Urchin and the Heartstone (22 page)
Suddenly they both felt cold and uneasy, standing by the cairn with Aspen’s old bracelet and the twisted crown. Without another word they hurried back to the tower. They had learned something useful, but neither of them felt any better for it.
RCHIN WAS STILL IN THE KING’S FAVOR
, but he knew it wouldn’t last. Autumn grew colder. Bare trees reached up empty branches to a colorless sky, and Urchin raged in his heart against the lost summer. Winter was coming too quickly.
There was always a basket of firewood in his cell, and whenever he was returned there after a long day at the silver mines with the king, he would find a fire already flaring brightly in the grate. Wine, fruit, and biscuits were always left for him, even on the days when he was ordered to eat with the king in the High Chamber.
Juniper took care to stay hidden. Alert to every sound outside the cell, he made sure he stayed close enough to the bed to jump into it and hide if he thought anyone might come in—Cedar’s rumor that Urchin had lice meant that no animal would go near his bedding. Food and drink were always left in the cell, but Juniper had decided never to eat or drink anything until Urchin came back—he felt it wouldn’t be right to.
“You should have had something to eat,” Urchin would whisper, stretching his chilled paws to the fire on his return from the mines. “At least I’m allowed outside. I don’t know how you can stand the boredom.”
Alone all day, Juniper would remember the animals and places he loved, and hold them in his own heart before the great Heart that made them. He was learning to find quietness inside himself. He was learning to pray.
Every day, Urchin was marched to Beacon Top to watch the search for silver, and he could never have imagined anything so tedious. It should be the time of year for storing nuts, building warm nests, and playing games with fallen leaves, not for standing at the foot of a mountain watching hedgehogs hack it with axes and dusty moles bobbing in and out of tunnels. Sometimes a group of them would mutter together and look accusingly in his direction. So far, they’d found nothing. Urchin tried to look keen and confident, but it wasn’t easy; and when the king hugged him or threw an arm around him, he had to force himself not to cringe. Bronze took every chance to tread on his paw or tweak his fur when the king wasn’t looking, which annoyed Urchin more than it hurt him.
Smokewreath was the worst, shuffling and sniffing with a rattle of bones and claws as he made magic passes at the nervous animals. Sometimes he made a jabbing movement at Urchin, but he didn’t seem quite sure of how to cast magic at the Marked Squirrel. He contented himself with sniffing the air and muttering, “Chill, chill. Winter comes. White wings in the sky.” The king would laugh loudly.
“Isn’t he hilarious!” he said, one chilly morning when Smokewreath was squinting up at the sky. “He can’t wait for the first snowfall. Never mind, Urchin. We won’t let him have you yet.”
Urchin felt a change in the air as they returned to the Fortress one evening. The shivering wind that had been in their faces on the way to the mountains had turned on them again and rushed against them, spitting icy rain into their faces. Smokewreath muttered. The king wrapped himself in his cloak and snarled. Animals scurried past, heads down, hunched against the rain as they trundled barrows and ran for cover. Earth and sky were hard iron-gray, cloaks were damp, and whiskers were drooping long before they reached the Fortress, and Granite pushed Urchin through the doors.
“The freak’s unlucky for us,” snarled Granite. He took off his wet cloak and swirled it so that water sprayed in Urchin’s face. “You’re useless, Freak! You’re worthless!”
Grinning unpleasantly, he looked around to see if he had an audience. Bronze, Trail, and more of the Fortress Watch were there, standing around, waiting to see what would happen. After a long hard day, this could be entertaining.
Urchin steeled himself. He mustn’t react, mustn’t make trouble. It would make life worse and escape harder, and not only for himself.
“Everyone on Mistmantle wonders what happened to the Freak’s mother,” said Granite, looking around. “Never a sign of her. Took one look at that thing and scarpered. He probably takes after his father, whoever that might be.”
Urchin whirled to face him, but Bronze and another guard grabbed his wrists and held him back, laughing. “I’ll teach him his manners, Lord Marshal!” called Bronze.
“He’s mine, runt,” growled Granite. Slowly, flexing his claws, he advanced toward Urchin.
