Urchin and the Raven War (11 page)

“Seaweed!”
said Corr.

“I didn’t just say ‘seaweed,’” said Catkin coldly. “Weren’t you listening? I said, ‘
a particular kind of seaweed.
’”

Corr looked at her and tried to judge whether to believe her. She might be teasing him. On a cool, damp, and misty morning, in a boring little bay with his boat all ready to go, he didn’t have time for any silly joke Lapwing might be playing.

“What would he want seaweed for?” he asked.

She regarded him with a cool stare before going on. “I was about to say that seaweeds are very popular at the tower just now. Fingal started it. He was going on about some particular seaweed cake that his granny used to make, and then all the otters started remembering the different seaweeds that their families used to gather, and how they cooked them. Not just otters, either. All the animals used to eat seaweeds. And Brother Fir remembered a kind of seaweed cake that he liked when he was young, but you need a very special seaweed to make it, and it’s hard to find. Fir’s mother called it kingsmantle.”

“Kingsmantle?” said Corr, trying to remember if he’d ever heard of it.

“It’s called kingsmantle because it’s very deep purple with a crinkly gold edge, like a royal robe,” she said. “You can use it fresh or you can dry it out and put it in cakes and things.”

“Deep purple with a crinkly edge?” replied Corr. He had heard of something like that but never seen it. “I think it’s what they call Queen Bramble’s Robe where I live. My auntie told me about it, and I asked her why I could never find any, and why it was never washed up on the shore. She said it grows a long way out to sea.”

“Must be the same thing,” she said. “Anyway, if you can find any of that, he’d love it. I don’t know where you find it, but it doesn’t grow anywhere in the seas near the tower.” She frowned. “If it grows that far out, it may be a waste of time to try.”

Corr decided that she wasn’t teasing. It would be worth a morning’s search to make Brother Fir happy, especially if nobody else could find kingsmantle for him. It would also be a good reason for arriving at the tower.

“I’ll wait for you,” said Catkin.

Corr looked around at the misty sky, glanced at the shoreline, and sniffed the wind. When he had worked out all he needed to know about the weather, the time of day, and most important, the tide, he slipped into the water.

Oh, how long since he’d had a really good swim? For pure pleasure he twisted under the waves, enjoying the long thorough soaking of it, surfacing now and again to fill his lungs before swimming on. With a deep breath he plunged down toward the seabed so he could swish far along it, sleek and fast, before he needed to come up again. Fishes shoaled past him, weaving and flicking as they changed direction. Weeds floated, green and deep-plum, but nothing that looked remotely gold and purple.

He should go back to where Lapwing was waiting. He bobbed up to see where he was—farther out than he had realized, and coming near to the mists! But he could still get a little farther. Beyond the green fronds and the silent fishes, something gleamed gold.

There was a tightness in his chest, and he kicked hard to the surface to gasp at the cool, damp air, wishing the day could be fresher. On a morning like this it was hard to tell the fog from the mists. Shaking water from his whiskers, he glanced about and sniffed.

Safe enough.
He filled his lungs, somersaulted, and plunged down, down, bubbles streaming from his nostrils, fishes flicking away from him, until he saw the deep purple-and-gold weeds drifting gently with the pull of the tide. Seizing all he could carry in paws and teeth, he swam for the surface and, when everything above him darkened, twisted onto his back to look up. If the sky was suddenly dark, he needed to know about it. There could be thunderclouds gathering.

No, not thunderclouds. The darkness was not in the sky. It was nearer, and solid. It looked …

Can’t be, thought Corr. But it looks just like the hull of a boat.

He swam closer. He’d been right about that! The curves of a strong, black-painted hull sat above him in the water, and from it came noises he struggled to recognize. There was rustling and rasping—then a harsh grating of voices that sent him kicking furiously to the surface.

Lapwing sat on a rock, kicking her paws restlessly. She had inspected the repairs to the boat, put in some bread, kale, and very sandy cake that Corr might enjoy on his journey, then wrapped herself in her cloak and settled herself down to wait for him.

