The heron looked over at Brendan. “How quickly you forget the lessons of the Battle for the Plinth!” she scolded. “Are you not still a Wildwood Irregular?”
The comment piqued Brendan’s temper. “Don’t talk to me about the Battle for the Plinth!” he roared. “I don’t recall seeing you there, staining the ground with your bird blood.”
“Calm yourself, Bandit King,” replied Maude. “I mean no disrespect.” She cleared her throat and continued, “The Elder Mystic has called for representatives from each of the four provinces. Since no one technically ‘rules’ Wildwood, it was assumed that an envoy from the Wildwood Bandits would suffice.”
Ahead, a snow-dappled peak distinguished itself from a chain of surrounding hills, its tip lost in a haze of clouds. “Cathedral Peak,” said Maude, disarming the tension. “Not far now.” A lazy road carved its way in switchbacks through this range of high hills, leading down the lee side, where the mountainous landscape gave way to a gentle valley. The forest below the flyers began to thin, and intermittent meadows and fields supplanted Wildwood’s thick fabric of trees. After a time, Curtis began to see small cottages on the margins of these clearings, their squat stone chimneys blowing white smoke into the misty air. A man and a woman, stepping out onto the porch of one of these hovels, shielded the dim sun from their eyes with their hands and watched, curiously, the two birds and their riders.
The farms, however, seemed desiccated and gray. No crops grew; great farm fields lay fallow amid the dun of winter that lay over the land. The heron swooped low, and Curtis could see a gang of children, shoeless in the road. He caught a glimpse of their faces; they looked hollow-eyed, tired.
Maude guessed at Curtis’s observation. “All is not well in the North Wood,” said the bird. “We are more affected by the distresses of our populous ally to the south than we expected. There is no call for our exports; what’s more, the winter has been very harsh. Even our well-kept stores had not prepared us for this dark season.”
“I had no idea,” said Curtis over the whipping wind.
“And should you?” asked the bird. “Since when did Wildwood Bandits keep tabs on the welfare of North Wooders?”
Curtis thought for a moment. “I mean, I’ve heard people talking about fewer shipments—we’ve all been stretched a little thin. The elder bandits called it a dry spell.”
The heron laughed coldly. “That, bandit Curtis, is an understatement. Many children will go hungry tonight. Many parents’ cupboards remain empty.”
“But why?”
“All will be revealed. In time. In time.” The bird ascended, saying, “We are growing closer. Look: the Council Tree.”
At the bird’s invocation, the canopy of a great, gnarled tree could suddenly be seen in the distance, towering above this patchwork of fields and thickets. Curtis gasped; a constellation of small birds created a kind of halo over the tree’s array of leafless branches, wheeling and diving in play. A crowd of animals and humans milled around the fat trunk, as minuscule as ants compared to the grandeur of the incredible tree. Beyond this scene, Curtis could see a high, barren hill, topped by a wooden fire tower. Farther, past a stand of gray maples and tucked into a narrow defile created by the meeting of two small hills, sat a long wooden building. Seeing this, Maude stretched her long neck and shifted her wings. She began to descend.
As they came closer, Curtis studied the building they were approaching. Its long roof, white with snow, supported a large central chimney, and the dark wood of its slatted siding appeared stained and weathered by age. The tip of a massive beam jutted from beneath the framework of the roof, just above a set of wide wooden doors that were hatch-marked with iron struts.
Maude swooped down in a graceful figure eight to land on the snowy clearing that stretched away from the hall’s entrance. A robed badger, sweeping snow from a slate-stone path, paused from his labors and watched as Curtis and Brendan dismounted. Curtis’s feet met the ground unsteadily; his legs wobbled and the earth seemed to undulate as his equilibrium reset itself from the long flight. The badger returned to his sweeping.
“Inside,” said Maude, panting a little from the exertion. “The meeting is just now being called to order.” She gestured with a wing to the great doors of the hall.
Uneasy, Brendan surveyed the surroundings. His hand rested reflexively on the saber hilt at his side. Maude saw this and said, “You’ll not be needing that, Bandit King. You’re in peaceable country now.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” responded Brendan tersely.
Curtis felt a squirming in the canvas knapsack on his back. Pushing open the top flap, Septimus nudged his snout into the fresh air.
“Are we there?” he asked.
“Yep,” said Curtis. “Enjoy the ride?”
“Yes, thanks,” said the rat. “But I was thinking we might take the ground route on the return journey. What do you say?” He pushed one of his paws out and smoothed back the fur between his ears. “Don’t freak out, but I threw up in there. Just a little.”
“What?”
“Just a little. Mostly into this pouch.” The rat’s other paw brought up a leather satchel, loosely tied at the top with leather cord. He tossed it casually to the ground. “Don’t open that.”
“Septimus! That was my lunch!”
The comment was ignored. “So where are we?” asked the rat.
Curtis grumbled under his breath before responding. “The Great Hall,” he said. “A clandestine meeting. We’ve been called.”
Just as he finished speaking, the great doors of the hall were thrown open with a clatter. Standing on the threshold was none other than Owl Rex, a massive, bespectacled great horned owl and someone Curtis hadn’t seen in many months—not since they’d parted ways at the Mansion earlier in the fall. A smile crept across his face as the owl, his wings extended, walked down the pathway toward the three new arrivals.
“My bandits!” he boomed. “My good bandits! I hope your flight was not too taxing.”
“Owl!” said Curtis, beaming. “What are you doing here? You’re a long ways from the Principality.”