The Green Ember (The Green Ember Series Book 1)

by S D Smith

  “I am anything but a general—though as a girl my mother did call me a general nuisance. But I shall be so bold as to marshal you to action, to call on your best efforts, to command you—dare I say—to be vigilant and faithful and unified in the cause of King Jupiter.”

  Cheers filled the hall, but Mrs. Weaver did not move; she only bowed her head. In a few moments, she raised her hand and silence resumed. She went on. “I call on you to be faithful to King Jupiter and to be faithful to his true heir.”

  The hall erupted in a shout, almost unified, of “Yes!”

  “We must stay together,” she said.

  “Yes!” they shouted again, this time together.

  “We must end senseless division,” she said.

  The hall shouted, “Yes!” Heather shouted with all her breath, noticing that loud calls of “Yes!” were pouring out from behind her as well.

  “We must come together to fight our common foe—in our art, in our arms, with our farms, and our hearts!”

  “Yes!” the booming reply came again. Then silence descended like a blanket, though the energy in the hall was bubbling beneath a shallow surface of respectful quiet.

  Mrs. Weaver said, “Let us be who we truly are, friends. When the Green Ember rises—and may it happen soon—let us live so that when the Mended Wood comes, we will not be strangers to its charms.” She bowed her head and moved slowly to the side of the platform. After she took a few steps, the crowd erupted in fresh, deafening cheers. These lasted for as long as it took her to leave the stage and disappear again into the crowd.

  Then three rabbits came on stage, one with a lute, another a tin whistle, and the last, with no instrument, standing between the others. Her hands were folded together behind her back, and she closed her eyes as her fellows began to play. The crowd quieted again. The music was lovely, but sad. It was a lament, but with joy enough to break your heart. Heather was stirred even before the rabbit in the middle began to sing. When she did, Heather could not hold back her tears.

  “The skies once so blue and beautiful,

  Are littered with crass, cruel foes.

  Their bleak, black wings beat a dreadful beat,

  Over sorrowful songs of woes.

  “Songs of suffering and cruel murders,

  All lament and never a voice.

  Raised in grateful gladness to the heights,

  Never reason to rejoice.

  “But,

  It will not be so in the Mended Wood,

  We’ll be free and glad again.

  It will not be so in the Mended Wood,

  When the heir of Jupiter reigns.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Tenth Window

  Heather filed out with all the others, everyone finding their way back to their jobs, families, pains, and pleasures. She walked with Picket and Uncle Wilfred out into the sunlit air of the village green. The song had gone on for a while, lamenting verses, offset by the hopeful refrain “It will not be so in the Mended Wood.” She thought of all the times she had heard rabbits in this community counter a despairing word with this phrase. She had thought it was only a word of encouragement. She hadn’t realized they were singing to each other a song of hope.

  She knew she loved this community, that they had become her people. Not taking the Longtreader controversy into account, she knew this was a place her parents would have loved. Her father, who was a scholar, would have found a wonderful home among the books and the other scholars who remained. She wished they would have come, or could have come. She knew now why they had no place to go, within either the citadels or Cloud Mountain. She understood now why they had gone so far away. She was saddened by the weight of this reality. What joys she could have grown up with, were it not for their family name. Her parents, and Baby Jacks, would be safe, were it not for that title: Longtreader.

  “Uncle Wilfred,” she said, “was Uncle Garten a bad person?”

  Uncle Wilfred sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes I think we’re all bad people, when we focus on our own place.”

  “Is that what he did?”

  “I think so,” Uncle Wilfred said. “He began to think less about the grand cause and more about his place in it. He thought less of how he worked to serve King Jupiter and more about what he accomplished.”

  “It’s heavy,” Picket said. “I hate the weight of it.”

  “Me too,” Uncle Wilfred said. “Don’t stop hating it. It’s a useful fuel for hard work.”

  “How long?” Heather asked. “How long until it’s different?”

