‘How did you get it?’ she asked.
Drakomor looked confused.
‘The heart of the mountain. I know what that is. How did you get it?’
‘It … it was a gift.’
‘A gift?’ She tried to make him look her in the eye.
‘Look, my love, we should get you to the kitchens. Put some balm on that burn.’
‘Tsh! Stop fussing!’ And then more gently: ‘Please, tell me how you got it. Then we’ll go back down.’
Drakomor ran his hands over his face. When he finally looked at her, he was wearing a strange expression.
‘Láska, don’t fret,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to be afraid.’ She put her non-blistered hand to his cheek.
‘I’m not afraid,’ he said.
‘Then what?’
‘I don’t have the word for it. It makes me feel sick. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick. I should never have brought you up here.’
‘Share it with me,’ she cooed. ‘Let me help you. After all, we’re family now – or we will be soon.’
He sighed. ‘You have to promise not to tell anyone. Not even your mother.’
‘I promise,’ she said. ‘We’re in this together. Just the two of us.’
She encircled him with her arms and he spoke into her shoulder.
‘It was the evening of Zimní Slunovrat – back when all of Yaroslav used to put on those disgusting masks. Do you remember? It was hard to tell the people from the skret and the skret from the people.’
‘I remember.’
‘My brother, Vadik, was still alive. King Vadik and his closest advisors celebrated Zimní Slunovrat at the top of the Klenot Mountain, with the skret, as was tradition.’
‘Go on …’
‘Well, you know how skret banquets go. That vile oily stuff they drink. They were all rotten from it. Most of the court were too, but I’d had enough of making small talk.
‘Vadik and his wife were deep in discussion with the Maudree Král. Vadik saw me across the cave and shot me one of his crowd-pleasing smiles. Everyone loved that smile. There was something so unkingly about it. It belonged to a boy.
‘But I didn’t smile back. The Maudree Král may call himself a king, but the mountains are no kingdom. Why should my brother simper for that fiend?
‘I couldn’t endure it, so I grabbed a torch and slipped away; away from the fire they keep burning all winter … away from the merrymaking. I was going home. That was always my plan.’
Anneshka gave him an encouraging squeeze.
‘But I got lost in those twisting tunnels and lonely grottoes. And instead of getting out I found myself going deeper into the mountain.
‘I could see my own breath freezing in front of me. The ceilings of the caves were lined with icicles. Sometimes the floor too. It was too slippery so I crawled and the further I went, the colder it grew. Eventually, it was too cold to think straight. I began to panic. I wouldn’t have been the first to die inside the mountain.
‘When I felt the cold dying away, I thought I was back at the great hall. I thought I’d see Vadik. He would ask me where I’d been and I would make something up to save face. He’d laugh and clap me on the back, knowing the truth but not needing to say it.
‘But I wasn’t just round the corner from the feasting cave. I was at the mountain’s core. The warmth I felt wasn’t from the skrets’ fire, but from the mountain’s heart.’
Drakomor stared into the stone with greedy eyes.
‘I was familiar with the lesni stories. They’d talked about a stone that had fallen from the stars for as long as I could remember. The Sertze Hora. That’s what they called it. They said it made the mountains tall, the forests deep and the valley rich with life. They said it lived at the heart of Klenot Mountain. But I thought it was all – well – just stories.
‘When I found the Sertze Hora, it was lying on the ground as if it had been dropped. Can you imagine? An incredible jewel, just waiting to be found … The ice around it had melted away. And that feeling. That thunder it makes. It has a rhythm, just like a real heart. You must be able to feel it?’
Anneshka nodded.
‘I slipped off my cloak and wrapped it round the stone, carrying it close to my chest like a swaddled infant. The beating travelled through me. Even my jaw shook. And my heart! I’ve never felt anything like it. It was as if it was trying to thump its way out …’
‘Go on,’ said Anneshka.
