The Black Star of Kingston, page 1
Copyright © 2015 by S. D. Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is about, not for, rabbits. Silly reader, books are for kids. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at
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eBook edition ISBN: 978-0-9862235-8-7
Also available in trade paperback, ISBN: 978-0-9862235-3-2
Story Warren Books,
an imprint of
Brightener Books
www.brightenerbooks.com
Cover and interior illustrations by Zach Franzen,
www.atozach.com
Cover design by Paul Boekell, www.boekell.com, &
Erin Tegeler
Map created by Will Smith
For Micah
Deo adjuvante non timendum
I remember that awful, eerie sound. It filled every rabbit with terror. Even the king seemed to tremble. But it was only the prelude to an attack that broke on us like hail, shattered us like kindling, and flung us into the depths. In the moments before they struck, I remember thinking one thing: This is the end of the world.
From the Journal of Massie Burnson,
Black Star Company
Chapter One
Whitson Mariner, king of the displaced rabbits of Golden Coast, settled his community near Ayman Lake in the lands he called Natalia. It was a welcome refuge after the bitter inland trek that followed hard on their tumultuous sea passage. For the first time since their long voyage began and they came to the shores of Natalia, Whitson thought he might, at last, have brought his community home.
They made camp. The camp became several neighborhoods. The neighborhoods began to look like a town. Whitson named the town Seddleton after brave Seddle herself, lost during the passage. Whitson married Lord Grant’s daughter, Lillie, and later their son was born. They named him Lander. Prince Lander grew as the town grew, and Whitson dared to be glad. He had always been wise enough to see and bold enough to act. Now he was becoming brave enough to hope. Hope grew in Natalia, like an uprooted flower finally placed in the sunlight and soil. But trouble never dies. It only lies there, sleeping lightly, prepared to roar awake at any moment.
* * *
King Whitson sat at his desk, his candle burning low and his vision blurry from endless reviews of supplies, personnel, tasks, and the never-ending list of urgent needs. Queen Lillie sat nearby, sewing at her own desk.
Whitson rubbed at his eyes and finally put down the labor manifest, sighing as he did. He dipped his pen and signed the bottom of the page, blew on it, then spread a small measure of sand on the signature. He waited a moment, then spilled the sand into a bin and stuffed the paper into an envelope. After closing it, he spilled candle wax onto the seal, removed his ring and stamped the wax, then blew on it. He added the letter to a pile and took up the next paper in his stack.
“And now the Widows List,” he said. “Always a sad business.”
“Yes,” Queen Lillie answered. “But you’ll be sadder still if you don’t attend to that stack of papers.”
“It will never end, Lillie,” he said, staring up above her head at a painting of a great ship at sea. He sighed.
“Nor will my sewing,” she said. “If you’re going to be buried in tasks like a king, you must at least dress like one.”
He laughed, rubbing his eyes again before peering down at his desk with a grimace. There was a knock at the door. He glanced at Lillie, and she gave him a rueful smile.
“Come in,” he called, leaning back in his chair.
A long, lean rabbit entered and bowed.
“Ah, Walters. Please tell me you haven’t brought another report for me to review.”
“I haven’t, Your Majesty,” Walters said.
“Then you are most welcome,” Whitson said. But when he saw the look on Walters’ face, he frowned. “What is it?”
“It’s Lord Grimble,” Walters said, casting an uneasy glance at the queen.
“Of course it is,” he said. “What now?”
“He’s in council this moment, angling to clear-cut the northeast glade for winter fuel stocks,” Walters said, uneasy. “In . . . well . . . in contrast—”
“It’s not contrast, Walters,” Whitson said, scowling. “It’s contradiction. It’s specifically what I said must not be done.”
“Yes, sir,” Walters said, nodding. He looked pained, like the awkwardness of nobles disputing was too much for him.
“Does anyone speak against him?” Queen Lillie asked, her mouth tight.
“Mother Saramack,” Walters said, “and that quite boldly.”
“Once again,” Whitson said. “She is as determined to build as he is to destroy, though he is far from her equal. Now I feel awful for complaining about the Widows List.”
“Mother Saramack would agree with you,” the queen said.
Walters coughed.
“Thank you, Walters,” Whitson said. “Let us know if Lord Grimble plans to burn down our home.”
Walters bowed awkwardly and hurried out.
When he was gone, Queen Lillie spoke. “Is he insane?”
“Walters? No, he’s just anxious,” Whitson said.
“Grimble,” she said, frowning.
“I know, dear,” Whitson said, taking her hands in his. He looked around. “Is Lander with your father?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then we must talk about this,” Whitson said, kneeling beside her. “The more wood we clear, the more vulnerable we are. But right now we have no real alternative. So Lord Grimble sows discord.”
“But why? Why does he always feel the need to oppose you? What can he accomplish by it?”
