Urchin and the Raven War (2 page)

Urchin of the Riding Stars would tumble through the window to visit between having advanced fencing lessons himself, teaching the new pages, and keeping an eye on the young animals in Anemone Wood. Crackle, the squirrel pastry cook, sweetened rice puddings with red berry jam the way Fir liked them, and learned to cook seaweed because apparently he liked that, too. (Seaweed was becoming very popular.) Sepia of the Songs called between looking after the king and queen’s children and teaching and practicing her music. In the workrooms where the Threadings were made—the woven, stitched, and painted pictures showing the story of the island—Thripple and Needle and the small hedgehogs said little as they worked. Hope, the shortsighted hedgehog, seemed to have given himself the job of fetching and carrying, fire lighting, and washing up for the priests. On a spring morning he stirred the bilberry cordial and put it into Brother Juniper’s paws.

“It’s just the way Brother Fir likes it,” whispered Hope with a glance at the bed.

Brother Fir gave a weak, lopsided smile without opening his eyes. “Don’t look so worried,” he wheezed. “I’m not dead yet.” He took the cup in his good paw when Juniper had helped him to sit up.

“That’s a very good cordial,” Brother Fir remarked. “He will come, you know.”

“I know he will, Brother Fir,” said Juniper, who had no idea what Fir was talking about. Brother Fir had been murmuring on for days about somebody who would come, and Juniper had given up asking who he meant. He never got an answer.

“It’s a beautiful day,” remarked Fir, looking down at the shore. “Are they having a race down there?” He chuckled, then leaned forward with great interest. “Juniper! Look up! What do you suppose
those
are?”

There were always animals on the shore beside the long wooden jetty, especially young animals. On this particular morning, when the turning tide carried drifting seaweed to the sands, Fingal was swimming in and out of the wharves on one side of the jetty with Padra’s son, Tide, racing him on the other. Swishing her tail in the water, Tide’s sister, Swanfeather, opened her mouth to shout for Tide, then thought she might support her uncle Fingal instead, then couldn’t decide and shouted herself hoarse for both of them. Princess Catkin and her brother, Prince Oakleaf, leaned from either side of the jetty to watch, and the race looked so close that all the otters in the water had stopped fishing and swimming to see who won. Catkin, her tail curled high over her back, sprang up as Tide won by a nose and a whisker. (Swanfeather thought Fingal had lost on purpose.)

“I declare Tide the winner!” cried Catkin.

Glossily wet, dripping, and laughing, Fingal bobbed up. “Oh, are you declaring again?” he said. “You do a lot of declaring, Catkin.” He winked at Prince Oakleaf, then disappeared underwater again and presently emerged on the dry sand, where he rolled and shook himself dry. Princess Catkin was telling Swanfeather something very important, and hadn’t noticed what he was doing.

“Fingal, now I’m soaked!” she cried.

“It must be raining!” said Fingal. He looked innocently up at the sky and suddenly stopped being flippant. “Swans!” he said. “Four—five of them!”

Five swans drifted down from the sky and skimmed onto the sea so smoothly that a graceful track flared through the water behind each one. But they looked weary and ragged. Swans usually held their necks tall and their heads high, but these drooped over the waves. Their badly ruffled feathers were smudged with mud, blood, and weed. Their eyes were hollow with strain and tiredness. Their leader—bigger than the rest and still struggling to hold his head and wings high—swam to the shallows and stepped on great webbed feet to the shore. Fingal, as a member of the Circle, went to greet him. The swan lowered his beak just a little.

“I am Lord Arcneck of Swan Isle,” he announced, and there was pride in the tired voice. He glanced at the gleam of silver from the bracelet on Fingal’s wrist. “My greetings to King Crispin of Mistmantle. You wear silver. Are you a lordling of this island?”

“Not exactly,” said Fingal. “But can I help you? You look as if you’ve had a rough journey.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Tide, will you find…”

“Thank you, Fingal,” said Catkin’s clear, commanding voice behind him. “I’ll do this.”

Fingal wanted very much to say, “Certainly, Your Princess-ship,” but he bit his tongue, fought against a smile, and moved aside for her. Young Princess Catkin had flame-red fur like her mother’s, a heart-shaped face, long ear tufts, and immense determination. The swan lord stretched out his neck and lowered his hard, bright beak as he looked down at her.

“What is this?” he croaked. “A youngling?”

“I am Princess Catkin,” she said before Fingal could introduce her. “The firstborn child of King Crispin and Queen Cedar, and the Heir of Mistmantle. Anything you have to say, my lord, you may say to me.”

Fingal winced silently. Lord Arcneck regarded Catkin with cold, sharp eyes, as if wondering whether she were worth speaking to.

“Then kindly take me to your father,” he said. “King Crispin and I have been allies from long ago.”

“Oh, of course!” said Catkin. “You’re from
that
island. You’d better come with me.”

“Er… Catkin”—began Prince Oakleaf—“do you think …” but Catkin was already marching to the tower with a weary procession of swans waddling behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she realized she was leaving them behind, and had to wait.

“Don’t worry, Oakleaf,” said Fingal quietly. “I’ll go with them. You and Swanfeather nip into the kitchens. Find out what swans like and whether we’ve got any. Good lad.”

It could have been worse, he thought as he loped up the sand.
That
island. At least she hadn’t said, “Oh, you’re
that
swan.”

“Excuse me, my lord,” he said as he reached Lord Arcneck’s side, “the tower steps may be awkward for swans to climb, but you’re welcome to fly up if you have room to spread your wings. I’ll send someone to get you some springwater; it’s very good.” He waved at a young squirrel page near a window. “The king needs to know that there are visitors from Swan Isle on the way. We’ll need springwater brought to the Gathering Chamber.”

