Urchin and the Heartstone by M. I. McAllister

full grown yet,” said Lugg. “And we can dig 'em out a bit wider if necessary. Slow us down a bit, but we’ll get him out. Permission to go, Your Majesty? Get him out before he grows any more?”
    “Go, Lugg,” said Crispin. Lugg bowed smartly and trotted away. “Before anybody else leaves,” said Crispin, drawing himself up, “I have a solemn promise to make in front of witnesses.”
    There was a cold swish of metal as he drew his sword and laid it on the floor before him. Arran stood up and folded her paws. Needle copied her.
    “I swear before you all,” said Crispin, “on all that I love and on my honor as your king, that I will not be crowned until Urchin of the Riding Stars is returned to us alive. If he is not, I will be uncrowned until my death.”
    There was a moment of solemn silence, broken by Fir. “As to that, I think he’ll return alive,” he said. “But you couldn’t be crowned yet anyway, Crispin, not quite thoroughly and properly. The most extraordinary thing has just come to light. The Heartstone is not the Heartstone. It is a fake.”

    Darkness pounded in Urchin’s head. Inside and around him, everything churned and rocked. His eyes wouldn’t open. His mouth was dry with a sour, fusty taste.
    Wherever he was, he was in the wrong place. Damp and chilled, he was lying on something hard. He should be in a dry nest in his chamber at the Spring Gate. He tried to call for help, but couldn’t. Even the effort to open his eyes was too great.
    “You gave him too much,” said a female voice. “You might have done permanent damage.”
    “He’ll be more damaged when King Silverbirch gets him,” growled someone else.
    The rocking went on. Urchin forced his eyes open, and was still in darkness. Flexing chilled, stiff claws, he reached for his sword.
    He hadn’t been wearing a sword. There was nothing there.
    “He’s moving,” said the female. Her voice brought a fuzzy picture into Urchin’s swimming head. He remembered Trail and Bronze—those were the voices he had heard. Where was Needle? And the small squirrel—he remembered helping her into the boat—and then Bronze holding him and forcing a drink between his teeth….
    A hinge creaked, and the sound hurt his head.
    “What are you doing?” growled Bronze.
    “Finding him a blanket,” said Trail. “He mustn’t take ill. We have to get him back alive.”
    “Get one for me too,” said Bronze. “It’s freezing in these mists.”
    The mists! Urchin heaved himself up, struggling against the arms that seized him. He tried to balance, and couldn’t. There was a tightness about his paws as he fought to move, his tail wasn’t balancing him, and as his eyes focused and his dizziness cleared, he knew exactly, wretchedly, how things were. His hind paws and tail were tied, his forepaws were tethered to rings on each side of the boat, and they were deep in the mists.
    If he could get out now, he might be able to swim for it. There was some slack in the ropes holding his front paws. Gathering all his strength, he heaved, struggled, and kicked out with his bound feet at Trail.
    “Vicious little freak!” she snapped. “Bronze, help me!”
    Growling and cursing, Bronze came from the rowing bench to help. Urchin could make out the shape of a sword at his side.
    “Get down, you,” snarled Bronze, with a push that sent Urchin sprawling backward; but the fall brought the sword within reach. Urchin darted a paw at it, but his limbs had grown stiff, and before he could reach the hilt, Trail had whipped the sword from its sheath. She slapped the flat blade onto his wrist with a sting that ran all the way to his shoulder. Gasping with pain, he felt the cold sword point at his throat.
    “It’s a long way to Whitewings, and there’s nobody here to help you,” she said. “You may as well cooperate.” She dropped the sword in front of Bronze. “You should have seen that coming. Good thing I did.”
    Urchin kept very still. Trail was right. He