The Water and the Wild (29 page)

“I don't like this place,” Adelaide announced, shivering. “Come on, let's keep walking.”

The boys nodded, as did Lottie, but when she took her next step, her foot caught against a thick vine. Lottie grabbed at the closest thing she could find—
another
vine, wound about a column—and just managed to catch her fall.

“Whoa, you okay?” Fife floated to her side, and the others looked on with wide eyes.

“Fine,” said Lottie, but Fife had made a face and was pointing at the column behind her.

“Hang on,” he said. “Look, just there.”

There was a deep notch in the column's stone, carved in the distinguishable shape of the letter G.

“I think something's written here,” said Fife, bending back the foliage.

Lottie stepped back to afford everyone a view of the single world cut in stone:

HINGECATCH

“Sweet Oberon,” whispered Fife.

Oliver's eyes had shifted to an alarmed yellow color.

“What?” said Lottie. “What's Hingecatch?”

“An old Southerly lookout,” Oliver said. “There are poems about it. Dozens of poems.”

“It's where the tide of battle turned during the Great Schism,” Fife added, “back when the Northerlies and the Southerlies first split up. The Northerly army nearly got to the Southerly Court walls—only, back then it was just the Sprite Court. Yeah, and then the Southerlies slaughtered 'em all, right where we're standing.”

“I
don't
like this place,” Adelaide whispered.

“But,” Oliver said, “the poems also say that the Northerlies took their revenge on the Southerlies. Their blood fed the ground, and the ground produced Northerly vines. And the vines grew and overtook Hingecatch until all the Southerlies were forced to leave.”

“But the vines didn't stop there!” Fife said excitedly. “They grew and grew and overtook the whole edge of Hingecatch Forest. They grew right up until they reached the walls of the Southerly Court itself. They say that the Southerly Guard still has to pour enchanted acid down the
walls twice a day to keep the vines from creeping in. That's why the walls look bleached.”

“What do you know about the walls, Fife?” asked Adelaide. “
You've
never even seen the Southerly Court.”

Fife shrugged. “Guess I'm lucky, then, since—”

Fife didn't get the chance to finish that thought, because, quite suddenly, he'd been grabbed by the ankles and hoisted upside down.

Lottie would have reached out a hand or jumped in shock or perhaps said something helpful, like “Fife, you're upside down,” but all she ended up doing was shrieking, because the same vines that had snagged Fife's ankles were now snagging hers and the others', lifting all four of them upside down into the air. The vines were strong and, it seemed to Lottie, everywhere at once. They were winding up her calves, now binding her legs together, now crawling up her back and stomach, now cinching around her wrists, now curling their leaves behind Lottie's ears.

We're all going to die,
Lottie thought as she forced her eyes shut against a thick shoot winding around her face.
We're going to die, and of all things, we're going to be squeezed to death by
vines.

Then she heard a sound like the shrillest note of a flute, and the vines stopped squeezing.

“What's this?” said a voice just under where Lottie's head hung in midair. “More visitors, is it? Come on, then, Roote, and have a look.”

The vines began to move again, but this time Lottie felt them sliding in reverse, loosening up around her face, her chest, and her arms. The last of their strong tendrils fell from Lottie's wrists, and her arms dropped past her head, limp and dangling. Slowly, Lottie's eyes opened to the sight of her hair spilling beneath her. Her vision adjusted, and she saw Adelaide, Fife, and Oliver hanging across from her in bundles of vines, bound like she was.

Two sprites stood under them, one dressed in black, the other in brown. They were older, both lean and gaunt-faced, and each of their short beards matched their leather clothes. The sprite in black held a long, black knife.

“Trespassing, are we?” he grunted, approaching the closest of the group, which happened to be Adelaide. “We'll 'ave you know that this is Northerly ground.”

“Tell them, Roote!” said the sprite in brown. “Slice them down to size!”

“That I will, Crag.”

Adelaide was trembling so violently that the vines holding her shook. The sprite called Roote caught one of Adelaide's dangling arms and yanked up her right sleeve to reveal the bright white circle tattooed on her skin.

“What a shame. Such a pretty girl to be a Southerly.”

