Four rabbits emerged from the corridor. Three of them were bucks, and two of those were imposing and muscular. Behind them walked a lone doe, middle-aged and roughly attired with a red neckerchief. Her downcast eyes and thin appearance made it clear she was a slave, even without the bucket and rags she carried.
The other buck wore a red-collared uniform like the other two, but his appeared immaculate on his tall, thin frame. An epaulette shaped like a bird’s wing decorated the left shoulder. On his upper right arm were four gold bands, apparently an indication of rank. And on his face was an expression of cruel amusement at which Emma had to suppress a shudder.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” Vitton’s voice was cultured in a way that made it clear he found the sight before him repulsive. At an urgent whisper from Jo, Emma had moved a short distance away from him before their visitors had arrived in the small area outside their cell. Jo returned the older buck’s gaze, his face impassive.
“Your cellmate has worked wonders, Shanks. This is the first time in months I can recall seeing you lucid. It almost seems a shame to take you in for another session. But then, we wouldn’t want to break up our routine, would we?”
Opening the door to the cell, the two big bucks stepped in. Jo shot a quick look at Emma, warning her against interfering. Emma bit her lip, but knew he was right. She fought to contain herself as the brutish rabbits roughly dragged Jo upright and out of the cell.
Vitton watched the trio pass, then turned a bored look at Emma. “This doe is here to clean your cell, young Miss. Perhaps Ambassador Longtreader is worried about you catching something from young Shanks. Or that young Shanks will catch something from you.”
Seeing no reaction to his jibes, he went on. “You will remain in the cell or the area immediately outside while she works. Should you be so foolish as to contemplate escape, consider this. First, you won’t get far.
“And second,” he smiled, and gave Emma a horrifying glimpse of teeth filed into sharp points. “Your friend has lost only one hand in punishment of his attempt on Lord Solus’ life. But I have no compunctions whatsoever about removing the rest of his arm, or any of his remaining limbs, to give you an object lesson. Am I clear?”
Unable to bring herself to speak, and sensing that it might invite trouble, Emma nodded. Vitton turned and walked casually away, as though he had not just issued a cruel threat. Emma watched him go, waiting until even his shadow had disappeared. Then she rose to her feet as the doe slave entered the cell.
Now that they were alone, the older doe looked up at Emma with kind eyes. She was some years younger than Emma’s own mother, as far as Emma was aware. But she was old enough, Emma guessed, to have mature children of her own. So when she pulled a bundle of clothing from among her collection of cleaning rags, Emma was only slightly surprised.
“I was instructed to bring you these, Miss. they won’t be quite as comfortable as what you’re used to, I’m afraid. But I dare say they’re clean.”
Which, Emma thought, was more than could be said for her current attire. Intent on offering herself up to Morbin, she hadn’t bothered to change out of the doctor’s uniform she’d worn all her last day at Cloud Mountain. A surgical apron had protected her from most of the hazards of her work, but there were still some traces. Two hard days’ worth of sweat hadn’t done the dress any favors either.
Despite this, Emma hesitated. She guessed well enough that she wouldn’t be allowed to keep her old clothes. This was a way for Morbin and Garten to chip away at her identity and dignity. Jupiter’s heir, clad in the garb of a High Bleaks slave.
Guessing some, if not all, of her thoughts, the doe offered a look of sympathy. “I understand, Miss-truly, I do. But as I said, I was instructed to bring these to you. And though you may choose not to take them from me, they will be sent again.”
Replying with a nod, Emma took the proffered bundle. She then stepped into the cell’s lavatory. It was a surprisingly comfortable facility, not unlike some that Cloud Mountain boasted. Emma guessed that features like running water had been the idea of considerate, or at least practical, architects rather than any benevolence, even feigned, on the part of their employers.
Emma emerged clad in her new dress, and carrying two small bundles. Her old dress made up the larger one. The new dress lacked pockets, which was annoying. Of course, Emma hadn’t brought much with her, so it could have been worse.
For reasons she didn’t care to guess, Emma had not been searched or ordered to hand anything over upon her arrival. She had, at any rate, not harbored any illusions that a smuggled weapon would have done her any good. The Green Ember and Garten’s whistle she had dropped when the bird seized her. A small defiance, and perhaps pointless, given that Emma herself was a captive and her brother Smalls was dead.
The only thing she had brought with her was a small book, not old but well worn. It was, as it happened, the same book-and the same copy-she had once lent to Jo. The story that Heather had composed after the Battle for Cloud Mountain. And the only possession Emma had felt like taking to her death.
Looking up from her cleaning, the older doe nodded at the sight of Emma in her new clothes. The two said no more as the work continued, and soon the cell was as clean as the doe could manage. Gathering up her supplies, she approached Emma, who spoke at last. “Thank you for your work, Auntie.”
