by S D Smith
The Green Ember
S. D. Smith
Illustrated by Zach Franzen
Story Warren Books
Copyright © 2015 by S. D. Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is about, not for, rabbits. Silly reader, books are for kids. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].
eBook edition ISBN: 978-0-9862235-2-5
Also available in hard cover, paperback, and audiobook from the Story Warren Store.
Story Warren Books,
an imprint of
Brightener Books
www.brightenerbooks.com
Cover and interior illustrations by Zach Franzen, www.atozach.com
Cover design by Paul Boekell, www.boekell.com
Map created by Will Smith
Story Warren Books
For Anne and Josiah
Quaerite primum regnum Dei
Prologue
Two soaked and battered rabbits washed up on the shore of Ayman Lake. Gasping, Fleck crawled onto the stony beach, rolled over, and tried to clear his mind. Galt was already standing. “We have to go, Fleck,” he said, eyes darting from the lake to the tree line.
“I’m no traitor,” Fleck managed to say through ragged breaths.
“Traitor?” Galt cried. “The winning side gets to decide who the traitors were. We’ve lost, Fleck. It’s over. Even you, Captain Blackstar, can do nothing this time. We have no chance.”
“We? We have no chance?”
“He has no chance,” Galt said, head down, edging toward the forest.
Fleck stood slowly, staggering. The usually grey fur of his arm was blotched with dark scarlet. One eye was swollen shut.
“He can be saved,” Fleck said, reaching for his sword. His hand closed on air. His scabbard was empty.
“Nothing,” Galt said. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s the end of the world.”
“But the oath, Galt. Remember? We can still turn this. King Whitson needs us. Prince Lander needs us,” he said, pointing to the burning ship. “I’ll never turn traitor.”
“You’re only a traitor if you betray yourself,” Galt said. He sprinted off, disappearing into the trees.
Fleck struggled to stay upright. Swaying, he turned from the fleeing rabbit to face the lake. Charcoal smoke corkscrewed into the sky. The blackened boat teemed with enemies. Flames snapped at the red diamond standard as the last kingsbucks grappled with the invaders on the deck. Whitson Mariner stood among them, his sword poised and his harried shouts echoing over the lake. Fleck straightened and stretched his arm. Pain flared. Unbearable agony. He bent, wincing. He opened his eyes and saw King Whitson, fighting desperately to protect Prince Lander. Fleck rose, ignoring the pain, and shouted across the water.
“My place beside you, my blood for yours! Till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world!”
Swordless, Fleck Blackstar hobbled to the water’s edge and plunged in.
from The Black Star of Kingston
Chapter One
Heather and Picket
Catch a Star
Heather had invented the game, but Picket made it magic. She remembered the day it began. She had been out in the meadow behind their elm-tree home, lying on a blanket in the sun. Heather was little then. Her long furry ears bent slightly in the wind, and the bow she invariably wore over one ear was starting to come undone. That day Mother had done a carnation bow, an intricate weave of one long ribbon made to look like a large flower, and pinned it to one ear. Picket was little more than a baby then, sleeping in his crib.
Heather had gathered several sticks and was thinking hard about them when a powerful gust of wind almost knocked her over. The gust finally loosened her bow, which came down in a tangle of scarlet ribbon, draping over the sticks she held. She was unaware that she held the ingredients for a game that would later give them endless hours of fun.
She had crossed two short sticks and made an X shape. Then she added another, giving it six points. She tied them together with the long scarlet ribbon. Heather smiled. It was pretty, like a star. The end of the ribbon trailed back a few feet, and she considered wrapping all of it around the bound pointed sticks. But she stopped suddenly, and then the wind picked up again as she tied off the ribbon around the star at its center, leaving its long scarlet train to flap in the breeze. She stood, holding her small invention aloft, smiling wide. With barely a thought of why, she flung the toy as hard as she could. It sailed through the air like a shooting star, the ribbon trailing a scarlet wake. It disappeared into the tall grass. She frowned, afraid it would take forever to find it.
That’s when the game came to her. When Picket woke up, she explained it to him, hoping he would crawl out and play. But he was too little then.
“It’s called Starseek,” she said, “and this is the star.”
“Is it a real star?” Picket asked, his head cocked sideways and his whiskers twitching.
“No, little one,” Heather said, “a real star hangs in the sky at night, along with a million others. This is just a game.”
“A game?” Picket said. “Maybe they’re all for games.”
Now that they were both older, Heather near maturity and Picket not too far behind, the two of them had played Starseek hundreds of times. It had been fun to play alone for a little while, but that got old pretty quickly. So Picket had played, with Heather’s patient instruction, from the time he could walk. Now he was older and, as much as Heather hated to admit it, getting as good as her at the game she had invented. He had a keen eye and was agile on the ground. She was faster. She could still beat him at a straight-run race, but he was quick.
