by S D Smith
She nodded and turned to Elska. Concern filled her. “This will help you heal, Elska,” she said. “Take it, dear child.”
“Will it keep us from being carried away by the Preylords?” asked Elska. Her eyebrows furrowed and a pouty frown formed on her face. “They come for children, you know. The Preylords took Mamma. And they’ll come for us.”
“Nonsense,” Heather said, crossing to sit beside her on the bed. “The Lords of Prey won’t come in here. We have strong guards to block them, including my brother. He’s a hero, you know.”
“The wolves got in, Miss Heather.”
“But we stopped them.”
“Can your brother fight all the birds?” she asked. When Heather didn’t answer right away, she nodded her little head. “I’ll never go outside again,” Elska said, and she swallowed her dose.
“If you can, Elska dear, think of happy things. The Mended Wood is coming, and we’ll be free again.”
The little doe lay down and pulled the covers up to her neck. “I don’t want to be carried off. The Preylords come, and them they carry off, you never see again. I don’t want to be carried off.”
“Sleep, little one.” Heather kissed Elska, smiled at Lukan, then crossed back to Jo, who was waiting by the door. She sighed, trying to turn her thoughts away from the intense needs of these little orphans. And the others like them.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Jo said, whispering as she drew near. “You of all rabbits. You saved my life on Cloud Mountain, and I’ll never forget that.”
“Emma’s a little strained,” Heather said, undoing the wrap on Jo’s arm. As she began to clean the arrow wound, she went on. “I think we’re all on edge. I blame exhaustion and the constant adjustments to new ways. And all the little tragedies,” she said, glancing back at the twins.
“Has it affected you? The Silver Prince’s new order, I mean. I thought you were kind of immune.”
“No; it has,” she said, beginning the new wrap. “The truth is, I’m in favor of almost everything he’s doing to improve our preparedness. He’s been a little hard, but I think we need it.”
“He’s a great leader,” Jo said, nodding. “Lord Ramnor was a good rabbit, but he wasn’t a military leader, really. Captain Frye made that side of things work, but not like the Silver Prince. He’s a legend.”
Heather nodded as she wound the wrap. “He’s hard to resist.”
“Resist?” Jo said. “Why should we resist him?”
“Because we already have a prince,” she said, punctuating prince as she pulled the last of the wrap tight.
“Ow!” Jo said, wincing.
“Sorry,” she said, adjusting the wrap. She patted his shoulder gently. “You may go, soldier.”
He saluted and, after an awkward nod to Emma, left. Heather crossed to Emma, who was working at her desk alone. “Bleston’s got Halfwind’s heart in his hands,” Heather said.
Emma looked up. “I hope he doesn’t squeeze.”
Chapter Nineteen
THE LAW OF THE SILVER PRINCE
Heather Longtreader, I have figured it out at last!”
The ancient creaking voice was familiar. Heather turned to see Jone Wissel striding into the hospital, holding aloft a small cinched purse. The purse was patchy and old, with half-stitched holes and prominent stains. Its owner was still more ancient. Jone was an enigma, disappearing into the bowels of the Halfwind warren for months, then emerging out of nowhere as if she’d never been absent. Heather hadn’t seen her in weeks.
“Aunt Jone!” Heather said, turning to face the bent old rabbit, who leaned on a cane and looked up with wild eyes and toothless gums. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen you. Are you okay? Are you hurt at all?”
“I never hurt at all, Miss Longtreader!” Jone fairly shouted. Then she whispered conspiratorially, spitting unwittingly as she did, “I did feel a bit down, but I dose myself most precisely with all the precision of a white ant crafting magnificent swords.”
Heather raised her eyebrows, trying to work out the meaning of Jone’s word picture. But she stopped herself, remembering that Jone’s metaphor puzzles were always difficult to crack. It was rumored that Jone had been the apothecary’s assistant for many years but failed to get the post herself when her mother, Junie Wise, died. That was long ago, but no one knew precisely just how long ago. Lord Ramnor always said that Jone “came with the place,” meaning she had been here long before he arrived.
“I’m so glad you’re all right. You worry me, disappearing for weeks like that.”
