The Urchin of the Riding Stars

by M. I. McAllister

  He turned in the water, reluctant to go back to his own rooms. Without Urchin, they would feel as empty as hunger.

  Tay coughed loudly and strode into the Old Palace. A column of moles tore in, swords raised, and stopped.

  “It’s empty,” said one.

  Another kicked the hearth. “Someone was here,” he said.

  “There’s water in them jars,” said another. “But that just proves somebody’s been here. Might be Captain Padra. So what if he was?”

  Tay dropped to all fours. She inspected the floor, the ceiling, the corners. She sniffed, scraped, and peered. The moles seemed more interested in standing back to gaze at the twisted roots all round them.

  “Babies,” muttered Tay. “They were here. I smell babies. You’re all dismissed. And nobody is to mention this place, at all, ever. You are all pledged to secrecy, on pain of punishment.”

  The moles trudged away, grumbling. Tay sat down with her head on her paws. For years, she had dreamed of finding the Old Palace. Was this all there was? A big, empty room with nothing to it but a few old tree roots? And she had shared it with a lot of gawping, idiot moles.

  Padra had certainly been rescuing young animals, she was sure of that. Somehow they must have been warned of her coming, and escaped. But there must be evidence. Sniffing, running back and forth, she searched.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  S CRISPIN CLASPED URCHIN BY THE SHOULDERS and stood back to look at him, Urchin struggled to identify exactly what had changed in Crispin. He no longer wore his circlet, and his coat was not so well brushed as it had been. But that wasn’t all. Something of the brightness had left his face. He had lost the sharp-eyed look and the ready-for-anything air that went with being a captain. Urchin hadn’t really noticed it before, but he noticed now that it had gone. He hoped he didn’t look disappointed. After the first joy of seeing him, Crispin frowned.

  “Why are you here?” Crispin demanded. “They haven’t sent you away, too, have they? What’s happening?”

  “I came for you, sir,” said Urchin. “And because I had to, but…” Then he realized how much had happened since Crispin left Mistmantle, and how long it would take to tell. “There’s a lot to explain,” he said. “And I’ve brought your breakfast, sir.”

  He unpacked walnut bread and honey cakes and explained all that had happened on Mistmantle. When Crispin first tasted the bread, his eyes closed. He became so silent that Urchin thought he’d gone into some kind of trance, but then he opened his eyes, sighed deeply, and said, “I’d forgotten how good this bread was. It tastes of home. I wonder where Whisper went? Go on, Urchin, I’m still listening.”

  Urchin went on, and they were interrupted only once when a bright-eyed female squirrel arrived and Crispin sprang up, held out a paw for her to join them, and offered her walnut bread. Urchin noticed firstly that she was very pretty and wore Crispin’s circlet, and secondly that Crispin looked more like his old self when she was there.

  “This is Whisper,” he announced, drawing her forward. “Without Whisper, I would have forgotten who I am. Whisper, this is Urchin.”

  “The one Crispin found in the sea?” said Whisper. She had a soft voice and a warm smile. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “Come and have breakfast, Whisper—find out what real food tastes like,” said Crispin. “Urchin, I would have drowned in a frozen mere if not for Whisper.”

  Whisper shrugged. “It was Lord Arcneck who fished him out,” she said. “Crispin had just rescued Lady Arcneck from drowning when she was being dragged under by the weeds.”

  “And Whisper revived me and took care of me when I was more dead than alive,” insisted Crispin. “But go on with your story, Urchin.”

  Urchin finished his story. “Padra’s planning a move against Husk at the Spring Festival,” he said. “But we want your help. I didn’t search for you just to escape, sir—we need to find a way to get you back. I know it’s impossible. But we have to make it possible.”

  Crispin looked out to sea. “If I’d been a better captain, this might not have happened,” he said. “I should have seen what Husk was doing and stopped it. I thought I’d learned to live without Mistmantle. Mistmantle!”

  He gazed as if he thought he could see the island if he looked hard and long enough. “I was becoming used to living in exile,” he said. “But seeing you, hearing about it, tasting the food—I’d even drink Apple’s appalling cordial if I could go home. Oh, I beg your pardon, Urchin, I forgot she was your foster mother.”