Brindle the hedgehog was nearby, chatting to a stout squirrel who had turned up, apparently lost. The squirrel was saying that he’d never got around to anything much.
“No time
—
but there’s a young otter I know who’s just gone off in search of adventure, and I thought if that young chap can do it, so can I
….”

Bored, Catkin wandered down to the shore to practice sword drill with a stick and watch through the fog for Corr.

He’d been a long time. The tide was coming in, which would carry Corr quickly to land, but perhaps she should pull the boat farther up the shore in case it was a very,
very
high tide. The fog was lifting, and, standing with her clawtips in the water, she saw the bobbing of a smooth, dark head.

“Corr!” she cried, and began wading out to meet him. But why was he swimming so fast, with that urgent light in his eyes? Why was he scrambling furiously up the shore, heaving for breath?

Flopping onto the wet sand, his breathing raw and hoarse, he gasped, “Ravens!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

HY DID ANIMALS
in the tower go about that morning with their ears and whiskers twitching? King Crispin woke with a sharp pain in his chest, though the wound had healed. Princess Almondflower was fretful, and nobody could settle her. Perhaps it was because the last of the Swan Isle swans, Prince Crown, would need to leave them soon—but why should that make them uneasy?

Prince Crown was reluctant to leave. He wanted to talk to Juniper about the role of a priest on Mistmantle, and to almost everyone about how the island was governed. The tower’s youngest choir was restless, quarrelsome, and ready to burst into tears. Even Sepia’s patience with them was wearing so thin that she decided to stop trying and let them all go home early. Brother Fir had spent a restless night, waking often and muttering to himself. As the fog cleared, Juniper leaned from the window to look down at the shore. He felt ill.

In the workrooms, wool and threads snagged, frayed, and tangled; paint was either too thick or too thin. The light was poor and kept changing. Needle, who had unpicked the same picture twice, gave up and went to see how the apprentices were managing. She sat down, folded her paws in her lap, and watched Myrtle very, very carefully, not wanting to startle her as she stitched steadily and rhythmically at a flower.

The flower began to take shape. Needle’s paws tightened in her lap.

It mustn’t be.

She leaned forward, watching intently.

Don’t draw that.

Pointlessly, she knew, she was willing Myrtle to stop. Steadily, stitch by stitch, the flower took shape.

White, green.
Please, thought Needle, not pink. Without taking her eyes from the fabric, Myrtle reached for the pink thread.

Needle slipped away. She found Thripple repairing an old Threading, crouched at the frame with a frown of a headache across her face. Needle hated herself, having to bring her such alarming news, but Thripple just stood, stretched her stiff limbs, and went with her to Myrtle’s bench.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Thripple gently. “We’ve just come to see how you’re doing.” She leaned forward to inspect the picture. “It’s very neat, Myrtle. And you’ve put in a little flower.”

Myrtle seemed to shrink. She began to stammer an apology.

“No, Myrtle, it’s all right,” said Thripple. “I just wondered why you put it there. Do you know what that flower is?”

“No, Mistress Thripple,” whispered Myrtle.

“It’s a hellebore,” she said. “A very pretty plant, but highly poisonous.”

A cold shiver ran down Needle’s spine as she ran to tell the king and Juniper. Myrtle didn’t know the Threadings Code, but
she
did.

Hellebore for danger.

Corr had never swum so fast in his life, fighting the turning tide and the burning in his limbs, his tail, and his lungs. He pushed his way around the coast, took the shortcut through a river that Lapwing had told him of, slipped back into the sea, and finally, with all his limbs burning, faced the last stretch of seawater to the tower.

Lapwing had said it wasn’t far. Not far! Raising his head from the water, Corr saw the fluttering pennants on the tower, but such a long way away that his heart and limbs felt too heavy to go on. He filled his lungs, flicked his tail, and fought on with all his strength.

The tower seemed no nearer, but that wasn’t the hardest thing. Coming from this direction took him to the side of the tower rising from high rocks, with no door and few windows. There were four guards, but it would be no good hailing them. They’d only think he was waving, and they wouldn’t hear him if he tried to shout from the water.