The forest canopy separated out into individual trees that whizzed by. If she’d wanted to, Imogen could have touched the tips of the highest branches with her boots. Her velecour extended its wings and her descent slowed as if a parachute had been released. The bird circled down into a clearing, clucking as it landed.
Imogen dismounted with shaky legs. She patted her velecour on its side. A few metres away, Lofkinye jumped off her bird and sank to her knees, turning her face to the sky.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Imogen.
‘It’s more than all right,’ said Lofkinye. ‘It’s home.’
Miro slid off his bird like a seasick sailor and collapsed on the ground. ‘I don’t feel well,’ he bleated.
‘That was the fun bit,’ said Lofkinye.
‘I’m going to vomit,’ said the prince.
Imogen felt a bit queasy herself. She helped Marie off her bird, and Marie smiled tentatively. Imogen was surprised – she’d thought her sister would be more shaken up.
Miro retched but nothing came out. ‘I don’t travel well,’ he said.
‘Now you tell us,’ said Lofkinye, helping him to his feet.
Marie and Imogen exchanged a look.
The velecours were already scattering among the trees. They blended in surprisingly well, considering their colourful plumage, and their large feet made no sound on the mossy forest floor. Imogen watched the last one disappear into the gloom.
‘Did you bring everything I told you to?’ asked Lofkinye, rifling through her pack.
‘I think so,’ said Marie.
Lofkinye put on her fur coat and the children did the same. Then the huntress strung her bow. ‘You never know what’s waiting among the trees at night,’ she said.
When they were all wrapped up, Lofkinye marched into the forest and the children followed. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Miro.
‘A safe place,’ said their guide.
Under the forest canopy, it was darker than it had been in the clearing. Very little moonlight made it through the branches, which were knitted together like badly made blankets.
Every so often, Imogen would catch a glimpse of movement or feel eyes watching her and her hand would go to her sword. She was half expecting to see her moth, half expecting to meet a skret, but the ‘eyes’ in the dark always turned out to be nothing more than a strange patch of bark and the movement was just falling leaves.
They had been walking for about an hour when Marie gave a little squeak.
‘What is it?’ said Imogen.
‘I trod on something!’ They all gathered round to see the tiny skeleton at Marie’s feet. Lofkinye picked up the skull. ‘What is it?’ asked Marie, her voice full of fear.
‘It was a bird,’ said Lofkinye.
‘Why is it here? Why is it dead?’
‘It’s hard to say for certain,’ said their guide, tossing the skull over her shoulder, ‘but this won’t be the last skeleton we find. The forests contain more dead things than living. It’s getting worse.’
‘What is?’ said Imogen.
‘The Žal. Everything’s affected. Even the trees.’
Imogen looked up at the trees. They looked okay to her.
‘The Žal? What nonsense,’ said Miro, with an air of great authority. ‘It’s just autumn. Things always die in autumn.’
‘Do they now?’ said Lofkinye, looking at him with a half-smile that was not altogether friendly. ‘Well, if the little prince says so, it must be true.’
Imogen wanted to ask more about the Žal, but Lofkinye turned away and started walking again.
‘I hate being called that,’ muttered Miro to the girls.
‘What?’ said Imogen.
‘Little prince.’
‘But you are a prince.’
‘I’m not little.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being small,’ said Marie.
‘Keep up,’ called Lofkinye. ‘There are things living among the trees that love the taste of little prince.’
Lofkinye didn’t stop walking until they were at the foot of an enormous tree. Imogen wasn’t sure if it was bigger than the one she’d found in the Haberdash Gardens. It was hard to tell in the dark.
‘This is our safe place,’ said Lofkinye. The children looked around. All Imogen could see was a fern-covered floor and endless trees.
‘What’s so safe about it?’ asked Miro.
‘Pass me the rope and I’ll show you.’
Imogen untied a rope from Miro’s pack and handed it to Lofkinye. Lofkinye knotted the end and swung it like a lasso, releasing it above her head.
‘You’d be amazed,’ said Lofkinye, ‘how many people forget to look up.’
