by S D Smith
“And now he’s back,” Picket said. “And King Jupiter is gone.”
“But Smalls isn’t,” Heather said with a sigh. “Oh, I wish Smalls were here.”
“What if,” Picket asked, “Heather, what if what we were told about Bleston was just King Jupiter’s side of the story? What if Bleston’s side tells it differently?”
They were getting closer. Picket slowed, and Heather matched his pace. “I don’t know what to think, Pick. I’m tired.”
“You’ve been working hard,” he said, putting his arm around her. “Whatever happens, you and I are sticking together.”
“Of course.”
Heather looked up and saw Heyward passing by. She was surprised to see him dressed in a blue robe. He carried a rod in each hand, and he was touching them together at ends that were fitted with some kind of black metal fasteners. He connected, then disconnected them, frowning at how they locked together. “Heyward!” she said, grabbing his arm.
“Heather,” he said. A smile appeared, replacing the concentrated frown he had worn. “And Picket. My friends! I had been reliably informed that you both survived, and I’m ever so glad to see it’s true.”
“And you. Are you well?” Picket asked. “I haven’t seen you in the bunkhouse. Have you joined the order?”
“I am very well,” he said. “And yes, I have joined.”
“Is it good for you?” Heather asked.
“Yes. I believe it is,” he said. Heather nodded, inviting him to go on. “You see, Heather, I was in the battle, thinking, as we all did, that I was about to die. And I realized that I had never finished anything of value in my life. I realized my work at Cloud Mountain was good, but not special, and that I had failed as a soldier and was about to die as one. I was simply brimming with regret.”
“I understand that,” Picket said.
“Beside me, I saw one of the blue-robed votaries. He was fighting desperately, just like the rest. But he was different. He looked assured, even in the face of certain death. And then I saw the Silver Prince and what he did. I was in awe, and a feeling of incredible gratitude came over me. I thought, if I was ever in that place of certain death again, that I wanted to be glad of what I’d done in my life. So, after the battle, I went to the brothers. I am an initiate now.”
“Are you happy?” Heather asked, placing her hand tenderly on his shoulder.
“Yes,” he said, patting her hand. “I can focus on a task, interrupted only by the most gratifying rites. I believe I will be at home among the brothers. And I have joined the activist branch, so I will still fight when the need is great. I haven’t abandoned the cause. The votaries are loyalists, all.” He smiled. “I am working on a project,” he said, raising the two rods. “Most likely it won’t work, but I shall give it my very best.”
“Dear Heyward,” Heather said. “We have an audience with Prince Bleston, so we must go. But we are so glad to see you well.”
“And I, you, friends,” Heyward said, touching his eyes, ears, and mouth in turn. “May your feet find the next stone.”
They nodded, smiling, and walked on, coming to the door of what had been Lord Ramnor’s rooms. Five stout rabbits guarded the door. They were dressed as all the other Terralain soldiers, but with one subtle variation. These rabbits wore red capes, and their polished shoulder armor bore the sign of Terralain, silver stars on a black field. Two stood at rigid attention on either side of the door, pikes and shields at the ready. One stood blocking the open door. Heather peeked past him and saw glimpses of the way Bleston had changed Lord Ramnor’s rooms. There were new, elaborate tapestries, a table piled with food, more guards at the ready. Bleston was decked out in silver and seated in a massive chair on a platform near the fire.
“We’re here to see the Silver Prince,” Heather said, trying to push past the burley guard. He moved to block her, causing her to bump him. She tripped backward, and Picket caught her.
“What’s that for? We were summoned,” Picket said, moving in front of Heather. His hands rose, clenching into fists.
“That’s not necessary, Picket.” The voice was familiar. From behind the immovable guard, Kyle appeared. Heather’s insides churned. Here he was, this handsome, charming, disarming scoundrel. He smiled kindly, his eyes showing that same hint of sadness they had held when he had been recognized after the battle. “Let them in,” he said to the guard. The guard gave way at once, bowing. Kyle motioned for them to enter.