“Don't talk to her like that!” shouted Oliver, wriggling unsuccessfully against his bonds. His eyes shone red.

Adelaide bunched her lips, then spat on Roote's face. “I'm
proud
to be a Southerly,” she said, though her voice quivered.

In one deft movement, Roote had wiped the spit from his cheek and held the flat of his knife blade against Adelaide's wrist. “Oh, are you?” he growled. “And what if I were to carve that mark right off your wrist? How proud would our pretty little Southerly be then?”

Adelaide gave a sob. Lottie was trying to remember something, but blood was throbbing painfully in her head and it grew harder and harder to think the longer she hung by her feet.

“Ey, Roote, look 'ere. This one's one of us!”

The sprite named Crag was holding Fife's arm aloft, waving it like a flag to show off its black diamond tattoo.

Roote turned back to Adelaide. “Fascinating,” he said. “And what, pray tell, would a Northerly and Southerly be doing together?”

Adelaide was too busy crying to answer.

“You can either tell me what you're doing here,” Roote ordered, pressing the blade of his knife closer to Adelaide's skin, “or you can
scream
it with a little help.”

Lottie beat her to it. “Vesper Bells!” she shrieked.

Roote's attention snapped away from Adelaide to Lottie. He lowered the knife from Adelaide's arm, eyes wide in bewilderment.

“Wh-what did you just say?” he stammered.

But the vines were moving again. They slithered upward from Lottie's waist, uncurling from her bound legs. Then, like cradling hands, they contorted under her, turning her right side up and settling her back down on the ground. The same thing was happening to the others, and the sprite named Crag was hopping about in a circle like an excited child.

“Titania's sake!” he cried. “They're moving, the vines are, just at the name of Vesper Bells! Look, Roote,
look
!”

Roote was looking. He was looking Lottie right in the eye. She gulped and looked straight back.

“Where did a little girl like you hear about Vesper Bells?” he asked. He was still holding his knife at the ready, as though a wrong answer might be Lottie's last.

“Mr. Ingle taught me,” she told him. “He said to use ‘Vesper Bells' when there wasn't anything left to say.”

Roote made a horking sound.

“Ingle?” he said. “Wensley Ingle?
The
Wensley Ingle?”

“I've never heard him called that,” said Lottie, “but if he's the same old man who owns Ingle Inn in New Albion, then yes.”

Roote looked uncertain for a moment. Then, without warning, a wide grin spread over his face. He sheathed his knife.

“Well, why didn't you tell us that in the first place?” he bellowed, motioning over at Crag. “You hear that, Crag? They're friends of Wensley Ingle.”

“
The
Wensley Ingle?” snuffled Crag, staring at Lottie and then the others with starry eyes. “Been years since I've 'eard tell of that stray dog. A Northerly by 'eart, through and through. Don't know why 'e ever moved south by
choice
.”

“Good sprite, Wensley Ingle,” said Roote. “Got a nephew in high places, they say.”

“Been years, really,” Crag was still muttering to himself, “since I've 'eard tell of Vesper Bells. Not since the Rebellion. Not since folk still believed in an Heir of Fiske.”

Lottie started, and tripped over a circlet of vine still wound around her foot.

“Steady on,” said Roote. “Don't mind the vines. Feisty, they are. Minds of their own.”

“The vines,” said Lottie, getting her footing again, “have minds?”

“Well, now, don't know about minds,” said Crag. “But loyalties, yes. Loyal, through and through, to the Northerly Court.”

“Aren't they teaching you Southerly tots anything in school nowadays?” Roote asked in an appalled voice.

“Ollie and I don't go to school,” piped up Adelaide, who had recovered remarkably quickly from her sobbing and now looked as prim as ever. “We have a
tutor
. And of course we know about Hingecatch. The Battle of Hingecatch was the most decisive Southerly victory in recorded history.”

Only now did Roote seem to remember that there were other people in their company aside from Lottie. He turned to Adelaide with a rueful look.

“No hard feelings, eh, tot?” Roote said. “Rebels like Crag and I don't know who to trust these days. Can't be too careful. Wasn't like I was
really
going to nick your pretty arm.”

