Urchin and the Heartstone (11 page)

“He’s a good king, and I’m his companion,” she reminded him sternly. A gleaming pebble caught her eye and she snatched it up, but it lay motionless in her paw and she threw it away in disappointment. “I have to go now. I need to report to the king.”

As Gorsen and Lumberen marched off to the tower, and two pretty young hedgehogs pointed to Gorsen and giggled shyly, Needle hurried up to the Throne Room to find Docken on watch at the door. He didn’t look at all like an animal on guard duty. His spines were as untidy as ever and he was bending to listen to Hope, who was standing on his hind legs and jigging with excitement.

“So can I go, Dad, please, please,
please
?” Hope was saying. “Mummy says I can if you say yes.”

“You want to go to the waterfall?” said Docken uncertainly. “You don’t know about waterfalls.”

“I will when I’ve been there,” pleaded Hope. “Please, Fingal’s coming, and he’s sort of almost grown up, and he’s Captain Padra’s brother, and Fingal knows all about waterfalls, he used to be one, I mean, he used to live in one, he told me about it and there’s a boat there and he can row it, and we’re all going to look for the Heartstone,
please
?”

“I didn’t know you were coming, Hope,” said Needle, feeling a little put out. This was a serious attempt to find the Heartstone, and she had thought that only she and Sepia were going. Fingal must have invited himself and Hope. Typical. Hope was sweet, but he was an infant and needed looking after, and Fingal would only mess about in the water and forget what they were there for.

“Are you going, Needle?” asked Docken.

“Oh, yes. Me and Sepia,” she said. “But we might be away for more than one day, and we’ll be in caves most of the time. It could get cold, and he’s very young.”

“Oh, but if you’re going, Needle, it’s all right,” said Docken. “You’re a safe pair of paws.”

“I’ll tell Mommy!” cried Hope in delight and scuttled away in the wrong direction, dangerously near the top of a steep stair. Needle rushed after him in time to see a curled-up ball of hedgehog spin to the bottom of the stairs, land, and lie still.

“I’m coming!” she yelled, but before she could move, the spines uncurled. Hope’s nose appeared first, twitching.

“Oops,” he said.

“Are you all right?” gasped Needle.

“Oh, yes,” said Hope, and began the labored climb back up the stairs. “I forgot which way around I was.”

“He usually gets it right,” said Docken, and Needle hoped it was true. Having satisfied herself that Hope had survived unharmed as usual, Needle asked to see the king and curtsied her way into the Throne Room.

As she straightened up, she knew that important matters were being discussed. Padra, Arran, and Fir were with the king, and something about the grave atmosphere in the room made her feel she’d better hurry.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting, I’ll be quick,” she gabbled. Breathlessly she rattled out her plans to Crispin, who stood up and held out both paws to her. Fir, Arran, and Padra stood, too, as it wasn’t polite to sit when the king was standing.

“Don’t stay longer than one night,” said Crispin, taking her paws. “If you do, I’ll send search parties. I don’t want to lose anyone else. Take warm cloaks, and provisions from the kitchen.” He took a beech leaf from a heap at his right paw and marked it with his claw. “There’s my token.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, and by the way, Tay was about very early this morning,” said Needle quickly. “At least, I think it was Tay. There was a light moving in her gallery.”

“Thank you, Needle,” said Crispin. “I know all about that. You may go.”

They waited until the door had closed behind her. The solemnity had lifted while she was there, but it settled again now.

“Brother Fir,” said Crispin, “please go on with what you were saying.”

“It’s all very simple and easy to understand,” said Fir, folding his paws. “Priests generally do keep pretty well, but we don’t last forever. All that cleansing of the dungeon, you know, it had to be done thoroughly and it rather wore me out. It really is time I began to train a new priest. I would have done it before, you know, but…” His shoulders lifted and fell in a heartfelt sigh. “…all the young animals I had in mind for priests have gone on to do other things—becoming captains and kings, that sort of nonsense. So, though we shall need a new priest, I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest clue who it will be. We need a new lawyer and historian, too, for when poor old Tay finally wears out…but I’ve found one of those, if Your Majesty approves.”

