But Eska’s limbs were frozen; there was no chance of escaping and she could only gaze through the arches at the world beyond, wondering who she really was. A child cursed by the Sky Gods? Or somebody else entirely?
A cold wind swept through the hall and Eska blinked at the chill. The Ice Queen held her body in a music box and her memories in a locked chest somewhere deep within the palace – it was almost enough to make Eska give up hope of ever finding a way back into her past – almost but not quite.
Because Eska knew something the Ice Queen did not. She could speak.
She just didn’t want to.
Flint raced across the Driftlands on a sled pulled by huskies. The dogs strained against their harnesses as they bounded forward, but they did not yap or bark. They ran silently, as if they could sense the boy’s fear, and only the runners skimming the tundra could be heard.
Standing upright at the back of the sled, his boots astride on the caribou antlers and his scruff of brown hair flapping about his face, Flint used the moonlight to guide him. Round hillocks of ice, down dips in the snowfall, on and on towards Winterfang Palace. It was a cold night and Flint’s breath froze in little crystals on the lynx-fur trim of his parka. But, despite the chill, he didn’t have his hood pulled up because that would have meant dislodging the fox pup snuggled inside.
‘Look, Pebble,’ Flint whispered. ‘It’s Winterfang. There’s no turning back now . . .’
There was a shuffle of white fur from inside Flint’s hood, then two black eyes emerged. Pebble blinked. They were rushing along the coast now and to their right the snowy cliffs plunged down to the sea. In a few weeks, they’d see beluga whales gliding between icebergs and walruses resting on the shores, but for now the sea was still mostly frozen and, further up the coast, a jumble of domes and towers burst out of the Ice Queen’s enchanted iceberg.
Pebble nibbled at Flint’s bear-claw earring. The fox pup was used to the trespassing, mishaps and tellings-off that came with belonging to Flint, but he was always well fed throughout each ordeal which meant the ongoing peril was usually worth the trouble.
Flint tapped Pebble’s nose. ‘Now is not the time to be asking for extra food. We’ve got a handful of Tusk guards to get past, a palace to break into and my ma to free.’ He paused. Put like that, the evening sounded rather intense, but then he thought about the items stashed inside his rucksack and the months he’d spent planning in his tree house and he felt his courage return. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I fed you back at Deeproots and you had seconds of lemmings, if I remember correctly.’
Pebble grunted, then turned round and stuck out his bushy tail until it was smothering Flint’s face. Flint pushed it away and reluctantly Pebble got the message and manoeuvred his bottom back inside the hood. They sped on.
‘The guards will be celebrating long into the night – just like they did last year when the first sun rose after winter.’ Flint paused as the sled bumped over a shelf of ice. ‘If ever there was a moment to sneak into the palace, it’s tonight, when they’re distracted.’
But, despite the nights Flint had spent spying on the palace and preparing for the break-in, there was a tremble in his voice and his eyes flitted with nerves – because Flint knew the stories of the Ice Queen as well as anyone else. She could kill a person just by holding up her staff, or so people said, and no one hiding in Deeproots Forest or the Never Cliffs could miss the sounds that drifted out from Winterfang every morning: the Ice Queen’s organ first, then the haunting chorus of voices – the mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts and grandparents of the hidden children – locked inside the palace. They could drive you mad, those voices, and now anyone who heard them raised their hands to cover their ears.
The sled raced on and the palace drew nearer. Flint swallowed as he took in the jungle of gigantic icicles surrounding the base of each of the five towers rumoured to hold the Ice Queen’s prisoners. They cast a web of sprawling shadows over the moonlit tundra and for a moment Flint’s mittens slackened their grip on the sled. He thought about his ma, trapped inside, and focused on the main palace wall. He’d climb in that way, then sneak through the passageways to the towers from there.
