Urchin and the Raven War (24 page)

She squeezed her eyes shut and folded her lips tightly, but it was no good. Hot tears trickled down her face. At least the ravens weren’t looking. They’d think she was crying for misery, cold, fear, or self-pity. She wasn’t. She was crying with anger.

It was growing darker now, and colder. She thought back over the last summer. It had been all right until the swans arrived, but even then she had been proud of her father going to Swan Isle. It had been fun at Curlingshell Bay with Brindle—
Don’t think of Brindle
—and her new otter friend, Corr. The battle had not been at all as she had imagined it—there was too much happening at once, and no time to think—but she had done her best, and at the end there had been a wave of pride in her heart because she had fought for Mistmantle at Urchin’s side.

All her life she had admired Urchin, even when she had been jealous of him. That battle—she smiled when she thought of it—had been the most terrifying, most confusing, and most exciting moment of her life. But it had not brought her home to the tower. It had brought her here, with every wave lifting the water a little higher.

Never say,
“If only.”
Juniper had taught her that. Never say,
“If only that hadn’t happened.”

She wished she could know that Urchin was safe.
Heart, please keep Urchin safe.
She had tried to take one last look to say good-bye as they dragged her away.

That beautiful sky was darkening. She looked out at the mists, her eyes still blurring. That must be why the mists looked different. It was as if she could see a shape—vague and uncertain—but if she kept looking at it, it seemed more or less heart-shaped. The last of the red in the sunset must be giving it that pale peach-pink color, with maybe a thread of gold…It reminded her of something….

She gasped.

It looked like the Heartstone!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

RISPIN STILL STOOD AT THE
window. Nothing could be worse than this. The tide came in, the light faded, and the water surrounding the little figure at the mooring post rose higher. The ravens at the jetty lit beacons. In the Gathering Chamber and on the walls outside, candles were placed around the window, and torches in the few unbroken lamp brackets were lit.

“A good view of your little tree-rat may help you to concentrate,” said the Taloness, “on where we can find the young.” She peered around to see Crispin’s face. “Do you still not know where they are? There is time enough to remember before high tide. If you don’t know where they are, tree-rat, perhaps you know where they
might
be? Have you put that bitter taste on them? We can wash it off! Your brat must taste only of salt water by now!”

Crispin said nothing. The Taloness had made it plain. She was offering to release Catkin if he told her where to find the rest of the young. Either Catkin drowned slowly, or the young of Mistmantle were massacred. Every minute of his silence lifted the waters higher around her shoulders. His heart reached out to her as if he could protect her—but he couldn’t. He could not save his own child’s life at the cost of all the rest.

He honestly didn’t know where all the young were. He had given orders for them to be taken from the Mole Palace and spread around the island, underground, and as near to the shores as possible, so long as they were well hidden. If he could have sent the ravens in the wrong direction, he would have done so—but the young could be anywhere.

And—and this was, in a way, comforting—he couldn’t trust the Taloness. If he told her where to find the young, she’d probably let Catkin die anyway. The ravens were like that. Without looking at her, he knew that Cedar felt the same, even as her heart broke for Catkin.

Beside him something clattered, making him jolt. Needle had dropped her pencil.

“Sorry,” she whispered shyly as she picked it up. “Please, Madam Taloness, may I turn the frame to the lamp?”

The Taloness inclined her head. Needle and Myrtle turned the frame toward the light, and Crispin glanced at it as they went on drawing.

Needle had sketched in a coronation scene, with the Taloness and the Silver Prince enthroned and Mistmantle animals kneeling about them. A basket full of berries, shells, nuts, flowers, and leaves lay on the floor, as if the island’s treasures were being offered as tribute to the ravens.

Were those almonds in the basket? And a sprig of hawthorn? Crispin looked away quickly. Nothing must show in his face, but he lifted his heart and gave thanks for the months, so long ago, when he had been a young tower squirrel with Tay and Brother Fir drilling the Threadings Code into his head.

Almonds for secrecy. Hawthorn for hope.

He dared not look again too soon. He gazed down on Catkin and wondered if she was crying. He glanced at Cedar and saw unbearable pain on her face.