  “That’s all right,” said Urchin. “I never drank it if I could help it. I used to pour it down mole tunnels when she wasn’t looking. The moles didn’t like it either, sir.”

  Whisper laughed, and Crispin tilted his head to look at her. “Would you come with me to Mistmantle?” he asked.

  “Of course I would!” she said as if it were a silly question.

  “There may be tunnels,” said Crispin, “but not necessarily big enough for squirrels, and they’d be far below the seabed. I don’t know the networks, or how you breathe down there. And it would take too long. I wish there were a priest here. If we all prayed, the Heart might find us a way through the mists.”

  “I’ll pray, sir,” said Urchin eagerly.

  “We all will,” smiled Crispin. “And while we’re at it, we can just sail at the mists and see how far we get. They might let us through somehow. ‘Those who belong here can leave by water, but they can never return by water.’ Maybe I don’t belong there any longer, so I can get back! It’s worth a try!”

  “But you do belong there, sir!” said Urchin.

  “Well, before we do anything, I should take you to Lord Arcneck,” said Crispin. “He’s the Swan Lord. I’m bound to his service, so if I do leave, I’ll need his permission.”

  “But you’re a captain of Mistmantle, sir!” said Urchin.

  “We’re not on Mistmantle,” said Crispin.

  “I’ll stay with your boat,” said Whisper, and sprang to the prow where she perched like a figurehead. “Some of the wood squirrels would ransack it, given the chance.”

  “Thank you, Wh—” began Urchin; then, remembering how to address a captain’s partner, corrected himself. “Lady Whisper.”

  “Yes,” said Crispin, with a bright smile. “I’d forgotten that! You’re Lady Whisper! Come on, Urchin!”

  Urchin walked at Crispin’s side to the lake, smiling because he could still hear Whisper’s laughter. Probably, he thought, she was laughing at the idea of being “Lady Whisper.” He found he was thinking about his mother, and imagining that she might have been like Whisper. He hoped so.

  Crispin asked several questions about how many animals would rally to Husk, and what was in the armory, and who appointed the guards. Urchin answered to what he did know and admitted what he didn’t, realizing how much he had learned in his few months as a page. From above them came a deep, steady beat, and a draft. Urchin looked up and ducked. He couldn’t help it.

  “Lord Arcneck,” said Crispin. “The Swan Lord. He’s circling the island. The swans have a very high opinion of themselves and their own importance, and as this is their island, they expect—”

  From the beach below them came a shriek.

  Leaping down the hill, swords drawn, Crispin and Urchin reached the shore. Whisper lay absolutely still where she had fallen, one paw thrown out as if she had tried to defend herself, the circlet still on her head. Crispin flung himself down and raised her head as he searched for a pulse and listened for a breath, but there was no life left in her. As Urchin fastened both paws around his sword hilt, he saw a sleek shadow leap from the boat.

  “Crispin!” Urchin yelled, and sprang forward. There was a terrible snarl from Gloss, a flash of Crispin’s sword, a blaze of blood—then there was only darkness and confusion as wide white wings covered them all, knocking Urchin onto his back and hiding Crispin and Gloss from him.

  The wings lifted, and he jumped to his paws again. A swan, huge, white and terrifying, s
tood above him, with the helpless mole in its beak, shaking him like a rag. Finally, the swan dropped Gloss’s body on the sand and nudged it over with his beak.

  Urchin stared. That orange beak looked as long as his own arm from paw to shoulder. The neck was thick and strong as a snake, and the feathers were magnificent. When the proud head turned toward him, he bowed without thinking.

  Crispin, his teeth bared and his fur bloodstained, was looking down at Gloss’s body. Urchin couldn’t tell whether Crispin’s sword thrust had killed the mole before the swan had broken its neck.

  “Sir,” said Urchin nervously, “are you…” He stopped. He couldn’t say, “Are you hurt?” Of course Crispin was hurt. It burned in his eyes, it raged in the shaking of his paws. It was so real and raw that Urchin felt it himself.

  “Are you wounded?” he asked, but Crispin took no notice. The swan turned fierce eyes to him.

