by S D Smith
“The Rule of Six,” Picket said. “I heard something of this at Halfwind. The white falcon they warned us about at Harbone, is he one of them?”
“See the second statue?” Helmer asked. Picket nodded. “That’s him, I think. Falcowit, terror of First Warren. He is in the Rule of Six.”
“All the other sentinels come and go, year by year,” Picket said, “but he stays to watch over and carry out his cruel domination of First Warren. Why?”
“I think there’s history for him here,” Helmer answered. “I don’t know it all, but he has special cause to brood over the ruin of our old capitol.”
“I suppose the kneeling rabbit is my uncle,” Picket said with disgust.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Helmer said. “But remember, you’re not responsible for him.”
“Forgive me, but we’re always responsible for our family name,” Picket said. “And it will be hard to rest until his backstabbing schemes are ended.”
“I understand that, son.”
On the platform, raised high on the other side of the square, robed rabbits, clearly leaders, were gathering. They whispered anxiously among themselves as servants lit torches and placed them across the stage. A tall thin rabbit with a silver crown emerged on the stage, and the gathered lords hurried to him, arms extended in worried gestures, as he did his best to calm them. His clothes were fine, and he wore a sparkling red scarf at his neck, which glittered in the torchlight.
“Winslow,” Helmer said with a bitter rasp. “The governor, under Morbin, of the Great Wood and First Warren. What vile scum.”
Picket gazed at the lean rabbit. He could see some resemblance to Smalls, though his fallen friend’s oldest brother was much taller. There was something familiar in the face, and it hit Picket like a blow. “He looks terrible.”
“He ought to,” Helmer grumbled. “This treachery ought to have eaten away his bones.”
For a moment, Picket felt something he didn’t expect. Pity. But the moment passed, and First Warren’s leaders came to the front of the stage. Winslow motioned for silence. A large rabbit, clad in black and flanked by a cadre of guards in the same dark garb, loomed behind him. On one shoulder, the guards wore a feathered epaulette that looked like a small wing.
Thousands of rabbits quickly quieted.
“We were warned of the cost that would come if we allowed those discontented fools among us to act on their rebellions,” Winslow said, his voice brittle and sickly pretty. “Our masters have dealt well with us, and this is how we repay them?”
“It wasn’t the resistance!” someone shouted from the crowd.
“Silence!” Winslow screamed, his eyes wild. “It wasn’t the royal guard who did this. Not the palace staff. It wasn’t Captain Daggler,” he said, motioning to the black-clad captain over his shoulder. “It was not Lord Falcowit! It was the resistance, curse them all. And now you know what we must do within the hour. Within the hour, or we are all doomed.”
The crowd made way for weeping parents, who pushed their younglings to the center of the square, by the stage. Picket started, his heart beating wildly. “Helmer,” he said warily. But Helmer was staring into the square himself, a disgusted frown forming on his face.
The rest backed up, though some had to be dragged, and the children were left alone at the front of the stage, their necks draped in red. The younglings wept and extended little arms toward their sobbing parents. Picket stared, disbelieving, as thousands of rabbits stood still and let their children, by the hundreds, be exposed.
A huge white falcon swooped over the crowd and landed deftly on the stage beside Winslow. “You were warned, redthroats,” Falcowit called in a breathy, scraping scold. “We will discover the cause and culprits of these attacks, and they will be dealt with swiftly, but you know the law. We have communal justice here. The young pay for what the old do. Victory Day is near, and you will feel the full wrath of these foolish acts then. But tonight,” he said, relishing the tension in the assembly, “a taste of what’s to come.”
He screeched, and birds swooped in, the sentinel raptors bellowing as they swept over the crowd and aimed for the center of the square.
Aimed for the younglings.
