Urchin and the Heartstone

by M. I. McAllister

  “Good soil,” murmured the king. “Good earth, with fresh green grass and moss, slugs, and beetles…”

  “Yes, that’s what you need.…” urged Urchin.

  “…fruit and flowers…”

  “Yes!” said Urchin.

  “Mmm,” said the king thoughtfully. But Urchin, looking up at his face, saw a gleam of greed and menace that made him shudder from ears to tail tip.

  “Nice,” said the king softly. He was almost purring. “Yes, I think so. Yes, I have thought of it. Yes, I want an island like that!”

  Urchin didn’t want to guess at what the king meant, but he had a horrible suspicion. I want an island like that…It was a good thing Mistmantle couldn’t be invaded. Then the king flung an arm about him with a force that knocked him paws first into a puddle.

  “Come on!” he cried. “Up the hill! It gets harder after this!”

  Urchin allowed the king to do the talking as they marched and climbed up the long, steep hillside. Long before they reached the top, he had noticed how much fresher and saltier the breeze had become. A gull wheeled overhead, a far-off swishing of waves reached him; there was sand mixed with the earth—it took all his self-control to keep from dashing ahead over the thick, shrubby bushes and bounding down to the sea. Forcing himself to stay at the king’s pace, he trudged to the top of the dunes, and there he stood and gasped, forgetting all about captivity, feeling a leap of joy in his heart.

  He looked down on a small, curving bay of silvery sand. Gulls swooped. Gentle waves washed themselves to nothing on the shore. A wooden jetty extended into the water, small boats were tied up and two tall ships stood at anchor. Beautifully and painfully, it reminded him of Mistmantle. Perhaps this was the way Whitewings used to be, the way it could be again if Queen Larch and Brother Flame were in their rightful places. Curled asleep on the water, their beaks under their wings, were two swans with something gleaming on their necks. Did even the swans here wear silver? This was not only the loveliest sight to meet him since he’d arrived on Whitewings, but the bay offered the best chance of escape so far.

  “Aren’t you simply thrilled?” cried the king. “Isn’t it just delightful? Look at the view! I knew you’d be impressed. We’re so high up, we can see all the way past the Fortress!” He took Urchin by the shoulders and turned him around. “There’s the forest with the Fortress in it,” he was saying. “You can see the battlements from here, do you see? Smokewreath could stand up there and wave at us! You can see it far better in winter, when all the leaves are down—as long as you’re still with us, of course!” He gave a shriek of laughter, which Urchin found intensely irritating. “And you can see all the way across to the mountains,” he went on proudly. “Do you see the three in a row? Eagle Crag, Claw Crag, and Beacon Top. Isn’t it simply stunning?”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Urchin, surveying the view. He took in the flat surface of Beacon Top, Claw Crag rising steeply beside it in the shape of a curled claw, and Eagle Crag towering above them both.

  “Now,” said the king. “Now that you have a good view of the island, you can tell me where we can find more silver. Can you feel it yet? Do you need to do any magic? We can find something to sacrifice, if you like.”

  “No, thank you,” said Urchin, and thought quickly. This bay with its swans and boats looked the best place to escape from, so he had to keep the king and his guards away from it as much as possible. He stretched out a claw confidently toward the mountains, and with a firmness that surprised him said, “It’s in there.”

  “I knew it!” cried the king, and hugged him tightly. “I always thought so, you know. Smokewreath wouldn’t have it, but what does he know? I always knew there was silver there! Whereabouts exactly? Tell me, tell me.”

  Urchin opened his mouth to speak and shut it again, realizing that he could have made a terrible mistake. For all he knew, Larchlings could be hiding in those mountains, or under them.

  Make time, he thought. Don’t tell him anything until I’ve talked to Cedar. He looked about for her, but she was still wearing her helmet, and her expression was impossible to see.

  He rubbed his eyes. “I can’t tell yet,” he said. “I’ll need time.”

  “How much time?” demanded the king.

  “I can’t tell,” repeated Urchin, struggling to think one step ahead. “It could be days, I don’t—”

  “Oh, just have a teeny peek at the mountains today, then,” said the king. “I’m sure it’ll help. We’ll go straight there now. March!”