“Who is it?” asked Crispin.

“Squirrel called Whittle,” said Fir. “Already knows all the stories inside out, and has a head for law.”

“Whittle?”
said Arran. “He’s as scatty as a sandfly. He’d leave his tail up a tree if it weren’t attached to him.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Fir. “But I’ll help him organize his thinking. He does think, that’s the main thing.” He rubbed his right ear tuft. “What’s next?”

Crispin reported on the Whitewings prisoners. Tay was determined to visit them, and Crispin usually went with her. He had been to their apartments earlier that morning. Lord Treeth refused to speak to anyone except to scream insults and complain about the food, and much of the furniture had been removed to save him the trouble of hurling it at the door.

“He’s made a terrible mess of Aspen’s old room,” said Crispin, “but Scatter really looks forward to our visits. I think she’s lonely.”

“I think she’s a designing little schemer,” said Arran.

“She may be both,” said Padra.

Appointments to the Circle were discussed next. One or both of Gorsen and Docken could be promoted soon, perhaps with a view to becoming a captain one day. The search for Juniper was not encouraging. Russet and Heath, the squirrel brothers from the Circle, were in charge, but there was no sign of him from one end of the island to the other.

“Apple could help,” said Crispin. “Then she might stop trying to marry me off.”

“Not a chance,” said Padra.

“Why doesn’t she just round up all the eligible females and parade them past you?” said Arran.

“That’s exactly what she is doing,” said Crispin. “Padra, Arran, find something useful to do and stop laughing. And think of this.” His face brightened into warmth and excitement. “The moles that we sent to Whitewings to rescue Urchin must be halfway there by now! I wish he knew about them.”

“He soon will,” said Padra.

Granite looked Urchin slowly up and down, from the tufts of his ears to his hind claws. The cool breeze from the sea ran through Urchin’s damp fur, but he tensed his limbs and forced himself not to shiver, not while Granite was inspecting him as if he wanted to cut him into little pieces and was choosing where to start. He may as well stand up to him.

“Why do they call you Lord Marshal, Granite?” he asked.

“Why are you still only a page, you scrawny little freak?” growled Granite. “We’re marching to the Fortress. It’s a long way, so we keep a smart pace. It’ll do you good. As a great favor, I advise you to mind how you speak to King Silverbirch when we get there.” He jerked the shackles so that Urchin staggered. “And,” he added as they marched off, “look out for Smokewreath. There’s a squirrel to be afraid of. But if you meet Smokewreath you won’t have anything to fear! Not for long!” With a harsh laugh and another jerk at the shackles, he marched Urchin up the steep steps in the rock.

The sudden exercise after his days and nights in the boat made Urchin’s legs and paws ache, and Granite forced a fast pace. At least when they reached the top of the cliff, he’d be able to take a good look at the island.
Know your territory.
Looking for anything that could help him escape would distract his attention from armed animals, chains, and aching paws. Finally, reaching the top, with sweat clinging to his fur, he took his first good look at Whitewings.

For miles ahead it seemed almost completely flat—there were mountains in the far distance, but nowhere was there change in the landscape to offer a hiding place. The woods seemed to be made up of thin, delicate trees with small leaves—birches, mostly, with pines and larches, but they didn’t look healthy. They were starved, with thin, papery leaves and sparse needles, and there seemed to be a fine pale film of gray dust over everything. He wasn’t sure what it was, but the dust and the spindly trees made the landscape more like winter than late summer. He could see scrawny purple heather, dark creeping bilberry, and broom, which would have to do if he needed a place to hide. Far off, grim columns of smoke lifted lazily into the sky.

For this bleak place, he had been dragged away from Mistmantle.

Inland the landscape had a touch more greenness, but it was still flatter and grayer than anything he could have imagined. Nobody was harvesting anything; but there wasn’t much to harvest. The guards were surly and spoke little, even to each other, so there wasn’t much to be learned by listening to them. Nervous-looking animals scurrying past stopped now and again to look, point at him and whisper, but at a glare from Granite they tucked their heads down and scurried away.

