by S D Smith
She charged the wolf, knowing only that she couldn’t stand by and let Kylen die. She closed the gap in seconds, coiled for a kick, and launched, landing her powerful feet in turn—right, with a crash, then left, with a resounding smash!—on the wolf’s head. He fell back, shaking his head in shock.
Heather tumbled to the ground beside Kylen. She rose quickly, reaching for the wounded rabbit. The wolf was on his feet again, slavering jaws wide, eyes burning.
“Your choice,” he snarled. “Death...or death?”
She planted her feet in front of Kyle. “I choose death,” she said coldly, “for you and your wicked masters.”
The wolf howled, a frenzy seizing him so that he shuddered with delight.
Then he ran at her. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but she saw it all in frozen moments. His eyes. Cruel eyes. Wild with excitement. Mad with hunger. Closing to thin slits, keen in attack. Coming. Close. Closer still. Then opening wide in surprise.
The wolf was lurching back, staggering, collapsing on the forest floor.
Kylen had reached around her, his sword standing between the wolf and his prey. Between her and death. At the last possible moment, he had acted.
She turned to him, her eyes wide. He fell back. Dropping his sword, he clutched his torn shoulder. Then his hand went limp, his eyes closed, and he sank to the earth. He didn’t move.
She knelt beside him, her hand going to the wound to try to stop the bleeding. She heard noises behind her, and in a moment they were surrounded by soldiers, including several Terralain field medics. Heather backed away as they swept in, nearly tripping over the wolf. She turned and ran into the woods, frantic. She stopped beneath a towering oak and fell to her knees, and the tears came.
For a long time she sat there, shivering. Finally, she heard a voice from behind.
“Are you all right, Heather?”
She turned to see Bleston, his face full of concern. “Is he—?” she asked.
“He’ll recover,” he said. “He comes from a strong family.”
“He saved me,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “The wolf would have...he was nearly...”
“There, there, child,” he said, wrapping her in a fatherly embrace. “I know. I know.”
They stood in silence awhile, Heather feeling comforted as she hadn’t been in a long time—since her own father had held her long ago and told her everything was going to be all right.
* * *
Picket found Captain Frye on Westfield, reviewing the training exercises led by his sub-captains and lieutenants. All the officers, including Frye, wore the sign of the blood-red moon, with a ruby in the center of crossed spears. Along the path to the gates of Leapers Hall, rows of archers aimed and released their arrows in time with their officers’ calls. Hay bales bristled with arrows, and the air was filled with urgent instruction from all corners of the wide field. Marching bands of armed rabbits paraded the perimeter while new recruits struggled through an endurance course.
Near the woods, blue-robed brothers worked with soldiers to complete the construction of three large wheeled catapults. One looked near working order, and they seemed to be prepping a trial with a large barrel. Picket noticed Heyward among those votaries aiding the construction. The field was full of white-clad soldiers, their shoulders bearing the symbol of the blood moon, the crossed spears. Black-clad officers from Terralain stood nearby, wordlessly watching.
Captain Frye glanced back and forth from the glowering guests to his army in the field. Picket scowled. Captain Frye had always been strident about his army’s capability. But that was before they had to be rescued by warriors fighting beneath a black banner with silver stars. He was reserved now, tenuous. He was not quite himself.
“Captain Frye,” Picket said, trotting up.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“May I have a word?”
“Now?” he said. He met Picket’s gaze and saw the urgency in his face. “Sure, son. Of course. Walk with me.” They walked together down the slight sloping hill and around the near perimeter of the snowy field. “What can I do for you, Picket?”
“I’m planning a mission to the prison camp,” Picket said. “I’ll take the Fowlers and make a surgical strike, recovering our prisoners and gathering useful intelligence. I wanted you to know.”
Captain Frye stopped, sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “Did the Silver Prince tell you that your family was there?’
“No, sir.”
“Your own network then? How many factions must we have in this war?” He clenched and unclenched a tight fist. “We weaken the bridge when we splinter into bits.”
“It wasn’t my own network, sir. I don’t have a network. I’ve been on your side, following you, throughout.”