  All day, the king and his guards marched Urchin from one part of the island to another. The grim, gaunt mountains were much farther away than he had realized, and the king insisted on leading him up and down the foothills, showing him every path and every boulder. Urchin could only hope that as there were so many guards, making such a noise with the clanking of their weapons, that any Larchlings in hiding would hear them far off, and vanish. He tried hard to remember everything he saw, but long before the sun was setting he had decided that one bit of rock was much the same as another. Even the guards were slow and grumbling about their sore paws. Trail was struggling and fell behind, and Bronze, teasing her at every step, made sure everybody noticed.

  Exhausted, with aching paws, Urchin returned to his cell that night and was about to flop onto a cushion when he saw Juniper’s ears sticking up from underneath it.

  “Hello, Juniper!” he whispered, and lifted the cushion. But Juniper didn’t wake up. In that appalling second, Urchin saw that he lay absolutely still. His eyes were closed and his whiskers drooped.

  Urchin seized him by the shoulders. Frightened, he gave him a swift, sharp shake. “Juniper!”

  Juniper felt cold. He didn’t wake.

  “Juniper!” whispered Urchin.

  Juniper snuffled and wriggled, then opened his eyes wide, and shut them again. Urchin sat back, angry with Juniper for the scare and wildly glad to see that he was, after all, only asleep. Juniper muttered something.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Urchin.

  “Firelight and moonlight,” said Juniper. “The secret.”

  “Oh,” said Urchin. Lots of animals talked in their sleep, and none of them ever said anything sensible. Juniper sat up and shook his ears.

  “Firelight, moonlight,” he said firmly. “And a secret.”

  “You’ve been dreaming,” said Urchin. “Listen, I need to tell you what I’ve been doing. And we need Cedar. And I’m starving, is there anything to eat?”

  “Moon—” began Juniper again, but the sound of paws and the rattle of dishes outside meant that the guards were bringing food. Juniper disappeared under the cushions again while they placed covered dishes on the hearth, and a jug and a cup on the table.

  “Thank you,” said Urchin, and waited until the door was locked before whisking the cushions off Juniper and the covers off the dishes. Steaming vegetables and bowls of nuts and warm bread wafted an aroma that sharpened Urchin’s hunger.

  “You must be in favor again,” said Juniper.

  After that they were too busy eating to talk about anything, but the food was finished all too quickly, and they were licking crumbs from their paws when they heard Cedar’s voice outside.

  “Freak’s lousy again,” she said. “They must have lice as big as earwigs in that place. And his paws are too soft for all this walking.” Presently she was admitted to the cell, where she offered cough medicine to Juniper and rubbed lice lotion into Urchin’s fur. “So you smell right,” she said.

  “Juniper keeps talking about moonlight and a secret,” said Urchin.

  “I don’t know what it’s about,” said Juniper with a twitch of his ears. “It was just there, when I woke up, something about moonlight, firelight, and a secret, in my head. It was really strong, and I know it’s important but I don’t understand what it means. And when I was ill, I sort of saw something, remembered something, and that felt important, too.”

  “What did you sort of see?” asked Cedar. Juniper’s ears tw
itched again.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Something to do with when I was very small.”

  “If it happens again, tell me,” she said. “It may be that you have extra sensitivity—you’re aware of things that the rest of us don’t notice. Some animals are just born that way.”

  “Like feeling sick when I saw the Whitewings ship?” asked Juniper.

  “Exactly like that,” said Cedar, and turned to Urchin. “Urchin, you did well today. If the king wants silver from the mountains, he can mine at Beacon Top all he likes. He’ll be out of our way there.”

  “I wanted to keep him away from the bay,” said Urchin, and his face brightened when he thought of it. “You should see it, Juniper! There’s a ship! And swans!”

  “Swans!” said Juniper, with shining eyes. “Do you think we could fly home?” But Cedar’s face was sad and kind, and Urchin’s heart sank.

  “Didn’t you see, Urchin?” she said gently. “I suppose, if the swans were asleep, you couldn’t tell.”

  “Couldn’t tell what?” he said, and tried not to resent her for spoiling his hope.

  “The collars,” she said. “All the swans have silver chains around their necks, and they’re tethered to the jetty. They can’t fly away.”

