OPE HAD PEERED SHORTSIGHTEDLY DOWN from every window in turn, and was now sniffing his way happily around Fir’s round turret. The airy little room smelled of berry cordial, fresh raspberries, pinecones, herbs, and candles, all of which he managed to find. It was a simple room with an air of soft breeze, sea, and prayer about it, and had very little for him to bump into. With some difficulty Hope climbed onto a stool beneath a window and smelled lavender and rock roses as they tickled his face from the window box.
“I have some pebbles by the hearth,” said Fir. “You may like to play with them.”
Fir bent stiffly and picked up a basket that glowed with smooth stones, sea-washed; some white and flecked with silver; some green marble; some the palest pink; some the colors of peaches and apricots. Hope sniffed, pressed his face against the cool pebbles, and dug his paws into the basket, turning the stones over and rubbing them against his cheek. He laid them out in patterns and attempted, not very successfully, to build with them.
“We are to have visitors,” said Fir, glancing out of the window. “Hm. They had no easy passage, and the mists may have held them off. They must have been most determined to get here, and somehow the mists let them through. There’s Urchin carrying their cloaks. And dear Apple, and a young squirrel being terribly ill. Hm.” He pulled a few straggling stems of thyme from the window box, wrapped them around newly cut flowers for Hope’s mother, and watched very keenly as Hope pushed the pebbles about. Hope seemed content to play all morning, and Fir made no attempt to hurry him.
“Please, sir,” said Hope, after saying nothing at all for a while, “I heard somebody talking about the Halfstone of Mistmantle. I don’t know what it is, and the pebbles made me think of it again.”
Fir chuckled softly. “The Heartstone, Hope,” he said. “The Heartstone of Mistmantle. It looks like any old pebble, just like one of these, but it has a most special quality. It is a gift of the Heart to the island. The Heartstone can only be held in the paw of a rightful ruler or priest of Mistmantle. Nobody else can hold on to it, unless they carry it in a bag or a box, of course. That makes it a vital part of the coronation. At King Crispin’s coronation I will place it in his paw, and the whole island will know he is their true king.”
There was a knock at the door. “That’s Urchin’s knock,” said Fir. “Come in, Urchin.”
He turned to Urchin with a twinkling smile of welcome, but Urchin thought he looked old and tired. Fir had seemed older and slower ever since the struggle with Husk, as if it had drained the strength from him.
“The king requests you to come to the Throne Room, Brother Fir,” said Urchin with a bow.
“Then tidy up the pebbles, the two of you,” said Fir. “Pop them in the basket. Urchin, tip some water into that bowl so that Hope can wash his face. There’s nothing like a young hedgehog among the berries for making a mess. And I notice, Urchin”—he glanced at Urchin with a lift of the eyebrows—“that King Crispin keeps his visitors indoors on such a bright and beautiful day.”
“Yes, Brother Fir,” said Urchin. Fir might be looking old, but he still didn’t miss anything. He knew that if Crispin kept his visitors indoors, it was because he wanted secrecy.
“Hm. I see,” said Brother Fir. “All tidy now, Hope?”
Gorsen of the Hedgehog Host stood on duty outside the Throne Room, his fur gleaming, bowing deeply to Brother Fir before opening the door. The Throne Room was a simpler, airier place than it had been in the last days of King Brushen. Sunshine brightened it. Crispin stood by the window, his deep red fur gleaming in the light; Padra beside him. The sun was so strong that Urchin found he had to squint, and could hardly see Crispin’s face. It was much easier to look at the animals from Whitewings, who now looked well groomed. Food and wine had been set out for them on a table, but they still looked so solemn that Urchin felt he must have done something wrong as soon as he hopped in.
Needle stood dutifully by the empty fireplace, her paws folded and the satchels neatly stacked behind her. Urchin bowed to the king and, as usual when he wasn’t sure what to do, glanced at Padra for a prompt.
“Brother Fir, Urchin,” said Padra, holding out a paw to them, “come and meet our visitors. This is Lord Treeth of Whitewings.”
The lordly hedgehog with the silver chain bowed stiffly to Fir and inclined his head toward Urchin.
“Urchin, Companion to the King?” he inquired gravely.
Urchin bowed. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Lord Treeth is a distinguished Lord of Whitewings, and the Ambassador of King Silverbirch,” Padra went on. “And attending him on his embassy are his highly trusted attendants. Bronze…”
The stocky, short-spined hedgehog nodded briefly at Urchin with something that was half a grin and half a grimace. He looked to Urchin like an animal who could hold his own in a fight.
“…and Trail,” said Padra. The older female squirrel gave a very straight-backed curtsy with her chin up. Urchin felt as if she were inspecting him to see if his claws were clean.
“…and Scatter,” finished Padra. The smallest squirrel managed a wobbly curtsy and a brave attempt at a smile, and Urchin smiled back with sympathy. She still looked seasick.
“Lord Treeth,” said Crispin. “Your story concerns us all, but in particular it concerns Urchin. May I ask you to repeat it? Be seated, all of you.”
The visitors settled themselves on stools, Urchin and Needle on the floor. Glancing up, Urchin saw that now that Crispin was seated with the back of the throne behind him, his face could be seen very clearly. He looked sharper and more attentive than ever. With great dignity Lord Treeth straightened his back, placed his empty cup on the table, and began.
