by S D Smith
“Longtreader, we must talk. I hear that you are gathering your own intelligence and have considered acting on your own instincts. Is this true?”
Picket tried to mask his surprise. How can he know? He glanced at the seer, saw that Tameth’s penetrating gaze was fixed on him. Can he really read my mind?
“Sometimes,” Picket began slowly, “we must take our own counsel and do what we deem best.”
Bleston nodded. “I agree with you entirely. In your place, I would have done the same thing. I would seek to organize another mission to rescue my family. I would not wait for cautious ninnies to give permission.”
Picket stared at Bleston, his mouth open. So this wasn’t about the secret messengers between citadels. It was possible they had still gone undetected. Bleston was talking about his efforts to organize another attempt at rescuing his family.
“I did—that is, I do want to attempt a rescue,” Picket said. He was about to say that he understood this goal must be subject to the needs of the army and the priorities of the war. But he didn’t. Even when Bleston’s silence left a long pause for him to fill, he didn’t say it. The truth was, he was furious. He’d been seething about it, just under the surface, for months. He wanted nothing more than to do as he had vowed and rescue little Jacks and his parents. If Smalls had not tried it or had failed, he would go in a moment. But he didn’t wish to defy the command structure.
“Has the mission been given a chance at all?” Bleston asked.
“Barely. We had one failed attempt, and the project was abandoned.”
“The privileged lords didn’t think it was best?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“And the faulty intelligence came from...?” Bleston asked, eyebrows raised. Picket shifted his stance, looked down. “You don’t have to answer me,” Bleston went on. “I know what happened. But I must ask, do you share their opinion, Longtreader?”
“I...uh...well, sir...It’s not my place...”
“Do you share their opinion?” Bleston asked again. This time his question carried an authoritative tone.
“No,” Picket said. “I don’t.”
“Because you know that a small force, well-trained and well-prepared,” Bleston said, “a small force like the Fowlers, could infiltrate one of the known slave mining camps. This force could rescue everyone there, returning soldiers to duty, reuniting families and gaining valuable intelligence, all while striking a blow to Morbin’s side.”
Picket was silent. He had used almost those exact words when pleading with Lord Ramnor, Lord Blackstar, and the others only a few weeks before. He nodded.
Bleston’s smile was gone. In its place was a plain concern. “There comes a point when a rabbit must know his way and go his way, when he must break the shackles of tradition and be free. Am I not right to say so, Tameth?”
“Your Majesty is right,” the old seer said, his eerie voice cracking. “Rabbits who wait for their betters to act ought to act better.”
“There’s a point of turning, Picket,” Bleston said. “A point in a rabbit’s life where he must wrestle free of minders and...” He looked at Tameth.
“And thus free his mind,” Tameth finished. “Forever one a slave will be when never once he chooses me.”
“Almost every good thing in my life has come from following my own way,” Bleston said, touching the chain at his neck. Picket noticed a familiar but odd pattern on the back of the gem. “I became the king I was meant to be by following my own way, and I have raised my son to do the same.”
“Yes, Father,” Kyle said.
“We shall never defeat the Lords of Prey,” Tameth said, “until we see ourselves as the true lords and prey on them.”
“Wouldn’t that just be replacing tyrants?” Picket said, though he felt his resolve to resist weakening every moment.
“The world will be ruled, Picket,” Kyle said, glancing up at the painting of Flint and Fay. It was one of the very few things from Lord Ramnor’s rooms that had not been cleared out. “And it won’t be ruled by the weak. We can only hope to be ruled by strong rabbits with courage and good hearts. Flint didn’t wait to be ruled. He acted, and the Leaping reordered the world.”
“And you, Prince Kylen, must be such a rabbit,” Tameth said, wiping his mouth. “You are another Flint, uniting the world and creating a new reality.”
Picket spared a moment to consider who might be Kyle’s corresponding Fay, but he buried the thought.
“We are the lords of all we see,” Bleston said, glancing at his son. “If only we will grasp it. If we wait for permission to act, it will be gone by the time we do.”
