As the path rose up, the cold seemed to fade and so did the ice. Bit by bit, the tunnel walls revealed themselves. They were made from rock and, in some places, they were covered in feathers.
‘What are those things?’ said Imogen. ‘They’re beautiful!’
It was only when she walked right up close that she saw that they were moths with their wings folded back. Some of the wings carried patterns like eyes; others shimmered in the low light.
‘Don’t touch them,’ said Lofkinye.
‘Are they alive?’ asked Marie.
‘Yes. They’re hibernating.’
So Yeedarsh was right, thought Imogen. The skret are friends with the moths. She hoped he’d been right about the shadow moth too. She hoped it had been sent for a reason. After all, if the Král had sent the moth to fetch them, surely he could make it take them home.
The ice tunnel climbed higher. ‘Not far to go now,’ said Lofkinye. Ahead, there was an orange glow and Imogen felt the nerves stir in her belly. It was hard to make her legs keep walking. She was weary from days of hiking, but it wasn’t just that. She was afraid.
Then she remembered her mum’s words: It will always be the three of us, Imogen. No matter what.
Imogen narrowed her eyes and kept walking towards the light.
The orange light grew brighter with every step that Imogen took.
She reached for her sword, but Lofkinye stopped her. ‘No weapons. We don’t want the skret thinking we’ve come for a fight.’
The tunnel opened out into a gigantic cave, with a high ceiling that reminded Imogen of a cathedral and an enormous fire that did not. The roar of the flames was so loud that the girls had to shout to be heard. ‘What a big bonfire!’ cried Marie.
‘That’s not the right word,’ said Imogen.
‘What?’
‘I said that’s not the right … oh, never mind.’
‘This is the fire the skret keep all winter,’ said Lofkinye. ‘Feel that heat.’ She removed her mittens and held out her hands.
Imogen did the same until the cold had been banished from her nose and fingers. She made a joke in her head about a warm welcome, but decided against saying it out loud. Instead, she said, ‘Where are all the skret? Are we in the right place?’
Lofkinye put her finger to her lips and pointed. Something was moving on the other side of the fire.
The three intruders dashed behind a pillar just before the skret appeared. The monsters were carrying a carafe and they were engaged in a lively debate. Imogen couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was funny to see them so deep in discussion – unnatural – like watching a monkey do the tango. I suppose, thought Imogen, even monsters can’t be killing people all the time.
The skret disappeared through a door in the cave wall and Imogen’s heart skipped a beat. That door – it looked just like the door in the tree. It was the same shape. It had the same handle. It was even the same size, as if it had been made for a child … or a skret.
Imogen rushed towards it and pressed her ear against the wood. There was some commotion on the other side, but it was hard to tell exactly what. She looked at Marie and Lofkinye. They nodded and Imogen opened the door.
There was music and firelight and skret. Lots of skret. They were sitting at long tables, picking at the remains of animal carcasses. They were shouting and banging plates and pouring drink into their mouths. Imogen had never seen such appalling table manners, and the smell of boiled meat was overpowering.
At the head of the longest table was a skret with a crown on its head and a human child by its side. The child had far-apart eyes, dark olive skin and a mop of brown hair. There was a deep cut on his cheek and he hadn’t touched his food.
Marie yelled, ‘Miro!’ and every head turned.
Hundreds of circular eyes blinked at the new arrivals, like a shoal of meat-eating fish. Imogen moved closer to Lofkinye. Marie moved closer to Imogen. There was a terrible silence.
The skret wearing the crown was the first to speak: ‘So you must be the friends. I’m afraid we haven’t saved you any of our feast.’
‘Your Highness, please forgive the intrusion,’ said Lofkinye and she bowed so low that the hood of her coat swept the floor.
‘Shpitza said you were coming.’ The Maudree Král gestured towards a skret with spikes along his back. Imogen recognised him as the one they’d met in the forest.
‘We’ve come to offer you a deal,’ said Lofkinye.