“The Throne Room,” called Catkin over her shoulder.

“Are you sure that’s the best place, Catkin?” he asked. The Throne Room might be the likeliest place to find the king at that time in the morning, but it would be a tight squeeze for five swans.

“Of course it’s the best place,” said Catkin, and Fingal didn’t argue. It would be unkind to show her up in front of visitors, and anyway, she wouldn’t listen.

“Springwater to the Throne Room, please,” he said. “Lots of it.”

The Throne Room windows looked down on trees just beginning to show shy green buds, and conifers frilled at the tips with new growth. The fire had been newly lit, and small flames flickered around the logs. Opposite the throne hung a Threading of the famous Captain Lugg the mole wearing his captain’s gold circlet and a blue cloak, with a spray of oak leaves at the neck. Woven into the background were a clump of borage flowers and meadowsweet, a golden yellow lapwing, and a spray of black broom, and one paw was edged in gold.

Nobody was seated on the tall, carved thrones. Queen Cedar knelt on the floor as Princess Almondflower took wobbly steps toward her, fell over, and giggled. King Crispin and his oldest friend, Captain Padra, sat in the window seat, cups of wine in their paws, looking down on the island. There were three captains just now—Padra; his wife, Arran; and Docken the hedgehog.

“Docken’s a good captain,” Crispin was saying, “but try telling him that.”

“He’s been a captain for a long time now,” said Padra, “but he still seems to think it’s just a temporary arrangement. He doesn’t believe that he’s suitable. Fair enough, he doesn’t have the dash and sparkle that animals like in a captain, but he doesn’t need it. The ordinary animals find him easy to approach.”

“Dash and sparkle?” The queen laughed.

“Mine’s worn off,” said Padra.

“Not a bit of it,” said the queen, rolling a ball to Almondflower. “Doesn’t Docken want to be a captain anymore?”

“The way Docken sees it, he doesn’t mind being a captain until we have someone better,” said Crispin. “But I don’t want him to resign. We could have a fourth captain, but the best of the moles won’t do it because they still don’t feel they could follow Lugg. There’s the squirrel brothers, Russet and Heath, but they’ve said that neither of them would accept it because of the other. And the rest are too young, except possibly Fingal.”

“Let him have fun for a bit longer,” said Padra. “And the same goes for Urchin. It’s really Urchin we’re talking about, isn’t it? We both want him to be a captain one day, but it isn’t his time yet, and I don’t want—”

A knock at the door interrupted him. When Crispin called, “Enter,” a guard mole marched in.

“A message from Fingal to tell you Princess Catkin’s on her way, Your Majesty,” he said, “with a party of swans seeking an audience.”

“Swans!”
said the queen, and picked up Almondflower as if afraid they would eat her. “In here?”

Padra and Crispin looked at each other, then around the Throne Room for any furniture that could be moved. They jumped up, pushed a table against the wall, and slid a few toys under Cedar’s throne.

“How many swans is a party?” called Padra.

“And why in here?” wondered Crispin. “Quill, take the extra chairs outside, we won’t need those—that’s better—Lord Arcneck! Welcome!”

The swans were undignified on land. Lord Arcneck managed better than most, but he had to press his wings tightly against his back as he padded on large webbed feet into the Throne Room. Pressing himself into a corner to make more room, Padra saw the cold displeasure in the swan lord’s eyes.

“Lord Arcneck,” said Crispin, “you and your companions are most welcome to Mistmantle. I fear this chamber is not a suitable place to receive you all.” He couldn’t see very well past Lord Arcneck, but more swans were squeezing into the chamber. It would have been unsuitable for a king to stand up on his clawtips or hop on to the throne to see over their heads, but he could just see Catkin following like a small swan herder.

“Catkin!” he called. “I think the Gathering Chamber would be better. Will you take our visitors there, please, and have all the windows opened? Swans are creatures of air and water. Quill, send for Urchin to come to the Gathering Chamber.”

Lord Arcneck inclined his head. The other swans shuffled back into the corridor to let him pass.

“Creatures of air and water, and proud as moles on mountains,” whispered Crispin when they had gone. “They’ve just had their dignity ruffled. Not a good start.”

“Shouldn’t we have met them on the beach?” said Padra. “Much more their sort of place, and it would have saved them tramping up here.”

“Yes, we should,” said Crispin. “But now they’re indoors, the Gathering Chamber is the next best thing. I don’t know why Catkin dragged them up here.” He adjusted his crown and followed them, redirecting the hedgehogs who were struggling along the corridors with slopping bowls of springwater.

The Gathering Chamber was high, wide, and airy. Light poured in through the long windows, which tower attendants were opening. Threadings and candleholders were mounted on the walls, but the furniture had been cleared away, and only the thrones on the dais remained. In this room, there was room for the swans to lift their wings, stretch, and drink, long and thirstily, from the bowls set before them. With two wing beats Lord Arcneck had alighted on the windowsill and turned to face the dais, but even there he seemed to dominate the chamber, and the squirrels and moles in attendance shrank back from the power of those wings. At a nod from Crispin, the thrones were turned about so that he and Cedar could take their places facing their visitors.

“Lord Arcneck,” said Crispin, “and all of you, you are welcome to Mistmantle. Will you tell me your cause?”

Lord Arcneck began a speech about how great a king Crispin was, and how much they had done to help each other in the past—it would clearly take him a long time to get to the point. As he was speaking, a young squirrel slipped into the chamber. His fur was unusually pale except at his ears and tail tip, he carried a sword at his hip, and on his left wrist was an old squirrel hair bracelet. For less than a second, King Crispin glanced into the mirror. He saw the young squirrel, caught his eye, and smiled.