Urchin and the Raven War (23 page)

Needle slipped in front of the frame. She knelt to adjust it—it had been knocked off balance—and, as she did so, made a decision so vital that she dared not think about it too much. She turned and knelt before the raven.

“Great raven,” she said. “What can we do? A power such as yours has never been seen on this island. We cannot stand against you. This frame is for making the pictures that honor our leaders, whoever they are.”

She bowed so low to the floor that her forehead was almost on the raven’s claw.

“Let me search these cupboards,” she said. “I will gather the finest gold and silver threads we have left. You are the lords of the island now, and you are the ones we must honor in our work. Please, please, I would speak with the Taloness.”

The Taloness stood on the dais in the Gathering Chamber with King Crispin and Queen Cedar before her. About them were the largest and strongest of the ravens. She nodded at two of them, then at Cedar.

“Stand her against the wall,” she said.

Crispin caught Cedar’s wrist, but the ravens wrenched her from him and pushed her to the wall. Raven beaks held all four of Crispin’s paws. When a raven appeared in the doorway, the Taloness cawed sharply at it.

“Kill and devour, Great Taloness!” it said.

“We shall kill and devour you, craven wreck-beak, if you interrupt us for no good reason,” croaked the Taloness. “What is this?”

“Great Taloness,” said the raven, bowing its head in submission, “there are creatures here who wish to surrender to you.”

The Taloness cawed deeply. It was almost a growl.

“They will be part of the feast,” she said. “We have a great entertainment prepared.” She looked sideways at Crispin. “A great entertainment. But the Silver Prince has not yet come. While we wait, bring us these vermin.”

With a twitch of her neck, she strutted to Crispin and glared down at him.

“Do you think you have seen the full strength of our armies yet?” she demanded. “Behind the foul fogs of this island, our ships are crammed. Your final humiliation and death will wait until all the island is ours. By then you will have watched your creatures grovel before us and before the Silver Prince, and watched us devour them, one by one.” She made a rattling noise in her throat. “You consider yourself a king. You are soft on your creatures.” She leaned closer. Her voice became a growling whisper. “You will suffer for it. Let us claim your darlings.”

She hopped across the floor, coarse black wings flapping. “Let them in!” she snarled.

Crispin watched steadily. Whatever happened, he must show no anger. It would be like the raging of a helpless child. He must keep his heart centered in the Heart that cared for Mistmantle, however hard that seemed. All his energy must be focused on this—keeping his senses alert, his mind sharp, and his heart in the Heart.

There was a teaching he had learned from childhood—
The Heart that gave us the mists broke with love for Mistmantle, but it still beats.
He had never quite understood it. Sometimes he had thought he did, and then realized that he hadn’t gotten it at all. He still didn’t understand it, but now he
felt
it. It was real and true for him now as he stood surrounded by smashed furniture and broken windows with his own heart breaking for Mistmantle, as loyal Needle and little Myrtle—oh, she looked so very little—were ushered in, struggling to carry canvas, paints, pencils, wools, and a Threadings frame.

Needle stood with her head bowed. Once, shyly, she raised her eyes to look up at the Taloness as she knelt before her.

“Great Taloness,” she said, “here is all that is dear to us, the means of our work. Now that the island is yours, our work is yours. We are the makers of Threadings, and the Threadings are more important than anything on all the island. Grant us to make the picture of your triumph, for you are now our rulers. We will make a tribute that will last forever.”

“Spine-slug,” spat the Taloness. “Turn. Look over there. Who’s that?”

Needle stood and turned. She met Crispin’s eyes.

“Crispin the squirrel,” she said calmly.

“Squirrel?” rasped the Taloness in a low, warning voice.

“The tree-rat,” said Needle.

“Your king?” said the Taloness. “Look at us!”

“If he were truly a king,” said Needle, turning to face her, “he would never have brought down your anger against us. I have given my life to making these Threadings, but he has let them be destroyed. Permit me to tell your story, madam. It is the greatest story of all.”

A triumphant light was in the Taloness’s eyes. “You will make our picture?” she said. “You will glorify the Silver Prince?”

“I must,” said Needle. “The Threadings must always tell the truth. The victory is yours, and they will show it.”

“You treacherous little vermin!” spat the Taloness, but she cackled in triumph.

“I never had any loyalty to him,” said Needle. “Only to the Threadings.”

Caw!
The Taloness sprang. Needle ducked and curled up against that terrible sharp beak and the sharpened talons.

“Uncurl yourself, spine-slug!” shrieked the Taloness. “Your loyalty is to us! And to the Silver Prince! Repeat it! Hail to the Silver Prince!”

“Hail to the Silver Prince!” said Needle.

“Hail to the Taloness!”

“Hail to the Taloness!” cried Needle.

“And death to the tree-rat!” said the Taloness.

“Death to the tree-rat!” shouted Needle, and the air grew coarse and cracked with raven laughter. It stopped abruptly.

“Work by the window,” she ordered. “Make your picture where the tree-rat can see it.”

“Please, mighty Taloness,” said Needle, “may I have a torch to work by?”

“Oh, we must all see well tonight,” said the Taloness. “No sleep! Make your picture, spine-slug. If we dislike it, you will watch as we tear it apart, and then we will tear
you
apart, and that little servant. And may all you sniveling, shuffling, earthbound animals betray this tree-rat so readily.”

