“Well, do it elsewhere,” says the Chosen One. “These citizens of Atlantia are under our protection.”
“Citizens?” The cat snorts. He shifts a yellowy glance toward the refugees, who peek out from their hiding places. “They ain’t citizens, they’re squatters. Rodent rejects. They’re feline food.”
At that the Chosen One raises his sword. “Not while there’s breath in my body, they aren’t!”
Then the rebel plants her hind legs and rests one ready paw on the handle of her sword. She makes no other move, just waits with coiled fury. The ferals sense immediately how very much she’d enjoy plunging that blade right between their eyes. The royal heir simply crooks a grin and spins his dagger between his claws in a showy gesture. The message is clear: he, too, is prepared to fight.
Then the little warrior draws himself up; the words he speaks are ground out between his tiny mouse teeth. “Be gone,” he orders. “Or die.”
The ferals hesitate only a moment before turning to run back the way they came.
From my perch above Atlantia, a feeling swells up within me, a warm sensation that prickles along my fur. It is pride. And hope.
Now the Chosen One rushes toward the quivering victim, who is still huddled in the middle of the dusty square; he sweeps him into his arms.
“It’s okay,” he says in a gentle voice. “They can’t hurt you now.”
The mouse wriggles free and regards the hero with a sneer. “Of course they can! Don’t you see? We’re doomed. You’ve solved nothing. You’ve failed!”
With that, the mouse runs off, leaving his cart behind.
The Chosen One turns to his friends, his eyes moist and his whiskers twitching. They know that the mouse’s words ring with the prevailing sentiment of all who still dwell here. The suffering rodents feel no gratitude. They give no credit to the Chosen One and the rebels for trying; instead they place blame for falling short.
With the weight of this knowledge pressing heavily on my heart, I bow my head and slink away.
As Hopper watched the last of the crickets spring away from the palace, he was reminded of the one that had played a delightfully impromptu concert for him on that first dark day when he’d awoken and found himself in the tunnels. A lifetime ago, it seemed.
At the height of the rebel invasion this writhing swarm of insects had, at Firren’s command, attached itself to the sprawling palace and transformed it into a prison, where the emperor Titus had been contained these past two weeks. Hopper had not seen Titus since the bugs had sealed him within the beautiful palace, but he could imagine the craggy old rat at turns pacing in fury over his imprisonment, then dissolving into weeping fits, grieving the loss of his city and mourning the end of his regime.
And maybe—just maybe—lamenting the wickedness of his death deal with Felina.
Today the crickets had been relieved of their duties; they had been ordered to take their leave by Firren, who now stood before the palace with Hopper and Prince Zucker.
Hopper was still smarting from the insult delivered by the mouse in the town square. The resentment in those little black eyes stung more than any battle wound Hopper had endured. Did he really deserve such contempt?
As he looked around at the waste and the chaos, it was hard to be sure that he didn’t. Most of the grand buildings of Atlantia had been stormed by rodents desperate for shelter. Some had been set ablaze and were still smoldering. The stalls and carts of the market were toppled and broken, and the streets were filled with litter of all sorts. Nearly everything of value had been stolen, swept out of the city in the exodus, and the rodents who remained cowered in their hiding places or crept through the city with frightened expressions on their gaunt faces.
Zucker, who always seemed to know what Hopper was thinking, laid a gentle paw on the Chosen One’s shoulder. “These are confusing times, kid,” he said softly. “You did what you had to do. We all did.”
Hopper sighed. “But we never expected this.”
“I’m not sure what we expected,” Zucker admitted. “All we knew was that those refugee camps had to be eradicated and Titus had to be stopped.”
“In that regard we’ve succeeded,” said Firren.
Zucker grinned. “And now, like after any good party, somebody’s gotta clean up.”
Hopper shook his head. “It wasn’t a party.”
“I know, kid. I’m just trying to inject a little levity.”
Hopper supposed he was grateful for the prince’s attempt at lightening the mood. He was not looking forward to what was about to happen.
