by S D Smith
“Very funny,” Kyle said. “Say hi for me next time you see him.”
Heather laughed. “I’ll do that.”
“You know, Heather, you could have really had breakfast with Jupiter’s heir this morning and not known it was really him,” Kyle said, his shoulder raised.
“I had breakfast with my brother,” Heather said, shaking her head.
“You never know,” Kyle began. “Bilton Chandler told me he knew something bad about your brother. And now he’s apprenticed to Helmer the Blackhearted?”
“Okay, you rogue, enough of that. I won’t hear you speak ill of my perfect, polite, and posh little brother,” she said. “What’s the news this morning? I’m sure you have something juicy to share.”
“I do,” he said, smiling wide.
“Okay, what is it?”
“Only that the secret citadels are in turmoil, nearly all of them.” Kyle looked side to side, then resumed, touching his nose. “The word is, they are sick of waiting. Some of them want to attack Morbin now and go down in an awful, inevitable defeat. You know, your real death-and-glory party. Others are sown full of traitors—which, beg your pardon, should interest you—who are in the pay of the Lords of Prey. They are causing all kinds of turmoil. The word is that the lords and captains are all meeting here over the next week to decide what to do.”
“What’ll happen?” Heather asked, unable to pretend she wasn’t interested.
“It could be the end of the resistance,” Kyle said flatly. “Which in a short time would mean the end of this place.” He appeared oddly unfazed by this.
“But we’ve only just gotten here,” Heather said. “And no matter what you say, I like it here.”
“Sure, it’s okay,” Kyle said. “Just a little too strict for me.”
“Anything is too strict for you, Kyle.”
“True enough,” he said, shrugging. “But listen, Heather. I like you. You’ve been kind to me, so I want to level with you.” He looked at his gang. “Take a hike,” he said. His followers dispersed.
“Okay?” Heather asked, a little confused.
“Listen,” Kyle went on, looking back and forth. “I know I’m breaking the law of initiates, but I don’t care. I don’t know about Terralain,” he said, uneasy, “and I’m not sure about Jupiter’s heir. I’ve heard stories about how wonderful Terralain is since I was little, and every dreamy poet you meet thinks it’s real. I want to believe in Terralain—more than you know. Jupiter’s heir is a real person, though no one I’ve talked to knows for sure who he is. The fallen king had about ten sons, and most of them are fighting for the title of heir in the Great Wood. But no one knows who, or where, the true heir is. So, rumors fly.”
“Jupiter’s sons are in the Great Wood?”
“Most of them, sure, or what’s left of it. The oldest, Prince Winslow, is the nominal governor of the wood. Some of the citadels want to go over to his cause, believing he can lead a real revolt. Others think he’s so close to the Lords of Prey that he’s compromised. They believe he’s too tight with Morbin himself. Morbin’s the king of the Lords of Prey and the one who killed King Jupiter.”
“Oh my,” Heather said, engrossed. “Winslow is allied with his father’s murderer?”
“It’s all politics in these great families,” Kyle said, swatting at the air dismissively. “All the highborns are the same. Greedy, entitled, and looking to lord over others.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, frowning.
“Listen, Heather. I’m leveling with you because I like you,” he looked around again and lowered his voice. “There are important people who don’t approve of you being here, and things could go very badly here real soon. The Whitson Stone is already lost, or so it’s believed, and if the Green Ember doesn’t show up, then the fight will go on between the citadels and the king’s sons.”
Emma entered the room, saw Heather huddled with Kyle, and stomped toward them, a stern look on her face.
“What?” Heather asked. “I don’t understand. Who doesn’t approve of us?”
Kyle looked back at Emma and rose to leave. Heather grabbed his arm. “Wait, Kyle. Don’t go. What’s the Green Ember?”
“It’s the—”
“What’s going on?” Emma asked, cutting Kyle off.
“I was just leaving,” Kyle said. With a pensive shrug and a look of regret, he left.
“What was that liar saying?” Emma asked as Kyle disappeared through the stone door.
Heather wasn’t sure what to say. She felt she needed time to sort out her questions. “Oh, nothing much.”
“Well, I’ve got to eat and run,” Emma said, stuffing some bread in her mouth. “I’m needed at the hospital. I’ll see you later?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Heather?” Emma asked through her chewing.
“Just a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
“Don’t believe anything Kyle says. I once overhead him telling Captain Pacer that he knew what happened to Bleston’s Waywards. And sometimes when he talks about Terralain, you feel like he’s speaking from his heart. But he’s not. He’s a liar! I know from experience, dear. Trust me. Don’t let him worry you.”
“All right,” she said absently.
“I’ve got to go,” Emma said, hustling away. “We’ll talk later!”
* * *
Heather sat at the table, alone. She felt lost, like she didn’t even have enough information to know whether or not to constantly worry. No one had told her where to go or what to do today. People had so often shot her the unkindest looks. What did that mean? And who could Kyle have meant when he said important people didn’t want them there? She was frustrated. When would answers come?