  Urchin took a deep breath as if it could arm him against his disappointment. “Then they need to be set free,” he said.

  In his dark cellar, Smokewreath chewed at his claws. Marked Squirrel. Marked Squirrel. It wouldn’t be safe until the thing was dead. Who cared what the magic did? Whether it worked? The king would believe anything. But that squirrel was a threat. It was dangerous. It had to die. He would take pleasure in killing it. There was a quality about it that disturbed him deeply.

  And there was worse. Smokewreath sensed something. He had a talent for sensing things that could not be seen, and he had used this talent in his rise to power as the king’s sorcerer. He could tell when there was something close that threatened him, the sort of simple goodness and honesty that he could not control. Something of the kind hung about the Marked Squirrel. It was as if there were two of them. He’d only ever seen this one Marked Squirrel, but it was as if there were another one with a rare, true quality that threatened him and made him shudder. If he killed the freak, the other thing might go away.

  Trail knocked quietly at the Lord Marshal’s chamber door. When it creaked open she slipped into the chamber, which, with its rows of weapons, looked more like an armory.

  Lord Marshal Granite sat at a table examining a small iron dagger, turning the blade toward the lamplight.

  “It’s Bronze, sir,” she said. “It’s not easy to talk about him like this, but you should know, sir.” Granite gave no answer, so she went on. “He’s always tried to imitate you, but now he wants to take over. He sneers about you, sir, behind your back; he’s not content to live in your shadow anymore. He’s ambitious, and he thinks it’s his turn to get to the top. He thinks he’d be a good Lord Marshal, and there’s only room for one.”

  Granite ran a claw along the dagger blade and grunted. He didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t noticed Bronze making a bid for power, but that didn’t matter. He never trusted anyone, especially young animals seeking promotion.

  “We know he doesn’t have your experience, sir,” Trail went on, “and he’d never be the soldier you are. He seems to think the king would favor him because—well, sir, because he comes from Whitewings, and he’s a hedgehog, the same as the king.”

  Granite grunted again and jerked his head at the door, but Trail smiled inside her helmet as she left, closing the door behind her. She’d had enough of Bronze. Getting on the wrong side of the Lord Marshal was about the worst thing that could happen to anyone, and Bronze had been asking for it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AY BY DAY ON MISTMANTLE, THE AUTUMN grew cooler and the nights longer. Younger animals rustled about through the curling leaves, gathering nuts and playing. The older ones grumbled about the cold and their aging joints. Little boats came and went as far as the mists, their lights bobbing above the water all night as Mistmantle watched for Urchin.

  In the tower, Arran arranged and rearranged the chamber she shared with Padra by the Spring Gate. Restlessly she aired blankets and smoothed them over fresh heaps of moss and leaves, sprinkled the floor with rosemary, and swept ash from the hearth. When she had finished with their own chamber, she would open the door of the room next to it, which, this autumn, was always empty. But she liked to keep it dusted, with fresh moss in the bed and kindling in the grate, even though it hurt her to see the room always empty, and Urchin’s bed not slept in. She wanted it to be ready for his coming home.

  In the workrooms, skeins of wool and reels of thread were heaped up on shelves. Rolls of canvas and fabrics leaned against the walls, rough homespun cloth the color of stone and rich scarlet and purple velvets. On the grimmest days, when autumn rains fell relentlessly and it was hard to keep hoping that Urchin and Juniper would come back safely, those brightly colored wools and satin ribbons gleaming like jewels seemed the only cheerful things on the island. Needle, Thripple, and the other workroom animals stitched and painted faithfully, finding work to do although everything for the coronation had been finished long ago. On the days when she felt most forlorn, Needle would sort out the ribbons because playing with the colors seemed to cheer her up a little.

  Docken was an excellent tower hedgehog, but he looked as if he belonged in the wood even when he stood faithfully to attention at the Throne Room door. However, Gorsen seemed at home absolutely anywhere, on duty in the Throne Room, sharing hot cordials with the hedgehogs on night patrol, or reminding Needle not to play at the caves. Gorsen, Lumberen, and the rest of the Hedgehog Host would gather together and tell old stories of Mistmantle kings, usually hedgehogs. They often attracted young female hedgehogs, who decorated their spines with beech leaves and sat gazing at Gorsen.