Around the tower, behind skirting boards, above ceilings, and under stairs, Sepia, Hope, and Urchin ran on silent paws. Messages ran from beneath the workrooms to behind the Gathering Chamber, from the Chamber of Candles to the kitchen, from the cellars to the underground waterways. Networks spread across the island. Mole to mole to squirrel to squirrel to hedgehog to hedgehog to otter to otter, the messages were passed on, one to the next, to the next, to the next, running through tunnels, through waterways, from one burrow to another, to the caves on the shore. When they heard it, animals sprang to their paws to scrabble about for wool, reeds, ribbons, grasses, cottons, old cloaks to unravel, old fishing nets, resins, syrups, and sap.

“We should have tied her to the other side of the post,” remarked the Taloness. “You could have seen her tears. She could have looked up into your face and watched as you let her drown. Where are the young?”

Crispin did not answer. He watched Catkin, reached out with all his mind and heart to her, and prayed for all the sons and daughters of Mistmantle.

The Taloness hopped to Cedar, rasping her challenge into the queen’s face.

“Where are they?”

“Beyond your reach,” said Cedar.

Needle was quietly giving Myrtle instructions. Crispin twitched an ear.

“That’s good, Myrtle,” said Needle. “Put one in here, in this corner.”

Crispin glanced quickly at the picture. Spiderwebs? Why was she telling Myrtle to draw spiderwebs? They’d never meant anything in the Threadings Code, but it must be important. Needle had made sure he noticed it. With fine, quick lines she sketched in a small squirrel on the left, with a flower beside her.

A figure on the left, so probably female. The flower was a kingcup. That stood for royalty. Catkin?
My Catkin. The water must be so cold. If I could only die for you, my Catkin, my little girl.
The ravens were less watchful now. Their eyelids drooped. If the guards holding them fell asleep, could he and Cedar shake free and fight off the rest? Was it worth the risk?

“Kill and devour,” cawed the Taloness. “Fetch the next guards.”

A raven went to the door, croaking. More ravens marched into the chamber to replace the guard, but the ravens around Catkin remained the same.

“Myrtle,” said Needle quietly, “do you have a very pale color there? Something about the color of the sand under the castle, that sort of shade, or honey. Very pale honey. Yes, that one.”

The Taloness had stopped haranguing Crispin and Cedar. She was strutting before the new guards, briefing them, demanding news of the island.

“Where is the Silver Prince?” she asked.

For the first time since they had arrived on the island, the ravens seemed slow to obey. “He is guarding the island for you,” they said.

A snarl rasped in her throat. “We have minions to do that!” she croaked. “Send him to me. Tell him he has only to wait until high tide to devour the princess! And you”—she pecked at Crispin’s shoulder—“will watch him eat her! Go, ravens! Find him!”

The Taloness chased and pecked at her own guards. Crispin glanced again at the Threading. More spiderwebs? Another squirrel, but pale.
Urchin.
He stood between the Taloness and the Silver Prince, and it looked as if he was offering them swords—but swords were usually pointed up for victory or down for defeat. These were lying across Urchin’s paws, one pointing from the Silver Prince to the Taloness, one from the Taloness to the Silver Prince. He looked away quickly. The Taloness was growing impatient waiting for the Silver Prince, who had still not come. Was Needle telling him that this was Urchin’s doing? But it wasn’t helping Catkin, as the night grew darker. His heart twisted. The water was around her shoulders.

Needle wriggled and shifted, and he glanced at the picture. The squirrel who might be Catkin held something in her paws.

All over the island, nets, webs, and meshes grew, and were shuffled along tunnels to be ready for use. They mustn’t be stickied too soon, but the pots of syrup, sap, and resin were kept beside them. Old animals with wrinkled paws advised about how to weave with reeds and and grasses. Grandfathers triumphantly held up the balls of string that they had always said would come in useful. Otters compared their netting techniques, wide mesh or narrow, long pattern or short, locked-loop stitch or split and slot. Knitters worked furiously with huge needles—pass the stitch over, knit two together. In burrows full of grandmotherly hedgehogs, the knitting was becoming competitive.