Ember Rising (The Green Ember Series Book 3)

by S D Smith

  “No!” the bandit cried. “You’re not—” but he couldn’t finish his warning. For Weezie, sensing the situation, drove her elbow into his middle. Picket slowed as she spun on the bandit and kicked him hard to gain separation. Picket sliced her bonds and took her hand, leading her into the thicket nearby as the other bandits pursued from behind.

  Weezie tore at her own mask with her free hand, but Picket charged on, frantically searching for a path. He realized that she would be far better than he at routing their escape, so he let go of her hand and slowed to help her with the bag and gag. He glanced back and saw the pursuit was very close. “This way!” Weezie shouted, leading Picket on into the forest.

  Now they ran more freely and gained a small gap between themselves and their pursuers. Picket could hardly believe they had done it. But he kept his rising relief down as he trailed Weezie through twists and turns of her native terrain.

  “Fools!” he heard a rabbit cry from behind, and they ran on.

  Picket grinned. The evident frustration of the following bandits made his heart swell. He followed Weezie through a snarl of trees, into a descending path that bent beneath a gnarly grove all tangled in overgrown vines and briers.

  “I think we’re losing them!” Picket said.

  He was sideswiped by a leaping tackle from a black-clad rabbit. His head whipped back, and he smacked against a rotting stump, shattering the brittle wood in a spray of splintered shards. Rolling over, he reached for his knife. But his hand was pinned once again, and several stout rabbits hovered overhead. He saw Weezie being dragged from the thicket, her eyes full of terror as the black bag was once more placed over her head.

  I’ve failed again.

  “I’m sorry!” he called to Weezie as the gag once again was fitted round his mouth. The black bag descended to make all as dark as night.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  THE MINER WHO FORGOT

  Heather was reeling from her reunion with Jacks. What she had hoped would be an occasion of tremendous joy had proven to be its farthest opposite. Jacks, hardly recognizable as a member of their family with his disturbing devotion to the Akolan administration, had been chosen for what he called “an adventure.” But Heather knew better. She knew that her youngest brother had been picked to be fattened up with special foods and become part of a meal for Morbin’s table. She lay motionless in her bed, dark thoughts descending.

  When Jacks was asleep, Father and Mother crept into Heather’s room for a hasty council. She shot up in bed.

  “What will we do?” she whispered.

  “We knew this day might come,” Mother said, patting Heather’s hand. “It has come for many others. We have a little time.”

  “I will go to the Tunneler,” Father said, running his hands through his fur and pulling at his ears. “I will ask that they be brought into the Seventh District.”

  “He won’t allow it,” Mother said, her eyes wet with tears. “You have overreached already in asking for Heather to be admitted on trial. To ask for Jacks, or for him and all his class, to be transitioned—it’s impossible.”

  “We can’t just let them take him!” Heather said. Her swelling anxiety made it hard to breathe. “Not just when I’ve found him again.”

  They sat in silence for a while, each uncertain what to say.

  “We didn’t know how to say it, Heather,” Mother said after a while. “And we didn’t want to upset our reunion, which has been so sweet. But Jacks really is one of them now. He’s been trained to be.”

  “You can’t think of giving up on him?” Heather asked.

  “Of course not,” Mother said. “I’m only saying that he would likely resist any effort at rescue.”

  “He’s been so carefully cultivated by the dogmatists in the Sixth District,” Father said, shaking his head. “We tried, Heather. We tried to subtly counter what was happening. But he’s one of them.”

  “What if we tell him everything?” she asked.

  “He would go to Longtreaders High Command and inform on us,” Mother answered.

  “He wouldn’t,” Heather said, her mouth hanging open. “I think it likely,” Father said. “Almost certainly he would.”

  Another long silence. Inside, Heather felt the familiar turn of her world as it slid sideways in a sickening shift.

  “Let’s try to sleep,” Father said, “and maybe hope will come with the dawn.”