  Uncle Wilfred sighed, then smiled. “I ask myself that question every day. I don’t know the answer.”

  “Why won’t King Jupiter’s heir come out of hiding?” Heather asked. “Why won’t he show up, show the Green Ember, get himself crowned, and start the war?”

  “Did King Jupiter even give the Green Ember to his heir?” Picket asked. “Did he have time, before he died?”

  “Yes, Picket,” Uncle Wilfred said. “He did.”

  “So why not fight now?” Heather asked, though it terrified her to think of it. It seemed, as Mrs. Weaver had said, the best terrible option.

  “I wish it were that simple,” Uncle Wilfred said. “But you have had a chance this week to get a glimpse of how fractured our side is. The citadel lords aren’t united on whether or not they would even support the heir—though they all say they would. But many talk of creating a new protectorate, where a strong lord leads our side until the heir is ready. Others think we should unite behind Jupiter’s oldest son, Winslow. But most of us believe he’s as good as a traitor himself, since he’s accepted a token governorship of what’s left of the Great Wood under Morbin’s rule. A petty king paying tribute to keep up appearances.”

  “Isn’t it better to do something than nothing?” Heather asked. “Won’t the enemy act if we don’t?”

  “Very wisely said, Heather,” Uncle Wilfred said. “That is why the lords are here. Everyone knows we need to do something soon. Before the enemy acts.”

  They sat quietly for a while. Then Picket and Uncle Wilfred got into a discussion on Randalgam’s History of War.

  Heather looked down into the village and saw a white rabbit making his way toward the near side of the village green. Smalls. He looked troubled, his head down.

  “What’s wrong with Smalls?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Wilfred said, his face full of concern. “He hasn’t been very talkative lately.”

  * * *

  Picket buried his head. He had never given Smalls anything but trouble. Seeing the small white rabbit still filled him with resentment and embarrassment.

  “I’ll go and talk to him,” Heather said.

  “Good,” Uncle Wilfred said. “He needs friends these days. As do we all.”

  This made Picket even more uncomfortable. He felt ashamed. Smalls deserved better.

  * * *

  Heather joined Smalls as he returned to Hallway Round. She sensed his heavy mood, so for a little while neither of them spoke.

  Just before he passed through the door, Smalls stopped. He looked at Heather, then over her shoulder to where Uncle Wilfred stood talking with Picket. Heather followed his gaze and saw Uncle Wilfred place his fist over his heart and nod his head. Smalls nodded, put his fist over his own heart, then turned and kept walking. He spoke as they entered the doorway.

  “Heather, I’m going away for a while.”

  “Where?” she said, surprised.

  “I’m going to try to find my mother. I have heard a rumor about where I can find her. I think she’s in danger.”

  “I didn’t know your mother was still alive,” Heather said. “Where is she?”

  “She’s in a place called Exile Glen,” he said, whispering so that no others could hear. They had reach
ed the long corridor that stretched from Hallway Round and its three doorways down to King Whitson’s Garden.

  “But you’re not going alone, are you?” she asked. “Surely Uncle Wilfred is going with you.”

  “I won’t be alone the whole time,” he said. “But Wilfred’s staying here.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said.

  “Me too,” he said, and doubt was plain in his face. But he mastered it, and a resolute expression replaced it. “Please say goodbye for me,” he said. “To Wilfred, Picket, and our other friends. Wilfred may be angry that I’ve gone. But tell him my mother needs me, and I’ll come back with all those who are with her, if I can.”

  “I will,” she said, tears starting in her eyes.

  They were in King Whitson’s Garden now. He stopped. “I have a last errand before I leave. So, goodbye, Heather Longtreader. I hope we will meet again in happier days.”

  She hugged him. “Thank you, Smalls. Thanks for saving us at Nick Hollow and for being our friend.” She remembered a blessing her mother used to say. “Farewell, wherever you go off to. May you find friends aplenty and of foes find few.”

  He nodded, smiled, then turned up the path, making his way toward the door into Lighthall.

