Ember's End

by S D Smith

  Why is it so called? Why Firstflower?” Mrs. Weaver asked.

  “The heir does not know it?” Missy asked, reaching out feeble fingers as if they were searching eyes.

  “I do not,” Emma replied, “though I fear I have ignored a great source of wisdom.”

  “Much has been lost, indeed,” Missy said. “King Jupiter was doing more than making a peaceful realm; he was recovering the best of a lost one and making it new. But his work was cut short, and all that was being recovered was mislaid again.”

  “Tell us, Mother,” Prester Kell said.

  “We have lost knowledge of our first parents, of Flint and Fay. We have forgotten what they found and what the Trekkers left. We have lost our story and remember only Flint and Fay and the other Leapers coming to the Blue Moss Hills, but not why the hills were thus called.”

  “Was it not the blue moss itself, Aunty?” Emma asked.

  “Not at all, Highness,” Missy said, coughing. “That is only what our foreparents thought when they gazed across the chasm from Immovable Mountain. The lore is glossed over or forgotten, but when Flint and Fay led the Leapers across the seven standing stones, what they found on the hills was not blue moss but Firstflower. True Blue. It grew in great swathes across the hills, and the rabbits ate it and grew wise. This is how we first knew language and art and rose up to govern and grow. This is where our first king, Flint himself, became a ruler. It is where Fay, mother of all sages, grew wiser than any before or since and how she made the first book, the heirloom of the royal household.”

  “True Blue made them wise,” Emma said, “but did it heal?”

  “They were long-lived as long as they dwelled among the flowers, but after Firstfoe came, many left and trekked inland to Golden Coast. I have never seen Firstflower, so I don’t know what properties it has, but a rumor grew among the wise years ago—before the last fall—that Firstflower could heal. Harlan Seer went off to seek it, after a visit to old Jone at Halfwind.”

  “You know Jone Wissel?” Prester Kell asked.

  “I knew her when I was a child. She frightened me—thought I was mischievous—and she used to swat at me and shoo me out of her shop.”

  “She was of age when you were a child?” Emma asked.

  “She was old then,” Missy said, “the oldest person I had ever met. How did you hear of her?”

  “Aunty, I know her.” Emma spoke reverently. “She is still alive.”

  “How can this be?” Missy’s voice found new energy, and she stirred in her bed. “But it must be tied up with Firstflower. It must be why you’re here. Aunt Jone had some … somehow! She used it for years—experimenting, always—giving her the long life of the Leapers.”

  “Did Harlan Seer come during your time, Prester Kell?” Emma asked.

  “Lord Captain Harlan came to Halfwind many times before I became prester. I was a votive, of course, and we had some ancient heirlooms that some said held some of the old Blue. But few believed it. Aunt Jone … well, she removed some from the old relics and was jailed—despite my protests—by Prince Bleston. But she must have found the mixture she sought and, running low of her own supply, borrowed what we had.”

  Emma paced the small room, eyes closed and hands clasped before her. “What if we could heal every injury quickly? What if we had an ever-renewing army that could continue the fight even after massive casualties? What if we kept coming back at Morbin again and again?”

  “It might give us a chance,” Helmer said. “But we don’t have the flower, Your Highness.”

  “True,” Picket said, “but Uncle Wilfred was healed, and his healer is on the way here.”

  “Aunt Jone is coming?” Prester Kell asked.

  “That’s what Wilfred said,” Helmer replied.

  “Where is Wilfred Longtreader now?” Emma asked.

  When no one answered, Jo said, “I’ll find him, Your Highness.”

  Emma nodded, then closed her eyes again. “If Aunt Jone brings enough of this tonic, somehow, it could give us something to help even the fight.”

  “It’s worth trying,” Cole said.

  “Aunty,” Emma said, turning back to the bed, “did you ever hear any rumors of the plant near here, or anywhere in Natalia?”

  Mrs. Weaver shook her head. “Aunt Missy’s work is done, I’m afraid.”

  Picket saw that the old doe’s face was frozen in a restful pose. She had breathed her last. Prester Kell knelt beside her and took her hand.

