‘Queen Anneshka has plans for the animal,’ said the steward. ‘She says no wedding is complete without a dancing bear.’
‘In that case, it might be no bad thing if the bear goes hungry,’ cut in the butler. ‘The only bears that dance are starved or frightened … I reckon starved is kinder.’
‘What do bears eat?’ asked the cook.
‘Slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails,’ said the butler.
The cook clipped him over the back of his head. ‘I’m serious,’ she said.
‘Eels?’ suggested the steward.
‘She’s not having my eels,’ said the cook. ‘Do you know how much I paid for them? The bear will just have to make do with what she’s given.’
‘All right,’ said the butler, rubbing his head. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘Too right I am.’
When he woke, Miro’s tongue felt more like a dead slug than a part of his body. Where was he? He needed a drink.
He sat up and found blankets on his legs: rough blankets that smelled of wee, but blankets all the same.
Why was he in a cave? And then he remembered. He’d spoken to the Maudree Král. He was inside Klenot Mountain and, if the bars in front of him were anything to go by, he wasn’t in the luxury guest quarters.
There was a bowl of water on the floor. Miro tipped it into his mouth, glugging until there was none left. Then he realised that his face hurt – really hurt. He lifted a hand to his cheek. The blood around the cut was gloopy and mixed with some kind of balm.
He pulled the blankets round his body. The candles lighting the cave had about an hour of burn-time left. At least it wasn’t like the Hladomorna Pits. They never gave out blankets there. By contrast, this skret prison was a paradise.
Miro couldn’t help thinking about his uncle; he wondered if Drakomor knew where he was. If the wedding was close, and it couldn’t be far off, Drakomor might be too busy to negotiate Miro’s release.
Here was an ugly thought: what if his uncle didn’t want him back? Miro was pretty sure Anneshka didn’t want him around and, when they were married, his uncle would probably feel the same. They’d have children of their own. That was what happened after weddings. A perfect little boy and a perfect little girl. Drakomor wouldn’t need someone else’s leftover son. Miro’s heart ached.
As the candles burned down, he wrapped the blankets tighter round his body. Soon he’d be in total darkness. He should have been used to it. He’d spent enough time up in his tower, awake all night and watching the candles die. But Miro had never liked the dark. He couldn’t stop thinking about the friends who’d abandoned him and the uncle who didn’t want him back. He’d never felt so alone.
The candles went out and Miro didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in the dark when a light appeared behind the bars of his cell. All he knew was that the cut on his face hurt more than ever and he was hungry.
A skret approached, carrying a candle and a set of jangling keys. ‘Where are you?’ said the skret in a scratchy, metallic voice. Miro stayed very still, hardly daring to breathe.
The skret let itself into the cell. ‘I know you’re in here, human. There’s no point hiding.’
Miro pulled the blanket over his head and lay low. The skret’s back claws scraped on the cave floor. It was getting closer. ‘There you are!’ Miro’s cover was torn away.
‘Leave me alone,’ he cried, lashing out.
‘I’ve not come to hurt you,’ said the skret, stepping back. It had long teeth that stuck out from the bottom of its mouth, like upside-down fangs.
‘What do you want?’ said Miro.
‘I’ve come to stitch you back together.’
‘Stitch me? I won’t let you!’
‘That cut on your face – it won’t heal right without stitches.’
Miro touched the edge of the wound. ‘Won’t heal right? What do you mean?’
‘It’ll take too long – get infected. I gave you some salve, but it looks like you’ve rubbed most of it off.’
‘I didn’t know what it was.’
‘That’s the problem with you humans: you don’t know much.’
The skret left the cell and returned a few minutes later with more candles, a bowl of water and some medical items. It looked funny carrying that stuff: the ugliest nurse in Yaroslav. Miro would have laughed if he hadn’t been so afraid.
The cut on his cheek felt like it was on fire and he couldn’t take his eyes off the skret’s claws. Each one was as long as a human thumb. How was the skret going to give him stitches? Wasn’t the monster more likely to gouge out his eyes?
‘Why are you doing this?’ said Miro.
