Urchin and the Heartstone Page 12

  Cedar shook the bottle and sprinkled drops of the sharp-smelling oil on the cushions. Unpleasant though it was, it gave Urchin a lurch of homesickness that tightened his throat.

  “It’s got some very strong herbs in it,” she said. “It frightens everything off.” She pressed the stopper into the bottle and looked at him searchingly, as she had before. “Urchin, do you really have no idea where you came from?”

  “None,” said Urchin. “They never found my mother, only me.”

  “I’d better go,” she said reluctantly, as if she’d rather stay.

  Urchin nodded. He didn’t trust his voice. Then somebody shouted along the corridor that Mistmantle moles were savage fighters, and that they needed a healer, and somebody should fetch Commander Cedar, and she left with a last glance at him over her shoulder.

  Urchin settled the cushions around Juniper. He sniffed once more at the oil on the cushions, and with a pang of pain and longing, he knew why it had stirred him.

  There was a secret joke on Mistmantle. Apple made apple-and-mint cordial, which she seemed to think was extremely nice, and nobody had the heart to tell her it tasted appalling. It was popular in summer, though, because flies and biting insects wouldn’t go near it. Whatever Apple put in her cordials, Cedar must have used it in this, and the sharp, strong note of it struck Mistmantle in his heart. Sunlight dappling through the forest; ice-cold water splashing from springs; the giggling of small animals and the swish of autumn leaves; Apple telling him to drink up his cordial to make him strong, and while she wasn’t looking he’d tip it down a mole hole. Mistmantle rushed upon him, with memories of Apple holding on to her hat; Padra’s laughing, whiskered face; fresh, warm walnut bread; the wise, kind eyes of Brother Fir; his own nest in the little firelit chamber. He struggled to keep the tears from his eyes, but it was too hard. He crossed to the window, clutched the bars with both paws, and looked out. At least he could see the stars and the sea. Tide and starlight were part of Mistmantle, too.

  He swallowed hard before he could get the words out, and spoke to the stars. “I’m…I am Urchin of the Riding Stars. Do you remember me?” Then he wrapped himself in a blanket, curled up beneath the window, and sobbed as quietly as he could, so Juniper would not hear him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  N A WARM, EARLY AUTUMN MORNING at Mistmantle Tower, Needle waited unhappily outside the Throne Room, holding a carved wooden plate of hazelnuts with blackberries, fir cones, and walnut and hazelnut bread. Beside her stood Sepia with a cup of a strong, spicy cordial that wafted a scent of orange and nutmeg, but nothing smelled nice to her today.

  The attempt to rescue Urchin had been a wretched failure with the loss of Mistmantle lives. Gorsen, who stood on duty and smelled of pine oil, made things worse by lecturing them again on how dangerous the caves were, and how if he’d known they’d meant to go there, he would have warned them not to. It was a relief when a small mole opened the Throne Room door and invited them in.

  Padra and Arran stood gravely on either side of the throne where Crispin sat, his back very straight and his face solemn. Needle shared his disappointment and hurt. Kind, sensible Mother Huggen the hedgehog and Brother Fir were side by side at the empty fireplace, and Lugg stood before Crispin, his blue cloak over his shoulders and his captain’s circlet held out in both forepaws.

  “I won’t have this, Lugg,” Crispin was saying. “Put your circlet back where it belongs. Nobody has served Mistmantle more faithfully than you, and if anyone could have rescued Urchin, you could have. It’s because of you that we didn’t have more casualties. If you hadn’t been ambushed, he would have been home by now. I don’t want your resignation, Captain Lugg, and I won’t accept it.”

  “Permission to try again, then, Your Majesty,” said Lugg gruffly.

  “You’re as brave as your ancestors were, Lugg,” said Crispin, “but we can’t try the same thing twice. And if there’s a traitor on Mistmantle keeping King Silverbirch informed, we need to find out who it is before we make another move. That’s what we need to talk about now.”

  “Before we do, Your Majesty,” said Padra, “you’ve been so involved in the aftermath of the rescue and planning the next one, you’ve hardly eaten for two days. Needle and Sepia have prepared this specially.”