“He’s a bitter old rabbit. I think it’s more about lost ambition than any real scheme he has now. He wanted to be king. He never will be. So he must oppose me at every turn.”
“He must never be king.”
“No. Never! I have tried to reach out to him, Lillie.”
“I know. You even gave his son a command,” she said. “You haven’t repaid him insult for insult.”
“I can’t meet him on the ground he wants. I can’t be seen as a petulant striver.”
“No, dear,” she said. “You must be what you are, a wise king.”
“I don’t think he will resort to anything desperate, but I want Lander to be prepared.”
She glanced at the back wall, a thoughtful expression on her face. Looking back at Whitson, she nodded.
“Then we agree?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, exhaling heavily. “He’s too young, of course. But perhaps it will ground him a little.”
“He’s a hard one to wrangle, that’s for sure. He . . .” Whitson paused, cocking his ear. He frowned. “Did you hear . . .”
Queen Lillie nodded toward the side cabinet. Whitson nodded back and slowly walked over to it. He knelt before a low wooden door covered with sketches and detailed plans of ships and knocked once. After listening for a moment and hearing nothing, he knocked again. This time there was a return knock from within.
Whitson opened the door. Prince Lander was squished inside, a guilty expression on his face.
“You don’t fit in there quite as easily as you used to,” the king said, pulling his son free.
Lander tumbled out and onto the floor at his father’s feet.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his knees.
“You should be, son,” Whitson said, helping Lander up. “I know you’re curious, but sneaking is no virtue for a king.”
“It’s no virtue for any rabbit,” Queen Lillie said, eyebrow arched.
“Yes, Father,” he said. “Yes, Mother.”
Whitson looked at Lillie, his eyes full of questions. She nodded calmly.
“Come with me, son,” the king said, crossing to his desk.
Lander ran to his father’s side. “Are you going to show me maps, Father?”
“Not today, son. I want to give you something. Something heavy and lovely.”
“Heavier than the wooden ship you made for me?”
“Something nearly as heavy as my crown,” Whitson said.
Queen Lillie laid aside her sewing and stood. She came close and put her arm around Lander. “We know it isn’t easy for you to be our son.”
“They think it is,” he said. His head went down.
“The other children?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She wrapped him in a hug. While Lander leaned into his mother’s embrace, Whitson crossed to the back wall and pushed against one of the planks. It gave way, turning on a pivot to reveal a hollow space behind the wall. Whitson pulled a lever within, cranking it several times. As he did, another part of the wall folded in and rose, revealing a hidden chamber.
Inside were many treasures, including golden armor, elegant clothes, and several weapons. Whitson glanced at a corner where a carved box sat on an elaborate sto
Lander turned, his eyes widening when he saw the trunk. He craned his neck and peered at the room in the wall.
“Secrets,” he whispered.
“We have a few,” Queen Lillie said, smiling.
“And there’s one we want to share with you today,” Whitson said. “Something very important.”
“Yes, Father.”
“This is a trunk the old king gave me. Do you remember me telling you about the old king, about your Grandfather Whit and the heroes of Golden Coast?”
“I remember it all, Father,” he said. “I’m sorry I never met Grandfather Whit. Grandfather Grant says he was a great lord.”
“He was a good rabbit, and a wonderful father,” Whitson said. He cleared his throat.
“Grandfather Grant says we’re only all alive because of how you saved everybody in your ships,” Lander said.
“That’s true,” Queen Lillie said.
“Grandfather Grant says it was like a new leaping?”
“Well,” Whitson said, raising his eyebrows, “I wouldn’t go that far. But we have made our own crossing. Not over a chasm, as with the old ones, but over the wide, wild sea.”
“Like Flint and Fay,” Lander said. “But on your ships.”
Whitson smiled at his son. To him, Lander was the most miraculous result of a long series of miracles. For you, my son, I would do as my father did on Golden Coast. I would trade my life for yours in a moment. Whitson felt a great wave of sadness then. But it crashed, as always, on a shore of hope. At least when he looked at his son.
“I have a gift for you, Lander,” Whitson said.
He opened the trunk and reached inside.
Chapter Two
Fleck drove his spade into the earth, turning it over and over. He enjoyed gardening, but he missed working in the mines. He stopped digging and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Staring off at the mountains across the lake, he thought of his father.
“Hey, Blackstar,” someone called.
Blackstar? Why would someone be calling me that? Then he remembered the distinct patch on his shoulder, his father’s black star miner’s patch. Fleck turned around to see King Whitson Mariner himself, along with Queen Lillie and Prince Lander. The prince had a little wooden boat, a perfect model of one of the ships that had brought Fleck and many others to Natalia.
Fleck knelt. “Your Majesties, Your Royal Highness,” he said.
“Please stand up,” King Whitson said. “We’re just going down to the shore. Thank you for the hard work you’re doing.”