‘It’s my job,’ said the skret. ‘I’m in charge of prisoners and moths. There used to be someone else for the prisoners, but they died so here I am. The moths are better company to be honest …’
‘But why not just let me rot? That’s what we do in the Hladomorna Pits.’
The skret snorted out of the slits it had for nostrils. ‘That’s not what I do.’ It sat down at the table, picking up a cloth. ‘Bring your face close to the candle.’
Miro looked at the monster with the upside-down fangs. He didn’t want to obey, but he also didn’t see why, if the skret were going to kill him, they would do it with a needle and thread. Surely there were easier ways. He knelt by the table and turned his cheek to the light.
The skret washed Miro’s face, dipping the cloth into the water and dabbing it round the cut. Miro looked at the monster’s teeth. They were more like tusks.
This was the first chance he’d had to study a skret up close. He could see every wart and hair on the monster’s pale skin. He could see the circular eyes. He could even see the luminous green rings that appeared round the irises when they were turned to the light. That meant the skret had good night vision. Miro’s old tutor had taught him that.
This skret was ugly, just like the others, but there was something about him. Something that made him harder to hate. That is, thought Miro, assuming it is a he. It was almost impossible to tell the sexes apart. Miro’s old tutor had taught him that too.
After a few minutes, the bowl of water was red and Miro plucked up the courage to ask a question.
‘Why are your teeth so different from the other skrets’ teeth?’
‘Why shouldn’t they be? Is every human the same?’
‘No … But the skret skulls, the ones in Yaroslav, they have little triangular teeth.’
The monster frowned. ‘That’s a nasty habit. Putting skulls on display.’
‘It’s supposed to scare you away,’ said Miro.
‘We’re not so easily scared,’ muttered the skret, wringing out the cloth.
‘But your teeth are quite big, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. That’s why they call me Zuby. It means teeth. Isn’t there anything different about you?’
‘Of course. I’m a prince.’
Miro saw his reflection in the skret’s eyes. He was dirty and his clothes had turned to rags. He didn’t look very royal.
‘And what does it mean to be a prince?’ asked Zuby.
‘It means that one day I’ll be king and everyone will have to do as I say. Even the lords and ladies. Even the Royal Guards. Even my friends … if I have any friends.’
‘Princes don’t have friends?’
‘I used to have some, but they left me behind.’
Zuby threaded the needle with astonishing ease, holding it between the sharp tips of his claws. ‘Put your head back,’ he said.
‘Will it hurt?’
‘Yes.’
Miro held on to the edge of the table. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see those claws working so close to his face and then he felt the needle go in. He cried out. He couldn’t help it. Zuby didn’t say a word. The needle went in again. Miro gripped on to the table with all his might.
‘It’s too painful!’
‘Hold still. I’m almost done.’
Finally, the skret pul
led away. Miro fought back tears. That had hurt a lot more than he’d thought it would, but he didn’t want to cry in front of Zuby. He went back to his blankets. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
When the skret was on the other side of the bars, he turned and looked at his captive. ‘There’s something I want to know,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you just give it back?’
‘Give what back?’ said Miro.
‘The Sertze Hora.’
Miro threw up his hands in despair. ‘Because we don’t have your stupid mountain heart! Why does everyone keep going on about it?’
‘Because we’re dying.’
Miro hesitated. That wasn’t the response he’d expected. ‘Everyone dies … eventually.’
‘No, you don’t understand. Even the skřítek. Even our little ones are dying because of the Žal.’
Miro pulled the blanket over his head and shut his eyes. ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me this. I don’t have your stone.’
‘I’ve been releasing moths,’ said Zuby in his scratchy voice, ‘and they say you’re lying. They say the mountain heart is in that big castle where you live – up in the tallest tower.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Miro from under the blanket.
‘The Král keeps sending skret, but they can’t get into the castle. It’s too secure. Too many high walls and locks and guards.’
‘My uncle will never let you in.’
‘That is where you’re wrong,’ said the skret, and with that he walked away.