Picket leapt from the tree and landed roughly. Rolling over, he sprang to his feet. He reached for his sword and began to rush to the square. But Helmer dropped down and tackled his apprentice. Picket struggled to free himself, but Helmer held on, his strong arms pinning Picket in place. “Not yet, son!” he whispered roughly into Picket’s ear. “Not yet! We’ll have our chance, but this isn’t it. You’d squander the lives of those who risked so much to get us in here. I know it’s awful, son, I know.” Picket fought on a moment, then rolled over and sobbed into Helmer’s shoulder. “I know, son. I know. It is stark evil. Your rage is right, but we must pick the time of our answer. Bottle it up, for now. And when the time is right, we’ll break it open on their heads.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
DEEP DARKNESS
The groaning lepers, ragged in their tattered clothes, limped quickly toward Heather. Instinct insisted she run, and run right now, but she waited, eyeing the approaching rabbits warily. Their mottled fur and swelling sores unsettled Heather, but not in the way she expected. She was puzzled, her mind working over the diseases she knew, both firsthand and through her studies. Then several more lepers surged in from connecting lanes, sending up a plume of ashy soot, and came for her. Her heart raced, and she coiled to leap into a run.
A hand darted out from a nearby tent, grabbed her hard, and dragged her inside.
It was dark within as she stumbled inside. She was about to scream when she felt a hand over her mouth.
“Quiet, Heather.” It was Father’s voice. “Follow me.”
Her heart still beating wildly, she lay a hand on his shoulder and followed as he walked ahead. Taking deep breaths, she fought back the urge to be sick. The smell, putrid and potent, was overpowering. She gagged beneath the scarf that covered her mouth and nose. Soon her eyes adjusted to the darkness, enough at least to see the vague form of her father directly before her. He spun and whispered through his kerchief, “Down on our knees,” and he crouched down, moving ahead with evident caution. He turned and whispered back to her. “Are you okay?”
“I am,” she replied softly, “but you gave me a fright.”
“I’m sorry. I had to secure your safe conduct.”
“Safe conduct? Where are we going?” she whispered.
“You’ll see soon enough. I can’t tell you yet, my dear,” he said. “Do you trust me?”
She thought of the many times her faith in her father had been tested, when the evidence she knew and the testimony of others seemed to indicate that her father was a traitor. She thought of how her uncle Garten Longtreader, who had worked so closely with Father for years in King Jupiter’s service, had turned suddenly to Morbin’s side. She remembered the painful rejection she experienced because her name was Longtreader. Longtreader. This name that had been a heavy chain around her and Picket’s necks in Cloud Mountain and that stood for Morbin’s awful allies here in Akolan’s privileged District Six. The name she had gotten from her father. Longtreader. She squinted at him in the dimness.
“I trust you more than any other soul in the world,” she said. “Lead on, Father.”
“Then follow me in, and say nothing until I say it’s all right.” He turned and crawled on. Lifting a flap, he entered a narrow opening. Heather felt for the edges of the hole, finding they were solid rock. As she crept inside, she reached out to touch the top and sides of the tunnel. All hard rock. As the tent flap snapped shut behind her, she was plunged into total darkness.
Heather’s breath came in fast panting gasps. She tried to breathe slowly, to quiet the manic beating of her heart. Her air felt short in this cramped black passage. She could see nothing and could hear only the sound of her father hurrying ahead. She reached forward and felt the empty air of his absence. He was moving quickly. She neede
d to move, one way or the other. She wanted to back out in panic and run home. Fear surged inside her, rising like a high tide. I can’t do this.
Heather forced herself to think only of breathing, forced herself to slow down and name her fear. I feel afraid because I can’t see. I am afraid because it’s dark and cramped in here, and that’s normal. I’m sick from this smell and have had a harrowing time lately. Father had told them what he most regretted in his life was when he had said to fear, “You are my master.” She was determined not to give in to this insistent twisting imposter within. She said no to what she felt desperate to do, ignored as best she could the welling panic, and crawled ahead.
At first it was slow going, especially with her arm still twinging with every motion. But soon she was moving faster. Panic remained agonizingly present, but she tried to focus on what was true. She hurried ahead for several minutes, though it felt like an hour. While she went, she told herself over and over that she could go for one more minute, and she counted the seconds down again and again. She tried to drown out the panic she felt at not being able to turn around and how far the entrance was behind her. Farther and farther with every counted-off second.
