The Heir of Mistmantle (25 page)

“I’m glad I did,” said Juniper. “When the animals aren’t muttering about—you know, him—they’re saying the queen’s mad. Brother Fir says the most dangerous enemies are the ones you can’t see. You could see Husk, we could see King Silverbirch and Granite, and Smokewreath, and they were bad enough, but you can’t see rumors. We have to do something about them.”

“Such as what?” said Urchin.

“That’s what I’m trying to work out,” said Juniper.

He stared into the darkness, silently repeating his prophecy in his head. The impossible prophecy. But now the fatherless had found a father—or, at least, he knew who his father was and what had happened to him. The hills had fallen to earth. Perhaps there was hope, then, emerging from his own despair. Somewhere in the future lay an outstretched claw, a glimpse of blue—where had he seen that shade of blue?—and the flash of a knife.

“Urchin,” he said at last. “Are you still awake?”

“Not much,” muttered Urchin.

“I can’t sleep,” said Juniper. “I’m going back to the tower to be with Fir.”

“Now?” said Urchin.

“I can’t just lie here waiting for morning,” said Juniper.

With reluctance and a great effort, Urchin sat up. He hadn’t slept much, but at least he had been warm and resting. “I’ll come with you,” he said.

“No, don’t,” said Juniper. “The king might need you in the morning. If anyone asks, tell them where I’ve gone.”

Crispin sat alone by a dying fire. He could have called a guard, or woken someone, but it would be no good. He had to face the loneliness of being the king.

Landslides and disease, they were struggles, but struggles he could cope with. He had fought worse things. Lying awake night after night, he had asked himself if Husk might really be back, and whether he could have tricked Linty into bringing Catkin to him. He had wondered if he would ever see her again and even, when the nights were longest and darkest, whether there really was a curse on the Heir of Mistmantle. And after all that, he had to face what Lugg had told him. Cedar had been such joy, such warmth and strength for the island and for himself, and what was the latest silly gossip? The foreign queen comes from a land of sorcerers where they don’t know how to do things. Can’t even look after her own baby. It’s all her fault. Fouldrought, everything.

He could not remember feeling so coldly, bitterly angry since the day his first wife died. He could feel sorry for easily led animals who believed rumors about Husk. He could understand the frightened animals who hardly dared let their young out of their sight. He could understand them criticizing him—he was the king, the island was his responsibility. But they had turned their gossip against Cedar, picking and clawing at what was dearer to him than his own heart. There was ignorance to fight on this island and a battle within himself. Before he could speak to the islanders, he must face his hurt and anger.

Brother Fir would have been able to help him, but Brother Fir was far away in the tower. From long years of experience, he must ask himself the questions Brother Fir would ask. He imagined the priest, sitting on the hearth with a beaker of cordial in his paws, saying, “Think, Crispin, think! Haven’t I taught you to think? I must be a poor sort of priest. Ask yourself questions. So some animals—only
some
animals—are being unpleasant about Her Majesty. Hm. Ask yourself the right questions.”

Crispin asked himself the questions Fir would have asked.
Why? Why are they behaving like this? What have you just said to yourself? Question, question. What are the enemies we face? Ignorance, yes, weakness, yes,
and?
Come on, think!

Then he knew what the island’s greatest enemy was and realized that he had always known it. It was obvious. He lit a candle, and smiled at last.

There was no point in sitting here, doing nothing, waiting for morning. He went again to visit the injured animals, then climbed out to the fresh air, ran up to the best viewpoint, and, as the darkness lifted just a little, looked down over Mistmantle. He felt his heart grow with love for this island and its animals.

Why did anyone think that kingship was about ruling, ordering, and holding power? To him, it was simply looking after the island for his lifetime, nurturing it, being like a father to the island as he was to Catkin.
Little Catkin. Heart protect you. We’re looking for you. I can’t bear this, I can’t bear not holding you.

Somebody was calling him. He turned to see Urchin climbing the hill toward him, carrying a spare cloak in one arm and Crispin’s sword and sword belt over his shoulder.

“Can’t you sleep either, Your Majesty?” he said. “Cloak?”

“Thanks, Urchin,” said Crispin, who didn’t feel the need for a cloak but let Urchin put it around him. “We may as well go down. It’ll soon be dawn.”

They walked along the ridge as it sloped gently toward the woods. Somehow they were both looking in the same direction at the same time when they saw him.

In a cluster of trees far away below them, not far from an entrance to the Mole Palace, one dead tree, an old lightning-struck tree, stood out from the rest. At its top was a dark shape that could almost have been a nest, but who would build a nest there? But it moved, and they recognized the arch of a squirrel’s tail. Then, dimly in the gray dawn, they saw a silhouette that made Urchin’s blood chill, his ears stiffen, and his mouth dry. He had never thought to see that profile again.

He looked up at Crispin and saw him gazing at the same spot, calmly, and almost smiling. When Urchin looked back at the tree, the squirrel had vanished.

