Miro lifted his hand to touch the stone, but a skret pounced on him from behind. ‘Doesn’t belong to you,’ said Shpitza, digging in his claws.
‘Doesn’t belong to you either, skret,’ said a man’s voice.
King Drakomor stood at the doorway, a shield in one hand and a sword in the other. He looked like a hero from tales of old.
‘Uncle!’ gasped Miro, wriggling to get free.
‘Don’t try to stop us,’ said the Maudree Král.
‘Give me the boy. He doesn’t belong to you,’ said the king.
‘He doesn’t belong to you either,’ cooed the Král. ‘He belongs to the man that you sentenced to death.’
King Drakomor looked away and Miro saw that the skin on the left side of his face had peeled off. The burn extended down his neck.
‘Not now,’ said Drakomor. ‘This isn’t the time …’
The Král clicked his tongue and shook his head. He turned to Miro. ‘Why is your uncle so afraid of the truth? Perhaps he doesn’t want you to know that it was his actions that led to the death of your parents. His thieving. His greed.’
The Král’s words seemed to stab at Miro’s uncle like knives. He cowered by the door.
‘My parents died in a hunting accident,’ said Miro, with a wobble in his voice.
‘No,’ said the Král. ‘Your parents died because your uncle betrayed us. He was invited to our caves as a guest. He was treated with the utmost respect. And he used that trust to steal our most precious possession. He has brought the mountain to its knees!’
‘Miroslav!’ cried the king, but Miro’s eyes were fixed on the Král.
‘Killing your parents was not my choice,’ continued the Král. ‘I would really rather … but a mountain’s heart for a brother’s blood.’ Now he looked directly at Drakomor. ‘Your family had to pay.’
‘Get out of my castle.’ Miro hardly recognised his uncle’s voice.
‘You can only have one,’ said the Král. ‘The boy or the stone. Which will it be?’
A boom from somewhere below sent sparks flying up past the windows. The king dropped the sword and reached out his hand. ‘Give me the boy.’ Another boom and the tower shuddered.
Something struck Miro on the back of the head. A searing pain. The world went black.
When Miro came round, the pedestal was empty. The skret were gone and there was a heap by the door: his uncle. Miro scrambled to Drakomor’s side and tried to roll him over. He was too heavy. A dead weight.
‘Wake up!’ cried Miro, shaking his uncle’s shoulder. Drakomor didn’t stir. ‘Wake up and I promise I’ll be good, I’ll never run away again, I’ll be nice to my spare mother … just wake up … please.’
Miro threw his uncle’s arm over his shoulder and tried to lift him. ‘We need to get out of here,’ he sobbed, collapsing to the floor. ‘We need to leave!’ The tower swayed and Miro howled with fear.
He took his uncle’s arm again, but this time he curled up under it. The room started filling with smoke.
Miro scrunched up his eyes. He imagined he could hear familiar voices. He imagined he could hear Marie – far away – as if she was talking to him through a wall. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you get home.’
The make-believe Marie yelled, ‘The window!’
Miro opened his eyes. That was a strange thing for an imagined voice to say.
‘Over here! Hurry up!’
Marie’s face was at the window – pink and surrounded by a blaze of hair. For a confused second, Miro thought the smoke came from her curls.
How did she get to be there, hovering at the top of the tallest tower? Was he dead? Had Marie turned into an angel?
Marie shouted something. Miro scrambled to his feet and threw the window open.
Now he understood. She was flying on a velecour, tugging at a ribbon that was tied round its beak. The bird flapped wildly, but Marie steered it with the ribbon, keeping it close to the tower.
‘It’s really you!’ gasped Miro, smoke getting into his eyes and throat.
‘Of course,’ said Marie. ‘Who else? Listen, Miro, this tower’s about to go. You need to climb on behind me. Lofkinye says one velecour will take our weight.’
Miro looked at the bird. Then he looked over his shoulder. ‘I can’t leave without my uncle.’
Marie’s face fell. ‘He’s in there?’
‘Yes, but he’s not moving.’
