A Clock of Stars

by Francesca Gibbons

‘Well, it worked for us,’ said Imogen, curling up and putting an arm round her sister.

  ‘This is all a bit of a disaster,’ said the prince.

  ‘There is one good thing,’ said Marie. ‘If the Král is telling the truth – if he does do some kind of swap – you’ll be back with your uncle in no time. You’ll be home.’

  ‘I just hope those men with the swords have gone,’ said Imogen.

  ‘What men with swords?’ said Miro.

  ‘The ones we flew away from on the velecours. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Oh, them!’ cried Miro. ‘Don’t worry about them. It’s like I said, I’ve known them for years. I’ll talk to Uncle when I’m back … see what he wanted.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Imogen.

  They weren’t safe here, surrounded by monsters, but she wasn’t convinced that Miro would be any safer at the castle.

  Imogen was woken by a terrible noise. She grabbed hold of Marie, but the commotion wasn’t coming from their cell. It was Miro. Something was happening to Miro.

  Imogen threw off her blanket and pressed her face against the bars. She couldn’t see what was going on, but skret were yelling and Miro was too. There was a bang and a rustle, followed by a slam. Then the noise stopped.

  Imogen pushed her arm between the bars and reached towards the other cell.

  ‘Miro!’ she cried. ‘Miro, put your hand out to mine!’

  But Miro didn’t reply. He was gone.

  Blazen Bilbetz slapped six dead pheasants and three dead storks on the table. The head cook took the fattest pheasant in her muscular hands, lifting it by the tips of its wings so that they folded open and the head flopped back.

  ‘They’ll do,’ she said. Blazen grinned. It was the morning of the royal wedding and this was his final delivery.

  ‘Just in time,’ he laughed.

  ‘Not really,’ said the cook. ‘They’ll want hanging for a few days before they’re ready, but you’re lucky. This lot are for later.’

  The cook left the kitchen and Blazen surveyed his surroundings. It was as organised as a barracks before battle. Vegetables waited in pots of salted water. Cuts of meat were marinating in various sauces.

  The cook returned and handed Blazen his bag of gold. That soft chink – he loved the sound of money. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ducking on the way out so he didn’t smack his head.

  Blazen walked down two corridors before sneaking into an empty chamber. He knew better than to sit and count the coins in front of the head cook, but he wanted to make sure that he hadn’t been short-changed.

  The room he walked into was small and plain, with a made-up bed, an old wardrobe and a bear. Blazen did a double take.

  Yes. There was a bear in the corner of the room and it wasn’t stuffed.

  The two creatures blinked at each other. Hunter at bear. Bear at hunter. It had been years since they’d last met, but Blazen recognised her all the same. Medveditze. He had stumbled into Yeedarsh’s old room.

  The bear had deep cuts across her face and body. ‘What have they done to you?’ muttered Blazen. He dropped his gold and approached slowly, stepping over a bowl of old turnips. ‘I can’t see you wanting to eat that rubbish.’

  The bear’s shaggy head followed the hunter. When he was close enough, Blazen inspected the chain round her neck. ‘But I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Old Yeedarsh never kept you in chains.’

  Medveditze grumbled, looking at him with sorrowful eyes.

  ‘Why don’t they release you? What use does the queen have for a bear?’

  Something caught Blazen’s attention. Something red at the edge of his vision. He turned and saw an enormous scarlet waistcoat hanging on the side of the wardrobe. The waistcoat had gold edging and shiny brass buttons. Navy trousers hung behind it. Blazen turned them round. There was a hole in the bum – just big enough for a tail to poke through. The hunter shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, turning back to Medveditze. ‘The head cook said there was going to be a dancing bear at the wedding feast. I should have guessed she meant you.’ He eyed the gash across the bear’s snout. It looked fresh. ‘Training not going well, then?’

  Medveditze shifted her weight from one side to the other, making her chains clatter.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said the giant. ‘I’m a hunter. You’re a bear. We’re not the most natural of friends, but I’ll let you in on a little secret … Not all of the things they say about me are true.’

