Urchin and the Heartstone (24 page)

“But we thought all the tunnels were guarded,” said Juniper.

“They are,” said Lugg. “All the ones they know about. So I made some more. That’s what kept me. Mind, them old tunnels under the sea! Beautiful arches, lovely work. Good as the tower. Just big enough for small squirrels. We’ll have to get back that way.”

Urchin and Juniper exchanged glances. Neither of them much liked the idea of several days traveling far underground, but it was the only way back to Mistmantle.

“Lovely work, in these Whitewings tunnels,” went on Lugg, and nodded his thanks at the young hedgehogs who laid baskets of bread and fruit at their paws. “They’ve got lovely tunnels all over this island, but they’ve dug too many of 'em. Not good for the land. Weakens it. And what’s more, as I just told Larch and the rest of them, there’s a whacking great fault line right under this Fortress. Takes a mole to find things like that. I had to work out the tunnel network, make a few byways of my own, not get caught, and all without the whole lot caving in. Nice work, though I shouldn’t be the one to say it.” He gave a smile of satisfaction as he warmed his paws on his cup of steaming cordial. “Very neat.”

Urchin was enjoying the clean feel of his fur now that the dust was washed out. Lugg passed him a towel.

“I reckon we’ll have a chance to get you out when winter really bites and it’s too hard for mining,” he said. “Then time will be tight, because we have to get you both out before Smokewreath claims his kill. Can’t promise, mind. Do my best.” He stretched and smiled approvingly as musicians piped up music and Larchlings joined paws to dance. Urchin watched and wondered whether he was supposed to invite someone to dance or whether somebody would invite him, and what he would do if he did have to dance, because he didn’t know the steps. And besides, he was still damp. Then he felt whiskers against his face. Cedar was behind him, bending to speak.

“You and Juniper, come with me,” she said quietly. “There are things you need to know.”

Still holding their cups, Urchin and Juniper followed. Cedar wove her way through the crowd, up a few shallow steps cut into the rock, and through a doorway so low that he had to duck before he found himself in a small, round chamber with an arching ceiling, decorated with the branches of larch trees.

Even before he saw Brother Flame, he knew they stood in a priest’s chamber. It had the quiet, prayerful feel of a priest’s room. Baskets of leaves were stacked on top of each other, neat rows of tiny bottles stood on a ledge, and a low fire murmured in the hearth. Lanterns glowed gently.

Brother Flame welcomed them to the hearth with an outstretched paw, and they sat closely around the warmth. A small wooden table stood by the fireplace, empty but for a small polished box, and Urchin was wondering what might be in it when Brother Flame sat down and said quietly, “Cedar. You should tell this.”

The power in the moment reached Urchin. It was solemn and significant. His ears twitched.

Cedar opened the small box and held it out to him so that he saw a woven bracelet, old, and a little worn-looking. It looked as if it might be made of squirrel fur, but—and Urchin’s heart beat a little faster as he looked more closely—it was pale fur. It might have darkened a little with age and wear, but other than that, it would be as pale as his own. She laid it on the floor in front of him, her paws shaking a little.

Urchin shivered. The intensity of the moment hummed and pulsed around him. His life was about to be changed, deeply, and forever. His heart told him so.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPIA HAD JUST WOKEN UP
.

“That’s where it is!” she said.

For days she had been nagging herself about a missing cloak. She couldn’t think where it would be, or exactly where she’d had it last. She hadn’t missed it before. But now there were mornings of bright white frost and cold winds that made her long for her warm green cloak. She had gone to her nest thinking of it, wishing she could spread it over the moss and leaves as the nights grew colder. And, as often happened with Sepia, she had slept deeply and woken early, knowing the answer to her problem.

“It’s still in the song cave,” she said. She had left it there after the night when Hope was missing. She sprang up, fluffing her fur for warmth. Her winter coat was growing in thickly and she was glad of it, but she thought of Urchin and hoped he was warm.

It would be lonely, going to the song cave and back by herself. It wasn’t that she was worried by Gorsen’s warnings about the caves—she’d been playing and singing there for years without harm—it was more that she’d become used to having company. Needle might come with her. At this time in the morning she was usually on the beach searching for the Heartstone, so Sepia bounded down to the shore, where Needle and Fingal appeared to be having an argument. Sepia found a rock to perch on until they’d finished.

