by S D Smith
“If we marched through the night and showed up early,” Emma said, eyes alight, “then we could wrong-foot him from the start and begin with him unbalanced.”
Heyna nodded. “It is worthy of consideration, Your Highness,” she said, bowing.
“Lieutenant Shanks,” Emma said, motioning for Jo to come over. He jogged up, his quiver bouncing at his back and his bow at the ready.
“Yes, Your Highness?” Jo said, bowing neatly.
“Jo, would you advise pressing an advantage in a delicate negotiation or to let it pass in favor of more civil and modest aims?”
Jo scratched his chin and exhaled heavily. “Well, Your Highness,” he said after a moment, “I look at it like battle archery. Always aim for the heart. If you hit something else, then that’s still okay. But, aim for the heart.”
“Thank you, Jo,” she said. “Would you please ask Lord Blackstar to step up?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jo answered, touching his eyes, his ears, and his mouth. He backed away until he was far enough distant to spin and jog back toward Lord Blackstar. In the silence that followed, as they waited for Jo to return, Emma’s mind turned to another matter.
“Heyna,” Emma said, “will you be truthful with me now?”
“Always, Your Highness,” she answered, her face showing a hint of hurt.
“I don’t mean that you haven’t been honest in the past,” Emma said, taking her by the hands. “I only mean I want you to be honest about what I’m asking and to hold nothing back.”
“If I can, with honor, I will,” Heyna said.
“Why did you learn to fight and defend?” Emma asked. “Your mother wasn’t like that. I met her some years ago, and she was lovely. A perfect and courtly doe was Lady Blackstar, like all her honored ancestors. I know you have all that training as well, and I can see you know the ways of court, far better than I do. So why did you learn to fight?”
Heyna’s eyes thinned to two slits, and she made as if to turn away, but Emma held her hands tight. She lowered her head. After a moment, she raised it to reveal damp eyes and a vexed expression. “I will tell you why, Your Highness,” she said, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat. “My mother was, as you said, a lady unmatched for grace and charm. She was the most hospitable and generous hostess and never lacked for poise, no matter the guest or setting. Even during the very darkest days, she persisted in her dignity and always modeled a positivity I recall with some wonder. These are her known qualities, seen by dignitaries and friends within the cause over the years. What fewer knew was how funny she was,” and Heyna smiled sadly at her brother, who was standing close by. He came closer still at Emma’s nod. “Remember, Cole, how Mother made us laugh?”
Cole nodded. “She was a distinguished lady,” he said, “but she was relaxed and natural with us. And very funny.”
“We had the best of her,” Heyna said.
“That’s true,” Cole agreed, putting his arm around his twin sister. “She had, still has, even now, a reputation for her excellence at court, but she spent most of her time with us. And we were very happy, even in the troubles.”
“We were,” Heyna said, “up until that day.”
“I’m so sorry, Heyna,” Emma said, taking her hands again. “You don’t have to tell me. I was wrong to ask.”
“You weren’t wrong, Your Highness. And I want to tell you,” Heyna said, looking up through streaming eyes. Cole Blackstar was also losing his battle to stop the tears from spilling down his face. “I was trained,” she said, “like every doe at the Kingston court, in the etiquette expected of the heirs of our ancestor Lady Lucianne Blackstar, wife of the second Lord Blackstar and daughter of King Whitson and Queen Lillie. She had all her mother’s graces and was a friend always to her brother, King Lander.”
“So the friendship between our families goes back a long way,” Emma said.
“Indeed,” Heyna said. “So I learned all that a young doe ought, and this included hard work of many kinds. But not war. That was reserved for the bucks of Kingston. My brother,” she went on, looking at Cole, “was schooled at court, like me, but he did his shifts in the mine and with the army, as all bucks must. So he was trained to fight, and to defend, and excelled at both beyond any at Kingston. He was such a keen warrior that no one dared oppose him, though he begged for partners to spar with him. They had to come at him in packs, for he could only be overcome if at a tremendous disadvantage. So he did his schoolwork, learned the ways of court, did his shifts in the mine, and became a warrior prepared to lead and defend both Kingston and those he loved. But he was not there when they came for Mother.”
