Urchin and the Heartstone

by M. I. McAllister

  Crispin took her paws in his. “Of course it’s not your fault, Needle,” he said, but she didn’t feel comforted. She looked to see where Brother Fir was and what he was doing, and saw him alone at the end of the jetty, the breeze ruffling his pale tunic, one paw raised toward the empty darkness under the stars.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ON’T BELIEVE A WORD THEY SAID,” grumbled Lugg. “He didn’t go of his own will. He was took.”

  The captains had gathered in the Throne Room. Needle had followed them and nobody told her to go, so she stayed.

  “Needle, did the other Whitewings animals try to persuade him to go?” asked Crispin.

  “Not when I was there,” she said. “We just chatted and had fun, and somebody suggested we should go back to the jetty to see the sunset. I can’t remember whose idea it was, but Scatter said somebody should tell you where we were. I was tired of Bronze showing off and Scatter giggling, and Urchin was happy to look after them, so I thought I may as well…may as well…leave him to it. I’m sorry. Lugg’s right. He wouldn’t have gone without your permission.”

  “Needle,” said Crispin, and knelt beside her, “none of this is your fault. Can you tell me why you stayed so long with us in the Throne Room? It was because Lord Treeth kept you talking.”

  “That was a trick,” said Lugg. “Gave them time to get our Urchin away. Our Urchin’s been took. If you’d stayed with him, Needle, they would have took you, too.”

  Crispin walked away and leaned against a windowsill, facing them.

  “We may hope for the best, but we have to act for the worst,” he said firmly. “We can’t trust Lord Treeth and Scatter, but they may be innocent and are still our visitors. They are to be kept in their chambers and guarded until we have Urchin home. Keep the ship’s crew under guard, too.”

  “Strange, that,” said Padra. “Lord Treeth is a very important animal. If this was a plot to take Urchin away, why was he left behind?”

  “To make trouble,” said Lugg.

  “He won’t get the chance,” said Crispin. “We’ll have Gorsen in charge of his guard. Because we can’t leave by water and return by water, following by boat isn’t possible. Lugg, what can you tell me of the tunnels?”

  “We can reach Whitewings that way, Your Majesty,” said Lugg. “Been in 'em myself. Not all the way to Whitewings, but my father took me down there and taught me the ways of 'em. Long journey, though.”

  “How long?” asked Crispin.

  “Six days and nights. Maybe seven, even eight. Depends on the moles and the route, Your Majesty. There’s two of 'em.”

  “I believe it’s only three or four days by boat,” said Padra, “so Urchin and his captors will be there before them.”

  “Then, Lugg, send moles at once,” said Crispin. “True and trusted moles, six to each route.”

  “Can’t attack Whitewings with a dozen moles, with respect, Your Majesty,” said Lugg.

  “You’re not to attack it,” said Crispin. “I need a small, discreet force to see what’s really happening, and report back. And if Urchin needs rescuing, as I’m sure he will, be fast and sure and rescue him. Take whatever you need from the armory, but without weighing yourselves down. And tell them, Lugg, that I won’t be crowned before they come back, so they won’t miss anything.”

  “We’re assuming that Urchin can get back through mole tunnels,” said Padra.

  “Might be a tight squeeze some places, but he’s not full grown yet,” said Lugg. “And we can dig 'em out a bit wider if necessary. Slow us down a bit, but we’ll get him out. Permission to go, Your Majesty? Get him out before he grows any more?”

  “Go, Lugg,” said Crispin. Lugg bowed smartly and trotted away. “Before anybody else leaves,” said Crispin, drawing himself up, “I have a solemn promise to make in front of witnesses.”

  There was a cold swish of metal as he drew his sword and laid it on the floor before him. Arran stood up and folded her paws. Needle copied her.

  “I swear before you all,” said Crispin, “on all that I love and on my honor as your king, that I will not be crowned until Urchin of the Riding Stars is returned to us alive. If he is not, I will be uncrowned until my death.”

