Urchin and the Rage Tide (26 page)

“Urchin,” said the king, “there’s something we haven’t done in ages, and we should do it today. One good fencing bout!”

“Your Majesty?” said Urchin. It was out of place, having a bit of fun, fencing, when Sepia might be dying. Was the king trying to take their minds off it? But he had learned that the king’s actions always had a reason, and if he’d feel better for a match, he was welcome to it.

“It’s an order, Urchin,” said Crispin, and threw his cloak to Oakleaf. “And so is this—don’t hold back!”

“No, Your Majesty,” said Urchin.

“I mean it,” said the king, his smile radiant. “I’ll know if you’re letting me win. Ready? Padra, will you measure the ground?”

Padra took a leaf from a bowl beside the throne, laid it in the center of the floor, and walked five paces from it toward the anteroom. “So neither of you will have the sun in your eyes,” he said. “Your Majesty—Crispin—here.” He took five paces in the other direction. “Urchin, here.”

With a swish of steel, they drew, raised their swords, and kissed the blades.

“For Mistmantle!” declared Crispin.

“For Sepia of the Songs!” said Urchin, and Padra clapped his paws.

In spite of what Crispin had said, Urchin couldn’t hurl himself straight into the fight against his king, with the result that he was very nearly disarmed in the first few strokes. Crispin’s swordplay was as swift and sure as ever, and Urchin found he had to duck, fall, get up again. Then he threw all his strength and skill into the bout, because the king deserved the best opponent he could be. He made every stroke count, anticipating every move, forcing errors from the king before being pushed back himself toward the wall—he was enjoying it now. Blades clashed and rang, Urchin and Crispin leaped and twirled on and off the dais until they were nearly on the windowsill. For half a second, Urchin saw the chance to spin the sword out of Crispin’s paw, but in that heartbeat he hesitated. Then his own sword flew from his paw so suddenly that he didn’t know how it had happened. The king, out of breath, was embracing him, patting him on the back as all the animals applauded.

“Well done, both of you!” cried the queen.

“There’s nothing to choose between you,” said Padra. “It could have gone either way. Mopple, help me serve the drinks.”

Wine and cordials were offered around. Urchin heard Crispin’s voice in his ear.

“Be strong, Urchin,” whispered the king. “You must be very, very strong now.”

In the time it took Urchin to accept the drink Mopple held out to him, Crispin disappeared. Urchin caught a glimpse of him slipping into the anteroom, and would have followed him, but Padra drew him aside.

“Stay here, Urchin,” said Padra. He looked very pleased about something.

“But, Padra…” began Urchin as Hope, Catkin, and Needle all seemed to have disappeared into the anteroom, too. It was as if they were all playing a party game, and he was the only one who didn’t know the rules.

“Don’t ask,” said Padra.

In the antechamber, Needle and Crispin lifted one robe after another from the chest.

“There was a lovely yellow-gold cloak that Sepia was making for him,” whispered Needle. “I was helping her with the tricky bits, and it’s nowhere to be seen. I’ve looked everywhere, I don’t understand it, and it’s really annoying. It would have been perfect for today. I suppose it’s been put in the wrong place.”

“We can manage without it,” said Crispin, still rummaging through the robes. “Look, here’s my old captain’s robe! Do you think he’d like to wear that?”

“He’d be delighted, Your Majesty,” said Needle. “May I see?”

She took the robe from the king’s paws. She had expected to find it crumpled, but the robes had been laid down carefully, and it fell as smoothly as if it had been freshly aired and brushed. The embroidery around the collar and hem was as bright as ever.

Urchin didn’t always wear the traditional squirrel green. It didn’t suit his pale fur as well as it did the rich, dark red of the other squirrels. But Needle knew he wouldn’t mind that. The idea of wearing Crispin’s robe would be wonderful to him.

Urchin was still wondering what was going on, and why Padra was keeping him talking. He was even more bewildered when the queen said, “Excuse me, Urchin,” and began to smooth down his ear tufts and tail tip as if she were making him presentable for a formal occasion. Longpaw the messenger suddenly jumped in through the window, and when there was a firm step outside in the corridor, Docken opened the door to admit Apple and her husband, Filbert, both wheezing as they got their breath back.