“Your Majesty,” whispered Urchin.
“Husk!”

Crispin watched for a moment, as if waiting for the squirrel to appear again.

“It may be,” he said simply. “I’ll set a watch on that spinney. Courage, Urchin. This time, we’ll be ready for him. Back to the tower, I think, before we gather the island together.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HEN THE SUN WAS FULLY UP
, Padra’s eyes were still too heavy to open, but the constant nudging and nuzzling of Tide and Swanfeather was too much to resist. With an effort he heaved himself up, tucked a twin under each arm, and trudged out to the spring where he slipped the small otters into the stream and splashed cold water on his face. Squealing with delight, Swanfeather twisted and somersaulted her way toward the sea, while Tide followed in a smooth line and overtook her.

“Stop when you get to the waves,” called Padra. The tide was half in, half out, and it would take them a while to reach the water’s edge. He rubbed his face, shook his wet whiskers, and looked out at the morning after the storm.

He had seen worse. But it was bad enough.

The pale golden sand was streaked with gray-brown mud. Everywhere he looked, fallen branches lay among a litter of leaves, drifting on the sea, on the shore, sprawled over the rocks, tangled with seaweed. Of the scattered driftwood and debris, some was recognizable as bits of people’s lives, swept away from wrecked burrows during the storm—misshapen wheels of wheelbarrows, splintered tools, a low stool, a battered hat, a kettle. Padra ached for the animals who had lost homes and treasures. Much of the splintered wood and muddied fabrics were no longer recognizable as anything, though some of the timbers had enough shape left to show that they had been part of a boat.

The otters’ boats were small, but they were sturdy. It had been a terrible fury of a storm to sweep up those boats and smash them on the rocks. The crafts that had survived—probably those tied up in the most sheltered of the coves—were on the water now, as otters rowed and stopped and rowed again, scooping up anything that could be salvaged. More otters glided through the water, bobbing to the surface, looking about them, and appearing again, sometimes carrying a beaker or a broken hoe, dragging it to the nearest boat. Padra felt someone at his side and knew without looking that it was Arran.

“At least the harvest’s all in, and safely stored,” she said. “It could have been a lot worse.”

Neither of them said that Linty and Catkin could have been under the landslide. Both of them thought it.

Swanfeather scampered up the beach dragging a muddy cloth in her mouth. As Padra knelt to take it from her, Apple’s voice rang out from behind him.

“Ooh, my goodness, what’s she got there, bit of old curtain or cloak or something, what a morning, Captain Padra, morning, Captain Padra, morning, Captain Lady Arran, what a morning, what a night, what have you found, little Swanfeather?”

“It’s one of the pennants from the tower,” said Padra, examining the soaked and torn cloth. “Swanfeather, stay where it’s shallow.”

He looked up at the turrets. Not a pennant remained in place, and even the flagpoles were splintered. It was the least of their problems, but the sight was disheartening.

Swanfeather squeaked and splashed. An otter had bobbed up and waved a paw at her before disappearing underwater again.

“It’s Fingal,” said Arran, trying not to yawn. “He must have been out early.” Fingal surfaced again and pounced on the kettle as it drifted past. He turned onto his back and sculled to the shore, holding the kettle against his chest.

“Your kettle, Mistress Apple?” he asked with an elegant bow.

“Not mine,” said Apple. “Could be Mistress Duntern’s, I’ll take it to her, what I come looking for is…oh, my goodness, there it is, look, my hat, floating out to sea and off on its way to the mists!”

The otters turned to look. The wide brimmed hat bobbed far away on the waves as if it were teasing them.

“I had it out 'cause I reckoned I should wear it for poor Mistress Damson’s funeral,” she complained. “And the wind snatched it away like it were out of pure spite, and there it is….”

Fingal was already skimming to the rescue, gliding underwater and surfacing now and again to check exactly where the hat had got to before trying to pursue it any farther. Apple was worrying loudly that it might lead him beyond the mists, and Arran was reassuring her that it would be all right so long as Fingal could move faster than a hat, when two otters loped from the water dragging a piece of driftwood between them.

“Bit of a boat, Captain Padra, sir,” said one, before shaking his whiskers and returning to the sea. “Nice piece of wood, and it’s still got most of its paint.”

“Yes, I see,” said Padra. He looked more carefully at the timber, frowned, and looked out to sea where a ripple indicated Fingal’s presence underwater.

“Aren’t you two supposed to be on shore watch?” he inquired.

“We were,” said one. “But the king told us to come out this morning and try to rescue the things like pots and furniture and bits and pieces, sir, that people have lost. I suppose we shouldn’t have bothered about that driftwood, but it’s a nice bit of timber, sir.”

“I’m glad you found it,” said Padra. A swift movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see Longpaw, the messenger, dashing toward them.

“Gathering at Seathrift Meadow at noon, sir and madam,” he said, and raced away. In the distance other squirrels were rushing through treetops, presumably with the same message.

“Why not the Gathering Chamber?” said Arran.