  “Tree-rat!” it said. “What tree-rat are you?”

  “I’m Urchin, sir,” he said. “Crispin’s page.”

  “Page? Page? What is a page?”

  “His servant, sir.”

  “Then serve him!” snapped the swan. So Urchin took seawater to wash the blood from Whisper and Crispin. Then he fetched a dry cloak from the boat because he thought Crispin might need one, though he hardly seemed to notice Urchin folding it around his shoulders. And even though Urchin knew Whisper was dead and could feel nothing, he thought she looked cold, so he brought a blanket. There were crumbs of honey cake on her fur, and he bent to brush them away.

  “Don’t,” said Crispin, but he took the blanket and spread it over her.

  The swan tossed Gloss’s body away. “How came this vermin?” it asked.

  Urchin swallowed hard.

  “I’m afraid he must have been in my boat, Lord Swan,” he said miserably. “I didn’t know.” And he wondered how Crispin could ever forgive him for carrying Whisper’s death to the island.

  The swan stretched its neck and raised its wings.

  “You brought this foul murderer?” it rasped.

  Urchin bowed his head and wished that wretchedness were a thing he could die of. If the swan struck him dead, he deserved it. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  Crispin looked up from Whisper’s body. “No, my Lord Arcneck,” he said. “Urchin did not bring the mole. He came to seek my help for his island, and the mole came by stealth, with evil intent. It’s not your fault, Urchin, not at all. Gloss would have been looking for me, and he saw a squirrel with a circlet…” His voice failed, and Urchin waited until he could go on. “Tell him what’s happening at home, Urchin.”

  Urchin told the swan all he had just told Crispin. Crispin wasn’t listening. He knelt on the shore, cradling Whisper’s body in the blanket.

  “Vermin,” said the swan at last. “Crispin, you have served me well. If your island is riddled with vermin, I permit you to return and destroy them.” And with a power that took Urchin’s breath away, it spread its wings and rose into the air.

  Urchin wasn’t sure Crispin had heard Lord Arcneck at all. He knelt as if pain had turned him to stone, and Urchin wondered what to do.

  Whisper ought to have flowers. He could see pink sea-thrift and coarse-stemmed daises nearby, and hopped away to gather some. Crispin had still not moved when he came back.

  “Flowers for her, sir,” Urchin said awkwardly.

  Crispin gave a brief nod, and Urchin knelt shyly to put the flowers in Whisper’s limp paws. Crispin folded her claws around them.

  “Leave us,” he said. “I’ll do everything else.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Urchin, and though he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say, he had to say it. “Sir, I hope my mother was like her.”

  Crispin nodded again. “Go, Urchin,” he said hoarsely, and Urchin hurried away, understanding that Crispin wouldn’t want anyone to see his tears. He found a hollow in a tree root and huddled there alone, rubbing a paw across his eyes when they blurred. Perhaps this was the worst at last. After this, nothing could feel worse.

  When he felt he had left Crispin alone long enough, he pattered back to the shore to find him. Something was moving among the beech trees, and his paw was on his sword hilt before he realized it was Crispin.

  In a clearing, Crispin had built a neat mound of sea-washed stones, gray and green, smooth flint and dull pink. On the top lay the circlet.

  “I had to build her a cairn,” said Crispin, laying a bunch of sea-thrift beside it. “It marks her place. And the circlet—it’s hers and it should be there where it can be seen; but I hate to think of anyone taking it away.”

  “I think you should keep it, sir,” said Urchin. “Look after it for her. And, sir, you should have it with you when you go back to Mistmantle, because it would be like taking her back with you.”

  “No, Urchin, it wouldn’t,” said Crispin.

  “I mean as near as you can get to it, sir,” said Urchin, wishing he hadn’t spoken in the first place. He thought of something all Mistmantle squirrels learned from an early age. Fir and Apple had taught it to him. Even the Heart that made Mistmantle had to break with love for us. That is how it gave us the mists. But it does not stay broken. The Heart still beats, still loves, still holds us. A true heart survives the breaking. But he couldn’t very well say it to Crispin now. He wandered miserably back to the bay, where a swan floated, bobbing a little with the lifting of the waves. Two more flew overhead and settled as gently as petals on the sea, circling each other, proud and graceful as sailing ships. And Urchin, pausing to perch on a rock, gaze at the swans, and admire their size and strength, saw a possible hope.

