Forest of Whispers by Jennifer Murgia

Author:Jennifer Murgia [Murgia, Jennifer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Forest of Whispers
ISBN: 9781937053581
Publisher: Spencer Hill Press
Published: 2014-09-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Laurentz

The next morning I return to the tree in the forest, hoping to find her, but now, I am about to follow my instinct that perhaps Rune has returned to the cottage, or what’s left of it. When I arrive, I see that it is as empty and lonely as the other day. I turn and look toward the village. Could she have gone there? Was that wise of her, I wonder, and just as I’m about to head along the path that will take me to the hedge, I spy a dark-haired girl on the other side of the green. I cannot get to the border fast enough, tearing along, hoping it’s her. When I round the corner, there is no one but an approaching wagon and driver and I am convinced my mind has once again been tricked by the elusive Rune.

“Wait! You there!” I rush along the cobbled street, urging him to slow his pace. He pulls the reins toward his chest while skillfully shooting me a look that tells me I’ve annoyed him.

“What is this?” I ask, pointing to the cart he pulls behind him, seeing it is full of people, not animals.

“Prisoners, My Lord.” He answers as if the load he pulls is simple bales of hay on the way to the stables, and eyes me as if I am quite the fool for asking.

The cart holds about eight women, each crammed into the tiny space and equally wide-eyed and frightened. The ones closest reach their arms through the bars, begging me with their eyes to help them, while the others cower silently.

“For what crimes have they been arrested?”

The driver sticks a piece of wheat between his two front teeth. “Treason, I s’pose. I’m just following orders, Sir. I’ve been told to collect them from the guards and take them to the courthouse.” He gives a nod, silently conveying I’m done wasting his time, and with a snap of the reins, he and the cart roll off again. I follow at a distance and begin the slow climb up the road, ignoring those who eye me curiously. Once at the top, a large building of white limestone greets me, its grand staircase rising to where two of the Prince Bishop’s guards stand watch in front of a double set of heavy wooden doors. They don’t question me as I approach, and we nod to one another as they let me pass.

Inside, a long-mustached man greets me with surprise. “Welcome, My Lord,” he says with a curt nod. “It’s so rare the Electorate’s son pays us a visit.”

I follow behind him along a whitewashed corridor, past framed paintings of the Prince Bishop and others ordained before him. There is one painting in particular that moves me, and I find myself falling behind the man, slowing my pace to take a closer look. I am drawn to the lower portion of the canvas, where a gold and garnet ring gleams. It seems so real it appears to leap from the painting into the very hall I stand.

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