Urchin and the Heartstone (16 page)

By the time Needle and Sepia had met, exchanged stories, jumped a few streams, and pattered around the north side of the tower, they were ready to stop for a snack. Sepia was nibbling blackberries, and Needle had just swallowed a worm, when a squirrel hurried past.

“Hello, Gleaner!” called Sepia.

Gleaner glanced over her shoulder, hesitated as if she might say something, and ran on. Needle shrugged.

“Let her go,” she said. “She’s dying for us to ask where she’s going.”

Gleaner ran on. They were looking for the Heartstone. Let them look. She knew more about it than they did, but they wouldn’t dream of asking her.

They forgot that she had been an animal of some importance in the tower not so long ago, when she had been Lady Aspen’s maid. Whatever Husk had done, whatever anyone said, none of it had had anything to do with Lady Aspen. You only had to look at lovely Lady Aspen to know that none of it was her fault. She had been so charming and beautiful, she couldn’t have done anything bad. It was all lies.

With any luck, Needle and Sepia would get stuck in a bog looking for the Heartstone. Serve them right.

CHAPTER TWELVE

OR THREE DAYS
, K
ING
S
ILVERBIRCH
did not send for Urchin. Trail, when she brought food, said that the king was deciding on his strategy, and Bronze said smugly that the king and Smokewreath were still arguing about what to do with him. Apart from that they barely spoke to him, and nobody came into his cell, which was what Urchin wanted. He needed to be left alone to attend to Juniper; Juniper was desperately ill.

Urchin had hidden him in a deep nest of cushions in a corner, where he lay tightly huddled and shivering, though his paws were hot. When the guards brought food, Urchin would sit on the windowsill kicking his paws restlessly to conceal any rustlings from the nest, and as soon as they had shut the door he would force water between Juniper’s clenched teeth. Juniper was far too ill to eat anything, but Urchin knew he should drink.

In a hushed voice he whispered to him, telling him stories of Mistmantle, singing their homeland songs, and wondering what he would do without Juniper to look after. Go mad, probably, shut in a stone cell in the long summer days. Looking longingly down from the barred window, he saw animals trundling barrows about, exchanging brief chats about their work—he knew they weren’t happy or free, but at least they were outside.

In the days when Husk had controlled King Brushen, Mistmantle animals had been burdened with long hours of hard work, but it had never been as bad as this. Mistmantle animals had never been so miserable and dispirited. The idea that they might have been, if Husk had finally triumphed, was a thought that chilled his skin. Angrily, he kicked the window seat and promised himself that he would go home.

He promised Juniper, too, as he whispered into the nest. The Heart would bring them home, and home was worth staying alive for. He talked to him of Mistmantle, of the woods in autumn, and wriggling through fallen leaves to gather up baskets full of nuts. He talked about gathering around fires with scalding soup and hot walnut bread, and of brilliant winter mornings when the snow dazzled, icicles hung like a necklace around Fir’s turret, and there were snowball fights in every clearing and slides on every hill. He talked of spring, with the first breaths of warm air ruffling the fur, and primroses in the wood, and summers when high color was everywhere, and the woods were full of sweet soft berries that looked like jewels and tasted of sunshine.

He felt the dryness of Juniper’s paws and nose, and wished there was somebody like Mother Huggen or Fir, who would know how to look after him. “All this about the mists not letting anyone go back,” he said, thinking aloud, “it can’t be that simple. Brother Fir says the mists are there to protect Mistmantle, so if you have to get back for the sake of the island, surely there must be a way. The Heart must have made a way. I could get us home with swans again. That was what they suggested, when they were pretending they cared what happened to me. But it’s a long way; it may be too far for swans.”

In the silence that followed, Juniper’s breathing seemed slow and wheezy. It sounded like a struggle. Every breath was harder, and after each one was a long and terrifying pause, as if the next would never come. Urchin found he was holding his own breath, too.

The wheezing grew longer and louder, and Urchin heaped the cushions more tightly around Juniper, glancing nervously at the door. When Bronze opened the door to bring in food, Urchin leaped to the fireplace and scratched at it noisily.

Bronze grinned. “No good sharpening your claws,” he said, and banged down the tray. “You’ve had it. The wind’s changed.” He clanked the door shut behind him, and there was nothing for Urchin to do but watch Juniper, tip water into his mouth, and pray.

“Come on, Juniper,” he whispered. “Please. Just keep breathing. Oh, Heart help him,
please.
”

The shadows grew longer. The light faded. The day cooled.
Just
take the next breath. And the next.

A
thundering from beyond Urchin’s cell made the room shake. Urchin flung himself over Juniper. Another crash followed, with the ringing of iron, the splintering of wood, and the king’s voice in screaming rage.

“Kill who you like!” he screeched. “Kill anyone! Plague and pestilence on Crispin of Mistmantle and his minions! Get that filthy squirrel down here and cut him into little pieces!”

