The Heir of Mistmantle (20 page)

Everyone had fallen silent. Those who were not too flustered or excited remembered to bow or curtsy to Crispin. A few glanced nervously at each other, and Fig hurried forward with towels for Padra and Crispin, but Crispin had already knelt down to be on the small hedgehog’s eye level.

“Cringle,” said Crispin gently. “I’m not cross, and nobody’s going to hurt you. Do you like it here?”

“Y…y…y…yes, Your Majesty,” stuttered Cringle miserably. Crispin put out a paw and gently smoothed his quills. A sense of relief settled on the chamber.

“Dear Cringle,” said Crispin. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’m not a monster.” He looked over Cringle’s head and said to the wide-eyed, openmouthed animals, “I don’t want any of you to be afraid of me. Cringle, will you do something for me?”

Cringle nodded his head. “Yes, Your Majesty, please, sir,” he said.

“Good,” said Crispin. “When you leave this place and go back to your family, you will have something to tell them. Tell them from me that the queen has nursed both Yarrow and Hobb back to health, and her efforts in the search have brought us very close to finding Catkin. And you may tell them that Husk is dead. If you were an adult, spreading slanderous rumors against your queen, I would deal severely with you. But you are young and need to learn who to listen to, and when to speak.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, sorry, Your Majesty,” said Cringle.

“Off you go, then,” said Crispin. “Good lad. Go and talk to Mother Huggen. Hello, Hope!” He toweled energetically at his wet fur and turned to Urchin. “Cedar believes that the infection is past its peak, but I don’t want to let the little ones out yet.”

“Are you any nearer to finding Catkin, Your Majesty?” asked Urchin.

“We thought we were getting close,” said Crispin. “But the wretched thing is that we had to call off the tunnelers. There’s fresh digging, as if she’s trying to make new tunnels, and with the weight of last night’s rain it could lead to a landslide.”

With Catkin underneath it, thought Urchin, but he didn’t say so. He glanced at Padra, but when he saw that Padra was looking past him at something, he turned to see what it was. A trickle of water, thin as twine, twisted gleaming down the wall.

“I don’t remember that being here before,” remarked Padra.

“It’s only water,” said Fingal. “Can’t harm them if they don’t drink it.”

“It’s water in the wrong place,” said Padra and looked up into the earth ceiling, inspecting it from different angles. “It’s filtering through a tiny gap in the tree roots.”

“Is that a problem?” asked Fingal.

“There shouldn’t be any gaps at all,” said Padra. “This place is supposed to be impenetrable. We need some good moles.”

“I’ll find some, shall I, sir?” said Urchin.

“I’ll send a messenger,” said Crispin, coming to Padra’s side and craning his neck to look up at the leak. “We may need you here. And I’ll send a message to Hobb’s lot to put off my meeting with them. This is more urgent.” He leaped into a tunnel and called orders, sending squirrels darting away in search of Captain Lugg and his best moles. When he inspected the wall again, he drew Padra, Urchin, and Mother Huggen to one side.

“Dangerous,” he said quietly. “It’s raining heavily now, and this could turn into a landslide. All the sudden rain is pouring off the hills and soaking into the ground, so it’s too heavy over the tunnel networks. Farther uphill, it could dislodge earth. We have to move everyone out of here, but without alarming anyone. Don’t look at that leak too conspicuously,” he added, as Urchin tilted his head to look. “We’ve drawn enough attention to it already. We don’t want to panic anyone; we’ll just quietly get them moving out.”

The thought of it made Urchin heavy with exhaustion. He seemed to have hardly slept before being woken up by the quarreling hedgehogs, and his eyes wanted so much to close. The prospect of escorting dozens of small animals to safety made his limbs feel heavy as stone. He tried not to think about it. It was easier not to.

“Where shall we move them to?” asked Padra.

“Those who have homes near enough can be taken back there,” said Crispin. “But only if there’s been no disease there over the last few days, and they’re not close enough to be in danger of landslide. If possible, they can move in with their friends. We could get some of them to Falls Cliffs, where there’s plenty of room and no danger of landslides, but it’s a long way, and the paths will be slippery. We can always pack them into the tower. But it’s not only the Mole Palace that’s in danger.”

“Yes,” said Padra. “If there’s a landslide, we don’t know how widespread it might be.”

“I suspect,” said Crispin, “that Linty’s efforts at digging a way through might have disturbed the network and weakened it. Squirrels aren’t expert tunnelers, she wouldn’t know what to listen for, or how to feel for the qualities in the earth.”

For a second Padra rested his paw on Crispin’s shoulder, and on the otter’s grave, calm face Urchin saw the thing they were all thinking. He was too young to remember the last great landslide on Mistmantle, but he had seen pictures of it in the Threadings, and had heard the older animals talking about the terrible rushing of the powerful earth, faster and faster, unstoppable, rumbling and roaring, with the smell of wet soil and the agonized creaking of tree roots as mud and boulders stormed down the hillside. Crispin himself had lost family in that landslide. No wonder he took this seriously. And this time, where would Catkin be if the weight of earth crashed through tunnel roofs?

