A Clock of Stars

by Francesca Gibbons

  She pressed herself down, so she was almost lying flat, and she tried to make her sister do the same, but Marie shrugged her off. Marie wanted to sit up. She wanted to see where they were going.

  The boat hurtled on, juddering over what must have been choppy water before it was frozen solid. Imogen’s teeth chattered. She closed her eyes. This wasn’t real. It was a fairground ride, like the one she’d been on with Mum last summer. Mum had promised that nothing bad would happen … No one was promising that now.

  Imogen peeped over the side of the skating boat just in time to see the blur of white snow turn to brown. The boat crashed into a rocky bank and she smacked her head on the side.

  There was the forest. It was getting closer. Whizzing towards them faster than anything should whizz. Suddenly Imogen’s bum left her seat. She was falling in slow motion, with the boat some way below. It landed in the river with a splash.

  Back to double-speed. Water splattered into the boat. Imogen was almost thrown out, but Marie was still holding her hand and she scrambled back to her seat. ‘Thank you,’ she gasped, wiping water from her face.

  Imogen looked around. They were no longer skating down the frozen stream. Instead, they drifted along a very not-frozen river. It carried them through the forests at a pace that would normally have been quite alarming, but compared to the ice-track it was a relief.

  They barely needed the paddles – the water did all the hard work – Zuby only used them to correct their course when the riverbanks came too close.

  ‘Is everyone all right?’ called the skret in his scratchy voice.

  ‘Yes!’ said Marie. ‘We’re all okay and we’re ready to do some rescuing.’

  ‘Now that’s what I like to hear.’

  Miro did not see how he travelled down Klenot Mountain, but he felt it all right. He was stuffed into a sack and carried until daylight shone through.

  The skret dropped him into something with a damp floor; something that picked up speed fast and in a direction he could only describe as downhill.

  The start of the journey was violent. Miro was thrown about as though he was a bunch of grapes being turned into wine. He’d have bruises on his bruises by the time this was over. Shouting didn’t help. Wriggling just wasted his energy, so he adopted a foetal position and prayed that the journey would end soon.

  Skret yelled in their crackle-hiss voices, but Miro couldn’t make out the words.

  There was a giant splash and he landed with a bump. After that, the bashing stopped. The jerky movements were replaced by a swaying motion.

  Miro sat up. He noticed a little rip in the weave of the sack and he worked at the tear until he could peep through the hole.

  He was in some kind of boat. That much was clear. Trees bobbed up and down. He was floating on the river through the Kolsaney Forests and he knew where that river led: home!

  In that moment, Miro didn’t care that he was a prisoner. He didn’t care that he was going to be swapped for a stone that didn’t exist. He didn’t even care that his uncle was getting married. Just wait until he told Drakomor what the skret had done, how they’d locked him up like a petty thief. His uncle wouldn’t stand for it. His uncle would send them packing.

  Miro played out the reunion in his head. He’d run to his uncle and his spare mother and they’d bend down to embrace him. They’d been worried sick. They’d been searching for him and they loved him so much. Miro’s heart soared.

  He would apologise for locking up a guard in the Hladomorna Pits and for running away. He’d explain that Imogen didn’t mean to steal the wedding rings and he was sure that his uncle would understand, once he got to know her a bit better …

  He’d tell his uncle that Imogen and Marie were his friends, his real friends, not just his friends because he was the prince. He’d say they were being held at the top of Klenot Mountain and his uncle would send the Royal Guards to rescue them and, the next day, they’d light a big fire and dance round it and eat all the leftovers from the wedding feast.

  Miro looked through the hole in the sack. The trees had turned to meadows. The shadow of the city walls fell across him and the cathedral bells started to sound. It wasn’t a single, repeated note, like the bells that rang at dawn and dusk. The cathedral bells chimed a joyful tune as if to say the prince is coming home, the prince is coming home!

  The houses by the river got bigger and smarter. Miro recognised them all. He knew their painted facades and their family names as well as he knew his own boots. He wondered how many of those families would be attending his uncle’s wedding.