“Apple?” said Urchin. Apple wore a shawl Needle had made for her, and her hat with the pink rosebuds. Urchin wanted to ask her what was happening, but she spoke first.

“I don’t know what I come here for,” she announced, which only added to his confusion. “Longpaw said we were to come and it were something special, so I got me ’at and we come at once, I hope we haven’t kept anyone waiting, ooh, look, here’s the king, and the queen, ooh!”

Urchin turned to bow to the king and saw that Crispin was transformed. He wore the oakleaf crown, and an embroidered robe swished about him as he walked. At his side, Cedar, in her robes and crown, had never looked more like a queen.

Padra led Urchin to a point just a few steps from the dais. “Kneel, Urchin,” he ordered.

Urchin began to make sense of what was happening, except it couldn’t be happening at all. But when Padra, Docken, and Arran all slipped into the antechamber and returned in their robes, things seemed to be falling into place. Everyone was smiling. The king stood up.

“Urchin of the Riding Stars,” he began, “son of the esteemed Almond of Ashfire and brave Brother Candle of Whitewings, foster son of loyal Apple, you have served this island and its creatures well. You sought me in exile and helped me to come home. You delivered the island of Whitewings, and brought down their tyrant. You took part in the rescue of Princess Catkin in her infancy, worked and struggled to save the islanders in the landslide, and fought in the Raven War. You have shown courage, wisdom, love, and loyalty. You have been a good friend and a bright spirit. We know your qualities, and your persistence in seeing all things through to the end. Needle, does he know the Threadings Code?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Needle. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d taught it to him.

“Whittle,” asked the king, “does he know the history and law of the island as thoroughly as he needs to?”

“Er—yes, Your Majesty,” said Whittle.

“Then, Urchin of the Riding Stars,” proclaimed Crispin, “it is my will and the will of Queen Cedar, Catkin the Heir of Mistmantle, our worthy captains, and the Circle that you be appointed and blessed as a captain of Mistmantle.”

Urchin felt the gasp inside himself, and could not speak. There was a little cry of delight from Apple, cut short as she clapped her paws over her mouth.

“Urchin of the Riding Stars,” Crispin went on, “will you, all your life, raise your heart to the Heart?”

Urchin found he had to breathe slowly and deeply. He wanted to breathe this moment into himself and keep it forever.

“With the Heart’s help, I will, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Will you live, serve, guide, and help the animals of Mistmantle, putting their needs before your own?”

“Yes, with the Heart’s help, Your Majesty,” said Urchin.

“Will you be loyal to me and to my heirs and successors, so long as we abide within the Heart?”

“With the Heart’s help, I will, Your Majesty,” he said.

He must imprint every sound and every heartbeat into his memory. The wide joyful smile on Crispin’s face, the smiles he could feel rather than see, he must keep all this forever. The king’s oakleaf crown with the swan design. A butterfly on the window. Hope, holding a robe across his paws. Fingal with something covered on a cushion.

“Give me your sword and sword belt, Urchin,” said the king.

Urchin unbuckled his sword, finding that his paws were trembling and clumsy. The sword looked plain, worn, and shabby as he laid it before the king.

Padra stepped forward, and for the first time Urchin saw the sword and sword belt he carried in his paws. The hilt, as Padra fastened it around his waist, was plain and light, and the sword at his hip felt as perfectly balanced as if it were part of himself.

“Present your new sword to the king,” ordered Padra.

Urchin drew the sword, and the smooth, clean swish of the action was as if it sang. Holding it lightly by the blade, he presented the hilt over his arm to Crispin, who took it.

Juniper stepped forward to place both paws on Urchin’s head. It may have been the warmth of his paws or the power of the moment, but it seemed to Urchin that sunlight poured into him.

“Urchin of the Riding Stars, my brother,” he said, “live in the Heart in holiness. Serve the cause of justice. Love mercy. Value all animals as your equals. Always learn. Rejoice in every new day. Be a good captain and a good friend. Share the laughter and the tears of your fellow animals and may the Heart keep you, nurture you, strengthen you, instruct you, and claim you.”

Crispin kissed the sword blade. “For justice and freedom,” he said. “Urchin, take it and kiss the blade.”

