Urchin and the Heartstone

by M. I. McAllister

  He nodded. Now that he was no longer so numb, he might manage to speak soon, but he was still bewildered that all this warmth and gentleness could exist so close to that terrible dungeon, or whatever it was. Larch turned to speak to the priest.

  “Pity we had to come past Smokewreath’s lair, but there wasn’t time to waste,” she said. “Where’s Cedar?” She turned back to Juniper. “Were you with the Marked Squirrel?”

  “M…m…marked…” stammered Juniper.

  “Urchin,” she said urgently. “Were you with Urchin?”

  He wasn’t sure how far he could trust these animals, but he had to. “He shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled through chilled lips.

  “I know,” said Larch. “We’ll do what we can for him, and we’ll take care of you, too.”

  A squirrel with flame-red fur appeared in the doorway.

  “Here’s Cedar,” said Larch.

  Urchin had been trying out various defiant speeches in his head, but the effort to recover his balance made him forget them, and the sight of the chamber made him forget everything else. Beneath his paws the floor gleamed so brightly that he couldn’t understand why it wasn’t slippery, and his astonished reflection gazed back up at him. On three sides there were windows with mirrors between them, and everything was decorated with silver: coils and twists of silver, silver engraved with patterns, silver shining from goblets and trays. The attendant squirrels and hedgehogs wore silver helmets and polished swords. And on the dais, proud and straight-backed on the high silver throne, was King Silverbirch.

  He was a tall, lean hedgehog, and his face was stern under the silver crown of birch leaves. On the arms of the throne his claws were long and sharp as talons, and painted silver. A high-collared cloak of silver cloth was fastened at his throat with a twisted clasp. His gaze was piercing, and his voice, when he spoke to Urchin, was like a note on a tight string.

  “Closer,” he ordered.

  Urchin stepped forward, the chains on his wrists clanking as his guards moved with him. He would try to behave as if Padra were watching, but a flash of sunlight from a mirror so dazzled him that he had to shade his eyes with a paw.

  The king’s face brightened with a wild delight that was terrifying. Then he gave a peal of laughter.

  “I dazzle him!” he laughed, and leaped from the dais with his paws outstretched. “Welcome, Marked Squirrel from Mistmantle! Lord Marshal, why did you chain him? What sort of welcome is this?” He laughed wildly and took Urchin’s paws in his. “Take these chains off! Has he eaten? Has he had anything to drink?” He waved a young squirrel toward him. “Let him drink from my own cup! Bring him bread, bring him almonds, bring him berries and apples! Make his chamber ready!”

  Urchin was too amazed to speak, but there was no need to. The king stepped back, holding him by the shoulders at arm’s length and looking him up and down as attendants hurried about with keys and, to his enormous relief, released his chains.

  “A Marked Squirrel!” he cried in delight, and turned Urchin around as if he wanted to show him off. “Well! Just look at him, all of you! Look at that color! Welcome, Urchin of Mistmantle!”

  Urchin had expected rage or hatred, but this welcome didn’t reassure him. The king’s wild excitement was disturbing.

  “Granite, what have you done?” demanded the king, and Urchin saw the smirk on Bronze’s face. “He’s our honored guest! Dearest Urchin, I am so sorry! Bring him a chair! Not that one! Bring him cushions!”

  Urchin rubbed at his wrists. The king was either mad or playing games, or perhaps he himself had gone mad, and none of this was really happening. A basket chair filled with cushions was brought for him, and the king put a cup into his paws. Thirsty as he was, he was uneasy about eating or drinking anything they gave him—he’d already been drugged once—but he didn’t have much choice. He sipped cautiously at the wine, found it very strong, and tried not to pull a face.

  “Did you have a good journey?” asked the king anxiously, and seated himself on the throne again. “You must be tired.”

  As if Padra were watching, thought Urchin. “Your Majesty,” he said. “Your envoys told King Crispin that animals from Mistmantle were terrorizing this island, and that you needed his support. In particular, you asked for me. I was brought here against my will and marched across Whitewings in chains. If there is any service you need from me, tell me what it is, and if I can do it without harm to Mistmantle or to innocent animals, I will. Then send me back.”

