The Urchin of the Riding Stars (13 page)

“Mistress Apple,” called Padra, “you haven’t danced with me all evening! You’re not avoiding me, are you? Will you do me the honor?” There was the swiftest wink at Urchin. “Hold my robe, will you, Urchin?”

Urchin watched Padra heave Apple around the room. The uneasy feeling that he was being watched crept over him, and he turned to see a sleek, dark mole look away quickly. It was Gloss, who had argued against Crispin at the trial. Urchin shuddered, then forgot Gloss as he saw Gleaner and a mole guard wriggle through the hall.

They whispered to Husk, who listened, dismissed them, and strode to the throne. Something was happening. Presently Husk led the king and Brother Fir toward the royal chambers. Padra, finishing his dance with Apple, joined them, and Urchin followed, still carrying the sea-turquoise robe over both paws. He half expected to be told to stay out of the way, but Padra only said, “You may be needed in the royal chambers, Urchin, but put that robe away first. I won’t need it again tonight.”

Urchin carried the robe to the anteroom and laid it on the floor to smooth and fold it. With the door closed, it was as if the crowded hall was in another world. He was alone in cool stillness and quiet. A single lamp glowed.

Snow was falling, floating in thick soft flakes through the darkness. Urchin laid the robe on the floor, then went to the window and rested his paws on the sill. It was quiet enough even to hear the waves swishing gently onto the shore, and he thought of Crispin and prayed, as he always did, for the Heart to keep him safe. More than ever he missed Crispin, who always had a kind word for him.

He turned to open the heavy lid of the chest with both paws. Husk’s green-and-gold robe was still in there—of course—he was wearing his new one today, his magnificent wedding robe.

Whoever had put that robe away had not done it correctly. It would crease if he laid Padra’s on top of it. He smoothed it and felt the layers of creases underneath. It would have to be taken out and folded again. He held it high to shake it, and, taking care not to let his claws catch the embroidery, smoothed it down.

On the bottom of the chest, something fluttered. Urchin bent to look more closely. Three dried leaves lay there, and he reached to take them out.

If they had been scented leaves, he would have understood why they were there. They would be to keep the moths away, or make the robes smell sweet. But these were plain beech leaves. He turned them over and held them to the lamp.

There was a clawmark on each one. Crispin’s.

Urchin wasn’t sure what they meant, but he knew they were important. His green cloak had been stitched up hurriedly at the hem and the stitches were long and gaping. Gently, to hide the leaves without damaging them, he slipped them between the stitches into the hem. Padra must be told.

CHAPTER TEN

N THE ROYAL CHAMBERS
, the queen lay very peacefully among the deep pillows. The king held her paw. Brother Fir stood at the end of the bed, and Padra, Aspen, and Husk, keeping a respectful distance, had taken their places at the door.

Once, the queen had opened her eyes and smiled at the king. Later she had said, clearly but very softly, “Aspen.” Then the slow, rasping breathing had continued and the pauses between the breaths became longer, until the next breath did not come.

Aspen stepped forward and felt for a pulse in the queen’s neck. She turned to Brother Fir, shook her head, and drew back.

Nobody noticed Urchin take his place in the doorway. Something jostled his shoulder, and Captain Granite pushed past him. He looked ready to march straight up to the king, but Aspen put out a paw to warn him, and Husk whispered something in his ear.

“This will break the king,” whispered Aspen.

The king raised his head. “I wish,” he said, but his voice was low and slurred, “I wish I had not sent that treacherous squirrel away. When he killed our son, he destroyed her. I wish I had him here now, to tear him apart with my own teeth and claws. Wherever he is, may my curses reach him!”

Brother Fir said nothing, but held up a paw as if to hold back the curses. Husk summoned Padra to his side.

“The only question,” said Husk, “is whether to tell everyone now, or later.”

“The morning will be soon enough,” said Padra firmly. “Let the king grieve in peace. We can announce it first thing tomorrow. Meanwhile, get the servants to clear the dishes and tell the musicians to stop playing, they’ll all understand that it’s time to go.” He turned and noticed Urchin at last. “Urchin, come and help me.”

Urchin hurried behind Padra, who murmured instructions into the ears of servants. Soon tables were being cleared, one torch after another was extinguished, and the animals, some yawning, the little ones asleep and being carried, were making their way to the doors. However well Padra organized them, it would take a long time to clear the tower.

“Find Husk!” he called to Urchin. “I could do with him here! At least find out what he’s doing!”

Find Husk! Getting through the crowd to the royal chambers would be impossible, but as a page he had learned any number of back stairs and scarcely used corridors. He had turned right into a passageway that led down a stair, under the hall, and back up the other side, when he saw a squirrel dart around a corner.

It couldn’t be Husk—but it looked like him. It was his shade of fur, and his quick way of moving.

