Free Urchin and the Raven War by M. I. McAllister

nightshade behind her right paw is treachery, because treachery killed her.” He looked at the Threading for a long time, in a quietness she knew she must not interrupt. Finally he said, “She was my first wife. The last thing I did on Swan Isle was to build that cairn over her grave.”
    Pitter gasped. She looked up at him and thought there was something different about his eyes.
    “Thank you for defending Whisper’s grave,” he said. Then he pressed her paw and said very quickly, “Off you go, now, Pitter. Heart keep you.”
    Kindly but quickly, the queen ushered her from the chamber.
    “And Pitter,” said the queen, “the swans are leaving us. We need to get you home.”
    “There’s no hurry, Your Majesty,” said Pitter. “I mean, I don’t want to bother the swans—I mean…and Mistmantle …” She wasn’t sure how to say this, but gabbled out, “Please, Your Majesty, I promise I won’t be any trouble!”

    Needle and Thripple found Myrtle crying quietly in a corner. When she had told them why, Needle’s spines bristled.
    “I will speak to Mistress Tay,” said Thripple gently. “In future, if you seem to be sewing something different, something you haven’t been told to do, you’re not to unpick it. You’re to leave it just as it is, and they must send for me or Needle to come and have a look at what you’ve sewn. Can you remember what flower you were sewing in the sea?”
    Myrtle screwed up her face in such concentration that Needle worried.
    “No,” she said. “I didn’t even know what it was when I was sewing it. Sorry.”
    “Never mind, dear,” said Thripple. “You’ve done a lovely piece of work. That’s a beautiful sea.”
    Needle examined the Threading, but Myrtle had unpicked her own work so neatly that it was impossible to see what flower she had stitched in the sea. And why in the sea? It troubled Needle. She slept badly that night.

    The news spread across the island that the king was recovering. It reached the ears of a gray, hoarse-voiced mole whose name was Grith. Grith growled softly in his throat when he heard of it. He had reasons to wish Crispin had died from the wound that tore through him on Swan Isle.
    Grith was a good spy. He had learned the skill from his brother, long ago.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    HE MORE C ORR EXPLORED , the more he was astonished.
    He found narrow inlets, where sandbanks reared up and willows dangled their fingers in the water. There were wide, shallow bays rippled with the tide and scattered with tiny shells. The next day he found dark rearing rock faces clothed with green weeds. The next, there were pale cliffs with waterfalls. Getting to Mistmantle Tower was taking him far longer than he had expected, but it was fun. Lonely, though. He often met other animals, who told him about the war and the return of the army, but a friend to share the journey with would be good. Another day was drawing late, and he had found a sandy bay surrounded by cliffs, with a sloping path. There would be time to explore that path before dark. He was climbing up past rough bushes when a cry startled and stopped him.
    “Let go, raven!” cried a young female squirrel. “Evil death wing, I will fight you to the last drop of my blood!”
    Raven! Ravens had nearly killed the king! Corr ran, pushing through brambles that scratched and tore at him, realizing as he did that he had nothing to fight with. Picking up a stick, he lurched on until he saw the squirrel perched on the branch of a tree, pelting down beechnuts as she cried out her challenges. She darted back, flattened herself against the tree trunk, then began her attack again.
    She must have scared off the enemy, thought Corr, who couldn’t see a single raven in sight. But there might be more of them hanging around, waiting to attack—in the treetops, probably. The squirrel now skimmed down the tree, snatched up a fallen branch, and brandished it like a sword.
    “As long as I breathe,” she cried, “I will defend