  The king stared as if astounded, then gave such a shriek of laughter that Urchin winced.

  “Oh, I know,” he said. “Yes, lots of your old friends from Mistmantle are here, but most of them are terribly, terribly helpful to us. I don’t know what we’d do without them. There’s our excellent Lord Marshal, to begin with. And some of them have come to so much use to dear Smokewreath.” He frowned and wriggled his paws. “He should be here to meet you, but they gave him a little kill today, a hedgehog, and he can’t be torn away from it. The thing is, dear Urchin, you’re so precious to us, we had to get you here, whatever the cost. All they told you about rescuing us from naughty Mistmantle animals, it was terribly good, wasn’t it? Lord Treeth had to tell you that. It isn’t true, but we thought Crispin would fall for it. Those two animals who brought you here, they’ve done so well, I’m promoting them to the Inner Watch! Isn’t that wonderful!”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty!” said Trail and Bronze.

  The idea that he was being paraded as a trophy was too much for Urchin. “You mean,” he exclaimed, “your ambassadors lied to King Crispin to get me here, whether I wanted to come or not? What is it that you really want me for?”

  The silver cloak billowed. The king swept down on Urchin, seized his throat, and forced his head back. For a terrifying moment Urchin felt the strong, sharp talons, looked up into the wild eyes, and heard the snarl deep in the king’s throat. Then the king laughed again.

  “Poor little thing!” he said, and let go so suddenly that Urchin swayed. “You don’t understand. You will.” He turned to Granite.

  “He understands more than you think, O Splendor of Silver,” said Granite. “He’s not as stupid as he looks.”

  “Explain to him, Lord Marshal Granite,” said the king.

  “It’ll be a pleasure,” said Granite. He stamped forward, carrying his damaged paw badly. The long march must have put a strain on it. “Listen, Freak.”

  “Freak!” exclaimed the king with delight, but Granite went on.

  “His Majesty, King Silverbirch, is the Shining Majesty of the Splendor of Silver,” growled Granite. “He’s not one of the petty lordlings you’re used to on Mistmantle. This is a real king, and if you had any manners you’d bow.”

  At the thought of bowing to this king, Urchin squirmed inside, but he knew it might be dangerous not to. Slightly and stiffly, hating himself, he bowed.

  “He’s a splendid king, the kind of king Captain Husk would have been,” said Granite. “And a great king gets whatever he wants. So if he knows that a Marked Squirrel is to be the island’s deliverer, and he thinks the island needs delivering, and there’s a Marked Squirrel on Mistmantle, then we get it for him, right? Your Majesty, shall I put the freak in its cell for you?”

  “I should show him off,” said the king thoughtfully. “The question is, how to make the best use of him to get what we want? I shall take advice about it. I should like to know what the dear Commander thinks; she knows such a lot about so many things. Yes, take him to his room.”

  “Delighted to, Your Majesty,” grunted Granite. Trail, Bronze, Granite, and two hedgehogs marched forward and escorted Urchin back through the hall of mirrors, up a winding stair.

  “You’ll have all you need,” said Trail. “Don’t try to escape. There are archers everywhere.”

  “Enjoy your home comforts,” said Granite. “I’ll give it three days. Four, if your luck holds.”

  Urchin was pushed into the turret and heard the clang of bolts and locks b
ehind him, then a shuffle of paws. At least two guards would be at the door.

  He took a good look at the room, closed his eyes, and opened them again in case he was dreaming. With its deep soft rug, draped curtains, a table set generously with food and drink, and plump, colorful cushions, his prison cell was furnished more luxuriously than the king’s chambers at Mistmantle.

  They still hadn’t told him what he was supposed to do, but he didn’t want to wait to find out. There had to be a way out. Deep-blue curtains, tasseled and brocaded, hung at the only window, but when Urchin examined it he found it locked fast and protected with iron bars set into the stone. A bed had been made up with blankets, and he dived underneath it to scratch at the floor. It was made up of small wooden floorboards. He might be able to lift one and escape, if he could first find out what was underneath—dropping into a guard room wouldn’t help. There was a fireplace, too, but no fire laid in it, so with the energy of hope, he jumped into the grate and darted up the chimney.

