Day 18. Rogo’s Rabbits

Chapter 42. 

   No compromises and no promises could change their minds, and Kit sat alone in the throne room after the council of kingdoms with a heavy heart preparing for war. 

   A side door to the throne room opened and footfalls entered and approached the council table, stopping just beside where Kit sat. The young king turned to find Ulrig standing there at relaxed attention, the young guard’s face a mask of poise and control. 

   “Yes?” Kit asked, perhaps more annoyed than he felt. 

   “The woman of the Restoring Church wishes to see you,” said Ulrig. 

   “She was just here,” Kit countered. 

   Ulrig nodded and broke his stoic face, smiling down at Kit. “I believe she has something private to speak with you.” 

   Kit sighed and gave a nod and a deferent wave of his hand, and Ulrig walked off, back to the door he had come through. Only a few moments later and the druidess was walking in and Kit gathered a modicum of poise, sitting up in his chair and gripping the empty goblet before him, a vessel that had been empty since the meeting began even while the others sipped wine. 

   Davra went to the chair nearest where Kit sat and slid herself into the seat, smiling sweetly as she did so. She moved with a natural grace and litheness, slipping like a serpent or a vine into the chair and crossing her legs, resting her chin on one hand. 

   “Well done, my king,” she said, still smiling.

   “How do you mean?” Kit asked. 

   “It seems you have gained the support of the surrounding kingdoms and if not direct support at the very least a promise of no conflict from those neutral nations. Good news for a king who must fight his own armies.” 

   She was right, of course, the plains alliance had taken Raelle’s armies, and to fight against them with only the troops left in the kingdom would be beyond a fruitless endeavor, even with the added numbers of the Knights of Arl.

   “I do not wish for war,” said Kit. “I hoped we could come to terms of peace with Hobar and his people, but the death of Ishon was too much it seems.” 

   “They could not be convinced of a secondary assassin, working for other means.” 

  “What is your interest in all of this?” Kit asked, suddenly curious. “You did not voice much of your opinion during the council.” 

   Davra shrugged and adjusted her legs beneath the table, even switching which hand to rest her chin on. “I would not see death on the scale that war brings. It is not the way of the woods and the grass and the water. Life is good to grow until its not, not to be plucked out before.” 

   “But if men die fighting won’t their essence return to the world once more without issue? What matters if in their twentieth year or their eightieth?” 

   She chewed on this for a moment and Kit truly couldn’t tell if she was thinking of a proper response or determining if his question even justified answering. Finally, she said, “Life begets life. To die young prohibits the extension of what may be. I would see all things thrive and continue.” 

   “What if I would have killed Hobar today, right at this table?” Kit asked. Bloodswill leaned against the back of the chair and he reached his hand back to give the pommel a friendly pat. “I would have reached out without any fear of being stopped and ending his life right there. What’s to keep me from doing so?” 

   “You are trying to be a different king than the last?” Davra asked. 

   Kit shook his head. “Is there any value in that? He was overthrown by two boys and their band of forest thieves, and one of those thieves was nearly killed last night because he didn’t understand the complexity of the citadel’s security. It’s all so fragile, but perhaps fear would halt some of that.” 

   “You wish for fear?” the druid asked. “You would withhold the riches of the kingdom from your people, and return them to a state of tyranny?” 

   “Does it matter from your angle?” Kit asked. “Life will go on, people will live and die, crops will grow and be harvested, and in time, another king will come to take my place. What changes whether I attempt to rule with honor or malice?” 

   The woman nodded and liked her bright lips, a motion that might have been seductive if he didn’t seem so dry. “How life is lived determines how life is returned to the world. We do not merely seek life for life’s sake, but we seek good life, for the betterment of the world. Peace and charity imbued in all mankind. That is what the Restoring Church preaches, my king. That is where we stand.” 

  “There seems to be a question here,” Kit prodded. 

   She didn’t hesitate. “Don’t go to war. Give the north their request, pay for the damage done to their steward, and adjust alliances with the surrounding kingdoms accordingly. War and ruin is not life well lived, it does not heal the land as a natural death at a generous age. Save our land, my king.” 

   “I do not believe in your gods of nature,” said Kit. “What use is there for me to listen to you?” 

   Here, there was great hesitation. The woman raised a finger to her lips and chewed it between her rows of teeth, the white lines pristine and in order beneath pink gums and dark lips. She was a vision of power in beauty and though Kit found her both frightening and off putting, he couldn’t deny her allure. Her green eyes resettled on him and when she spoke there was no humor or gentleness in her words, only a dead seriousness that gave Kit a shiver along his spine. 

   “We have power over death,” she said smoothly. “We can return what was lost. Who was lost.”

   Kit sat with her words long after she left, long after she asked him to think about it and the implications thereof, and long after the servants came and gave him his evening meal. Ulrig came to check on him throughout the hours, but the guard didn’t make an attempt to stay or convince Kit to leave. 

   Finally, as the shadows lengthened on the terrace outside the throne room, a person Kit found he could talk to entered and took the very seat where Davra the Druidess sat. 