“It’s an honor to serve, sir,” Fleck said, getting to his feet.
“I sometimes feel that way,” King Whitson said, joining hands with Queen Lillie.
“It’s a lovely day, is it not?” Queen Lillie asked.
“It is, ma’am,” Fleck answered.
“You were staring at the mountains across the lake,” the queen said. “Isn’t it the most forbidding sight?”
“They are ominous, Your Majesty.”
She nodded. “But beautiful. Beautiful and terrible.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fleck agreed.
Prince Lander scrambled down to the lake’s edge and plunged his boat into the water.
“He loves the water,” the king said. “I suppose he comes by it honestly.”
“We’re all ever so glad for that, sir,” Fleck said.
“Enjoy the day, Blackstar,” the king said. Queen Lillie waved as they followed Lander to the shore.
“Peace and victory to Your Majesties,” Fleck said, bowing again.
King Whitson saluted him, and they walked to the water’s edge.
Fleck smiled and shook his head.
* * *
Fleck had been a miner on Golden Coast before the invasion and the heroic escape brought off by Whitson Mariner. Like all the others, he owed King Whitson his life. There had been hundreds of miners on Golden Coast, but most of them worked in the gold mines for the landed families. That’s where the money was. But his father mined coal. Coal mining was looked down on in the decades following Hanfar’s Second Rush. But no matter how poorly esteemed it was, his father called it honorable work. It kept the rabbits warm in winter, and they could not have flourished without it. Many would not have survived.
Fleck had mined for nearly a year with his father. He had been only weeks away from earning his patch, the star of black symbolizing the transition from apprentice to master. But after the invasion, that had been forgotten. Like many of the old bucks, his father had bravely stayed behind to help cover the escape. He had handed Fleck his coat with the black star patch before they said their goodbyes. After all this time, he still felt his father’s loss like a fresh wound.
* * *
Hours later, after the royal family had left, Fleck was still at work. Galt had come, an old friend from a miner’s family like his own. They worked well together, with an ease of understanding that a long partnership brings.
“Aren’t you relieved to be here, Fleck?” Galt asked, stabbing his spade into the ground.
“I am, sure,” Fleck said, dropping in a handful of seeds before Galt covered the hole with the displaced earth. “But I miss the mines, and I’m uneasy about this place. I can’t put my finger on it, but those mountains beyond the lake trouble me terribly.”
“Can’t you just enjoy the peace we have in Natalia?” Galt asked, laughing. “Do you miss the perils so much that you have to find them when they aren’t even here?”
“I don’t seek them, no,” Fleck said. “But you may be right. It’s hard to get used to peace.”
“Not for everyone else. Seems you’re the only one with this burden. Do you feel guilty about being safe?”
“When so many died back home? When our fathers died?”
“Yes.”
Fleck sighed. “I do. Maybe it’s wrong. I know they’d want us to go on with life and find joy. But I feel like we owe them something.”
“What do we owe them besides being as happy as we can?” Galt asked.
“We owe them vigilance.”
They worked on in silence for a few minutes, relaxed in the quiet work. Spade in and dirt out. Seeds in and dirt to cover. The wind off the lake was cool; it made the sun’s heat less oppressive.
“King Whitson says this is our new home,” Galt said.
“Did he say those words?” Fleck asked.
“He as much as said it. We’re here, Fleck. Here to stay.”
“Well, I won’t feel at home in Seddleton till I know what’s in those mountains across the lake. They’re ominous, dark. Even the queen says so.”
They were dark. The foothills on the other side of the lake reminded him of their old home, but the mountains beyond were enormous. Hard and stark, they split the sky with their craggy heights.
“But you still want to go over there?”
“I do,” Fleck said, taking the shovel from Galt as he gazed across the water. “There might be coal.”
Galt peered at the mountains. “True. And we need it. The council’s been arguing about fuel for days. I heard Lord Grimble talking about it. I don’t trust lords, but he’s pretty convincing.”
“I’m going to ask for an audience with the king,” Fleck said. “Will you come with me?”
“I’ll go with you to the other side, Fleck,” Galt said. “But I won’t go with you to see the king.”
“Are you frightened?” Fleck asked, laughing.
“Of course I am,” Galt said, kicking dirt at Fleck. “He’s a king.”
“He’s only been a king for a little while,” Fleck said. “And he seems—I don’t know—humble.”
“Kings aren’t allowed to be humble,” Galt said. “Lords are all the same, Fleck. They aren’t like us, with their medallions and their wealth. They probably won’t even let you see him.”
They heard crashing in the trees beyond, and Fleck whirled around, raising his shovel to strike. Two young bucks broke through the trees, one chasing the other. “You need to relax, Fleck,” Galt said. “You weren’t even this jumpy your first day in the mines.”
