“You cannot possibly,” Tess said. She felt shy of the light, and it seemed that Wyndeling was glaring at her. Perhaps it was just the gloom. “You are too weak, and how are you to secure him in the dark and rain with only one good hand?”
“I must try.” Linden stood. “If he reaches his master, he will tell him where we are. He will tell him where you are, my lady.”
Tess was glad the prince could not see her fingers go to her engagement pearls. Was it only his duty that made him so worried?
She pulled the flask of water from her satchel and gently poured it over his hand. “It is more than a day to Glademont on foot, Your Highness,” she said. “We will have plenty of time to be gone from this place.”
“Will we not search for the Thane’s Hold?” asked Wyndeling.
“It can’t be here.” Linden panted and grimaced as Tess washed the blood from his hand. “If it is a place well known to my mother, Osiris would have seen her visit it. And he’d have known there was a new Glademont outside these woods.”
Tess could not argue the point, nor did she want to. She wanted to get out of the dark and be somewhere warm and dry . . . and free of amorous sailors. “Let’s follow Osiris, then? No good haunting this tower any longer,” she said.
Together they started down the passage where Osiris had disappeared. Wyndeling sat on Tess’s shoulder while Tess held the lantern. Still stinging from Tynaiv’s escape, Linden followed. “How many times is that scum going to make a fool of me?” He righted his longbow across his shoulders with his good hand.
“I’m glad he’s gone,” Tess said, a little louder than she intended.
“I’d rather have my enemies on a short rope,” Linden said.
Holding the lantern high, Tess illuminated a floor of solid, polished wood blanketed in thick dust. Giant paw marks created long drags in the dust. Linden stooped to investigate.
“Our friend Osiris has been through here a time or two. It should be easy to follow his trail,” he said.
As time went on and the sound of rain grew distant, the passage expanded, and Tess observed large archways above them. The floors changed from polished wood to rough-hewn cobblestone as they apparently moved beyond the foundation of the old castle.
An hour passed. They followed Osiris’s trail through various forks and side tunnels until finally Linden paused and signaled for Tess to wait.
“I hear water,” he said. Tess heard it, too, and she saw the walls gleam with moisture. Her legs felt so stiff.
A blue-white haze beckoned them ahead, and the party came to one last, yawning archway overlooking a sleepy stream. The water’s surface glinted in the thin light. The curved, stone ceiling was studded by narrow windows, through which roots and vines hung freely, dripping with rainwater. Tess had the unexpected urge to twirl and stretch her arms in this moonlit dream.
“We must not be very deep underground,” Linden observed, insensitive as ever to romance. “We’re just under the forest floor, somewhere east of the Ruins.”
“And look.” Tess’s lips parted in a rejuvenated smile. “Osiris’s back door.”
Decorating the wall on the opposite side of the stream, there sat the welcome sight of a door, fashioned much like its counterpart by the redbud grove.
“There be the adventurers. I had been wondering to myself how much longer I would be staring at the stormy sky, sighing for the ole days when I were tramping around with a wild owl.” Osiris emerged out of the gloom upstream to their left, pulling something in the water behind him. “I passed some time fishing out this raft for me guests,” he said cheerfully.
The stream was shallow enough, for Osiris waded through it while keeping his back dry. Once Tess and Linden had boarded, Osiris pushed the watercraft toward his back door. Wyndeling shifted uncomfortably upon the post that secured the raft’s poles. “Osiris, I spoke rashly in the tower. I am . . . unused to eccentricities.”
“Ye be a stubborn, silly little owl,” the bear replied. “Where be yon briny fellow and his tobacco, speaking of unusual creatures?” Osiris surveyed his companions from beneath his overgrown brows.
Tess was certainly not up to offering an explanation, and it seemed Linden could not find the words, either.
Wyndeling hooted softly. “He injured the prince and slipped away.” For the second time, the red owl shot Tess a knowing look.
“Hmm. Bad tidings indeed, Glademontians. I have a feeling in me bear bones yon seaman ain’t through with us.”
Much to Tess’s relief, Osiris pursued the subject no further. And even more to her liking, the door was finally opened.
