Urchin and the Heartstone (4 page)

“Hm. I see,” said Brother Fir. “All tidy now, Hope?”

Gorsen of the Hedgehog Host stood on duty outside the Throne Room, his fur gleaming, bowing deeply to Brother Fir before opening the door. The Throne Room was a simpler, airier place than it had been in the last days of King Brushen. Sunshine brightened it. Crispin stood by the window, his deep red fur gleaming in the light; Padra beside him. The sun was so strong that Urchin found he had to squint, and could hardly see Crispin’s face. It was much easier to look at the animals from Whitewings, who now looked well groomed. Food and wine had been set out for them on a table, but they still looked so solemn that Urchin felt he must have done something wrong as soon as he hopped in.

Needle stood dutifully by the empty fireplace, her paws folded and the satchels neatly stacked behind her. Urchin bowed to the king and, as usual when he wasn’t sure what to do, glanced at Padra for a prompt.

“Brother Fir, Urchin,” said Padra, holding out a paw to them, “come and meet our visitors. This is Lord Treeth of Whitewings.”

The lordly hedgehog with the silver chain bowed stiffly to Fir and inclined his head toward Urchin.

“Urchin, Companion to the King?” he inquired gravely.

Urchin bowed. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Lord Treeth is a distinguished Lord of Whitewings, and the Ambassador of King Silverbirch,” Padra went on. “And attending him on his embassy are his highly trusted attendants. Bronze…”

The stocky, short-spined hedgehog nodded briefly at Urchin with something that was half a grin and half a grimace. He looked to Urchin like an animal who could hold his own in a fight.

“…and Trail,” said Padra. The older female squirrel gave a very straight-backed curtsy with her chin up. Urchin felt as if she were inspecting him to see if his claws were clean.

“…and Scatter,” finished Padra. The smallest squirrel managed a wobbly curtsy and a brave attempt at a smile, and Urchin smiled back with sympathy. She still looked seasick.

“Lord Treeth,” said Crispin. “Your story concerns us all, but in particular it concerns Urchin. May I ask you to repeat it? Be seated, all of you.”

The visitors settled themselves on stools, Urchin and Needle on the floor. Glancing up, Urchin saw that now that Crispin was seated with the back of the throne behind him, his face could be seen very clearly. He looked sharper and more attentive than ever. With great dignity Lord Treeth straightened his back, placed his empty cup on the table, and began.

“Whitewings has always been a peaceful island, and a fair one. The brightness of silver sparkles in its waterfalls and gleams in its rivers, and mines of silver lie hidden in its depths. Swans dwell on our lakes and shores. On the rare occasions when our ships have breached the Mistmantle mists, we have been glad to trade with you. In the past, Mistmantle animals have married into Whitewings.

“Suddenly this year, in the spring, we found ourselves with a wave of newcomers from Mistmantle, seeking to live in Whitewings. They told us of a war on Mistmantle that had caused them to flee for their lives, and we took them in. I am forced to admit that we have regretted it. We welcomed them and made them at home on our island, expecting them to be like all the Mistmantle animals we had ever met—pleasant, helpful, good-natured. But these animals were not at all like anyone else from your island. They were loud and boastful, swaggering about the island, showing off, unwilling to work except for their own benefit. They were unfriendly, huddling together, keeping their own company, avoiding the rest of us.”

Urchin could feel Trail’s eyes on him as if he were to blame for all this. He wanted to squirm.

“This was bad enough,” said Lord Treeth. “When some of them were caught stealing from our stores we put them in prison cells for a time, to teach them that we would not tolerate thieving. When they were released, they stirred up their companions to wreak mayhem on our island. They live as outlaws, waging war upon us.” He turned to look gravely at Urchin. In fact, in the pause that followed, all of the visitors seemed to be looking at him.

“I’m very sorry to hear it, sir,” he said, wondering what it had to do with him.

“By this time,” said Lord Treeth, “we had realized that these animals were exiles from Mistmantle, following the downfall of Captain Husk. The exiles had brought us violence and unrest, but they also brought something most precious. They brought hope. They brought us the most important news there is.”

He paused again. In the power of the moment, Urchin stayed silent.

“We have a prophecy on our island,” said Lord Treeth, “so old that nobody knows how long ago it was spoken, but it has been passed on through generations. Far, far away in the past, it was said that a time would come when the creatures of Whitewings would be in great need. A squirrel would come to our help, and be the island’s deliverer. This deliverer would be…”

He paused again, as if he wanted to be sure of everybody’s perfect attention. Urchin’s fur bristled. He felt he knew what was coming.

“…a Marked Squirrel,” said Lord Treeth. “By that, we mean a very rare type of squirrel, hardly ever seen on these islands.”

Urchin already knew what Lord Treeth would say. Heat burned in his face.

“A squirrel pale as honey,” Lord Treeth went on, “a squirrel, Urchin, like yourself. When the Mistmantle animals told us of such a squirrel on their island—a Marked Squirrel who had already crossed the sea to bring King Crispin home—we felt hope. The Mistmantle exiles had brought us chaos, but they had also shown us where we could find deliverance.”

