Her father sat up, expectant.
“And despite appearances, this rabbit has two of the strongest paws I know.” She let her gaze slide over to her sisters. “I hereby appoint Borla Regent of Alvareth until I return.”
Kalmara’s face twisted as if tasting something rancid. Borla blinked, stunned, while Dorju and Kuno grinned approval. Her father simply stared, and for a moment Indigo felt a twinge of sadness—he relished his title as royal husband. She had, in one stroke, robbed him of his status.
Horjanna stood, looking at the other queens for approval before speaking. “The Seven Queendoms have heard your decree, Queen Indigo. We shall recognize Borla as Regent of Alvareth while you are at the Order.”
And when I return, I shall make a worthy queen. You will see.
Chapter 8
The next day passed in a flurry of preparation.
There were provisions to be packed, weapons to be selected and, most important, oaths of allegiance to be gained from the other queens. Indigo and Borla visited each in turn. They drank cups of spiced rue to seal Indigo’s position as Alvareth’s one true queen, and her sister as regent.
When she was sure all was in order, Indigo went to her father’s warren to say her goodbyes and found him fussing about his arm bands for the night’s feast celebrating Borla’s regency. She watched him as he snapped at the servants, trying to get the height just right. There was a hint of vanity, of vulnerability at his lost status, that she hadn’t seen before.
The shock of it swept over her and she wondered how she could have been so blind: her father loved Kalmara, and loved her a great deal. She should have been glad, for was it not good for a husband to love his wife? But somehow she felt it was a betrayal of her mother, a betrayal of Azel. How long had he loved her? She chased the thought away.
“You’re as handsome as you ever were. And you’ll always be Queen Father, remember.”
Lukkas grunted, still smarting from recent events, but she knew she had pleased him. “You’ve learned flattery. There’s more white than tan on my chest now.” He looked at her for a moment. “I’m sure you’ll learn much more while you’re with the Order.”
“That is my plan.”
He smiled. “What you did took humility. I am proud of you, daughter.”
“Borla is your daughter too. Protect her from Kalmara while I’m gone.”
“Everything will be fine,” he said. “Kalmara is not the enemy you imagine. Promise me you’ll return?”
“I promise.”
He touched his nose to hers. “Now go. The ink master won’t wait forever, even for a queen.”
Halfway across the quadrangle, Indigo was so absorbed mulling over her father’s words about returning that she didn’t even notice her sisters until they were nearly upon her.
Borla shook her head in admiration. “They’re already composing ballads about Alvareth’s new warrior queen.”
“I’m not ruling yet.”
Her sister smiled. “Kalmara won’t dare try anything now you’ve publicly beaten her. You have too many admirers.” Her expression turned serious. “But you must come back. I don’t want to be Regent for longer than I have to.”
Indigo looked at her in surprise. Borla shrugged. “I’ve never wanted the throne, Bobo. Fact is, I was relieved when Kalmara named you Crown Princess. A queen has too many enemies.”
Indigo looked to Dorju, who nodded and made a flurry of signs with her paws: it’s true. I felt the same.
Borla hugged Indigo tight. “May Aktu guide you well. Come home as soon as you can, little sister.”
And having said goodbye, Indigo knew there was only one other rabbit she had to see.
* * *
The ink master dribbled water on the lumpy mass of charcoal, smoothing it out with his sacred stone. Indigo’s heart thudded, and her long ears burned as if they already felt the needle.
“Your Highness need not fear.” The master smiled, revealing more gum than teeth. His paws were so stained from years of patterning the ears of fresh initiates that they shone black instead of blue. No two patterns were ever the same, even though he had marked dozens of initiates like Indigo every spring. Here, in his sacred tent that smelled of ash, sweat, and smoke, rabbits entered as initiates and left as adults.
“I am not afraid,” Indigo replied. She realized it was true.
The old master nodded, pausing in his ink grinding to hold out a paw.
Indigo gave him the pouch she had brought. The elder rabbit opened it and held up a sliver of bone, its polished length winking in the fire’s light. All initiates used a bone from an ancestor or deceased relative. This sliver had been made from her mother’s thighbone. Indigo hoped the superstition was true: that you absorbed the spirit and power of the one whose bone created your patterns. She felt a sharp ache for her mother and sister, who both should have been here for her patterning. But burnt grass couldn’t be made sweet again.
“She would be proud, your mother.” The ink master tested the bone’s sharpness. Satisfied, he rested it against the ink pot and turned back to Indigo.
She will be prouder once I find the one who wronged her and Azel. And when I return for the throne.
“Drink, and let me see what truth lies within you,” he said, ladling a serving of warmed rue tea into a cup. He motioned towards a jar of honey, but she demurred, as was customary. To sweeten the rue was an admission of weakness, a reluctance to shoulder the bitterness and responsibilities of adulthood.
She drank the rue in one swallow. The liquid burned its caustic way down to her belly and lapped there. The scents of ash, ink, and oils pressed in on her, and the heat from the fire made her ears flush, as if the blood there were already eager to break through her skin.
The ink master leaned forward. He pulled the bottom lids of her eyes down, testing the rue’s work. He smiled, satisfied, and began grinding the ink again, eyes closed.