  “Let’s leave her with the prester,” Mrs. Weaver said, rising and taking Emma’s hand. Emma nodded, and Picket followed them up the stairs. Picket limped through the shop and out onto the street, his heart heavy.

  Emma saw him and put her hand on his shoulder. “It was sad to see her go.”

  “Yes,” Picket replied, “but to think there may be some cure out there to help those who are hurt! To help those in Harbone.”

  “It can’t raise the dead,” Mrs. Weaver said, “no matter how healing it may be. And you can’t go back in time to be there before they were massacred. It’s not your fault.”

  Picket wiped at his eyes.

  “It’s not about us now, Pick,” Helmer said, “soldiers like you and me. We’re arrows aimed at that blackhawk’s heart. It’s about them,” he shot out his chin toward Morbin’s distant camp. “It’s about a reckoning.”

  “What now?” Cole asked.

  “We find out when to expect Aunt Jone,” Emma said, “and we keep preparing as if we don’t have a sacred serum that can keep our soldiers fighting beyond hope.”

  “We are not quite there yet,” Prester Kell said, walking up behind them.

  “Not quite where?” Emma asked.

  “Beyond hope, Your Highness. Not yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  VANISHING BLUE

  The prisoner has escaped,” Captain Frye said, walking up to meet Emma’s party. Picket paused beside the princess, who nodded.

  “Good,” Emma said. “Well done, Captain.”

  Captain Frye bowed. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “Thank you for being trustworthy, always.”

  He bowed again, fist over his chest. “My place beside you, dear princess. My blood for yours. Till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world.”

  “As Prester Kell said,” Emma said, breathing deep, “we are not beyond hope just yet.”

  “Your Highness,” Captain Frye asked, “could I have Captain Longtreader for the Royal Fowlers Auxiliary? Heyward reports they are nearly ready.”

  “That’s much earlier than expected,” Emma said. “Well done!”

  “We are doing all we can, Your Highness.”

  “Picket, you’re with them,” Emma said. “You too, Cole. Helmer?”

  “I’ll stay with you, Your Highness.”

  “Where are they, Captain?” Picket asked.

  “Up top.” The old buck pointed toward the rooftop of the palace, beside which was being built a huge smooth wall tilted in a long curve.

  Picket saluted, then turned to head toward the palace. He had limped only a few steps when he heard Emma gasp. He turned to see Uncle Wilfred coming up the old main road, alongside Aunt Jone herself. His heart beat quickly, and he turned back to Cole.

  “I’ll take care of them,” Cole said, nodding up at the palace rooftop, “and you join us when you can.”

  Picket nodded, and Cole hurried off. Picket turned back and limped behind Emma. The princess ran over to meet Jone, her arms stretching out to embrace the old doe. Aunt Jone bent easily on one knee alongside Uncle Wilfred, bowing to Emma. Emma fell down beside her and covered her in a hug. “Aunt Jone! You’re here!”

  “I must be, dear Your Highness! I hoped to be some help, if I can,” Jone cried. “Instead of hanging around at Halfwind like a quisby, I came along with the last of the healers. I promise I can help, Emma. Do give me a chance, I beg.”

  “I’m so happy to see you,” Emma said. “Are you tired?”

  “I
’m never tired, Highness,” Jone said, getting too close and spitting her words into Emma’s face. “I’m as fresh as a fungus on a moon shadow.”

  Emma glanced sideways at Picket, Helmer, and Prester Kell. Her face carried so much hope.

  “What about you, Captain Wilfred?” Emma asked. “Do you need refreshment?”

  “I feel amazingly well, Your Highness,” he replied. “I could spit in Morbin’s eye, if I knew which direction to aim.”

  Emma glanced over again, then back to the Halfwind team. She pointed northeast. “I think he’s that way, Captain.”

  “Indeed,” Uncle Wilfred said, bowing his head. Picket reached him and they embraced. “My nephew … hero of the cause. They sing about you around here, you know? I’m so proud of you, lad!”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Picket said, looking down. “I would be useless were it not for you.”

  “You’d be dead,” Helmer said, striding forward to take Wilfred by the hand. “Welcome back, soldier.”