“You are quite welcome, Miss. And please, call me Sween.”
Nodding in acknowledgment, Emma managed a small smile. “Pleased to meet you, Sween. My name is Emma.”
“Well, Emma, I must ask for your old clothes. And I’d best take that book as well. The Preylords don’t care for such things, as might be expected. And Captain Vitton would be only too pleased to destroy it and make you watch.”
Sighing, Emma passed over the bundles. “I understand. All I ask is that you treat it with as much care as you can. It was written by a dear friend, and I would have been happy to die with it in my hands.”
Adjusting the bundle of dress and book so as to free her hand, Sween reached out and laid it on Emma’s arm. “Perhaps Firstfather has better ends in mind for both you and your book, Emma. I promise to care for it as best I can. Might I ask the name of your friend?”
Before answering, Emma considered the matter. She sensed that Sween was a good rabbit, and no more here by her own choice than Emma herself was. But she had known good rabbits among the free citadels who spoke the name Longtreader with all the venom of a curse. And those rabbits did not live under the regime Garten Longtreader had helped bring into being.
Given all that, Emma decided to share only part of her friend’s name. “Her name is Heather. She came from Nick Hollow.”
To Emma’s surprise, Sween’s eyes went wide in astonishment. Before either of them could say more, however, they heard approaching footsteps. Sween took her hand away from Emma’s arm and pressed her rags and the old dress together. In the process, she concealed the book from view.
Emma had no time to ponder Sween’s actions as the older doe exited the cell. The two thuggish bucks from before emerged from the corridor. Sween narrowly cleared the cell door as they marched up to it. And to Emma’s horror, they threw Jo through it and onto the floor.
Jo let out a groan of pain, but it was subdued. At a glance, Emma could guess that he had made, or been holding in, more audible expressions of distress in his absence. Jo was shirtless, and his torso bore the marks of recent strikes. Emma guessed that he had been beaten, but only with bare fists.
Vitton stepped up between his cohorts, a sickly sneer twisting his face. Tossing something at Emma, he laughed coldly. “You’ll have to help your friend clean himself up. It would be a shame to make a mess of his new outfit so soon.”
With that, he turned and strutted away, leaving the guards to slam and lock the cell door. Sween had already disappeared. But Emma hardly noticed as she rushed to Jo and helped him up. A scowl formed on her face as she saw a red neckerchief, identical in color to the scarf she had been given, knotted uncomfortably tight around Jo’s neck.
Undoing the neckerchief, she took it to the lavatory to wet it. It had been so dark when she was first brought to the cell that she hadn’t noticed the small door in one corner. Emma was grateful in spite of herself not to have to use their drinking water again. The water from the lavatory was drinkable, but with an unpleasant taste that the water delivered to them by slaves lacked.
Returning to Jo, Emma washed his fresh cuts and bruises with the kerchief. Then, washing it as best she could and putting it aside to dry, Emma removed her scarf. Gently, she used it to towel the excess moisture from Jo’s fur. He winced and grunted, but for the most part seemed soothed by her attentions.
“You’ve gotten pretty good at this sort of thing, Emma. I won’t say better, because I honestly don’t know if you’ve had to do it for me before. Mercifully, I was unconscious the first couple of times you were my physician. Nothing against you, you understand. But even the best doctor can only inject so much pleasantness into these situations.”
Not sure whether to smile or cry, Emma spoke gently. “Well, at least you’ve managed to keep your sense of humor. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
In answer, Jo picked up the object Vitton had tossed at her earlier. He shook it out, revealing it to be a shirt. Jo looked at it for a long moment. Then he made his quiet request.
“Could you help me put this thing on?”
Emma felt an ache in her heart as she processed the request. Jo had been wearing his old Halfwind tunic when she had arrived. It had been in sorry shape, and Emma now realized that Jo must never have removed it himself. He must also have never been the one to put it back on.
And now he had to put on a new shirt with only one hand.
Gently, Emma helped Jo on with the garment. Then she helped him to his bed. After sharing a meal, Emma helped Jo ease onto his back. Kneeling by his side, Emma took his hand.
For a few minutes, the two of them were silent. Then, to Emma’s surprise, Jo began to recite familiar words. Her eyes welled up as she recognized the text of the book Heather had written. And as Jo paused at the conclusion of one passage, she found herself speaking the next one.
Jo’s face calmed, and his eyelids drooped. Finally, his breathing deepened as he finished the second to last passage. Watching him sleep, Emma felt a mixture of sorrow and fondness. Keeping her grip on his hand, she spoke the last passage softly.
“The Green Ember burns; the seed of the New World smolders. Healing is on the horizon, but a fire comes first. Bear the flame.”