Urchin and the Heartstone by M. I. McAllister Page A

was at their mercy. He put up with her draping a blanket across him as if he were a baby. Bronze had settled down to row again, and each creak and dip of the oars took him farther from Mistmantle.
    “It’s like this,” said Bronze. “You’re a court squirrel, you’re under orders from the king and that otter, you obey orders, right? Well, we’re court animals, too, under orders from King Silverbirch and Lord Treeth, and if they tell us to snatch the freak and get him to Whitewings, that’s what we have to do. Fair enough?”
    Urchin’s mouth felt dry and swollen as he spoke. “My captain and my king,” he croaked, “wouldn’t order me to trick another animal and kidnap him.”
    “Oh, shut up,” said Bronze. “You fell for it, didn’t you?”
    I fell for it. It didn’t help to know that. He wondered if they’d missed him yet, and a little brightness entered his misery.
    “They’ll be looking for me,” he said. “They’ll know I’ve gone.”
    “No, they won’t,” said Trail smugly. “Why do you think Scatter isn’t here? She stayed to tell them you came of your own choice, and she’d act it up for all she’s worth. Only thing she’s good for. So they’re not going to send anyone looking for you, are they, not past the mists? They wouldn’t risk never getting back.”
    Urchin didn’t answer. Trail didn’t know what she was talking about. She didn’t know Crispin. The idea of Crispin not doing something was too appalling to think of. If Crispin didn’t do anything, and if he couldn’t escape—and the chances of escape were so small they were ridiculous—he might never get home again.
    Perhaps King Silverbirch would just tell him what they wanted him to do, and he could do it and go home. Unfortunately, that seemed unlikely. All this talk about a Marked Squirrel seemed hollow. They weren’t treating him at all like an honored guest and savior of the island, and Bronze’s words about the king made him so uneasy he hoped he’d only dreamed them.
    He reminded himself that he had left the island by water before, and returned, and that time he had been storm-tossed and nearly wrecked, and hadn’t known where he was going. The Heart that cared for Mistmantle had cared for him, too. He found a quiet place in his own heart, and from that still point inside himself, he called silently for help.
    Great Heart of Mistmantle, keep me, as you kept me before, even beyond the mists. Bring me home. Bring me back to Mistmantle.
    He twisted to look out at the gray water behind him. Was that an animal gliding behind the boat? But it couldn’t be. Just a shadow on the waves. When he looked again, it had gone.

    In the grave silence of the Gathering Chamber of Mismantle Tower, Needle stood with an oval box in her paws. It was a beautiful thing, made of softly glowing pale-pink stone with flecks of silver and gold wavering through it. She had been sent to Fir’s turret to collect it, and it was so important that Heath and Russet, squirrels of the Circle, had been sent with her as an escort.
    “Thank you, Needle,” said Brother Fir, and took off the lid.
    The stone lay in a nest of straw and muslin. It was no bigger than a pebble, smooth, almost heart-shaped, the same color as the box it lay in, with a gleam of gold at its heart. Needle watched Fir lift it from the box.
    It had to be the Heartstone. It had to be. Brother Fir must be wrong to say the Heartstone was a fake. It was too sacred a thing to be tampered with.
    “It looks like the Heartstone to me,” said Crispin. “But I’ve only seen it once, when King Brushen was crowned.”
    “Hm!” said Fir, and tossed it into Padra’s paws. “Catch!”
    Padra caught it by instinct. It lay in his paw, not moving as he looked from the stone to Fir.
    “Give it to Needle,” said Fir.
    Needle wanted to say no, she wouldn’t dare touch the Heartstone, but Padra was already passing it to her with such a grave expression that she didn’t like to argue.