A Clock of Stars

by Francesca Gibbons

  ‘They sleep in the day.’

  ‘They mourn, fear, hate – even worship.’

  Drakomor was looking at her like she was out of her mind. ‘Worship?’

  ‘The Sertze Hora – the stone you keep in the tower – is precious to them in a way that goes beyond reason.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said the king.

  ‘Come on … you must have worked it out by now.’

  ‘Worked out what?’

  ‘Why the skret come here every night. You told me that it began five years ago, around the time your brother was killed. Around the time when you took the heart of the mountain and stuck it up in that tower. Isn’t that a bit of a coincidence?’

  ‘The skret weren’t doing anything with the Sertze Hora,’ snapped Drakomor. ‘It was just lying there.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said soothingly. ‘But perhaps they still think of it as theirs and that’s why they turned against Yaroslav. That’s why they visit every night. They want it back. Surely the thought has crossed your mind?’

  ‘They can’t have it back.’

  Anneshka left a respectful pause. From the walls of the cathedral, angels watched with painted smiles and knowing eyes. It seemed to her that they were only pretending to play their instruments.

  The king sank down into a pew. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. Anneshka sat next to him, taking his hands in hers.

  ‘Yaroslav needs some good news for a change,’ she said. ‘Something to celebrate.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘A wedding.’

  ‘You think it’s time?’ said the king. ‘We haven’t even got the rings …’

  ‘They’ll turn up. Especially with the reward you’ve offered. Let’s announce it. Let’s announce our wedding. We can be ready within ten days. Perhaps just a week. It’ll be the perfect distraction from all this nasty skret business. You can send word up the mountain too. Tell the Maudree Král that we’re starting afresh – that we want to rebuild the old ties between the people of Yaroslav and the skret of Klenot Mountain …’

  ‘I’m not having skret at our wedding feast.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m proposing, láska.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Yes, the skret will receive an invite. Yes, they’ll come to celebrate. But they won’t even taste a drop of our wine. Won’t even sniff the soup.’

  The king stood up and started to pace in front of the coffin. ‘Now there’s a thought … we could build a trap … and the people will see it.’

  ‘Exactly! What better way to demonstrate how well you protect Yaroslav from the skret? What better way to prove that you’re in charge and avenge your brother?’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Drakomor. ‘Not only have I got the prettiest bride in Yaroslav, but the smartest one too.’

  Anneshka gave a smile sweeter than a sugar mouse.

  After Yeedarsh’s funeral, Anneshka sat in the room at the top of her parents’ house. She’d changed out of her mourning dress and her mother was brushing her hair.

  ‘It’s happening just as Ochi predicted,’ said the older woman. ‘I knew it was worth paying that witch to read your stars … Now remember, the king won’t want a wife that talks too much and wakes too late. Or wakes too early and talks too little.’ She jabbed at Anneshka’s ribs. ‘Have you been eating properly? The king won’t want his wife to be as bony as a bird.’

  The brush snagged on a knot and Anneshka flinched. ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ said her mother and she pulled at the hair until Anneshka thought she’d tear it out. ‘The king won’t want a wife that jumps every time he raises his voice.’

  ‘I know perfectly well what the king does and doesn’t want,’ snapped Anneshka, taking hold of her hair and yanking it out of her mother’s hands. ‘I don’t need you any more, you old dragon.’

  Anneshka’s mother trembled with rage. ‘You ungrateful child!’ she screamed. ‘The things I’ve done to prepare you for your destiny! The sacrifices I’ve made!’

  She lashed out, but Anneshka stepped back and her mother’s hand swiped at thin air.

  Anneshka smiled. She didn’t have to put up with this any more. She walked out of the house with her hair hanging down her back like liquid gold.

  When she arrived at the castle, the bells were ringing for dusk. Her parents’ house was over a mile away, but Anneshka fancied she could still hear her mother wailing.

  ‘My name is Anneshka Mazanar,’ she told the guard at the entrance, ‘and this is my home.’

  That night Imogen had another dream.