“What do you see?” Indigo asked, unable to contain herself. Will I avenge my mother and sister? Will I return from the Order alive?
“I see a journey,” he said softly. “A journey to the ends of Mankahar.”
Indigo’s blood raced through her.
“Will I find the one I seek?” She had waited half her lifetime to ask this question. This was the one time in a rabbit’s life when they could consult the ink master and touch their future.
“That depends on who you seek.”
“The one who killed my mother and sister,” she replied.
He bent his head, concentrating. A few breaths later he straightened, eyes wide. He recoiled and shut his eyes, but not before she saw the fear in them.
“Tell me.”
“It’s unclear...”
“Master of the ink, tell me.” No one commanded the ink master, but she was the queen. She had defeated the Bird.
“I see an omatje,” he said, as if the words were being forced from him. “One with immense power.”
Excitement laced with fear swelled in her. “Yes. A muskrat.” She swallowed. “Do I kill him?”
The ink master shook his grizzled head. “I cannot see if he is a muskrat. But you will not kill him.”
Her heart dropped. “Then he shall kill me.”
Again, the ink master shook his head. “I see you fighting to save this omatje.”
Save an omatje? A creature hated by all? “Why would I do that?”
“Out of love.”
She froze. Had the ink master finally lost himself to old age? “That’s not possible.”
He busied himself with the inks. “Perhaps I am wrong.”
“Have you been wrong before?”
He dipped the needle in ink and paused. “No.”
She bit her tongue, knowing she had already asked too much, shown irreverence blatant even for a queen. He had to be wrong. She, of all creatures, love and defend an omatje? She thanked Aktu this would never reach beyond the warren walls, for the ink master’s predictions were always for the initiate’s
ears only.
She watched the elder rabbit’s lips moving and then felt the cool pressure of his gnarled paw on her left ear. He flattened the surface, holding it steady. The first bite of bone through flesh drew sharp pain, but also a fulfillment, tangible and real like the warmth of the rue. Indigo the Princess was now Indigo the warrior queen. And she didn’t care what he predicted. She would find and kill the omatje.
She headed straight for her own warren almost before her ink was dry. She had waited so long to gain her tattoos and become an adult, yet they hadn’t magically granted her the answers she’d expected.
She gathered the items she’d prepared: a traveling cloak, her sword, a plain satchel devoid of royal emblems or decoration. Next she hurriedly disrobed from her lavish clothes, donning the sturdiest pants and shirt she had. She then slid her feet into boots, and in grabbing her satchel saw her mother’s royal crimson mantle folded neatly in a basket by her bed. She smoothed a paw over it, her heart lurching again at what she was leaving behind. She could take nothing of her sister’s or mother’s with her, she knew. And by turning her back on the mantle, she felt as if she were turning her back on her own queendom, her own duties, everything her mother or Azel would have expected of her. She forced these thoughts from her mind and mouthed a silent prayer to Aktu before slipping out.
Kuno was waiting for her, his black fur dusted silver under the moon’s touch. He huffed in greeting when she emerged from the high grasses. The new moon was setting, a curve of light in an otherwise starless pre-dawn heaven. The winds brushed through the grass around her like the sighs of passing dreams.
“Congratulations on your patterning, Your Highness,” he said.
“I’m still not used to the title.” She remembered Borla’s words, that a queen had too many enemies. “Maybe it’s best if as few as possible know I’m queen.”
The bear nodded, thoughtful. “Well, I hope the ink master gave you the answers you seek—Princess.” At her silence he added, “Sometimes vengeance takes up so much space, it leaves no room for clear answers.”
He turned and began loping towards the southeast. Indigo glanced towards Alvareth, seeing the merry lights of celebration that lit her home like a beacon of farewell.
She would be back, she promised herself. Never mind the ink master’s prediction, she would return with the omatje’s head, be a warrior queen of legend, and lead Alvareth to reclaim their southern lands.
In the distance a Pacified wolf howled. Indigo thought of Argasar and wondered where he was now, whether he had left to find purpose in the Order. With each step she took, she was leaving behind all that was safe and known. But every step also brought her closer to the omatje.
And so she would walk on, into the unknown. Into the brutal lands controlled by those called Man.
Afterword
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Acknowledgments
This novella would not have been possible without the generous support and feedback of several people. I’m truly grateful to those who helped finesse this novella through its many drafts: editor Tiffani Angus, along with beta readers Susan Everett and Dave Peterson. I would also like to thank Sam Voutas for his acute instincts about story structure, and for reading this so many times.
And last but not least, thank you to everyone who has read Theo and the Forbidden Language, and inquired about sequels. You keep me on task.
About the Author
Melanie Ansley was born in Windsor, Ontario, then bundled off to China at the age of five. Her fascination with mythical talking animals started in Shanghai, where she’d buy Chinese comics like Journey to the West. In the 1980s she spent most of her lunch breaks in her Hong Kong primary school’s library, where she developed an insatiable appetite for fantasy and historical fiction. She now splits her time between Beijing and Los Angeles, and has written several produced screenplays.
Also by Melanie Ansley
Theo and the Forbidden Language
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