Finally, she saw a light ahead. It was only a little bit of light, and it was far, far ahead. But even a little bit of light meant the world to her in all that darkness. She smiled, breathed deep again, and hurried ahead. She realized, with relief, that her most recent deep breath had much less of the sick, mephitic air of the Lepers’ District. She was amazed at how grateful she could be for a very little light and clear air.
As the light grew at the tunnel’s end, she saw Father squeeze through a light-soaked opening, displacing the canvas flap that covered it. Heather crawled forward and came to the bright cover. Carefully, she pulled it back and crawled through. She squinted at the bright fire. Stretching her injured arm slowly, she gazed intently around the room.
It was a rounded hollowed-out rock room, a little bigger than Lord Ramnor’s ready room at Halfwind Citadel. The main chamber looked like it could hold fifty rabbits packed tight, and thirty or so were in there now. She caught a glimpse of openings above, where she saw forms looking down on this gathering. But those around the fire looked down, stealing wary glances at her. Most wore the ordinary clothes common to outwallers, those Akolan rabbits who lived outside the Sixth District. But the red at their necks was gone.
Father motioned for her to follow him, and she got to her feet and stepped carefully around the fire. She imitated Father as he loosed his preymark and secreted the kerchief into his pocket. She stuffed her red scarf into her satchel as she walked forward and sat beside him. The fire was circled several times by neat lines of rabbits, making a kind of widening circle, like an archer’s target, with the fire as its center. They all sat close together, except for the area Heather thought of as the head of the fire. There, flanked by gaps on either side, sat an old rabbit in simple brown clothes, white eyes gazing at the flames. He sat cross-legged, his shoulders hunched with age and years of labor. Laid across his lap, his gnarled hands were folded over a pickaxe. He seemed to be blind, his milky eyes reflecting the bobbing orange of the fire.
The old rabbit rose slowly, tottering as he balanced and stood as straight as he was able. Then he struck down on the stone with the handle end of his pickaxe. The rest also rose at this cracking call. Heather got to her feet, following the motions of the assembly. The blind old rabbit raised the tool high and said in a hoarse, shivery voice, “I am the Tunneler, and I am the Truth. Hear me and help me, and our children’s children shall be free.”
The gathered rabbits solemnly answered in a low chant. “We will hear and help and free our heirs.”
Heather glanced up at her father, whose eyes shone as he reverently recited these words.
Then the blind old rabbit tilted his head Heather’s way and in his fragile tones said, “Welcome to the Seventh District.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE TRUTH IN THE TUNNEL
The assembled rabbits turned to Heather. She nodded in a quick, graceful bow.
“You are Heather Longtreader, daughter of Whittle and Sween Longtreader,” said the blind old rabbit. Heather nodded. “It’s all right, young doe,” he said. “You may speak.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I am who you say I am.”
“I am the Tunneler. I am a brittle rabbit—yes—but a strong link to Akolan’s past and rabbitkind’s future. We are the sons of those who never settled for slavery. You are brought among us, this sacred council, based upon the testimony of Whittle Longtreader, your father. He has vouched for you, that you will never do us harm or reveal our secrets—secrets that have been protected for generations.”
“I could never betray the cause,” she answered.
“Anyone could betray our cause,” a rabbit called from above. The voice sounded familiar to her, though she couldn’t place it. It sent shivers down her spine as he continued. “We all could. We all can betray. The question is, will we?” A murmuring approval followed these words. It was clear that many present thought it unwise to invite her here.
“Aye,” the Tunneler answered, “and you do not yet know what our cause is.”
“It has been the tradition here for a very long time,” Father said, “since before any of us were born, to invite only those who have lived among us for many months—years, usually—those tested and approved in a hundred ways. I have asked for an extraordinary exception, and the Tunneler has granted it.”
“With the stipulation,” said one of the rabbits in the inner circle, “that the usual penalties apply.”
“The usual penalties?” Heather asked.
“Aye, Heather Longtreader,” the Tunneler said. “The council will vote at the conclusion of our meeting.”
“Vote about what?” Heather asked, feeling a slow panic rise.
“Whether you live or die.”