Cole hung his head, and Lord Blackstar walked up, with Jo at his side. Emma motioned him over, and he came between his two weeping children and extended an arm around each. Jo stood some way off, silently guarding their privacy from beneath the bending boughs.
“It was no one’s fault but mine when your dear mother died,” Lord Blackstar said. “You were only children.”
“Still,” Heyna said. “I was there. And from that day, I begged Father to allow me to train to defend so that I might never be so helpless again if the worst happened. So that I might do some good in the service of some highborn lady. I trained for years to serve as I now do. And I will do all I can to see you safely to your throne, Your Highness.”
“I am honored, Heyna,” Emma said, “by your devotion. By that of your legendary family. I’m so new to this life, but I am happy to learn that our families are connected by bonds of the past. We are cousins, dear Heyna!”
“We are that, Your Highness,” Heyna replied.
“Then we have a good excuse for you to call me Emma, since we are family.”
Heyna smiled. “I couldn’t do that, Your Highness.”
“Will you, or won’t you, obey me?” Emma said, a smile playing at her mouth. “I insist on it, at least when we’re alone,” she said, then, nodding at Lord Blackstar and Cole, “or among the other cousins.”
“As you wish…Emma,” Heyna said.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“You’ll get used to it. Take my counsel, as I have taken yours,” Emma said. Then she turned to Lord Blackstar. “We will march on, through the night, and so arrive early to Blackstone.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he said, bowing as he backed away. Cole did the same after a last squeeze of his sister’s shoulder. They turned to relay the change of plans down the small caravan.
“I’m so pleased to have a cousin,” Emma said, turning back to Heyna. “I have never known my family. My mother is far away, and I do not know when I might see her. My living brothers are all traitors. My sisters too, for all I know. Heather is gone, and Picket is on a perilous mission. I’m glad you’re here, Heyna.”
“My blood for yours,” Heyna said.
They marched on, toward Blackstone Citadel.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE TELLER HEARS
Clouds covered the moon over First Warren, and the rain fell down. Picket walked in darkness, his heart as heavy as the soaked pack on his back. Helmer led the way, picking their path carefully to intersect with the fewest rabbits. They saw no one for a long time. The assembly had broken up, though the terrified cries of the younglings still echoed in Picket’s ears. They had been taken, many of them. He and Helmer heard the report in the hopeless conversations of the rabbits leaving the square, and saw it in the faces of the pacified bucks, the mothers’ vacant eyes. Picket felt a vast heaviness descend like a millstone, a great weight of shame, covering all the rabbit inhabitants of this forsaken place. But for him, the shame gave way to outrage.
This tyranny was worse than death, he decided. And he recommitted himself to the cause for which he fought. He knew, in that moment, that he would eagerly trade his life to strike a blow against Morbin and Falcowit, and against Winslow.
In the middle of this recommitment, as the rain fell on First Warren, Picket saw a light. H
e stopped and touched Helmer’s shoulder.
“What is it, son?” Helmer asked. Picket pointed to the fire, dim in the middle distance. Helmer nodded. “There are caves over there. Let’s see what it is.”
They crept around to come at the caves from some cover and saw a small band of bedraggled rabbits gathered around a fire. Picket looked up at his master with a question, and Helmer whispered, “I think it’s okay, but let’s leave our things here, hidden in these bushes.”
Picket set aside his sword and pack, then followed Helmer into the edge of the firelight.
“Who goes?” a nervous rabbit called as they came into sight.
“Travelers only,” Helmer said, hands up and open. “We seek only the hospitality of your fire for an hour.”
The nervous rabbit glanced around, then said, reluctantly. “Come out of the rain and warm up.”
