he said.
Tess tried to speak smoothly, though her heart thumped madly. “A moment, Osiris, before you finish this man.”
Tynaiv stood and his head bounced in a casual bow. “My lady,” he said. “Have you come to rescue me?”
Osiris snarled as he lowered his front paws. Thin clouds of gold expanded around him. “Naught but Luna herself can save thee, scoundrel.”
Tess drew herself up, wrapping her cloak about her shoulders. “My friend has every right to punish you for your trespass. Though, crossing into his territory is far from your only crime.”
“My lady.” Tynaiv bowed low this time. “I mean no trespass. I sought only a safe place to stow my prisoner.”
“The prince of Glademont?”
“Have you loyalties to the man, my lady?” Tynaiv relaxed his arms and turned his back on Osiris, giving Tess his full attention. “Has he no crimes of his own to pay for?”
Tess’s pulse quickened. She knew this game, using her hurt against her. As she searched for the nerve to reply, Wyndeling came to her shoulder. She could feel the owl’s head oscillating at Tynaiv with disapproval. She breathed in the cool air.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I never lied to you, Tess.” Tynaiv met her eyes.
She took a step forward, not knowing how to respond to his audacity. But now anger surged through her limbs like wildfire.
“You will tell me who you really are and
why you seek the shenìl.”
“You know who I am. A seaman from Talon. And it is not I who seeks the shenìl.”
“You sent Pider and those horrible men to my home.”
“Counselor Pider and I are only temporarily allied. I assure you, my lady, I did not expect any harm to come to you—”
“You go to great lengths for this temporary alliance, do you not? Even so far as to starve the prince.”
The usual confidence in Tynaiv’s eyes flickered. He shifted under Tess’s stare. “I was originally sent into the Hinge to find you, my lady.”
“Knowing what Pider would do to me?”
“Hardly . . . Pider keeps much from me, and I was determined to learn the implications if I were to surrender you to him. When I came upon the prince, I saw a way to know more of the object and of your role in this.”
Osiris growled. “The man be naught but a deceiver. Let us be done with him.”
Tess searched Tynaiv’s face for sincerity. He was impossible to read. He simply stood there, relaxed yet expectant.
“Wyndeling,” she said, holding his gaze. “Please take the key from this man and free Prince Linden. He has waited long enough.”
Tynaiv shook his head, reached into his sash, and tossed the key at Tess’s feet. “You trust the royals far too easily, my lady.”
Wyndeling fetched the key and sailed away. Tess could see that Osiris was getting restless. He tossed his weighty head behind Tynaiv’s back.
Tynaiv took a step toward her. “I could protect you from Pider, you know,” he said. “If you would confide in me, tell me what the object is for—”
“I will not betray myself to you again.”
Tynaiv rested his hands on his hips, cocking his head at her. “You mean betray the royals, don’t you? You think your actions or mine brought this war? No. It was the doing of your sainted queen and prince, my lady.”
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