Imogen didn’t know what time it was when she finally fell asleep, but, when she woke up, daylight was spilling in round the edges of the cave entrance. She lay still for a minute, watching her breath freeze and thinking about what Lofkinye had said last night. Please, she thought, please let Miro be okay. I’ll be nice to him, I promise. Please let him be okay.
Marie was still fast asleep and Lofkinye was gone. Imogen crawled stiffly towards the coats, which were frozen solid. ‘This is not good,’ she muttered, forcing her way past.
Outside, a few birds sang a feeble dawn chorus. There was the lightning-struck tree and there was Lofkinye, sitting at the foot of it. She looked tired. Imogen wondered if she’d been awake all night.
Imogen walked over, feeling every joint complain. Too much walking. Too hard a floor. Too cold a night.
Lofkinye was rubbing something on the string of her bow. ‘What’s that?’ asked Imogen.
‘Beeswax. Stops the string from fraying.’
‘Oh right.’ Imogen shivered. ‘The coats have frozen.’
‘Perfect,’ said Lofkinye. ‘We can shake off the ice. They’ll be nice and dry.’
Imogen hadn’t thought of that.
Lofkinye continued: ‘Today I’m going to the skret caves at the top of Klenot Mountain. It should be doable if I keep a steady pace. You and your sister should stay here. I’ll get you on the way back down.’
‘But what are you going to do?’
‘Rescue the little prince.’
‘You can’t do that alone.’
Lofkinye dealt Imogen her broadest of smiles. ‘I’ve got a plan.’
Imogen hesitated. She felt bad saying the words out loud. ‘Does the plan include asking the Maudree Král about the door in the tree?’
For a split second, Lofkinye looked confused. She’d clearly forgotten all about that.
‘We don’t have to,’ said Imogen. ‘We don’t have to ask if it would mess up your plan. It’s just that … once Miro has been rescued, I would really like to find the way home. Marie needs her mum.’
Lofkinye nodded. ‘And you?’
‘I suppose I need my mum too.’
‘Okay,’ said Lofkinye. ‘I’ll ask the Král about your door. But what are you going to do in the meantime?’
‘I’m coming with you, of course,’ said Imogen.
‘And so am I,’ said Marie, who had snuck up unheard.
The path up Klenot Mountain was made of stone. Sometimes it was so narrow that Imogen, Marie and Lofkinye had to walk sideways, inching along with their bellies pressed against the cliff. At other times, it was as wide as the roads back home, leading the travellers across windswept plateaus.
The only things thriving were prickly shrubs. Their barbed stems pulled at Imogen’s trousers if she wandered too close to the edge of the path. Their spiked leaves pushed through the ribs of a skeleton. Lofkinye paused by the dead thing. ‘The last of the wildcats,’ she sighed, and she shepherded the girls on.
Sometimes they walked in silence. Sometimes Marie hummed until Imogen made her stop. Sometimes they talked. Lofkinye told stories about her life in the forests. In return, Imogen and Marie told Lofkinye about their home. They told her about computers and cars and the things they learned at school.
‘Incredible,’ said Lofkinye, shaking her head in amazement. ‘If every child has a tutor, your world must be very wealthy.’
They talked about how Mum read them stories, surrounded by fairy lights, about how, every Friday, she let them choose what to eat and they could pick anything they wanted – anything at all.
Thinking about Mum gave Imogen a surge of new energy. Every step was a step closer to home.
The higher they climbed, the colder it grew. The sun was just beginning to slip down the sky when they came to the edge of a vast expanse of ice. It was so blue and pure that it seemed to glow.
‘Wow,’ said Marie. ‘What’s that?’
‘Klenot Glacier. This is where the path ends,’ said Lofkinye. ‘We need to cross the ice.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘Sure. As long as you don’t slip down a crevasse.’
‘What’s a crevasse?’
‘A crack in the ice. We should tie ourselves together, just in case.’
Lofkinye used a rope to fasten herself to Imogen. Then she used another rope to tie Imogen to Marie. ‘Take it very slowly,’ she said. ‘We’re not really wearing the right boots.’