As they entered, Heather saw Picket’s elbow find the big guard, and she looked away. Anger was brewing in her brother—and in her. She worried he would do something foolish.
Kyle stopped them once they were inside. At the far end of the room, Prince Bleston was speaking in low tones to several rabbits who were gathered around him.
“I consider the past as gone,” Kyle said, “and we do well to forget it. We must be friends again.”
“What’s in the past, Kyle, and what we can’t forget, Princeling,” Heather said, “is our friendship destroyed, our friends murdered, and our future king betrayed.”
Kyle looked down. “I’m not Kyle now—not the prankster you knew. I’m a prince, an heir, a warrior. I’m Kylen. I’ve done many things I’m not proud of, but all for the greater good.”
“So you can rule the world?” Picket said.
“So that everyone can be free and equal,” Kyle said. He seemed to believe what he said. But he had always been a convincing liar. Heather wanted to spit.
She looked around the room, at the splendid banners, the elaborate lamps, the indulgent table. “It looks like you’re a little above equal. I’d like to see some of this food down at the hospital where we’re trying to recover from this attack.”
“At the hospital where we saved you? That hospital?” Kyle said, an edge in his voice. “Trying to recover from the attack where our army—” He stopped, took a deep breath, and continued in a civil whisper. “I understand your anger. I do. But as your friend—and I still count you as friends—I urge you to listen to Father. Please.”
As if on cue, Bleston finished his conference and dismissed his attendants. He waved them over. “Prince Kylen,” he called. “Bring your friends to me.”
They went, and Heather saw Bleston for the first time. He was grey-furred and large, dressed in silver with light armor across his chest. He wore a crown of silver stars, a little larger and a lot taller than Kyle’s. And he wore it well. The first soldiers who saw his charge in the battle had, like Picket, called him the Silver Prince, and the name had stuck.
He sat on a raised platform, with several other chairs placed in an arc. His was the largest chair, and the rest were unoccupied. He looked magnificent, regal, and imposing. So Heather was surprised to see the kindness in his eyes. He was smiling broadly.
As they approached, she understood what Picket meant about feeling the awe that one must have felt in the presence of King Jupiter. Here was one of royal blood, a descendant of King Whitson and so many mighty sires. Though moments before her mind was filled with things she meant to say, objections she meant to make, now she was silent, still, and deferential. She glanced at Picket, who seemed likewise undone. They were, to be sure, in the presence of greatness.
She felt a strong urge to bow. She resisted, but only barely.
“Greetings to you, Longtreaders,” he said, and his voice rumbled with a happy authority. “I have heard of your prowess, and I think you shall make an excellent king and queen in Natalia.”
Chapter Seventeen
THE WINTER KING
King and queen? Picket was puzzled, but he stood there, resisting the urge to bow, unable to think of anything to say.
“You are surprised I think of you as royalty?” Bleston laughed.
“Because we are not,” Heather said, finding her tongue at last. Picket was grateful, because for him, the words wouldn’t come.
“But you have behaved like royalty,” he said. “Distinguishing yourselves. Showing you deserve to be free. In Terr
alain, all rabbits are free, and all are equal. All kings and queens—if only they will grab it.”
“All equal?” Picket stammered. “But you are—”
“In Terralain,” Bleston said, “we are all stars in the same night.” He pointed to the banner, a black field filled with silver stars.
“Then why do all these serve you?” Heather asked, motioning to the attentive rabbits of Bleston’s court.
“Well, I am a bit more than a king. I am the king who makes all kings. I am king and kingmaker. I am effect and cause,” he said, laughing.
“But can they oppose you?” Picket said, finally able to form a sentence.
“Of course they can,” he said, winking at Kyle, “if they believe they are able.” He laughed again, and Kyle smiled.
“So how is Terralain different than any other kingdom?”
“It is a kingdom for all kingdoms. It is a kingdom with a mission to make all kingdoms free and equal—all stars in the same night.”
“But you are the sun in this sky,” Heather asked, “are you not?”
