The Urchin of the Riding Stars (26 page)

“Leave us,” he said. “I’ll do everything else.”

“Yes, sir,” said Urchin, and though he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say, he had to say it. “Sir, I hope my mother was like her.”

Crispin nodded again. “Go, Urchin,” he said hoarsely, and Urchin hurried away, understanding that Crispin wouldn’t want anyone to see his tears. He found a hollow in a tree root and huddled there alone, rubbing a paw across his eyes when they blurred. Perhaps this was the worst at last. After this, nothing could feel worse.

When he felt he had left Crispin alone long enough, he pattered back to the shore to find him. Something was moving among the beech trees, and his paw was on his sword hilt before he realized it was Crispin.

In a clearing, Crispin had built a neat mound of sea-washed stones, gray and green, smooth flint and dull pink. On the top lay the circlet.

“I had to build her a cairn,” said Crispin, laying a bunch of sea-thrift beside it. “It marks her place. And the circlet—it’s hers and it should be there where it can be seen; but I hate to think of anyone taking it away.”

“I think you should keep it, sir,” said Urchin. “Look after it for her. And, sir, you should have it with you when you go back to Mistmantle, because it would be like taking her back with you.”

“No, Urchin, it wouldn’t,” said Crispin.

“I mean as near as you can get to it, sir,” said Urchin, wishing he hadn’t spoken in the first place. He thought of something all Mistmantle squirrels learned from an early age. Fir and Apple had taught it to him.
Even the Heart that made Mistmantle had to break with love for us. That is how it gave us the mists. But it does not stay broken. The Heart still beats, still loves, still holds us. A true heart survives the breaking.
But he couldn’t very well say it to Crispin now. He wandered miserably back to the bay, where a swan floated, bobbing a little with the lifting of the waves. Two more flew overhead and settled as gently as petals on the sea, circling each other, proud and graceful as sailing ships. And Urchin, pausing to perch on a rock, gaze at the swans, and admire their size and strength, saw a possible hope.

There was a way home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

HO NEEDED SLEEP
? Husk hurried past the chambers where tower squirrels lay curled in their nests and beds. Only fools and infants needed sleep. This would be his day, and he watched impatiently for its coming. It would be dry and fine. A great day.
His
Spring Festival.

A dais had been built on the rocks, with awnings behind and above it. Space in front had been cleared for the entertainers, and the tables for the feast would be in a semicircle to face it. On the dais would be a throne for the king, with more modest chairs for himself, Aspen, Granite, and Padra, and a high table. It was a shame to include Padra, but it wouldn’t be for long. The order of speeches was to be Granite, Tay, Padra, then himself—but after Tay’s speech, there would be no Padra.

Splendor was the thing that mattered. He had gone to great trouble to ensure that the Threadings were rich and gilded; the high table would be hung with deep gold brocade velvet and decorated with flowers; and robes would be worn. Swords, too, just for show; and the throne would be decked with purple velvet. The creatures would have to be impressed by all that grandeur. It would make the king look ridiculous.

Husk was especially pleased about the king. Ultimately, no interfering priest or goody-goody squirrel had been able to help him, and now the great King Brushen was thoroughly wretched and broken. He could hardly mutter a sentence without tears, or listen to a choir without falling asleep. If he’d been drinking, he could hardly walk in a straight line. Most of the animals hadn’t seen him since the queen’s funeral. They wouldn’t like what they’d see today.

Husk’s wedding robe was spread across the chest in the bedchamber. It was too early to dress, but he needed to touch it once more, and press its jewels against his cheek. He had a storehouse of jewels now, for trade, for payments, for bribes, and for himself. Jewels would buy anything.

Sharply, he looked over his shoulder. Was he being watched? Followed? Couldn’t be too careful. Expecting Aspen to be asleep, he slipped silently into the bedchamber, but he found her awake and perched on the edge of the bed, grooming her ear tufts with the little ebony brush.

“The king has spent a restless night,” she remarked thoughtfully. “He was asking for me. I took him the spring water he likes, with a little tincture in it to calm him.”