  The houses stopped moving and Miro was lifted up from the boat. He was shaken out of the sack as unceremoniously as he had been shoved in. Kneeling, he looked up at his captors.

  They didn’t look like skret at all. They were wearing cloaks with hoods that covered their bald heads. They wore masks too – no doubt they were designed to help them blend in, but it didn’t work. The masks were parodies of human faces, with thin smiles that hid sharp teeth, and long slits that shielded bulbous eyes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Miro. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’ The masked monsters turned to each other, checking how they looked.

  ‘It’s protection,’ hissed a skret.

  ‘Worried you’ll scare people if they see you for what you really are?’ said Miro.

  ‘The sun burns our skin. It’s not natural to be out at this hour.’

  One of the skret threw a mask and a cloak to Miro. He caught it and stood up. ‘I don’t need this.’

  ‘Just put it on,’ hissed the Maudree Král.

  It was hard to see out of the mask’s eye slits and the wood rubbed Miro’s face, but that didn’t matter. All of this would be over soon.

  The skret walked in single file, with Miro in the middle. They were getting close to Castle Yaroslav. Behind his mask, Miro was all excitement and nerves.

  The city was busy and people seemed to be in a celebratory mood. Flags hung out of windows and across narrow streets. The people of Yaroslav hadn’t done that since Drakomor had been crowned.

  A toddler was playing with a kitten, chattering in a language only she understood. A group of women, dressed in their finest clothes, walked arm in arm, laughing. They all fell silent when the cloaked gargoyles walked by. Some people drew a cross over their chests. Others ran inside. The kitten’s fur stood on end and it hissed.

  The skret didn’t respond to this less than warm reception. They were focused on one thing and one thing alone – getting to the castle.

  Miro felt people’s eyes on him and he wondered if they noticed that his feet, poking out from under his cloak, were booted instead of clawed. He wanted to pull off the mask, but he didn’t dare disobey his captors. Not yet. Not until he could see his uncle.

  They reached the city’s main square and Miro thought he’d dissolve with nerves. Castle Yaroslav stood proud as ever. Next to the castle, the cathedral doors were open and the wedding guests were pouring in.

  In the middle of the square, looking over the city with ruby-red eyes, was an enormous dragon. Miro stared in amazement. He’d never seen anything like it. And there, standing on the dragon as if they were riding the beast, were Miro’s uncle and spare mother.

  Anneshka stood on the back of the mechanical dragon with Drakomor at her side. She waved graciously at the awestruck wedding guests, enjoying their reactions immensely. One old aristocrat was so alarmed that his wig almost fell off. Anneshka’s own mother gasped and clung on to her husband, as if she was facing a real dragon. Anneshka wondered if her mother disapproved, before deciding that she didn’t much care.

  Ochi, the witch who’d read Anneshka’s stars, arrived on her own. She’d been invited to stop her from cursing the wedding. She bowed before following the other guests into the cathedral.

  ‘I only wish Miro could have been here,’ said Drakomor. ‘He would have loved having all these people about.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d find it very dull,’ said An
neshka. ‘Children hate adult celebrations.’

  She linked arms with the king, hoping they looked the part. Drakomor was dressed in a cream tunic dotted with diamonds. Anneshka was wrapped in a white silk dress, with a frothy veil that covered her face.

  Blazen Bilbetz was one of the last to arrive. He looked drunk, as usual, and was followed by his band of merry huntsmen. ‘How I loathe that man,’ muttered Anneshka, smiling down at him.

  The last stragglers hurried past the dragon, their apologies drowned out by the cathedral bells. ‘That’s all of our human guests,’ said Anneshka and she gave the king’s arm an excited squeeze.

  ‘I hope this works,’ said Drakomor, gesturing at the lever at the top of the dragon’s spine. All they had to do was pull that down and their weapon would spring into action.

  ‘It will go like clockwork,’ said Anneshka. ‘Just like the one-eyed lesni said.’

  A group of cloaked figures entered the square. Anneshka guessed there were twenty of them, no bigger than children, with their faces hidden behind masks. The cathedral bells stopped.

  ‘So they did come,’ murmured the king.