  Blazen sat at the end of Yeedarsh’s bed and looked down at his belly. The buttons on his jacket were threatening to pop. He was deciding which not-true thing to say out loud. ‘For example,’ he said, ‘I’ve never killed a bear.’

  Medveditze snorted.

  ‘I know, I know … They say I’ve killed hundreds. It’s not so. I let the stories spread. They do my reputation no harm, but the truth is I’ve never killed anything bigger than a deer.’

  The bear turned her golden eyes away as if she’d known this about him all along.

  ‘I have an idea,’ said the hunter, slapping his thighs. ‘I’ll do you a deal. A pact, if you will. I’ll get you some food before the wedding – some proper food, that is, not turnips – on the condition that you keep my secret. I can’t have anyone else knowing. They’ll think I’m a fraud. They’re like that, people.’

  Medveditze made another grumbling sound and Blazen knew the pact was agreed.

  ‘All right,’ he said, walking over to the door and picking up his gold. ‘How would you like some fish?’

  The skret called Zuby pushed a pair of spoons and two mugs between the bars of the girls’ cell. ‘Here you go, humans. Eat up.’

  Imogen picked up a mug. There was brown liquid inside, with things bobbing on the surface that could have been dumplings or eyeballs.

  ‘What is this stuff?’ she said.

  ‘Zelí Shtyavy,’ said the skret, looking strangely proud.

  ‘Where has Miro gone?’ asked Marie.

  ‘Who’s Miro?’ said the skret.

  ‘The boy that was in the cave next to us.’

  Zuby looked at the empty cell. ‘Ah, the prince! The prince has gone to Yaroslav. They’re taking him home.’

  Imogen dropped her spoon. ‘Taking him home? Really?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what the Maudree Král said. Eat your Shtyavy.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘There’s nothing else,’ said the skret, wagging a claw.

  ‘Are they going to swap Miro for the Sertze Hora?’ asked Marie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Zuby. ‘King Drakomor gets his boy. The mountain gets its heart. There ought to be a song in that.’

  Imogen wasn’t sure what to say. Miro clearly loved his uncle very much, but she couldn’t shake off the memory of the guards who’d chased them through the castle and the story of how Andel lost his eye. Surely, the king wouldn’t hurt his own nephew? She wished Miro hadn’t been taken on his own.

  ‘And what about us?’ said Marie. ‘Do we get to go home too?’

  Zuby’s face fell. ‘I don’t know. I’m just in charge of prisoners and moths.’

  Marie put a spoonful of the Shtyavy in her mouth and spat it out. ‘Urgh!’ she cried, wiping her tongue on the back of her hand.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Imogen. ‘You’re in charge of prisoners and what?’

  ‘Moths,’ said Zuby.

  ‘What kind of moths?’

  ‘Oh, all kinds. The Žal has hit them hard. Sometimes I give them food, make sure they’ve got enough energy to hibernate, shelter the eggs, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Do you have any Mezi Můra?’ asked Imogen.

  Zuby came closer, wrapping his claws round the bars. ‘I did have one … they’re very rare. Why do you ask, little human?’

  Imogen’s heart beat faster. ‘Because that’s how we got here. We followed a moth through a door in a tree.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ said Zuby. ‘I didn’t think the Mezi Můra would show the U
nseen Door to little humans.’

  ‘Right,’ said Imogen. ‘So you don’t think it’s strange that a moth has a magic door, but you do think it’s strange that it showed the door to us?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the skret. ‘You can’t find the Unseen Door without the silver moth. And, even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to open it. The Mezi Můra are living keys.’

  Finally, thought Imogen, we’re getting somewhere! That explained why they hadn’t been able to get back to the gardens. They needed the shadow moth.

  She decided to try the Shtyavy to show willing. A pale dumpling bobbed near the surface. It touched her nose as she took a sip. The soup smelled like old farts and tasted like rotting vegetables, but Imogen forced herself to swallow. She couldn’t force herself to smile.

  ‘That’s … different,’ she said, trying not to pull a face. Marie looked horrified.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ said the skret. ‘It’s made with my finest fermented cabbage.’