  Uncle Wilfred grinned. “Thank you, Helm. And thank you for being for Picket … what I couldn’t be.”

  “He’s been a trial, for certain,” Helmer said, smirking over at Picket. “But I’m sure you can find some way to repay me.”

  “Well, I still owe you for the bet we made,” Uncle Wilfred said.

  “What bet?” Picket asked.

  “Back at Cloud Mountain,” Uncle Wilfred began, grinning, but Helmer cut him off.

  “It’s none of your business, Ladybug,” Helmer said. “Just a friendly wager between two old veterans.”

  “Old friends,” Uncle Wilfred said, smiling. Helmer nodded, rubbing his arm.

  “That wound still hurt, Helm?” Wilfred asked, growing suddenly serious.

  “Some places never heal,” Helmer replied.

  “What wound, Master?” Picket asked. “Is it the scar on your arm? What happened?”

  “I failed to act, son,” he said, and it was clear he would say no more.

  Emma looked eagerly at Aunt Jone. “Have you brought medical supplies?”

  “Oh, such supplies!” Jone cried. “We brought enough to countermand a raggabrash in a pie pit.”

  “What about True Blue, Aunt Jone?” Emma asked. “What remains of the True Blue?”

  Aunt Jone’s face lost its cheerfulness. She frowned and shook her head. Picket’s heart sank. “No, my dear,” she said, looking away from Prester Kell. “I used the last of that, my little miracle mix, on Wilfred Longtreader here. I’m sad to say there’s not another ounce of True Blue in the world.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  THE LAST DRAGON KEEPER

  Heather froze. Amid her overflowing joy in finding Smalls and the bright hope in their sudden recovery, a shadow fell. A shadow cast by a dragon.

  “Welcome, young rabbits,” the dragon said, stepping closer.

  Smalls rose and glided coolly between Heather and the dragon. “What do you want?”

  “The keeper awaits the king. The king’s conference with the keeper is long overdue.” The dragon gave a slight smile, revealing small sharp teeth set in a wide powerful mouth. His split tongue flicked between sentences. Heather winced and her heart raced. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even scream.

  “Do you mean us harm?” Smalls asked, his voice even.

  “If the keeper meant harm, you would have been dead long ago,” he replied, stepping closer still so that the scant light revealed more of his dark form. He was powerful, with short thick arms and legs and a long dangerous tail. His head was large and jutted forward, set atop the slope of his strong forward-leaning torso. “Who was it, do you think, has kept you alive these many days of your weakening sleep?”

  “You took care of him?” Heather asked.

  “The keeper keeps,” the dragon replied in his low guttural tones. His laughter had been high and shrieking, but his speaking voice was a rumbling rasp. “The keeper kept rabbit buck alive. Cleaned his wound, the keeper did, and made him drink mossdraft again and again.”

  “Mossdraft?” Smalls asked. “The greenish water—it’s more than water, isn’t it?”

  “Nourishes and slakes, satisfies and strengthens. Mossdraft is life in the tomb.”

  “Thank you, Keeper,” Smalls said. “I am quite sensible of the kindness you have done me. How may I repay you?”

  “The keeper seeks a conference with the king,” the dragon repeated. “He has waited.”

  Smalls frowned and looked back at Heather.

  “What is this conference?” Smalls asked. “We don’t understand.”

  “Understand more than you show,” he muttered, then stepped closer. “The keeper’s tale is unknown to the rabbits of Outside and Above?”

  “It’s unknown to us,” Smalls said, and Heather nodded.

  “Truthful,” the dragon said, eyes squinting at them in the darkness. “The keeper sees it.”

  “Will you tell us of the conference?”

  “The keeper will tell, pale doe,” he said, stepping closer still. He now stood almost close enough to touch them, and Heather fought back revulsion, mingled with fear, at his nearness.

  “Shall we sit?” Smalls asked, using this gesture to place himself firmly between the keeper and Heather. She sat and took his hand. The keeper shook his head.

  “The keeper will stand to tell it,” he said. “The weary will sit to hear it.”