“Tut, tut!” Jone scolded. “You sound like an old hag. Naggy nag! Be free and happy, like a pickle in a pepper pot.” She said this last while spinning a clumsy twirl. She finished the twirl by tripping and staggering sideways, and she only barely regained her balance by stabbing her cane into a passing soldier’s foot. The soldier toppled, his foot still pinned, while Jone righted herself by leaning hard on her cane. Then she seemed to notice the buck, now in agony.
“Wah! I’m sorry, bucky!” she cried. “It appears,” she went on, bending to whisper, and spit, near the crumpled soldier’s ear, “that I’ve quite violently and egregiously pegged your poor foot.” She examined his feet and noticed the other had already been bandaged. “It further appears,” she said, resuming her shouting, “that this was the only foot you had in good working order. I beg you to forgive me, young’n. But I have a tonic that will set you up right away! Do I? I do!”
“Oh, Aunt Jone,” Heather said, stepping in to help the soldier up. “Remember, you agreed to let us do the doctoring. It’s all right, Mitchell,” she said to the groaning soldier. “Just lie back, and I’ll have a look at your foot in a moment.”
“He’ll live,” Captain Helmer said flatly, rolling over on his bed. He shot Mitchell a profoundly unsympathetic look.
“I’ll be just fine,” Mitchell said, smiling weakly as Jone patted his head a little harder than necessary. “Don’t worry a moment, ma’am. I’ve had much worse.”
Helmer nodded curtly, then turned back over with a rumbling mumble.
“He still needs a cure,” Jone whispered close to Heather’s ear. Heather blinked as the spittle flew, fighting off the urge to wipe her face every few seconds. She took Jone’s arm in hers and led her gently toward the other side of the hospital, past the sleeping twins and the other younglings. They wound out into the broad hallway and stopped.
“How has your work been going?” Heather asked.
“I believe I’ve found it, at last!” Jone shouted, shaking the patchy purse in the air.
“Aunt Jone,” Heather said gently, “I’m afraid you always say that.”
“But this time—” Jone began.
“It’s different,” Heather finished. “Again.”
“Ah,” Jone said, touching her chin, “I take your point, reluctantly. I have said such things in the past.”
“A few times,” Heather said, taking her hand.
“I was saying it long ago,” she said, her eyes growing suddenly dimmer. Heather thought she was seeing something like the old rabbit’s real age now. “I have said it to a hundred young ones like yourself.”
“I admire you for keeping after it. I really do.”
Jone turned her suddenly tired eyes to Heather and squeezed her hand. “You are very kind, Heather,” she said softly. “You have always treated me with a respect I’m sure I’ve never earned. Or, if I ever did earn it, it was a long time before you were even born.”
Heather had never seen Jone act like this. It worried her. She seemed to fade before Heather’s eyes, the wild light that energized her efforts dimming.
“What have you found, Aunt Jone?” Heather asked.
“Old Crone Jone!” A sharp shout came from the door. Heather turned to see Lieutenant Kout striding up, two guards flanking him. “You have been warned about getting into the prester’s vault.”
“Oh, Aunt Jone,” Heather said, “what have you done?”
“It’s
not my fault that Kell’s hoarding all the best supply!” Jone cried, eyes coming alive again as Kout’s guards took her by the arms. “I needed the real thing for my tonic. He’s got all the True Blue in this warren. I runned out a month back and haven’t felt quite myself since.”
“Gently, now,” Heather said, reaching for their gripping hands. “Is this really necessary?”
“It’s been too often, Heather,” Lieutenant Kout said, shaking his head. “As forgiving as Prester Kell’s been in the past, this ends now. King Bleston’s system leaves no sympathy for thieves.”
“What are you going to do for your ‘King Bleston,’ Lieutenant,” Heather asked, “put her in jail?”
He sighed. “He’s in command, Heather. And he is a king. As for Jone, she’ll have to be confined. It’s the law. No exceptions.”
“Surely not,” Heather said, coming close to Kout and whispering. “She could die in jail. Let me take care of her and I’ll—”
“I’m sorry,” he said, jerking his head to the guards. They pulled her away. He marched after them.