“Didn’t he have a sleeping draft last night?” asked Husk.

“Oh, no!” Her dark eyes widened. “Brother Fir was concerned about the sleeping drafts the king was having. Brother Fir is the priest, after all. So I didn’t give the king anything last night to help him sleep. Unfortunately, it’s left him in a terrible state this morning.” She turned the large brown eyes on him. “He’s a very sad sight.”

Husk shook his head slowly in admiration. “You think of everything,” he said. “What would I do without you? Should I have a bottle of wine placed before him at the high table? He might like a drink during the entertainments.”

“And a flask at his hip,” said Aspen. “I’ll keep it filled up. And what about you, my lord? Have you slept?”

“I don’t need to,” he said, and turned away. Urchin, who had disappeared so suddenly and conveniently, was part of his nightmares now. And still the bloodstained prince scrabbled his way through fusty darkness toward him….

It was better not to sleep.

Padra was up early, too, climbing the stairs to Fir’s turret, where Brother Fir knelt in such stillness that Padra was content to close the door quietly and watch him, drinking in his serenity. Presently he moved to kneel beside him and realized that Fir had been aware of him all the time, for he reached out to place a paw on his head in blessing. Padra’s heart reached out to the Heart that beat for Mistmantle, kept it, loved it, enfolded it, and nourished it, and as he did so, the first rays of sun filtered through the window. At last, Fir and Padra rose and looked down from the turret.

In a bay half hidden by the curve of the shore, a row of little boats had been pulled clear of the tideline. Some had been turned upside down, to drain them or dry them for painting.

“They’re in the green one,” whispered Padra. “I daren’t go there myself, in case I’m watched, but that’s it. A bit closer to the tower than I’d like, but it’s only temporary, and it means I can get a message to Huggen quickly if I need to.”

“Hm,” said Fir. “Bless them.” He raised a paw toward the distant boat.

“Our animals are ready and at their posts,” said Padra, still whispering. “They all know what to do. We stay alert during the entertainment and the feast, then I just have to keep my nerve during the offerings and the speeches. Lugg, Arran, and a few of the faithful ones will be on the lookout, in case Husk and his claw thugs try anything. When I make my speech and show Husk for what he is, we count on the animals rallying to me. It all depends on that. The Anemone Wooders and the otters will be with me. But if it comes to a fight—and I hate the thought of Mistmantle animals shedding one another’s blood—Husk’s animals will be better armed.”

“It should not come to that,” said Fir. He shook his ears. “That excellent otter in charge of food stores, does she look after the candles as well?”

“Candles?” said Padra. “I’ve no idea.” From respect, he didn’t ask why Fir wanted candles when the whole future of the island was at stake, but he found the question irritating. “I’ll go down and see what Husk is up to. Don’t stop praying, Fir. And pray for Urchin: the Heart alone knows where he is and what’s happening to him. I still expect to find him two paces behind me, waiting for orders.”

The sun rose higher on a fair, bright day. From their colonies all over the island, the animals gathered: families with their infants carried or led by the paw, little knots of young females whispering together about the males while the males showed off, and pretended not to notice them. Elderly creatures leaned on the shoulders of the young. Young tower animals, like Needle, who had been given the day off, ran out to meet their friends and families. Even the kitchen workers, who were still busy, popped out for a moment in their aprons to greet their friends. They would be allowed to join in the celebrations. Only adults worked in the kitchen on feast days, taking turns to join the fun.

Emerging from the woods, they gasped. The young ones stared in breathtaken astonishment. The old stopped saying that feasts these days were nothing like feasts in the old days, and shook their heads slowly in wonder. All of them wondered and whispered about the great generosity of Captain Husk.

From every turret of Mistmantle Tower, pennants fluttered in the wind. Banners hung from windows. A cloth of purple and gold had been spread over the throne, with a canopy high above it. All around it were splendid new Threadings. The feast had not yet been spread, but fresh, white cloths covered the tables, garlanded with spring flowers and branches. Most of the young squirrels ran into the treetops for a good view, and a few climbed onto the scaffolding and were sharply ordered down again. Then they all fell silent.