Father laid his hand on her arm. “I have no doubt you will all see what I know,” he said. “That Heather, known all over Natalia as the Scribe of the Cause, is invaluable to our aims in many ways.”
“I hope it may be so,” said the Tunneler, his milk-white eyes still reflecting the fire. “We shall see directly. We have never used this rare, terrible, and necessary last resort, not in all my many years as the Tunneler. But your father has insisted that the protocol be enacted in order that we might hear from you sooner. Have you anything to say, young doe?”
Heather’s panic began to twist into indignation. She thought of the suffering she had experienced for the cause, and she was tired of the atmosphere of distrust among those who should be allies. Her mind understood the desperate need for caution, for the necessity of these desperate rabbits to keep their doings secret from the enemy, but her heart was grieved and angry.
“I’m not certain what you want to hear, but, begging your pardon, nor do I care,” she said, looking around defiantly. “If you were a thousand partisans of Morbin’s murderous horde, I would say what I believe. I love Natalia and the cause of the Mended Wood. Since I first heard the name of King Jupiter, my heart has been with him. I have lived among and loved his heirs with deep and unbreakable devotion. I have risked everything, lost everything, in service to the rightful bearer of the Green Ember. If this is treason to your cause, then I do not ask your pardon. I would rather die fighting for the Mended Wood than live pretending to be free. So examine me, torture me, do what you want. Question me a thousand times. The answer will always be the same. I am meant for the mending, and I’ll do nothing against it, come any calamity or the end of the world.”
She sat down.
After a moment, the Tunneler sat down too, and so did all the others assembled. “Would you tell us about the world outside, Heather?” the Tunneler asked. “We have had no word for some time, since shortly after your father and mother came to us.”
She looked at Father, and he nodded. “Tell them,” he said, smiling. She could see he was proud of her, and it made
her swell with confidence.
Heather stood again and moved closer to the fire. She bowed her head and breathed in deeply. Then, closing her eyes, she began. “There was a rabbit named Smalden. He was young among his brothers and sisters but wise beyond his years. His father early saw his gifts, knew his gentleness, wisdom, and deep strength. He saw all this and gave him a gift.” Heather reached in her satchel and drew out the Green Ember. She held it up to gasps, and it glowed in the firelight. “His father gave him the token of his future rule, even though he was very small. In fact, he never grew tall. His friends called him ‘Smalls.’ After his father’s betrayal and murder, the prince was bundled away by a covert council seeking, in the fouled and fallow ground of the broken world, to plant the seeds of the mending. He was agreed upon as the undisputed heir and given to the guardianship of the brother of his betrayer. His sister, newborn, was designated as the second heir and, never told who she was, raised by a loyal lord. So the prince’s early years were marked by hardship, fleeing from secret citadel to hidden hideout, always moving and ever shrouded in mystery. His mentor and friend, one Wilfred Longtreader, guided and guarded him as he grew up in the hostile world dominated by his father’s murderer. You know all this,” she said, walking around the fire. “You know of Jupiter Smalls. You know of him. But do any of you know him? I knew him. I loved him,” she said. She paused with her head down. She went on, emotion choking her words. “I loved him…would have given anything to see him crowned as our longed-for king. And so he should have been. But he gave his life trying to save lives, trying to save slaves like…like us.
“Prince Smalls was the noblest rabbit I have ever known, and if his sires were half the rabbits he was, then they are deserving of all the honor we give them, from King Whitson Mariner himself down to Jupiter the Great. But these are all gone, and now only the princess remains. Princess Emma is a worthy heir to these heroes, and she, though never eager for the crown, will fill it with grace and strength. I came here in her place. I am her herald, and I bring you the news that this war, like it or not, is right now being waged. The battle is joined. We, rabbits of the ground, heirs of Flint and Fay, have risen to the heights and fought in the skies with the raptors. I have seen it with my own eyes. We fight. We fly. We will—we must–overcome. If you are faithful to Whitson’s heir and Whitson’s way, then this is your war, and it is being fought right now. Morbin’s fall draws near, and the Mended Wood waits—on the other side of this fight.”