Flint reached back and tickled Pebble’s chin as the dogs approached a bank of snow that blocked the palace from sight. ‘Tomkin might have shouted down my talk of a rescue mission because he doesn’t think I’m ready to be a proper warrior or that my inventions are up to the job. But, when I return to Deeproots with Ma, my brother will soon see what I’m capable of.’
Flint wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d lied to his brother. He’d promised Tomkin he’d destroyed all of his inventions back in his tree house because as Tomkin always said: ‘A Fur Tribe warrior fights with spears and fists, not with magic and far-fetched contraptions’ – but the truth was, Flint couldn’t shut his thoughts away. Ever since he was a little boy, he’d been inventing things and now, no matter how hard he tried to stop his ideas, they kept happening, kept growing, kept changing into extraordinary possibilities. Because, unlike his brother and everyone else in his tribe, Flint still trusted Erkenwald’s magic. This was partly because of the piece of bark he’d found in the forest over the summer which bore carvings that talked of how to harness magic and use it for good. But also because his mind was attuned to the things most people missed – river stones that shone in the dark, sunbeams tucked behind trees, coils of mist hovering above puddles.
Flint was sure that, if handled correctly, Erkenwald’s magic could be stronger than a warrior’s spear.
He steered his sled into a hollow in the bank that spread out into a hidden passageway winding down to the sea. The dogs raced into the darkness until eventually the ground levelled out into an ice cavern and moonlight sparkled against the icicles fringing the way out. Flint tethered the panting animals and placed a finger to his lips.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ he told the dogs as he swung his rucksack on to his shoulder. ‘Probably.’
One of the dogs whined and Flint reached into a bag on the sled and pulled out the frozen rabbit meat inside. He tossed it to the dogs and they chewed hungrily.
Then, with Pebble peeping out from his hood, Flint turned from the cavern and crept towards the palace. The fortress glinted in the moonlight and as Flint slipped beneath the bridge that connected the iceberg to the cliff top on the mainland – his sealskin boots practically soundless against the ice – he realised he had been holding his breath for almost a minute. He breathed out.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
Voices.
A cluster of Tusk guards were chattering on the bridge above him and, as Flint listened, he heard mugs clinking together and a fire crackling. He didn’t need to look to know they’d be clad in the armour the Ice Queen had sculpted for them – breastplates of ice and helmets forked with walrus tusks. Heart skittering, Flint stole on, using the shadow of the bridge to hide him.
He paused at the foot of the palace to strap a pair of crampons to his boots, then he swallowed as he took in the glinting base of ice that he needed to climb before he got to the arches opening up into Winterfang. Pebble shivered behind him. They would be in full view of the guards on that ice face, an easy target for one of their spears, but Flint had thought this through. He knew exactly what was needed to create a diversion.
He lifted a whistle carved from gyrfalcon bone out of his rucksack and checked for the handful of snowy owl feathers wedged inside it. He breathed a sigh of relief. The feathers were still there, and that was just as well, because his whole invention hinged on them. Gathered under a full moon out on the tundra, then dipped in rainwater collected before it touched the ground, the feathers had magical properties, if Erkenwald’s magic was to be believed.
Flint clasped the whistle and blew. No sound came out – the feathers muffled it – but eventually they eased out of the whistle and fluttered silently into the sky. Pebble’s eyes grew large and Flint bit his lip as they watched the feathers float eerily above the br
idge and trail quite some distance across the tundra. Then, when the feathers were a long way away, Flint’s whistle sounded.
The guards leapt up and began shouting. Flint grinned. His invention had worked. The feathers had carried the sound of his whistle, only releasing the blast when it was a safe enough distance from him. The Tusks rushed down the bridge and away from the palace towards the noise while Flint hauled a bundle of rope from his rucksack. This was the diversion he’d wanted, but he would have to be quick.
He hurled the end of the rope tipped with a barbed hook up against the ice and it held fast, then he tightened the drawstring around his hood to secure Pebble in place, set his crampons to the wall and climbed up towards the arches. Once or twice his boots skidded down the ice, but Flint kept on going, every now and again throwing a glance behind him to check that the guards were still out on the tundra.