‘Is he breathing?’
‘I don’t know.’
Marie pressed her lips together. ‘Okay. We can rescue him too, but it’s not going to be easy.’
She pulled the ribbon-reins in the other direction and the velecour swerved away from the tower. Her shape became a silhouette in the smoke, then a smudge, then she disappeared altogether.
Miro felt like he waited for hours. Moths flew up and down in the smog, looking for a way into the tower. When Marie returned, she was flanked by three other shapes. Imogen, Lofkinye and Blazen had a velecour each. Blazen’s velecour was huge – the biggest Miro had ever seen – but it still looked like it was struggling with his great weight. ‘I brought back-up,’ cried Marie, beaming.
Blazen steered his bird towards the tower. It resisted mightily, but, with a little help from Lofkinye and an extra tug on the reins, he managed to get the velecour’s back level with the open window. Blazen handed Lofkinye the ribbon-reins.
‘Step back,’ he boomed. Miro did as he was told. Blazen rolled into the room at the top of the tallest tower. He grabbed Miro by the scruff of the neck as though he weighed no more than a puppy.
‘My uncle,’ cried Miro. ‘We can’t go without my uncle!’ Blazen held the prince out of the window, legs dangling, and then he let go. Miro screamed, but he only fell a metre or so. He landed on the back of Marie’s bird.
‘Hold on,’ she called. ‘We’re getting out of here.’
The velecour swooped up and away from the tower. Miro looked back. Blazen was standing at the window with the king’s limp body slung over his shoulder. More smoke blew up, obscuring Miro’s view. The hazy outline of the tower swayed to the right, like a ship casting off, then it slipped out of the sky altogether. Miro moved his lips, but no words came out. There was a sound like an earthquake. The tower had hit the ground.
Marie slipped the ribbon-reins off the velecour’s beak and, suddenly, they were flying like an arrow – straight and fast and away from the castle.
A lesni woman sat at the foot of a fountain. She wore green and her hair was tied in two tidy knots. The fountain was dry and children were perched all over it, swinging their legs in anticipation.
There were adults too. They kept their distance, but they were listening all right. A man smoked a pipe while leaning out of a window. An old woman scrubbed her doorstep, even though it was already clean. A pair of youths loitered nearby – not quite men, not quite boys, not quite sure whether they were invited to join in.
‘Have I got a story for you,’ said the woman by the fountain, smoothing out the creases from her skirt.
‘Is it a true story?’ asked a skinny child.
‘A true story? Now why would you want one of those?’
‘Tell us the truth! Tell us the truth!’
‘Well, that’s no problem,’ said the woman. ‘There’s a bit of truth in every story.’
And so she began her tale. She started with two sisters. They were a long way from home and as poor as peasants when they met a prince and a huntress.
The audience listened with open mouths as the children escaped on velecours. They cheered as the huntress talked her way out of skret prison and when the giant freed the bear. They jeered at the evil queen with her fire-breathing dragon and they gasped at the discovery of the king’s betrayal.
‘Did King Drakomor really steal the heart of the mountain?’ asked a little girl.
‘Who said anything about King Drakomor?’ replied the woman.
‘Isn’t he the king in the story?’
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‘What do you think?’
‘I think he is,’ said the girl. ‘I think he took the stone and that’s why the skret got angry. That’s why they kicked us out of the forests.’
‘And that’s why he’s not king any more!’ shouted one of the youths. The children nodded in agreement, looking at the storyteller to see if she agreed.
The woman pulled a coin out of her pocket. She flipped it in the air and slapped it down on the back of her hand. ‘King Drakomor is gone,’ she said. ‘His castle’s in ruins. His body too. Perhaps he finally got what he deserved.’ She uncovered the coin and the children crowded closer to see which way it had landed.
‘Heads,’ squeaked the girl. ‘It’s the king’s head!’
‘Off with his head!’ shouted the youth.
‘But what if it wasn’t him that did it?’ asked a boy with missing teeth.