The Král picked up a bone and stripped off the last of the flesh. ‘You have nothing worth trading.’
‘I do. I have something you’d give your hind claws for.’ Lofkinye sounded confident. Imogen wondered what she was up to.
‘Go on,’ said the Král.
‘Yes, spit it out,’ hissed the skret called Shpitza.
‘I can get you the Sertze Hora,’ said Lofkinye.
A murmur ran along the tables. Every skret turned to its neighbour in disbelief. Miro put his head in his hands.
‘Quiet,’ said the Maudree Král, but the chatter only grew louder so the skret king climbed on to the table and stamped his feet. ‘QUIET!’ he shouted and the room fell silent.
‘I already know that the Sertze Hora is locked up in Castle Yaroslav,’ snarled the Král. ‘So tell me, how would you get your paws on my mountain’s heart?’
A twitch above Lofkinye’s eyebrow gave her away. She was nervous. ‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,’ she said, smoothing her forehead with her palm.
‘But I do,’ said the Král, and he began to walk along the table towards his uninvited guests. ‘This isn’t a decorative diamond.’ He booted dishes out of his way. Trotters and ribs went flying. ‘The Sertze Hora is a living thing: the mountain’s beating heart. It puts leaves on the trees and clean water in the rivers. And, since you humans decided to rip the heart from the body, we’ve all been bleeding to death.’
He smashed over a goblet with his fist. ‘A few days ago, I saw my sister’s skřítek – a child not more than three years old. His skin is mottled with black spots and he complains of a pain in his chest. It won’t be long before he’s dead like the rest of them.’
The skret king had reached the end of the table. He looked down at Lofkinye. ‘So don’t tell me not to worry.’
Every skret and human waited for Lofkinye’s response.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry that it was stolen from you.’ She spoke softly as though trying to calm a spooked horse.
‘Perhaps it was you that did the stealing,’ sneered the Král. ‘Perhaps you sold it to the město.’
‘Drakomor Krishnov did the stealing,’ said Lofkinye. ‘You know that’s the truth.’
Miro gave a stifled snort.
‘You humans are all traitors. You’re all the same,’ said the Král.
He crouched down, wrapping his claws round the edge of the table and poking his face out between his knees. It was, thought Imogen, a most unkingly pose. She tried to shield Marie.
‘Suppose I did accept your offer,’ said the Král, ‘what would you want in return?’
‘Three wishes,’ said Lofkinye.
‘Do I look like a fairy?’
The girls and Lofkinye all shook their heads.
‘Spit it out,’ said the Král and he rocked with impatience.
‘One: I want that boy released.’ Lofkinye counted the wishes on her fingers. ‘Two: reveal your magic door. My friends here need to go back to their own world. Three: you must allow the lesni to return to the forests. This is our home just as much as it’s yours.’
The Král snarled, revealing two rows of perfectly triangular teeth. ‘And the heart? When do I get that?’
‘After I’ve returned the boy to his uncle.’
The skret king sprang down from the table. He landed on his feet just in front of Lofkinye. Her hand reached for her bow, but he caught her wrist in his claws. ‘I see through you,’ he said. ‘You mean to do a trade with the human king. The boy f
or the heart. Isn’t that right?’
‘No! That’s not it at all!’
The Král released Lofkinye and stomped over to the table. ‘That’s not it, that’s not it at all …’ he mimicked. When he turned round, he was holding something between his gold-tipped claws. ‘If you can trade the boy, then so can I.’ He was holding a wishbone.
A memory flashed into Imogen’s head. After Sunday lunch, her mum always gave her a wishbone to pull with Marie. One wish each. Back then she’d wished for many things. Now she just wanted to be home.
‘You could never get into the castle,’ said Lofkinye. ‘They’d never let you near the king. Let me do the trade for you.’
‘You’re wrong!’ cried the Král, and he held the wishbone above his head. ‘I’ve already got my wish! Did you not receive your invitation?’
Imogen was suddenly aware of a grey moth crawling along one of the half-eaten carcasses.