‘Wow,’ said Marie, looking up. Imogen did the same.
At the top of the big tree, perched among the forest canopy, was a tree house. It was made entirely of wood, just like a garden shed. But, unlike a garden shed, it was built around the tree. The trunk went through the middle and branches stuck out through the walls.
Beneath the floorboards there was a cone-shaped structure. It looked like one of those bird feeders – the ones designed to keep squirrels off. ‘What’s that?’ asked Imogen. ‘Squirrel protection?’
Lofkinye laughed. ‘Bear protection,’ she said. ‘The bears of the Kolsaney Forests aren’t great climbers, but a sloping base stops them from even trying. They can’t get a grip.’
Lofkinye’s rope had caught on a branch just below the tree house. She clapped her hands. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘who’s going up first?’ No one volunteered. ‘Little prince. You show us how it’s done.’ There was that smile again. ‘You can take off your pack.’
‘You want me to go up that rope?’ said Miro.
‘Yep.’
‘All the way?’
‘Yep.’
Miro hesitated. ‘Go on, Miro,’ said Marie with genuine enthusiasm. ‘You can do it.’
Miro looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t hang around,’ said Lofkinye. ‘The sooner we get up there, the better.’
Miro took off his pack and tugged on the rope, checking it would take his weight. Then he grabbed it with both hands and started to climb. He got a metre or so up before sliding back down. ‘Argh! My fingers!’
He tried again, moving his hands more slowly. His legs were dangling near the girls’ faces when his arms began to shake. ‘I can’t do it!’ he cried as he slid to the ground. ‘It’s impossible.’
The girls looked at Lofkinye, concerned. ‘He’s not doing it right,’ said the huntress.
‘Not doing it right?’ said Miro, exasperated. ‘There’s no other way! I was holding on like this and pulling myself up like this. That’s how you climb a rope. That’s how everyone climbs a rope.’
‘Keep talking,’ said Lofkinye. ‘Something might occur to you eventually.’
Miro scowled. Lofkinye turned to Marie. ‘You – small one. Take off your pack.’ Imogen wasn’t sure how she felt about Lofkinye bossing her sister around, but Marie didn’t seem to mind. ‘Now hold on to the rope with your hands above your head.’ When Marie had done that, Lofkinye took the end of the rope and passed it between Marie’s legs, looping it under one foot and over the other.
‘Very good,’ said Lofkinye. ‘You’ve made a lock.’
‘I have?’
‘Now pull your knees up – yes, that’s it – and push down hard on the rope with that foot.’ Lofkinye stood back. Marie repeated the action.
Imogen watched with her hands out in case Marie fell. But Marie didn’t fall. She was above their heads in a matter of seconds.
‘Don’t forget to squeeze your feet together,’ said Lofkinye. ‘You need to keep the rope between them. And, if you get scared, just take three deep breaths. You can’t do anything if you don’t breathe.’
‘It’s working!’ cried Marie.
‘That’s great. Keep going. You need to get to that branch at the top.’
Imogen thought it was irresponsible of Lofkinye to send the smalles
t and weakest up first. It was only a matter of time before Marie freaked out. Then what would they do?
‘Are you okay?’ shouted Imogen. ‘You don’t have to go all the way if you don’t want to. You can come back down.’
‘I’m at the top,’ said Marie, surprising Imogen for a second time since they’d left the castle. ‘What now?’
‘Climb on to the branch,’ said Lofkinye. ‘You should be able to crawl along it and into the house.’
Marie struggled for a moment, making the rope wiggle, but she managed to grab hold of the tree. The next time Imogen looked up, her sister was sitting on the branch.
‘I did it!’ cried Marie. Lofkinye clapped her hands. Imogen and Miro watched in silence.
‘Right,’ said the huntress. ‘Who’s next?’
Imogen turned to Miro, but he was looking at the ground. ‘Me, I suppose,’ she said.
The tree house was a complete home. It had a stove for cooking, bunk beds and a row of well-stocked bookshelves. Rag rugs were scattered across the floor and there were paintings on the walls.