“Whitewings has always been a peaceful island, and a fair one. The brightness of silver sparkles in its waterfalls and gleams in its rivers, and mines of silver lie hidden in its depths. Swans dwell on our lakes and shores. On the rare occasions when our ships have breached the Mistmantle mists, we have been glad to trade with you. In the past, Mistmantle animals have married into Whitewings.
“Suddenly this year, in the spring, we found ourselves with a wave of newcomers from Mistmantle, seeking to live in Whitewings. They told us of a war on Mistmantle that had caused them to flee for their lives, and we took them in. I am forced to admit that we have regretted it. We welcomed them and made them at home on our island, expecting them to be like all the Mistmantle animals we had ever met—pleasant, helpful, good-natured. But these animals were not at all like anyone else from your island. They were loud and boastful, swaggering about the island, showing off, unwilling to work except for their own benefit. They were unfriendly, huddling together, keeping their own company, avoiding the rest of us.”
Urchin could feel Trail’s eyes on him as if he were to blame for all this. He wanted to squirm.
“This was bad enough,” said Lord Treeth. “When some of them were caught stealing from our stores we put them in prison cells for a time, to teach them that we would not tolerate thieving. When they were released, they stirred up their companions to wreak mayhem on our island. They live as outlaws, waging war upon us.” He turned to look gravely at Urchin. In fact, in the pause that followed, all of the visitors seemed to be looking at him.
“I’m very sorry to hear it, sir,” he said, wondering what it had to do with him.
“By this time,” said Lord Treeth, “we had realized that these animals were exiles from Mistmantle, following the downfall of Captain Husk. The exiles had brought us violence and unrest, but they also brought something most precious. They brought hope. They brought us the most important news there is.”
He paused again. In the power of the moment, Urchin stayed silent.
“We have a prophecy on our island,” said Lord Treeth, “so old that nobody knows how long ago it was spoken, but it has been passed on through generations. Far, far away in the past, it was said that a time would come when the creatures of Whitewings would be in great need. A squirrel would come to our help, and be the island’s deliverer. This deliverer would be…”
He paused again, as if he wanted to be sure of everybody’s perfect attention. Urchin’s fur bristled. He felt he knew what was coming.
“…a Marked Squirrel,” said Lord Treeth. “By that, we mean a very rare type of squirrel, hardly ever seen on these islands.”
Urchin already knew what Lord Treeth would say. Heat burned in his face.
“A squirrel pale as honey,” Lord Treeth went on, “a squirrel, Urchin, like yourself. When the Mistmantle animals told us of such a squirrel on their island—a Marked Squirrel who had already crossed the sea to bring King Crispin home—we felt hope. The Mistmantle exiles had brought us chaos, but they had also shown us where we could find deliverance.”
He was no longer looking at Urchin. He was looking past him toward Crispin, as if this must be settled between king and ambassador.
“And so,” finished Lord Treeth, his deep voice resonating through the throne room, “King Silverbirch beseeches the help of King Crispin. We know you are an honorable king. We have heard of your courage and nobility. We implore you to send a small band, only a small band, of warriors to our aid. But also, because our need is so great, and only one creature can help us, we ask that the Marked Squirrel may come with them. King Silverbirch has sent you tokens of his great esteem.”
He waved a paw to Trail and Bronze, who opened the gray satchels. The boxes they took out were painted in purple and silver, and as they lifted the lids, something sparkled. Urchin almost gasped at the beauty of the gifts. There were silver and gold nets filled with hazelnuts and tiny apples, a green sword belt embroidered with crimson, and bracelets woven of the finest strands of twisted silver. Finally, from a nest of crimson velvet folds, Lord Treeth lifted a shining sword and held it high across both paws.
Urchin’s eyes widened. The hilt of the sword was so intricately worked that it could have been made from threads or grasses, but every twist and every fiber was a strand of pale silver. Lord Treeth turned to him and, to Urchin’s wide-eyed astonishment, held out the sword.
“A gift for the Marked Squirrel,” he said. “May you use it in the service of your own king and ours.”
It was so beautiful that Urchin could hardly look away from it, but though he wanted it with all his heart, he couldn’t extend even a claw toward it. It can’t be for me. I’m not meant to accept. Padra’s paw was on his arm.
“Captain Padra, please take Urchin’s sword for him,” said Crispin. “Lord Treeth, I am confident that Urchin will never use a sword dishonorably.”
“Thank you, Lord Treeth,” said Urchin, and with effort, he looked away from the sword. Something in Crispin’s face warned him to say no more.
“The moles will escort you to your chambers,” said Crispin, making it clear that the discussion was over. “You will want to rest after your journey, and you will eat with me here this evening. Needle, my Companion, call Gorsen in, please.”
Gorsen marched in so smartly that Needle had to dodge out of his way. He bowed impressively.
“Gorsen, make sure our guests have all they need,” said Crispin. “And send me Docken.”
With great courtesy, Gorsen ushered the visitors from the room. The small squirrel, Scatter, still didn’t look well, and Urchin felt sorry for her.
Presently, Docken arrived. He was a bit disheveled, but he always looked like that. Mistress Thripple could do wonderful things with every sort of thread and fabric, but not even she could make her husband look well groomed.
“Take over guard duty, please, Docken,” said Padra. “Absolutely nobody is to be admitted.”
“Understood, sir,” said Docken, and took his place outside the door. Padra closed the door after him and leaned against it, looking across the room into Crispin’s eyes.
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” said Crispin. “But let’s hear from all of you. Brother Fir?”