  She was back at home. There was laughter coming from Mum’s bedroom. She opened the door to find Mum and Marie building a den. There were extra pillows and duvets on the bed, and blankets were strung up between the headboard and the curtain rail, like sails on a ship.

  Mum switched on the fairy lights, giving the room a pinkish glow. ‘Come on, Imogen,’ she said, ‘there’s room for one more.’

  Imogen climbed on to the bed and Marie made space for her in the middle of the duvet-nest. It was lovely. Like being inside a cocoon.

  ‘I broke up with Gavin,’ said Mum, putting a stack of books on the bedside table and settling down next to the girls. Imogen searched her mum’s face for signs of tears, but couldn’t see any.

  ‘Gavin the banker?’ said Marie.

  Mum laughed. ‘Yes. Gavin the banker. There’s only so much talk of interest rates a woman can take …’

  Imogen could hear the rain outside and feel the warmth of her mum’s body through the duvet. She snuggled closer.

  ‘I think we should celebrate with a story,’ said Mum. ‘Which one do you want?’

  ‘The one about the princess in the tower,’ said Marie.

  ‘No! The one about the dead things that won’t stay dead,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Imogen, you know that one frightens your sister.’

  ‘She can always leave.’

  ‘Hey!’ cried Marie, yanking the duvet. ‘That’s not fair!’

  Mum reached over and smoothed Marie’s hair. ‘I have a story to suit you both. It’s about a very long journey.’

  ‘A journey to where?’ said the girls in unison.

  ‘Well, if you let me tell it, you’ll see.’

  Mum read for what felt like hours and Marie dozed off, but Imogen didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to hear what happened next. She could really picture the hero setting out on his quest.

  She imagined that the duvet was a vast, forested landscape, with snowy mountain peaks. The hero walked along a ridge. Between two folds in the covers, Imogen imagined that there was a valley. At the bottom of the valley, she could see a city surrounded by a wall, and at the heart of the city there was a castle with towers. Imogen wasn’t concentrating on the story any more. She leaned in, trying to get a better look.

  ‘What is that place?’ she said.

  Mum looked over the top of the book. ‘What place?’

  ‘The city.’

  ‘Darling, have you been asleep? There’s no city in this story.’

  There was a light coming from the second tallest tower.

  ‘But it’s right there – in the duvet.’

  Mum put her hand on Imogen’s forehead. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  Imogen looked at the mountains surrounding the city. The biggest one had jagged rocks at its peak. That was Klenot Mountain. That was the one they had to climb. Suddenly she felt very cold.

  ‘Come here,’ said Mum, pulling Imogen closer and tucking the duvet round her neck. ‘You must be coming down with something. It’s a good job we’re already tucked up in bed.’

  When Imogen woke up, she thought she could still feel the warmth of her mother’s arms.

  She opened her eyes. It was morning and Miro was sitting by the fireplace, holding the little black box. Marie was asleep. She’d turned herself upside down in the night.

  Imogen felt a sob rising in her chest. She stifled it, curling into a ball. Her mum wasn�
��t there. Her mum might never be there again. It had all been a dream … And yet it was also a memory. Her mum really had dated a banker called Gavin and she really hadn’t seemed sad when it ended. Imogen hadn’t been sad either.

  It had been a long time since she’d thought of that day. They’d made a den in Mum’s big double bed and stayed there all afternoon. Imogen remembered asking: ‘Is that it? Are you done with boyfriends now? Will it just be the three of us?’

  Her mum had replied: ‘It will always be the three of us, Imogen. No matter what.’

  Well, it wasn’t the three of them now, was it?

  Imogen sat up and pushed the covers off her legs. Lying in bed wouldn’t help her get home. She would just have to get up that mountain. If the skret king was friends with the shadow moth and if he knew about the door in the tree, then perhaps there was hope.

  ‘Good morning, Miro,’ she said, striding over to his seat by the fire. ‘Today we’re going to ask Lofkinye Lolo to be our mountain guide!’

  Miro didn’t reply. He had taken the rings out of the little box and he was turning them over again and again. ‘What are you doing?’ said Imogen, annoyed.

  ‘I’m going to give the rings back to Uncle,’ said Miro.

