RCHIN SAT IN THE ROUND, FIRELIT CHAMBER with Juniper at his side and Cedar and Flame facing him. Everything had become very quiet, but it was a humming quiet, like the vibration where a note has been struck.
“The first thing you need to understand,” said Cedar, “is that I don’t come from this island, but I can’t remember the place that I do come from, not clearly. It was an island called Ashfire because the mountain at the center of it was said to be a fire mountain, but everyone thought it was a dead one.”
“Excuse me,” said Urchin, “what’s a fire mountain?”
“It’s a mountain that heats up inside until it bursts,” said Cedar. “It’s so hot, it melts itself and pours down in boiling rivers, then there’s ash everywhere. I can’t remember much about it. I can only remember shouting and the red glow, and my father picking me up and running to a boat—we all left our island forever, and settled in different places. Some of us came to Whitewings, which was all right in those days. The Ashfire squirrels tended to stay together, and there was one who became my great friend. I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t there. She was older than I was, and she was like a big sister to me. She used to help look after me when I was small, and I looked up to her. She was lovely. She was the kindest animal I ever knew, and the first to tell me about Mistmantle. She’d never been there, but she’d heard of it and she hoped she’d find a way to go there one day. Urchin, I caught that longing from her. I can remember the way animals would look at her and whisper, because she was Favored.”
“I’m sorry?” said Urchin.
“She was, well, she was more or less your color,” said Cedar. “Here, they talk about a ‘Marked Squirrel,’ but on Ashfire, they called it ‘Favored.’”
Urchin gasped. His fur prickled.
“She wasn’t exactly like you,” said Cedar. “She had red squirrel color down her spine and it faded into honey color on either side, and there was more red on her ears and tail than on yours, but the rest of her was your color. Her name was Almond. There was a lot of interest in her because of the prophecy about a Marked Squirrel being the island’s deliverer. Most of the Wise Old Whiskers on the island thought the deliverer would be a male, and many said that she had too much red about her to be a Marked Squirrel at all, but all the same, animals were watching Almond. A lot of the healing skills that I learned came from her and her family.
“When the queen died, Larch was next in line, but she was a small child then, and Silverbirch became Regent. At first, he wasn’t too bad. He was temperamental and very keen on mining for silver, but nothing like the way he is now. But he grew worse and worse, and animals began to leave the island. Almond could have helped him—his mind needed healing—but he wouldn’t have it. We had an excellent, gifted young priest. His name was Candle, and animals still talk about him. He was already training Flame, but the king wouldn’t listen to priests, only to Smokewreath.”
“Excuse me,” said Urchin, “but I don’t understand about Smokewreath and his magic. I mean, is it really magic? Does he really have power, or do they just think he has?”
“It’s a good question,” said Flame. “Certainly he has that extra dimension—he’s aware of things that most animals aren’t. You could call it a sixth sense. But lots of animals have that, and it doesn’t make them into sorcerers. In Smokewreath’s case, it’s enough to convince the king that he is. Whether his magic, and all his poking about with dead bodies, actually does anything, is difficult to prove. But I’ll tell you what I do know. Firstly, the king believes in it, and that gives Smokewreath power over him. And I do know that evil is at work in Smokewreath and through him. But, unfortunately, evil is at work through lots of animals, like Granite and the king, without their being anything magical about it.”
“I see,” said Urchin.
“The king was fascinated by the magic, and feared it, too,” continued Cedar. “It’s always the same with magic: animals think it’s a power they can control, but they find out too late that the magic controls them. But you want to know about Almond. When the rest of her family left the island, she stayed. She could have tried to reach Mistmantle, but she stayed.”
Urchin was about to ask why, but Cedar went on.
“Smokewreath convinced the king that whenever all was well on the island, it was because of his horrible magic; and if things were going wrong, it was because he needed to do more magic. Whatever else he was doing, he was destroying the king’s mind. Brother Candle could have left the island, but he felt he had to stay and do his best to protect the animals from Smokewreath, and because Candle stayed, Almond stayed. Candle and Almond loved each other, and Flame married them in secret. It had to be a secret because the king already mistrusted them both, especially Almond because of her color. When Almond told me she was expecting a baby, we knew the king mustn’t find out about it.
“Candle made a prophecy about the baby. He said, ‘He will bring down a powerful ruler.’He didn’t know what it meant, but he was sure it was came from the Heart. We kept it quiet, but somehow the king heard of it. After that, it was much too dangerous for Candle and Almond to stay any longer, and we had a boat ready for them to leave Whitewings.