Fingal was saying that he couldn’t see why Crispin shouldn’t be crowned, Heartstone or not, and they could always have another celebration when Urchin got home; Needle insisted that tradition was important, and they needed the Heartstone to prove that Crispin was the true king. Fingal rolled in the sand and said that anybody with half an eye and most of a brain could see that Crispin was the true king, while Sepia watched the pattern made on the sand by the waves. Apple came to join her, and as usual they tried to reassure each other that Urchin would be all right, and would come home. Apple wondered out loud about Captain Lugg, who had suddenly gone away again, and his poor wife, Mistress Cott, “she’s as good a mole as ever popped up, she says he’s away on the king’s business, but if she knew what business, she wasn’t saying, and maybe she wasn’t allowed to say, you never knew, did you, poor Mistress Cott, isn’t she brave.” Finally, when Apple had to stop for breath, Sepia hopped down and explained what she wanted to do.

“Oh, are you going to the cave with the waterslide?” said Fingal. “Can I come?”

“You’ll only play on the slide all the time,” said Needle.

“Yes, please!” said Fingal.

“Oh,” said Needle, remembering, “I promised Mum I’d help line the nests for winter this morning.”

“Tomorrow would do,” said Sepia, “though I have to rehearse the choir then. Do you think we could take them all to the song cave, if their parents are all right about it? They’ll love the song cave, and they’d sound so good in there. I’d love for them to hear themselves in there. D’you think we could take them with us?”

“Gorsen says it’s dangerous,” said Needle, “but you’ve been there loads of times, haven’t you?”

“Oh, Gorsen just says that,” said Fingal. “I think he wants to keep the caves to himself. A romantic little meeting place to impress his girlfriends.”

Padra had never liked heights, but Fir’s turret was different. Its airy simplicity, its neat hearth, and its sense of holiness never failed to quiet him. Having escorted Fir up the stairs, he knelt to light the fire in the grate himself and sent the young squirrel Whittle to bring breakfast from the kitchens. He pulled a stool to the fireside for Fir.

“Heart bless you, Padra,” said Fir, settling himself down and stretching his paws to the warmth. “I’m not quite in my dotage, but it’s very gratifying to have my fire lit by a captain.”

“Fir,” said Padra in exasperation, “can you explain to me about the mists? I don’t understand at all. They’re supposed to protect the island, but they just make it impossible for us to go to the help of our own.”

Fir closed his eyes, pressed his paws together, and rocked gently back and forward on the stool, not even noticing when Whittle returned with the breakfast. Padra was about to ask if he was all right, when he opened his eyes, shook himself, and said, “The Heart is wise and Mistmantle is small. Small and beautiful. The mists were put there to protect us from attack. Our own animals who leave by water cannot return by water. That means that exiles who brought war and misery to our island cannot recruit an army to return and do it all again. But the mists are not there to keep out the valiant and the true. Such as Lugg with his tunnels. Lugg has left twice. Nobody has ever left three times and returned. It may not be possible. But nobody fully understands the mists, let alone the Heart that gave them.”

“But Husk was able to bring in mercenaries,” Padra pointed out. “The mists let those ships through.”

“Hm,” said Fir. “That does puzzle me. Why do some ships get here, and most don’t? The Heart knows. And the Heart knows Mistmantle can’t live entirely cut off from the rest of the world, whatever it consists of.”

“But why Whitewings, of all places?” said Padra. “Since Husk’s time in power, we’ve had more of their ships than we used to.”

“Hm,” said Fir. “The Heart knows. But what a delightful breakfast, Whittle! That bread does smell delicious.”

“And I brought fish for Captain Padra,” said Whittle eagerly. He hadn’t been sure how much fish to bring, so he’d made sure there was plenty. He quickly removed a squirrel hair from the butter and hoped they hadn’t seen it.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Whittle,” said Padra, noticing that Whittle had brought enough fish for a whole family of otters. “Perhaps I can take some to Lady Arran.”

“And how is she?” inquired Fir, pouring hot cordials into cups.

“Cross, and longing for it all to be over,” said Padra with a shrug. “Mother Huggen says it’s twins, but Arran won’t believe that till she sees it. Lovely hot cordial, Whittle.” When he had finished breakfast he wandered down to the Spring Gate and offered fish to Arran, but she turned uneasily in the nest and said she didn’t want it.

“Go away,” she muttered, so he did. When he had gone, she sent for Mother Huggen.

Leaving the tower, Gleaner found a door to bang, and banged it loudly, twice, hoping it would wake somebody up. She’d argued herself breathless with those guards and they wouldn’t let her near Lord Treeth. They even said she wouldn’t want to see what Lord Treeth had done to Lady Aspen’s chamber, and she had hotly replied that they didn’t want to see what she’d do to Lord Treeth, either.

She hurried around the tower, ignoring Mother Huggen and Lugg’s daughter, Moth, who were bustling toward the Spring Gate. As soon as Lord Treeth was allowed out of that chamber, she’d be waiting for him.