“So what are you saying?” Picket asked. “That I should take a team and save my family, no matter what my masters say?” The thought felt wrong, but wrong in a way that thrilled him.
“The only master you have to worry about is telling you this,” Bleston said, his easy smile returning. “You’re a coward if you don’t.”
“But—” Picket began.
Bleston looked down at him, squinting. “You’re not a coward, are you?”
Chapter Twenty-One
SWEEN AND STITCHER
Sween huddled with ten other household slaves, listening to Gritch’s orders for the day. She had spoken to only a few of them here, though she recognized many from Akolan. It was a cold, grey morning, and snow piled on the edges of the windows. No fires burned in the stage—the area where the slave activities were prepped as ordered by Gritch—but they blazed in Morbin’s lair and the surrounding rooms.
“Can anyone sew?” Gritch asked, looking directly at Sween.
“I can,” she said. “Though I paint better.”
“There’s no painting here,” Gritch grumbled, “but there are uniforms that need mending, and I’ve been asked to pull someone to do the job. Stitcher needs help.”
Melody spoke up. “I can sew. I sew like a maniac, I do. Stitcher, whoever that is, will be wildly impressed with my sewing skills.”
“It’s Sween’s job,” Gritch said. “I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”
“I’ve already got a buck I’m betrothed to, Gritch,” Melody said, winking at Sween, “but I’m flattered.”
“You silly doe,” Gritch snapped at her, “I want to keep you out of trouble. Any more sass from you and you’re off. Working here is a privilege. I can send you down to the trash fields easily enough.” He pointed to a door where all the garbage was sent down a long tube to pile up and rot in a plateau above Akolan. Melody bowed her head and chewed her lip.
“Don’t,” Sween whispered.
“Listen to Sween, Melody,” Gritch said. “She knows how to stay alive. You have a child, don’t you, Sween?”
“Children,” Sween said, her voice barely audible.
“So don’t be a fool,” Gritch growled. “Follow Sween’s example.”
Melody nodded, keeping her head down so that Gritch couldn’t see her defiant expression.
“Go ahead, Sween,” Gritch said. “Marbole will take you.”
Sween wound her way up to the platform above, to the slave’s dock. Marbole, one of the old carrier birds, was waiting.
“Gritch said I’m supposed to help Stitcher with uniforms,” she said.
The bird nodded, sighing as he moved forward. She held up her arms and he balanced on one foot, reaching to grip her with the other. He squeezed, though Sween had long since learned to empty her lungs before that came. She was pulled away and swept sideways into the air. Marbole soared up briefly, and Sween could see the sun, splintered rays darting through the clouds. He descended then, edging through a spiraling sprawl of forts and palaces, each less spectacular than the golden peak of Morbin’s lair.
The lair was perched high in a pine forest atop the tallest peak of the High Bleaks. The long winding spiral of nests was a staggering spectacle. Beneath it all, in a sprawling pit, a massive maw cut from cold stone, lay the slave city of Akolan, Sween’s present home. She saw it briefly th
rough a break in the trees before Marbole dipped and docked at another nest, spilling Sween roughly onto a wooden floor.
“Thank you,” she said as the big bird beat his retreat. She got to her feet slowly, dusting her dress, and walked gingerly to the only rabbit on the dock. The hangar clerk. She was short, middle-aged like Sween, and sitting at a lonely desk before a large door.
“Yes?” the rabbit asked, eyes closed.
“I was sent here by Gritch, master slave of Morbin’s—”
The small rabbit cut her off. “I know who Gritch is.”
“I’m supposed to help Stitcher.”
“Help Stitcher?” she asked, her eyebrows arching.
“That’s what Gritch said.”
The rabbit wrote in her ledger and spoke without looking up. “Down the hall, pass seven lefts and take the eighth, then pass five rights and take the sixth. If you hit the laundry, you’ve gone two lefts too far. If you hit the flaxery, you’ve taken three too many rights. Clear?”