  There was a moment of solemn silence, broken by Fir. “As to that, I think he’ll return alive,” he said. “But you couldn’t be crowned yet anyway, Crispin, not quite thoroughly and properly. The most extraordinary thing has just come to light. The Heartstone is not the Heartstone. It is a fake.”

  Darkness pounded in Urchin’s head. Inside and around him, everything churned and rocked. His eyes wouldn’t open. His mouth was dry with a sour, fusty taste.

  Wherever he was, he was in the wrong place. Damp and chilled, he was lying on something hard. He should be in a dry nest in his chamber at the Spring Gate. He tried to call for help, but couldn’t. Even the effort to open his eyes was too great.

  “You gave him too much,” said a female voice. “You might have done permanent damage.”

  “He’ll be more damaged when King Silverbirch gets him,” growled someone else.

  The rocking went on. Urchin forced his eyes open, and was still in darkness. Flexing chilled, stiff claws, he reached for his sword.

  He hadn’t been wearing a sword. There was nothing there.

  “He’s moving,” said the female. Her voice brought a fuzzy picture into Urchin’s swimming head. He remembered Trail and Bronze—those were the voices he had heard. Where was Needle? And the small squirrel—he remembered helping her into the boat—and then Bronze holding him and forcing a drink between his teeth….

  A hinge creaked, and the sound hurt his head.

  “What are you doing?” growled Bronze.

  “Finding him a blanket,” said Trail. “He mustn’t take ill. We have to get him back alive.”

  “Get one for me too,” said Bronze. “It’s freezing in these mists.”

  The mists! Urchin heaved himself up, struggling against the arms that seized him. He tried to balance, and couldn’t. There was a tightness about his paws as he fought to move, his tail wasn’t balancing him, and as his eyes focused and his dizziness cleared, he knew exactly, wretchedly, how things were. His hind paws and tail were tied, his forepaws were tethered to rings on each side of the boat, and they were deep in the mists.

  If he could get out now, he might be able to swim for it. There was some slack in the ropes holding his front paws. Gathering all his strength, he heaved, struggled, and kicked out with his bound feet at Trail.

  “Vicious little freak!” she snapped. “Bronze, help me!”

  Growling and cursing, Bronze came from the rowing bench to help. Urchin could make out the shape of a sword at his side.

  “Get down, you,” snarled Bronze, with a push that sent Urchin sprawling backward; but the fall brought the sword within reach. Urchin darted a paw at it, but his limbs had grown stiff, and before he could reach the hilt, Trail had whipped the sword from its sheath. She slapped the flat blade onto his wrist with a sting that ran all the way to his shoulder. Gasping with pain, he felt the cold sword point at his throat.

  “It’s a long way to Whitewings, and there’s nobody here to help you,” she said. “You may as well cooperate.” She dropped the sword in front of Bronze. “You should have seen that coming. Good thing I did.”

  Urchin kept very still. Trail was right. He was at their mercy. He put up with her draping a blanket across him as if he were a baby. Bronze had settled down to row again, and each creak and dip of the oars took him farther from Mistmantle.

  “It’s like this,” said Bronze. “You’re a court squirrel, you’re under orders from the king and that otter, you obey orders, right? Well, we’re court animals, too, under orders from King Silverbirch and Lord Treeth, and if they tell us to snatch the freak and get him to Whitewings, that’s what we have to do. Fair enough?”

  Urchin’s mouth felt dry and swollen as he spoke. “My captain and my king,” he croaked, “wouldn’t order me to trick another an
imal and kidnap him.”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Bronze. “You fell for it, didn’t you?”

  I fell for it. It didn’t help to know that. He wondered if they’d missed him yet, and a little brightness entered his misery.

  “They’ll be looking for me,” he said. “They’ll know I’ve gone.”

  “No, they won’t,” said Trail smugly. “Why do you think Scatter isn’t here? She stayed to tell them you came of your own choice, and she’d act it up for all she’s worth. Only thing she’s good for. So they’re not going to send anyone looking for you, are they, not past the mists? They wouldn’t risk never getting back.”

  Urchin didn’t answer. Trail didn’t know what she was talking about. She didn’t know Crispin. The idea of Crispin not doing something was too appalling to think of. If Crispin didn’t do anything, and if he couldn’t escape—and the chances of escape were so small they were ridiculous—he might never get home again.

