The Warden and the Wolf King (The Wingfeather Saga) by Andrew Peterson

Author:Andrew Peterson [Peterson, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rabbit Room Press
Published: 2014-07-21T00:00:00+00:00

50

Arundelle

Clovenfast was much larger than Janner first thought. The fort where they had escaped the toothy cows was one of several outposts scattered along the edge of the Blackwood, and from the rear of each walled fort, a road led to the city proper.

And a city it was, though not built by cloven; it was an ancient ruin of stone structures. Ornate archways and columns towered among the trees. The cobbled road was bordered by tumbledown stone walls that were green with winter moss and budding vines. The nearer they drew to the center of the city, the more structures stood unbroken in the shade of mighty trees. Roots pressed between flagstones and wrapped around foundations, as if they were engaged in a thousand-year dance with the ruins.

Butruins was the wrong word, Janner decided. The city was far from ruined, and the way it melded with the forest made Janner think it must be more lovely than it had been when it was new.

Once they moved out of the wild and into the city, they saw more cloven who could walk upright and speak. Janner even saw children: young cloven playing, riding on the shoulders of their elders, sitting on steps and laughing with one another. Many were deformed Green and Grey Fangs, and a few had milky eyes like the bats Kalmar had described to Janner.

“Do you have children?” Janner asked. Elder Cadwick waved, greeting a cloven who carried a basket of pomply pears in two of its five arms.

“None of us have children, lad,” said Cadwick. “Not anymore.”

“But what about all the young ones?” Kalmar asked.

“We find them in the forest. We bring them here. Someone has to care for them, just as someone cared for me when I was abandoned in the Blackwood many years ago.”

“So did you all come from Throg?” Janner asked.

“Yes. And before we were thrust from the Deeps of Throg, we were human.”

“Do you remember anything? From before?” Janner asked.

Cadwick lowered his eyes and his voice grew quiet. “I remember a few things. I was a blacksmith. I lived in a cottage. I remember fields of white flowers, and a scent on the wind that stirs my heart. Now and then I remember faces—faces full of joy, but I know not who they were . . . nor who I was.” He sighed as he ducked under a low branch. “We have learned that it is best not to remember too much. This,” he waved a hand around him, “is what we have now. This is who we are.”

“But our father—Esben—remembered, didn’t he?” Kalmar asked.

“Yes, and it nearly drove him mad. Like many of us, he wandered the forest for years until he found a home in Clovenfast. Once he settled in the den, he hardly spoke to anyone. He spent his time making the pictures on the walls. Then one night he emerged from the den with a terrible roar and left the Blackwood. The pleaders could not stop him.”

“Who are the pleaders?” Janner asked.

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