  Heather nodded. “Goodbye.” But when he reached the door, she remembered Kyle. She wanted to warn him not to take her too seriously when she said that she trusted him. She felt a sudden urge to beg him to stay. She ran after him, pulling open the door. She hurried through the hallway. She heard talking but was in no mood to eavesdrop this time. She ran into Lighthall, sliding to a stop as Master Luthe and Smalls embraced. They saw her but kept on talking.

  “So, Master Luthe,” Smalls said, “I’m leaving. I wanted to thank you for what you’ve done. And what you will do.”

  “It’s my honor,” Luthe Glazier said.

  “You have done well, and Father would be very pleased with your art,” Smalls was saying.

  “Thank you,” Luthe Glazier said.

  “I love your work and am eager to see what you do next,” Smalls said.

  “All my time is spent on the vision of the tenth window,” said Luthe.

  There was a pause; then Smalls spoke. “Mine too.”

  Heather was confused. She looked from the two rabbits to all the window images, all the stories of the fallen king. Then she saw Master Luthe’s workstation, where glass and instruments lay on benches. A massive cloth was piled in the corner, and the tenth window, partially finished, was uncovered. Her eyes fell on the massive center circle, a half-completed vision of the Mended Wood. In the topmost panel, above the half-done middle image, she saw the picture of a very familiar looking white rabbit. He was short, but glorious, wearing a crown wreathed in flames, a bright emerald in its center.

  When Heather looked down, Master Luthe was there. Alone.

  “Where’s Smalls?” she asked.

  Master Luthe turned. “He’s gone, Miss Longtreader.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Breach

  Heather didn’t know what to do, so she stayed in Lighthall a little while. Master Luthe wouldn’t say where Smalls had gone and advised her strongly against following him. She knelt on the floor and watched as he carefully inlaid a small pane of colored glass, sealed it in place, then began work on the next. Slowly, the middle image of the Mended Wood began to take better shape. As she watched, her fears about her family, about the whole wounded world, ebbed.

  Master Luthe’s touch was tender, his eye keen, and his work splendid. As awful as the ninth window was, with its terrifying rendering of the burning of the Great Wood and the horrors of the afterterrors, the tenth was picturing a great reversal. She was seeing the other side of the tragedy, the world that lived, for now, only in the hopeful hearts of those who, though not seeing, saw. She gazed and was glad. And the topmost picture pleased her most.

  There stood King Jupiter Smalls, the Green Ember blazing on his crown of wreathed flames. He looked noble, strong, and glad. He looked like himself, she realized. It was an image of what he would be when his day came. She longed for that day.

  She had been wrong when she assumed Finbar Smalls was his father. His father was King Jupiter.

  Finally, she left Lighthall, finding a bench in King’s Garden. She sat and thought through her journey, everything she could remember that Smalls had said or Uncle Wilfred had said about Smalls. She shook her head. Everything made sense now. Or, almost everything.

  Then a seed of worry sprouted in her mind. She needed to find Uncle Wilfred and tell him that Smalls was gone.

  She rose and walked quickly through the corridor, into Hallway Round, and outside onto the village green. She found Uncle Wilfred and Picket going through some exercises together with wooden swords, both laughing.

  “Hello, my dear,” Uncle Wilfred said, just blocking a sneaky stab from Picket. Then he saw her face, and he motioned for Picket to wait. “What is it, Heather?”

  “I know,” she said. “I know everything.”

  He nodded.

  * * *

  Picket was pleased. He had been encouraged by the assembly, heartened to carry on his work. He wanted to keep believing, no matter what Master Helmer said. He enjoyed practicing swords with Uncle Wilfred, the few chances he got. He was getting better, and he liked that his uncle saw it. Uncle Wilfred was a lot quicker with praise than Helmer and much slower to anger and scorn. Picket had just jabbed at Uncle Wilfred and almost made contact. He saw Heather out of the corner of his eye but kept up the attack. He hoped he could score a point while she was watching.