Needle and Myrtle scurried to the window to set up the frame. They laid out pencils, paints, wool, and needles. The Taloness perched on the jagged edge of a windowpane, looked down, and raised her left foot as if she were giving a signal. She craned her neck, stretching her beak forward, searching.

“Where is the Silver Prince?” she croaked. “Can they not find him?”

A dark shape wheeled through the sky toward them. A raven settled on the sill.

“Kill and devour, Taloness!” it said. “The Silver Prince has urgent business of his own. He will attend you in time.”

All through the long silence that followed, Needle dared not look up. At last, the Taloness spoke.

“In time?”
she repeated.

Crispin had heard that tone of voice before. She had used it when she had told him he would suffer. Mind in heart, he thought. Mind in heart. Hold on. What on all the island is Needle up to? His guards dragged him to the window and, at a jerk of the Taloness’s head, stood him with his back to it.

“Our plan for our feast,” she said, “is that we will eat the young first. But we have seen no young on this island. Where are they?”

“Would I tell you,” said Crispin quietly, “if I knew?”

Her hooded eyelids lowered and lifted again. “You are the king,” she said. “You must know.”

Crispin looked steadily back at her. “Our animals are free,” he said. “They make their own decisions.”

She gave something between a twitch and a shrug. “No matter,” she said. “We will kill and devour them soon enough. Young tree-rat tastes good.”

She threw back her head. From the open beak came a screech of triumph that made Crispin’s ears ring and his old wound prickle with shock. Needle and Myrtle pressed their paws to their ears.

“Turn him to the window!” she screeched.

“No!” screamed Cedar. For a moment of cold terror, Needle, thought that the ravens would fling him down. But they held him at the shattered window and dragged the queen to his side.

By the power of the evening sun they saw the sea, the shore, and the mooring posts to the west of the jetty. And when he looked down, Crispin saw something worse than nightmares.

There were ravens on the jetty, more in a boat, and four on guard on the shore. In the sea, tied to a mooring post with the water up to her waist, stood Catkin. Stranded in the steadily rising sea, she stood alone, vulnerable, and unbearably young.

“The tide is rising,” remarked the Taloness. “That whole post will be under water before morning. She certainly will. She’s very small.”

Crispin did not have to look at Cedar to feel her pain. He knew she was shaking.

“Mother,” said the Taloness, “can you see your baby? Perhaps you can remember where the other babies are? One drowned tree-rat will not feed us all.”

Catkin looked out to the mists. The ravens in the boat in front of her could see her face clearly, so she must not show fear.

There was always hope, she told herself as the surface of the water lapped coldly around her. Something might happen. She might be rescued. She might rescue herself if she could only wriggle free; but there were so many cords, and so tight! The ravens might become sorry for her and let her go. No, there was no hope in that. What else? Lightning might hit the post and set her free! You never knew! The tide might not rise high enough to drown her. But if she died, she would die magnificently, with her chin up and her eyes on the stars, crying, “Heart keep Mistmantle!” and “Heart keep King Crispin and Queen Cedar!”

Oh, no.
She shouldn’t have thought of them. She mustn’t do that again, because thinking of her parents made her want to cry, and she must not cry.
I will not cry. Don’t think of them. Don’t think of Oakleaf and Almondflower. But I wish I’d been nicer to Oakleaf.

She wriggled her claws and moved her ankles as much as she could. She couldn’t save herself from drowning, but at least she didn’t have to get a cramp.

From the waist down she had acclimatized to the water, but every wave that lapped higher was cold. Her fur was fluffed up, and her arms and shoulders were freezing. If only she had something to look at! But there was only mist, sky, and sea, and the occasional shape of a raven flying past.

She must think of something strong, something good to die with, just in case nothing wonderful happened to save her.
Heart help me. Please. I’ll be really, really nice to Oakleaf. I’ll never again tell him he’s too young to play. I’ll listen when he tries to tell me things, even if I know them already. And if I become queen I’ll be a really good one; but to do that I have to stay alive, so please help me.

She looked up into the sky. Gold flew across it, turning to flares of red. A fiery sky that gilded the waves for her. That was what she needed. Her parents and Sepia had taught her to think of something nice before she went to sleep. If she were to die, she must die with that sky in her eyes, reliving the best ever moments of her life… .

…
Waking up on festival days to see a garlanded dais and animals practicing songs and acrobatics. Seeing her parents dressed for great occasions with gleaming crowns and robes. Singing with Sepia and the choir in the gallery of the Gathering Chamber. Running through flowers in summer. Learning to swim with Tide and Swanfeather, and Fingal would …

She bit her lip. She’d give anything to see Fingal now. Everything was better when he was about.
Don’t think of Fingal. Think of frost patterns on the window in winter, the soft white enchantment of snow at night, the day she, Oakleaf and the young otters had borrowed a tea tray from the kitchen and sledded down the hills… .

A violent cawing at her ear made her jerk and shriek. “Leave me alone!” she snarled. They laughed, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t fair to startle her like that; it wasn’t fair—none of this was fair! She shouldn’t be here! She should be playing, running up and down the tower walls, staying out of the way in case anyone said it was her bedtime—bedtime would be lovely. A hot drink, a lamp, and her own warm bed …

Don’t think of that. Don’t cry
—but it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair! She struggled and wriggled, angry, not just for herself but for all the young animals who should be enjoying the summer and were now penned up in hiding places. They might never again be free, never again see their families….