  It soon became a tight squeeze, then even tighter, and though Urchin drew in his shoulders and made himself as small as he could, the chimney was too narrow for him. Furious with frustration, he wriggled down again, brushed soot roughly from his fur, and threw himself into inspecting every inch of the cell. He searched the fireplace, looked under the rug, ran up the walls, and scrabbled with his claws at the ceiling, and finally dropped back to the ground and kicked the cushions. He was far from home, trapped, and furious at the injustice of it.

  “I’ll get out,” he said out loud. “Heart help me. I promise you, King Crispin. I promise you, Captain Padra.” He kicked the cushions again, and looked enviously down from the windows at the squirrels outside enjoying their freedom.

  But were they free? Like the animals he had seen on the march, they were outside but they didn’t look free at all. They had a timid, scared air about them, hardly ever stopping to talk to each other, glancing anxiously over their hunched shoulders. At this time of year they should have been harvesting food, but wood and stone were heaped in the barrows they wheeled about, and he understood now about the gray film over everything. It was a layer of dust from the mines. As night darkened, he said a prayer for his friends on Mistmantle, settled down among the cushions, and didn’t even try to sleep.

  He did sleep, though, lightly and at last woke in the dark. Someone was in his room. He felt their presence. He heard them breathing. Beneath his fur, a shiver crept through his skin.

  There was a sour, fusty smell, like singed fur and vinegar. It drew closer.

  Urchin stayed still, his eyes shut, listening. It would be safer not to provoke them. Stay still. They’ll go sooner that way.

  Somebody whispered, and he recognized King Silverbirch’s voice.

  “Isn’t he a little treasure? And we’ve got him safe and sound. We need to make the most of him.”

  The squirrel voice that replied was slow and so hoarse that it rasped like a sword on stone. Urchin’s fur bristled and his claws curled.

  “If he’s that squirrel,” it whispered, “we should kill him at once.”

  “Now, now, Smokewreath,” said the king, “you can’t have him yet. I’ve only just got him. If he’s the deliverer, we’ve got to give him time to deliver us.”

  “This island needs no deliverance that he can bring,” rasped Smokewreath, “except by his death. I can make such magic from his death.”

  “He can deliver us from poverty first,” argued the king. “I know, I know, we’re not poor. But I want so much silver that we never will be, and I’m sure he has the gift of finding it. That’s the deliverance he will bring. He’s going to find wonderful silver for us and make us rich and powerful.”

  There was a throaty growl from Smokewreath. “My magic has found silver for you,” he muttered. “And it can do more. All you want, Your Majesty. I can give you the thing you want most in the world, but I must have the body of the Marked Squirrel.”

  “Yes, I know,” said the king, and to Urchin he sounded greedy. “I can have my heart’s desire. But I want to make the most I can of him first.”

  “Have you considered,” asked Smokewreath, “that he may be here to deliver the island from you?”

  There was a shrill giggle from the king, quickly muffled. “Oh, silly Smokewreath! Why would the island need delivering from me? I’m the one who started the silver mining. Everyone loves me.”

  “And the other prophecy?” said Smokewreath.

  “Oh, that” said the king petulantly. “You mean the one…”

  “He will bring down a great ruler,” said Smokewreath. “Just look at him. Look at that color. It may well be him.”

  “And it probably isn’t,” said the king. “There are islands everywhere. Some of them may be full of Marked Squirrels, so why should this one be that Marked Squirrel? I think that one probably died. Anyway, if it is him, he’s already brought down a great ruler, because he brought down Lord Husk. So I’m safe. Wouldn’t it be funny if he brought King Crispin down, too, without even meaning to!”

  Urchin bit his lip hard and imagined wringing King Silverbirch’s neck. The king giggled again.

  “You can have him, Smokewreath, but only when I’ve finished with him,” he said.

  “Oh, what I could do with the body of a Marked Squirrel!” whispered Smokewreath. “The power of sorcery! Those ears, that tail! That fur! And…” He drew out the words in a hungry whisper. “…what I could do with his heart! Let me have him for death.”