  Crispin drank the cordial and said it was perfect, and Arran sent Sepia straight to the kitchens to order another one for midday. When she had gone, Padra turned to Needle.

  “You’re a Companion to the King, and should hear this,” he said. “The secret counsels of the Throne Room have been betrayed. Either one of us is a traitor, or there’s a spy somewhere.”

  “Oh!” said Needle, because the answer seemed obvious. “There’s that place under the floorboards that Fingal found!”

  “That’s been sealed up now,” said Crispin. “Gorsen saw to that. But even if any animal had been listening down there, they’d still have to get off the island. All the Whitewings animals are accounted for, including the ship’s crew.”

  “Mistress Tay’s been visiting them,” said Needle, and wondered why Crispin laughed.

  “Mistress Tay is giving Scatter lessons in law and history,” said Padra, “while Lord Treeth yells curses and throw things. She’s doing no harm.” He winked at her from behind Crispin’s back. At least, thought Needle, she’d made the king laugh.

  “I don’t like to think ill of anyone,” said Mother Huggen, “but we still don’t know what happened to that new friend of Urchin’s, Juniper, who disappeared at the same time. There’s no sign of him anywhere on the island, living or dead, and why would he leave?”

  “Hadn’t he disappeared before Crispin ordered the moles to go?” asked Arran.

  “Might have hidden on the island, then run off through a tunnel,” said Mother Huggen. “Not that I’m saying it’s him, but the king said we had to talk about it, so I’m talking.”

  “He’s young,” said Padra, “and he seemed to be making good friends. I hope very much that it isn’t Juniper, but it’s possible.”

  Needle was about to say that she had her doubts about Gleaner, when Crispin sprang up from the throne and banged his paw on its arm.

  “I hate this!” he cried. “The idea of going about the island, even the tower, knowing that anyone I meet could be a traitor! I don’t want to doubt my friends! Look at us, huddled up, choosing who to spy on! We’ll end up with an island that’s perfectly safe, but nobody can pick up sticks for firewood without being watched. Is that what we want?”

  He turned his back to them and stood without speaking, gripping the arms of the throne with both paws. Everyone watched him except Fir who, in spite of Crispin’s outburst, sat very still on the floor with his back straight and his eyes shut. Crispin turned to face them again.

  “Bear in mind,” he said firmly, “that none of our plans must ever be discussed outside our councils. Watch for anyone behaving strangely, anyone listening at doors, anyone disappearing underground. There may be tunnels we don’t know about, so Lugg, get your best moles on to it. And I want you all to pray. Thank you all, and unless anybody else has any comment to make, you may go.”

  Arran and Mother Huggen bowed, though Arran, who was with young, couldn’t bow very far. Needle curtsied and was about to ask Crispin to eat, when there was a “Hm!” from somewhere near the floor.

  Everyone turned to look at Brother Fir. He was still sitting absolutely straight, but his eyes had opened. Needle was afraid he might be ill, but when he spoke his voice was clear and strong.

  Over the water

  The Secret will bring them.

  Moonlight, Firelight,

  The Holy and the True,

  The Secret will draw them home.

  Needle didn’t know what was happening, and looked at the others for help. They were all watching Brother Fir intensely.

  “Tell it again, please, Brother Fir,” said Crispin urgently.

  Slowly, steadily, Fir repeated it. He said it a third time, and this time Crispin, P
adra, and Arran said it with him, paying great attention as if they were committing a lesson to memory. Needle suddenly realized that Crispin was looking at her.

  “Have you learned it yet?” he asked.

  She found she could repeat it by heart. Mother Huggen had to say it, too. Then Crispin asked, “What does it mean, Brother Fir?”

  Fir blinked, stood up, and shook his ears briskly. “Dear King Crispin,” he said, “it’s quite enough to receive a prophecy without being expected to understand it. There it is.” He smoothed down his old tunic which, Needle noticed, was looking more frayed and threadbare than ever. “We must be alert, of course, but I do hope that we’re not all going to go off looking for traitors. The king was quite right. Mistrust is poisonous.”