The thought of visiting the storyguild made her panic. Her other interest, healing, was another matter. She was interested in starting at once, but Emma had told her they weren’t taking anyone else on for another few months. That would be after Dr. Zeiger got back and had finished the first season of the current apprentices, which included Emma. That left her caught in between. How odd that sullen Picket had found a place here when she had not. She couldn’t even talk to Mrs. Weaver right now, because she knew Picket was with her. She wasn’t about to sit around and brood about what Kyle had said, though she felt a nagging worry creep into her mind and settle. She trusted Emma but felt like Kyle might be telling the truth.
There was only one thing to do. She would wander around and explore and try to find some answers ahead of initiation tonight. She might even be able to find Kyle again, though he was pretty good at disappearing.
In a few minutes, she was heading up the long stone stairway, not certain where to start. Lord Rake had said they would have their initiates’ lesson in Lighthall. She was glad, but she wondered why they would be allowed in now. Gort had said no one was allowed yet. Was it completed? Were they making an exception for them? If so, why them? They were nobody special. There was nothing about their family to deserve any special honor. Or was there? Why was Lord Rake so concerned about Picket being with Helmer?
So much was possible. Everything felt shrouded in a mystery as heavy as the fog covering the mountaintop. She could imagine beyond it, like the painters on Mrs. Weaver’s porch, but she didn’t know what was truly there. She believed it might be only a barren wasteland.
She took the last steps two at a time and sprang into King Whitson’s Garden. She immediately felt bad, for her noisy entrance had apparently disrupted the quiet contemplation of an older couple. They were both a greying brown color. They had been sitting on a bench, hands clasped, their heads together, but sat back quickly with a look of mild alarm when she thundered in.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, sliding to a stop.
“Never mind, dear,” the lady said. “It was time we got to work anyway.” They rose slowly and, hand in
hand, made their way down the brick path toward Hallway Round. She wondered where they would be headed—the great hall, the village green, or the mossy, fog-drenched porch? Everyone has somewhere to go but me. But I’m going to find some answers today.
Now she had all of King Whitson’s Garden to herself. She was amazed that no one else was there. Maybe it was like Mrs. Weaver, a precious commodity that people didn’t like to keep for themselves for very long. She wandered around, looking at flowers and plants, smiling and trying to allow the serenity of the place to calm her nerves and ease her worries. She fingered the split in her ear. She had thought of tying a bow there or seeing if a doctor could sew it together again. But something in her wanted to let it alone. It was a mark of their journey and who she was becoming. Smalls had said it didn’t diminish her beauty. She sometimes wore a bow, but not one to cover that ear. Pretty, yes. But I’ll be who I am and remember where I’ve been.
Thoughts of the storyguild haunted her. Emma had said there was a place for her, that she’d spoken to the master and reserved her a spot. All she had to do was go to the great hall and find their section, walk in, and take her place.
She tried to distract herself by peering into the windows of Lighthall. But there was nothing to see in that hallway, just a wall of beautiful multicolored glass. The real mystery was farther in, where nothing could be seen, but plenty heard. There was the consistent sound of cutting, hammering, and low talk.
Then, just as she had given up and planned to head for the village green, she saw a white form pass before one of the low windows.
Smalls.
What was he up to in there? She knew he must be sad about his father, and maybe being in a place where artists were at work reminded Smalls of him. She didn’t want to disturb him, but she wanted to have a look.
She crept along the path. When the path ended, she waded into the mulch and plants, directly behind a wooden panel on the outside of Lighthall. She was only a few feet from the door.
She heard voices. Was she eavesdropping again? She had done it on the boat, had listened to Uncle Wilfred and Smalls for a few minutes, until Picket had woken up. But that had just happened naturally. This was deliberate. Was it wrong? Of course it was.
Just as she made up her mind to leave, the voices grew closer, clearer. Now she froze, afraid of being seen or heard.
“I have to go out for some supplies,” an older voice said. “I’ll be back soon.”
“All right, Master Glazier,” came another voice. A familiar voice. Smalls. “I’ll stay here for a little while. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” the older rabbit said. “And please, call me Luthe. It pleases me that you feel close to your father here.” There was a short silence.
“Very few—” Smalls began.
“I know it,” Luthe Glazier said. “You don’t need to tell me. I understand.”
Heather heard footsteps, a door opening, then closing. Thankfully, he hadn’t left by the door near her. She sighed and stood up slowly. Then she heard more footsteps and saw a shape through the broken foliage walking down the path toward her. She ducked low again, hiding behind the cover of a large bush. She was too afraid to look up and see who it was.
She heard the door open and someone go in. By the time she looked again, the door was closing. She moved toward the path but heard an urgent voice.
“It’s bad, Smalls.” It was Uncle Wilfred. “Pacer says the wolf patrols get closer every day. Their garrison down at Decker’s Landing is growing. They seem to know something’s up here.”
“And Harbone?” Smalls asked.
“Harbone Citadel won’t last much longer, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?” Smalls said, irritation plain from his tone. “Can’t they hold it together just a little while longer? A few more months?”
“That’s just it,” Uncle Wilfred said. “They don’t think it will be only a little while. They think it’s more likely we’ll all be betrayed, discovered, and … well, you know what happens after that.”