‘Then his would be a very sad story indeed,’ said the woman. ‘But I’ll let you in on a secret … The night when the stone first went missing, I saw Drakomor fleeing from Klenot Mountain. He stole the Sertze Hora. Of that you can be sure.’
The woman handed the boy the coin. He took it and ran, disappearing down an impossibly narrow alley. The other children began to disperse too.
The woman pulled her shawl tighter round her shoulders. Even in the city, winter was beginning to bite.
At the edge of the square, there was one figure that didn’t leave. He wore a velvet jacket and a fur-lined cap. His lower legs were wrapped in bandages and, as the woman walked by, she noticed that he only had one eye.
‘That was quite the story,’ said the man. ‘You ought to be careful. Tall tales like that can bring kingdoms to their knees.’
The woman hesitated. ‘Have we met?’
‘We have now.’ He held out his hand. ‘My name’s Andel. What’s yours?’
‘Lofkinye Lolo,’ she replied.
News of King Drakomor’s death spread quickly. He’d perished, along with his precious collection. Blazen Bilbetz had been attempting to rescue him when the tower gave way with them both still inside.
Some people were pleased Drakomor was dead and some people were sad. There were bonfires and feasts and readings of prayers. Jan, the Chief of the Royal Guards, said that if the king hadn’t died he would have killed him anyway. You can’t steal the heart of the mountain and expect to live happily ever after. You just can’t.
Everyone agreed that Blazen had died a hero’s death. Oh, the songs they would sing! Oh, the tales they would tell! There was even talk of putting up a new statue of the giant.
The head cook said she’d spotted the king’s almost-wife, that Anneshka woman, riding off into the sunset like they do in old legends. The cook doubted that Anneshka had made it across the mountains alive. Not at this time of year. Not in that dress.
There were rumours going around that she’d killed Yeedarsh and Petr. There were even reports that she’d tried to murder the prince. But she was from a good family and so pretty too … Surely stories like that couldn’t be true?
The disappearance of the skret was less controversial. No one missed their night-time raids. That first evening, when parts of the castle were still on fire and others glowed red, the bells of Yaroslav sounded at dusk. The people shut up their windows and bolted their doors. They waited in silence, but no skret arrived. Not a single one. And so it had been every night since.
The skret bones that had once decorated every building in the city began to disappear. They were removed from bakehouses and churches and shops. They were taken down from street corners. People weren’t interested in warding off monsters any more.
Soon, all that was left to remind the good people of Yaroslav of the bad times they’d known were the ruins of the castle. Towers turned to rubble. Treasures turned to dust.
One of the strangest things found among the ruins were the singed bodies of hundreds of moths. They were everywhere – drawn to the flames or the heart of the mountain. Either way, the město weren’t too sad about a load of dead insects.
At night, the castle’s ruins were thought to be haunted. Some said they’d seen the ghost of Blazen the Brave. Others said they’d seen the king’s spirit. He shuffled round the square, tapping on doors and peeping between shutters. No one was sure what he sought. Did he look for his love or for the young prince? Did he seek the Sertze Hora, even after death?
‘But we all know,’ said the head cook, as she tucked her boys in for the night, ‘that there are no ghosts – except ghosts of the mind.’ The boys pulled the bedsheets up to their eyeballs.
‘How do you get ghosts in your mind?’ asked the youngest.
‘Pear brandy,’ said their mother, blowing out the last candle. ‘That’s how.’
While life in Yaroslav was going back to normal, there was one boy for whom things would never be normal again.
Miro was alone in Lofkinye’s tree house. She’d said he could stay for as long as he liked and her home spanned four trees so there was plenty of space.
It had gone midday, but the prince was still curled up in bed. He’d been exhausted since the fire. It was as if the shock of his uncle’s death and the truth about the Sertze Hora had dealt him a physical blow. His legs felt heavy. His arms were weak. He was still coming to terms with the truth.