Chapter 28
morning broke on the Birch Grove as lavender clouds surged up from the valley and formed a fog over Ryon’s resting place. His eyes fluttered heavy with sleep. Profigliano, on the other hand, swooped and twirled, singing notes of greeting.
“Oh, what a morning to be alive and flapping,” the towhee announced. “I’ve got a nice long snooze and three juicy worms in me. Boy, am I glad you’re awake, Master Ryon. I wanna know when this mysterious meeting starts. Don’t tell the fox, but I’m hoping the first order of business is to put his moldy mouth on trial—”
“Ahem.” Evening, who had silently slipped between the pair, sat with his tail wrapped about him. “It’s time we moved on from that, don’t you think? I was sent to fetch you. The meeting is about to commence.”
Ryon pulled on his jacket and hunched against the thick fog as Evening led them deeper into the Birch Grove. They passed the grassy elk beds, then over a trickling, jade-colored creek. Eventually, Evening stopped in a place where the birches grew especially close, and the fog culminated upon a large mossy embankment.
“The bull is called the Oak Elder, especially by those who are not of the herd. His four mates are the other elders. Best just to call them Madame Elder to cover your hide.” Evening hopped upon the embankment. “Try not to embarrass me,” he whispered, and scurried aside.
Ryon followed and found the elders on the embankment. They formed a semicircle, with an imperial-looking elk bull lying at its head. The bull was dark, almost chestnut in color. His throne was an enormous mossy stump, whose years as a living oak must have numbered at least four hundred. His forelegs curled under his chest, while his back legs splayed comfortably to one side. To the left of the throne stood four lovely cows. To the right stood Iris, the young cow who helped Ryon find something to eat, and Currant, who trotted forward to escort Ryon closer to the bull.
“Father, here is Master Ryon Canyon of Glademont,” Currant said.
The imperial-looking bull stared at Ryon, much the way Iris had stared at him the night before. It was a curious, frozen look, still and solemn.
“He is in the company of the Rushing.” Currant nodded toward Jesse. Ryon moved to join his horse, who stood off to the left, facing the moss throne.
“This is the boy who was hungry in the night,” the bull stated. His voice was old—much older than he looked. Ryon paused.
“I apologize for disturbing the lady Iris.” He bowed to her.
“Ha. Hear how he addresses your sister, Currant?” the Oak Elder said. “He uses human titles for the wild.” The explosive laugh made Ryon uneasy. It was not malicious, but neither was it friendly.
“I rather like it,” Iris said. “It sounds sophisticated.”
“You would feel differently if you knew what sophistication brings to free animals, daughter. Be still.” The bull rose.
“Father,” Currant said in a formal tone, “patriarch of the Grove and Oak Elder, will you allow this boy to join this audience?”
The bull swirled his tail and pounded a rear leg upon the moss. “We shall see how he behaves under the Rushing’s care. Evening, bring in the rest.” He nodded to the fox.
Ryon tried not to fidget as he stood by Jesse’s shoulder. Evening disappeared through the trees,
leaving them to stare at an open carpet of vibrant, springy moss. But soon a number of birds flitted to the ground before the throne: a falcon, a few bluebirds, a drake and his mate, and none other than Buchanan of Westbend from the Council of the Nest. Buchanan looked sharp and stern as ever. A fresh scar ran the width of his feathered breast. Ryon cringed as he remembered their last encounter.
“Welcome to the cotton moss, Councillor,” the bull said to Buchanan.
“Thank you, Oak Elder.” Buchanan gave a short bow. “I come seeking your advice. The forest is torn apart—”
“A moment, Councillor,” the Oak Elder interjected. “With whom have you come?”
“I come alone,” Buchanan answered with energy. “These birds are not authorized by the Council of the Nest, Oak Elder.” He eyed the falcon to his right with venom.
“I have invited them,” Currant said, his voice remaining calm. “This is Cantor”—he gestured to the falcon with his nose—“recently elected captain of the raptors who remain here in the Hinge.” Cantor’s round midnight eyes blinked several times, but he made no comment. “The bluebirds are the Stitchipeeps. Their family has dwelt in this forest even longer than we can trace the Birch Herd.”
