The Urchin of the Riding Stars (14 page)

The swans were still proud and distant and called him a tree-rat, but they valued him. And there was Whisper. He seemed to be truly himself when he was with her.

Whisper was different. Crispin was sure she didn’t belong on Swan Isle at all. She helped him to find his way around and learn who was who. She listened when he wanted to talk about Mistmantle, and understood when he didn’t. More and more he wanted to be with her, and more and more, he was.

It amazed Crispin that he could accept the life of a woodland squirrel, with no tower, no ceremonies, and none of his Mistmantle friends. When his heart cried out to go home, he reminded himself that if he had never left the island, he would never have met Whisper. He was learning to live away from Mistmantle. But the thing that still twisted his heart was knowing that on his own island, his name was the name of a disgraced traitor and murderer, and there was not a thing he could do about it. On a summer evening, thinking of home as he watched Whisper splashing her face in a stream, he said, “Is there anything in the world that you really want?”

It was unusual for her to be flustered, but at this moment she seemed quite at a loss for words. She suddenly concentrated very hard on combing a tangle out of her fur.

“You say first,” she said.

“If I could have one thing,” he said, “I’d go back to Mistmantle and clear my name. And,” he added, realizing that he didn’t want to go there alone, “I’d take you with me.”

“Oh!” she said, and bent her head farther over the tangle.

“Whisper of Mistmantle,” he said, and sat looking at her. “That’s what I’d like. I’d like you to be Whisper of Mistmantle.”

The tangle was out now, but she was still combing it.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said. “What do you want?”

Slowly, she rubbed her fur dry.

“Whisper of Mistmantle,” she said.

There was no priest on the island, so on a day of sunshine and sparkling water they made their promises to each other in the presence of the squirrels and Lord Arcneck. As a token of their marriage Crispin placed his gold circlet on Whisper’s head, where it gleamed in her fur like a crown. Now, Crispin thought, he would be content to stay here.

She wore the circlet always. As winter gripped the island with iron gray skies, the gold shone in Whisper’s fur. On a bitterly cold day, they were digging up nuts from the winter store when a cygnet came, half flapping, half running, toward them.

“Crispin!” it screeched. “Come now!
Please!
”

No swan had ever said “please” to him before. He drew his sword and, with Whisper following, ran.

The sky above the mere was gray with snow. Ice floated in the water. The younger swans had huddled together in the reeds and were making scared, hissing noises deep in their throats while a little farther out Lord Arcneck floated on the water and struggled to hold up his lady’s head. She was almost underwater. Only her beak and the top of her head still showed.

Something was pulling her under. Crispin took a deep breath, and jumped.

The freezing water was so sharp that only the need to keep his mouth tightly shut kept him from crying out. Through the murky green of the mere he saw the thick twine of water weed caught around the swan’s leg, dragging her under. In the bitter cold he needed both paws to draw his sword and swish it down, but the weed was too thick and strong to slice through.

His lungs were bursting. He kicked his way up to the surface and crouched on the bank, gasping with cold, his teeth chattering as Whisper hugged and chafed a little warmth back into him. The ripples he had made caused a wave that passed over the swan’s head, and snow had began to fall, whole flakes that melted into the water. Snow would make the water level rise. The sword would not help him, and he threw it aside.

There was something else he could try. He rubbed at his legs, which were cramping with cold; then, his ears ringing, he dived in again.

He could no longer feel his paws, but only two stinging stars of pain as he gripped the weed. He must bite once, and hard, into the sword cut he had made. After that, he would have to kick back up to the surface before the swing-back of the weed could break his neck or fling him spinning to the depths.

Chill, stale water rushed into his mouth. He bit hard. With a lurch, the weed broke; the swan lifted free. Waves rocked over the mere; Crispin lost his grip; and as his eyes closed, he no longer felt anything, even the cold.

CHAPTER TWELVE

E’S WAKING UP
,” said a voice.

It was a kind voice, and Urchin found he was warm and lying on something soft. Even with his eyes shut—and it seemed too much of an effort to open them—he knew he was safe. He could hear voices, and recognized Padra’s. That was reassuring. Someone was tucking a blanket, around him. There was the crackling sound of a fire, and someone was singing very, very softly, like a lullaby. For a strange, confused moment it seemed to Urchin that his whole life had been a dream and he was now waking up to being newly born, with a mother and a place of safety. But as he became more fully awake he knew he was a page with a sharp pain in his shoulder and an ache in his left hind paw.

He knew something terrible had happened. It wasn’t long ago, but he couldn’t remember what it was.

A paw was slipped gently behind his head. There was a faint scent of fur and fish.

“Urchin?” said Padra. “Urchin, can you hear me?”

Urchin forced his eyes open, blinked a bit, and saw Padra looking gravely into his eyes. “Urchin, do you know who I am?”