“When the moles get here,” said Crispin, “we need them to feel for the vibrations and tell us where the danger areas are. We need calm, quick messengers to alert everyone in the tunnels and burrows and get them out of the way, and we could do with some Circle animals. Any diseased animals have to keep well away from the rest, wearing masks, if we have enough. Padra, we need otters to watch the watercourses from the hilltops down, so we know if the water is getting faster or the rivers bursting their banks. We need to redouble the watch for Linty in case she gets scared and makes a dash for it. Huggen?”

“Quiet a minute, Cringle,” said Mother Huggen to the young hedgehog, who was chattering earnestly to her. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Choose a sensible female to go to the queen, please,” said Crispin. “She needs to know what’s happening.”

“She was just out visiting that Yarrow,” said Mother Huggen, in a voice which showed exactly what she thought about Yarrow. “I’ll send someone to her.”

“Urchin,” said Crispin, “when did you last eat?”

“Just before I fell asleep, Your Majesty,” said Urchin.

“Any idea how long you slept?”

“Um…”

“I see,” said Crispin. “For the moment, go to the surface, into the tree growing above the leak, and make sure nobody comes within three squirrel’s leaps of you. The ground mustn’t be disturbed. Can you stay awake?”

“I think so, Your Majesty.”

“I’ll send someone to take over from you as soon as I can,” said Crispin. “I know I’m asking a lot of you.”

“It’s all right, Your Majesty,” said Urchin, already feeling less tired now that he had something to do. Knowing that Crispin trusted him gave him new strength and energy.

“And the whole island must pray,” said Crispin. “And Brother Fir and Juniper need to know what’s happening.”

Trying to look casual, Urchin glanced at the trickle of water. Was it his imagination, or was it getting bigger? Remembering Crispin’s orders he darted to the surface, but long before he reached it he heard the hard, furious drumming of torrential rain.

All that day, it seemed to Juniper that he tumbled without thinking into the burrows where he was needed, attended to the sick expertly, hardly noticing what he was doing, and lurched out to begin again somewhere else, not staying anywhere long enough to be asked for his advice, or prayers, or a blessing. At last, through drenching rain and wind, he stumbled to the tower. He didn’t want the peace and quiet of Fir’s turret. He didn’t want the time and space to reflect on what had happened. Anger, pain, and confusion flung him staggering up the stairs of the tower, to the thing he felt driven to do.

“Are you well, Brother Juniper?” asked the mole on guard. “You look…”

Juniper rushed past him and limped up the stairs to the turret which would never seem the same now. Nothing would. He had been Fir’s novice, Urchin’s friend, Damson’s foster son, and life had been sweet. He had never realized that until now, when it all seemed to be over. He could never enjoy life again. He was Husk’s son. In all his life he had never truly hated, but he hated his father now.

He lurched up the last winding stair, just remembering to pause outside the door and knock softly. There was no answer, and he opened the door in complete silence. The fire burned low, and a single lantern shone steadily on a windowsill. In the little bed Brother Fir lay asleep, one wrinkled paw on the quilt, his face serenely still.

I will never be so peaceful as that, thought Juniper. Never again. I don’t belong in the same world. He knelt shivering at Fir’s bedside and yearned for his blessing, not sure if he could ever receive it again.

Brother Fir would not like what he was about to do. He should ask for permission first, and it would almost certainly be refused. But he had to do it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, not wanting to wake the priest. “I have to do this.”

He knelt at the hearth and with both paws, lifted out a loose stone, taking care not to let it scrape against the others. With a reverence that made his paws shake, he reached into the space and lifted out the oval box made of dusky pink stone that glowed softly in the lantern light, the box that held the Heartstone. Flecks of gold and silver glinted in it.

He hated himself. But he had to find out something about himself, and only the Heartstone of Mistmantle could tell him.

He lifted the lid and looked down at the pale stone where it nestled like a bird’s egg in a nest of straw and muslin. Only a true priest or ruler of Mistmantle could hold on to the Heartstone. He had seen it lie in Crispin’s paw at the coronation, as peacefully as if it had come home.

Fearful and trembling, on his knees, he laid a shaking paw on the Heartstone. Then he gasped, turned hot and cold, and could not move. The door was opening.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

YPICAL
!”
PROCLAIMED HOBB
to his audience. “The king keeps us all waiting, then he says he’s not coming! Couldn’t look us in the face! I managed to get here, and I haven’t been well!”

It had been a great relief to Hobb when the king’s messenger arrived, soaked and breathless, to tell them that due to an emergency the king must put off his meeting with them. Hobb had waited until the messenger was out of the way before telling his friends what he thought of the king. The sense of relief made him confident.

“May as well go home,” shrugged a hedgehog.

“It’s pouring,” said a squirrel.

“Want to call on Yarrow, Master Hobb?” suggested a mole, and Hobb said that he might as well. It was nearer than going home, where his wife would tell him to stop strutting about and putting the island right, and mend the toasting fork.