ITH A GROWL OF GRAVEL, THE BOAT RAN aground on the shores of Whitewings. Guards had already seen them, and armed hedgehogs and squirrels stood in rows on the shore, though it was still barely light. Nobody else was about except two swans bobbing on the water, watching their reflections. They wore something that looked like silver collars, but at such a distance Urchin couldn’t be sure.
Trail and Bronze heaved him to his hind paws. He stretched and rubbed at his wrists as Trail sliced through the bonds, but Bronze held him fast.
“Don’t even think about it,” snarled Bronze, but Urchin had already looked for chances of escape and seen none. There were archers among the guards, so he wouldn’t get far. Dragged through the shallows to the shore, he craned his neck to see farther. Know your territory, Padra would have said. And as Trail and Bronze left him in the care of three guards, two holding his arms and another holding a sword to his throat, he thought he may as well take a good look at the island.
The sands were dull gray, almost white. Ahead of him rose gray and white cliffs so steep that he had to tip back his head and narrow his eyes to look at them. Here and there a straggly bush clung to the cliffside. Some long, shiny twists ran down the cliffs, Urchin thought, and hoped they were freshwater streams until he saw that they were gleaming veins of silver. Here and there was a gaping rocky place that looked like the entrance to a cave—that might be worth remembering. He was trying to see a pathway through the cliffs when he heard a rhythmic clanking of metal that somehow reminded him of Lugg’s guards practicing their drill on Mistmantle, but this was no rehearsal. Soldiers were marching, louder and closer, and their tread was menacing with purpose. He could tell now where the cliff path must be from the sound, and the sunlight flashing from weapons.
“Shackle the prisoner’s paws,” ordered Trail. “The Lord Marshal is coming to escort him to the king.”
“But I’ve only just been untied!” protested Urchin, but nobody was listening to him. Iron shackles were clamped around his forepaws and fastened to the guards’ own wrists, and he was marched across the sands toward the foot of the cliffs. He was trying to keep a count of how many animals carried weapons—too many, in his opinion—but as yet another column appeared from another direction, he gave up trying. How many did it take to arrest one young squirrel? Who did they think he was?
Chained, unarmed, and surrounded by hostile animals, it astonished Urchin how little afraid he was. Everything was so strange, that it seemed to be happening to somebody else, and besides, there wasn’t time to be afraid. The animals marching toward him wore metal breastplates, and several had helmets, some rounded, some oblong, some plain, and some decorated. But the puzzling thing was that everything about these animals—fur, armor, weapons—looked dusty. A thin layer of something like ashes lay over them.
Urchin lifted his chin and marched across the sand with his paws tethered and his head up, determined that if Crispin and Padra could see him, they’d be proud of him. At the foot of the cliff path he was jerked so fiercely to a halt that he just managed to stay on his paws as the guards saluted.
“Stand to attention for the Lord Marshal!” barked a hedgehog.
Down the path marched a broad-shouldered, short-furred squirrel, his face hidden by an enormous metal helmet that made him look far taller than any squirrel should be. It’s only a helmet, thought Urchin, but with its grim slit of a mouthpiece and the jagged, clawlike spikes around its crown, it was meant to be terrifying. The large paw resting on the sword hilt looked hard and powerful. One hind paw, Urchin noticed, looked as if it had been damaged, but it was the only sign of weakness about him.
“Lord Marshal,” began Bronze, “I bring you the—”
“I can see who he is,” growled the Lord Marshal, and with a rough heave he pulled off the helmet.
Urchin’s stomach tightened. Against the sudden weakness in his legs, he forced himself to stand firm. He must not show the fear that gripped him as he looked up into a grinning face that he had hoped never to see again. This was the squirrel who had been at Husk’s right paw, a grim, surly bully with claws that gripped like iron.
“Good morning, Granite,” said Urchin. Heart help me, he thought.
In the early light over Mistmantle, Needle picked her way through wet shells and fronds of brown seaweed to the water’s edge. It was too much to hope that Urchin would be coming back, but she couldn’t help going to look, just in case, before speaking to Crispin about the planned visit to Sepia’s song cave. The boats on watch had not moved, and their lights still glowed. They had been given pennants to fly at any sign of Urchin’s return, but every single one remained furled.
Something at the tower caught her eye. A light glowed in a window, then vanished and presently appeared at the next, as if somebody were carrying a lamp along the corridor. It could be anybody’s light—but Tay’s chamber was on that landing, and the scholarly otter was not often about so early. Tay had supported Husk in the past, and Needle had never trusted her since.
A firm step squelched the wet seaweed behind her. Before she turned around she knew that it must be Gorsen, who always marched like that. Lumberen followed, slipped on a patch of wet weed, and landed heavily on his back.
“You’re out early, Needle!” said Gorsen. “Looking for Urchin?”
“He’s not here,” grunted Lumberen as he picked himself up. Lumberen never said anything clever, but Gorsen said he was very loyal, and certainly he was big and strong enough to be useful in a crisis. Needle’s father said Lumberen had fought heroically against Husk.
“Lumberen and I are guarding the Whitewings prisoners next,” said Gorsen. “Sluggen and Crammen are doing the night watch. Of course, Needle, they’re not really prisoners, they’re under house arrest in very comfortable tower rooms. It makes you wonder what King Brushen would have made of it.” He tilted back his head and took a deep breath of the cool, salt air. “D’you know, Needle—the other animals don’t understand this, but you’re a hedgehog, like me—the Throne Room is a place for quills, not red curly tails. Don’t misunderstand me, King Crispin’s an excellent king and I’m proud to serve him. We never had a better captain than Crispin. But a king? There’s aspects of kingship that only a hedgehog appreciates. He’s doing his best, but it takes spines to be a king.”
“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.
“Better than Mistmantle,” growled Granite. “If you’re lucky, the king will be having one of his good days. If he’s in a rage, you’d better duck. Of course, I don’t want the king to be angry with you.” He put on a soft, purring voice that made the hedgehogs chuckle. “I don’t want the nasty big king to be angry with the poor little freak do I? Well?” he went on, as Urchin didn’t answer. “Do I?”
“I don’t know,” said Urchin. “Do you?”
“Oh, no,” he said, and tweaked the fur on the back of Urchin’s neck. “I want him to give you to Smokewreath!”
They had arrived at a wooden door so polished that it gleamed. Blue stones studded it. Patterns curved and twisted across its surface, and the silver handles gleamed. Squirrels in tunics and helmets guarded it, and Granite nodded at them as he rapped at the door with his sword hilt. The doors creaked open a little from the inside, and Urchin caught a glimpse of a shining floor.
“Urchin the Freak for His Splendor, King Silverbirch,” announced Granite, and gave Urchin a push in the back that sent him stumbling into the High Chamber of King Silverbirch.