Urchin and the Heartstone (29 page)

With a lantern in his paw, Whittle knocked at the chamber of Brother Fir’s turret room, heard no answer, and looked in. The priest lay sprawled on his bed fast asleep, still in his old tunic. Whittle found a cloak and gently spread it over him. Every day he looked forward to his lessons. Brother Fir was going to tell him about the Old Palace of the moles, and how the old routes were being closed, and new ones made. Even more exciting, he was going to tell him stories of those rare occasions—so rare that most animals didn’t live to see one—when the mists changed and moved, and all manner of wonderful things happened at such times. But it would have to wait. It had been a long and troubling day. Fast asleep, even Brother Fir looked vulnerable. Whittle said a prayer silently, tiptoed out, and slipped back in again to pick up his lantern, which he had forgotten.

At the Fortress on Whitewings, Bronze leaned over the battlements and watched Cedar. It had been difficult to spy on her, as he had to traipse to the mines every day while she had a cushy posting at the Fortress. But sooner or later, she’d make a mistake and visit the freak once too often. Surely he couldn’t need washing that much? Next time she tried it, he’d catch her out.

He hoped it would be soon. He was looking forward to destroying her. It would be worth doing, just to see her disgraced and killed. And before long, he’d be Commander Bronze. Or Lord Marshal Bronze. Why not?

Urchin had been locked in his bare cell all day. Now that there was nowhere for another squirrel to hide, Juniper stayed with the Larchlings. To Urchin, the lonely days seemed everlasting. In spite of the discovery of silver, the king seemed to hate the very sight of him, and usually went to the mines without him. Bored, restless, and alone, he had scratched squares on the floor so he could play First Five, but he had to play his right paw against his left and pretend not to know what the next move would be. At least it distracted him from the window. Sooner or later it would snow, and Smokewreath would claim him.

Cedar had managed to convince the king that the Marked Squirrel was a delicate creature who would die if he became cold, leaving a curse on the island and depriving Smokewreath of the pleasure of killing him, so Urchin was allowed a fire. Tired of feeling the window like a menacing ghost at his back, he put down his pawful of pebbles and crossed the room toward it. If it snowed, it snowed. The Larchlings might rescue him….

The door banged open. Urchin whirled around.

It’s too late. They’re coming for me.

“The Marked Squirrel to the king!” shouted Trail, and Urchin was marched down to the vast, silvered chamber, where flickering logs in the fireplace made the only brightness in the room. King Silverbirch sat proudly enthroned, with Granite and Smokewreath behind him on either side. It was reassuring to see Cedar by the fireplace, even though she wore her commander’s helmet and he didn’t dare look at her directly.

The wild joy in the king’s face was startling and appalling. He strode dramatically to the fireplace, swirled off his cloak, and flashed a smile so bright it was terrifying.

“You did it, Freak!” cried the king. “Such silver!” He rushed at Urchin and grasped his shoulders, beaming into his face. “We’d nearly given up, but we kept following that seam you found. Oh, you wonderful freak! Such silver! Such gleaming, glimmering, wonderful silver, the very best and finest silver, and so
much
! You must see it yourself, Urchin, you absolutely must! It’s so beautiful!” He waved a paw impatiently at the servants. “Fetch him wine! Fetch him cake! Fetch him a cloak, fetch him jewelry! You must see it, this lovely silver. Too dark now, too dark. But you will, you will.”

There was a rattle and a hiss from Smokewreath.

“Oh, yes, Smokewreath, you can have him,” he snapped. “He’s done what we wanted! He’s found all that lovely silver for us. But the snow hasn’t fallen yet, so you’ll have to wait for him!”

Urchin curled his claws. It was bad enough that they wanted to kill him, without bickering like two small squirrels over a hazelnut.

“Shall I sharpen a sword for you, Smokewreath, so you’re ready when the time comes?” said Granite, looking Urchin up and down. “Or do you want an archer to follow him around?”

“We should kill him sooner, not later,” snarled Smokewreath. “He’s done all he had to do.”

“We could leave him on the battlements to freeze,” suggested Granite. He stood back with folded arms and regarded Urchin. “He’s only a runt, it should finish him off. But I’m sure you’d rather have the pleasure of putting a knife through his heart. Or would you prefer a dagger?”

Smokewreath hissed softly through his teeth. “I need his heart whole, whole,” he said. “Strong magic.”

“I do beg your pardon, sir,” said Granite. “I was forgetting the strong magic. Did you hear that, O High Splendor of Silver? The sooner he gets his strong magic done, the sooner you can invade Mistmantle.”

Urchin gasped. He turned hot and cold and tried to say that Mistmantle couldn’t be invaded, but his voice failed him. It was too terrible for words.

