by S D Smith
“I think so,” she said. “Kyle, what’s wrong?” She was worried, but she tried to joke with him. “Have you found the hidden heir to the throne?”
“What if it was me?” he said, his eyes earnest and worried. “What if I was the true heir? There would be things I’d have to do, things I would be asked to do, that I didn’t always want to do.”
“Kyle, you’re worrying me,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m noble, but I have to act like I’m not. My father would want me to—”
He stopped short when a stocky rabbit, new to the room, came over and planted himself in front of Heather. His tunic bore a red moon crossed with spears, a little ruby in the middle. She noticed several others who wore tunics bearing the same sign.
“Hey, girl,” he said. “Longtreader girl. I just want you to know that your family is full of traitors, and I don’t care what Lord Rake or anyone else says; we should throw everyone named Longtreader into the darkest, farthest prison.”
“That’s uncalled for,” Kyle said, standing. The whole room was silent.
“Sit down, you brat,” the stranger said. “You should be jailed for conspiring with the enemy.”
Heather was shocked. It was one thing to get dirty looks and another to be embarrassed in front of everyone. “I’m not … that’s not …” she began, but her voice died away.
“Just you know, we’ve got our eyes on you,” he said, pointing a chubby finger in her face. “This time the Halfwind Citadel stands ready to intervene to stop your treachery. We won’t be caught standing idle. Not this time. ”
“You fat villain,” Kyle shouted, and he lunged at the stranger. Kyle surprised him and knocked him over, but it took only a few seconds for the strong rabbit to get on top of Kyle, strike him a few hard blows, then regain his feet. Kyle writhed on the ground, holding his hand to his mouth.
“All right, all right, Captain Frye,” Gort said, jumping in the middle. “I ask you, sir, to please leave the youngster alone,” he said, holding up his hands for calm. “We only eat here. We don’t want any trouble.”
“You prepared a table for trouble when you welcomed Longtreaders,” Frye spat. “We were just leaving.” With a menacing glare at first Heather, then Kyle and Gort, he left quickly with several bucks following him out.
Heather went to Kyle’s side. She helped him to his feet and then a seat. “I’m so sorry, Kyle.”
“I had him right where I wanted him, but the sun got in my eyes,” Kyle said.
Gort sighed and stomped back into the kitchen.
“Well, we are in a cave, so it must have been very surprising,” she said, smiling.
He smiled back and accepted a cloth to dab his wounds. “I can’t believe no one stepped in to help,” he said.
“Thank you for trying,” she said. “It means a lot.”
“Like I said, Heather, I like you. I just hope we can always be friends, no matter what.”
“Why did you ask if someone can be trusted again after they change?”
“Because I have to believe it can happen.”
“I have no doubt you can be the person you aim to be, Kyle.”
“I wish I was so sure.”
“What’s the latest rumor?” she asked.
“It’s grim,” he said. “All horribly grim.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fights and Facts
Beneath Helmer’s maple tree, Picket went through his sword exercises. He sliced, blocked, attacked, dove, spun, jumped, slid, fell down, shot up, and did it all again. Over and over.
“Too predictable!” Helmer shouted from the comfort of a shady spot a few yards away. He seemed to only partially pay attention. But Picket had learned that Helmer had an unbelievable ability to perceive his surroundings, no matter how disengaged he appeared to be. “Mix it up, Ladybug!”
“Yes, Master Helmer!” Picket shouted and threw himself into the routine with renewed vigor.
Picket was not the rabbit he had been a week before. He was leaner, stronger, quicker, and tougher than ever. He could handle a sword reasonably well and was less inclined to whiney backchat.
“Impressive! That’s better,” Helmer mumbled.
Picket stopped, shocked to hear praise, albeit mumbled, from his tempestuous tutor. He was rewarded for stopping with a small rock hurled his way. “You stop when I say so!”
Picket dodged the rock and resumed his routine.
In a few minutes, Helmer stopped him. “Okay, that’s good. Now, up in the tree.”