  Imogen tried to find out more about the moth. ‘People in Yaroslav say the Mezi Můra are bad omens. Is that what you think too?’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Zuby. ‘The Mezi Můra are loyal to us skret, but that doesn’t mean they’re bad for you humans. They’re very clever creatures. They always have a plan … I just wish I understood what it was. That moth was supposed to help me retrieve the Sertze Hora. I’ve been releasing a different species of moth every night … But why would the Mezi Můra bring me two human pups?’

  ‘Maybe it thought we could help,’ said Marie.

  Zuby scratched his head. Imogen hated the noise his claws made on his scalp. Itch itch itch.

  ‘In a way, you already have,’ he said. ‘You brought us the little prince, didn’t you? He came up the mountain because of you?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘So, without you, the Král wouldn’t have anything to trade.’ Zuby stepped away from the bars. ‘The moths told us King Drakomor has the stone, but we didn’t know how to get it back. Not until you brought us the prince.’

  ‘Miro is our friend!’ shouted Imogen, throwing down her mug. Soup slopped across the cave floor. ‘We didn’t bring him here to be used by the skret!’

  ‘Perhaps you didn’t realise at the time,’ said Zuby, still backing away, ‘but that’s exactly what you did.’

  Imogen pulled at the bars. ‘Let us go!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Zuby. ‘Really I am. But I can’t do that.’

  In a different cave, Zuby delivered another mug of Zelí Shtyavy to another prisoner. Lofkinye drank it politely – lumps and all.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘How are the children?’

  ‘The little humans are just fine,’ said the skret, looking down at his clawed feet. ‘Although the girl ones are a bit on the angry side and they won’t eat their Shtyavy.’

  ‘I bet the boy one won’t either,’ said Lofkinye, giving Zuby a knowing smile.

  ‘The boy one is gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘King Drakomor gets his boy. The mountain gets its heart.’

  Zuby didn’t need to say any more. Lofkinye understood. She also understood that this was her chance. She could see it glinting in the gloom – the possibility of escape.

  Zuby turned his back as if to leave. ‘Wait,’ said Lofkinye. ‘There’s something you don’t know.’

  ‘There are many things I don’t know,’ said the skret and he started to walk away. He made a clicking noise that Lofkinye guessed was a laugh.

  ‘No, there’s something you don’t know about the little prince. The king won’t swap him. You won’t get the Sertze Hora.’

  Zuby looked over his shoulder. His bulbous eyes shone green in the low light. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s only a short story,’ she said.

  ‘Story?’ said the skret. ‘What kind of story?’

  She beckoned him closer. ‘A true one.’

  So Lofkinye told Zuby about her escape from the castle, with the children in tow. She told him how they’d been chased by the Royal Guards – the king’s own men – and how they’d only escaped with their lives because of the velecours.

  Zuby gasped. ‘The prince was chased by his uncle’s own men? And they wanted to hurt him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lofkinye.

  ‘Because he was with you?’

  ‘No. Not because of me. They said the king wanted to see the prince. They were after the boy, but I could see that they meant him no good. I could see that they had an evil intent.’

  ‘But why?’

  Lofkinye confessed that she didn’t know. ‘It was all very strange,’ she said. ‘I suspect that the little prince is not as beloved as you might think.’

  Zuby shook his bald head. ‘You don’t think the king wants him back?’

  ‘I’m fairly sure the king wants him dead.’

  ‘So he won’t swap the prince for the Sertze Hora?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the prince will be no guarantee of safety for the Maudree Král.’

  Lofkinye shrugged. ‘If you ask me, the Král’s royal wedding invitation has all the hallmarks of a royal trap.’

  Zuby struck himself on the forehead. ‘We have been fools!’ he cried. ‘Invitations that are death threats. Harming your own young. You humans are even stranger than I thought. The Král could be in terrible danger! The prince too!’

  Lofkinye watched him from the corners of her eyes. ‘What are you going to do?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know!’ The gaoler paced up and down in front of the bars. ‘I don’t know what to do!’

  ‘I do,’ said Lofkinye. ‘I know exactly what to do.’