With a deep breath he focused his gaze on the tall, wide doors of the palace. A moment later the soldiers Bartel and Pritchard appeared from inside, pausing at the threshold. They were young, sturdy rats, impressively decked out in the uniform of Zucker’s private guard—purple tunics embroidered with a silver Z over the heart. In a way it was Hopper who had first recruited them to duty when he’d enlisted their assistance in retrieving a wounded Zucker from the tunnels.
“Come along,” Bartel called over his shoulder. “The prince, the Chosen One, and the rebel leader await.”
There was a slow shuffling sound as Titus emerged from the palace. When the disgraced emperor stepped into view, Hopper’s breath caught in his throat. Even Zucker, who had more reason than anyone to harbor a deep, unrelenting anger toward the old rat, had to look away.
This once-formidable rat sovereign, who mere weeks ago had sat upon a gilded throne and ruled a prosperous underground kingdom, was little more than a shriveled shadow of his former self. His broad shoulders were hunched, and the heft he’d once carried was gone. He seemed deflated, a sack of wrinkled skin and bones.
“Didn’t they feed him in there?” Hopper whispered to Zucker.
“They tried.” The prince gave a grim shake of his head. “He wouldn’t eat.”
Even at this distance Hopper could see that Titus’s eyes no longer burned with keen intellect; now they were sunken, vacant, and afraid. His paws trembled, his whiskers drooped. In places his fur had gone from iron gray to dull white. Worst was the pinkish welt of a scar that snaked across his face. If it had been unappealing before, it was downright ghoulish now, standing out from the sagging flesh of his snout more than it ever had before.
“Step lively,” Pritchard said. “And mind the stairs.”
Titus’s paws were tightly bound with rope, as were his hind legs. He took tiny, mincing steps as he followed his military escorts down the sweeping front steps of the royal residence.
Was he always a self-serving and diabolical tyrant? Hopper wondered. Is it possible that at the start of it all his heart was pure?
“Where do you want him?” Pritchard inquired.
“Take him to the town square,” Zucker directed. “We’ll be along straightaway.”
An old rickshaw with wobbly wheels stood at the base of the staircase, towed by a burly squirrel with a wounded tail. Injured in the battle, no doubt, Hopper thought.
The twin soldiers guided Titus toward the shabby conveyance.
“Why are you taking me to the square?” he asked, addressing his question to no one directly but looking pointedly at his son. “Am I to be hanged? Tortured?” The confident boom of his voice had been replaced by a trembling rasp.
When Zucker did not answer, Titus hung his head. Bartel hoisted the old rat into the cart and climbed in beside him. Pritchard hopped onto the running board, nodding to the squirrel, and they rumbled off.
“I’m sending the Rangers in to guard the palace,” said Firren. “If we don’t, the looters will have a field day.”
“Good thinking,” said Hopper.
Firren blew her horn to summon her Rangers. They were at her side almost instantly. Hopper recognized them because they had joined him and Firren on the long trek to the Mūs village. One of these Rangers was called Leetch, Firren’s second-in-command. He was the biggest, and the deadliest with a sword, after Firren.
Over the past weeks Hopper ha
d come to like and respect Leetch as they worked together in their attempts to maintain order or scare off the occasional feral. But even as Hopper had devoted himself to that task, he’d been deeply preoccupied with thinking about his family. Images of Pinkie and Pup on their way back to the Mūs village besieged by enraged cats haunted his nightmares. Many nights he’d woken up shivering and shouting in terror. He tried to convince himself that since he had heard nothing to the contrary, they must have made it safely back to the Mūs encampment, even though it broke his heart to know that Pup was so far away. Hopper’s only comfort had come from knowing that if Pinkie had indeed reached the Mūs village nestled so deeply in the earth, and protected by a great gray wall constructed of human-fashioned bricks, Pup would be safe there for the rest of his life.
But without Hopper.
That thought had him choking back tears; he put his pain aside and tried to focus on what Zucker was saying to Firren.