Picket followed Helmer to the fireside, where they both knelt, extending their hands. “Thank you,” Helmer said. “These are unpleasant days to be out.”
“Unless you serve the prince loyally,” said a thin brown rabbit, nearest the cave entrance, who seemed ready to flee at the slightest provocation, “as we all do.” Picket glanced around, measuring each of these bucks for how they might fare in a fight, a skill he had been forced to acquire. He guessed almost all of the seven were weak and incapable of opposing him and Helmer together, but the eighth was somewhat stronger. That shaggy rabbit squatted in the corner of the cave, his hood low while he snacked on dried beans. There was no red at his neck.
“True, true,” the first, nervous, rabbit added. “We are Prince Winslow’s bucks, all of us.”
“We aren’t,” Helmer said flatly. “I’d like to take his head off.”
An awkward silence followed. Then the hooded rabbit laughed, choking on his snack. “Don’t you know,” he asked, clearing his throat, “that it’s death to say such things in First Warren?”
“It’ll be death to him when I meet him,” Helmer said, without a hint of worry. “Listen, I know what sort of rabbits you are. You’re outside of their attention—barely. But you’re too cowardly or lazy to join any formal resistance. So you skulk around the caves and just try to survive.”
The hooded rabbit laughed again, and the others nervously joined in, though without sincerity.
“What about you two?” the thin brown rabbit asked. “You look like soldiers, all muscular and well-fed. You have to be in the Black Band.”
“We’re from outside the walls,” Helmer said, “and we’re here to liberate this city.”
“Outside the walls?” the thin brown buck asked, astonished.
“He’s joking, Mo,” the nervous rabbit said. “No one’s come in, or out, for a long time.”
“What about the Herald?” another rabbit asked. “They say he brought the story in.”
“Yeah, but he was killed that night. Arrow in the back.”
“What story?” Picket asked.
“You ain’t heard the story?” Thin Brown asked. “I never met someone who ain’t heard the story. About Picket Packslayer?”
Picket glanced over at Helmer. “And what happened to the story?” Helmer asked.
“Well, the Herald handed it to the Teller, a rabbit who goes from home to home sharing the story. That’s how come everyone knows about Packslayer. The Teller tells them. But the Teller’s also dangerous hisself, and they say he’s half-mad.”
“Sing the song, Rand,” Thin Brown said to a bright-eyed rabbit leaning against the back of the cave. “Rand here used to sing at the old C.O.D., in the way-back-before days. Sing it for us, Rand. C’mon.”
“I’d rather not,” Rand answered, his eyes flitting from the fire to their guests.
“Go ahead, Rand,” the nervous rabbit said. “I’ll share my portion with you again if you do.”
Rand smiled, revealing several missing teeth. He nodded, then crawled forward to the edge of the cave, where the firelight fell full on his face. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then he opened his eyes and looked around, now full of lively expression. He began to drum out a beat on his leg and soon launched into his song.
“Listen, my bucks and my does, lend your ears,
I’ll tell you a tale that will quiet your fears.
There was a buck who once flew in the sky
And fought fifty falcons in wars way up high.
And when he landed, he rolled up his sleeves,
Then killed all the wolves just like swatting at fleas.
From his fell deeds all the birds that are dead
Help him sleep easy on his feather bed.
And there in his warren, he walks over
Carpets of conquest made from wolf fur.”
The rest joined in on the chorus.
“Whose shadow is crossing the moon?
Picket Packslayer, Picket Packslayer!
Who is coming to rescue us soon?
Picket Packslayer, Picket Packslayer!
Picket Packslayer!”
“Listen, my bucks and my does, hear me well,
When you’re afraid here’s a story to tell.
Of Picket Packslayer, who stands twice as tall
As the ten tallest rabbits that you ever saw.
As for his food, he’s never tasted defeat,
Each meal in his warren is served with wolf meat.
His eyes are gentle and his heart is so true,
But if you fight him, he’ll cleave you in two.