When Miro first woke, his mind would be a blank. He’d lie there with his eyes closed until he remembered that the Sertze Hora was real. Then he’d remember that his uncle had stolen it. His uncle had lied. His uncle was the real reason his parents were dead. It was the same every day. He wasn’t just grieving for Drakomor. He was grieving for his parents all over again.
Miro would hug his knees close and let misery consume him.
But then he’d remember the other things. He’d remember that his uncle had come to his rescue. His uncle had loved him. He’d loved him more than the most precious stone in the kingdom. That was when the real healing began.
Miro sat up, banging his head on a branch above the bed. ‘Ow!’ he cried, rubbing the sore bit. There were branches throughout Lofkinye’s home. Some were used as hangers. Others were beams that supported the roof. A few, like this one, were just accidents waiting to happen.
He swung his legs out of bed and the cold came to greet him, wrapping itself round his exposed ankles. There were no servants to light fires here.
The prince looked around the bedroom. Most of the objects were unfamiliar, fragments of Lofkinye’s life, but there was one face that he knew well. A toy lion with buttons for eyes sat on a rocking chair, in the corner of the room. Miro was too old for toys, but the lion seemed to be smiling at him all the same. He gave it a little smile back.
A few weeks ago, if someone had told Miro he’d be homeless, he would have laughed. Now he wasn’t just homeless, he was dependent on the very people he used to despise. The lying lesni. That’s what he’d called them. The thought made his face burn with shame.
There were voices in the forest below. The prince went out to the balcony and lowered a ladder to the ground.
Marie was the first to climb up. She stuck out her tongue. It was stained pink. Imogen was next.
‘Look what we found,’ she said, kneeling on the balcony. She untied a square of fabric to reveal a pile of rosehips. They shone like pink and orange jewels.
‘It’s like Lofkinye told us,’ said Imogen. ‘If you give them a squeeze, the yummy stuff shoots out.’ She demonstrated, squeezing a rosehip into her mouth.
‘Can I have a go?’ said Miro. Imogen let him take a handful and the three friends sat on the floor to devour their find. When there were no rosehips left, they looked out over the forest. Many of the trees had shed their leaves and the mountains were turning white.
‘I can’t believe we went all the way up there,’ said Marie, pointing to Klenot Mountain. ‘I wouldn’t have thought we could do it.’
‘Let’s not tell Mum,’ said Imogen. ‘She’ll make us go on walks all the time.’
Both s
isters laughed, but Miro could tell it wasn’t heartfelt. Lofkinye was letting the girls stay with her too, but, as Imogen looked away, Miro wondered if she was thinking about her real home.
‘I’m sorry that we didn’t find the door in the tree,’ he said. There was a pause. He felt a little bolder. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Imogen, frowning.
‘We don’t even know how long we’ve been gone,’ said Marie.
‘You could always stay,’ ventured Miro, not quite daring to look at either sister.
‘We can’t stay forever,’ said Imogen, without missing a beat. ‘We need to get back to our mum.’
A flock of birds flew past the balcony and into the trees, tweeting as they went. ‘Do you think the birds are here because the Sertze Hora has been returned?’ said Marie.
‘I don’t know,’ said Imogen. ‘I don’t know how quickly the Žal will end. I just hope those birds weren’t looking for rosehips …’
Later that afternoon, Lofkinye walked out of Yaroslav’s West Gate with a spring in her step. She crossed a field, lined with fat cauliflowers, and made her way towards the Kolsaney Forests. A gang of goats stared as she strode through their meadow. She shook her head, amused. Why did goats always look like they were up to no good?
Before long, Lofkinye was walking between trees. The dried leaves, crunching beneath her feet, seemed to announce her arrival. The bare branches, waving in the wind, welcomed her home.
She felt a thrill as she remembered: from now on, every day would be like this. She lived in the forests. There would be no more fighting with the skret. No more město rules. She could hunt as many rabbits as the famous Blazen Bilbetz …
Lofkinye slowed. Poor old Blazen. She could still picture his face when the tower trembled – when he realised it was too late … In many ways the man had been a coward, but he’d lived up to his stories in the end.
A Clock of Stars Page 25