‘Invitation to what?’ said Lofkinye. She was beginning to sound desperate.
‘To the royal wedding of course!’ The Král snapped the wishbone in two. ‘So, you see, I don’t need you at all.’
He gestured to the skret. Lofkinye pulled out her bow. Imogen sprinted towards the moth. The skret went wild and suddenly it was all shrieking and claws. Imogen was caught in a powerful grip. She thrashed and reached out for Marie, but there was nothing she could do. The skret were too strong. Her pack was pulled away, her sword too. Before she knew what was happening, she was inside a sack.
Andel’s brief was clear. He was to create a weapon for the wedding.
If he finished it too late, the king would take his remaining eye. If it wasn’t powerful enough to kill the Maudree Král, the king would take his eye. If it wasn’t beautiful enough to impress the people … well, you get the idea.
He was given the room at the top of the second tallest tower as his workshop – high above all the people he loved. Imagine Andel’s surprise when he found his old friend waiting there. It ticked along, as though no time had passed since they last met. Five hands drew circles round a familiar wooden face.
‘My clock,’ muttered Andel, rubbing his eye. ‘I didn’t think I’d see you again.’
The clock’s hatch popped open and a wooden lizard crawled out to greet him. Andel recognised it at once. It was a dragon. The miniature beast unfurled its wings, opened its mouth and breathed fire.
Andel beamed. The clock truly was his greatest creation – tuned to the rhythm of the stars. He wished his daughter was allowed to come up and see it.
A spark from the dragon’s mouth dropped on to its claw. For a moment, it glowed orange and then the flames took hold. Andel tried to blow it out, but that only made things worse.
‘Sakra!’ he cried. The fire gobbled up the dragon in a matter of seconds.
The hatch snapped shut and Andel was left with a small pile of ashes and a brilliant idea. He’d build the king a mechanical dragon, as big as a barn, with a bellyful of fire.
He made the dragon one part at a time – starting with the head and working his way along the spine. Each piece had to be small enough to fit down the spiral staircase.
He was drawn into the process in spite of himself. He fussed over the smallest details and insisted on materials of the highest quality. Fossilised tusks were ordered for the teeth, rubies for the eyes. The scales were made from flameproof ceramic tiles cut into diamonds.
Seeing the dragon take shape in the square below, Andel’s chest swelled with pride. It felt good to be working on such an ambitious project, even if it was for a man he despised.
The night before the royal wedding, as the sun set behind Klenot Mountain, Andel finished the final piece of his monster. ‘Just in time,’ he said, handing the tip of the tail to a servant.
He walked to the nearest window and looked down. The dragon stood in the square, with the sun’s last rays glinting off its ceramic scales. Andel would go and inspect it in the morning, before the wedding guests arrived. He needed to check that everything had been assembled correctly.
‘A beautiful weapon for a beautiful revenge,’ he muttered. ‘The king won’t see this coming …’
Something hit Imogen’s back. It was the floor.
A skret, with enormous tusk-teeth, peered into her sack. ‘What have we got here?’ he said.
‘Get off me!’ cried Imogen, pushing her way out. She sprang to her feet, holding up her fists.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said the skret. ‘You’ve already lost the fight. You’re prisoners now.’
Imogen saw that she was in a small cave with two beds, two chairs, a table and a couple of candles. There were bars across the entrance. She lowered her fists.
Something wriggled inside another sack. The skret untied the end, pulled out Marie and set her on her feet.
‘I didn’t know humans came in red,’ he said, and he touched her hair with the tips of his claws.
Marie shrank back, staring at the monster’s giant teeth. ‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘And what have you done with our friends?’ demanded Imogen.
The skret scratched his bald head. ‘My name is Zuby.’
‘You can’t keep us here,’ said Imogen. ‘We’re little girls. It’s against our human rights.’
‘You are quite small,’ agreed the skret and then, as if they weren’t in the room, ‘small for humans and ugly too. So ugly they’re almost cute.’
‘Us?’ said Imogen, confused.