Imogen looked closely at the painting by the stove. It was of a woman in a leaf-green dress. She had her arm round a golden-skinned boy.
‘Who are they?’ said Imogen.
‘The people that used to live here,’ said Lofkinye.
‘Will they mind us staying in their house?’
‘They won’t mind, so long as we’re careful.’
‘They left because of the skret?’ asked Marie.
Lofkinye was going through the packs. ‘Yes, but that’s a story for another day,’ she said. ‘Come and help me find firelighters.’
She lit the stove and heat filled the tree house, making the wood creak. Imogen pulled a patchwork blanket from the bunk bed and wrapped herself in it, sitting close to the flames. She let Marie snuggle under the blanket too.
‘Won’t the skret see the smoke?’ said Marie.
Lofkinye shook her head. ‘I think we’ll be okay up here. They won’t see it from the ground and we’re far enough from Klenot Mountain to go unnoticed.’
‘The peasants in Yaroslav never light their fires at night,’ said Miro. ‘They say it attracts monsters.’
‘Trust me, little prince,’ said Lofkinye. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
They had pies for dinner. Marie devoured hers fast – like she was scared it would sprout legs and escape.
‘What’s for pudding?’ asked Miro, when he’d finished.
‘Pudding?’ smirked Imogen. ‘You do realise we’ve left the castle?’
‘And it’s time for bed,’ added Lofkinye.
‘I can’t go to sleep yet,’ said Marie. ‘I never go to sleep without a story.’
Normally, Imogen would have told her not to talk such rubbish, but she quite fancied a story as well. She looked at the huntress, expecting her to say that she ‘wasn’t here to tell stories’, but it turned out that Lofkinye did tell stories.
‘The skret aren’t the only dangerous creatures in the Kolsaney Forests,’ said Lofkinye. ‘There are bears too. Whether you’re stargazing, hunting or asleep in your tree, the bear continues about her business. Her shaggy head turns at the slightest sound. Her great paws move slowly, purposefully.
‘She doesn’t care where you’re from, who your parents are or whether you’re considered a very important person. You all taste like crackling to her.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Miro. ‘Bears don’t eat people.’
‘Yes,’ said Imogen. ‘I met Yeedarsh’s bear and she was quite friendly.’
Lofkinye made a scoffing sound. ‘A tame bear and a free bear are not the same thing. It’s true that people are not a bear’s favourite food. Most would much rather have honey, fish or berries to eat. But, if you surprise a bear when she thinks she’s alone, she’ll make short work of you.
‘Once a bear killed a child. He was a sleepwalker – left his tree in the moonlight with nothing but his teddy. The next day they couldn’t find the child or the stuffed toy. They searched high and low. They climbed every tree and crossed every lake. The boy was never found. That was years ago, but, from time to time, people still see her – a big female bear carrying a teddy on her back.’
‘I don’t believe you …’ said Miro.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Lofkinye. ‘The story stays the same whether you believe in it or not.’
‘So the bear eats the child and steals his toy?’ said Marie, putting her head on one side. ‘It’s a strange bedtime story … Mum normally tells us something nice before we go to sleep. She says it’s important to think positive thoughts.’
Lofkinye shrugged. ‘My mother never said that.’
The stove continued to crackle, the tree house continued to creak and Marie cuddled up closer to Imogen under the patchwork quilt. Imogen didn’t stop her.
The morning after the children’s escape, Jan and Petr sat in a quiet corner of the Hounyarch. The barmaid was half-heartedly cleaning glasses and wholeheartedly trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.
‘I told you killing the prince was a bad idea,’ said Jan. ‘What fools we must have looked in the gardens … chasing little people on big chickens.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ said Petr. He drained his glass and shot a look at the barmaid that said mind your own business.
She walked over, bottle of brandy in hand. ‘Can I tempt you to another?’
‘No,’ said Petr, irritated, but Jan held out his glass. The barmaid poured the brandy and lingered. Petr stared her down until she left.