“The night they were to escape, Candle couldn’t be found. Almond, of course, wouldn’t leave without him. Urchin, it was terrible. Candle was found dead at the foot of Eagle Crag the next morning, and nobody ever knew whether he fell or was pushed. The islanders were already losing heart. They were the way you see them now, terrified of Smokewreath and the king’s archers, and drained of their health from the dust in the silver mines. They were too scared to ask how their priest died. Too many of the king’s enemies were being found dead below cliffs, or floating on the water. Some were killed for magic, some escaped. It’s all horrible, Urchin, I’m afraid.”
“Yes,” said Urchin, “but what happened to Almond?”
“First,” said Cedar, “we took Larch and Flame into hiding and let everyone think they’d escaped. That way, the king wouldn’t hunt them down and have them killed. They could have left, but they both felt they had to stay with the animals who needed them. I was young but I was a good healer, so I was safe, and I’ve stayed safe by pretending to be on Silverbirch’s side. I know what’s going on at court, and all the time I’ve been helping the Larchlings. You could say, Urchin, that I’m a traitor.”
“Nobody could call you a traitor,” said Urchin. “Please, what happened to Almond?”
“After Candle died, she had to escape before Silverbirch could hunt her down. He wouldn’t risk leaving her or her baby alive. When I met her for the last time, she brought me that bracelet. It was a thing that the girl squirrels used to do at the time, exchange bracelets with our own molted hair woven into them. She was stowing away on a ship that night. It had been to Mistmantle before, and she hoped it might go there again.”
With a delicate touch she picked up the bracelet, turned it over gently, and laid it down again. Her paw shook. She turned her face away, and there was a pause before she could go on.
“She’d been such a friend, a sister, almost a mother to me, and I wanted so much to go with her. I said she’d need me when the baby was born, but she said Whitewings needed me more. I went down to see the ship sail, and I still wanted so much to be with her.”
Urchin gazed at the bracelet in the box. It held him. His heartbeat quickened.
“The ship was already sailing,” she said. “And I never saw her again. I never knew whether she got to Mistmantle.”
She did, thought Urchin, his heart beating hard and fast. Please. She did.
He gazed at the bracelet as if it had its own story, but it needed his voice to tell it. He imagined a ship arriving on Mistmantle, and a pale squirrel slipping away. His ears prickled. He longed to touch the bracelet, but it lay like a sacred object and the time was not right.
“But,” Cedar went on softly, “the young who were born that year are about your age, Urchin. Perhaps she did reach Mistmantle.”
The tingling turned into a shiver. Urchin remembered everything he had been told about his coming to Mistmantle—how he fell from the sky, how Padra thought a gull might have dropped him, how his mother had never been found. He tried to speak, and couldn’t.
Cedar held out the box to him.
“This belongs to you, Urchin.”
Very gently, with a shaky paw, he picked up the bracelet. It felt stiff with age, and he was afraid of damaging it. He wanted to press it against his cheek and feel that pale squirrel fur as close to his face as it could be—but as so many other animals were there, he only held it to his mouth for a second. He thought of going to his nest tonight with the bracelet in his paws. Then he put it back.
“Please, will you look after it for me?” he said. His voice was quieter than he meant it to be. “Only, if I took it and they found it, they might take it away.”
“Of course I will,” said Cedar gently. “And we’ll get you home, Urchin.” Then, as Urchin was still very quiet, she added, “Would you like to be alone now?”
“Yes, please,” said Urchin. It was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t even want Juniper’s company, or Cedar’s. For a little while, he needed to be alone with his own story. “But perhaps I really am meant to do something for this island. Or perhaps I should, after what you’ve told me, whether I’m meant to or not.”
“You were brought against your will, by force,” said Brother Flame. “Nothing good comes of forcing an animal against its heart. And we have a duty to protect you. And besides, Urchin, you need time to take all this in. Would you like to go back to your cell?”
“It’s so cold up there!” said Cedar.
“I won’t notice,” said Urchin.
Alone in his cell, Urchin stood at the window and looked up into the sky. The moon and stars shone so brightly that the frost beneath them sparkled, and for the first time he felt a pang of love for this island. This was the hard ground his mother and father had walked. The tired, dispirited islanders were the animals his father had died for.
He held his paw to his cheek as if he could still feel the smooth fibers of the bracelet and the softness of squirrel fur.
“Candle,” he said out loud. “Almond.” He knew their names. He was somebody’s son. He remembered the thing that, apart from his color, singled him out.
He had been born on a night of riding stars. Almond the Favored Squirrel had come at last to Mistmantle, and the stars had honored her.