  But Uncle Wilfred signaled a stop, and Heather said, “I know. I know everything.”

  Uncle Wilfred nodded.

  “You know what?” Picket said.

  Before Heather could answer, screams of terror filled the air. Picket looked past Heather and saw rabbits running, grabbing children, and fleeing for the village. Scattered soldiers made for Hallway Round. Uncle Wilfred tossed aside his wooden sword and refastened his belt and scabbard. Picket did the same, his nervous fingers failing to secure the belt for several tries before finally securing his sword. Now the fleeing rabbits were running past them, toward the village.

  “Wolves!” they were screaming. “Wolves inside!”

  Uncle Wilfred spoke fast. “I want you both to go to the caves past the village. Hide out there.”

  “I’m coming with you!” Picket said.

  “You can’t, Picket. Not yet,” he said. “Now, Heather. Where is Smalls?”

  “He left! Went to help his mother. To a place he called Exile Glen,” she said.

  “With?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, fear and confusion filling her. “He said he wasn’t going alone.”

  “Okay. Stay in the caves,” he said. “If I make it back, I’ll find you there. But I’m sure you understand that I have to find Smalls.”

  She nodded.

  “What’s going on?” Picket shouted.

  “Stay with your sister,” Uncle Wilfred yelled. “Do your duty. I’m trusting you!”

  “Kyle!” Heather shouted. “He might be going with Kyle!”

  Uncle Wilfred stopped and spun around. “Did he say that?”

  “No, but I think it’s likely.”

  Uncle Wilfred looked furious. “Who could have told him he could trust that rogue?” he said, and then he tore off toward the danger, drawing his sword.

  Heather gasped and put her hand to her mouth.

  “I don’t understand, Heather,” Picket asked. “What is going on?”

  “Picket,” she said, panicked, “I think I may have helped betray Jupiter’s heir.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain as soon as I can!” she shouted, and she ran toward the danger, toward Hallway Round and the wolves inside the mountain.
“We have to get to Smalls’ quarters. There may be something important there. We can’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”

  They ran, dodging rabbits in flight, and made it to the door. It was open, and screams poured out of it like water from a spout. They heard the fierce, horrifying growls of wolves, the sound of snapping jaws and scraping steel and stone.

  They hesitated a moment in front of the door. Picket, his sword bared, looked at Heather. “Is it worth it?” he shouted above the terrifying din.

  “It might mean everything!” she called back.

  He nodded, then leapt into the doorway. Heather followed, trying to think faster than the fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Hallway Round was a nightmare of confusion. Soldiers stood by the blastpowder kegs, ready to destroy the stairway, blocking entrance. But rabbits were everywhere. Wolves attacked in fury all over. One wolf snapped at a knot of rabbit soldiers, who fought back hard. Picket could see they were overmatched. Across the round, two farmers and two soldiers were desperately resisting the advance of a hulking charcoal wolf armed with a shield and a long many-spiked javelin. His stabs were death. Dead and wounded rabbits lined the floor. Uncle Wilfred had already made it through.

  Heather tried to focus, ignoring the fear. It was a long way to Smalls’ quarters.

  “It won’t get any better,” Picket said. “We have to go!” he shouted, running for the corridor. Passing by an intense fight, he joined several soldiers as they pushed back a snapping, furious wolf.

  There was a sharp horn blast, and the wolves all perked up. They howled, growled, and made a furious advance, one coming inches from catching Picket’s head in its jaws. Then they all fell back quickly, heading for the way out.

  The stunned rabbit soldiers slumped, breathed heavily, then cautiously chased after the wolves. Many of the soldiers were from different citadels, and they fought hard and bravely side by side. Picket and Heather followed the vanguard of the bravest who charged after the retreating wolves. They reached King’s Garden, tried not to notice the destruction and violence that had occurred there moments before, and ran down the great stone stairs, taking them by fours and barely staying upright.