“And yet you come to me, your superior officer, and you tell—not ask, mind you—you tell me you are going on a raid and taking valuable assets into an incredibly dangerous and reckless situation?”
Picket looked down, anger simmering. “It was Smalls who told me. And I can’t believe it’s an impossible task. We are trained for—”
“Training, son,” Captain Frye said. “You are training. Not trained.”
“So you want us to do nothing?” Picket said. His resentment over this old argument was flaring up again.
“No, son. I don’t want us to do nothing. I want us to do nothing alone. Nothing out of anger, guilt, or tactical folly. I want us to win this war. Do you know how many campaigns I’ve planned? Do you know how many battles I’ve fought? Do you know how many raids I’ve taken part in—how many ‘can’t fail’ and ‘surgical’ strikes I’ve been a part of? Do you know, Picket?” Picket looked away. “More than none, Picket, which is where you and I are different.”
When Picket looked up, he expected to see anger in his captain’s eyes. But Frye looked old and weary as he went on. “I wish Prince Smalls had not mentioned it to you. All the military minds in his council advised him to avoid the slave mine site. Old campaigners from King Jupiter’s wars, lords and captains loyal in the darkest hours of these last bleak years, all argued against it. Not one disagreed with this, though the prince himself argued for making a detour to liberate the camp. I think it was out of love for your sister and gratitude to you. But no one endorsed his plan. In the end, I hoped we convinced him. Only a fool would advise him otherwise. As I advised him, my superior, so I order you, a soldier in my army, against this folly. You might succeed, Picket. But the cost, I fear, would be greater than whatever was won. That is, unless you care about nothing more than this one objective. If you care about the cause, the war, the prince...do not do this foolish thing.”
Picket didn’t know what to say. His anger was ebbing away, replaced by a brewing dread. Should he tell Captain Frye what he had done, that he had advised the prince to attack the camp?
“Captain Frye,” came a shout from the field. A band of soldiers stood at attention. “We are ready for you, sir.” He nodded and held up a finger, then turned back to Picket.
“I’m for you, Picket. And I’m for your family. I feel terrible regret that my failure led you to the wrong camp those months ago. I do. I feel your frustration now. But son, there’s a war coming to us, a war unlike anything any of us have ever experienced—even those of us who have been through wars before.” He placed a hand on Picket’s shoulder. “Bleston was a rabbit who went his own way. Your Uncle Garten was like that. You are not like them, Picket. And whatever part of you is sympathetic to that path is a part of you that’s best buried in the deepest, darkest tomb, like Lander’s dragons. For all our sakes.”
Captain Frye patted Picket’s arm, then hurried toward his waiting army. Picket stood there, rising dread forming knots in his stomach. But his reverie was soon broken by a commotion in the forest. Rabbits were shouting and running back and forth. Sentinels ran toward Captain Frye and the Terralain officers.
It took him several minutes to learn that Heather had been attacked in the woods. Prince Kylen, now badly
wounded, had saved her. Picket was relieved to learn that Heather was all right. Thinking of Kyle’s acts and his own conversation with Smalls, he began to wonder if he had a right to resent Kyle at all.
Who had done more damage? Who was the hero, and who the traitor?
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE KING OF TURNS
Heather finished wrapping Kylen’s shoulder and gave him a large dose of Emma’s tonic. He drank it without opening his eyes. Bleston sat beside his son’s bed, intent on everything she did.
“This tonic is good,” Heather said, checking Kylen’s pulse. “Emma developed it in her training years along with an old doctor on Cloud Mountain. Despite what I tell the younglings, it’s not magic. But, with some sleep and proper care of his wounds, we’ll see him recover in time.”
“Thank you, Heather,” Bleston said. “I appreciate you coming to his room like this. We have good healers in Terralain, but I have heard amazing things about your team since the battle.”
“It’s Emma’s team,” she said. “And the recovery times have improved, I’ll admit. I think it’s mostly due to Emma’s leadership. She’s done for Halfwind’s medical team something like what you’ve done for military discipline.” She bit her lip, debating whether or not to bring up Jone’s case. Not yet.