  PART 4

  Imogen, Marie and Lofkinye stood on a frozen lake at the summit of Klenot Mountain. The lake was surrounded by jagged rocks. They were higher than the birds. If there had been clouds, they would have been higher than them too. Yaroslav was little more than a dark stain at the bottom of the valley.

  ‘The city doesn’t look much from here,’ said Lofkinye, shielding her eyes.

  ‘It looks like the shadow of the sun,’ said Imogen.

  ‘It looks like a plug in a big bath,’ said Marie, lowering the tone.

  Zuby appeared in a gap between two rocks. He was tugging at a rope, straining with all his might. Lofkinye and the girls went to help. Together they dragged a boat on to the ice.

  ‘This is how the Král travels to Yaroslav,’ said Zuby when he’d got his breath back. ‘It’s not normally allowed, but I’m already going to be in trouble for setting you free and we don’t have time for anything else.’

  The only difference that Imogen could see, between this thing and a conventional rowing boat, was that the skret boat had long, sharp skates on its hull.

  ‘Nothing beats a vodní-bruslash for downhill speed,’ said Zuby. ‘Not even your město horses. It flies on ice and in the water.’

  ‘But how does the Král get back up the mountain?’ said Marie.

  ‘That’s easy. We carry him in the vodní-bruslash.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound easy to me,’ said Lofkinye, inspecting the boat. ‘It looks pretty solid.’

  ‘Well, it’s easy for the Král,’ said Zuby.

  Inside the boat, Zuby had packed their fur coats. The girls put them on, buttoning them up to their chins. He’d also packed a hooded cloak for himself, to keep the sun off his skin.

  ‘So,’ said the skret, turning to Lofkinye, ‘tell me your plan.’

  ‘It’s easy,’ she said with a smile. ‘We rescue the prince. You rescue the Král. We recapture the Sertze Hora and everyone lives happily ever after.’

  ‘Happily ever after,’ repeated the skret. ‘I like the sound of that.’

  They positioned the skating boat near the edge of the lake. Between two giant rocks, the ice morphed into a frozen stream that ran down the mountain like a racetrack. For about one hundred metres, it was tilted at a stomach-churning angle – straight and fast. After t
hat, it swerved to the right, disappearing behind a smooth curve of perfect snow.

  Imogen stared at the frozen stream. She’d never been great with heights or speed. She wriggled her toes to stop herself feeling dizzy, a trick her mum had taught her.

  Lofkinye jumped into the front of the boat and Zuby helped the girls in behind her. ‘There are paddles tied down by your feet,’ he said. ‘We’ll need those on the river. And there’s the rein.’ He pointed to a length of leather that was secured to the boat next to Lofkinye.

  ‘Is this for steering?’ she asked.

  Zuby did his clicking laugh. ‘Steering? You can’t steer a vodní-bruslash. No, it’s to hold on to!’

  Lofkinye’s face hardly moved, but Imogen could tell she was afraid. She passed the end of the rein back so Imogen and Marie could hold on too.

  ‘Now,’ said Zuby, ‘is everyone ready?’

  Lofkinye gave a faint nod. Imogen couldn’t bring herself to speak.

  ‘We’re ready!’ cried Marie, grinning with a confidence that Imogen hadn’t seen in her before.

  ‘Okay!’ called the skret and he gave the boat a shove before hopping in at the back.

  They were heavy. The shove didn’t move them far. The front of the boat hung over the edge of the lake. For a moment, they were perfectly balanced and Imogen couldn’t look. They were really going to do this. They were really going over that drop.

  She grabbed Marie’s hand and the boat lurched forward. Everyone screamed. The boat plummeted, smashing on to the frozen stream with force.

  The skates sliced through the ice and they began to pick up speed. They swung round the first corner. Imogen gripped the rein hard. Smooth curves of sparkling snow rose up on either side, keeping the boat on course, forcing it down the narrow track.

  They turned another corner and the passengers slid to the left. The boat went faster still and their surroundings became a blur. Marie squealed, but she was still grinning. She’d found her courage or lost her fear. Imogen wished she could do the same. She felt as if her head was being pulled away from her body and she didn’t like it one bit.