  Perhaps King Silverbirch would just tell him what they wanted him to do, and he could do it and go home. Unfortunately, that seemed unlikely. All this talk about a Marked Squirrel seemed hollow. They weren’t treating him at all like an honored guest and savior of the island, and Bronze’s words about the king made him so uneasy he hoped he’d only dreamed them.

  He reminded himself that he had left the island by water before, and returned, and that time he had been storm-tossed and nearly wrecked, and hadn’t known where he was going. The Heart that cared for Mistmantle had cared for him, too. He found a quiet place in his own heart, and from that still point inside himself, he called silently for help.

  Great Heart of Mistmantle, keep me, as you kept me before, even beyond the mists. Bring me home. Bring me back to Mistmantle.

  He twisted to look out at the gray water behind him. Was that an animal gliding behind the boat? But it couldn’t be. Just a shadow on the waves. When he looked again, it had gone.

  In the grave silence of the Gathering Chamber of Mismantle Tower, Needle stood with an oval box in her paws. It was a beautiful thing, made of softly glowing pale-pink stone with flecks of silver and gold wavering through it. She had been sent to Fir’s turret to collect it, and it was so important that Heath and Russet, squirrels of the Circle, had been sent with her as an escort.

  “Thank you, Needle,” said Brother Fir, and took off the lid.

  The stone lay in a nest of straw and muslin. It was no bigger than a pebble, smooth, almost heart-shaped, the same color as the box it lay in, with a gleam of gold at its heart. Needle watched Fir lift it from the box.

  It had to be the Heartstone. It had to be. Brother Fir must be wrong to say the Heartstone was a fake. It was too sacred a thing to be tampered with.

  “It looks like the Heartstone to me,” said Crispin. “But I’ve only seen it once, when King Brushen was crowned.”

  “Hm!” said Fir, and tossed it into Padra’s paws. “Catch!”

  Padra caught it by instinct. It lay in his paw, not moving as he looked from the stone to Fir.

  “Give it to Needle,” said Fir.

  Needle wanted to say no, she wouldn’t dare touch the Heartstone, but Padra was already passing it to her with such a grave expression that she didn’t like to argue. She took the stone very carefully in both paws, feeling the eyes of Fir, Arran, Padra, and the long resting on it as she held it. It made her nervous so that her paws shook a little, but it stayed still.

  “That is not the Heartstone,” said Fir. “It is convincingly like the real thing. For a time it even convinced me, and I am the only animal left alive who ever held the real one. But it didn’t feel right in my paw. The weight, the balance, and there is something of a…a…what can I call it? Something that calls to me from the Heartstone, as if it were a living thing. Just to make absolutely sure, I put this one in with a basket of pebbles for that delightful little hedgehog to play with today. He carried it about in his paws and in his mouth, he built with it, he made patterns with it. Never dropped it once. The real Heartstone would have been halfway across the floor as soon as he touched it.”

  “So what’s happened to the real one?” asked Arran.

  “You can be sure Husk was responsible, whatever it was,” said Padra.

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Fir, scratching his ear. “Husk intended to be crowned, but he knew he wouldn’t really be the true king, and so wouldn’t be able to hold on to the Heartstone at his coronation. Wouldn’t do, would it? All those animals packed into the Gathering Chamber, all stretching up on their hind paws to watch, and the Heartstone leaps out of his paw like a frog. Hm? So he had a copy made, and disposed of the real one.”

  “How?” said Crispin. “How can we find it?”

  “I wish I knew,” replied Fir simply. “I know of no power that could destroy the Heartstone, so it must still be somewhere. I only hope it will help us to find it, for there’s no knowing where it is. You’re the king anyway, Crispin. By the laws of the island you have been king since the death of King Brushen, and you were acknowledged as king that very day. That’s what you are, whether or not you’re crowned using the Heartstone.”

  “But I should be,” said Crispin. “It’s the right way. It must be found.”

  “Does that mean we should all go looking for a small stone that could be anywhere?” asked Arran.

