Ember Rising (The Green Ember Series Book 3)

by S D Smith

  “I am deeply grateful, my lord,” Emma answered. “I admit I balk at asking more of you, for I know and honor the tremendous sacrifices your community has made for our common cause.”

  Lord Booker stopped and turned, looking into her eyes. “My dear princess,” he said weakly, “there is no cost too high for doing what is right and no retribution great enough for doing what is wrong. To believe otherwise is to surrender our liberty to lies.”

  “May I be faithful to your wisdom and example,” she answered.

  “I do not have much to offer in your service,” Lord Booker said, resuming their walk, “but all I have is yours. We are small but determined. We are hard pressed but persistent. We are wounded, yet we live. We are humble but hopeful. And our hope is ignited by the sight of you, Princess Bright.”

  “You are truly the jewel of the world, Lord Booker,” she said, her eyes glistening. “What I would give for fifty more like you.”

  “I am an old rabbit only,” he replied, “with few days left to serve you. But my last living son, Morgan, is strong. I know he will faithfully carry on our fixed resistance to the Lords of Prey. Fear not on that account.”

  As Emma entered the hall, escorted by Lord Booker and flanked by her council and court, she was greeted by the sight of ten rabbits kneeling low. The one at the head, after a decent pause, looked up. Lord Booker’s son. Morgan was handsome, despite the long scar that stretched from his right ear to the left side of his jaw. He smiled at her. Then, glancing back at the gathered rabbits, he placed his fist over his heart and led them in saying,

  “My place beside you,

  My blood for yours.

  Till the Green Ember rises,

  or the end of the world!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  HIGH HEATHER

  Heather told Mother and Father everything. From the moment she and Picket came back from picking berries to find their Nick Hollow home on fire and their family captured to the moment she woke up in their Akolan home. Everything. With no hesitation, she shared the bitter disappointments and the wild, exultant triumphs. She told of Picket, amazing them at how he grew from a bitter, resentful cripple to a high-flying hero, willing to sacrifice all for the cause. She told of her own low moments, the bad dreams and real-life terrors. She shared the joys of her friendship with Smalls, and with Emma, the best friends she had ever known outside of her family. She wept as she talked of Smalls and smiled when she told how Picket flew—really flew—and rescued Emma and her at Cloud Mountain. She told them everything.

  “Somehow, I have become the Scribe of the Cause,” she finished, “and Picket is something like its talismanic hero. The world as we knew it was shattered, and we never knew what we might be forced to find within ourselves. In the tumult and the trials, we found our callings. And we have done some good. Thank you for loving us, Mother and Father. Thank you for preparing us for the unnumbered dangers we’ve faced. We had no idea that when you gave us all the light you did, you were guiding us to one day strike out at the darkness so fiercely. We have been far from flawless, but we have made a hard dart at that darkness. We have seen cracks forming and the light seeping in.” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then leaned back in her chair.

  Mother and Father gazed on at her, mouths open, expressions caught between wonder and unbelief. Tears fell down the fur of their faces, but they didn’t look at all sad. They eyed one another and shook their heads slowly.

  “I am…astonished,” Father said softly. “I am amazed at what you say, my dear, and how well you say it.”

  “Yes, Heather,” Mother added, slowly and hushed. “You’re as eloquent as any I’ve ever heard. It’s beautiful to hear you unravel this tale. But tell me, dear. Is it really true?”

  “It’s too good to not be true, Mother.” Heather felt exhausted from her long story but satisfied as well, as from a hard day of healing when the sick were clearly mending.

  “You are well-called the Scribe of the Cause,” Father said. “To my great joy, my love, you have surpassed me.”

  “It’s true,” Mother added. “Picket has flown, Heather. But so have you. Since last we saw you, a timid young doe, you have ascended.”

  Heather looked down, a satisfied smile forming. She did not feel proud at heart, only glad in the knowledge that her tale had been clear. And that her story—every word true—had soared.

  They talked on for a few more hours, then finally went to bed.