  Heather felt such strange mixtures of emotions. She felt so profoundly well and wasn’t sure if this was only in comparison to her narrow escape from death so recently or if she really was healthier than ever. Yet her unease grew as the dragon came closer and spoke more. She tried to recall the many dreams where she had seemed to be in this place. Why are we here?

  “It was time and time and the times before, when the rabbit king Lander, son of Whitson, closed the hatchery of dragons and could not be convinced by his council to destroy the living eggs of his enemy.” The keeper stretched out an arm and waved his scaly claw across the cavern, indicating the smooth, slick tops of moss-covered eggs—not stones, eggs—covering the majority of the cavern floor in patches. They stretched, in some sections, all the way to the moss-covered rock walls. Some of the walls were supported by well-placed wooden beams. He continued in his rasping, guttural way. “So the rabbit king had a conference with the last dragon and laid upon him the charge of guarding the eggs and suffering none to be hatched except upon his own near passing, so that the next guardian could be trained to take his place and watch over the last of his kind. The last dragon became the first keeper, and this solemn occupation has come down to the keeper, to the one who stands before you—the last dragon keeper.”

  “The last?” Heather asked, then quickly regretted speaking.

  The keeper smiled that slight smile once again. “The latest,” he amended.

  “So then, was another conference promised, after King Lander’s first conference with the last dragon?” Smalls asked.

  “Aye,” the dragon said, a rumbling grumble in his throat, “the keeper comes to it.”

  “By all means,” Smalls said, nodding politely.

  “Lander King promised that a conference would follow with each new king, and so over the years many keepers have met with many kings, and a record of each has come down in our tales. But the rabbits broke their vows and came not again for a long span of years. And the last keeper has never met a king. He has only heard tales of these meetings long ago. He began to doubt if the tales were true. Then came a small white buck into the dragon tomb, and the keeper thought he might be the king at last. But he was near dead, and the keeper was perplexed.” The dragon’s powerful right claw scraped the scales of his strong jaw, and he smiled. “The keeper cleaned the rabbit’s wounds and fed him mossdraft, doing all he knew from his own lore to cure the weak and wounded buck.”

  “I thank you, once again,” Smalls said, “for preserving my life.”

  “The keeper could not save the buck, no,” he said, shaking his head, “only d
elay his death and prolong his life. It needed the second descent to cure him.”

  “Why did you wait to come and greet us?”

  “The keeper has waited—done little else but wait—since the days of Lander,” he answered, closing his eyes as if in deep thought. “And he waits now for the long-delayed conference …” he ended, opening his eyes and peering at Smalls, “… with the king.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  DARKNESS AND SIGHT

  I am not a king,” Smalls said, and Heather nodded.

  “Not a king,” Heather echoed, grateful for Smalls’ elusive answer. “And I am no queen. I come of common rabbits, of an ordinary family.”

  “The truth, somehow,” the dragon said, eyes narrowing at Smalls, “but not all the truth.”

  Heather looked down.

  Cunning creature.

  Raising her head, she went on. “The heir of Lander leads the free bucks in revolt against the Preylords even now, and I was with her not long ago. Her name is Emma Joveson, and she is a valiant leader. I wish we were there to fight alongside her.”

  “There is war outside?” the keeper asked.

  “Yes,” Smalls said, nodding. “A long war. I’m certain that’s why no king or queen has come to meet you. The rulers of rabbits have been overthrown, and they fight to regain what was lost.”

  “Truth,” the keeper said, eyes squinting. “It is the truth you say.”

  “Of course,” Heather said.

  “How came you here?” the keeper asked.

  “Stabbed and cast down,” Heather said, “both of us. He in battle and me by betrayal. My own uncle’s thrust pierced me, and he kicked me in, leaving me for dead.”

  “So, none will come for either rabbit?” the keeper asked.

  “No,” Smalls answered, shaking his head. “No one will come for us.”

  “Then lost you are indeed, both, and forever. There is no way out except and unless an Outside and Above rope is lowered through the only gate, the gate of light high above.” He shook his head. “The slick walls slide away, and none can reach the inner peak by climbing. No dragon can, and certainly no rabbit could.”