Lottie wasn't so sure of this, and Adelaide didn't look like she was, either. Oliver stepped in front of his sister and faced Roote down.

“I don't care,” he said. “Threaten her again, I'll take you down with my bare hands.”

“And me too,” piped up Fife. “Though out of the two of us, I'd say Oliver's wrestling would be more—colorful.”

“Thanks,” Adelaide muttered, “but I could take him down myself.”

“Yeah,” said Fife, “with your spit. Fierce.”

Adelaide aimed a smack at Fife's arm, and this time, rather than float out of the way, Fife just took the blow with a tiny smirk.

“Calm down, boys,” said Roote. “What a noble little band you are. No more threats. In fact, how about we make it up to you, hm?”

With that, Roote lifted his hands like a conductor would before an orchestra, and the vines moved once more. Rather than attack anyone this time, they shifted
and shaped, and Lottie recognized after a few moments what shapes they were forming: six chairs, made entirely of vines, arranged in a circle like the columns surrounding them.

“Crag and I can't offer much hospitality,” said Roote. “Haven't got much more than the clothes on our backs and these old ruins for a house. But what a Northerly's got, a Northerly shares.”

They took their seats, Lottie cautiously at first. Her vine-made chair was surprisingly sturdy, and aside from the occasional itch of a leaf against the insides of her knees, it was a comfortable reprieve from all the walking they had done that night.

Crag turned his attention to a dirty sack on his lap; from it, he pulled out the carcasses of three small animals that Lottie did not recognize.

“We've just had ourselves a hunting,” Roote explained.

“Fine night of it, too,” said Crag. “Roote 'as the best sights for spotting creatures in these woodlands.”

“You're welcome to split if you'd like,” said Roote, dangling one of the carcasses.

“No thank you.” Adelaide sniffed. “I don't eat meat.”

“Ah, that's right, innit?” said Crag, chuckling. “You Southerlies don't know what you're missing.”

Crag took one of the carcasses and bit into it raw, fur and all. Lottie, Oliver, and Adelaide gave a collective “Ugh!” Fife didn't look surprised.

“So, where is your little band headed, if you don't mind my asking?” said Roote. “One sees strange things in this wood, but nothing so extraordinary as Southerlies and Northerlies traveling together.”

Lottie glanced nervously at the others. Even if these sprites did know good Mr. Ingle, was it a wise idea to tell them their plans?

“We're going to the Southerly Court,” Adelaide said in a proud, unnaturally high voice. “We've got business there.”

Roote shared a look with Crag and the two burst into snorting laughter, Crag dribbling little bits of raw meat down his brown hide vest.

“Got business there?” Roote sputtered between guffaws. “What sort of business have you children got in the Southerly Court?”

“Hey, we're not children!” Fife said. “I'll have you know that I'm a bona fide teenager. My thirteenth was way back at the start of the summer.”

“And we've made it this far, haven't we?” said Lottie. “We've gotten past burning fences and the Southerly Guard and Sweetwater and—even a Barghest!”

The sprites stopped laughing. Crag wiped his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand. “A Barghest?”

Lottie nodded earnestly. “He even bit me,” she said, showing off her bandaged hands as evidence.

“And aren't you dead, then?” Crag whispered wonderingly.

“Does it look like I'm dead?”

Crag looked suspicious, but finally seemed to decide that Lottie was not, in fact, deceased. He turned to Roote. “What d'you think it means?”

Roote shook his head. “Hard to say. There hasn't been much word from Rebel Gem these days, not since he posted us here to play lookout.”

“Rebel Gem?” repeated Lottie.

“Our leader,” Roote said solemnly. “The only leader the Northerlies have left. He's the Master of the Barghest. He decides when they come and where they go, whom they trail and whom they kill.”

“Right,” said Fife, “well, if you see this Rebel Gem on your next social outing, mind telling him to call the Barghest off? It'd make the going smoother.”

“Like we'd ever see Rebel Gem,” said Crag, chewing on the carcass again, his teeth crimson with blood. “Not 'ardly a soul sees Rebel Gem. Not like 'e's the Southerly King. Lives in 'iding, Rebel Gem, just the same as all us spies. Only things we do these days is keep our noses in our own meat sacks.”