It became too cold to stay at the window any longer. He went back to the nest, pulled the blanket round his shoulders, and snuggled down to sleep.
“Good night,” he said.
On Mistmantle, Padra lay wide awake, folded around Arran as she lay folded around two tiny, curled baby otters. He couldn’t help watching constantly, observing their tightly shut eyes, the soft paws pressed against small round faces, the thin down of their first fur. Now and again one of them would wriggle or rub its face or sneeze, and his heart turned over with love. Sooner or later he would have to sleep, but he couldn’t sleep yet. He couldn’t bear to miss a squirm, or a squeak, or the twitch of a whisker.
They hadn’t yet named the little girl, but the boy would be Tide. It was a good water name for an otter and had something to do with Urchin. The tides had first brought him to Mistmantle, and maybe they would turn his way again.
Needle, Fingal, and Sepia herded the excited little choristers to the song cave. Needle was asking about Arran and Padra’s babies, and Fingal said they were boring.
“Boring?” said Needle.
“They don’t do anything. Except one of them hiccuped. When they’re bigger I can take them down the waterslide.”
Sepia and the small squirrels were scampering ahead. There were squeals of delight as they made slides on the frost.
“Too cold for the waterslide today,” said Sepia. Seeing her cloak, she pounced on it and hugged warmth into it as she waited for Fingal and Needle to catch up.
“It’s never too cold for a waterslide,” said Fingal. “Come on, squeakers, get inside where you won’t fall over.”
“We never fall over!” squealed a young squirrel before hitting the ground with a thump. He was trying to explain that he did it on purpose, as Needle and Sepia ushered them into the song cave, and Needle called sharply, “Stop!”
The little squirrels froze with wide-eyed fear on their faces and their paws pressed to their sides. Sepia stood still with her paws around the shoulders of the nearest ones.
“What is it?” she whispered urgently.
“Pawprints!” said Needle.
Sepia sighed with relief and bristled with annoyance. “Is that all?” she said. “Hedgehogs are always coming here.” She steered her choir around the pawprints as she looked down at them. “There was somebody here the night after we came looking for the Heartstone. I heard something, and there were hedgehog pawprints when I came out. And Sluggen and Crammen were outside.”
“Please, Sepia,” said a small squirrel, “Fingal says Captain Gorsen brings his girlfriends here.” There were spasms of squeaky giggles.
“It’s true!” said another. “My sister said she saw him coming here.”
Sepia shrugged. “It’s anybody’s cave, not just ours. Now, choir. Low voices—that’s you, Swish, and Fallow and Grain, on the left. Siskin…no, you don’t have to stand beside Fallow. I know she’s your best friend, but I need you on this side….”
It took some time for Sepia to organize the small animals, during which Fingal took to the water, and Needle, curious to know if Gorsen really did take his girlfriends there, explored a cleft in the back of the cave. There was a lot of twisting about and looking over shoulders, and squeals of “What’s she looking for?” and “Ooh, look, he’s going in the water,” and some squirrels begging to be allowed to play in the water, and another one, called Twitch, was crying because she didn’t want to go in the water, and her older sister snapped at her that nobody said she had to, and Twitch cried even more, while somebody asked if they could play “Find the Heir of Mistmantle.”
Finally Sepia tapped her hind paw on the ground for silence and raised a claw to conduct, but they had hardly sung the first note when Needle whispered urgently, “Sepia! Come here!” She was half wedged into the cleft in the rock, beckoning furiously.
Sepia sighed quietly. “What now?”
“It’s important! Fingal, you too! Quietly!”
Needle squeezed through an impossibly small gap, said “Sh!” again, turned sharply right, left, and right, and disappeared into almost total darkness. After that, she didn’t say “Sh!,” but only found Sepia’s paw in the dark and squeezed it, which meant the same thing. From an intake of breath behind her, Sepia knew that Fingal was about to speak, so she felt for his mouth and pressed it shut.
Needle smelled earth, tree roots, and stone. The caves must be linked to a tunnel network, and the tree roots had formed a narrow split in the rock ahead of them. Through it, she heard a hedgehog voice. At first it was impossible to understand any words, but from the tone of voice the hedgehog seemed to be giving instructions.
“Throne Room…” She heard that clearly, then something about “attack.” But it couldn’t be, surely? Then came the words that made her skin shiver and her fur stand out—
“…when Crispin is dead.”
She felt her fur bristle, and pressed a paw against her chest. Silently they slipped back the way they had come, back to the dimly lit cave with the chattering squirrels, who were now chasing around the cave and daring each other to jump into the water.
“No!” commanded Needle so sharply that they were instantly still and silent. “Stay where you are and don’t make a sound!”