  They hugged, clinging together, tight and united in their anxiety and devotion. Heather felt grateful for this moment but couldn’t help but think of the two members missing in this family embrace.

  * * *

  Heather did manage, at last, to sleep for a couple of hours. And she dreamed.

  She was in a dank, dark cavern, as so many times before. But this time she was talking to someone in the dim, slick bottom. She carried on a conversation, one that pleased her, but all the while a voice in her head said over and over, Unsettle the foundations. Unsettle the foundations. She awoke perplexed.

  She still felt groggy as she made her way to the table. She came fully awake at the sight of the special food Jacks had brought with him from school. Her face formed a snarl, and her heart beat faster. Her anxiety and sadness of the night was turning to anger in the morning.

  “What makes you so angry, Heather?”

  She turned to see Jacks standing across from her, his sleepy-faced gaze set in a questioning stare. Heather’s eyes went wide, and she exchanged her scowl for a smile.

  “Good morning, Jacks!” she said, moving close to hug him. He patted her back, then squirmed away from her embrace.

  “Why were you frowning so mean?” he asked again.

  “I was, um,” she began, “a little angry because you have all this good food, and I’m jealous of the adventure you get to have.” Her stomach turned at the words.

  “Teacher Len said that would happen,” Jacks said. “I’m supposed to be polite but to firmly insist that these rations are for me only. And I am to report any unauthorized reassignment of rations.”

  “I see,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to be content with potatoes then.”

  “We should all be grateful for what the administration provides,” he said.

  “Of course. Of course.”

  “What’s your favorite thing about what the administration gives us?” he asked, squinting at her with a penetrating glare. She was so unsettled by this encounter that she wasn’t sure what to say or do. She felt as if she were moments away from being informed on by her little brother. It was so different than the reunion she had hoped for that her heart sank.

  “Why don’t you tell me your favorite thing,” she said calmly, “while I think of mine.”

  “For me, it’s the games at school,” he said. “Oh, and my adventure and the adventure food.”

  “For me, it’s that I get to see my family again,” she said. “Do you remember, Jacks, that I used to tell you stories?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I did. Can I tell you one again?” she asked.

  “I guess,” he answered, yawning into his hand.

  “Thank you, Jacks. Shall we walk?”

  He nodded, and they crossed to the door and went outside. They walked through the neighborhood, silent for a little while as ash drifted around them.

  “Do you have a job, Heather?” Jacks asked. “We must all do our part for the community.”

  “I do,” she answered. “I’m a doctor, and I help the infirm and ill.”

  “If they can be healed and put back to assigned jobs,” he said casually, “then that’s a good work. But we must protect our resources, and too many rabbits mean depleted resources.”

  “I always do everything I can to save and serve every life, no matter how small or inconvenient.”

  “You need to visit the school, I think,” he said.

  “I would certainly relish that opportunity,” she answered, clenching her jaws tight.

  “You’d better hurry up with your story,”
he said. “And I hope it’s not too long.”

  “It’s short,” she said, breathing in deep. She stopped, looked at Jacks, then bowed. Upright once more, she began. “With what art and skill are mine, I will this humble tale unwind.” Her face became animated, and she whispered the beginning of her tale. “Our story starts with a rabbit who mined for coal. His name was Flitch. Now Flitch was wealthy, had a sprawling warren for his large family, a beautiful wife, and children who all loved him deeply.” Jacks frowned and started to speak, but Heather held up a finger. “Let me finish my story, please, brother?” He nodded, and she went on. “Flitch was rich, you see, in many ways, and he went to work every day whistling in his joy. One day, while Flitch was digging in a seam of coal, a great rock came loose and fell, striking him on the head. He was dazed, swooned, and fell over, senseless. When he awoke some hours later, he had a great pain in his head and…he didn’t know who he was.” She paused a moment, breathed deeply once again, and bowed a second time to Jacks. She went on. “Whether hence through fire or flowers, what has been mine will now be ours.”