‘You weren’t the only one to be outsmarted by the prince,’ said Jan, draining his glass in one gulp. ‘Vlado was on duty in the Hladomorna Pits last night. Apparently, Prince Miroslav locked him in a cell before he set the woman free. Poor Vlado was there for hours before anyone found him.’
‘Why would the prince want to free a lesni poacher?’ said Petr.
‘Beats me,’ said Jan. ‘The boy’s obviously a wrong’un.’
‘Well, I’m telling Anneshka today,’ said Petr in a low voice. ‘And I’m telling her the truth.’
‘That you never signed up to slit little boys’ throats?’ said Jan.
‘No, not that truth. I’m going to tell her that the lesni woman helped the boy escape. It was her fault he got away. Not mine.’
The brothers sipped their brandy in silence. When Jan had finished, he signalled to the barmaid. She sidled over. ‘What’s going on here, then?’ she asked.
‘Another,’ said Jan. ‘Same as before.’
The barmaid poured the brandy. ‘Are we celebrating something?’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ said Petr, not looking at her. ‘The royal wedding.’
‘Bit early for that, isn’t it?’
‘Bit early for you to be asking so many questions, I’d say.’
The barmaid left, pouting.
‘On your health,’ said Petr, touching glasses with his brother.
‘No, on yours,’ said Jan. ‘You’re going to need all the luck you can get. Anneshka Mazanar doesn’t strike me as the forgiving type.’
‘I think you’re right there,’ said Petr darkly. ‘The sooner this is all over, the better.’
Imogen slept well in the tree house. At first light, she clambered down from the bunk bed and looked out through a window.
The roof of the forest spread out before her. The trees were all different shapes, all fighting for a bit of sun. Most of the leaves had turned for autumn and the canopy was yellow and red.
In the distance, beyond the forests and beyond the meadows, lay Yaroslav. The castle’s pointy towers rose high above the city walls.
Imogen ate oatcakes for breakfast and helped Lofkinye tidy the tree house, putting everything back where it had been when they first arrived. In a matter of minutes, they were on their way again, following a narrow track between the trees.
‘How far into the forest are we now?’ asked Miro, when they had been walking for a few hours.
&nb
sp; ‘Not far,’ said Lofkinye. ‘But further than any of your město hunters go.’
‘How long until we’re there?’ said the prince.
‘Three days if we’re quick.’
‘Three days?’ Miro looked horrified. Imogen was surprised too, but she tried to hide it.
‘I’m not sure if I can walk for three days,’ said Marie.
‘Without work, there are no pastries,’ said Lofkinye.
‘How come there are skret in Yaroslav every night if it takes three days to get there?’ asked Marie.
‘They move in packs,’ said Lofkinye. ‘While one lot are crawling over the city, another pack is preparing for the journey and yet another is halfway to Yaroslav. There are always skret in the forests.’
‘Why do they only come at night?’ said Imogen.
‘Their skin’s very sensitive to the sun,’ explained Lofkinye as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Imogen looked at the trees either side of the track. She couldn’t see any skret hiding among the trunks, but she felt nervous all the same.
Some of the trees were tall and straight. Others were so bent that they seemed to crawl with their knobbly knees on the ground. There were gnarly bits on their branches, like the swollen joints of Grandma’s fingers, and their leaves were covered in black spots.
Imogen wondered if this was what Lofkinye had been telling them about last night. ‘Lofkinye,’ she said, ‘that thing you mentioned yesterday, the thing that’s killing the forests, what was it called again?’
‘The Žal.’
‘Is that what’s making the leaves spotty?’
‘I think so, yes,’ said the huntress. ‘The Žal is the mountain’s sadness. It’s dying of heartache and, when the mountain is sick, everything around it sickens too – the trees don’t grow properly, the animals die.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Marie.
‘It’s just a lesni story,’ muttered Miro, so only Imogen could hear. ‘Mountains don’t have hearts. They can’t die of heartache.’
‘You haven’t heard how the mountain lost its heart?’ said Lofkinye.
‘No,’ said Imogen and Marie at once.
Lofkinye looked strangely serious. ‘All right. I’ll tell you tonight.’
A Clock of Stars Page 16