“Aunt Jone!” Heather cried. She couldn’t let this be. She would go to Lord Ramnor—
But Lord Ramnor was dead. Smalls? He was gone. Lord Rake, Uncle Wilfred, and so many others she could turn to? All gone. Lord Ramnor would no more put Aunt Jone in prison than kick younglings. Angry and heart-heavy, she took a step toward the hospital door, but her foot kicked something. It slid across the floor in front of her, and she bent to retrieve it.
An old, patchy purse.
Heather picked it up. She smiled, shook her head, and shoved it into her satchel. Her face tightened again as she thought of how roughly they had handled poor old Jone.
“Emma!” she shouted, storming inside.
* * *
Picket watched Jo enter the noisy mess hall, wind his way through the line, and find a place beside the rest of the Fowlers. The hall was packed with soldiers now, most bearing the black and silver of Terralain. Perkinson was sitting beside Picket, and Coleden sat across from them both. Jo slid in beside Cole. Picket glanced at Jo’s plate. Same as his plate. Short rations.
He longed for the Savory Den, for a cup of cider and some of that succulent soup, for an endless flow of honeyed bread. He wondered how Gort was faring, how all his friends on Cloud Mountain were getting along.
He thought of Mrs. Weaver, of how sad he had been to say goodbye to her. She had been a lifeline in a storm for him, a source of wisdom and acceptance he had never before known. The wise old rabbit would sew for hours and serve up counsel to small and great. Her wisdom was rooted in heartache, and she had understood Picket’s pain. She had her own pain. Her husband had been carried off in the afterterrors, trading his life for hers. But to know her on Cloud Mountain had been a gift.
Picket had come back to life there. He missed the place but more so the many friends he’d left behind. There were others he missed, like Eefaw Potter and Doctor Zeiger. He hoped they were all safe. In some ways they were more vulnerable than Halfwind—an easier target, with so many civilians. Lord Rake had been slowly evacuating many of the families, but the truth was, there were few safe options.
Plans were still being made to send the most vulnerable to Kingston. It was the safest place, but the journey was dangerous. He longed for a world where safe places for the weak and vulnerable were common, but that was not this world. Not right now.
Perkinson drained his cup and coughed, bringing Picket’s attention back to the group.
“So we’re all here,” Perkinson said, speaking loud enough to be heard above the general clamor but quiet enough that only the Fowlers could hear him.
“Except for our master,” Picket said.
“I guess you’re it for us, now,” Perkinson said. “Although I’m disappointed by how long it’s taking you to hit us with a surprise attack. Personally, I’d suggest scalding us with this boiling, bitter, so-called ‘coffee.’”
“I’d go for Jo’s arm,” Cole said. “He’s sensitive there and has to get it wrapped by the pretty doctors every single day.”
“Hey,” Jo said, “they make me! It’s not like I want to.”
The Fowlers appeared unconvinced. “Of course,” Perkinson said. “We never doubted you for a second, bucko.”
“Listen up,” Picket said. “I talked to Captain Frye about the messengers we sent to Kingston.”
“No word?” Cole said, his smile vanishing.
“None.”
“It’s too early,” Perkinson said. “The runners are fast, but not that fast.”
“What about the envoy to Cloud Mountain?” Cole asked.
“Nothing there, either,” Picket said, frowning.
“There was plenty of time for that route,” Perkinson said. “It’s not that far.”
“I agree,” Jo said.
“Maybe the wolves got them,” Perk said. “Scouts are seeing wolves on the perimeter every day. It’s just a matter of time before some break in to attack again.”
“So what do we do?” Cole asked. “We need to get messages through.”
“I’m thinking of going myself,” Picket said. “I want to talk to Lord Rake.”
“Will—” Perkinson began, but he stopped.
“Will the Silver Prince allow it?” Cole asked. “Is that what you’re asking?”
“Yeah,” Perkinson said. “There’s a reality here we can’t ignore.”
“The reality that Bleston is in command?” Jo asked.
“Yes,” Perkinson said. “That reality.”
“I know,” Picket said, “which is why I’m not going to ask.”
“But he’ll find out, Pick,” Jo said. “He seems to know everything that’s going on in this place before it even happens.”