Ryon observed vigorous, colorful movement on the moss. Five brilliant bluebirds with fuchsia breasts issued small, polite bows in all directions, flapping their wings for balance.
“And Cheekathistle and Thorestook of the Northern Flock,” Currant said.
Thorestook the drake sported iridescent, jewel-like bands of green and cream. His mate, though wearing more muted colors, rattled her bill energetically. Buchanan’s raspy hoot made all the birds still.
“I represent the Five Wise in seeking your advice, Oak Elder. I do not know why these birds have come,” he said, eyeing Cantor again.
“Only five?”
Buchanan grunted. His head swiveled on his short, round body. “Two have left their perches,” he said with a severe clack of his beak. “Wyndeling disappeared, and Theodora was removed after putting the entire nest in jeopardy and causing a dangerous enchantment to be cast in our midst.” Buchanan’s head finally swiveled enough to catch sight of Ryon and Profigliano. “Hm. I heard tell you were here,” he said so low and rough, Ryon thought he could feel the owl’s voice in his toes.
“Rest assured, Master Ryon.” Cantor the falcon hopped before Buchanan. “You have nothing further to fear from us. It is clear to the Nest that we should never have meddled with human magic.”
Buchanan stared stonily at Ryon while the falcon spoke.
The Oak Elder swooshed his tail again. “Already, this is a strange morning come to the cotton moss.”
Evening appeared again, and behind him followed two creatures Ryon never thought he would see in the Hinge Forest: a silver mountain goat and a snow-white dall ram.
“Oak Elder,” Currant said, “these are Tartan and Pipe, cliffdwellers from the human village of Wallaton.”
Sir Brock had always said that, other than the shepherds, these were the only creatures able to live on the sheer, rocky face of Innkeeper Cliffs. Ryon understood now how the cliffdwellers earned their reputation as a hard and severe people; Tartan and Pipe looked in no state to be trifled with.
Tartan the mountain goat measured as tall as Currant’s shoulder, from hoof to horn. His silver woolly coat hung thick over a rock-solid frame. The horns were short and sharp, and he tossed them with agitation. Whereas Tartan looked hurriedly about with acute interest, Pipe was content to look upon the throne with serious, quick eyes. He was a dall ram with great, twirling horns—slighter in build than Tartan and lacking a beard.
“We thank you for your time, Oak Elder,” Pipe said, lowering his head.
The bull stamped a hoof. “I was told there would be four domesticated animals,” he said, his nose twitching. “Who are the other two?”
“Yes, Oak Elder,” Currant said. Ryon could tell the young elk was making an effort to stick to formalities. “Cantor has brought four animals from Glademont, the same birth country as the Rushing. Here come the ponies from Foggy Plains.”
The Oak Elder snorted as Tartan and Pipe moved aside, and two stocky horses approached from the trees.
“Shila and Abe of Foggy Plains,” Currant said.
A smoky, speckled mare came forward. Her mane and tail were strewn with braids. A stout reddish stallion trotted beside.
The Oak Elder looked down his nose as the ponies bowed. “I have heard the horses and ponies of the Plains speak freely with humans.” The bull made clear by his tone that he hoped this was merely a rumor.
“We adhere to the Way of Silence,” Shila the mare answered, “when we leave the heather to serve elsewhere in the dione.”
In response to the look of disapproval upon the bull’s face, the one named Abe interjected, shaking a thick red mane. “Cannot you extend us the same courtesy as the boy, Oak Elder?”
“I extend courtesy to the Rushing, only. A most honored guest. A legend of the Hinge.”
The female elders bobbed their heads and flicked their ears with excitement.
“Jesse of Glademont, now,” Jesse answered. A swell of surprise moved through the elders. The bull stared at Jesse, then at Ryon. Without further comment, he turned to the collection of creatures before him.
“Let us hear why you all seek my audience.” He lowered himself on his throne.