Eventually, Flint came to the arches. He crouched just below them, panting, and Pebble gave a little moan as he peered over the edge of Flint’s hood. They were closer to the palace than they’d ever been, just moments away from breaking in, and as Flint thought of his ma and all the nights he’d spent missing her in the forest he hoisted himself up into the arch.
And froze.
There was a face looking up at him, but it did not boast a crown of snowflakes which the Ice Queen was rumoured to wear. This face belonged to a thin pale girl hunched on a pedestal – and it held eyes full of longing.
‘Help me.’ The girl’s voice was a scratched whisper, as if she hadn’t used it in a long, long time. ‘You have to help me.’
For a moment, Flint did nothing at all. He just stared at the girl in front of him. Her body was almost blue from the chill, but she wasn’t shivering. She was absolutely still, like a doll. Only her face seemed alive.
‘Turn the key in the pedestal. Three turns to the right and half a turn left.’
Flint frowned. The girl’s voice was hoarse, and weak, but there was something strangely magnetic about it and, despite the dangers all around him, he found himself drawn to her words.
‘Please,’ the girl begged. ‘It will undo the spell.’
Shaking himself, Flint gathered his rope into his rucksack, slipped off his crampons and dropped down into the hall; he couldn’t risk being seen by the Tusk guards. But still he said nothing. Who was this girl? Flint’s mind raced as he took in her shock of red hair. The Tusks were blond, the Furs had brown hair and the Feathers had hair the colour of midnight. This girl didn’t fit. But those eyes – big and bright and blue – brought back memories of the Tusk spies Flint had seen in the forest last month. And, if this girl was a Tusk spy, he wasn’t getting mixed up with her. Not when he had a rescue mission ahead of him.
He took a step into the hall and felt Pebble tense inside his hood. The fox pup’s ears were trained to sounds most humans missed and Flint listened hard until he, too, could make out a faint tapping noise, like metal clanging, from deeper within the palace.
The girl blinked frightened eyes at Flint. ‘Please,’ she said again. ‘There isn’t much time.’
Despite the pull of her voice, Flint took a few more nervous steps over the ice-crusted floor: past the organ in the middle of the room, below the chandelier spread with candles that burned with bright blue flames, and on towards the silver trees and the doorway leading further into the palace. Somewhere beyond that door was his ma.
‘I know I don’t look or sound like much,’ the girl whispered from behind him, ‘but for some reason the Ice Queen thinks my voice is important.’
Flint kept walking, but his ears snagged on those last words because with every sentence this girl uttered he could feel himself being folded further into her story. Her voice, whether he liked it or not, did seem to hold some quiet sort of power.
‘I know things from being locked up here in the palace,’ she went on, ‘and if you set me free I can help you find whoever you’ve come for.’
The girl stifled a sob and Flint recognised something in her then: something desperate, despite her stillness, like the beating fear in the eyes of a wounded animal. And it was harder to keep walking than he had expected.
He threw a glance over his shoulder. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Eska.’
‘And your tribe?’
There were tears standing in Eska’s eyes now. ‘I – I don’t remember a tribe. The Ice Queen took my memories when she locked me in this music box.’
‘Everyone belongs to a tribe.’ Flint looked her up and down and the hardness closed back around him. ‘Tusk probably – we all know the only reason Tusk children roam without fear is because they’re the Ice Queen’s spies and their parents are her guards.’
He turned away and concentrated on the hall. It was ‘detours’ like this – a term his parents had come up with for the distracted, almost sideways nature of his adventures – that always got him into such a mess. And these detours were the reason Tomkin had carved the words Decide Where You’re Going And Go There on the runners of his sled. The trouble was, Flint realised as he tiptoed over the ice, he usually only discovered where he was going halfway through a journey, and when he arrived he was often somewhere he hadn’t intended to be. But this was a journey to bring back his ma and he wasn’t going to let a stranger who didn’t even know her tribe get in the way of that.