  As the skret approached, Anneshka noticed that one of them was walking a little out of time with the others. They stopped just in front of the dragon. The perfect position, she thought.

  The cloaked figures bowed. It was time for the ceremony to begin.

  ‘That skret in the middle won’t bow,’ said Anneshka.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the king. ‘How odd.’

  ‘We are honoured to be invited to your wedding,’ said a skret near the front of the group. It had been years since Anneshka had heard a voice like it. The sound made her toes curl.

  ‘We are honoured that you accepted,’ replied the king.

  Was it her imagination or was that skret, the one that didn’t bow, struggling with the others? It was making her uneasy. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  ‘Shall I do it?’ she whispered, impatient. Her petticoats rustled as she stepped closer to the lever that would bring the dragon to life.

  The skret that wouldn’t bow shouted something. It elbowed its neighbour in the chest and broke away from the group.

  ‘What’s going on down there?’ said Drakomor. Some of the skret looked ready to pounce, but the tearaway was too fast. It pulled off its mask and pushed back its hood, revealing a dirty human face.

  ‘On the count of three,’ said Anneshka.

  ‘That’s Miroslav!’ cried the king as the skret pounced on the boy.

  ‘It can’t be!’ Anneshka lifted her veil to get a better look.

  ‘It is!’ exclaimed Drakomor. ‘What’s he doing here? I thought he’d been taken beyond the mountains!’

  Anneshka put one hand on the lever and a gust of wind filled her dress. ‘This is our chance,’ she said.

  Drakomor stared, horrified. ‘You can’t! Miroslav’s down there!’

  Anneshka stared back, fierce. ‘Do not tell me what I can and cannot do.’

  She forced the lever down. Drakomor seized her arm, but he was too late. The lever tugged on a pulley, which swung a weight, which rotated a cog, which sent more cogs spinning down the dragon’s spine.

  ‘What have you done?’ cried the king. Something rumbled deep in the beast’s belly. ‘What have you done!’

  ‘Hush,’ said Anneshka as the dragon creaked beneath her. ‘I’ve made you a hero.’

  ‘But the boy!’

  ‘Get a grip, Drakomor. It’s not as though he’s yours.’

  The rumbling in the dragon’s belly coursed along its neck and then – in a blaze of orange – a giant fireball exploded from the beast’s mouth and went flying across the square.

  The skret scattered. A few of them were hit, but the prince was still standing. Anneshka gave a whoop of joy. Another rumble began somewhere beneath her feet.

  Drakomor was trying to push the lever back up, to make the dragon stop, but it wouldn’t budge.

  For a king, he really is pathetic, thought Anneshka.

  Another fireball burst out of the dragon’s jaws and the whole thing swung round, throwing Anneshka off balance. The monster’s tail ripped through houses. People were running from the cathedral, shrieking like frightened animals.

  Now the beast was facing the castle.

  ‘Was that supposed to happen?’ said Anneshka, struggling to her feet.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Drakomor. ‘It’s going to burn down my castle!’

  ‘That clock-making cockroach has done it wrong!’

  ‘We need to make it stop!’ shouted the king. Again, he tried to unstick the lever, but it wouldn’t move and fire poured out of the beast’s jaws like lava from a volcano. Below, people were screaming.

  ‘I’ll kill him! I’ll kill that one-eyed trickster!’ Anneshka tore her veil out of her hair. She would do the killing with her own hands if she had to. She squinted at the figures running across the square. There were people all over the place, but she couldn’t see Andel.

  ‘I’m getting down,’ said Drakomor. ‘I need to find my nephew.’

  ‘But this is supposed to be our moment!’ wailed Anneshka. ‘This is supposed to be when everyone sees us save Yaroslav from the skret!’

  Drakomor began to climb down the ladder that hung from the dragon’s side. ‘Anneshka,’ he cried, ‘follow me! It’s not safe up there!’

  Anneshka was shouting and cursing in the most unladylike language. ‘My darling, come quickly!’ called the king.

  ‘This isn’t my destiny!’ screamed Anneshka, tearing at her wedding dress. ‘This isn’t how it ends!’