A sudden flash of silver sent Granite reeling sideways so that he fell with a thud against the wall. Bronze bit his lip and looked at the floor, grinning helplessly. The king stood among them, lifting a hind paw to kick Granite hard in the shin.
“I’ll decide what happens to the him, not you, Lord Marshal!” he screamed, and stretched a silvered talon at Urchin. “Where’s the silver, Freak? If I find you’ve sent us searching in the wrong place, I’ll send you back to Mistmantle one paw at a time! Why did you come here? You’re after my crown!” His voice rose to a screech.
“My
crown! You think you’ll sit at the table with me tonight, don’t you? Well, you won’t! Take him to his cell! You needn’t wait for snowfall! I’ll kill you tomorrow! Do you hear? Tomorrow!”
Bronze pushed Urchin into his cell and banged the door shut. He would have loved to stay and taunt the prisoner, but he was due to take guard duty on the battlements. He stamped up the stairs, begrudging every step. Worst posting of the lot, the battlements, nothing between your fur and the winter, and these days he was always being sent to the battlements when he wasn’t trudging off on a fool’s errand to those miserable mines. The sooner they killed the freak, the better. He strode along the battlements, barking out orders to shivering guards, kicking the ones who were falling asleep on their paws from long hours on duty, scowling at the rain. And that spoiled freak had a comfortable cell, with a fire! With any luck it wouldn’t be for long. Commander Cedar had personally arranged the deliveries of firewood when he first came.…
Bronze paused in his marching and leaned his elbows on the battlements.
Commander Cedar was taking a great interest in the Marked Squirrel. Interesting, that. Worth thinking about.
Bronze had always known that there were two kinds of animals on Whitewings. There were the ones who just got on with the work, kept their heads down, and stayed out of trouble; and there were animals like himself. Animals with ambition, determined to be in power, and ready to destroy whoever got in the way. Commander Cedar was in a powerful position already, but did she want more?
You never could tell what she was up to, thought Bronze. Snobby madam, kept herself to herself, too good to speak to the rest of us except to give orders, but she was up to something now. Taking so much trouble over the freak, you might almost think she was helping him.
You might almost think she was helping him.
So that was it. The two of them were in it together, Cedar and the freak. Maybe she wanted to overthrow the king and make herself queen, and she’d promised to save him if he’d help her, something of that sort.
There was a grim smile on Bronze’s face. He’d tell the king, but not just yet. The king wouldn’t believe anything against Cedar without evidence. He’d wait and watch her, catch her out. If he didn’t succeed in bringing down the Lord Marshal, he wouldn’t mind being a commander. It would only be a matter of time, and not much time at that.
Urchin felt he’d barely fallen asleep when, long before dawn, he was woken again for the cold, weary trudge to Beacon Top. He wished he’d told the king to search somewhere nearer. Frost made the bare earth harder and crueler under the paws, and the march seemed to go on forever. The working animals built shelters and fires, and he was at least able to get warm when Granite was too busy to order him away from them. The rough wind blew dust from the mine workings and cold soot from the furnaces. It was a day Urchin felt would last forever, a day of cold, damp, and boredom. The animals with their barrows and pickaxes shivered, their shoulders hunched, misery on their faces. Long before they reached the Fortress that night, his bones were chilled to the core, his hind paws throbbed, and every step on the frozen ground hurt his paws as the Fortress loomed before them.
He was falling asleep on his paws, then suddenly jolted awake. He seemed to be swaying, then there was a terrible moment when everything was moving, and he wasn’t sure if it was he himself losing his balance, or the ground was moving beneath him—nothing was still—and he found he was looking for a tree to climb up, a branch to spring to, but there was nothing in this desolate place.
Somebody grabbed him, dragged him aside, and ran to safety. All around him animals were running, shouting, looking over their shoulders, and the ground was shaking and rumbling. There was nowhere to climb, nowhere was safe…. Granite was shouting orders.
“All of you, crawl!” he bellowed. “Two groups, spread out, spread your weight!”
Facing downward on the icy ground, Urchin crawled. From the corners of his eyes he saw animals around him creeping like insects across the gray, dusty surface. Shivering, he wondered exactly what had happened and how long this would go on, when Granite’s voice barked out again.