“The tree?” Picket said, nervously eyeing the limbs above.
“Yes, Ladybug. Do you have a problem with that?” Helmer said. “Do you think all combat happens on the ground? We’re fighting birds, among other things, Master Softhead! So we’re going to work on maintaining balance at a height. Which mostly means you’re going to walk on thin high limbs while I throw rocks at you.”
“Um, well,” Picket started. He looked up. The tree seemed to wobble before him. He thought he might faint. “No, sir … no problem.” He walked slowly toward the tree, reaching up to find a grip and climb. All his training so far had been on the ground. He was not ready for this.
His vision blurred, and he fell to his knees. Panic swelled inside him until he was convinced the only thing he could do was run away.
“Afraid of heights?” Helmer asked. “Perfect. You really are a mixed-up lad. You come here full of defiance and anger, and then you show up and you’re a horrible, hobbled mess. You spend a week with me, and now you’re such an efficient student it’s scaring me and I begin to think you might someday be some kind of decent soldier. And now this. You’ve got a doe’s fear of heights.”
“I can conquer it, sir,” Picket said, his voice cracking.
“Yeah, you sound like it’s got you pretty well conquered.”
“I’m willing to work and overcome anything, sir. Including this,” Picket choked out.
“Okay, okay,” Helmer said, smiling ruefully. “We’ll tackle this fear of high places tomorrow. If tomorrow ever comes. I’m too tired to hold your hand and sing lullabies to you tonight.”
Picket hung his head. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how sure he was that he’d built a fortress around his heart, there was always a breech. It felt like ages ago that he was afraid to climb the old maple in Nick Hollow to find the starstick. But he was still that same kid, afraid of every bird, afraid of every height.
“Don’t worry,” Helmer said. “It’s just another enemy to be taken down in the end.”
Picket looked up and half-smiled. Sometimes, he thought, Helmer seemed almost like a real person. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t just stand there like baby with no head! Get the woods!”
They practiced for another half-hour with wooden swords, Picket always showing improvement, always learning, and always receiving hundreds of painful raps from his phenomenal master’s sword. One day, Picket thought, I will be like him. Untouchable with a blade. Then let Redeye try me again.
After this final exercise, they were finished for the day. Picket gathered his few things—which included his own straight steel sword, a gift from Uncle Wilfred—and prepared to leave.
“One last thing, Picket, before you go,” Helmer said.
“Yes, Master?” he said, spinning around and coming to attention.
“Relax, son,” Helmer said. Picket changed his rigid position only enough so that it could be seen to be somewhat different. “Well, son, you’re no slouch, and that’s saying something.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Listen, Picket, I want you to be aware that things around here are changing. I don’t know what the next weeks, or days, may bring. But Rake believes we may soon have trouble from the enemy. That is, if the various citadel lords don’t cause a war inside this, um, sanctuary of
peace and understanding first.” He laughed one of his hard-edged laughs.
“Master Helmer, I will be ready when trouble comes to do my part in our victory over the enemy.”
“Picket, I like you, kid, but you aren’t serious, are you?”
“Very serious, sir.”
Helmer paced a few steps away, then turned back to Picket. “Two things. One, you aren’t fighting—not anytime soon, anyway. And two, we won’t win.”
Picket blanched. “What do you mean?” His stony would-be-soldier face was giving way. Something of the vulnerable child showed through.
“I mean that we can’t win. The odds are too great. We don’t have the organization, or the leadership, or the numbers. If we were all united—and we’re far from it—we would have the same chance as a worm on Morbin’s dinner plate. But we don’t even have that.”
“Begging your pardon, Master,” Picket said, emotion touching his words, “but I can’t agree. We have to win. We have to keep fighting, and clawing, and surviving, and going on till we empty the forest of every Redeye Garlackson, every Morbin Blackhawk, every last bird of prey filling the sky. We have to!”
Helmer shook his head. “What we have to do, Picket, is face facts.”