  ‘But Blazen promised to keep his mouth shut. No one will even know we’ve got them.’

  ‘It’s not right. Uncle Drakomor is looking for them.’

  Imogen wanted to reply, but she was interrupted by the chiming of the clock. Mechanical stars circled its face. The hatch opened and a wooden figure stepped out. It was a woman in a pouffy dress. She floated forward and blew a kiss.

  ‘It’s a princess!’ said Marie, suddenly awake.

  ‘No, it’s just a woman in a wedding dress,’ said Imogen. The figure glided back into the clock.

  Imogen turned to Miro. ‘Haven’t you heard of finders keepers?’ she asked. ‘It means that if you lose something it’s not yours any more and, if you find it, you get to keep it.’

  ‘But Uncle didn’t lose the rings,’ said Miro. ‘You stole them.’

  Marie put her head on one side. ‘I suppose that’s true.’

  Imogen wasn’t so sure. ‘Didn’t you say they were your parents’ wedding rings? You’ve got just as much right to them as he has.’

  ‘Uncle looks after them for us both.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Imogen in a voice that sounded not fine. ‘Off you go, then.’

  Miro stood up to leave. ‘We’ll go and speak to the woman Blazen recommended when I’m back,’ he said. ‘Once you’ve got her, you won’t need me any more. You’ll be on your way home.’ He turned to Marie. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘Good,’ said Imogen. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Miro walked to his uncle’s study. After his parents had died, he used to sit in that room with Uncle Drakomor and go through his father’s stuff, poring over letters and keepsakes.

  Sometimes Drakomor would open the little black box and hold up the wedding rings so they shone in the firelight. He’d tell Miro stories about his father. They always began: ‘Many years ago, when the stars were old and the moon was young …’ He’d tell the stories over and over again, polishing them until they gleamed in the firelight too and Miro thought he could see familiar figures flickering among the flames. He loved those evenings.

  But, in recent years, Miro had grown wary of his uncle’s study. This was the place he got called to if he’d done something wrong. Miro couldn’t help feeling that his uncle cared more and more for his collection and less and less for him.

  When Miro had been caught stealing from the kitchens, his uncle dismissed his favourite cook. When Miro damaged a priceless teapot, he spent a month alone in his tower. When he failed to improve his algebra, his tutor was sent beyond the mountains and never heard from again. That was his uncle’s style: death by isolation.

  There were two guards outside the king’s study. As usual, they ushered Miro inside. As usual, he had to squeeze past the king’s treasures. But then things got less usual. Uncle Drakomor had company. Standing behind him, as he sat at his desk, was a woman. A woman Miro had never seen before.

  His uncle’s visitors were normally fusty old aristocrats with droopy moustaches and even they weren’t allowed in the study. This was a private space. The woman raised an eyebrow, as if to say, And who are you?

  ‘I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced,’ said the king. ‘Miroslav, this is Anneshka Mazanar.’ The woman bowed her head. ‘Anneshka, this is my late brother’s son.’

  The woman had yellow hair and almond-shaped eyes. Miro thought she was pretty. He wondered if his uncle thought so too.

  Miro must have been staring because his uncle said, ‘Go on, give the lady a bow.’

  ‘Why is she in your study?’ The words came out of Miro’s mouth before he could stop them.

  ‘Miroslav!’ cried his uncle.

  ‘It’s perfectly all right,’ said the woman. ‘You and I will be seeing a lot more of each other from now on.’

  She walked round the desk, slowly and purposefully, towards Miro. She bent down so her face was level with his. Her eyes were a fantastic blue, almost purple. Miro couldn’t stop looking at them, but they weren’t looking at his face. They were looking at his tunic, which was cut from the same material as a lot of his clothes – a dark velvet embroidered with gold stars.

  ‘This is a lovely thing,’ purred the woman, touching the edge of his sleeve. Miro wasn’t sure whether to say thank you. It didn’t feel like she was talking to him.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Drakomor.

  ‘I said, this is a lovely outfit your nephew has. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh yes, very nice.’