‘I don’t know how long it took me to escape. All I know was that it was still night when I stood at the foot of Klenot Mountain and I was sweating like a beast. Even through the cloak, the Sertze Hora burned.
‘I did look back at the summit of the mountain. I did think of my brother. I could still see the faint glow from the skret fires. The celebrations were continuing without me. But I didn’t want to linger in case I was being watched. I thought I saw blinking in the trees. Even the moon stared at me like a giant eye with the lids pinned back.
‘I ran through to the place where our horses were tied and I rode back to Yaroslav with one hand on the reins and one holding the stone. I only stopped on Kamínek Bridge because something caught my eye, something in the water. A scornful face looked up. What have you done? it seemed to say. But it wasn’t a human face. It was one of those stupid Zimní Slunovrat masks. Someone must have dropped it.
‘I tied up my horse and crept into the castle through the servants’ entrance, passing the room where Miroslav used to sleep. His nurse was with him. I could hear her snoring. I ran to my room and bolted the door.’
Drakomor stopped. Beads of sweat were forming on his face and running down his neck. Anneshka picked up the cloth and covered the Sertze Hora.
Drakomor allowed himself to be steered to the window like a child who had woken from a bad dream.
‘Here,’ said Anneshka, ‘some air will do you good.’
‘It’s not finished,’ he croaked. ‘I mean, I’m not finished. I didn’t let anyone know. Didn’t let those who knew speak. But I want you to know. I’m tired of being the only one …’ His hands were shaking. ‘My brother … he didn’t come back that night.’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t come back as he’d left. The Royal Guards called me to the North Gate before dawn. The city was still asleep.
‘I could feel the guards’ eyes on me. I wished they would look down. They should have looked down! There were sacks outside the gate, like the ones they transport meat in. They were turning the soil red.
‘I didn’t want to open them. I got a guard to do it. He slit the closest sack and vomited. I sent another guard. I asked him what was in there and he said it. No fancy language. No cushioning the blow. “It’s your brother, my lord.”
‘My brother. My brother was in there and they’d made such a mess of him. His face – just like my face. No more famous smiles … and his chest was open.’ Drakomor sank to the floor. ‘They’d taken his heart.’
‘Are you sure no one else knows?’ asked Anneshka. ‘No one else knows how King Vadik really died?’
Drakomor looked up. ‘Don’t you understand? The skret killed everyone who was there that night, apart from me.’
‘But what about the guards who saw the bodies?’
‘I sent them away – beyond the mountains.’
Anneshka stroked his hair and looked out of the window. The candles in the second tallest tower were still burning bright.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘That’s very good.’
Imogen stood in the middle of the bridge. Thirty black statues looked on. The priest with the lucky toe. The warrior with the missing leg. An array of powerful men. None of them would help her now.
The rings were back in her pocket and the dagger was in her hand. She was still. If she had been a deer, her ears would have been moving. She was listening. She wanted to be sure …
There it was. Another skret cry sent adrenalin fizzing through her body. Her feet decided which way to run. They took her
towards the castle, towards the light. Moths fluttered in every direction, but none of them was familiar. None of them was her moth.
Imogen knew the city streets better than the first time she’d run from the skret, but she still came to dead ends. She still took wrong turns. She hesitated in front of a house decorated with so many skret teeth it gleamed. Left or right? Right or left? A blood-curdling scream. Closer this time and to her right. Left it was, then.
The moon was full and, when it appeared between the clouds, Imogen could see by its light. When it was hidden, Imogen thought the darkness would swallow her whole.
Things moved in the shadows, always in the margins of her vision. She shook her head. It was just her imagination. Surely the skret couldn’t have caught up so quickly …
She ran down the centre of the street, as far from the dark edges as possible, but a cloud covered the moon and she had to stop. Something was definitely there. She turned to face it, holding the dagger at arm’s length, gripping the hilt with both hands. There it was. A fluttering.
A silvery grey moth flew out of the blackness. Imogen lowered her dagger. She’d know those antennae anywhere.