“I believe the prince is in very good hands,” Bleston said. “We are grateful for your service to him.”
“Well, sir, Kylen did save my life,” she said, placing several vials and a bolt of cloth into her satchel.
Bleston smiled. “There is something I wish to discuss with you, child.”
“Yes, sir?” she said, setting down her bag.
“Kylen has been speaking to me about you. He believes I should listen to your advice, that I should turn to you for wisdom. I am almost convinced he is right.”
“Well, sir,” she said, taking the offered seat beside him, “Kylen believes you are a great king, truly capable of listening and willing to change your mind if confronted with the truth.”
“I hope I always am, child.”
“Well, lord, may I ask how you see things now?”
Bleston smiled at her. “I am inclined, dear Heather, to be entirely truthful with you.”
“Then I’m honored, lord.”
“Not that I speak falsehoods, but I must keep much of my own counsel bottled up. It’s the burden of a king. It will be good to discuss these heavy things with someone I trust.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I can trust you, can I not?” he asked.
“I will hear you with humility,” she said, touching her ears. Then, touching her eyes, she said, “I will see you with generosity.” Finally she touched her mouth. “And I will speak to you with honesty.”
“It is well, child. Very well. It’s good that you honor the old ways.” Bleston sat awhile, his eyes closed and his mouth tight. At last, he spoke again. “I am in a difficult place, but a place of power. I am, I suppose, the king of turns. I am the lord of the balance. If I tip to Morbin—which is not in my heart to do—he rules all. If I tip to my brother’s young upstart son, he has a chance to rule all. But I do not see myself as a traitor, only a maker. I see myself as the wielder of worlds, the one who fashions fortunes. I am the magnetic heart of Natalia, drawing all to myself.”
“But you have no designs on the throne yourself?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
“I would like to be king of Natalia, as I have a plain claim to the throne and the Whitson Stone to witness to my rights. I also have the strength to take it and the will to keep it.”
“But you don’t want this?”
“I want it for one thing,” he said, nodding to the bed. “So that I might give it to Kylen.”
Heather frowned. “Speak, child,” Bleston said. “Be bold.”
“I will speak boldly and plainly, sir.” She drew in a deep breath and went on. “I think you’re right about yourself. You are the king of turns, a mover of worlds. So, move to the straight path. You’re a kingmaker, so make Smalls what he deserves to be. Show yourself truly great and make him your king. Do what you never did for his father, your brother. Honor him. Honor the choice your father made and the choice your brother, King Jupiter, himself made. Throw your support behind your nephew, and you will live with an acclaim unmatched in history. Be the bold and selfless uncle. Be the true kingmaker, and make the true heir king.”
“My, but you are bold, little one,” he said, shaking his head. Before she could speak again, he held up a hand. “I have heard you, Heather Longtreader. I can listen. I am... sorry about what happened with my brother. I would like to make it right. Many times I have wished I could have been there when he was betrayed and murdered at the crossing.” He shook his head. “But I will be an old rabbit soon. I have others to think of,” he said, glancing again at Kylen.
“Think of all the sons, lord. Think of all the huddled, hurting ones living under oppression, longing for the Mended Wood.”
“You are their scribe, are you not? How well you love them.”
“I’m only a herald, like thousands beside me,” Heather said. “But we all sing the same song. Things are bad, yes. But it will not be so in the Mended Wood.”
“I have heard this song.”
“Sing it with us, Lord Bleston,” she said. “Lend your strong voice and hasten its coming. Be for us always the Silver Prince, who rides in to rescue, who helps make a truly noble rabbit our longed-for king.”
Bleston looked away, blinking. He swiped his forearm across his eyes and then looked back at Heather.
“And you, my dear? What will you be?”
“I want to be a queen,” she said, without hesitation.
“What a grand one you’ll be, to be sure.”
“I want to listen to my stories again and hear my mother sing. I want to see my little brother grow up free.”
Bleston nodded. “These are good dreams, I think.”
“You will consider my plea, lord?”
He nodded, looking very grave, then motioned toward the door.