He was no longer looking at Urchin. He was looking past him toward Crispin, as if this must be settled between king and ambassador.

“And so,” finished Lord Treeth, his deep voice resonating through the throne room, “King Silverbirch beseeches the help of King Crispin. We know you are an honorable king. We have heard of your courage and nobility. We implore you to send a small band, only a small band, of warriors to our aid. But also, because our need is so great, and only one creature can help us, we ask that the Marked Squirrel may come with them. King Silverbirch has sent you tokens of his great esteem.”

He waved a paw to Trail and Bronze, who opened the gray satchels. The boxes they took out were painted in purple and silver, and as they lifted the lids, something sparkled. Urchin almost gasped at the beauty of the gifts. There were silver and gold nets filled with hazelnuts and tiny apples, a green sword belt embroidered with crimson, and bracelets woven of the finest strands of twisted silver. Finally, from a nest of crimson velvet folds, Lord Treeth lifted a shining sword and held it high across both paws.

Urchin’s eyes widened. The hilt of the sword was so intricately worked that it could have been made from threads or grasses, but every twist and every fiber was a strand of pale silver. Lord Treeth turned to him and, to Urchin’s wide-eyed astonishment, held out the sword.

“A gift for the Marked Squirrel,” he said. “May you use it in the service of your own king and ours.”

It was so beautiful that Urchin could hardly look away from it, but though he wanted it with all his heart, he couldn’t extend even a claw toward it.
It can’t be for me. I’m not meant to accept.
Padra’s paw was on his arm.

“Captain Padra, please take Urchin’s sword for him,” said Crispin. “Lord Treeth, I am confident that Urchin will never use a sword dishonorably.”

“Thank you, Lord Treeth,” said Urchin, and with effort, he looked away from the sword. Something in Crispin’s face warned him to say no more.

“The moles will escort you to your chambers,” said Crispin, making it clear that the discussion was over. “You will want to rest after your journey, and you will eat with me here this evening. Needle, my Companion, call Gorsen in, please.”

Gorsen marched in so smartly that Needle had to dodge out of his way. He bowed impressively.

“Gorsen, make sure our guests have all they need,” said Crispin. “And send me Docken.”

With great courtesy, Gorsen ushered the visitors from the room. The small squirrel, Scatter, still didn’t look well, and Urchin felt sorry for her.

Presently, Docken arrived. He was a bit disheveled, but he always looked like that. Mistress Thripple could do wonderful things with every sort of thread and fabric, but not even she could make her husband look well groomed.

“Take over guard duty, please, Docken,” said Padra. “Absolutely nobody is to be admitted.”

“Understood, sir,” said Docken, and took his place outside the door. Padra closed the door after him and leaned against it, looking across the room into Crispin’s eyes.

“Yes, that’s what I thought,” said Crispin. “But let’s hear from all of you. Brother Fir?”

CHAPTER FOUR

T THE SHORE, THE YOUNGER ANIMALS
still hung about the ship, waiting to see if the moles would find anything exciting. They passed the time by playing with pebbles, skimming stones, jumping off the jetty, or playing coronation and taking turns to be Crispin. Occasionally there would be chants of “Find the king, find the queen, find the Heir of Mistmantle,” which was an old Mistmantle game in which three animals were sent away to hide while the others covered their faces and repeated the chant ten times before running off to find them. As the animals being looked for had great fun distracting attention from each other, and the squirrels climbed up anything that didn’t run away, there was a lot of chasing and shrieking. Needle was holding the paw of her little brother, Scufflen, as he paddled in the waves with little squeals of excitement. Sepia the squirrel, whose beautiful singing voice had captivated the whole island at the Spring Festival, hung back a little, sometimes watching them, sometimes gazing past them.

In these past months, life had astonished Sepia. She had grown up in a birchwood, the youngest member of a family that was always very busy and very organized: always gathering nuts and storing them neatly, making cordials and medicines, running messages—her brother Longpaw was one of the fastest messengers on the island, and carried messages for the king. Sepia had always felt she was the smallest and least important member of her own family and the colony. She wasn’t all that good at any of the things that mattered, like gathering and storing, and she could never quite keep up with the other squirrels. Everyone else had such a lot to talk about, that Sepia, who had a quiet spirit to begin with, became used to the fact that nobody listened to her very much. So she had made a world of her own, making up songs in her head, dancing when nobody was looking, and, when she could be alone, running down to the caves behind the waterfall. She had a favorite place there, where the damp walls gleamed and her voice echoed and sang back to her, and there was nobody there to tell her to stop singing and do something useful.

Then, on a spring day, she had been visited by Arran the otter. Sepia was used to otters—there were always a few of them near the waterfall—but she had never before met Arran, who was a member of the Circle and a very important otter. Arran had brought her a message from an even more important otter, Captain Padra. The captain had heard her singing, and wanted her to sing for King Brushen at the Spring Festival.