  Jacks frowned at this strange ritual. Heather continued.

  “Flitch staggered from the mine and looked around for some clue as to who he might be. But he could find none. He wandered off and took the wrong road, for he could remember nothing. He wandered so far that he came to a different town from his own, one called Newton. No one knew him in Newton, and he soon settled in as a laborer on a farm. For years he worked and wondered about his past. He didn’t even know his own name. Now, Newton voted on every matter in the town hall, but he always stayed silent during the votes. But one day, when a great controversy had split the town, it came down to a close vote. Half the town wanted to elect a council, and half wanted to simply appoint a mayor. The division was so strong and close that the vote really was evenly split. Then everyone looked at Flitch and said, ‘Stranger, your vote will decide the matter. What say you?’

  “Now Flitch was upset, but he rose, and the hall fell silent. ‘I can’t say what I should do, for I don’t know who I am,’ he said. And he walked out, leaving the hall in a wild uproar. He walked out of Newton that day and took up again the lonely road that split in a hundred different directions. He traveled the road for years, wondering who he was.” Heather fell silent for a moment, then closed her eyes and breathed deeply a third time. She bowed once more and said, “My tale is told, the seed is sown, what grows from it will be your own.”

  They walked on in silence for a little while longer.

  “Did he ever get home again?” Jacks asked.

  “Well, now. Lots of folks say you should never explain a story,” she said, thinking of her Storyguild master back at Cloud Mountain.

  “But I want to know,” Jacks said.

  “I’ll tell you this much. He had to remember who he was first,” she answered, “before he could find his way home.”

  Jacks frowned. “We’d better get back to the house,” he said. “You shouldn’t be late for work. The administration is counting on us all to do our part.”

  She nodded, looked away, and quickly wiped at her eyes.

  * * *

  Not long after, Heather was at the door of the District Four clinic. She could smell the faint foul wafts of the fumes of District Five. She worried about the Lepers’ District. She stared at the pit wall and thought of the secret chamber within that held the Tunneler and his council. What could she do to help Father bring on the action needed? And how much time did she have to save Jacks? Could he even be saved? She didn’t know whether he was moved by their encounter this morning and the story she told or if he would report her to the administration. She sighed as she entered the clinic.

  “Doctor Heather!” the clerk called, rushing up to her. “I have such wonderful news. Please, come back and see Doctor Hendow at once.”

  Heather smiled, astonished to find this welcome from the surly clerk. She was walking toward the inner passage when, following a rush of footsteps behind her, the clinic door was thrust open, and she turned to see guards clogging the clinic entrance.

  “You!” their chief called, pointing at Heather. “Come with us!”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  THE WARNING

  Heather’s heart sank. Jacks, what have you done? “I have patients to see,” she said without moving.

  “And Captain Vitton has no patience at all,” the chief said in a snarl. The clerk and several nearby patients gasped at the hated name of Vitton. Vit Skinner, Mother had said. “Come along now, or we’ll get rough with you and some of these other loafers.”

  Heather frowned and turned to the clerk. “Please express my regrets to Doctor Hendow and say I will be back by—” She turned to the chief. “Do you know when I may return to work?”

  “That’s for Captain Vitton to decide,” he said, grabbing her arm. It was her injured arm, and she braced for the pain. But to her surprise, it didn’t hurt too badly. With a backward glance at the clinic’s waiting room, she was shoved outside.

  In the street stood a tall lean rabbit, about Father’s age or a bit younger. He wore the uniform of the Longtreader administration, with four golden bands around his upper right arm and the single birdwing epaulette on his left shoulder. Somehow his uniform looked neater than the others, as if the most careful attention possible was paid to its perfection. He brushed at the ash that settled on his pristine uniform. She recognized him from her ordeal with the Commandant. He was one of those officers who watched as she was beaten and struck off the roof. She particularly remembered his sickening sneer of delight, frozen in a frame of her memory, when she was plunging off the edge.