Today she was in danger of losing every match. But it wasn’t over yet.
Picket flung the star, and it sailed, red ribbon against blue sky, far into the meadow. Finally falling, it disappeared into the tall golden grass. The moment it touched down, they were off.
Picket darted back and forth amid the tall grass. He had an uncanny knack for doing a sort of quick math in his mind, and his estimations were almost always spot-on. He liked to stay low, close to the ground. But Heather’s chance lay in her experience and flat-out speed.
She bolted for the spot she was sure the star must be, running full-out, heedless of the hidden dangers that might send her sprawling. Let Picket dart back and forth all he wanted, dodging roots and stumps. She would fly.
Heather sailed over the high grass in each leap, rebounding to soar once more above the heavy kernelled tips. She loved the feeling of the wind pushing against the fur of her face and her long soft ears. She was marveling at the power in her legs and feet, thrilled with the feel of the wind against her face, when she struck a stone, well-hidden in the thickest part of the grass. She lost her balance and fell hard, rolling several times. Surely it’s over now.
Heather popped up quickly and stretched her long neck to look around. She ignored the pain in her leg; she could tell it wasn’t serious enough to stop. She saw grass giving way in a zigzag to her left and knew Picket was closing in on the star. She quickly scanned the grass ahead, hoping to catch any evidence of the star
’s entry.
She saw it before he did, but he was closer, tacking back and forth. He stopped and popped his head up, trying to peer above the tall grass. He saw it and quickly swiveled to see where Heather was.
By then, she was already pounding toward the target.
Just the delay I need.
Heather never stopped, but their eyes met. She saw Picket’s eyes narrow, his whiskers twitch, and his brows furrow. He launched into the effort.
It was going to be close.
He led 2 to 0, and if he got the star this time, the match was over. Heather put all her energy into the last few feet, determined to snatch victory away from this young upstart. She smiled.
Picket was closing fast, she saw, faster than she expected. She watched him coil for the final spring at the star. He lunged for it, propelled through the air like a skipping stone rising from the dimpled surface of a lake. His hand opened to grab the star.
Heather’s hand closed on it a moment sooner. They collided in the air, rolling over and over in a blurry heap of fur and red ribbon.
Heather bounced up first, her fist clenching the star.
Picket rubbed his head and leaned on his elbow. “That,” he began, pausing to catch his breath, “was amazing.”
“It was,” Heather agreed, panting and trying not to giggle. “Closest finish ever, Picket.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, gasping for air and grinning wide. “That was even closer than the infamous Snow Match of last winter.”
She laughed, remembering. That had been a cold, crazy day.
But this day was fine. There was no snow, no chill, nothing whatsoever to dampen their joy. At least, not yet.
Heather glanced at the sky over East Wood. Purple clouds pulsed with irregular stabs of light in the distance. A rolling rumble signaled the storm’s approach. Pretty fast approach, if she knew anything. She looked away. After all, it was still sunny here, at least for the moment.
“Great match, Heather,” Picket said, rising to his feet. “You were going faster than I’ve ever seen you.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But you still have the lead.”
“Let it fly,” he said, eager for a chance to win the overall match.
She leaned into it, her heart still racing, and flung the star with all her strength. It took flight, sailing high into the sky, its red trail rippling in the wind. The game depended on each player throwing it as hard as he or she could and both standing still until it landed.
The rabbits watched, eyes tracking the red ribbon, while their bodies prepared to bolt as soon as it disappeared in the grass. As soon as it landed.
But it didn’t land.
The breeze caught it up, and it sailed wide to their right and stuck high in the branches of the old maple tree that bent on the edge of East Wood.
“I can’t believe this,” Picket said, kicking a stone. Thunder boomed in the distance.
“Let’s go see if we can get it,” Heather said.
Picket frowned but followed behind his sister.
They weren’t allowed to go past this tree to the east. They could go into West Wood, sure. But Father had strictly warned them never to go past this maple tree, never to come a step closer to East Wood. He had also told them to run full speed back to the house if they ever heard anything whatsoever from the eastern forest, even as small as a twig snapping. So, on top of their game being delayed or ruined, they had to go near the creepiest place they knew.
They crossed to the meadow’s edge quickly, an eye on the approaching storm. Heather looked up at the tangled mess of the maple tree. Its limbs stretched out like the brittle arms of a lanky monster; its hollow middle was a crevice of decay.
It was a young tree, nowhere near as big as the wide elm the rabbits made their home in. But the monster maple was dying. This seemed wrong to Heather, but Father had confirmed it.
“Yes, it’s a very young tree. But it won’t last two more winters. It’s doomed,” he had said while walking with them last year in the spring, “just like everything in the east. It used to be alive and beautiful. But now it’s bent, dangerous, and dying.”