Needle, Fingal, and Sepia huddled together at a little distance. From Fingal’s face, even he was taking this seriously. He looked like Padra.
“They’re planning to kill the king!” whispered Needle.
“But who’d want to?” said Sepia.
“Whoever they are, they must have found a way to the Throne Room from there,” said Fingal. “The tunnels must link to the one I found on the other side of the lake. I’ll go by water and get to Crispin before them.”
“It would take too long!” said Needle. “It took all night last time!”
“That’s only because I tried to climb back up first, and Hope needed to rest and be carried. We’re wasting time.”
“You might get caught,” warned Sepia.
“I might not,” said Fingal, and disappeared down the waterslide.
“I’ll go through the trees,” said Sepia. “I’ll be faster than hedgehogs in tunnels.”
“And I’ll go through the woods,” said Needle, “but we should send this lot home first.”
Sepia clapped her paws together. “No practice today!” she called. “Something important has to be done. Never mind what, Siskin. Have a race home!”
There were a few squeals of protest, but soon Sepia had left them far behind. Needle bustled them from the cave and toward the wood, trusting the smaller ones to their older brothers and sisters and to Damson, who lived nearby and had come to see what all the squeaking was about. There were still squeaks from those who wanted to go with Sepia, but she was far ahead: bounding and leaping from one bare tree to the next, twisting and balancing with her tail as dry twigs snapped and branches bent and sprang, her breath in clouds of mist around her, stopping only when she absolutely must gasp for breath. The chill winter air hurt her lungs. Never had she flown through the trees so swiftly, never had she raced so furiously over the bare forest floor, never, never before had her paws trembled like this with exhaustion. By the time she reached the tower her throat rasped with thirst and her paws ached and shook.
In the winter afternoon, the light was already low. To exhausted Sepia, the walls of Mistmantle Tower looked so forbidding that her courage failed her, but they were the quickest way to the corridor outside the Throne Room. She took a deep breath and gathered herself up for the climb. On the third attempt she managed the leap that sent her clawing and scrambling up the stone, tumbling in through a window, and staggering to the corridor where Gorsen and Lumberen stood on duty. They weren’t agitated, they weren’t fighting off intruders! She wasn’t too late!
Crispin sat straight-backed on the throne, his head and tail upright, his paws on the carved arms, his face stern. Brother Fir sat on a low stool beside him. A young mole page, Burr, stood on duty beside a table where wine and biscuits had been set out, a fire crackled low in the grate, and untouched on the hearth lay the sword the envoys had offered to Urchin. Tall, dignified, and fierce-eyed, his silver chain about his neck, Lord Treeth stood before Crispin.
“So,” said Crispin patiently, “you are still complaining of your rooms, your lack of freedom, and the visits of Mistress Tay. Your rooms are among the finest on the island. Of course you are not allowed your freedom, after what you did when you had it. As for Mistress Tay, she is a very learned and distinguished otter. You should consider yourself honored by her company. Doesn’t it while away your imprisonment?”
“That is hardly the point, Your Majesty,” said Lord Treeth sternly. “We should not be captives here at all.”
“The point,” said Crispin, “is that Urchin of Mistmantle should not be a captive. Please don’t tell me again that he went of his own accord.”
“Now slow down, little Sepia,” said Gorsen outside the Throne Room door, stooping over her with a waft of scented soap. “Take a deep breath and start again.”
“But there isn’t time!” insisted Sepia furiously. “It’s very urgent!”
“So you think you heard hedgehogs, Sepia? Tell me again—this is important—tell me exactly what you heard them say.”
“They said there’d be an attack, and something about ‘when Crispin is dead,’” said Sepia. Lumberen laughed, and she wanted to hit him.
“You’re sure of this?” asked Gorsen gravely.
“Yes, I’m sure!” she cried, and beat her paw on the floor.
“Then it doesn’t amount to much of a plot, does it?” he said, and smiled kindly. He leaned closer and softened his voice. “They must have been discussing what happens when His Majesty dies—he will one day, you know—and who would lead us if we were attacked. You’ve been a brave young squirrel, Sepia, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
Sepia burned with embarrassment. Gorsen might be right, and she was a silly young squirrel with too much imagination, turning snippets of gossip into a plot against the king. But it hadn’t sounded like a chat between hedgehogs, and she knew every animal had the right to see the king.
“All the same,” she said firmly, “I want to tell the king at once. We mustn’t take chances.”
“No, we mustn’t take chances,” agreed Gorsen as his paws closed on her throat.