Imogen took her first steps with her arms spread wide. She hadn’t gone far when the rope tugged at her middle. She turned round to see that Marie hadn’t moved. ‘Come on, Marie,’ she called. ‘You need to keep up.’
Marie looked like she’d seen a ghost.
‘What’s wrong?’ shouted Lofkinye.
‘There are men in the glacier,’ said Marie.
Imogen and Lofkinye shuffled back and followed Marie’s finger. Sure enough, there were three bodies curled up, encased in the ice. Their skin and hair were perfectly preserved, as if they’d died only yesterday. Imogen reached for Marie’s hand.
‘Merchants,’ said Lofkinye.
‘How did they get there?’ asked Marie in a small voice.
‘They probably died of cold. Crossing too late in the year.’
‘But how did they get into the ice?’
‘The glacier is always moving,’ said Lofkinye. ‘It’s too slow to see, but eventually it swallows things up.’
‘So they’ll be frozen like that … forever?’
‘Yes, I suppose they will.’
Marie looked at the stretch of ice ahead of her. Then she looked at her sister. ‘I’m not sure about this, Imogen. It doesn’t feel like a good idea.’
‘But I don’t have any others and Miro needs our help. He came all this way for us and now it’s our turn to do the rescuing. Your turn to be the knight.’
Marie swallowed. ‘Like the knight from your play?’
‘Yes, if you like.’
‘No more bit parts?’
‘No,’ said Imogen firmly. ‘No more bit parts.’ Marie put one foot on the glacier.
‘All right,’ said Lofkinye. ‘Follow me.’
The three travellers shuffled and skidded along. Staying upright required concentration and a steady pace. Imogen slipped a few times, but she never went far – Lofkinye’s rope saw to that.
Beneath Imogen’s feet, ribbons of electric blue ran through the ice. Lofkinye navigated them round deep cracks and yawning holes that plunged into darkness. Imogen
didn’t like walking near those things. Who knew what lurked down there?
When they reached the other side of the glacier, Lofkinye untied the rope. The peak of Klenot Mountain loomed above them, its jagged rocks sticking out of the snow like a giant’s crown.
‘That is where the Maudree Král lives,’ said Lofkinye, and she almost looked excited. ‘You’ve never seen caves like it. Great high ceilings, walls that glisten with jewels and a roaring fire that burns all winter long.’
They scrambled over rocks, sometimes crawling on all fours. Imogen soon missed the stone path. It was colder in the shade of the mountain and, despite her mittens, the tips of her fingers began to go numb. She clenched and released her hands, trying to keep them warm.
Lofkinye stopped at an opening in the side of the mountain. ‘This tunnel is the fastest way to the skret caves,’ she said. The gap was lined with icicles that hung down like teeth. ‘We’re just in time. In a few weeks, these icicles will touch the floor and the tunnel will be off limits.’ She ducked under the ice fangs and the girls followed.
Lofkinye lit a torch from her pack and Imogen saw that they were standing in a giant passageway with frozen walls. The cold was inescapable. Even in her furs, Imogen was chilled to the bone. More icicles hung from the ceiling, threatening and beautiful.
As they walked deeper into the mountain, Imogen could have sworn she heard the icicles sing. Each one struck a note like a glass when you run a wet finger round the rim. Imogen wondered if the skret could hear the song.
‘Have you met this Maudree Král before?’ she said.
‘Years ago,’ replied Lofkinye, ‘before the Sertze Hora was stolen.’
‘And what was he like?’
‘Well, he didn’t kill people, for a start. The Maudree Král I knew was fair and wise.’
‘But the skret kill people in Yaroslav all the time.’
‘I suppose he’s changed … We’ll just have to see how much.’
The tunnel twisted into the mountain and the girls followed Lofkinye between columns of ice that were packed together like the pipes of a church organ. Marie started humming again and Imogen knew the tune. It was an irritating jingle from a film about a young boy who kills a dragon. Imogen thought about telling Marie to stop, but this time she decided against it. Perhaps it helped Marie stay brave.
A Clock of Stars Page 20