  Heather started that night in the bed in which she had slept so far but soon tiptoed to her parents’ room and slid in beside her mother.

  Mother held Heather and sang her to sleep.

  * * *

  In the morning they ate breakfast, and Heather felt better than she had in a long time. Part of her broken heart had healed, and even though she was wounded and sore, she felt more whole.

  “Shall we go into the clinic, Heather?” Father asked.

  “I will do as you say,” she answered. “You and Mother know what’s best.”

  “That’s a theory,” Mother called from the kitchen. “Unproven, I think.”

  “I’ll take you there,” Father said. “It’s not too far from my work. And if you’re feeling well in a few days, maybe you can help Doctor Hendow. Our clinic in this district is short of help, especially being so close to the Lepers’ District.”

  Mother walked in, a mild reproof in her look toward Father. “I have to go back to my duties as well. I work at Morbin’s lair, as a servant,” she said, smiling with some effort.

  “And she listens,” Father added, winking. “She’s very brave.”

  “I would love to go with you, Father. But tell me, what are the districts?”

  “There are seven—” he began. Then he held up a hand. “I’m sorry, six districts. We live in District Four. Districts One through Four are roughly the same, with some small variations. They are all little settlements, like small towns, on the outside edges of the pit. But they all represent different time periods of settlement here. We are among the last to come, so we are in the last ordinary district, District Four. District Five is the Lepers’ District. It is only for—” he stopped again.

  “Those who are sick and contagious,” Mother finished. “It’s a foul place.”

  “I was there,” Heather said. “It was putrid. I feel sorry for them. Do they receive any care?”

  “Our clinic does care for them at times,” Father said, “but it works very hard to avoid contamination that might spread to the other districts. They are left to themselves almost entirely.”

  “When we first arrived, half of District Four, our district, had to be shifted to the L.D.,” Mother said. “The disease—it’s incurable.”

  Heather frowned. “But what is the disease?”

  Mother and Father exchanged glances; then Father went on. “We aren’t medics, dear. We don’t know how such things work. But District Six, inside the wall, is where you saw the Commandant.”

  “In District Six, the inwallers live the easy life,” Mother said. “At least compared to us outside. District Six is home to a privileged class, the informers and government workers. They get the best work and are exempt from the hardest parts of life in Akolan. They feel less like slaves. But they still are, maybe even more so.”

  “And they take our family name…my father’s name,” Father said, “and make it mean Morbin’s stooges. The administration is called Longtreader Command and its brutal officers are called Longtreaders. It is intolerable.”

  “But we have found a way,” Mother said, laying a gentle hand on Father’s arm, “to live in this reality without losing our souls.”

  “Without losing them entirely,” Father said, scowling.

  “I must go,” Mother said, “back to the heart of darkness. And I must remember to forget how to sing.” She crossed to hug Heather and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Please don’t sing again, Mother,” Heather said, clinging to Sween with worried eyes. “I can’t lose you now
that I have you back.”

  “Dear, we must live every day here as if it’s our last,” Mother said, gently patting Heather’s cheek. “We must always be prepared to die, if duty calls for it.”

  “It is the way, here,” Father said. “And really, it has been the same for you. We must be who we are.”

  “And if that means the end for us,” Mother said, “then those left alive must…well, they must bear the flame.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  LOW MOMENTS IN A HIGH CALLING

  After checking her satchel, securing it over her shoulder, and wrapping a red scarf around her neck, Heather followed her father outside. Ash fell in looping wafts, landing on streets, where sweepers worked to push it away. The outside of their home, and those surrounding, was much like the ones she dashed among the night she fell into Akolan. Her parents’ home had a stairway cut to the roof, as did most of the other stone homes. The landscape was marked by the impossible heights of the rocky pit wall in the distance. Its massive tumbling waterfall poured into the reservoir beyond the Lepers’ District. The other distinctive feature was the circular central stonework wall protecting District Six, where the false Longtreaders dwelled. Heather shuddered as she saw it—small compared to the pit wall but massive against the other structures in Akolan—in the plain light of day.

