Urchin and the Heartstone (13 page)

“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 behind 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.

“Urchin!” said a voice from somewhere under the logs, and the sound of his name made his heart leap. Firewood spilled out. There was a gleam of dark red fur; Urchin found it impossible to believe his eyes.

“Juniper?” he whispered.

Juniper’s head bobbed up from the basket. He shook sawdust from his ears. “Found you!” he said as he climbed out.

Speechless, Urchin leaped forward and seized Juniper’s shoulders, astonished at the delighted smile and the bright, almost too-bright, eyes. But under his touch Juniper was shivering, and after the first great surge of joy at seeing a Mistmantle face, he felt desperately sad and sorry. Juniper had ended up in this wretched place, too.

“How did you get here?” demanded Urchin. He kept his voice down to a whisper, and glanced warily at the door.

“Followed you,” said Juniper.

“But it was—”

“I know,” said Juniper. “I’m all right with water, I grew up with otters. I wanted to rescue you. I’m sorry I didn’t. But I couldn’t leave you.”

Urchin tried to say the right thing, didn’t know what it was, and hugged him. Juniper coughed, still trembling.

“You’re ill,” said Urchin. The surprise had left him shaking almost as much as Juniper. “I’m amazed that journey didn’t kill you.” There was still wine and bread on the table. He put a drink into Juniper’s trembling paw and folded the claws around it. Urchin pulled a blanket from the bed to tuck tightly around Juniper’s shoulders, noticing that his paws were still wrinkled from the water. “Juniper, don’t you realize? We’re beyond the mists!”

“I know,” said Juniper, and sipped the wine. “I knew I’d have to do that. I could have swum back. But you didn’t have anyone else.” He looked up into Urchin’s face. “You’re Urchin of the Riding Stars and you’re my friend. I wasn’t going to leave you.”