  “You may all go,” said Crispin, “except you, please, Padra.” It seemed to Needle that there was a new brightness about him. The prophecy must have given him hope. She pushed the plate firmly toward him before trotting from the chamber.

  “Will you please finish the royal breakfast?” said Padra. “Or do I have to cram it down the royal throat?”

  “I’ll eat it,” said Crispin, taking a pawful of hazelnuts. “A prophecy, Padra! What do you think it meant?”

  Padra shrugged. “If Fir doesn’t know, you can’t expect me to. But it makes me sure that Urchin will come back. Over the water. Do you suppose ‘the Secret’is Urchin? It might be, as we don’t know anything about who he is.”

  “Or could it be Juniper?” said Crispin. “But if we knew what it was, it wouldn’t be a secret. I’ve had Russet and Heath organizing searches for Juniper, but he’s not on the island. I hope he’s not a traitor, but he’s another one we know nothing about. A mystery, like Urchin.”

  Needle liked to be busy, especially now, as it took her mind from Urchin. She hurried down to the shore, accompanied by Gorsen’s friend Crammen, who insisted on telling her again that the best kings were always hedgehogs.

  After a little beachcombing, she would need to speak to Thripple. She wanted her advice about a sewing project she had in mind. Sooner or later there would be a coronation, and Fir couldn’t possibly crown Crispin wearing that shabby old tunic.

  And what about Gleaner? She felt extremely curious about Gleaner, and more than a little anxious. She had to protect the king, and Gleaner could be dangerous.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FTER THE NIGHT OF THE FAILED RESCUE, Urchin’s spirits lifted. Juniper recovered slowly. His voice was still no more than a croak and his pointy face looked hollow, but he was awake, conscious, and able to eat and walk. Each day he became a little stronger, making a patch of gladness in the long, frustrating days. They talked of Mistmantle, of the waterfall, and Anemone Wood. They carved pictures on firewood, flipped plum stones into an upturned bowl from as far a distance as possible in a small cell, and made plans for escape, all of which were impossible. And they played endless games of First Five, a Mistmantle game to do with getting five pebbles into a pattern in the middle of a grid while preventing your partner from doing the same. (Cedar provided the pebbles.) The king, who was making a tour of the mine workings and silversmiths, had not sent for Urchin again.

  “His Majesty doesn’t want to see you, Freak,” said Bronze, grinning as he brought bread and water. “Not bothered about feeding you very much, either, by the look of things.” The bread and water wasn’t much between two of them, but at least they were left alone, and Cedar smuggled food to them on the rare occasions when she saw them. The hardest thing was knowing that summer was over, autumn was blowing in, and they were still held in a small cell smelling of lice lotion with nothing to explore, nothing changing, and nothing to climb but the walls.

  “We should be bringing in the hazelnut harvest,” said Urchin restlessly.

  “I hope Damson’s all right,” said Juniper. “She’ll be making cordials from the rose hips, and it’s hard work. I should be there to help her.”

  When the king finally did send for Urchin, his mood had changed again. Summoned to the High Chamber, Urchin saw a small hedgehog curled smugly by the king’s throne. He knew he recognized that hedgehog from somewhere, but it took a minute to remember that this was the one who had appeared on the night when the Mistmantle moles had attacked. He was small, but his face was adult and cunning. The king was speaking to him as Smokewreath huddled in a corner, his arms folded and a scowl on his face.

  “You’ve done ever so well, Creeper,” the king was saying to the hedgehog. “For now, I think you should just enjoy the fun.” He looked at Urchin, stood up, and held out his paws with a frightening smile. “Dear little Freak, you’re going to come with me around the island. Let me show it off to you? Won’t that be lovely?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty!” said Urchin, and his ears twitched with anticipation. At the thought of fresh air he wanted to leap from the nearest window and race the wind.

  “Yes, it’ll be such fun!” gushed the king. “And you can tell me where all that lovely, lovely silver is hiding!”

  Oh, thought Urchin, and hoped he could bluff his way through convincingly. The king swept toward him and placed both silvered paws on his shoulders.

  “Smokewreath’s such a crosspatch today,” he said. “He’s jealous because you might be better at finding silver than he is.” He called over his shoulder to Smokewreath. “I’ve arranged a lovely little killing for you!”