  She walked back to the desk and Miro realised that he had been holding his breath. She whispered something into the king’s ear and now he was looking at Miro’s tunic too.

  ‘I can come back another time …’ said Miro.

  ‘No, no, Miroslav,’ said the king. ‘Say what it is you’ve come to say.’

  ‘Right.’ Miro took a deep breath and blurted out his story: ‘I was walking along a corridor in the East Wing – just the other night – you know the corridor with the big tapestry and the—’

  ‘Yes, I know, boy. What’s your point?’

  ‘Well, I found this thing there and I think it might be what you’re looking for?’

  He reached into his pocket and removed the black box.

  ‘What’s that?’ snapped Drakomor. Miro placed the box on the desk so his uncle could see. ‘The rings!’

  ‘Are they the ones that were missing?’ asked Miro, trying his best to sound innocent.

  The woman was craning her neck over the king’s shoulder to get a better look. He passed her the box. She slipped the smaller ring on to her finger. Miro wanted to stop her.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked, holding out her hand.

  ‘It suits you!’ said Drakomor. ‘A perfect fit.’ He turned back to Miro. ‘What’s wrong with you, boy? Why do you even have to ask? Don’t you remember your own parents’ wedding rings?’ Miro clenched his fists. He wanted the woman to take off his mother’s ring.

  ‘Your uncle asked you a question,’ said the woman. Miro shook his head. The king rolled his eyes.

  ‘While you’re here,’ he said, ‘there’s something I may as well tell you.’ The woman put a hand on Drakomor’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. The ring flashed on her finger. ‘Anneshka and I plan to get married.’

  There was a pause while the grown-ups waited for Miro to speak.

  ‘I believe the customary response is “congratulations”,’ said the king. Miro opened his mouth. He tried to say it, he really did, but the word stuck in his throat like a long fish bone. ‘We’ll be telling the servants soon, but I thought you should be the first to know.’

  ‘Won’t that be nice?’ said the woman. ‘You’ll have a mother again.’

  Drakomor picked up the remaining ring and held it up to the candlelight. Miro dug h
is fingernails into his palms.

  ‘I’ll go now,’ he said, but the grown-ups were talking to each other in excited whispers. They didn’t seem to notice Miro any more. He slipped away quietly, disappearing between the enormous stone and a fossilised troll head.

  Imogen and Marie waited for Miro to return from his uncle’s study for hours. They read books. They ate cake. They even made the bed. But eventually they began to wonder what was going on.

  ‘I thought he’d be back by now,’ said Imogen.

  ‘He said we’d go to the dungeons,’ said Marie. ‘He said we’d ask Lofkinye Lolo to be our guide.’

  ‘Perhaps he chickened out. Dungeons do sound a bit scary.’

  ‘That would be bad. That would be really … What’s the opposite of brave?’

  ‘Lily-livered,’ said Imogen. ‘That’s what he is! Have you ever seen him do anything that puts his neck on the line?’

  ‘He did rescue us,’ said Marie, ‘when we first got here and the skret were coming.’

  ‘He let us into the castle. I’m not sure I’d call it a great rescue.’

  ‘He cut his thumb and made a pact. That was brave. There was blood and everything!’

  ‘That was odd. That’s what that was.’

  Marie pressed her lips together, thinking. ‘Didn’t he save you from Blazen Bilbetz when you broke his bagpipes?’

  ‘That?’ scoffed Imogen. ‘All Miro did was pay. You don’t have to be brave to pay. You just have to be a prince. Let’s go to the dungeons without him.’

  ‘Do you think they’d let us in?’

  ‘No,’ said Imogen, kicking the nearest chair. ‘This is so annoying.’

  ‘We’ll have to go and look for him,’ said Marie.

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Imogen rubbed her toe and scowled. ‘I suppose we haven’t got any choice.’

  The sisters climbed down from the second tallest tower and set off in different directions. Imogen started in the West Wing, sending Marie to the North.

  The corridors seemed to run on forever, connecting room after room like a massive rabbit warren. Imogen opened every door and checked under every table. Some of the places were familiar; others were unexplored. None of them contained the prince.