   Lavnan the Spokesmen, oldest of the clan and easily Kit’s favorite, folded his hands together and rested them on the table, his watery eyes blinking little smiles at Kit. “The servants are talking, telling stories about the madness of the goat meat,” he said, an interesting way to start the conversation. “But I do not see a madman in front of me. I see a deliberate man, on the edge of a terrible decision.” 

   “What do you know of the druids of the restoring church?” Kit asked, speaking more words in that one sentence than he had in the several hours since Davra departed. 

  Lavnan shrugged without unfolding his hands. “They are great philanthropists, taking care of many of the poor in the city, cleaning up the streets and the parks. They care greatly for all living things, as I’m sure you know. Of course, they can be pesky in certain cases, interfering in executions, determining how people are buried, and often I have found them prohibiting the other religions that might exist or have existed.” 

   He gave a nod toward the terrace window, gesturing to nothing in particular. “The Veclian church was the principal religion when I was a boy, I attended many rounds before I was old enough to determine my own thoughts and depart from their ways, and each weekly round was full across each cathedral in the city. I have seen the church diminish greatly in my lifetime, and I fear it is at the hands of the druids.” 

   “Is that a bad thing?” Kit asked. “What benefit is there of so many different religions?” 

  “There are more ways to see the world,” answered the old man. “Once a day, for six hours–it used to be less–I sit and focus on the end of the world. I wish there were more angles and options, but there are not, not for that ending. But there are many ways to live until we reach that end, and that seems a thing to be thankful for.” 

   “Thankful to whom?” Kit asked. He slouched back into his chair and rubbed at his eyes. “It’s all so tiresome, Lavnan. I feel I can be honest with you, and when I say honest I mean pitiful. I fear I am at my end. I was told a lie, it seems, about the enhanced meat my entire life, and what I have now experienced could change much. I entered this overtake of the kingdom with the hope to stand at Eadric’s side, and now that he’s dead it’s all falling apart. And yet, that green woman only hours ago told me, without telling me in most certain terms, that she could bring Eadric again from death. What world am I living in.” 

   The old man leaned forward, a terrible look of fright and alarm on his face. “She told you she could bring your friend back from the dead?” 

   Kit nodded, hardly noticing the intensity in the Spokesman’s words. 

   “No, my lord, I urge you to never consider what she told you as an option. If she is telling the truth and your friend is dead, than he must remain so. A thing returned is not a living thing, I can promise you that on every day I have spent seeing the death at the end of the world. And if she is lying, and has been this whole time and your friend was not quite dead but close, then I still urge you to have no part in her horrible actions. There is little magic in the world, it is true, and what we cannot know now will surely be explained in the future, if we last that long. But there is some magic, and that is almost exclusively evil, sourced from the very darkness I hold at bay.” 

   Lavnan raised his hands, unfolded and with fingers splayed, showing the dark stain that covered them. “This is not a thing of glory,” he said. “This is slow death, pulling at us for decades and what may be centuries if your lady Valia is successful in the south. I promise you one thing; the extended life we have gained has not been worth it, if only our sanity is at stake.” 

   Kit had slowly gained the understanding of the man’s intensity as he spoke, and sat up straight and narrow, watching the watery eyes as they bored holes in him. When he finished speaking, Kit swallowed hard and asked a question. 

  “There is a way to bring the dead back to life?” 

  Lavnan shook his head, the sincerity slipping to sadness. “Do not follow this path, my lord. Please, if I must beg I will beg. I have seen total death, a term you cannot even imagine. What is done is done, in life and in death, and the two should not mix.” 

  Kit nodded, though he found he was more conflicted now than before. The Spokesman stood and crossed the few feet around the corner of the table to stand beside Kit’s chair. He placed a hand on Kit’s arm and it felt nothing but fatherly and comforting and it was all Kit could do to harden his heart and face to keep from weeping. 

   “Save the living, do what you must there, but do not chase the dead. It is not a path you can return from.” 

   He gave Kit’s arm a single pat and then walked away. 

   Before he could fully leave the throne room, Kit turned and called after him. “I thought you would ask me to avoid this war,” he said. 

   Lavnan turned and nodded slowly. “Do what you must, my lord. I may know the future, but I do not know when it will happen. If you cannot bring peace through words, perhaps it is time for the sword.” 

   He said no more and departed, leaving Kit alone, once more. 

Chapter 43. 

   Rogo couldn’t place it, but the Cowl’s voice was different. 

   The man sat among the rabbits in the secret room, and though Rogo knew he shouldn’t be surprised that the man was aware of all of Rogo’s secrets and had access to the room, he still jumped when he walked down the steps and saw him sitting in the shadows petting the furry white creatures. 

   Rogo took a seat on the steps as the man spoke. 

   “Did you think you could deceive us?” He was clearly wearing a mask this time, and there weren’t nearly as many shadows in the rabbit room. The mask was blue, the color of the sky, and shaped very much like a crying baby. Rogo found it most unsettling. 

  “I did what you asked,” Rogo said. “Ishon was killed, right in the center of the banquet. 

   There was a twist from the Cowl’s hands and horrible squeal from the white rabbit in his lap, then sudden strangled silence and a limp form. “You brought that beast into the hall with his foolish followers!” 