“I feel like I’ve lost my rights,” Sween said, smiling.
“Be glad of what’s left,” the small rabbit replied, without a hint of humor. “It can be taken away easily enough.”
Sween was chilled by the reply. This humorless retort summed up the slave’s dilemma. Shouldn’t we simply settle for what we have, be grateful we’re even alive, and do our best to stay that way? Maybe she’s right.
Sween nodded and entered through the door. After getting mixed up a few times and finding help from friendlier rabbits, she knocked, then entered what she had been assured was Stitcher’s room.
Inside, a small rabbit sat stitching a red vest. He kept at his work while Sween hesitated, astounded at the organized stacks of uniforms, capes, vests, and other clothes on shelves surrounding the room. Without looking up he asked, “What may I do for you?”
“I was sent here,” she answered. “I’m a house slave from Morbin’s lair.”
“Is that really what you are?” he asked.
“Gritch said you needed help.”
“No, I don’t need help, ma’am.” He smiled up at her. He was old and worn, but his eyes were kind. “I could stitch and sew ten times as fast as I do. I could make near-perfect uniforms. Instead, I make sure one in every twenty or so will come unstitched at what I hope are the most inopportune times.”
Sween smiled nervously. “Don’t you worry about talking like that to a stranger? I could be an informant.”
He looked into her eyes and smiled again. “The dock clerk is an informant. You’re not an informant. I could see that a thousand miles away. I can read rabbits. Not quite the way my wife can, no. But I can see what sort of rabbit you are. Besides, I know you.”
“You do?” Sween asked. “Then you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know you.”
“My name is Edward,” he said, bowing his head slowly, then looking up at her again with a warm smile, “Edward Weaver.”
“If you don’t need help, Mr. Weaver, and you already know who I am, why did you want me to come?”
The old rabbit laid aside his stitching. “Because,” he said, “I want to hear you sing.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
A SMALL THAWING
Heather gripped her staff, driving it into the ground with every hurried stride she made. Emma had ordered her to take a walk and try to clear her head. She walked fast, unable to slow her mad pace, even on an ordered break. But after a few minutes her stride eased, her heart settled, and she began to breathe a bit easier.
Emma. Always with the right dose of the proper medicine. She walked the grounds outside Halfwind, absently winding through the twisted thorn passages.
She had not been at Halfwind long, but still she had fond memories. In this corner, she had walked with Smalls. She could almost see him there, smiling, waiting for her. In spite of the many demands on his time and attention, he had always found time for her. She missed him. She worried about him, intensely at times. That old fear she felt the day he left had lingered in her heart. Would he ever return? She longed for it. Not only for herself but for everyone who hoped for the Mended Wood. What they needed now was leadership, a strong, unifying figure to lead them in this war.
She walked through the outer gate and into the open ground surrounding the warren. There were guards patrolling, their breastplates bright, and other rabbits lingering. A knot of rabbits gathered near an oak that had become a makeshift memorial to the Silver Prince’s rescue. There were notes of thanks, tokens of remembrance, and other humble odes to Bleston. The Bleston Tree, as the oak was now called, was near the place where he had defeated the wolves and where the soldiers of Halfwind, with a streaming crowd from the citadel, had surrounded and cheered him in his incredible victory. Heather had been inside when it happened, but all those who recounted the scene spoke of it reverently, cheerfully. Some wept. In the weeks following there had even been songs composed, and the halls rang with singing rabbits, honoring the Silver Prince.
Heather watched as the group of rabbits laid their small tributes, their gifts to the Lord of Terralain. Then they knelt—actually knelt—beneath the oak. They kept a somber silence for a long while. Heather watched, a frown slowly forming on her face.
“You’re prettier when you smile,” someone said. For a moment her heart leapt, for the voice was familiar, and it took her back to Cloud Mountain. She turned to see Kyle, an apologetic smile on his face. She frowned. “You’re disappointed to see me,” he said.