“He can’t know,” Picket said. “I’ve told almost no one. And anyway, I think I’ve slipped beneath the notice of the Silver Prince.”
The large mess hall grew suddenly quiet. Picket looked up to see Kyle enter, accompanied by that massive captain, both in silver breastplates. On Kyle’s other side stood an oddly dressed rabbit, old and robed in purple, his head dangling with beads and gems braided into his fur. He frowned as he scanned the room.
The hall was silent when the captain spoke. “Attention, soldiers! Prince Kylen has words.” The soldiers from Terralain rose and stood at attention, followed by the Halfwind soldiers.
“Thank you, Captain,” Kyle said, smiling and confident. This was the Kyle of old, poised and irresistibly charming. “My father invites the entire community to join him and Captain Frye in Leapers Hall at sundown tomorrow. Please dress in your best uniforms and be prompt. That is all.” The soldiers of Terralain saluted.
“Sit,” Kyle said, “enjoy your meals. You are all doing very well.”
When the soldiers had resumed their seats and meals, Kyle left his companions at the door and made his way toward the Fowlers.
“What were you saying about going unnoticed?” Cole whispered.
“Picket,” Kyle said, striding up, “Father wishes to speak to you.”
Chapter Twenty
THE LORDS OF ALL WE SEE
Picket nodded to the other Fowlers and followed Kyle to the door.
“Picket,” Kyle said, “I believe you know Captain Valter, one of our finest warriors.”
“Captain Valter,” Picket said, nodding.
“Lieutenant Longtreader,” Valter said, returning the nod. The rabbit was nearly twice as tall as Picket. Muscles rippled beneath the fur on his arms and legs.
“And Tameth Seer,” Kyle said, looking at the robed rabbit with jeweled fur and wild eyes. “May I introduce Lieutenant Picket Longtreader, the hero of the crossing and second in command of the elite Fowlers unit.” Kyle turned to Picket. “Picket, this is Tameth Seer, Father’s longtime advisor and friend.”
“I am honored to meet you, sir,” Picket said, bowing neatly.
“And I, you,” the seer said, his voice high and brittle. “I have heard much of you, yo
ung Longtreader.”
Picket felt uneasy. The ancient rabbit’s gaze seemed to penetrate his eyes and delve deep within him. “I see layers behind your eyes,” the seer croaked. Then he spoke to Kyle as they walked. “I see a hinge for history in that one, Prince Kylen, much like I see in your father. And you.”
Kyle nodded, and Picket walked on in silence. He had no idea what he was supposed to say. After a few more steps, Tameth Seer stepped in front of him, eagerly gazing into his eyes. Picket stood firm, tried not to blink. I have nothing to hide.
“I see you soar, Longtreader,” he whispered, squinting as if trying to make out a distant shape. “I see you ascending.”
Picket blinked, and the old rabbit blinked, and when he looked again, that mystical recognition was gone. He frowned, turning up the corner of his wrinkled mouth in some disgust. “What I might have seen, could I have looked but a little while longer. But now it is gone.” He spat and walked on. The group re-formed behind him and moved forward.
In a few minutes, they reached the hallway before Bleston’s receiving room, and the guards gave way before them, bowing to Kyle. They passed through, and Picket saw that up ahead Lieutenant Kout was bowing to Bleston. Kout was a good rabbit, one of Captain Frye’s closest advisors. He ranked second only to Frye in Halfwind Citadel’s army.
The lieutenant turned to leave, a smile on his face. The smile vanished when he saw Picket, and he nodded curtly as he passed.
“Longtreader, lad,” the Silver Prince said, smiling wide, “I’m so glad to see you again.”
“Prince Bleston,” Picket answered, nodding.
Tameth hissed, and Picket saw Kyle shaking his head, but Bleston laughed. His laugh was like a wave crashing, like a rumbling thunder and sunlight in a meadow. Picket had never been in the presence of someone so energetic and compelling. He almost forgot his fear and spite in the warmth of that laughter.
“You remind me of your uncle,” Bleston said. “He has that fantastic guile and snap.”
“Uncle Wilfred?” Picket asked, but Bleston shrugged and went on.