Crispin offered wine to Lord Treeth, and saw him look down his nose at Burr the mole as he poured it. Burr was nervous, and his paw shook so that the wine splashed a little. He mopped at it with a napkin as Lord Treeth gave a low sigh.
“Well done, Burr,” said Crispin to the mole. “Lord Treeth, if you’ve nothing else to tell me, the hedgehog on duty will presently escort you back to—”
“My prison?”
“Your chamber,” said Crispin.
Treeth bowed stiffly. “As Your Majesty wishes,” he said. “Permit me to drink the health of my king.” He raised his voice. “King Silverbirch!” With a flourish he drank the wine, then a swift movement of his paw made Crispin reach for his sword hilt.
With a swish and flash of silver, Lord Treeth swept a dagger from inside his cloak and hurled himself forward. A twist of Crispin’s sword sent the dagger whirling across the room, but Treeth snatched Urchin’s sword from the hearth.
Sepia fought, kicked, scratched, struggled, tried to scream, and bit with all her might into the paw that covered her mouth until Gorsen curled over with pain, and Sepia pulled hard at his ankle. Voices in the Throne Room shouted for the guards. Off balance, Gorsen fell heavily and Sepia scrambled over him to the door, but Lumberen was through it first. She tried to cry for help, and couldn’t. Everything was happening at once: Gleaner was tearing along the corridor and hurling herself at the door; Fir was at the door, then at the window, shouting for help; Lord Treeth was on the floor, grappling with Burr the mole page; Lumberen had drawn a sword from under his cloak and was fighting with Crispin; and as Sepia threw herself, biting at Lumberen’s sword arm, the floor seemed to wobble as if it would give way altogether. Gleaner was pulling Lord Treeth from Burr, digging her claws into his shoulders. Sepia was flung from Lumberen’s arm. Crispin stooped to seize Lord Treeth by the scruff of the neck, and turned to aim a blow at Gorsen, who had struck at him, as Lumberen threw a sword to Lord Treeth. Burr was biting a hedgehog ankle, and from under the floorboards Fingal appeared with a cry of, “Treason, Your Majesty!” before launching into the fight. Brother Fir took the tablecloth and threw it over Lord Treeth’s head. Fingal, having felled Lumberen with a swish of his tail, turned to the throne and was trying to drag it into place over the hole in the floorboards, but Sluggen was already clambering up into the chamber. Fingal knocked him on the head, and he tumbled back down, but more came, some seeming to lose their footing. Docken and a company of moles had run in from the corridor, crying, “Treason! Look to the king!” There were cries and clashes, blood and fur. Padra hurled himself into the room, and suddenly it was over, with Docken, Padra, and Crispin holding drawn swords to the throats of Lord Treeth and the rebel hedgehogs. Fingal picked up Gorsen’s dropped dagger, looked to see what Padra was doing, and copied him. Brother Fir was attending to Burr the mole, who appeared to be injured and was shaking. Guards blocked the doorway and window, and two of them were struggling to hold back Gleaner as she screamed tearful insults at Lord Treeth.
“Quiet, Gleaner,” ordered Crispin, still breathless from the fight. “You have done your part bravely, and may rest now.”
“I did it for my lady!” snarled Gleaner.
“I know,” said Crispin. “Guards, take her and leave her with a sensible squirrel who can calm her down. Take Lord Treeth, Gorsen, and Lumberen here under guard to the Gathering Chamber, and put the rest in cells.”
Padra bowed and gave orders, and the rebels were taken away. Fingal mentioned that there were more of the vermin down there, then vanished down the gap, and bobbed up again to report that the ones he’d knocked down were still there, and a bit bruised.
“Then I will attend to them next,” said Brother Fir calmly, and patted the young mole on the shoulder. “Bravely done, Burr. What a very good thing you spilled that wine. There was still enough left for the hedgehogs to slip on.”
“Was that wine?” asked Fingal. “I thought it was just wet floor from wet otter! Sorry I didn’t get here a bit faster, Your Majesty.”
“Loyal and true animals, all of you,” said Crispin, throwing a paw across Fingal’s wet shoulders. “Well done, and thank you. I owe my life to each one of you, and the island owes you more than we can ever know. Burr, well done! Are you hurt? No? We’ll have to make sure your family knows how brave you’ve been. Moles, send some fast squirrels to gather together as many of the Circle animals as you can find and send them to the Gathering Chamber, and I need two good tunneling moles to investigate under the Throne Room.”
Mother Huggen and a team of efficient hedgehogs and moles slipped in quietly to care for the wounded. A silent procession made its way to the Gathering Chamber—guards, Lord Treeth, Gorsen, Lumberen, Fir, Crispin, and Docken bleeding from a cut to his paw but insisting that he didn’t need help.