‘It’s you!’ She rushed towards the shadow moth. No time for pleasantries. Her guide flitted on ahead and Imogen followed willingly.
Skret cries echoed down passageways and ricocheted off rooftops. It was impossible to tell which direction they were coming from. But that didn’t matter. Imogen’s moth was back. She was about to be rescued.
She was so relieved that it wasn’t until the moth led her down a tunnel-like alley, into an enclosed courtyard, that Imogen had the bad thought. What if her moth was not friend but foe? What if it had never been ‘her’ moth at all? It had taken her through the door in the tree, into skret-infested forests. What if it had always known it was leading her towards danger?
The only exit from the courtyard was the alley that she had just come down. On the other side of the courtyard there was a statue. Imogen was used to Yaroslav’s statues – the place was littered with them. Miro had often joked that if only the stone soldiers of Yaroslav would come to life, the skret problem would be solved. But this statue was different.
It was bigger than Imogen, but not as big as a grown-up, with arms that finished too close to its knees. The shadow moth settled on the statue’s bald head. Heart thudding, Imogen followed.
Up close, it was clear that the statue had been made by a skilled artist. The huge, circular eyes were like those of the deep-sea fish on telly. The hooked claws belonged to the stuff of nightmares. And that face! It was captured mid-snarl: a skret.
Imogen stood in front of the monster. Even though she knew it was made from stone, she could have sworn its eyes flickered. Sitting on its palm was another moth, but this one wasn’t alive. It was part of the statue. It had the same wings, buggy eyes and long antennae as the real shadow moth and it looked like it was the skret’s friend. Imogen’s hand shot to her mouth. ‘No!’
The real skret, the creatures made of fleshy stuff not stone, were closing in. She could hear them calling. She looked up at the statue’s head, but her moth wasn’t there. She ran round the courtyard, her breath coming shallow and fast. Her moth was nowhere to be seen.
‘How could you?’ she cried. In answer to her question came the screech of a skret. It approached down the alley, half masked by shadows. Imogen hammered on the door of the nearest building. ‘Help me,’ she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘Heeeeelp!’
The sound she heard next wasn’t human. But it wasn’t a skret either. A colossal roar made every window in Yaroslav tinkle and every shutter shake. It was a roar that belonged to the forests and mountains; a roar that stripped away all but a thin core of instinct. And that instinct said, ‘Run!’
But where could she run to? The skret lost no time scuttling into the courtyard, scaling the nearest building and disappearing over the roof. In the hole that the skret left behind, something else had appeared. That something almost filled the alley – shoulder blades up near the arched ceiling. Imogen trembled. The dagger in her hand trembled too.
The thing stepped into the courtyard. It had two heads. As the moonlight fell across it, Imogen saw that the heads were attached to two separate bodies. One, covered in a black hood, belonged to the old servant called Yeedarsh. The other belonged to an enormous brown bear.
Throwing back its head, the bear roared again.
Imogen dropped the dagger. ‘Yeedarsh?’ she said in wonder.
His face looked as pale and as old as the moon. ‘It wasn’t my idea to come looking for peasants at this hour,’ he said, scowling.
‘Yeedarsh!’ This time she said it with pure joy.
‘But, if the young prince wishes it, I must obey.’
Imogen approached cautiously, not wanting to make any sudden movements. The bear’s giant head turned towards her, its golden eyes making perfect orbs in the darkness. It wasn’t wearing a chain or a muzzle, not like the dancing bears Imogen had seen in the books in the castle library. And it was big. Bigger than Imogen had ever imagined a bear could be. Its back was higher than the old man’s head and its paws were as large as serving dishes.
‘Is it safe?’ said Imogen, staring at the animal.
‘Who, Medveditze? Oh yes. She’s used to humans.’
‘Med-vee-deet-saa.’ Imogen repeated the name slowly.
‘Enough gawping,’ said the servant. ‘Do you want to be rescued or not?’
Imogen nodded.