‘Are you going to cut us up and drink our blood?’ said Marie.
‘Why would I do that?’ said the skret.
‘The Král says we’re traitors.’
‘Slicing and dicing isn’t really my area …’
‘Okay,’ said Imogen, ‘then let us go.’
‘That would make me a traitor.’ Zuby smiled so that a tusk almost touched the tip of his squished-in nose.
‘Brilliant,’ said Imogen, flopping down on a bed.
The skret picked up the empty sacks and let himself out of the cave, locking the girls in behind him. When the scratch of his claws had faded away, Imogen and Marie walked to the front of their prison and pressed their faces against the bars. They could fit their arms and legs through, but the gaps were too narrow for their heads.
‘I wonder where the others are,’ said Marie.
‘Miro didn’t look very well,’ said Imogen.
‘Miro’s just fine,’ said a small voice.
The girls looked at each other. ‘Miro?’
Imogen grabbed a candle. When she held it out between the bars, she saw a familiar face in the neighbouring cell. ‘Miro!’ she cried. The prince smiled and then winced, touching the cut on his cheek. There were bloody dots running along either side of the wound.
‘I can reach you,’ said Imogen. She pushed her arm between the bars, right up to the shoulder. Miro reached out too and their fingertips touched. Rough skin had grown over the cut on his thumb, where they’d made the pact all those nights ago.
‘It’s good to see you,’ said Imogen.
‘It’s good to see you too,’ said the prince.
‘What happened to your face?’
‘One of the skret cut me, but it’s okay. Zuby stitched it up.’
‘It looks like Halloween face paint.’
‘Hallo-what?’
‘Never mind.’ Imogen retracted her arm. ‘We thought you were right behind us,’ she said. ‘That night when you went missing. We thought you were just there.’
‘I was ambushed,’ said Miro.
‘We didn’t know …’
Miro moved away from the bars, retreating out of the candlelight. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re here now.’
‘Fat lot of good it’s done,’ said Imogen to the darkness. ‘We’re supposed to be rescuing you.’
‘You tried. That’s what counts.’
‘No, it’s not! The point of rescuing people is to get them out of prison, not join them in it.’
‘It
’s what counts for me.’
‘From now on, we’ll stick together,’ said Imogen as if that cleared everything up. She looked at Marie, who was shaking her head.
‘Sorry,’ mouthed Marie.
‘Why?’ mouthed Imogen.
‘You haven’t said it,’ whispered Marie. ‘To him.’
Imogen looked back at the space where Miro had been. ‘All the same,’ she continued, ‘we didn’t mean to get so … far ahead.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Miro. ‘Really it is.’
Imogen made a face at Marie that said, See, it’s okay!
Marie scowled.
Imogen threw up her hands and mouthed several words all at once, not very nice ones, then she turned back to Miro’s cell. ‘Miro?’ she said.
‘Uh-huh?’
‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry we left you behind. It’s not what friends do and it won’t happen again. I promise.’
Miro’s face appeared behind the bars of his cell. ‘You don’t have to be sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re already the best friends I’ve ever had.’
Imogen felt a sort of release in her chest where she hadn’t even known it had been tight.
Miro’s expression darkened. ‘But, you know, we might not be able to stick together for much longer.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Maudree Král said he’s going to swap me for the Sertze Hora.’
‘He can’t have been serious,’ said Imogen. ‘Can he?’
‘I don’t know. For one thing, I don’t see how he got an invite to my uncle’s wedding. Uncle hates the skret. For another thing, the Sertze Hora doesn’t exist.’
‘It does seem strange,’ agreed Imogen.
The girls took the blankets and straw-stuffed pillows from their beds, and moved them to the corner of the cell that was closest to Miro.
‘I asked them about your magic door,’ said the prince. ‘The Král called it an “Unseen Door”.’
‘Did he say how we could get back to it?’ said Marie.
‘I’m afraid not. He said it isn’t meant for humans …’
A Clock of Stars Page 21