“I’ll join you presently,” called Padra.
Fingal, who hadn’t been in the Throne Room often, was lying on his back under the throne to inspect it from underneath.
“Fingal, get out of there,” ordered Padra. “You’re in the royal Throne Room now, not a cave at low tide.” Fingal wriggled out. “You’ll be needed in the Gathering Chamber.”
“Good!” said Fingal.
“Well, move, then!” said Padra, and as Fingal lolloped away, Padra added, “Well done, you.”
Fingal grinned back over his shoulder. “I enjoyed it,” he said.
Padra called back one of the guards. “We’ll need Mistress Tay,” he said, “and that other Whitewings squirrel, Scatter, just in case she knows anything. And Whittle, as he’s learning law and history. He should be there. Sepia, would you—” But as he turned he saw tears standing in Sepia’s eyes, and knelt before her in concern.
“Sepia!” he said, “You’ve been so brave, and I’m neglecting you! Are you hurt?”
Sepia put her hands to her throat.
“Can’t…” she whispered hoarsely, and struggled painfully to swallow. “…He tried to strangle me, and…”
“You can’t speak?” said Padra.
“Sing,” whispered Sepia, and sobbed with heartbreak into Padra’s shoulder.
The Gathering Chamber had hardly been used lately, and though somebody had hastily made up a fire, the air was still forbiddingly cold. The gallery built for the Hedgehog Host was conspicuously new and empty. Dust sheets covered the chairs brought in for the coronation and the new Threadings, but a Threading of a young female squirrel with a circlet on her head hung uncovered outside the doorway, looking serenely across at them. Crispin’s eyes flickered toward it as he took his place on the dais in a grim, cold silence. Tay had been sent for, and stood rigidly upright with Scatter beside her. She glared across the room at Fingal, clearly annoyed at his presence. Whittle stayed two paces behind Brother Fir, to the right. Padra and Sepia arrived, Sepia trying not to cry, Padra stern and tight-lipped, slipping to the dais to whisper something to Crispin.
Before the dais stood Lord Treeth, Gorsen, and Lumberen, their forepaws tied, each one attended by a guard with a drawn sword. The Circle animals, stern-faced, stood in an arc around them. Mother Huggen, having attended the wounded, took her place among them, and when all were gathered, Crispin spoke.
“Gorsen,” he said slowly, “Lord Treeth, and the rest of you who took arms against me and my subjects today, you have endangered the peaceful animals of Mistmantle. Gorsen, you attempted the murder of our young and loyal Sepia. You were one of our most trusted animals, nurtured by Mistmantle all your life. Explain yourself.”
Gorsen cleared his throat and drew himself up.
“I am delighted to, Crispin,” he said. “Pardon me if I don’t call you Your Majesty, but, of course, you’re nothing of the kind. You’re only a twitch-tail squirrel. I believe in some places they’re called tree-rats.”
Padra’s paw was on his sword, but he watched Crispin.
“Go on, Gorsen,” said Crispin calmly.
“The only kings of Mistmantle are hedgehogs,” said Gorsen. “For generations, we had hedgehog kings and the island was well-governed. King Brushen was the last. His son was murdered by a squirrel. Who brought King Brushen down? Husk and Aspen. Squirrels. And,” he raised his voice, slowing down the words for impact, “Husk the squirrel encouraged the king to cull the young! Husk the squirrel forced us into underground labor in far corners of the island! All our woes have been caused by squirrels!”
“May I interrupt?” said Brother Fir mildly. “They were caused by only two squirrels, Husk and Aspen. Crispin the squirrel and Padra the otter freed you.”
“They were only doing their duty as captains,” said Gorsen loftily. “I have no complaint about that. They were adequate captains. But having freed the island from a tyrannous, false, murdering squirrel, they made another squirrel king.”
“You are at fault,” came a clear, stern female voice, and Tay stepped forward with a frown that made her strong, dark whiskers stand out more than ever. “Nobody made Crispin king. Under the laws of Mistmantle, he was next in line to the throne. His suitability for the crown might be questioned, but his right to it cannot be.”
“Thank you, Tay,” said Crispin.