  Suddenly she felt the heat from the dragon through the soles of her shoes. That snapped her out of her rage. The beast was melting from the inside out. She ran to the ladder and started to hurry down it. Her dress billowed around her. Anneshka was near the bottom of the ladder when the metal between the dragon’s scales turned fluorescent pink. The heat scorched her hands and she let go of the ladder, hitting the ground hard.

  She looked up to see the skret heading towards the castle. The dragon’s fire had taken hold in the West Wing. Even worse, Drakomor was sprinting after the monsters.

  ‘Stop those skret!’ he bellowed. ‘They have Miroslav! They have my boy!’

  Miro knew there was no point in trying to fight the skret. He had learned from experience. He let them drag him towards the castle. Some of them were badly burnt, but they limped on, uncomplaining.

  Wedding guests were shouting for their loved ones. The skret walked past them all, entering the castle through the main doorway. It was wide open. Any Royal Guards that had been stationed there for the wedding had already run away.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ demanded Miro.

  ‘To the tallest tower,’ hissed the Maudree Král, throwing off his mask. ‘To the heart of the mountain.’

  ‘For the last time—’ started Miro, but the Král covered the prince’s mouth. The skret went quiet. They pulled back their masks and turned their eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘Can you feel that?’ said the Král. Miro couldn’t feel anything, but the skret put their clawed hands to their chests. ‘It’s the Sertze Hora. It’s here. Just like the moths said.’

  ‘What shall we do with the human pup?’ said the skret with the spiked back, the one they called Shpitza. ‘If we’re not gonna swap him, we might as well slice him and dice him.’

  ‘No,’ said the Maudree Král. ‘We’ll keep him. At least until we have the heart. We might need a hostage.’

  A pair of townsfolk rushed past the skret, hardly pausing to stare. Their arms were full of treasures from the king’s collection. Miro wanted to stop them, to make them put it all back, but he wasn’t in a position to do any such thing. The skret grabbed him by the collar and set off into the castle.

  The closer they got to the East Wing, the fainter the sounds of fire became. The skret took torches from the walls to light their way.

  As they passed by the feasting hall, there was
a sound that made the skret break from a walk into a run. It was a sound that belonged to the forests and mountains: the sound of a roaring bear.

  By the time Imogen, Marie, Lofkinye and Zuby arrived in the square, clouds of smoke were choking the sun and the West Wing of Castle Yaroslav was burning as though it was made of dry twigs. The new arrivals stood, open-mouthed, shielding their eyes from the blaze.

  The cathedral was on fire too. Imogen could see the hot glow through the stained-glass windows, turning the saints’ faces a devilish red.

  ‘What on earth happened?’ said Lofkinye.

  ‘You were right,’ said Zuby. ‘It was a trap.’

  He nodded at a crumpled metal skeleton. It looked like it belonged to a dinosaur. The innards were molten and hundreds of ceramic scales were scattered across the square as if a massive snake had shed its skin.

  ‘But who was the trap for?’ said Lofkinye. ‘Surely the king didn’t mean for all this …’

  A woman in a wedding dress was kneeling in the middle of the square. ‘That must be Anneshka,’ whispered Marie, ‘the woman Miro’s uncle is marrying.’

  ‘I’ll go and speak to her,’ said Imogen. ‘You wait here.’

  As Imogen got closer, she saw that the woman’s make-up was badly smudged. Her hands and parts of her face were scorched, but the woman didn’t seem to care. She was muttering, ‘I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him.’ Her violet eyes were fixed on the fire.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Imogen, ‘but can you tell me what happened here?’ The woman got to her feet and began walking towards the castle. Imogen caught hold of her dress. ‘I’m looking for Prince Miroslav. Have you seen him?’

  The woman turned and hissed in Imogen’s face like a cat. Imogen was so shocked that she froze. The woman walked off, silk dress trailing.

  ‘What did she say?’ asked Marie, rushing to Imogen’s side.

  Imogen wiped spit from her face. ‘I hate to say it, but Miro was right. I don’t think his spare mother is a very nice person.’