Picket shook his head. “I have to find my family,” he whispered, tears starting. “I can’t give up on them.”
Helmer’s face contorted, seemed to soften for a moment, then resumed its stern indifference. He exhaled slowly, then spoke. “Listen, son. In real life bad things happen all the time. You miss your only chance to do something great; you don’t measure up when it counts; your mother gets sick and dies; the flood destroys your home, and that’s it—it’s gone.” He was getting louder, more emphatic. “The rabbit dies in the war, and he’s gone, just gone! And you can’t bring him back. You can’t bring any of them back.” He paused, turned away, then spun back and faced Picket. “The fact is, I served King Jupiter, and I loved him. But this ain’t a bedtime story, lad. The king was killed. We lost. It’s over. No happy ending here. ‘The Mended Wood’ is a child’s motto to keep alive the pathetic hopes of people who just need to face facts. It’s all over. There is no more Great Wood, no glory coming. The glory is behind us. It’s the sad end of a happy tale. That’s real life. They don’t like you being a little bitter? I say it keeps you alive. Let it settle in, lad, because it’s reality you’re dealing with, and the more of them that do the same, the better. We’ve lost, and we’re losing, and we’re going to keep losing till we lose it all. They are going to find this place sometime, probably soon, and we’ll all be forced to flee. Or it will be worse. Rabbits like me and you will die vainly trying to defend the last little corner of light in the world.” He looked out over the village green, at the many rabbits working and talking and eating and laughing. “I’ve been a soldier all my life, Picket. I’ve been with many at the end. We’re alone here, and the stories are all wrong. Nothing ends well. We’re going to lose, Picket. The stories are all wrong.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Traitors’ Table
Next morning, Picket and Heather walked to breakfast early. They hoped to avoid the long lines expected ahead of the assembly. Picket was sullen but wouldn’t talk to Heather about it. She suspected that something had happened with Helmer. She guessed the old nut had gotten to Picket. She resented Helmer and feared what he was making of her brother.
“What’s it like with Mrs. Weaver now, Picket?” Heather asked, sliding past a gang of angry-eyed soldiers. A change of subject might help.
“It’s fine,” he said, putting himself between Heather and the next knot of soldiers in the hallway.
“‘Fine’? Is that all you can say?” she asked. “‘Fine’? What does she say? What do you say? What are some of the words spoken from your mouths? Can you give me a little something more than ‘fine’?”
“Fine,” he said. “I mean, sure. Sure, I can.” He thought for a minute. “Well, I come away with far fewer bruises than in my time with Helmer.”
“I’ll bruise you,” she said, slapping at his shoulder. “If you won’t talk, maybe I can get her to tell me. I’m sure she has the best of advice.”
“It’s not really like that, Heather. She does often say, ‘Remember who you are, Picket Longtreader,’ but she usually just listens to me,” he said, and his tone caught her off guard. It was a little embarrassed, but also defiant.
“She does? Really?” Heather thought this was mad, like a waterfall letting a teardrop put out a fire. “But she’s so wise. I’d think she would be filling your head with her advice all the time till your thick head leaked sagacity.”
“Nope.”
“So, is it any help?” Heather asked.
“I love it.”
“Good, Picket. Hey, that’s wonderful,” she said, unable to keep a hint of doubt out of her tone. “I’m glad.”
“You sound genuinely thrilled,” he said. “And by ‘thrilled’ I mean ‘completely unconvinced.’”
They made it into the very crowded Savory Den and got in line for food. Most of the population of Cloud Mountain ate in their own homes, or even in the great hall. The Savory Den was ordinarily a place for visitors, but with the Citadel Congress meeting, there were plenty of these. Most were tough-looking soldiers, and many gave them suspicious looks.
Emma came in and joined them in line. “Hello, Longtreaders,” she said. She liked to use their true name, and she didn’t mind saying it loudly. Most everyone knew who they were by now, so she had decided she wasn’t going to slink around about it.
“Hello, Emma,” Heather said, hugging her friend. Picket waved and smirked.