  “Young Miss,” he said without looking up, “I see you have reported for duty as a doctor in this clinic?” His voice was slippery and sweet, like he was speaking to a youngster who disgusted him but whom he wanted to deceive.

  “I had,” she said, then checked her defiant attitude. That will only lead to more trouble. “I have, sir. And I’m grateful for the assignment. I can do much good here.”

  “You think so?” he said, glancing up to squint at her. “Come along.” He smiled at her, and she saw that his teeth had been filed to points. He began to walk away. Heather hurried to come alongside him. “I like to welcome some newcomers with my own introduction,” he said, his lips pursed and his nose high in a disgusted expression. “I have not had the pleasure for some time and have missed it.”

  “I appreciate your attention,” she said, though this was far from true, and they both knew it. He smiled a disingenuous smile, never losing that permanent expression of smug disgust and superiority.

  “I’m sure,” he answered in his prim tone. They walked on, and Heather could see he was leading her toward the great gate of the wall surrounding District Six.

  “I am Captain Vitton,” he said, “and everyone hates me.”

  “Surely not, sir,” she said, trying to sound believable.

  “They do, they do,” he said, delicately taking off a glove and swatting the air in dismissal. “I assure you, even the set inside the wall do not like me, nor the things I do. But,” he said, stopping to gaze into her eyes with his sickly stare, “they approve of the results.”

  “And what are the results?” she asked, though she was afraid to know.

  “That peace is kept,” he said flatly, “and our authority is maintained.”

  “I see.”

  The gate was opened, and they passed inside in silence, Captain Vitton strolling breezily along, Heather walking nervously at his side. They passed the place where she had been dragged and held and walked through a lane that led to an area of industry. Rabbits, most well-dressed with elegant red scarves or kerchiefs, were working at various jobs in a corridor. They walked past chandlers and coopers, barbers and an armory. He stopped at a smithy and then walked within, while the several smiths slowed in their work and bowed to him.

  “Captain Vitton,” said a large blacksmith, “we are very much honored to see you.” Th
e massive rabbit’s voice quavered in the saying.

  “Master Smith,” Captain Vitton said, not looking up, “is it possible you spoke to me before I spoke to you?”

  The blacksmith flinched at this rebuke. “I beg your pardon, Captain,” he said, dropping to his knees. “It will never happen again. I will never speak until you desire it, sir!”

  “You’re doing it now,” Captain Vitton said, nodding nonchalantly to his guards, two of whom came and led the perplexed blacksmith away. “Continue your work,” Vitton said dismissively to the rest. The wide-eyed smiths continued, each hurrying to outwork the next. Vitton motioned for Heather to follow him up to the departed blacksmith’s work area. There she saw his anvil, massive hammer, iron tongs, and a glowing rod fresh from the fire.

  “Do you believe this work valuable?” he asked.

  “I’m sure it is, sir,” she answered. “Yes.”

  “We bring in the dregs from the outer districts to do the work we inwallers don’t wish to do,” he said, “but I suppose it must be done, and having outwallers here is the price we must pay. However, I am only concerned with my work.” She felt a tremble beginning in her legs, but she fought to hide it. “This is where you ask me what my work is,” he said flippantly.

  “What is your work?” she asked, barely keeping the tremor out of her voice.

  Captain Vitton’s air, so recently nonchalant and disinterested, changed in a moment. He lashed out with lightning speed, taking Heather’s arm and pinning it down on the anvil. He reached for the tongs and took up the blazing orange rod. She felt the heat as he brought the blazing hot metal close to her face. “My work is this!” he said, bringing the orange rod down on her arm.

  Agony. Burning, searing anguish. “If you step out of line,” he said in a frothing cackle, while the fur and flesh of her arm smoked. She could barely keep her jaw clenched against the excruciating pain, “I will burn you. I will burn everyone you love!” He laughed again, his wild eyes reflecting orange.