voice that replied was slow and so hoarse that it rasped like a sword on stone. Urchin’s fur bristled and his claws curled.
“If he’s that squirrel,” it whispered, “we should kill him at once.”
“Now, now, Smokewreath,” said the king, “you can’t have him yet. I’ve only just got him. If he’s the deliverer, we’ve got to give him time to deliver us.”
“This island needs no deliverance that he can bring,” rasped Smokewreath, “except by his death. I can make such magic from his death.”
“He can deliver us from poverty first,” argued the king. “I know, I know, we’re not poor. But I want so much silver that we never will be, and I’m sure he has the gift of finding it. That’s the deliverance he will bring. He’s going to find wonderful silver for us and make us rich and powerful.”
There was a throaty growl from Smokewreath. “My magic has found silver for you,” he muttered. “And it can do more. All you want, Your Majesty. I can give you the thing you want most in the world, but I must have the body of the Marked Squirrel.”
“Yes, I know,” said the king, and to Urchin he sounded greedy. “I can have my heart’s desire. But I want to make the most I can of him first.”
“Have you considered,” asked Smokewreath, “that he may be here to deliver the island from you ?”
There was a shrill giggle from the king, quickly muffled. “Oh, silly Smokewreath! Why would the island need delivering from me? I’m the one who started the silver mining. Everyone loves me.”
“And the other prophecy?” said Smokewreath.
“Oh, that ” said the king petulantly. “You mean the one…”
“He will bring down a great ruler,” said Smokewreath. “Just look at him. Look at that color. It may well be him.”
“And it probably isn’t,” said the king. “There are islands everywhere. Some of them may be full of Marked Squirrels, so why should this one be that Marked Squirrel? I think that one probably died. Anyway, if it is him, he’s already brought down a great ruler, because he brought down Lord Husk. So I’m safe. Wouldn’t it be funny if he brought King Crispin down, too, without even meaning to!”
Urchin bit his lip hard and imagined wringing King Silverbirch’s neck. The king giggled again.
“You can have him, Smokewreath, but only when I’ve finished with him,” he said.
“Oh, what I could do with the body of a Marked Squirrel!” whispered Smokewreath. “The power of sorcery! Those ears, that tail! That fur! And…” He drew out the words in a hungry whisper. “…what I could do with his heart! Let me have him for death.”
“Not yet,” said the king irritably. “Yes, yes, you can have him, but not yet.”
“When, then?”
“Next summer.”
“Too long,” hissed Smokewreath.
“Spring, then,” said the king.
“Next moon,” said Smokewreath.
“Oh, snowfall, then,” said the king firmly. “You can have him at the first snowfall. Isn’t that a good time for killing? All right, if he’s no good at finding silver you can have him before that. But I promise, you can have him at snowfall if not before. Isn’t he sweet when he’s asleep?”
With a stale whiff of burning and vinegar, they slipped away. Furious at being bargained over, Urchin sat up. The king was deranged. So, probably, was Smokewreath. He couldn’t go back to sleep, so yet again he examined his cell for a way out.
By morning, rain was drizzling steadily. Urchin was still trying to scrape the window bars free—impossible, he knew, but it passed the time—when Trail, Bronze, and the guards arrived to march him down to the High Chamber. Trail and Bronze were surly this morning, with Trail insisting haughtily that she was in charge and Bronze refusing to cooperate. Two hedgehogs carried a basket of logs into Urchin’s cell, muttered something nervously about it being somebody or other’s orders, and glanced over their shoulders as a female squirrel in a helmet
“If he’s that squirrel,” it whispered, “we should kill him at once.”
“Now, now, Smokewreath,” said the king, “you can’t have him yet. I’ve only just got him. If he’s the deliverer, we’ve got to give him time to deliver us.”
“This island needs no deliverance that he can bring,” rasped Smokewreath, “except by his death. I can make such magic from his death.”
“He can deliver us from poverty first,” argued the king. “I know, I know, we’re not poor. But I want so much silver that we never will be, and I’m sure he has the gift of finding it. That’s the deliverance he will bring. He’s going to find wonderful silver for us and make us rich and powerful.”
There was a throaty growl from Smokewreath. “My magic has found silver for you,” he muttered. “And it can do more. All you want, Your Majesty. I can give you the thing you want most in the world, but I must have the body of the Marked Squirrel.”
“Yes, I know,” said the king, and to Urchin he sounded greedy. “I can have my heart’s desire. But I want to make the most I can of him first.”
“Have you considered,” asked Smokewreath, “that he may be here to deliver the island from you ?”
There was a shrill giggle from the king, quickly muffled. “Oh, silly Smokewreath! Why would the island need delivering from me? I’m the one who started the silver mining. Everyone loves me.”
“And the other prophecy?” said Smokewreath.
“Oh, that ” said the king petulantly. “You mean the one…”
“He will bring down a great ruler,” said Smokewreath. “Just look at him. Look at that color. It may well be him.”
“And it probably isn’t,” said the king. “There are islands everywhere. Some of them may be full of Marked Squirrels, so why should this one be that Marked Squirrel? I think that one probably died. Anyway, if it is him, he’s already brought down a great ruler, because he brought down Lord Husk. So I’m safe. Wouldn’t it be funny if he brought King Crispin down, too, without even meaning to!”
Urchin bit his lip hard and imagined wringing King Silverbirch’s neck. The king giggled again.
“You can have him, Smokewreath, but only when I’ve finished with him,” he said.
“Oh, what I could do with the body of a Marked Squirrel!” whispered Smokewreath. “The power of sorcery! Those ears, that tail! That fur! And…” He drew out the words in a hungry whisper. “…what I could do with his heart! Let me have him for death.”
“Not yet,” said the king irritably. “Yes, yes, you can have him, but not yet.”
“When, then?”
“Next summer.”
“Too long,” hissed Smokewreath.
“Spring, then,” said the king.
“Next moon,” said Smokewreath.
“Oh, snowfall, then,” said the king firmly. “You can have him at the first snowfall. Isn’t that a good time for killing? All right, if he’s no good at finding silver you can have him before that. But I promise, you can have him at snowfall if not before. Isn’t he sweet when he’s asleep?”
With a stale whiff of burning and vinegar, they slipped away. Furious at being bargained over, Urchin sat up. The king was deranged. So, probably, was Smokewreath. He couldn’t go back to sleep, so yet again he examined his cell for a way out.
By morning, rain was drizzling steadily. Urchin was still trying to scrape the window bars free—impossible, he knew, but it passed the time—when Trail, Bronze, and the guards arrived to march him down to the High Chamber. Trail and Bronze were surly this morning, with Trail insisting haughtily that she was in charge and Bronze refusing to cooperate. Two hedgehogs carried a basket of logs into Urchin’s cell, muttered something nervously about it being somebody or other’s orders, and glanced over their shoulders as a female squirrel in a helmet
Similar Books