‘Right then,’ said Yeedarsh. ‘It’s a bit of a walk back to the castle and there are plenty of skret about. Make sure you stay close. I can’t see Prince Miroslav being happy with me delivering just a part of you.’
Imogen did as instructed. Yeedarsh walked slowly, but the skret seemed to have vanished like bats before dawn.
‘Where have all the skret gone?’ asked Imogen, looking over her shoulder.
‘Oh, they’re still here. No doubt they’re hiding between the chimney pots. They’re afraid of my Medveditze.’ The old man gave a dry laugh.
‘Skret are afraid of bears?’
‘It’s the only creature they respect.’
Imogen watched Medveditze’s lumbering gait. Her paws made silent contact with the ground. Occasionally, the bear turned to look at Yeedarsh, perhaps to check that he was keeping up.
‘Where did you get her from?’ said Imogen.
‘I rescued her,’ said the old man, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. ‘Her mother was killed when she was a cub.’
‘How sad …’
‘It’s not sad. That’s how it goes with bears. They fetch a good price.’
‘Well, why didn’t you just get Medveditze stuffed if money is all you care about?’
‘I didn’t say that’s all that I care about.’
They walked in silence for a few minutes, but Imogen couldn’t stay quiet for long. Her head was crowded with questions.
‘Is Medveditze big for a girl bear?’ she asked.
‘One of the biggest.’
‘How big do bears get?’
‘Not as big as they used to.’
‘Why?’
‘As Yaroslav has grown, they have shrunk.’
‘Can I touch her?’
‘Enough questions! She’s not a plaything.’
‘I’ll stop talking, I promise.’
Yeedarsh paused. ‘If she growls, let go of her and look away.’
Imogen stretched out her arm and brushed the tips of the bear’s fur with her fingers. It was coarser than she’d expected. She stroked it with her palm. The bear didn’t respond. She put her hand into the fur and her arm disappeared up to the elbow. Medveditze looked back at her. ‘Sorry,’ said Imogen, removing her hand. The bear gave a snort, which could have meant, Don’t mention it, or, I’ll tear you limb from limb.
As they approached the castle, Imogen began to play the scene where she was reunited with Marie in her head. Marie would be so impressed that she’d fought
off the skret. Imogen was determined not to apologise. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to talk about the argument at all. Perhaps they could just carry on as if she’d never left.
Yeedarsh fumbled for his keys.
‘Yeedarsh?’ said Imogen.
‘Hmm.’
‘You know the place where you found me – the courtyard.’
He ushered her inside. ‘Yes, I know it. Keep your voice down.’
‘Sorry …’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You know there’s a statue of a skret.’
‘Get to the point.’
‘It was holding a moth.’
‘So what?’
‘It’s just that I’ve seen a moth like that before.’
Now she had his attention. ‘Go on.’
‘I was curious … Why was the moth with the skret? What kind of moth is it?’
His beady-eyed stare made her uncomfortable. ‘Curiosity killed the wildcat.’
‘That’s not the saying. It’s—’
‘It’s not a saying, idiot child. It’s a fact.’
‘Okay. I … I guess I’ll go to bed now. Thanks for coming to get me.’
‘Oh, no you don’t.’ Yeedarsh grabbed her by the scruff of the neck. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘But I’m tired!’
‘So am I, little peasant, but, if you’ve seen the moth that I think you’ve seen, it could be important. So, tired as I am, we’re going to the library.’
The king’s collection was scattered throughout the castle, and the library was no exception. Globes charted unfamiliar lands. Tables were strewn with snake heads and amulets.
These objects were the stars of the show. The books that lined the walls, from the floor right up to the high ceiling, were just a backdrop. King Drakomor didn’t collect stories.
Yeedarsh tutted as he walked past the chessboards. Black and white pieces were strewn across the floor, as Imogen and Miro had left them. Yeedarsh stooped to pick up the black king. His knees creaked. ‘It’s always the way,’ he said, placing the king in the middle of the board.
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