   Rogo gaped at the man, both at the sudden death of one of his rabbits and at the twist in his understanding. The moment the Cowl first spoke, Rogo thought he had been found out. Sneaking the sedative into the wine had been hard, but he was certain he was secret in his actions. The sedative itself was a leaf extract Rogo had collected in a hidden trade deal years and years ago, a thing he had kept secret for a special unknown time, one that just so happened to arrive. But the Cowl thought he had brought Borneld into the banquet hall, and that he had planned that part of the night. 

   Rogo let his shock carry him for a moment, trying to plan ahead on the separate courses of action. Finally he looked down at his hands, feigning shame and fear. 

   “Did you not wish for chaos? For an upset to the order of the kingdom?” 

   “You worked without our knowledge,” said the man as he carefully set the dead rabbit aside and reached for another. 

   Rogo hoped he wouldn’t kill again. Yes, there were plenty of rabbits in the room, but the many might have a lot to say and many points of impact. “Is initiative now punished?” he asked. 

   The Cowl shook his head, the blue baby face playing hauntingly in the lamp light of the room. He didn’t kill the rabbit but rubbed the long fuzzy ears as the animal chewed happily at its cud. “You cannot begin to know the first of the workings of this kingdom, this continent even,” the man said deeply. “You are a sliver in the length of wood that turns on the lathe. A morsel in the mouth of a giant.” 

   Rogo shook his head, annoyed. “I don’t have time for metaphors, Cowl. Is there more you would have me do or do you only wish to reprimand me?” 

   The Cowl didn’t kill the rabbit but Rogo could see the man’s grip tighten, the gloves on his fingers straining in the dark fur, making the small animal’s eyes bulge. “Kill the king,” he said. 

   Again Rogo shook his head, not even hesitating. “That is not what you want,” he said. “That is a test, to see how loyal I am. I have been your hand in the dark since you came to me years ago, and I have not failed your mission once. You are not asking that of me.” 

   The Cowl killed the second rabbit. “Who are you to say what we are asking?” his voice bellowed in the small room. He reached for another rabbit, not even bothering to remove the one on his lap. Rogo felt himself begin to shake. “You assume you know our mission?” His hands twisted and the third animal squealed. 

   Rogo stumbled off of the step and put up his hands, warding of the dangerous man in his horrible baby mask. “Please, please. Tell me what you wish, I will follow your command.” 

   The Cowl stood and brushed rabbit fur and hay off his black clothes, then walked slowly toward Rogo. His movements were labored and slow and they only added to the fear filling the advisor. The Cowl stopped before him and Rogo half expected the man to place his hands on him and twist as quickly and strongly as he had the rabbits, ending his fourth life in the room. 

   But he kept his hands to himself and spoke behind the blue baby mask, his voice low and dangerous, giving no room for quarter. 

   “War is on the horizon. Your king must not go north, no matter what happens. If you must break his legs or blind him or force him into a marriage, do what you must. He is only of value to us here in the Citadel. Yes?” 

   Rogo swallowed hard but nodded all the same. 

   The Cowl gave a single nod, the shadows from the lamp light shifting beneath his hood for the first time since Rogo entered the room. Then, he was moving past Rogo and up the steps. There was the sound of the gears turning behind the stone as the chair slid and the trapdoor opened, and Rogo waited until he heard no more sounds before turning around to ensure that he was really alone. 

   He moved up half the steps to reset the levers, waiting for the trapdoor to reclose and the chair to move back before he returned to the low level of the rabbit room. Rogo walked through the rabbits, the white and the gray sitting alone or together, some of them eating and some of them sleeping, not one of them seemed to care about the dead rabbits that lay in a pile just before where the Cowl had been sitting. 

   Rogo gathered them in his hands, careful not to touch the small amount of blood that had spilled from their mouths, and carried them over to the refuse pile. It was nearly full and Bur would be in the room in the next couple of days to muck out the chambers again and then empty the pile. He was a good son, no matter his muteness and other patterns of slowness. 

   Once the dead rabbits were put away Rogo walked among the live ones, counting, marking any wounds they had or any odd growths. They were marvelous creatures, all of them, and though Rogo had gotten far too busy to continue naming them, he wished he still had the luxury. Of course, it was difficult to keep track of which rabbit was which, for there were only two colors and each rabbit within those two colors behaved much the same way. 

   “One becomes two, two becomes four, four becomes eight,” Rogo hummed to himself as he walked through the straw on the floor. 

   The Cowl had killed two white rabbits and one gray one, meaning the gray would have the advantage going forward. Rogo scooped up one of the grays and held it close to himself, petting the animal's head and bringing it back to the stairs with him. He turned down the oil lamps and tutted to the rabbits left behind, then exited into his study. The royal cook was a smart man who knew much about cooking and even more about when to not ask questions. Whenever Rogo brought him rabbits, the man never questioned it, he only made the most wonderful stew. 

   Rogo closed the trapdoor and the chair moved into place. He still held the rabbit, regretting slightly that he would have to turn him over to a man who would make him into a stew. But there was no helping it; balance must be maintained.