Gorsen cast a glance of contempt at Tay. “This is what I’d expect from an otter,” he said loftily. “Otters are only fit for splashing about in streams, just as squirrels are only fit for fetching and carrying. Moles are quite happy if they’re kept underground, and they don’t talk much because no mole ever has anything worth saying. Hedgehogs are creatures of the earth. We take life at a sensible pace. We have dignity and understanding. King Brushen was a true king, a good king. Who can respect a king with…” He gave a snort of laughter. “…A bushy tail and tufted ears? A king who runs up trees? Those who fought against Crispin the squirrel today—myself, Lumberen, Sluggen, Crammen, and our supporters—were sworn to a secret brotherhood of hedgehogs, and not even our closest families and colleagues knew our plans. You needn’t think the rest of the Hedgehog Host had an in. We were a very select band, only ten of us altogether, but we swore we wouldn’t rest until we had a hedgehog on the throne again. We were few, we were brave, we were determined, we were loyal to our own kind. We would have given our heart’s blood for our cause.”
“And what cause was that, Gorsen?” asked Fir.
“Simply to kill the upstart Crispin and all who tried to defend him,” said Gorsen, and smirked. “You gave me the most wonderful opportunity, Crispin, when you set me to guard Lord Treeth. Great lordly hedgehog that he is, he treated me like a brother. He told me about Whitewings, and that it’s a place where hedgehogs are given proper respect. I made a pact with him. I would be king of Mistmantle under King Silverbirch, and Mistmantle would become a sensible, well-run island, like Whitewings. We thought we might even send slaves to Whitewings, as a sign of our loyalty. You had no idea, Crispin, did you? It’s all your fault, of course. You sent me to guard Lord Treeth. I heard your councils. You even put me in charge of blocking the space under the Throne Room!”
“We trusted you,” said Padra.
“Yes, that’s what I’d expect from an otter,” said Gorsen. “It’s the water that gets to your brains. As for squirrels, I suppose it’s all those fir cones that damage your thinking.”
Crispin rose and walked to Gorsen very slowly, looking the hedgehog in the eyes. Even Sepia, who loved and trusted Crispin, felt afraid.
“Gorsen,” he said very softly, “you have betrayed your own islanders. You have sent our good and loyal moles to their death, and left Urchin of the Riding Stars in an enemy prison. You have harmed and endangered our young. You have betrayed the hedgehog kind and led your companions into rebellion. And all because you think hedgehogs are superior. No kind on this island is superior. If you had succeeded, the creatures of Mistmantle would have hated all hedgehogs for generations to come just because of the bitterness of ten hedgehogs who wanted their own way.”
Gorsen tried to look Crispin in the eyes, and couldn’t. Crispin stepped nearer, and Gorsen flinched.
“Take him away,” ordered Crispin, “and Lumberen and Lord Treeth. Put them in cells and keep them well guarded.” The guards bowed and led the procession away.
From the doorway came a last shout. “Death to Crispin!”
“Oh, be quiet,” said Padra wearily. Docken remained on guard. Sepia stayed close to Padra, and Fir was saying something to young Whittle. Still in her place beside Tay, Scatter stood very still and tense, with her eyes wide and her claws curled.
“We still don’t know how they got their message to Whitewings,” said Padra. “There are no moles missing. Nobody at all.”
“Except…” said Crispin.
“Juniper,” said Padra. Sepia tugged hard at his paw and shook her head.
“I hope it wasn’t him,” said Padra. “But we have to consider it.”
Scatter left Tay’s side at last. She hopped shyly forward, stopped at a little distance from Crispin, curtsied, and took a deep breath.
“Please, Your Majesty,” she said. She fidgeted a little, then put her paws firmly behind her back and stood up straight. “I think I know how they did it.”
“Go on,” said Crispin gently.
“Your Majesty,” she said earnestly, “I was the youngest court squirrel on our island. I thought it was such an honor to be sent with the ambassadors, and I was pleased with myself for lying to you, even though I thought I’d be found out. I thought you’d send me to some terrible dungeon, but at least I was serving my island! Whitewings isn’t a bit like Mistmantle. If I’d known, I mean, if I’d known what you were all like, and what Mistmantle’s like, I wouldn’t have done it, and I wish you had Urchin back, and I’m very sorry for everything I did, but I thought it was the right thing to do.
“Lord Treeth and the others were all very important, but I wasn’t. I was…what’s that word? Expendable. They didn’t tell me everything they had planned, but I think I’ve worked it out now.
“There was a hedgehog on Whitewings called Creeper, and he was a spy. There were lots of rumors about him, and I don’t know how much was true—about him creeping up on animals and stabbing them or pushing them off cliffs. He was strong, but what made him a good spy was that he was very small for an adult, with small bones, and he could squash himself into hiding places where nobody would think of looking. When we came here on the boat, Lord Treeth insisted on having a cabin to himself so that three of us had to squeeze into a cabin for two. And when his chest was brought on shore, he was most particular about how it was carried, and he insisted on unpacking it—though he doesn’t normally do anything for himself.”