  “About time we got Gorgeous Gorsen married off,” observed Mother Huggen. “There’s no getting any sense out of the girls these days. If they’re not watching him, they’re staring at their own faces in the pools, turning this way and that and preening their prickles. And don’t tell me he hasn’t noticed, because he has.”

  Delightful young female squirrels still turned up at the tower, their fur scented and gleaming, often carrying messages from Apple to the king. All were pleasant, many were bright and gifted, some were beautiful. King Crispin always received them politely, but that was all. Padra, reporting to the Throne Room after a swim on the first breath-misting morning of the season, saw Sepia’s sisters, Lichen and Auburn, curtsying their way out of the Throne Room.

  “There can’t be many left,” Padra observed when they had gone. “You shouldn’t be so gallant about it, Crispin, it only encourages them.” He looked down from the window. “There’s Needle and Sepia trotting down to the woods. Give those two half a chance and they’ll rule the island. I wonder what they’re up to now?”

  “Singing, I should think,” said Crispin. “According to her sisters, Sepia’s training a choir. She’s teaching them a new song to sing for Urchin when he gets back.”

  Where rocky ground sloped away from the tower, bushes sprawled down to the woods. Their branches were wild and trailing, and at this time of year, gold and scarlet mixed with the deep green. Two hushed voices whispered from the undergrowth.

  “I can’t!” whispered Sepia.

  “Why not?” Needle whispered back.

  “Because it’s a thornbush!” said Sepia. “I’m not hiding under a thornbush! It’s all right for hedgehogs.”

  Needle tried not to sigh dramatically, but she felt like it. Urchin wouldn’t have complained about a thornbush. She had promised to help with Sepia’s choir, and in return Sepia had offered to help her find out exactly what Gleaner was up to. Needle wasn’t at all convinced that she could sing—whatever Sepia said—but she had agreed, though it meant she had to keep a lot of little squirrels in order when she’d rather be curled
up with her own small brother. It was for Sepia’s sake, and Urchin’s. But for the moment it was much more important to find out what Gleaner was doing, and whether she was meeting a spy from Whitewings. And here was Sepia, complaining about a pleasantly dark, cool hiding place under a perfectly good thornbush.

  “I’d be much better hidden in a tree,” whispered Sepia.

  “The leaves are falling,” said Needle. “You wouldn’t be hidden at all.”

  “Yes, I would, because lots of leaves are still up and they’re squirrel-colored,” said Sepia. “There’s something sharp sticking into my paw.”

  “That’ll be me, sorry,” said Needle.

  “No, it’s a bramble,” said Sepia, and hopped away to run up a tree trunk before Needle could argue. Needle was peering up into the branches, trying to see exactly where Sepia had gone, when the rustling of leaves nearby made her crouch in absolute stillness, her bright, black eyes watching the forest floor as Gleaner ran into sight.

  She came rather slowly with a lopsided tilt, carrying something in one front paw. It was affecting her balance and slowing her down, but in her face there was fierce determination. Whatever she planned, nothing would prevent her from carrying it out. She paused to look back along the way she had come, glanced around in all directions without seeing Needle, then hopped under the twisted thornbushes called the Tangletwigs.

  Keeping a distance, Needle trundled after her. Thorns tugged her spines in a way that didn’t hurt but was furiously irritating. When she glanced up, she saw Sepia springing lightly from one treetop to another. That was annoying, too. She had expected Gleaner to jump over the bushes, being a squirrel, but she was threading her way underneath, and Needle, huddling her spines close to her body, shuffled on after her and found the path leading under the Tangletwigs was well worn. Gleaner must come this way frequently.

  She had imagined Gleaner meeting a Whitewings spy. What if it wasn’t just one? There might be a whole pack of them, waiting at the heart of the Tangletwigs, plotting against the king! Inside her spines, Needle tingled with fear. Well, she’d come this far. If she was caught, Sepia could run away and raise the alarm. She hurried on, biting her lip when a thorn caught in her paws, squeezing under impossibly low branches, running farther into a place completely unknown to her, until she found herself in the open so suddenly that she had to shrink quickly under the nearest bush and hope that she hadn’t been seen.