So friend, share the story and go spread the word
Of Picket Packslayer, bane of the birds!”
“Whose shadow is crossing the moon?
Picket Packslayer, Picket Packslayer!
Who is coming to rescue us soon?
Picket Packslayer, Picket Packslayer!
Picket Packslayer!”
Picket had no idea what to say, and Helmer seemed about to burst out laughing. “Well, I’d hate to meet this Picket Packslayer in a cave on a wet night,” Helmer said, unsuccessfully hiding his smile.
“You’re wrong to snicker at the song, stranger,” the hooded rabbit in the back said. “It’s an exaggeration, sure, but it gives us hope.”
“An exaggeration?” Helmer asked. “It’s an absurdity.”
“I don’t think it is.” The shaggy rabbit stepped forward and drew back his hood. He was old and wise-eyed, and his fur hung down in long grey shocks.
“It’s the Teller,” Thin Brown said, and he seemed caught between reverence and terror. He stammered out a few incoherent words, bowed to the Teller, then darted into the rain. The rest of the rabbits followed him, and Picket and Helmer were left alone with the old rabbit.
“Is it true that you saw the Herald?” Helmer asked. “And that he gave you a story?”
“Aye,” the old rabbit answered, reaching deep into the folds of his cloak and drawing out a thin bound book. “He gave me this.”
“Is it like the song?” Picket asked.
“No. It has the ring of truth to it. It’s about a rabbit prince named Smalls and his friend, Picket, who really have fought birds and wolves and have begun the battle back against Morbin. I tell the tale straight as I move through the city and the surrounding country inside the wall, but the story outruns me. I can’t quite correct them all. And anyway, like I said, it gives them hope to think of a rabbit who defies Morbin and fights birds and wolves.”
“Do you think it’s true?” Picket asked. “I mean, what you read in the Herald’s tale?”
“It inspires us anyway, whether it’s true or not,” he said. “But I believe it’s true.”
“You believe it is?” Helmer asked.
“I know it is,” the Teller said. “Because when I read these words, my heart is on fire.”
Helmer smiled and nodded.
“So you travel around and…bear the flame?” Picket asked.
The Teller frowned. “Have you two heard the story?”
“We’ve lived it,” Picket said.
“H
e’s the rabbit who flew, Teller,” Helmer said. “He’s Picket. And you’re right about the Herald’s tale. It’s true. It’s all true.”
The Teller’s mouth opened, but he seemed unable to find speech.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
TOO LATE
Picket and Helmer spent an hour with the Teller, updating him on all the events that had happened since Heather’s story had gone out into the world. Picket was pleased to see that her story had broken into an unbreakable place, and had somehow spread even here.
They took their leave of the Teller, who hurried out into the night with renewed vigor.
After that respite from the sad events of the evening, they walked on, falling silent as Helmer led the way. Despite the encouraging meeting with the Teller, Picket thought of the younglings in the square and felt again the weight of woe in this place. He hoped to pierce it with more than words. The rain fell harder still and chilled Picket again.
“Not far now, Picket,” Helmer said, the first words spoken for a while. The rain had stopped. “Our family home, which my great-grandfather built, is just over the next hill.”
“It will be dawn soon,” Picket said.
“It can’t come soon enough.”
Dawn did come. The sun rose behind the home that Helmer pointed to, his family’s farm since the founding of the city. Sunlight crowned the house and spread stretching beams around as the two weary bucks hurried toward it. Picket noted the silence and saw, as they neared, the air of disrepair that hung about the place. The grass was long, except for a small patch around the house itself. Out of the house and onto this lawn came a wary young doe with a bow, arrow nocked and ready.
“Turn around,” she said. “And head back where you came from.” Helmer walked on, raising his hands. Picket imitated him. “I won’t warn you again,” she said. “Not another step.”
Helmer took another step, and she fired. The arrow found the narrow gap between Picket and Helmer, sinking deep into a tree behind them. They stopped, Picket whistling in wonder.