“I remember seeing them struggle to carry it, Your Majesty,” observed Docken.
“So I think maybe Creeper was in there,” Scatter went on. “He would have come specially to report to King Silverbirch if there was anything he needed to know. Oh.” She stopped suddenly. “Only he couldn’t have got back, could he?”
“From what you say, he could have got through mole tunnels,” said Crispin. “But without our moles seeing him? And in time to warn the king?”
“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” said Fingal, “but there used to be a boat by the waterfall and there isn’t now. Sorry, I didn’t think it was important.”
“There’s no reason why you should have thought so, Fingal,” said Crispin. “Nobody would have thought anything of it. Could Creeper have rowed all that way, all by himself?”
“I’m sure he could, Your Majesty,” said Scatter, and went on nervously, “Please, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, Scatter,” said Crispin.
“You were good to me, even though you knew I was lying. I had a nice chamber, and sometimes you let me out in the sunshine and I could see Mistmantle. Nothing on Whitewings is so beautiful—it’s hard and dusty there, and miserable. Not like here, where animals can play in waterfalls, and whatever work they’re doing, they seem to enjoy it. Mistress Tay came every day, and sometimes she just told me the laws, but other times she told me the stories, and they were such good stories, even…um…”
“…Even the way Tay told them,” whispered Fingal to Sepia.
“…Anyway, I don’t know if you’ll believe me, and I don’t care,” she went on quickly. “I never knew there was anywhere as wonderful as this, so green and leafy and free, and I never knew what that was like. And I swear if I’d known what they were planning, I would have told you.”
She stopped for breath, and knelt down.
“Please, I would like to stay, Your Majesty,” she said. “Even if you put me in a cell forever. Even if I’m given the hardest work in the loneliest, coldest part of the island. And I will be Your Majesty’s faithful servant, but please, Your Majesty, let me stay.”
“I will consider it, Scatter, in good time,” said Crispin. “In the meantime, you will be escorted back to your chamber.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said, and was led away looking very small between two otters. Most of the remaining animals were dismissed. Crispin sent for drinks and sat down on the floor with Sepia, Padra, Fingal, Docken, and Fir.
Sepia sipped at her spiced wine, but swallowing hurt, and she tried to hold back the tears. She didn’t want anyone thinking she’d cry over a sore throat.
“Sepia,” said Crispin, “is something the matter?”
“Gorsen tried to silence the sweetest voice on the island,” said Padra tersely.
“Shall I take a look at it?” offered Mother Huggen, and ushered Sepia from the Gathering Chamber. Crispin turned to Docken.
“You fought against your own comrades to save me,” he said.
“No comrades of mine, Your Majesty,” said Docken gruffly. “Your Majesty, most of the Hedgehog Host are true to you. It’s just a few of them turned bad.”
“I know you for a loyal animal,” said Crispin. “We had already considered you for the Circle. You will be enrolled when Urchin returns.”
“Oh, Your Majesty!” said Docken as a broad smile spread across his face. “I hope it’s all right to tell Thripple?”
“You may tell her now, if you like,” said Crispin, and Docken bowed deeply and hurried away. “Fingal?”
“Oh, hello!” said Fingal.
“Well done, valiant otter,” said Crispin.
“Any time, you’re welcome,” said Fingal. “May I go for a swim now?”
“Show respect to the king, Fingal,” said Padra quietly, but Crispin laughed.
“Go and catch a fish, Fingal,” he said.
At last only he, Padra, and Fir were left.
“I’m glad Juniper’s in the clear,” said Crispin. “I wonder about Scatter. Is she telling the truth, or is she up to something?”
“I wish I knew,” said Padra.
“Give her time,” said Fir. “We’ll know. As to Gorsen and his friends, they had grown bitter in their long slavery and fed each other’s resentment. It was easy for Lord Treeth to harness their bitterness. They needed a target for their hatred, and it was you, because you are the king.”
“May the Heart help me,” said Padra, “but when he stood there, so cool and arrogant, I could have run him through.”
“But neither of you laid a paw on him,” said Fir. “That’s nobility. To be able to strike out in anger and not do it.” He smothered a yawn and limped to the window. “Dark already. Urchin’s lights on the water. Hm. Moonlight, firelight, the secret.”
“Do you yet have any idea what that means?” asked Padra.
“No,” he said. “But it’s getting closer.” He leaned closer to the window. “Well, bless me!”
Padra and Crispin jumped to their paws. “What is it?”
“Snow,” he said.