She stood and knelt before him. Then she rose, grabbed her satchel, and moved quietly to the door. Before she left, she looked back. Bleston had his head in his hands.
As she hurried to the hospital, something stirred in her that had long been still. Hope.
Perhaps I am the queen of turning? For my dear prince’s sake, and for the sake of the whole wounded world, may it be so.
Chapter Twenty-Five
EVERY STEP ON THESE SILVER STAIRS
I didn’t know who else to talk to.” Picket sat on the floor of Leapers Hall, beneath the third of the seven standing stones that split the center of the massive hall. They were alone in the great chamber, and Heyward settled onto the hard floor across from Picket, his blue robe draped over his knees.
“I’m only a novice,” he said, putting down his knife and a small box-shaped contraption, “but I’m always here for you, my friend.”
“I think I made a great mistake,” Picket said. He told Heyward about his last conversation with Smalls and about what Captain Frye had said to him. Heyward nodded, his face grave. Picket concluded his story with tears pooling in his eyes. “What if I’ve done it? What if I’ve placed such a heavy burden of guilt on Smalls that he does this foolish thing? What if I’ve played on his loyalties and loves, encouraging him to make a disastrous move?”
“Picket, I have listened to you. You speak humbly, contritely. Beneath the standing stones honoring our ancestors, this is fitting. Now, by Flint, I give you bold words. By Fay, words of wisdom. By all the Leapers, I speak the truth. You may indeed have erred when you advised the prince to liberate the camp. It appears you have. But the prince is...well, he’s the prince. He is responsible for the actions he takes. You are not.” Picket made to interrupt, to object, but Heyward held up a hand. “Listen, Picket. Prince Smalls was responsible for his decision when he followed Kyle’s advice and went to Jupiter’s Crossing. You were responsible for your decis
ion when you followed him there and saved his life.”
“But, Heyward,” Picket said, wringing his hands. “I knew the best counsel for him, and I undermined it by manipulating his heart. I’m more like Kyle at Cloud Mountain than me at Jupiter’s Crossing.”
“Not true, Pick. There is an enormous difference.”
“I can’t see it,” Picket said.
“Yours was advice based on hope and love,” Heyward said. “Kyle’s was cold and calculating, given with ill intent.”
“I’m not sure he would see it that way, Heyward. He would say he did it for the greater good and that he was only obeying his father.”
“It’s not the same, Picket. You weren’t motivated by power or compulsion but by love and loyalty.”
“I’m afraid,” Picket said, getting to his feet, “that both of us were motivated by our fear and pain.”
“Try to enjoy the assembly tonight,” Heyward said, reverently touching his ears, his eyes, and his mouth, “and forget your woes. Hopefully the prince listened to his best advisors and bypassed the camp. We can all pray that he’s safe and strong and on his way to Kingston now.”
“By the Leapers,” Picket said, glancing around, “I hope so.”
* * *
Heather gazed around Leapers Hall as the room steadily filled. The walls were a mixture of rock and clay, with great iron gates on the side leading out to Westfield. Beyond the gates stood a series of heavy doors, all hidden from outside by clever means. She hoped they would never have to flee a cave-in by that route and that no enemy would ever somehow enter there.
The floor of the hall was laid with stones, and the wooden stage was high. The center of the stage was raised even higher, and it was made of a large grey stone. In front of this central stone, extending out into the hall, were seven standing stones. These were surrounded by blue-robed votaries, who sat reverently beneath them, heads bowed, with whispered words on their lips.
Heather and Picket had been raised to appreciate the Leaping and to revere Flint and Fay. But here, the devotion was intense and intentional. In fact, she had always thought of Flint and Fay like the first in a long line of heroes. In Cloud Mountain it was much the same, though there were few votaries there during their stay. She had heard that devotion had grown in the days since her story of Picket and Smalls had been shared. Lord Rake had said that Cloud Mountain’s seven standing stones, once neglected, in a secluded area past the village green were now visited by growing numbers of devoted rabbits. Here at Halfwind, Flint and Fay were more than old heroes to be admired. They were holy ancestors, touched by divinity.