  There was a way home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HO NEEDED SLEEP? Husk hurried past the chambers where tower squirrels lay curled in their nests and beds. Only fools and infants needed sleep. This would be his day, and he watched impatiently for its coming. It would be dry and fine. A great day. His Spring Festival.

  A dais had been built on the rocks, with awnings behind and above it. Space in front had been cleared for the entertainers, and the tables for the feast would be in a semicircle to face it. On the dais would be a throne for the king, with more modest chairs for himself, Aspen, Granite, and Padra, and a high table. It was a shame to include Padra, but it wouldn’t be for long. The order of speeches was to be Granite, Tay, Padra, then himself—but after Tay’s speech, there would be no Padra.

  Splendor was the thing that mattered. He had gone to great trouble to ensure that the Threadings were rich and gilded; the high table would be hung with deep gold brocade velvet and decorated with flowers; and robes would be worn. Swords, too, just for show; and the throne would be decked with purple velvet. The creatures would have to be impressed by all that grandeur. It would make the king look ridiculous.

  Husk was especially pleased about the king. Ultimately, no interfering priest or goody-goody squirrel had been able to help him, and now the great King Brushen was thoroughly wretched and broken. He could hardly mutter a sentence without tears, or listen to a choir without falling asleep. If he’d been drinking, he could hardly walk in a straight line. Most of the animals hadn’t seen him since the queen’s funeral. They wouldn’t like what they’d see today.

  Husk’s wedding robe was spread across the chest in the bedchamber. It was too early to dress, but he needed to touch it once more, and press its jewels against his cheek. He had a storehouse of jewels now, for trade, for payments, for bribes, and for himself. Jewels would buy anything.

  Sharply, he looked over his shoulder. Was he being watched? Followed? Couldn’t be too careful. Expecting Aspen to be asleep, he slipped silently into the bedchamber, but he found her awake and perched on the edge of the bed, grooming her ear tufts with the little ebony brush.

  “The king has spent a restless night,” she remarked thoughtfully. “He was asking for me. I took him the spring water he likes, with a little tincture in it to calm him.”

  �
��Didn’t he have a sleeping draft last night?” asked Husk.

  “Oh, no!” Her dark eyes widened. “Brother Fir was concerned about the sleeping drafts the king was having. Brother Fir is the priest, after all. So I didn’t give the king anything last night to help him sleep. Unfortunately, it’s left him in a terrible state this morning.” She turned the large brown eyes on him. “He’s a very sad sight.”

  Husk shook his head slowly in admiration. “You think of everything,” he said. “What would I do without you? Should I have a bottle of wine placed before him at the high table? He might like a drink during the entertainments.”

  “And a flask at his hip,” said Aspen. “I’ll keep it filled up. And what about you, my lord? Have you slept?”

  “I don’t need to,” he said, and turned away. Urchin, who had disappeared so suddenly and conveniently, was part of his nightmares now. And still the bloodstained prince scrabbled his way through fusty darkness toward him….

  It was better not to sleep.

  Padra was up early, too, climbing the stairs to Fir’s turret, where Brother Fir knelt in such stillness that Padra was content to close the door quietly and watch him, drinking in his serenity. Presently he moved to kneel beside him and realized that Fir had been aware of him all the time, for he reached out to place a paw on his head in blessing. Padra’s heart reached out to the Heart that beat for Mistmantle, kept it, loved it, enfolded it, and nourished it, and as he did so, the first rays of sun filtered through the window. At last, Fir and Padra rose and looked down from the turret.

  In a bay half hidden by the curve of the shore, a row of little boats had been pulled clear of the tideline. Some had been turned upside down, to drain them or dry them for painting.

  “They’re in the green one,” whispered Padra. “I daren’t go there myself, in case I’m watched, but that’s it. A bit closer to the tower than I’d like, but it’s only temporary, and it means I can get a message to Huggen quickly if I need to.”