“We don’t have any of that Mistmantle nonsense here,” said Granite. “Keep 'em busy, keep 'em scared. Shall I tell you what we do if they don’t behave themselves?”

Urchin didn’t answer. Granite went on, “We have good archers here. The best.” Urchin could hear the grim smile in his voice. “Dead shots.” He turned sharply on a hedgehog in the guard, and Urchin noticed for the first time that the animal seemed close to tears. “That’s right, isn’t it?” Granite was growling now. His lips were almost touching the hedgehog’s ear. “Dead shots, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Lord Marshal.” The hedgehog trembled.

Granite straightened up with a snort of satisfaction. “Shot his brother yesterday, didn’t I?” he said. “Cheeky little runt told me he wasn’t well enough to work, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir,” whispered the hedgehog wretchedly.

“Yes, and I happened to agree with him,” said Granite. “So I shot him myself. Gave what was left to Smokewreath. That’s what we do here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” said the hedgehog, biting his lip against tears.

Rage seethed in Urchin.
I
wish I really could be the deliverer of this island. It needs delivering.

“Move, Freak,” said Granite with a rough push.

When they had marched so long that Urchin was almost asleep on his paws, they stopped and passed around flasks of water, which tasted stale and metallic. More marching, more dust, more aching limbs. Occasionally animals passed, some pushing barrows, glancing at him with curiosity and darting away when they saw Granite. The mountains seemed farther than ever, and he was hungry. Faraway and to the left on high ground was a larch wood, which might be a useful place to hide, but he soon found that they were marching toward it. The Fortress must be in there somewhere. Although he was almost too tired to care, he tried to think of what he’d say to King Silverbirch.

A squirrel plodded past, dragging something on a rough hurdle of woven sticks. Urchin craned his neck to see what was on it.

“Keep going!” barked Granite, but Urchin had seen what lay on the hurdle. It was a dead sparrow, its beak open in death and its wings half spread as if it had been struggling to fly. Dark, dry blood stained the feathers.

“Curious?” said Granite. “It’ll be for Smokewreath. He needs dead things for his craft. It’s wonderful what he can do with a dead body; just ask that hedgehog. We don’t hold with your priests here—we don’t have any doddery old squirrel hobbling about and saying prayers. We have a sorcerer. His magic keeps the king powerful and the island safe, and helps us to find silver. The more magic he does in that little chamber of his, the stronger we are. Now, there’s the Fortress.”

Urchin looked ahead through the slender tree trunks. Beyond them were dark walls, battlements, and something that flashed in the sun.

“There it is,” said Bronze proudly. “The Fortress. Better than that fancy tower on Mistmantle. This is a real stronghold.”

They marched upward through circle after circle of trees and, as the clash of guards presenting arms grew louder, the Fortress came into view. Urchin craned his neck. A high, square building squatted on the hill, built from the pale timbers of birch trunks and layers of dark gray stone veined with white and silver. Thin silver wires snaked around tree trunks and twisted into patterns in the slate-gray roof. Silver crisscrossed the windows and twined up the lintels of the doors that hedgehogs heaved open for them. They looked thick and solid, those doors. The hedgehogs stood back, saluted Granite, and stared at Urchin.

“Say good-bye to the sunlight, Freak,” muttered Granite, and led Urchin down a corridor so gray and dark that, after having been in the daylight, Urchin felt he was being swallowed into blackness. When his eyes had adjusted, he was astonished at how crowded the corridor looked, until he realized that he was looking at reflections. Mirrors lined the corridor so that in the grim light there were more guards, more Granites, more Trails, and Bronzes, everywhere he looked.

Urchin wished he had a sword, if only as something to hold on to. He must be brave, or at least look brave, for as long as he possibly could. In the mirrors he could see Bronze, standing with his shoulders squared and an infuriating sneer on his face as if he were copying Granite. Come to think of it, he’d been shadowing Granite all the way.