  “Not yet,” said the king irritably. “Yes, yes, you can have him, but not yet.”

  “When, then?”

  “Next summer.”

  “Too long,” hissed Smokewreath.

  “Spring, then,” said the king.

  “Next moon,” said Smokewreath.

  “Oh, snowfall, then,” said the king firmly. “You can have him at the first snowfall. Isn’t that a good time for killing? All right, if he’s no good at finding silver you can have him before that. But I promise, you can have him at snowfall if not before. Isn’t he sweet when he’s asleep?”

  With a stale whiff of burning and vinegar, they slipped away. Furious at being bargained over, Urchin sat up. The king was deranged. So, probably, was Smokewreath. He couldn’t go back to sleep, so yet again he examined his cell for a way out.

  By morning, rain was drizzling steadily. Urchin was still trying to scrape the window bars free—impossible, he knew, but it passed the time—when Trail, Bronze, and the guards arrived to march him down to the High Chamber. Trail and Bronze were surly this morning, with Trail insisting haughtily that she was in charge and Bronze refusing to cooperate. Two hedgehogs carried a basket of logs into Urchin’s cell, muttered something nervously about it being somebody or other’s orders, and glanced over their shoulders as a female squirrel in a helmet walked briskly along the gallery. She had a very upright way of walking with her head held high, and her tone was crisp and commanding.

  “Prisoner to the king,” she ordered, and turned on Trail and Bronze. “Don’t you dare keep the king waiting! Get him moving!”

  In the High Chamber, Granite stood behind the throne, and though he wore his grim helmet, Urchin could sense the grin on his face. The squirrel in the helmet had followed them, and took her place beside the dais. Leaning back in the throne, King Silverbirch flexed his gleaming claws.

  “Dear Smokewreath’s ever so busy dismembering something,” he drawled. “Now, Freak, tell me all about yourself. Who are you, exactly? No, I know you’re Urchin of Mistmantle, but who are you really? Who are your parents? You don’t really come from Mistmantle, do you?”

  “He was found, Your Majesty,” said Bronze. “They said—”

  “Shut up, soldier,” growled Granite, and Trail smirked with pleasure. “Yes, Your Majesty, I can vouch for that. Found.”

  “Found?” asked the king, leaning forward with interest.

  “I was found in the water when I was newborn,” said Urchin. He didn’t want to be helpful,
but he could safely tell them this much. “Nobody knows anything about me.”

  “So you’re not from Mistmantle?” purred the king.

  “With respect, sir,” said the squirrel in the helmet, “we’re wasting time. It doesn’t matter where he comes from, so long as he can find silver for you. And he can.”

  “Oh, thank you, Commander!” said the king, flourishing a paw at her. “That’s what I need to know. So you do have a gift for finding silver, Freak?”

  Urchin didn’t like to say so. He had no idea about finding silver, but it might be safest to pretend he could.

  “I might have, Your Majesty,” he said.

  “He has, Your Majesty,” said the squirrel commander.

  “How do you do it?” asked the king. He laced his clawtips and leaned forward with glittering brightness in his eyes. “Do tell me. What do you need? Anything magical? Wires, powders? We can kill something for you, if you like.”

  He was saved from having to answer by the commander. She seemed to know a lot more about the subject than he did.

  “It’s best just do it by instinct, Your Majesty,” she said. “They don’t really know how. But he’ll need to get outside and see the island, so he can get his bearings.” Urchin’s ears twitched hopefully.

  “Is that right?” asked the king.

  “Oh, yes, Your Majesty,” said Urchin earnestly.

  “There’s foul weather coming,” observed Granite. “Still, it won’t matter if the freak gets wet.”

  “It most certainly does matter!” insisted the king. Bronze grinned, and Granite glared at him. “We’ll arrange a tour for you. In the meantime, Bronze will take you back to your chamber.”

  He was marched back to his room and pushed in by Bronze. The door clanked shut. He was about to have another go at the window bars when something moved.

  He whisked around. The logs in the basket were moving. Urchin sprang back, reached for a sword, remembered again that he didn’t have one, and retreated as far as possible from the basket, watching.