“Invade Mistmantle?” said Cedar sharply from the fireplace. “Pardon me, High Splendor of Silver, I knew nothing of this!”

“Oh, Lord Marshal!” pouted the king. “That was my tell! There you are, you see, not even Commander Cedar knew of it, only you and me and dear Smokewreath. But soon, everyone will know. Won’t it be wonderful?” He turned his glittering eyes on Urchin. “You said yourself that an island should have good earth and trees, and all those lovely things, and I’m going to have them. Smokewreath’s magic will get me to Mistmantle! With a little help from you.”

Urchin started to say that he would defend Mistmantle and Crispin with every breath he took for the rest of his life, but Smokewreath hissed at him.

“Such strong magic from the Marked Squirrel,” he rasped. “From that fur, from those claws, from the bones, from the heart. Strong enough even to pierce those mists, oh, yes.”

Urchin’s claws stretched and curled. His fur bristled. “You’re all wrong about that,” he said, and hoped with all his heart that he was right. “Your magic isn’t stronger than the Heart that gave us the mists.”

“Oh, what a pity you won’t be alive to find out,” said the king, and gave a shriek of laughter. “Isn’t it delightful! Just think of King Crispin’s face when he sees the mists parting and my beautiful ship sailing to Mistmantle! And all my moles will run through the tunnels. What fun!”

“Even if you could get through the mists,” said Urchin, “you wouldn’t take Mistmantle. Every animal on the island—”

“Will support me,” said the king. “I should think they already do. Creeper brought back such an interesting report from Mistmantle when he came to tell me about those little rescue moles. He said there were hedgehogs on the island all ready to turn on the king and kill him.”

“No!” cried Urchin.

The king waved a paw. “They’ve probably done it by now,” he said with a shrug. “Take the freak away. Lock him up.”

“They’ll never turn—” cried Urchin, and was dragged back to his cell. It had already been beautifully furnished again and he kicked the cushions, strode to the window, and clutched the bars tightly, defying the threat of snow. Help from Crispin might be on the way, and Cedar must be planning something. There was still hope. There had to be.

Of course the Mistmantle hedgehogs wouldn’t turn on Crispin. Or would they? There must still be animals on the island who had supported Husk. Crispin could be dead or in terrible danger, and here he was, in a tiny turret room, surrounded by cushions.

Granite returned to his bare chamber, where swords and daggers hung on the walls and empty bottles littered the table. Creeper slipped in beside him.

“You wanted me, Lord Marshal?” he whispered.

Granite took a small silver dagger from the wall. “Yours to keep,” he said, “and a bottle of our best spirits when it’s done. I want Bronze out of the way tonight. More trouble than he’s worth.”

The night on Mistmantle was still with the hush of snow as King Crispin knocked at the door of Fir’s turret. There was no answer.

“Fir?” He knocked again, fairly certain that Fir was in there, but there was still no response. Cautiously, he opened the door.

The only light came from the bright fire in the grate, and there was a warm fragrance of spice and apple logs. The fire cast flickering, dancing lights on the bare walls, on the plain table with its cup and plate, on the low stools, on the neat little bed, and on the figure of the priest at the open window as he leaned out into the night sky, turning his head one way and the other. Crispin stepped in softly and shut the door without a sound.

Fir closed the window and hobbled to the next without a sign as to whether he had noticed Crispin or not. He leaned out, looking at the stars, then pottered on to the next window, and the next. Finally he closed the last one, nodded at Crispin, and limped to the fire, where he put a pan of berry cordial on to heat, and bent to warm his paws. He picked up a second cup from the hearth.

“I want to ask you about our prisoners,” said Crispin. “Gorsen, Lumberen, Sluggen, Crammen, the rest. What do you think is the best way to deal with them?”

“Hm,” said Fir, who appeared to be thinking of something else. “Let them cool off.”

“And then?”

“Then we’ll see.” He scurried to the window again, looked up, smiled as if he had recognized a friend, and came back counting on his claws.

“One, two, three…four…five?” he said as if he were thinking aloud. “Four or five nights, and we shall have riding stars.”

A shiver of fear and hope ran through Crispin. However many of these nights he had seen, they still thrilled and fascinated him. But would the stars ride for good or for harm? It was no good asking Fir. Not even he knew that. But they always meant something, and now, there was so much for them to ride for.

“Moonlight, firelight, and the secret,” muttered Fir, and knelt by the hearth, rocking slightly, his paws on his knees and his eyes shut.

Crispin couldn’t be sure whether he was thinking about the words or repeating them in a mystical state, or was he just an old squirrel drooping into sleep by a fire on a winter night.