“Hey, Shuffler,” she said, punching Picket’s shoulder. “How’s the foot?”
“Fine,” he said, “but my shoulder’s killing me. I keep running into people’s fists this morning. Too bad there are no doctors around.”
“Well, try to pretend to be tough,” she said. “If you can.”
“Honestly, you guys are so mean to each other,” Heather said, waving a disapproving finger at them.
“A truce?” Emma said. “What do you say, Shuffler?”
“Sure,” he said. “For one hour.”
“Agreed.”
“Good,” Picket said. “My shoulder needs a break.”
Heyward joined them, with a neat, short bow to both Emma and Heather. “Good morning, ladies.” He slapped Picket’s shoulder. “Hello there, soldier.”
They all said, “Good morning,” though Picket was wincing.
They got their food at last, a vegetable pie with a golden- brown crust they could barely wait to devour. Heather saw Gort’s head poking in and out of the kitchen, taking in the eager looks from the hungry patrons and the satisfied smiles where people sat eating. She gave him a big smile when she caught his eye. His face reddened, and he disappeared back inside the kitchen, yelling at his staff, “Stay after it, you amateurs! This is your chance to impress some citadel lord and escape there to cook for soldiers in a war zone. It’ll be much safer for you, especially if you don’t stop adding so much salt!” She heard a crash and apologetic rumblings.
They sat at a crowded table, half occupied by some young friends—a few rabbits their age who weren’t afraid to be seen with them—and half by soldiers from one of the citadels. The soldiers in for the Citadel Congress had crests and heraldry telling where they were from, but Heather hadn’t figured it all out yet. These had badges on their shoulders or crests on their tunics featuring a shield split in two. The left side displayed a large green diamond surrounded by a circle of nine small red diamonds. The right side showed only a single black star. She thought of the Black Star of Kingston. She wondered if these soldiers were from Kingston Citadel.
At the head of the other end of the long table sat a tall grey rabbit with a black face. He was clearly a lord. His chest bore the same crest, large and beaut
ifully sewn. He also wore a gold chain with a bright medallion, like Lord Rake’s. On his shoulder was sewn a black star patch. Heather caught him looking at her and Picket, his eyebrows creased. He smiled warmly, surprising her. She smiled back. I guess they aren’t all against us.
“How are my dear friends from Nick Hollow this morning?” Heyward asked. He was one who was still a little wary of using the name Longtreader.
“Fine,” Picket said, smirking at his sister. “Fine, fine, fine.”
“How are you, Heyward?” Heather asked. “And how goes the hedging?”
“It’s a disaster up there,” he said, pitching his voice low. “All these guests here, tensions high, and clumsy, crooked hedges everywhere to simply add to the discomfiture of the community. I’m embarrassed.”
“Well, talk to us about embarrassment,” Picket said, patting Heyward on the back, “when your uncle betrays the king and ruins everything ever.”
“It’s very similar,” Heyward said, nodding seriously. “Only you two can understand me.”
Heather heard a harsh voice from behind say, “Traitors eat with traitors.” They turned to see the stocky rabbit from Halfwind Citadel, Captain Frye, smirking.
“I eat where I like, Captain Frye,” the black-faced rabbit lord said. “And I doubt Lord Ramner would like you insulting another citadel’s lord. And as long as we’re dishing out maxims to live by, how about this one: ‘Cowards taunt children.’”
“They aren’t children anymore, Lord Victor,” Frye said, his bulging eyes now turned on the Longtreaders with scorn. “They’re nearly full-grown—at least the girl is. And even the boy’s old enough to pass along information to Morbin’s side. I’ve seen him with my own eyes, out at night, sneaking around. Going, no doubt, to a meet up with the enemy wolves and to pass on our secrets. They’d love to attack while all the lords and captains are here.”
“You lie!” Picket shouted, rising to his feet. The room went quiet.
“Now, Frye,” Lord Victor said. He stood and raised his hands for calm. “This isn’t the place—”