Heather had felt a chill as he said this, a rare display of sadness by their father. But, come to think of it, Heather thought she could see this more and more in him. Was Father getting sadder, or was she just getting old enough to see it? She hadn’t asked him then, or since, the questions that continued to bubble up in her mind: Where are we from? Why did we come here?
She knew that Father was from the east and that none of Mother’s family still lived in Nick Hollow. But any time the subject of their moving to Nick Hollow—far away from almost everyone—came up, her parents grew sad, grave, and silent. She had learned to leave those questions unasked.
They reached the roots of the maple tree and stared up at the tangle of ribbon that surrounded their star.
“We could make another,” Picket said, looking from side to side.
Heather knew why he was nervous.
“That ribbon isn’t so easy to find, Picket,” she said. “We can get it if we work together.”
“You know I’m scared of heights,” he said. “There’s no point in teasing me.”
“I’m not teasing you,” Heather said, snapping back. “I just think you need to get over it. We’re not that far away from being old enough to be on our own, Pick.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be as grown-up and brave as Heather the Magnificent,” he said.
“Let me boost you up,” she said, fighting off the urge to really sting him with her words. She cast an uneasy eye at the forest, which lay just a few yards away down a gentle slope. She found a good spot and folded her hands together, making a place for Picket’s foot to step up and reach the lowest limb. From there, she knew, he should be able to reach the next limb and climb up carefully to reach the star.
She watched him hesitate, first glancing at the wood with a wince, then looking up fearfully at where the star was stuck in the branches. Beyond the branches, the blue sky was turning to purple as charcoal clouds churned above.
Heather could tell that he was embarrassed, that he was fighting off the urge to run away. She felt nervous as well. This lanky monster of a tree had their star in its heights, and it looked determined to trap them in its branches.
The sky thundered suddenly, an ominous, brooding doom. Heather felt panic growing inside her. “It’s nothing,” she said aloud. “I’m not afraid of this—” But she couldn’t finish her defiant words.
A bone-rattling boom ripped open the sky, sending a jagged javelin of gold crackling down.
The rabbits were knocked back as lightning struck the maple with a deafening crack, followed by a spray of sparks and shards of bark. Lightning ripped through the limbs, circling the brittle trunk of the maple in a braided tangle of fire.
Heather got to her feet, dazed. Her vision cleared. She looked up.
A huge limb, one of the monster maple’s bending arms—heavy and ablaze—cracked off and hurtled toward them. She stole a panicked glance at Picket.
Picket was on his back, eyes closed.
He wasn’t moving.
Chapter Two
Home in the Hollow
As the burning limb descended, Heather sprang. She dove onto her brother, gripping him tightly and rolling them both down the sloping grass, away from the blazing maple’s limb. The singed fingers of the outmost branches pawed at them as the monster maple’s arm smashed into the ground in time with another thunderous boom from the sky.
They rolled into a thorn bush on the edge of East Wood as the rain began to fall. Like the blazing branch they had only just escaped, the rain came down suddenly, with no pitter-patter of polite introduction. Lightning split the sky again, this time a little farther off. Picket woke, eyes wide, and gasping for breath.
“It’s okay, Picket,” H
eather said in a rush, loud above the noise. “You’re all right.”
Heather checked him over quickly to confirm her words. For a moment they sat there, staring dumbly at the burning tree, smoke twisting up into the sky as the rain extinguished the blaze from the top down. After another boom of thunder and a crackling flash, they ran for it.
Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, it was hard to see. With the storm’s arrival, a frightening darkness out of the east had descended. The two rabbits ran, hand in hand, slipping and tripping in the driving rain. They were shadows of what they had been only a short time ago when they had crossed the meadow like comets chasing after a star. They were shaken and afraid.
They had the whole of the wide meadow to cross in the darkness, soaked and fearful, but in flashes of lightning they could see their elm-tree home.
Flash! Father and Mother appeared on the little porch between the wide, smooth roots of the tree. Flash! Mother was holding Baby Jacks, her face showing worry. Father peered into the darkness.
“Here!” Heather shouted. Flash! Picket shouted too, but their voices sounded small in the pounding rain and irregular claps of thunder.
Flash! Mother pointed. Rumble … flash! Father dashed into the storm. The younger rabbits ducked as the sky was split and lightning fell. Heather saw Father in the bright bursts, never ducking, always moving toward them in the darkness. Eager. Determined. Confident.
He met them halfway across the meadow. Father paused before them, and they stopped. He looked from Picket to Heather and, after a moment’s hesitation, put his arm around Heather and motioned for them to follow him back. Heather thought he had almost meant to pick her up, to fold her in his arms and carry her home. But he seemed startled, or half-embarrassed, that she wasn’t really small enough to carry like that anymore. Nor was Picket, who was almost her size now.
Nearly to the porch, Father glanced down at her. She smiled up at him.
Finally, they were on the porch and through the door. Baby Jacks cried in the corner, while Mother met them with blankets, towels, and hugs.