  Crispin’s whiskers twitched. “And for whoever made this one,” he said. Fir’s eyes brightened.

  “I hoped you’d think of that,” he said. “It must have taken great skill to make such an excellent copy.”

  In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Needle suddenly felt better than she had since Urchin disappeared. Now she had something to do, something worth doing that would take her mind from worrying about Urchin. In her heart, she made a vow.

  I promise that I will search for the Heartstone, and will never stop searching until I find it

  She’d need a plan. And she’d need other animals to join in. It was time to do some organizing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  N A LITTLE TURRET ROOM IN THE TOWER, Scatter the squirrel stretched up on her hind claws to look down from the window. Nobody had ever told her how beautiful Mistmantle was. How could she ever have imagined this, the changing green woodland, the blue of harebells, the clusters of berries like jewels on the currant bushes, the pale gold shore? What a shame she’d never be able to enjoy it.

  If this was a prison cell, it was a surprisingly nice one. She had expected to be thrown into a dark hole in the ground, but they had locked her into a sunny little room with a bed, a chair, and water and biscuits on a table. When she looked down she could see animals gossiping as they gathered baskets of summer fruit or carried water from the springs. Lord Treeth was in the chamber next door. She had heard him complaining to the guards about it. He had talked about her, too.

  “Scatter is expendable,” he had said. Expendable. She didn’t know what that meant, but she supposed it must be something good. King Crispin had seen through her lies—she had known that might happen, but she had carried out her part anyway. If he had her put to death, she would be dying for Whitewings. So “expendable” must be a nice thing to say about anybody. It was like “expert” and “dependable.” It wouldn’t be so bad being killed, if she was being expert and dependable for her island. She didn’t like the king of Whitewings, but he was still the king.

  Someone knocked sharply at the door. She sprang up, cold and bristling with fear. Oh, they had come for her already! Would she be shot by archers? Or stabbed? She hoped it would be quick. A stern female voice came from outside the door.

  “Scatter of Whitewings,” said the voice, “I am Mistress Tay the otter, historian and lawyer of Mistmantle.”

  A mole voice interrupted. “You can’t speak to the prisoner, Mistress Tay,” said the mole.

  “I can, I may, and I will,” replied Tay. “You may refuse to let me into her cell, but as the authority on our laws, I must inform her of her rights.”

  “Not without
the king’s permission, you don’t,” said the mole. “You’ll have to speak to him.”

  “I fully intend to,” said the otter firmly. “Scatter of Whitewings, you are charged—”

  Scatter pressed her paws hard against the door. “Oh, please,” she called, “please just tell me when they’re going to kill me, and how?”

  To Scatter, the silence seemed to last forever. Then the otter answered, sounding faintly surprised.

  “Kill? This is Mistmantle. We do not have a death sentence. You are charged with deceiving the king and aiding in the abduction of Urchin, Companion to the King. The king orders that you should be given food, water, and shelter, but kept under guard awaiting His Majesty’s decision regarding your case, as under the fourteenth rule of the Circle and Court of King Brooken and the third and fourth orders of the Tower Guard. But we most certainly do not put our prisoners to death. I will now go to the king and seek permission to enter this chamber.”

  No death sentence! Life was wonderful! And so was Mistmantle!

  As darkness gathered, Scatter fell asleep. In the deepest hour of night, in the next chamber, Lord Treeth silently opened the lid of his sea chest.

  “Out you come, Creeper,” he whispered. “We will soon have someone to assist us.”

  Urchin grew utterly sick of the dull, lifting sea. Even when he shut his eyes, he could still see it. He gazed at the horizon for any sign of land or, much better, a ship that might rescue him.

  He didn’t even know why he was wanted on Whitewings and whether they really wanted him to save the island. At least he’d have more idea what was going on when he got there, so when the first faint line of land came into sight, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

  He sat up straighter, scanning the horizon, twitching his ears. Once he got there, he could plan his escape. If he were really lucky, the court would be full of hedgehogs; he could outrun and outclimb any hedgehog easily. But where would he run to on an unknown island?