  Heather heard pounding in the distance, the shatter of rocks, and the rasping shouts of angry rabbits. She and Father paused as a group of weary miners, clothes smeared with grime, passed in the street. Their faces were hollow and expressions hopeless.

  “How many mines are there, Father?”

  “There are fifteen mines, though only seven are in operation. Chutes seven and ten have both flooded since I’ve been here. I worked in chute thirteen for months before being transferred to the aqueducts.”

  “Is it crushing labor?”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Father said, “but the administration seems to design the work to rob bucks of their dignity. It exhausts your body and smothers your soul.”

  “Does every doe work for Morbin?”

  “Almost all. Most does, like your mother, are housekeepers and servers for the most elite Preylords. Some work down here in District Six, serving the inwallers, but many work in manufacturing up there,” he said, pointing past the burning acres of trash high atop the pit wall to the wooded peaks above. “We are far from home here, my dear. We are in the heart of the enemy’s mountains. And the administration wants to act like that’s a good thing.”

  Heather scowled toward the city center, then scanned the surrounding landscape.

  The colors of Akolan were all whites and red-browns, with the grey ash a constant filmy glaze. A clay-colored stone dominated the surface, and many of the houses were made from it, though some were infused with swirls of white. Indeed, the massive wall was nearly all white, its gate an imposing black. But the whites were smeared by the ash, and so a drab scene met Heather’s gaze as she followed Father down the street.

  They walked through an orderly neighborhood and then another, finally breaking out into a small expanse that separated District Four from the Lepers’ District. Between the two stood a large low stone building. Benches lay along its outside wall, and rabbits sat on them. Many were hunched over, faces pinched in pain. All wore the mark of their slavery—their vulnerability—a red cloth around their necks.

  “Are they all waiting to be seen?” Heather asked, her pace quickening.

  “Now, go slowly, Heather,” he answered. “You have to recover.”

  She reached for her satchel and walked on. “Yes, Father.”

  “You have an appointment,” Father said as they approached the curve-top door in front of the clinic.

  Inside, more sick and injured rabbits waited to be seen. Heather’s heart was struck by the suffering. Her father spoke to a rabbit seated at a small desk up front. When he returned, he said, “Doctor Hendow will see you in just a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be seen before all of them?” she asked, adjusting her sling gingerly.

  “You have to pull yourself out of the river first, Heather,” he answered, “before you can save others from drowning. Just don’t give yourself a setback.”

  Heather had no wish to argue with Father, but she felt as though there was a river full of drowning rabbits, and she was confident that she was a strong swimmer. Beside her stood a rabbit with an injured arm. He was young, around her own age, and strong.

  “How’d you get hurt?” she asked.

  “Like all young bucks get hurt,” he answered, “in the mines. Which chute you at, sir?” he asked, nodding to Father.

  “I’ve mined most of my time here, yes,” Father said, “but now they have me as a mason over at the outside reservoir, building a better wall for the aqueducts.”

  “Got all fancy, ain’t ya?” the young buck teased. “Left the mines to the likes of me.”

  “Very fancy indeed, us aqueduct masons,” Father said, smiling.

  “I’m Heather,” she said, smiling at the young buck. “Can I look at your arm?”

  “I’m Jabe, and you’re looking at it now,” he said, winking.

  “Without the wrap.”

  “Heather,” Father asked, “what are you doing?”

  “Saying yes to my calling,” she said as she slowly unrolled the bandage. Jabe winced, but Heather had it off in a moment and looked at his arm intently. “Looks like it’s healing pretty well, Jabe. A few days more off work might cure it all the way,” she added, poking in her bag and emerging with an ointment, which she began to spread over the wound.

  “That’s a lark, Miss,” Jabe said. “Days off work? Imagine that!”

  Heather frowned. “You’re working with your arm like that? In the mines?”

  “Well, they have me at the quarry now,” he said, “so it’s a bit easier to breathe, and I can stand straight. But the work’s just as heavy.”