He smiled again, then laughed loudly. “I like you, Heather Longtreader,” he said. Then, looking at Kyle, he added, “You were right about her.”
Kyle smiled, but Picket thought he looked the slightest bit uncomfortable. He had his father’s easy way, his strong confidence and cheerful bravado. But was it only a mask?
“If you are, and possibly everyone else is, a king,” Picket asked, “then does it bother you when they call you the Silver Prince?” Picket was trying to keep a wall around his heart, a wall made partly of anger toward Kyle for the betrayal in which his father had no doubt played a part. But he found he had to keep building it up again and again. Bleston’s presence was powerful. Picket felt himself drawn to this strong, profoundly confident rabbit. He’s just the sort of leader we need, he thought, before shaking his head to clear it.
“No,” Bleston said, laughing. He looked past them toward the door, and Picket followed his gaze. There were more rabbits waiting to see him. One was Captain Frye. “I don’t mind the name. It’s quite poetic.”
“But you are a prince,” Heather said.
“Every king is a prince as well. I am a king, like my father and his father, all the way back to Whitson Mariner himself.” As he said this, Bleston pulled at the chain of gold that hung around his neck, removing it from beneath his shirt and armor. Dangling from the chain was a bright red diamond. “I carry the Whitson Stone, and I am, by rights, the ruler of all Natalia.”
Heather gasped. The Whitson Stone? She didn’t know all the history, but she did know that, just as the emerald gem known as the Green Ember was the sign that the owner was to inherit the throne someday, the Whitson Stone meant the bearer was the rightful ruler now. She hadn’t known where the stone was. She just assumed that Smalls or Lord Rake had it. Had King Jupiter lost it during his rule, or had it been stolen by Bleston after Jupiter’s fall? Had the fallen king reigned without ever having it? Why hadn’t Uncle Wilfred and Lord Rake mentioned it?
She found her voice again. “We have a king, or will soon, the true heir to your brave brother, who bore the Green Ember and ruled so well. His son and heir is destined for the throne. He will make us free, not call us kings and make us grovel. He will let us be who we are, inspire us to be who we ought, not promise us what we can never be.”
“You don’t believe you will be a queen?” he asked, his eyes keen and penetrating.
This went to her heart. The truth was, she did hope to be queen. Not because of a desire for power or prestige, but because she loved Smalls, and that was the only way to stay by his side for life. She bowed her head.
Bleston smiled a knowing, mischievous smile. “How about this, my friends?” he said, his tone calm and reassuring. “I will be for you a winter king, and we shall see if your small king shall ever return. If he does, we will talk about the new world together.” He made a subtle signal, and Kyle motioned to the Longtreaders to move toward the door. “Thank you, young ones, for visiting me. We will talk further another time. Until then, carry on with your duties.”
Their conference was over, ended with an order. There was no doubt who commanded in this place. Was that the purpose of the meeting? They saw Captain Frye just ahead. He was being led to Bleston by an unbelievably large rabbit with unique markings on his left shoulder armor, a splash of red Picket couldn’t quite make out.
Picket moved close to Captain Frye and stood in front of him and his giant escort. “Lord Captain,” Picket said, bowing his head. “Heather and I will continue in our duty but await any further orders from you.” He finished in a salute. The giant guard glowered at him. Captain Frye smiled tightly and pulled Picket close.
“Be careful, son,” he whispered close to Picket’s ear. “These aren’t the kind to play games with.” Then he was moving on, hustled along by his guide.
Kyle smirked. “You’ll bring the frost if you anger the winter gods,” he said. He urged them toward the door, reaching out his hand to lay it on Picket’s shoulder. Picket shrugged it off.
“He’s been promoted from winter king to winter god now?” Heather said. “That didn’t take long. This equality you Terralains preach is really compelling.”
“You don’t know him,” Kyle said, glancing back as his father shook hands with Captain Frye. “You are wrong to underestimate him.”
“So we should think of him as an opponent?” Picket asked as they ducked through the door. Kyle followed them into the corridor.