  He clapped his paws twice, sharply, and four nervous squirrels shuffled into the chamber carrying something in a blanket. They laid it before the king, and stood meekly back, their paws behind their backs and their heads bowed. Smokewreath edged forward.

  Urchin didn’t want to look, but he had to know the worst. He forced himself to look down at what lay in the blanket.

  For one horrible moment, he thought it was Cedar. When he gathered himself together he realized it was nothing like her, but it was still the body of a young squirrel with an arrow wound staining her fur. It was a young life, somebody’s daughter, somebody’s friend, who would never go back to her nest.

  With a clatter of bones and a stale smell of smoke, sweat, and vinegar, Smokewreath bent over the body. His gnarled front paws clutched at the dead squirrel’s ears and heaved her up, sniffing her face, forcing her mouth open to squint at her teeth, tugging at her fur. Urchin turned his face away in disgust and pressed down the churning in his stomach.

  “What’s the matter with you?” demanded the king.

  Urchin’s paws tightened. He had to hold himself back from seizing Smokewreath and wrenching him away from the body.

  “Don’t you mind that she was killed?” he asked. “She was one of your islanders!”

  “As you say,” answered the king. “She was one of my islanders. Mine. Mine to dispose of. Mine, mine, silver mines!” He laughed hysterically and threw an arm around Urchin. “She had to die one day, didn’t she? Oh,” he went on as Urchin flinched from his touch, “are we cold? Lord Marshal, fetch a warm garment for our honored guest!”

  “Bronze, get a cloak for the freak,” grunted Granite. Urchin didn’t want one, but he couldn’t afford to annoy the king. He fastened it at his throat as, surrounded by guards and attendants, he followed the king from the palace. It was reassuring to see Cedar take her place among the guards.

  His prison was at the opposite side of the Fortress, so he stepped out into part of the landscape he hadn’t seen since he’d first arrived. Gladly he took a deep breath of cool air, but it tasted of dust and made him cough. The leaves had started to twirl down, but like everything else on the island, they lay under the fine gray powder of dust from the mines. As they marched from the Fortress and passed scrawny woodland, he saw that even the fruit and nuts on the trees shimmered with it. Still, after all this time in prison it was wonderful to be outside at all. The king was watching him with a smile of pride.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” he said. “My lovely island! And there’s something you simply must see.”

  He led them far away from the Fortress and a
long a steep path that wound up a hillside, and the farther they walked, the cleaner and kinder the air became, with a sniff of the sea in it. The fallen leaves were deeper here. If he hadn’t been with the king, Urchin would have leaped into them and rolled. As it was, he reminded himself to be alert, his ears twitching, his eyes wide with attention, looking for anything at all that would help when the time came for escape. He needed to find places that would provide cover after leaf fall. The trees grew more thickly here, and there were times when he was very tempted to make a dash for it, but it was far too risky. The archers were proud of their skill, and they’d be glad to show it off. He did his best to take in everything he saw in the hope that he’d remember it, but it wasn’t easy with the king distracting him, throwing an arm around his shoulder or slapping him on the back, and saying, “What do you think? What do you think? Have you smelled silver? Can you feel it? Do you want to stop and have a little search? You do have the gift for finding it, don’t you? Commander Cedar says you have, don’t you, Cedar?”

  “Your Majesty,” said Urchin, “do you really think silver is what your island needs? Animals can’t eat it. The dust from the mines is in the soil, it’s everywhere. I think that’s why the trees don’t thrive.”

  “Aren’t they healthy trees?” asked the king in alarm. “Don’t you think so? We need trees! We refine the silver in furnaces, and we need trees for the fuel! And coal, of course. We have mines for that, too.”

  “More mining!” said Urchin. “Your Majesty, you don’t need silver! You need good, soft earth where things can grow, and healthy plants to grow in it!” The king was gazing into the distance and might not be hearing a single word, but Urchin went on, quickly thinking of all the things hedgehogs like to eat. “Your Majesty, if your soil is good it’ll be full of slugs and worms and beetles, and you can grow berry bushes….”