He took a few more steps across the room, mumbling to himself as he went. ‘Stupid Tusk spy . . .’
But even as he said the words he knew they weren’t true. This girl was afraid – really afraid – and Flint had done enough hunting to know what fear looked like. What if she really was the Ice Queen’s prisoner and knew things Tomkin needed to hear to stage his rebellion? Flint dug his nails into his hands. He could sense there was something more to the girl than what he was seeing . . .
‘Find Ma first,’ he murmured.
Pebble, though, had other ideas. Wriggling free from Flint’s hood, the fox pup dropped down to the ground and ran up to the pedestal.
‘Pebble,’ Flint hissed. ‘We need to go.’
But the fox pup was clambering on to the pedestal now and Flint watched, open-mouthed, as Pebble raised a tentative paw towards Eska. The little animal was usually cautious and untrusting around those he didn’t know and yet with Eska he didn’t seem afraid. Flint watched as Pebble rubbed his body against the girl’s dress and then licked her ice-cold toes before turning to Flint and making a quiet huffing sound.
‘We don’t even know what tribe she’s from, Pebble. Even if she’s not working for the Ice Queen, she could be dangerous.’ He glanced across the hall towards the door between the silver trees. ‘Come on.’
But the fox pup wove between Eska’s legs and turned his twitching nose back to Flint. The boy grimaced. Tomkin had reminded him only the day before about harnessing the mind of a warrior: becoming silent, focused and deadly. He cursed under his breath. What he was about to do was not focused, and it was decidedly undeadly.
He hurried back to the pedestal and placed a hand on the jet-black key.
Eska’s eyes glittered and, though her words were faint, she repeated her plea. ‘Three turns to the right then half a turn left.’
Flint shot Pebble a withering look. ‘It’s your fault if this all goes wrong.’
Pebble flicked his tail defiantly, then Flint’s mitten closed round the key and he turned it, just the way Eska had said. For a few seconds, there was a grinding sound, like musical notes draining away, then there was a click as the key finally rotated left.
Eska slumped on to the pedestal and for a moment Flint wondered whether he’d killed the girl. A death on top of a detour would be hard to explain to Tomkin. But then slowly, shakily, Eska raised her head. She looked at her hands first, turning them this way and that as if she couldn’t believe they belonged to her. And then she flexed her toes.
‘Thank you!’ she gasped. ‘Thank you!’
But, as she struggled to her feet, the whispers began. Flint jerked his head u
pwards. They were coming from the blue candles flickering in the chandelier.
Come to the hall, the candles have spoken.
The curse on the child has now been broken!
Again and again the flames whispered and Flint’s blood curdled. He scooped Pebble up into his hood, then turned to Eska.
‘You didn’t tell me the candles were spies!’
Eska staggered off the pedestal, then fell to her knees under the strain of using muscles so long locked under a spell. She scrabbled for the wall and hauled herself up.
‘I – I didn’t know,’ she stammered. And then her voice grew harder and she glanced at the arches. ‘We have to leave.’
Flint’s jaw stiffened. ‘I’m here to free my ma and you’re going to show me how I get through this palace to the ice towers, like you promised.’
Eska shook her head. ‘You don’t know the Ice Queen like I do. We won’t stand a chance now she knows I’m free!’
Pebble slid further into Flint’s hood as if he could sense that he was largely to blame for this turn of events while Flint’s gaze faltered between the arch he had come through and the door leading on into the heart of Winterfang. He stormed across the hall towards the latter, leaving Eska trembling beside the music box. But, as Flint approached the doorway, the silver branches closed over the frame, barring his way on into the palace. And then footsteps sounded from a passageway beyond the door: heels clacking closer, followed by the slow swish of a gown. The stories of the Ice Queen swirled inside him.
She wears a dress made from the frozen tears of her prisoners. She can hex animals under her control with one strike of her staff. She can turn children to ice . . .
Sky Song Page 2
