Free The Heir of Mistmantle by M. I. McAllister

tell me now.”
    Urchin imagined himself back in the dark tunnel leading to the dungeon, with Hope holding his paw and eating berries. Husk had retreated in terror, his paws shaking—had inched back into the dungeon—then there was the long cry, growing fainter and fainter, a wild laugh from far away—then nothing.
    “He must be dead,” said Urchin.
    “Excuse me,” said Needle, “I don’t like having to say this, but when Brother Fir first told us about the pit, he said that hundreds of years ago, when animals were thrown down there, some of them survived and dug tunnels to get out. That was how the moles came to build their palace. So it’s possible for an animal to survive that fall.” She looked down at her paws. “Sorry.”
    Urchin put a paw on her shoulder, and she looked up with gratitude. Urchin wanted her to be wrong, but he knew that, unfortunately, she was right. Husk might have survived that fall.
    “You’re quite right to remind us of it, Needle,” said Crispin. “Thank you.”
    “But a squirrel’s heavier than a mole and falls harder,” said Padra. “And we don’t know what the ground is like underneath. It may have dried out and hardened since then.”
    “Well, sir,” said Lugg, “I’m getting the moles unblocking as many old tunnels as possible as part of the search for Catkin. If, while we’re at it, we find Husk’s body, I’ll be delighted to let you know. If I find a door with a squirrel-shaped hole in it, Your Majesty, it would be a pleasure to go after him and give him what he’s been asking for, but I think it’s most unlikely. I’d be glad to find his body myself and know that he’s as dead as a pickled walnut. And then those troublemakers will have to find something else to talk about.”
    “They will,” said Arran.
    “Still,” said Crispin, “let’s face this. It’s possible, just possible, that Husk is still alive. It’s most unlikely, but possible. But this time he hasn’t taken over the island, and we’re not going to let him. Brother Fir, you had something to say?”
    Everyone looked at the priest. He looked so old and tired that Urchin hurt for him.
    “Oh, dear,” said Brother Fir, quietly, as if he were talking to himself. “Oh dear, yes. Hm. Sometimes I find it hard to understand why the Heart allows things as it does.” Then he straightened himself up to address them all. Urchin saw the depth and love in the dark brown eyes that held the attention of the whole room, and the suffering in those eyes. He saw it more clearly than ever before, and felt it in his own heart.
    “A number of animals have been unwell lately,” said Brother Fir. “At first it seemed to be nothing that couldn’t be put down to hot weather and some minor infection, the kind of thing that’s easily shaken off. By last night I feared that it might be something worse, and this very morning I was sent for as a matter of some urgency. More and more animals are falling ill, and the symptoms are getting far worse—severe headaches, high fever, vomiting, aching and swollen limbs—some are having convulsions. There is sometimes a red and yellowish rash on the paws.”
    “All the symptoms of fouldrought,” said Crispin.
    “Fouldrought!” said Juniper, and his eyes widened.
    “I’m afraid so,” said Fir. “The otters don’t appear to be catching it, only the land animals.”
    “Juniper,” said Queen Cedar, “are you ill?”
    “No, Your Majesty,” answered Juniper quickly. “Just—just alarmed. I’ve learned about fouldrought.”
    “Is fouldrought all over the island, Brother Fir?” asked Padra. There was a sharply focused look about him—Urchin remembered him looking like that when he rallied the islanders against Husk. He couldn’t remember the last outbreak of fouldrought, but he had heard of it.
    “In the past day or two I have been to Falls Cliffs, to the edges of the Tangletwigs, to Anemone Wood, and to the west and north shores,” said Fir. “There are