  “If we don’t work,” Father said, “we don’t get our ration. If we don’t get our ration—”

  “We starve,” Jabe finished, nodding at a bent elderly rabbit on the corner bench who was frighteningly skinny. Heather sucked in a breath and scowled.

  She rewrapped Jabe’s arm, sent him away, and walked up to the attendant at the desk. “Hello, I’m Doctor Heather. Please tell Doctor Hendow that I’m here and ask him where the best place for me to see patients might be.”

  “But, but,” the attendant stammered, “but Doctor Hendow is now busy at…right now, present,” she said. “You’ll have to wait your—”

  Heather interrupted, “I’m not asking you anything. I’m telling you. Go and ask Doctor Hendow where I should set up.”

  The attendant rose and took a few backward steps toward the door. “But, but,” she stammered on, “I’m not authorized to—”

  “Go. Now.” Heather spoke with such authority and confidence that the attendant spun and hurried through the door.

  “I’m impressed,” Father said, walking up. “I have to go now. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, Father, I’m fine.”

  “Please don’t work all day,” he said. “Listen to Doctor Hendow and rest when you should. You’ll be more use to everyone that way.”

  “Yes, Father. I will.”

  He drew up close to whisper in her ear. “Go home and sleep when you’re done. There’s something I want to show you tonight.”

  “Tonight?” she whispered back.

  “Yes, after curfew,” Father said. “It’s a secret place.” He hugged her and headed for the door.

  Heather wondered what he could mean, but soon she was meeting Doctor Hendow, who examined her closely, frowned at her arm, and said she could work for a few hours. To her relief, he explained that her arm was not broken, only sprained badly. He said she could work with the injured arm in her sling, using it only when she had to.

  A few hours later, she was seeing her twentieth patient and smiling wide. She was tired, but she loved healing and hel
ping. It was odd how long, hard hours focusing entirely on the needs of others could make her feel most fully herself. It was the same, she realized for the first time, with storytelling. She had finished up a list of directions for an older doe caring for her sister when the flustered attendant burst in.

  “Doctor Hendow needs you!” she shouted, her eyes wide with panic.

  “Of course,” Heather said, grabbing her satchel. She hurried behind the attendant and pushed past her into Dr. Hendow’s surgery. There, on the table, lay a large black-furred rabbit with a white spot just between his eyes. He was massive, and he writhed in pain.

  “Doctor Heather,” Doctor Hendow said, his steady scholarly manner unaffected by this emergency. “Master Mills has been hurt badly, pierced with a bricksplitter. Would you be so kind as to assist me?”

  “Of course,” she said. She hurried to his side and examined the deep gash in the buck’s middle. “Hello, Master Mills,” she said, smiling at him. “I know you’re in a lot of pain. Do me a favor, though, and do your very best to lie still. Everything will go quicker that way.”

  “Aye,” he answered through clenched teeth, settling himself as best he could. He still shook all over, his fur wet with sweat.

  As Doctor Hendow cleaned the dreadful wound, Heather deftly passed him all he needed and spoke calmly to Mills. “I don’t know what a bricksplitter is, Master Mills. Could you tell me?”

  “Aye, Missy,” he began.

  “Doctor Heather, not ‘Missy,’” Doctor Hendow said flatly in correction. Heather frowned at him, but he paid no attention as he continued to work on the wound.

  “Aye,” Mills said, “I’m sorry, Miss—I mean Doctor. I meant no offense.”

  “I’ve been called Missy more often than Doctor, and it doesn’t bother me in the least,” she said.

  “Doctor,” Doctor Hendow repeated flatly.

  “How about Doctor Missy?” she said. “For fun? Now, about that bricksplitter.”

  “Aye,” Mills went on, his face calmer, though he winced often as Doctor Hendow worked. “Well, a bricksplitter’s a tool we use…in the mines to…ah, break up stone. It’s long and narrow and has a fairly…sharp point. It’s heavy,” he said. He paused to groan at the pain, and after an agonizing few moments he fell silent.