“While the Rangers are in the palace, you might wanna . . . ya know . . . have them execute a thorough search.” Zucker shifted his weight from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact with the rebel leader. “Titus has probably been stashing away . . . whaddya call ’em . . . valuables for years. Weapons, too.”
“Got that, Leetch?” said Firren.
The Ranger nodded. “What shall we do with the booty when we find it?”
Firren turned a questioning look to Zucker.
“Bring it to my chamber and store it there.”
Leetch gave the prince a curt nod, then led the other Rangers up the stairs and into the palace.
Zucker scratched his head and continued his strange little weight-shifting dance. Hopper would have laughed if the change weren’t so distressing: lately he’d noticed a peculiar tension simmering between the prince and Firren. They seemed to have trouble meeting each other’s eyes, and whenever she was around, the typically quick-witted Zucker became instantly tongue-tied.
“We should be on our way,” said Firren, tilting her head in a gesture that was surprisingly shy. “It’s almost time.”
“Right,” Zucker agreed. “Although I’m not exactly looking forward to this.”
“You sent your soldiers ahead, didn’t you?” asked Hopper, the dread squirming in his guts like an enormous earthworm. “In case there’s trouble.”
“It’ll be fine, kid.” Zucker patted Hopper on the back. “We’ve got to assure the rodents this miserable state of affairs will only be temporary. We need to let them know we intend to rebuild and revitalize, and make Atlantia safe and prosperous again. We’ll be able to get them on our side, I’m sure of it. After all, becoming a guiding force in the future of Atlantia is pretty much your destiny, right? All you’ve got to do is be positive and tell them your grand plan.”
“That would be a wonderful thing to do,” muttered Hopper, “if only I had one.”
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN THEY ARRIVED IN the town square, a crowd had already gathered. Hopper felt a plummeting in his chest at the sight of the small mouse who’d sneered at him earlier. Many of those present were refugees who’d been freed from the camps during the raid. He recognized Driggs, the hefty young squirrel who’d fought beside him in the hunting ground. He also spotted the brave old lady mouse, whose name Hopper had since learned was Beverley. During their trek from the refugee camp she had faked an injury in order to steal the guard’s dagger. She still wore the apron she’d used to hide that cleverly appropriated blade, but now it was filthy and tattered. When Hopper caught her eye, she smiled at him; the kindness in her expression did wonders for his morale. But he noticed that she was much thinner than she’d been two weeks ago. Her eyes seemed tired, and she moved gingerly, as though every action was taxing to her. . . . Living in the aftermath had clearly taken its toll on her. On all of them.
Only a few who had gathered were Atlantian citizens—most of that population had quit the city the minute they learned of the end of Titus’s secret peace treaty. Still, a handful remained, among them the merchant who’d once tried to sell Hopper his cherished Dodgers pennant. Hopper guessed that prize was long gone now, carried off or destroyed in the exodus. Marcy, the darling palace chambermaid, and a small number of the palace serving staff were also in attendance. Every mouse, rat, chipmunk, and squirrel looked exhausted. Haunted. Angry and in desperate need of answers—answers that it would be up to Hopper to provide.
Answers he did not presently have.
News of the assembly had gone out the night before. Zucker had issued a royal decree inviting any and all who still resided within the walls of Atlantia—legally or otherwise—to attend a meeting in the town square. The big draw was that the dethroned emperor Titus would be formally and publicly charged with his crimes. Rumor had it an official apology might be forthcoming. Not that anyone would have accepted it. They most likely turned out because they were curious as to what such an act of contrition might sound like; how would the beast Titus possibly explain himself? How could anyone express sufficient regret for offenses as great as his?
Bartel and Pritchard had handed Titus off to Zucker’s most trusted soldier and close friend, Ketchum. Now the former emperor stood on a platform in the center of the square. The crowd milled around him. Some shouted taunts and insults, others just fired hateful looks. Titus flinched each time someone hurled a name like “evil dictator” or “wicked despot” at him. The worst was “feline-feeding fiend.” Hopper supposed there would be no point in reminding the small Atlantian contingent within this angry mob that just fourteen days ago they had all but worshipped Titus for the safety and comfort they’d enjoyed under his reign. Certainly, Hopper had no sympathy for Titus; the rat deserved not an ounce of compassion. But it was troubling to see how quickly the tide of public opinion could turn, how even the most civilized rats defined right and wrong chiefly in terms of how it applied to them.