Ryon leaned against Jesse’s butterscotch neck with relief. But then, flapping to Jesse’s head, Profigliano drew a dramatic breath. “Ahem. Profigliano Julius Towhee the Eleventh, at your service, your most wisest of patriarchs, sir, Oak Elder, sir, most excellent smarty-elk.” Profigliano must have been practicing his bow; it had become more embellished since Ryon had seen it last.
“Er . . . yes, very good.” Currant twisted his muzzle curiously. “Oak Elder, with the exception of Councillor Buchanan, the creatures before you represent the FOM and seek your audience regarding an event that, I think, could alter the course of our history.” Currant could not help but look pleased with this possibility. “Shila?”
The braided pony hesitated.
“I am listening,” the bull said.
“Yes, Oak Elder.” Her voice rang with sweet, alto tones. “Two days ago, Atheonians invaded Redfoot. Some of the Redfooties escaped in the night and fled to the Foggy Plains for refuge. One young woman barely escaped the city with her young. She stayed with my master, and spoke not only of the havoc wreaked by men but also of their hounds.”
A murmur rippled through the animals present.
“A sort of dog, aren’t they?” It was a beautiful, plump cow who spoke.
Shila hesitated. “The dogs of Glademont Valley are trustworthy, Madame Elder. But hounds are new to the valley, and they delight in the spilling of blood.”
The plump cow shuddered. “I do not wish to see a hound in my lifetime. And you may call me Dove, my dear. I am Prince Currant’s mother.”
Shila lowered her head gratefully.
“Tell me,” Dove continued, “why do the Atheonians partner with these hounds?”
“The hounds have learned red magic,” Shila said. Another swell of murmuring animated the semicircle. “The woman said it was terrible, hearing the baying of the hounds tracking them in the night.”
Then Abe stepped forward. “Another man spoke of how his dog defended them from the hounds in a battle of magic,” he said. “He was surprised as a mole in a tree, if you get my meaning.”
“The Glademontian dog used magic?” Thorestook the duck cocked his colorful head.
“Something different. Something yellow,” Abe said.
Buchanan of Westbend growled. His round, piercing eyes shot across the cotton moss to Profigliano, who shrank behind one of Jesse’s ears. “He might have something to share on that front, Oak Elder.”
Profigliano nearly fell from his perch
. “Oh, that’s not . . . I mean, it sounds like that dog is who we ought to be raking over the coals here, am I right? That dog sounds miiiighty dodgy to me. . . .”
Buchanan hooted. “That bird—that disgrace of a Hinge Forester—used golden magic to destroy the nest.” Buchanan’s fearsome beak opened menacingly.
Ryon could not stand to see Profigliano so accused. He had resolved to remain quiet, but Jesse was right; he had his duty.
“Oak Elder”—his mouth went dry as the wise stag’s inscrutable gaze fell on him—“it is true that Fig has the gift of golden magic, but the councillor should admit that he does not understand what he saw that night in the nest.”
The semicircle erupted with hoots and neighs, some indignant, some triumphant. Profigliano straightened on Jesse’s head, his black eyes fixed on Ryon.
“I might be human,” Ryon insisted, “but I have reasons to want the Hinge’s safety as well as my own dione’s. This is my friend, my bondfellow.” He beckoned Profigliano to his hand. “He uses golden magic only in my defense. His oath binds us until death.”
At this, the Oak Elder grunted and stood. “The wild cannot enter into such an oath.” And another series of outbursts filled the foggy air.
While the creatures on the cotton moss snorted and blustered, Profigliano peered at his companion in amazement. “Master Ryon,” he whispered, “we are bondfellows? The word is unknown to me . . . and yet not.” He adopted a chivalrous tone. “I desire to take flight and tear apart these cloudy skies with my magical wings. Nay—I’ll golden bubble the next pokey-poke who thinks he can wisecrack my bondfellow.”
Arguments over the issue of the bondfellowship had reached a boiling point. The cliffdwellers and ponies hotly defended themselves, while the animals of the Hinge accused them of being less than true beasts. Finally, Currant thrust himself into the debate, butting his antlers against Tartan’s lethal horns, which had been inching ever closer to Buchanan.
“Enough,” he bellowed. Currant’s wide eyes flickered, and Ryon thought he looked like a real prince of the forest.
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