“We mustn’t blame him. And that little squirrel, Pitter, who brought us the mendingmoss, there’s no sign of her, either. She told Cedar something about mendingmoss, and nobody has seen her since, so I suspect he’s taken her home. So, there you are. He’s looking after one of his own squirrels. May the Heart carry them safely past the ravens.”
“You’re a good king, Crispin,” said Padra.
It was the greatest thing Crispin had heard that day. There were times when he hated being king, especially at times like this, when he had to take risks with the lives of brave animals who were dear to him. But if he were to die today, it would not be a scrap of a life that was laid down. It would be the life of a king of Mistmantle, offered to the Heart in a cry for the island.
One squirrel ignored the instructions to hide underground. That one was Gleaner. Long ago, she had been the devoted servant of Lady Aspen, Lord Husk’s wife. So Lady Aspen was dead. So she had done terrible things and planned worse ones. Gleaner had long ago decided that none of it was Lady Aspen’s fault, and anyway, she still loved her ladyship. Now that she could no longer look after Lady Aspen and her beautiful robes and jewels and her chamber, she looked after her grave.
Lady Aspen had been buried in a clearing in the Tangletwigs, a wood so overgrown with thornbushes that few animals lived there. As Gleaner visited the little cairn of stones every other day, she had learned to get there and back without a scratch. The flowers on that cairn were always fresh; Lady Aspen’s silver bracelet was always polished.
Gleaner had heard about the threat of ravens. Typical. Stupid Crispin can’t even go and kill a few birds without putting the whole island in danger. What’s Swan Isle to do with us? Muttering her way through the Tangletwigs, she took an old cloak to drape over the cairn. It must be hidden from the eyes of the ravens. They had no right to see it.
Dragging the cloak through the Tangletwigs was proving almost impossible. At every step it snagged on the thorns. Gleaner muttered at it and heaved it free again.
“Want any help?” asked a husky voice behind her.
Gleaner turned sharply, ready to snap that she could manage perfectly well, thank you. But really, she would be glad for a helpful pair of paws with this—she heaved again— this stupid cloak, it’s doing it on purpose. The gray mole was so close beside her that she jumped, then tried to pretend that she hadn’t.
“Let me give you a paw with that,” said the mole. His voice rasped as if he had a cough. “Are you Gleaner?”
Gleaner put her head to one side and twitched her mouth to mean, “What if I am?” The mole lifted a corner of the cloak to release it from a hawthorn twig.
“I’m only here to help,” he said. “My name’s Grith. Let’s get this moved, shall we? Is this for Lady Aspen’s grave?”
Gleaner glowered at him. Lady Aspen’s grave was nobody’s business but hers.
“What if it is?” she demanded, and bundled up the cloak, wincing as a thorn tore at her paw. “This island has too many busybodies.”
“But not you,” said Grith. “You just mind your own business and look after Lady Aspen’s grave, after all this time. She made her mistakes, but wasn’t she magnificent! My brother had the great honor of serving her. Loyalty’s a fine thing, Gleaner. Let me help.”
At dawn, animals in the tower rose from their prayers, shook each other’s paws, kissed sword blades and bowstrings, put on helmets, and took their places by the boarded-up windows, at doors, gates, and battlements. Strong-smelling lotions were rubbed into fur. All over the island, warriors stood ready. If weapons failed, they would fight with claws and teeth to protect their young and their families from the tearing talons and beaks of the ravens. Crispin patrolled the battlements, giving encouragement, watching the skies. Mistmantle was ready.
“Caw! Caw!” On the
“You’re a good king, Crispin,” said Padra.
It was the greatest thing Crispin had heard that day. There were times when he hated being king, especially at times like this, when he had to take risks with the lives of brave animals who were dear to him. But if he were to die today, it would not be a scrap of a life that was laid down. It would be the life of a king of Mistmantle, offered to the Heart in a cry for the island.
One squirrel ignored the instructions to hide underground. That one was Gleaner. Long ago, she had been the devoted servant of Lady Aspen, Lord Husk’s wife. So Lady Aspen was dead. So she had done terrible things and planned worse ones. Gleaner had long ago decided that none of it was Lady Aspen’s fault, and anyway, she still loved her ladyship. Now that she could no longer look after Lady Aspen and her beautiful robes and jewels and her chamber, she looked after her grave.
Lady Aspen had been buried in a clearing in the Tangletwigs, a wood so overgrown with thornbushes that few animals lived there. As Gleaner visited the little cairn of stones every other day, she had learned to get there and back without a scratch. The flowers on that cairn were always fresh; Lady Aspen’s silver bracelet was always polished.
Gleaner had heard about the threat of ravens. Typical. Stupid Crispin can’t even go and kill a few birds without putting the whole island in danger. What’s Swan Isle to do with us? Muttering her way through the Tangletwigs, she took an old cloak to drape over the cairn. It must be hidden from the eyes of the ravens. They had no right to see it.
Dragging the cloak through the Tangletwigs was proving almost impossible. At every step it snagged on the thorns. Gleaner muttered at it and heaved it free again.
“Want any help?” asked a husky voice behind her.
Gleaner turned sharply, ready to snap that she could manage perfectly well, thank you. But really, she would be glad for a helpful pair of paws with this—she heaved again— this stupid cloak, it’s doing it on purpose. The gray mole was so close beside her that she jumped, then tried to pretend that she hadn’t.
“Let me give you a paw with that,” said the mole. His voice rasped as if he had a cough. “Are you Gleaner?”
Gleaner put her head to one side and twitched her mouth to mean, “What if I am?” The mole lifted a corner of the cloak to release it from a hawthorn twig.
“I’m only here to help,” he said. “My name’s Grith. Let’s get this moved, shall we? Is this for Lady Aspen’s grave?”
Gleaner glowered at him. Lady Aspen’s grave was nobody’s business but hers.
“What if it is?” she demanded, and bundled up the cloak, wincing as a thorn tore at her paw. “This island has too many busybodies.”
“But not you,” said Grith. “You just mind your own business and look after Lady Aspen’s grave, after all this time. She made her mistakes, but wasn’t she magnificent! My brother had the great honor of serving her. Loyalty’s a fine thing, Gleaner. Let me help.”
At dawn, animals in the tower rose from their prayers, shook each other’s paws, kissed sword blades and bowstrings, put on helmets, and took their places by the boarded-up windows, at doors, gates, and battlements. Strong-smelling lotions were rubbed into fur. All over the island, warriors stood ready. If weapons failed, they would fight with claws and teeth to protect their young and their families from the tearing talons and beaks of the ravens. Crispin patrolled the battlements, giving encouragement, watching the skies. Mistmantle was ready.
“Caw! Caw!” On the
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