“Captain Husk?” he called, but the squirrel had already vanished without hearing him. With paws at full stretch, Urchin dashed after him, and was just in time to see the squirrel turn the next corner and whisk around a door.

This time, he was sure it was Husk. He was also sure that Husk didn’t want to be followed, and even more sure that he should be.

Slipping through the almost hidden opening, he could just see Husk at the bottom of a stair. Silently, he followed. The stair gave way to a passageway, and the passageway turned to a tunnel of intense darkness. Urchin listened for paws and the brush of fur on tunnel walls, and followed. If he stopped to think about what he was doing he might turn back, so he decided not to think. Just follow.

The tunnel became darker, narrow, and fusty. Urchin’s night vision was good, but soon he could see only shapes and shadows, darker than the dark, as he ran. It might be best not to see. The earthy smell of underground became moldy and repellent, and the chill of the place struck deep and damp through his fur. Something sticky caught on his ears. He ran with his shoulders drawn tightly in and his head down, trying not to touch the sides. Under his paw, something squelched. Setting his teeth, urging himself to be brave, he ran on.

Captain Crispin chose me for a page. I have to prove myself
.

It was colder, damper, darker. He padded on, listening for paws, straining his ears. If he lost that sound, he could be stranded in here…

He could be lost.

For how long? Fear shivered through him as he ran. He should never have come, and it was too late to turn back. One wrong turn, and he could be lost underground forever. In the suffocating darkness, something cold dripped on his head; unseen wings flapped in his face; his cloak caught on something. He bit his lip hard. The tunnel was smaller. Earth pressed around him.

Cold sweat broke on him. The air was foul and clammy, and the darkness so thick that he seemed to breathe it in. His paws squelched.
Keep listening.
If he turned back, he might never get out—and what if he went on? What if Husk caught him? There was nobody to hear him cry out. Nobody down here except himself and a murderer. With nausea and terror, his stomach tightened.

Oh, Heart keep me
, he prayed desperately.
Oh, please, Heart hear me.
If he ever did get out, he told himself, it would make an exciting story to tell Needle. He must ignore the dark, the smell, and the cold, and only listen, taking the next step and the next. He shut his eyes—it made no difference to what he could see—and sharpened his hearing.

A door squeaked. Opening his eyes, he thought he saw the gleam of white fur on a squirrel’s chest. Then the door creaked again, and it had gone.

A waft of chill, foul air made him press his paws over his mouth, but with it was something far worse. It was horror. Something evil was reaching for him, creeping on the air from that door, now rushing at him with festering decay and all the cruelty of hatred. Then he heard a sound that chilled him through every nerve, even before he realized what it was.

It was a laugh with no laughter in it, more like a shriek of despair. Husk’s voice was barely recognizable, but he was laughing. Instead of joy there was cruelty, insanity, and evil in the laugh.

The hideous laughter stopped suddenly. There was muttering as if Husk were talking to himself, but Urchin couldn’t hear the words. His eyes staring wide, his ears upright, his coat bristling, he backed away. The sense of horror was too appalling. Just a few steps. Then something slippery under his paw made him lose his balance, and he stumbled, scrabbling wildly at the earthen wall. It made the softest noise, but in that place of desolation it sounded like thunder. He froze, terrified. He heard steps. Captain Husk had heard him.

For a second, Urchin couldn’t move—then he turned and fled, paws fully stretched, pelting wildly through unseen tunnels. A vague sense of direction told him that if he continued forward and upward, he should come out where he came in, at the back stairs beside the Gathering Chamber. He had to escape the darkness, the smell, and the suffocating evil before they caught him and trapped him forever. Somewhere, there must be light. There must be.

A faint taste of freshness on the air gave him hope.
Get out, get out, get out
, went the rhythm of his aching paws, pounding onward. His lungs hurt. The tunnel was cleaner, wider. Good. There was a flight of stairs. He could get out. The surface under his paws was firmer; he was on a floor that had been swept and cleaned. He must be in the main body of the tower by now. There should be guards around—but how could he explain himself?

It was still dark, but this was the normal, safe darkness of a chamber at night. From the distance he had run and the stairs he had climbed, he must be under the Gathering Chamber. Good. There would be a window. From there he could jump down, run to the Spring Gate, and find Padra.

A great gust of fresh air met him and he gulped it in thankfully. A window was open. He gathered himself together to jump.

But his guess had been wrong. He was one floor higher up than he thought. He jumped from a window beside the Gathering Chamber, with rocks beneath it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

OSTLY, THE SQUIRRELS ON
S
WAN
I
SLE
made Crispin long for Mistmantle. At first, they ignored him. Slowly they accepted him, when they found he was quick at gathering and storing nuts for the winter and had a clear memory for where they were hidden. The qualities that had made him a good captain—courage, understanding, quick thinking, swordsmanship—were useful to them. But they were a thoughtless, forgetful bunch who couldn’t attend to anything for more than a second or two, and Crispin yearned for real conversation, even with Apple.