“You must plead with them,” Smalls said.
“I have,” he said, frustrated. “But they … they …” he was having a hard time going on. “They don’t trust me.”
There was a long silence.
“Wretches,” Smalls said bitterly. Heather stood frozen, eager to hear what it was that was happening outside these walls. But now she was overcome by guilt. She wanted to get away. She searched for a way to escape silently.
“But you know it must be hard for them,” Uncle Wilfred said. “I look just like him.”
Just like who? thought Heather. She knew of only one rabbit who looked like her Uncle Wilfred. A dread settled over her, holding her motionless.
Finally she shook free, remembering her determination to get away. Now she wanted to go and go quickly. She was afraid of what she might hear. She stepped carefully out of her hiding spot and tiptoed down the path.
“It’s not fair,” Smalls said.
“I would do the same, if I was them. How can anyone trust me or anyone in my family?” Uncle Wilfred said.
That was the last Heather heard as she ran along the path and down the stone stairway.
Her mind raced as she ran back to her room. Why would Uncle Wilfred believe no one should trust anyone in her family? A sickening dread came over her, along with a flurry of questions she could not answer. Why had Father fled so far away from everyone? Who was the Lady Glen? Was Father a traitor, conspiring with her? Was Mother in on everything? Why had Father wept so much—and he never wept—when he told her and Picket of King Jupiter’s betrayal? Did he have something to regret?
She had always wanted to be like her parents. Now, she wasn’t sure. She needed answers, but would she want to hear the truth?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A Bad Good Day
Picket arrived on the village green after half an hour with Maggie Weaver. He was still thinking about what she had said to him—the very few words she had said. But he must move on. He had to be prepared for what Helmer might throw at him. And he realized that Helmer might actually throw things at him.
Picket wasn’t exactly sure why he had asked Helmer to train him. He just knew, immediately knew, when he saw the insane fight with the swinging wooden birds that this was his rabbit. Picket wanted nothing more than to be the best warrior he could be, so that he would be ready the next time he met up with Redeye Garlackson or anyone who was on the wicked wolf’s side.
Today, he got a reluctant wave from Heyward as he passed the neat hedgerows. Picket noticed with some relief that Heyward was a lot less chatty when Helmer loomed.
He took in a deep breath and tried to focus. Helmer lay beneath the tree, wearing his usual black pants and oiled black boots, but today he wore a grey jacket with the same red diamond symbol on the breast. It was unsettling walking up to such an unpredictable rabbit. Picket wasn’t sure if he would jump up and attack him or start snoring.
As he neared the tree, Picket thought of attacking the black rabbit himself in a mad flurry. Somehow he thought this might actually impress Helmer. At the last moment he decided against it. He might be killed doing such a thing.
“Good morning, Ladybug,” Helmer said, his voice a guttural rasp, as though the air he used to speak was passing through a rusty old gate.
“Good morning … Wasp?” Picket said.
“Ha,” Helmer chuckled. “I like that. But you will call me Master, child.”
“Yes, Masterchild,” Picket said.
“Well, obviously you have a deep, soul-level need for humility,” Helmer said, levering up onto his elbow. “You will receive that momentarily. But if you’re as courageous on the battlefield as you are full of … well, bristling insanity here, you might do some serious damage before our certain and inevitable defeat.”
“Certain defeat?” Picket asked. �
�Bristling what?”
“Lesson one!” Helmer shouted as he kicked his legs up and landed hard on the ground, upright and at the ready. “You listening, Ladybug? Because your apprenticeship starts now.”
“Yes, Master Helmer,” Picket said, taking a few steps back.
“How many weapons do I have?” Helmer asked. Picket took a quick inventory, though he thought Helmer might be concealing some.
“Two. Your knife and the sword,” Picket said.
Helmer responded with an immediate attack. He hit Picket, kicked him, took off his jacket and struck him with it over and over, then threw rocks at him. Picket scrambled around, trying to dodge rocks, block blows, and escape the whirlwind of whipping coat.
After a few minutes, Picket was sucking air and begging for mercy. Helmer hadn’t done him serious harm but had just made enough contact in his blows to make Picket feel them. And Picket did. Wheezing, he clutched at various hurts all around. Suddenly his sore foot didn’t seem so bad. In fact, he had gotten around on it okay in his mad dash to escape the onslaught.
“This wasp stings, yes?” Helmer asked.
“Yes, Master Helmer!”
“Will you have a sword with you every time you are in a fight, Ladybug?”
“No, Master Helmer.”
“Lesson number one,” Helmer said, kicking a spray of loose dirt into Picket’s face, causing the young rabbit to fall over, digging at his eyes.
“I can’t see!”
“Lesson. Number. One,” Helmer said evenly. “Everything is a weapon.”
* * *
Heather looked out over the mossy porch into the heavy fog that blocked out the whole world. She was frustrated but felt like this was where she belonged. There on the porch, waiting to speak to Mrs. Weaver, she was unable to see far enough to satisfy her desire. She wanted to know what was beyond the fog, both on the mountain and in her heart. She wanted to know. She wanted to see the past, the future, even the present with far more clarity than she had right now.