“You’re a monster!” one bedraggled chipmunk hollered, shaking her fist at Titus. “When my babies were taken off to a colony months ago, I rejoiced! I thought it was a blessing.”
Hopper, who stood between Zucker and Firren at the front of the crowd, felt Firren’s muscles tense. He wondered if she was remembering the day she and her family had been taken away as eager “colonists” and delivered to the hunting ground instead.
“Now I know the truth,” the chipmunk continued. “Now I know what really became of my children, you horrible, vile rat!” Her voice trailed off as she broke down in wracking sobs. Titus covered his face with his bound paws as the crowd booed and hissed. It occurred to Hopper they would probably be throwing rotten food at the emperor, except there was almost no food left in the city to throw. Those who had fled had wisely smuggled out as much of the city’s store as they could carry.
When Zucker climbed onto the platform beside his father, the shouting ceased. A hush fell over the assemblage. Hopper’s heartbeat quickened.
“Good rodents,” Zucker began. “We gather today to discuss the future of our city and life in these tunnels.”
“What future?” the merchant heckled. “What life? Our only destiny now is to wait for Felina’s ferals to come for us.”
“That’s not true!” said Zucker. “Atlantia is now under the rule of a new leader—”
“A new leader who just happens to be the only son of the old leader?” scoffed a chubby rat. “Namely, you! How do we know you don’t take after your old man?”
“And who will join you in your leadership?” cried the grieving chipmunk mother. “That puny mouse who claims to be the Promised One?”
Hopper had almost forgotten about that title. Titus had bestowed it upon him when he first realized that Hopper was the Chosen One of the Mūs prophecy. The emperor had thought to keep the Mūs’ Chosen One in Atlantia as a well-treated hostage, in the hopes that a Mūs attack could be thwarted by using Hopper as a bargaining chip. Zucker, acting as a double agent, had encouraged the plan. It had enabled the prince to protect Hopper and finally reveal the truth to him about
Titus’s dirty dealings. Hopper’s real identity had never been disclosed to the rat citizens of Atlantia, who considered the Mūs their enemy.
Hopper saw Zucker’s jaw tighten; the prince’s paws balled into fists. “Listen, folks, whether you like it or not, I’m still the heir apparent to the royal throne. So how about a little respect, huh?”
“Ha!” A skinny squirrel sneered. “Maybe you’re just a spoiled royal brat who’ll strike another dastardly deal the first chance you get!”
At that Zucker’s paw flew to his sword. Hopper immediately leaped onto the platform to position himself in front of Zucker. Again the mob settled into a charged silence.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said Hopper. “Rest assured the prince here is a good rat who deeply regrets the terrible crimes his father has perpetrated. Through all of it Zucker has been on the side of the camp refugees. He fought against the emperor on your behalf!” Hopper shot a cool look at the merchant. “And for the record, I don’t remember anyone complaining about Titus’s politics when you were enjoying the freedom his peace accord brought you. He wasn’t just sacrificing innocents for his own purposes, he was doing it for your safety as well.”
“We didn’t know!”
“You didn’t ask!” Hopper shot back. “As far as I’m concerned, that makes each and every Atlantian citizen an accomplice.”
The rat merchant scowled, then gulped as some of the former camp dwellers turned angry glares in his direction.
“Easy, kid,” Zucker whispered. “We don’t want to cause a riot. These rodents fighting one another isn’t going to help anything. Your destiny isn’t to get trampled by an angry mob, ya know.”
Hopper knew Zucker was right. At the moment the crowd had a common enemy in Titus, and a common threat in the ferals. Hopper would do well to shift their focus back to that.
“Titus has been brought here today to be sentenced and to extend an apology to you all,” said Hopper. “I suggest we all be quiet and listen.”