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?
“Heart keep me,” he prayed. There was nobody else to help him.
Bronze was tipping pawfuls of shriveled berries into broad leaves. “That’s his,” he said, nodding at Urchin, who had just enough freedom of movement to feed himself. “Who’s been at the fresh water, then?”
Trail, who had bent to give Urchin his food, drew herself up. “Exactly what are you suggesting?” she asked icily.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Bronze. “I’m saying. There’s less fresh water than there should be. I’ve been rationing it, I should know.”
“Then you’re not rationing it very well, are you?” said Trail.
“Well, if I took it, I wouldn’t be saying anything about it, would I?” growled Bronze. “There’s only you, me, and him, and he can’t reach anything much. And there’s an apple missing, and some of that bread from Mistmantle, and I haven’t been eating it.”
Urchin watched with intense interest, saying nothing. If they squabbled, they’d forget to watch him. He wriggled, flexed his paws, and stopped abruptly when Trail turned on him with a glare.
“It’s you, stealing, isn’t it!” she snapped.
“How can he, idiot?” growled Bronze.
“I don’t know how he’s done it, but it was him,” she insisted. “You don’t watch him properly when it’s your turn. I have to do everything myself.”
“And I suppose you do all the rowing yourself, too?” snarled Bronze. As Trail spun round to face him, she blocked Urchin from his view.
Urchin could get his paw close enough to his mouth to eat. Could he bite through his bonds? Trail had moved now, and Bronze was looking over his shoulder to continue the argument. Stretching and twisting, Urchin gnawed the rope on his wrist.
“Are you saying I haven’t been watching him?” demanded Bronze.
Trail straightened up. “You’re not watching him now!” she said in triumph, and turned on Urchin. He whipped his wrist away from his mouth, but it was too late.
“What are you up to!” she demanded as she climbed over the rowing bench. “What’s happened here? You verminous freak, you’ve been chewing this!”
“Nice try,” said Bronze, and crouched forward over the oars to talk to him. “Listen, you half-colored freak from an island of idiots, just behave, and you won’t be harmed. You’re supposed to be the deliverer, though you don’t look like delivering much at the moment. Not even yourself. Leave him alone, Trail.”
Urchin gazed out at the land that seemed to come no nearer, and told himself he never should have tried that. Escape was impossible. He should have talked to Trail and Bronze, tried to get at least one of them to be friendly, and urged them to tell him all about Whitewings and about themselves. He might have persuaded them that they’d all live much more happily if they took him back to Mistmantle and stayed there—it was the sort of thing Crispin would have done. He would have made his enemies his friends. What would Crispin have said if he’d seen that pathetic attempt to free himself?
He knew exactly what Crispin would say, and Padra, too. Never mind, Urchin. Put it down to experience.
He made a promise in his heart. I will come back. I will come back to Mistmantle, to my friends and my king. The coast of Whitewings was becoming clearer. He could see cliffs, and a few sparse trees. Looking down to keep the glare from his eyes, he saw a squirrel’s paw on the side of the boat.
He shut his eyes and looked again. Definitely a paw.
“What are you looking at?” demanded Trail.
“A fish or something,” said Urchin. Instinct told him that they should not know about the paw. When he looked again, it had disappeared.
In the tunnels under Whitewings, moles ran whispering, one to the next, and the next, and the next. A message was being hurried underground as far as the round chamber, where Brother Flame was finishing his morning prayers.
“Pardon me, Brother Flame,” said a mole in a low, urgent voice. “Boat sighted. Small one. Here soon. Must be them.”