Urchin did. The king folded his paws over Urchin’s, and Urchin didn’t know if this was part of the ceremony or just because the king could see his paws were shaking.

“Sheathe your sword, Captain Urchin,” he said, “and use it only for what is right and good.”

Urchin slid the sword into the scabbard, and suddenly everything seemed lighter and less solemn than it had before—Crispin, the queen, and all the faces he could see looked wonderfully happy. The king’s tone was lighter.

“I have to dress you in my old clothes today,” he was saying. “I’m sorry about that, Urchin.” He lifted the robe from Hope’s paws. “And I will robe you myself.”

Urchin’s eyes widened as Crispin shook out the robe. He wanted to put out a paw and touch it. He remembered the great honor he had felt as a page, when he had helped Padra to robe. Now he was being robed himself, with Crispin, his king and his hero, settling the robe on his shoulders and arranging it around him. He only hoped that he would live up to his title. He didn’t feel fit to wear Crispin’s robe, but he couldn’t very well argue with him about it.

“Now, Urchin,” went on the king, “long ago, in dark times, you, Lugg, and Arran made sure I had my circlet to take with me into exile.” Urchin realized what was coming next, and his heart beat hard and fast. “I gave it to my Lady Whisper on our marriage, and she was wearing it when she died. I wanted to leave it on her grave, do you remember? And you urged me to bring it back.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Each captain’s circlet should be made new,” said Crispin, “but I’d like you to wear mine.”

Urchin’s doubts must have shown in his face, because Crispin put both paws on his shoulders.

“Don’t tell me you’re not worthy of it, Urchin,” he said. “It is my dear wish, and the queen’s, that you should wear this.”

Fingal lifted off the cover. Polished and gleaming, the perfect circle of gold lay on its cushion. Juniper lifted it in both paws, raised it high, and gave it to Crispin.

“Urchin of the Riding Stars,” said Crispin, “be a guardian of this island. Be strong, be true, be noble. Be Captain Urchin.”

The gold ring of the circlet pressed down into Urchin’s fur, and it seemed to him that in that moment he changed forever. Then the king was hugging him and kissing him on both cheeks, the queen had left her throne to kiss him, the other captains were patting him on the back, and the smile on Needle’s face was the brightest he had ever seen.

“I’d better not hug you,” she said.

“Thanks,” said Urchin, and was immediately wrapped in a hug from Apple, who was sobbing too much to speak.

“Catkin, Mistress Apple needs refreshment,” said Crispin. “Forgive me, Apple, I’m neglecting you. Needle, send for wine!”

“We’ll have to mind how we speak to Urchin now, Hope,” said Fingal, grinning. Urchin sat down and put an arm across Hope’s shoulders.

“Captain Urchin!” said Hope.

“Do you remember,” said Urchin, “when we found our way out of those tunnels, when you were looking for Thripple?”

“I won’t ever forget that,” said Hope.

“That day,” said Urchin, “you called me ‘Master Urchin, sir.’”

“Did I?”

“Nobody had ever called me ‘master’ before, let alone ‘sir,’” said Urchin. “It made me feel grown up, even though I knew that I wasn’t.”

“He still isn’t,” remarked Fingal. “Don’t grow up, Urchin, whatever you do. Definitely a bad idea.”

“Do we have to call you Captain Urchin all the time now?” asked Hope.

“Absolutely,” said Fingal.

“Not if you don’t want to,” said Urchin. “I’ll always be Urchin.”

“And you should be very proud of it, too,” sniffed Apple. “It were the king himself gave you your name, Urchin, when he weren’t a captain yet, just Crispin.”

“And I’m still just Crispin!” cried the king. “You are all forbidden to call me king today! Let’s drink a toast, everyone. Does everyone have a drink? To Captain Urchin!”

And amid the toast and the congratulations that followed, nobody noticed the way Padra raised an eyebrow to the king, or the way King Crispin slipped to his side and said, “Bear with me, Padra. I need to hear my own name today.” But in the middle of it all, Urchin, drinking his wine and accepting everyone’s good wishes, wondered why this was happening now, of all times, and so unexpectedly. He knew there was something he had still not been told.