Paws were running upstairs and along the corridor. Urchin snatched the log basket, his ears sharp, his claws flexed. If he could heave the table and the log basket against the door, it would at least hold them off for a while. But as he barricaded the door he heard more animals running, dozens and dozens of them, in all directions. Some were running to his cell. They were louder, faster, nearer. He heard the clank of bolts and locks on the cell door, and nothing else.

Nothing at all. There was no wheezy breathing. The cell door crashed open with a force that flung the furniture spinning across the floor. In the doorway stood the helmeted commander.

“Whatever you’re planning,” she snapped, “forget it.” She stepped in and banged the door shut behind her.

Padra returned to the tower from patrolling the shores as the night air grew cool and the waves hushed softly on the shore. Far away, near the mists, lanterns glowed from sterns and masts. That was the watch for Urchin.
Urchin’s lights.
A lamp moved in a high corridor, and he mentioned it when he reported to Crispin in the Throne Room.

“That’ll be Tay again,” said Crispin. “She’s educating the Whitewings prisoners in the laws and the histories. They need to learn that we’re reasonable animals with good laws. But Lord Treeth won’t let her anywhere near him. We’ve had to take everything breakable out of his room.”

“Which must be practically everything,” said Padra. “Aspen did like delicate things. What about Scatter?”

“She loves it,” said Crispin. “I’m sure the law bores her, but she soaks up the stories.” He picked up a dish of blackberries from the table. “I’m going with her this time.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Padra, and walked with Crispin to the well-guarded corridor where Tay waited, stroking her whiskers. Gorsen stomped to attention. He had groomed himself until his fur gleamed, and smelled of spices.

“His Majesty King Crispin and Mistress Tay to see the prisoners!” he barked out. From Lord Treeth’s chamber came a curse and a crash as something hit the door.

“Have fun,” said Padra as he bowed and left them. When Gorsen unlocked Scatter’s cell, she sprang up, her eyes wide, and curtsied deeply.

“Your Majesty!” she gasped.

“Mistress Tay has kindly allowed me to help her tonight,” said Crispin. “Would you like some blackberries?”

Crispin perched on the bed. Tay drew herself up to give a long explanation of when prisoners were allowed out of their cells, and how much they should be guarded, and and in what circumstances treats, such as blackberries, could be brought to the cell, and Scatter’s eyes strayed constantly to Crispin’s face.

When Tay was about to start on another subject, Crispin said, “Thank you, Tay. Now, Scatter, what sort of story would you like? A squirrel, a mole, a hedgehog, or an otter?”

The night before, Tay had told Scatter a terrifying story about a monstrous mole called Gripthroat. She hadn’t slept after that. But she liked otters. There weren’t any on Whitewings.

“An otter, please,” she said.

“There was an otter called Arder,” began Crispin. “He had three daughters, and his wife was dead. Many otters from other islands swam under the mists to Mistmantle, and Arder’s two older daughters had married two of these otters and left the island with them. Poor Arder only had his youngest daughter left. Her name was Westree. He fretted and worried when he saw the handsome male otters swimming to the island and the young girl otters flirting and falling in love. He was desperate to keep Westree on Mistmantle.

“He tried to get her to marry a Mistmantle otter, but she didn’t like any of them enough. So he ordered her to have nothing to do with the visiting otters, but she couldn’t help meeting them when she went for a swim, and, as she said, it was only polite to talk to them. After that, Arder said Westree should never go anywhere without him. Father and daughter had such terrible rows that they could be heard by the squirrels on top of Falls Cliffs, who complained to the king.

“Westree had always done as she was told, but she felt her father was being unreasonable. If he made her stay in their home, she would find a way out as soon as his back was turned, and run away along the shore to meet her friends. When they went swimming, she was fast enough to leave him behind and hide under the nearest boat until he swam away to look for her. If they went out in a boat, she’d slip over the side, tip it over with him in it, and escape. He even made a cage for her at night so that she couldn’t escape while he slept, but she bit through the bars and ran away.

“Finally, he went to see Sister Tellin the priest and begged her to help him. And Sister Tellin said, ‘She must have her freedom, because her life is her own, not yours. If she leaves us, she must leave for love. If she stays with us, she must stay for love. If you force her to stay, you take away her freedom and the choices of her love; and love will die in her, and you will see her grow miserable. Let her be free.’

“It was not the advice that Arder wanted to hear, but in his heart he knew that she was right. So he gave Westree her freedom, though the thought that she might leave him hurt him deeply.”

“And did she leave?” asked Scatter anxiously.

“No, she didn’t,” said Crispin. “She was free to go. And because she was free, she lived happily on the island for the rest of her life.”

“But…” began Scatter, and stopped.

“Is there something you want explained, Scatter?” asked Tay.

“No, it’s all right, ma’am,” said Scatter quickly.

“Then good night,” said Crispin. “Tay, we are keeping Scatter up very late.”

Scatter hadn’t quite understood that story. Why would Westree want to leave Mistmantle? Why would anyone? But as Crispin rose to go, she remembered the other question she wanted to ask.