“You’re Captain Padra,” whispered Urchin, and the effort made his eyes close again. But presently he found he could open them and keep them open, and focus on Padra’s watching face. Urchin was lying on a soft bed of moss, and Padra was asking him if he hurt anywhere.

“My shoulder, sir,” said Urchin. He tried to touch it, and winced. “And my left hind paw.”

“Better than I feared,” said Padra. “Can you tell me what happened at the tower yesterday?”

Urchin frowned. So many things had happened.

“In the Gathering Chamber?” said Padra.

Urchin thought for a moment. “Wedding, sir,” he said. “Husk and Aspen.”

“And what is the name of the captain who had to go into exile?”

He didn’t have to think about that one. “Crispin, sir,” he said.

“And what’s the name of your young hedgehog friend?”

“Needle, sir,” he said, wondering why Padra wanted to know.

“So your brain’s in one piece,” said Padra, and the anxiety left his face. “What happened to you?”

“Give him time, sir,” said a soft voice. “Don’t rush him. Heart love him, he doesn’t even know where he is.”

Urchin didn’t even know how awake he was. He raised himself carefully on his right side, and a small mole held a drink to his lips. He didn’t know what it was, but it warmed him and cleared his head. Awkwardly, with Padra supporting him, he sat up.

The room smelled of earth, but it was dry, pleasant, and warm. The light was comfortably dim, but from the spreading tree roots above him he could see he was underground. The crackling fire he had heard was blazing in a hearth, and beside it stood a wooden clotheshorse, where very small blankets were hung up to air. On the other side of the hearth, in a rocking chair, a hedgehog sang softly to a small bundle in her arms.

From somewhere to his left there came a thin cry, and the sound of gentle shushing. Urchin turned carefully, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder as the mole maid left him and bustled over to a row of tiny nests all covered with blankets, and lifted something up. A pair of very small squirrel ears showed over her shoulder. Then he heard laughter, and saw a young hedgehog and a squirrel rough-and-tumbling in a corner.

“Quiet, you two!” said the mole.

“I’ll explain all this presently,” said Padra. “You first, Urchin. I want to know how you came to fall out of a window.”

“Is that what I did, sir?” asked Urchin. He told Padra all he could, but his memory was blurred and confused. He could recall most of the previous day. He knew the queen was dead. He’d had to find Husk—he had seen him and followed him down a tunnel—it seemed to be a long way down, but maybe that was only a dream. A very bad dream. Darkness, he remembered that. But it wasn’t just darkness. Something had frightened him so badly that he ran—he had kept running….

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “That’s all I remember.”

“Were you pushed?” asked Padra.

“I don’t think so, sir. I was just…just…”

He turned his head because he could not bear Padra’s kind, steady gaze. He could hardly whisper the words for shame.

“I was running away from something, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes, Urchin,” said Padra, “running away is absolutely the right thing to do. I don’t blame you, and you mustn’t blame yourself. What were you running away from?”

“I can’t remember,” said Urchin, and shut his eyes as he searched the depths in his memory.
Darkness and damp. Husk was there. Something bad.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “It was pitch dark and foul, and I don’t know. But…” Grimacing against the pain, he heaved himself forward and whispered, “Husk was there.”

“You’re sure?” asked Padra.

“Yes, sir.” He thought hard. “Without his robe…” His eyes widened, and he struggled to sit up. “My cloak! Where is it?”

“Behind you,” said Padra. “Mother Huggen says she’ll wash it.”

“No!” cried Urchin. “Nobody is to touch it!”

“All right, Urchin, I won’t let them,” soothed Padra. “Go on with your story.”

Urchin tried again to concentrate. “I found a room with fresh air—I got away, I found a window…. Did I fall out?”

“You did, Urchin, but you survived,” said Padra, and his whiskers twitched in a smile. “You landed on something soft.”

“That was lucky!”

“Not for Apple,” said Padra. “Well, a combination of Apple and snow, really. She was underneath the window enjoying the snow, and heard a thud. That was you, bouncing off the wall. Next minute, you’d squashed her into a snowdrift. But she was delighted to have been useful, and she’s all right except for a few bruises. But you should rest again, now.”

“I’m sorry for the other things, too, sir,” said Urchin miserably. He may as well get the whole wretched thing over at once.

“What other things have you done?” Padra grinned.

“Just being untrainable, sir. I tried hard.”

“What?”
said Padra.

It was too much. Urchin squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away.

“You told Granite I was a dead loss and untrainable, sir,” he said, and tried to keep the tears from his voice.

“Oh, Urchin, my brave young page, we can’t have this,” said Padra firmly. “You don’t think I meant that, do you? Do you want to know why I told Granite you were useless? Because Granite, now he’s a captain, wants a page—and more to the point, he wants you. If he asks Husk for you and Husk gets around the king, they’ll find some way of taking you out of my service and into his. Do you want that?”

“No, sir!”

“No, so I’m doing my best to put him off. And I advise you to look as dim and hopeless as possible when Granite’s around.”