“You’re as perceptive as you are deceptive,” she answered. His face went down. She felt a stab of guilt. Should she let the past go? After all, hadn’t he done enough in rescuing her, Emma, Picket, everyone here, to warrant a civil reply? “I’m sorry, Kyle.”
“No, you must not apologize,” he said. Gone was the guile and charm. In its place was a weary sadness. “I deserve it. You could never reproach me as much as I reproach myself.”
“You regret it?” she asked.
“Deeply, Heather,” he said. He came to stand beside her. “You cannot imagine how much. I wish Smalls were here so I could apologize to him. It’s just...I was...it simply got out of hand.”
She chose her words carefully. “I’m sure the future king would forgive you.”
“May I walk with you?” he asked. She nodded, and they moved through the clearing and into a trail in the woods. For a while they said nothing. The only sounds were their footfalls and Heather’s staff tapping the ground. She moved toward the Fowlers’ course, but he took another path, and she, after hesitating a moment, followed.
“Where are we going?” she asked. She almost said, Not into a trap, I hope, but she held her tongue.
“I’ve been talking with Father. I know you have wise words for him, about Smalls, about this place. I want you to have a chance to talk to him, to advise him, without all the pomp of his receiving room.”
“So you’re taking me to meet him in the forest?”
“Yes. But only if you’re comfortable with it. I hoped it would be a chance for you to meet him away from the ceremony of his court.”
She nodded and they walked on. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish.”
“I just want you to talk to him,” Kyle said. He started to go on but clamped his mouth shut again, looking away.
“What is it?”
“Well, I’m reluctant to advise you, Heather. But if you’ll allow a small caution.”
“You want me to bow and scrape to the self-appointed king of all Natalia? I’m sorry, Kyle. I have to tell the truth.”
“Could you call me Kylen?” he asked. “It is my name, after all. And Kylen’s story is the one I love. Kyle’s—well, you know how that went.”
“All right, Kylen.”
“Thank you,” he said. “About Father. I wouldn’t ask you to lie or to hold back from speaking your mind. I only want you to give Father a chance. He’s capable of listening. If you think him totally unreasonable, then you’ll be likely to burst out and insult him.�
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“As Picket and I have done?”
“Well, yes. He respects your passion. But I would advise you to make your case. Try to persuade him. Don’t despair and resort to barbs. You have a chance to be heard, Heather. I’ve seen to that. Don’t waste it.”
They walked in silence for a time, and the snow began to fall again. There was no wind. The flakes fell slow and steady, soft, wet petals dropping from a hidden glade in the clouds.
“Thank you, Kyle,” she said. “Kylen,” she corrected. They walked on, farther and farther from the trails surrounding the citadel.
“I’m not your enemy,” Kylen said. “I hope one day you’ll know that for sure.”
“I hope so too.”
He reached for her hand, but she drew it back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I only mean to offer my friendship to you and Picket. I hope you’ll give me another chance.”
She thought of her brother, of how unlikely it was he would ever be able to forgive Kylen. Should she forgive him? Emma never would. And that was without her even knowing that Smalls was her brother.
“We’ll have to see what can happen over time,” she said, smiling as kindly as she was able. He reached for her again, his eyes wide. Her smile disappeared and a scowl replaced it, but he grabbed her and threw her to the ground with a shout.
She hit the ground hard and rolled. She cried out and looked up to see a wolf charging from the woods.
Chapter Twenty-Three
WHO’S THE TRAITOR?
Kylen leapt in front of Heather, his hand going to his sword. She panicked, knowing he would not draw it in time.
He didn’t.
The wolf pounced on Kylen. Heather sprang up, crying for help. She hoped the Silver Prince was nearby. She scanned the forest, seeing no one. Nothing.
She spun back and saw Kylen’s face awash in terror, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a pained cry. The wolf was latched onto his shoulder and had him pinned to the ground. Kylen’s free hand still sought the hilt of his sword, but he couldn’t reach it. This will be over in seconds, Heather thought.
