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“I don’t know. Someone from the Synod.”
Seamus seemed to search his memory; he stared at his feet for a moment before saying, “The Synod. The Blighted Tree. I’m remembering. I was in South Wood, wasn’t I? I was there.” The memories now seemed to be flooding back, a deluge of lost time. “I was the emissary. The bandits’ emissary. Left in South Wood after the Battle for the Plinth. The Synod; they reached out to me. Took me in. I didn’t know what was happening, Prue, swear I didn’t.”
“It’s okay, Seamus. It’s not your fault.”
“But what did I do? Where are the others? Where’s Brendan? What’s become of the other bandits?”
Prue curled her fingers around the bars of the door and said, “I think they’ve done the same thing. I think they’ve eaten that stuff. And become part of the Synod.”
“But how?” The realization slowly overcame him. “You don’t think . . . did I? Did I convince them?”
“Do you remember anything?”
“No, the memories go foggy at a point.” He squinted in concentration. “I remember meeting with the Synod. Those masked fellows. Something about reparations for the battle. Then everything goes hazy. Though maybe . . . Oh gods.” His chest sank in and his head fe
ll. “I do remember now. A trip to Wildwood. Sent by the Synod. A package of food. Supplies. Provided by the Synod.” He looked up blankly at Prue, his eyes shot through with tears.
“I did it, didn’t I?” he managed. “I fed it to them.”
Prue could only stare, her hands gripping the bars. The idea seemed ludicrous; and yet she’d seen the effect of the Spongiform. The parasite, growing inside the cavity of the host’s skull, seemed to reduce the host to a catatonic stupor, highly suggestible to the Blighted Tree’s authority.
“It’s not your fault, Seamus,” she said. “You were duped. You were poisoned.”
“And now what? How did I—how did you—end up on this ship?”
“Long story. I’m being sent off to the Crag, which is like a rock in the ocean. I’m sentenced to be marooned there. Forever.”
“But why?”
“I guess I’m the enemy now. In the Synod’s eyes, anyway. Oh, Seamus, so much has happened since I last saw you. I was there, at the bandit camp, right after everyone had left. Me and Curtis. We thought that you’d all been wiped out by these Kitsunes—shape-shifting monsters—but it turns out everyone had abandoned the camp only the night before. That must’ve been when you’d gone there, fed them the stuff. . . .” She was piecing everything together in her mind as she spoke; she didn’t see Seamus smart at the mention of poisoning his fellow bandits. “I came back to Wildwood to have Alexei, the heir to the Mansion, rebuilt. It’s what the Council Tree told me to do. And now . . . And now . . .” She paused here, trying to wrangle her colliding thoughts. She remembered her revelation from the night before, when the wave had buffeted the ship and she’d felt the strange presence. “I—I can’t be sure,” she said, “But I think Alexandra has returned.”
The bandit gave her a wide-eyed look, seemingly cataloging, internally, everything she’d told him. “First and foremost, we’ll escape here,” he said, standing up. “We’ll get our revenge. We’ll free my brothers and sisters.” He paused. “Curtis is saved? Did I not poison him as well?”
“No, he was with me. I don’t know where he is now. We split up months ago; he went to find out what happened to you, to the bandits.” Prue pulled on the bars, testing their strength. “As for getting me out of here, I’m not sure how. There’s a whole crew of sailors up there. We’re miles from the Wood.”
Seamus stood up, a little rickety on his feet, and walked to the porthole. He peered out and confirmed Prue’s worst fears: “Water everywhere. We’re in the open ocean, Prue.”
“How does that even happen? Aren’t they beyond the boundary—the Periphery?”
“It’s been going on for centuries. Even I know about the Crag. It’s the ruins of an old castle, built on the top of a rock in the water. The Ancients built it, it’s said. It was a great achievement, the Crag. And then, like most of the Ancients’ creations, it fell into ruin. In the second age, folks started using it as a punishment for the worst offenders—the criminals who deserved the worst death imaginable: slow and tedious.”
“Why haven’t the Outsiders seen them? Like, all of Portland? Seems like a ship like this would be pretty conspicuous.”
“Like all ship trade, they travel under the veil of fog.”
“Bizarre,” Prue whispered.
“But we need to free you, Prue,” said Seamus, walking to the barred door and giving it a rattle. “First thing. Do I have a key?” He’d asked it almost rhetorically; he was fishing through the folds of his robe. His hands came up empty. “Nope. Guess they wouldn’t entrust that kind of responsibility to the religious nut on the ship.”
“Plus, there are about a dozen men up there, as far as I can tell,” put in Prue.
“Yep. This is a sticky situation. No doubt.”
There was a scraping noise above their heads; the hatch was being opened.
“Quick!” hissed Prue. “Back into your outfit!”
Seamus was already on the job. Speedily picking up the cowl and mask, he was once again the silent watchman, sitting on the chest.