“Of course not,” he said. “Father liberated this place. He saved you all. He wants to liberate the world. He’s not a winter god, of course, but he does not like defiance. I’ve had to do hard things,” his head went down, “in the past.”
“Will he settle for being our winter king?” Heather asked. “When the snow melts and Prince Jupiter Smalls returns, will the two of you stand aside? Or will you betray him again?”
Kyle looked away. He rubbed his eyes, ran his hands through his fur, and walked back toward the door. Finally, he turned to the Longtreaders. When he did, he looked tired. Deeply weary. Picket thought the mask was finally broken and they were seeing the real rabbit.
“Let Father be the winter king, Longtreaders,” Kyle said. “We’ll see what happens in spring. If it ever comes.”
Chapter Eighteen
CARRIED OFF
Over the next week, the Silver Prince became the Winter King. He ruled Halfwind like a father to a thousand orphans. Heather watched Prince Bleston run the secret citadel uncommonly well, his fame growing with every new day. Heather was anxious and full of dread, but the new reality came on them like the winter snow—inevitable, unstoppable. Just as she couldn’t make it autumn again, she couldn’t alter the reality of life in the citadel.
Heather didn’t see the falling snow, for she was inside, tending to her most urgent duties. Helmer’s wounds kept him confined to the hospital, where she and Emma kept vigil over him to make sure he wouldn’t leave before he was healed. No small task. And they had many, many more. Heyna Blackstar was also in the hospital, and she received Emma’s tender attention as well. The beautiful young doe—whom Heather had disliked for no good reason—had come between the wolves and Emma, battling desperately. She had paid a high price for it. Her face bore an unmistakable mark from the battle, a scar she would carry with her for life. She would be a long time recovering.
There was always work, and little else, for Heather. She ate. She slept. At times, she and Emma laughed—silly, sleepless, survival laughter—then they carried on with their duty.
“Have you done Jo’s wrap?” Emma asked, flitting from bed to bed and looking as exhausted as Heather felt.
“Not yet,” Heather answered, digging in the satchel that had become like an extension of her body, she wore it so often. “After I dose the Willow twins, I’ll redo it.”
“It’s been..?” Emma began, her face crunched in concentration.
“I think only a day,” Heath
er said. “Maybe two?”
“It’s only been a day,” Jo Shanks said, raising his voice above the din. “You wrapped it yesterday, for some reason.”
Emma whirled on him. “For some reason?” she said. He froze and his smirk disappeared. “I’ll tell you why we clean and wrap your wound every day, Mr. Shanks. It’s so it doesn’t get infected and rot your arm off.”
“I...I...didn’t mean—” Jo began.
“If you want to have only one arm,” Emma went on, “then sure, stop listening to your doctor and do whatever you want. I’m not sure you’ll be quite as useful with that bow of yours, but by all means, ignore us. We’re only doctors after all, not super-important Fowlers with urgent top-level elite work to do.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” he said. “You’re right.”
She eyed him coolly, finally turning back to Heather and winking.
Heather moved to the beds in the youngling section and carefully measured out a dose of Emma’s prescribed tonic for each of the twins. She patted the young buck’s head. These two, a brother and sister, were orphaned after losing their father in the battle. They were ill and had been in the hospital since before the battle.
“You’ll be well again soon, Lukan. Doctor Emma has a tonic that’s just what you need.”
“Better than the potions in your stories?” he asked, coughing.
Heather leaned close so only the two of them could hear. “I think,” she whispered, glancing side to side, “that she got it from a wizard. But don’t tell anyone.”
“Is that why it tastes so bad?” Lukan asked, sticking out his tongue. He continued in a conspiratorial whisper. “In stories, the magic tonics taste like sunlight and stardust. This medicine tastes like dirt-puddle and trash.” Heather handed him his dose. He winced, gagged, then with a tremendous effort swallowed it down. “Yep. Dirt-puddle and trash.”
“How do you know what—?” Heather began, but Lukan interrupted.
“Don’t ask, Miss Heather,” he said, raising his hand. “And I won’t have to lie to you.”
