The travellers stopped walking to have lunch. They ate by a small stream and Lofkinye splashed water on her hands and face, washing off the dirt from the Hladomorna Pits.
After lunch, Imogen’s shoulders started to feel sore. She kept shifting the straps of her pack around, but they soon started rubbing again.
Marie struggled with the weight of her load and, as the afternoon wore on, Lofkinye carried more and more of Marie’s things. Imogen watched with narrowed eyes. Why did Marie always have to be such a baby?
‘I hate being among all these trees,’ said Miro. ‘It makes me feel hemmed in.’
‘People are supposed to live in the gaps between trees,’ said Lofkinye.
‘Lesni people, perhaps, but not me.’
‘And where should you be, little prince? On top of a mountain?’
‘In my castle.’
‘No one forced you to come,’ muttered Imogen.
‘Your castle,’ said Lofkinye. ‘I’m not sure how easy it will be for you to return there.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Miro.
‘You’ve been seen helping a wanted woman escape. You locked a guard in a cell. You released a flock of velecours. Your uncle is unlikely to be pleased.’
‘Oh, he’ll be fine.’
‘What about the men who were chasing us?’
‘The Voyák brothers? I’ve known them for years.’
‘Why did they have their swords drawn?’ asked Lofkinye.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Miro, his voice rising. ‘None of you understand. Uncle and I have fallen out before. It always comes right in the end.’
They plodded on in silence.
Lofkinye walked at the front since she knew the way. Miro went second since he would have liked to be first, but didn’t know the way. Marie came third since Imogen said she was too small to go last. Imogen brought up the rear.
At dusk, Imogen’s worry creatures began to reappear. It was strange. She didn’t feel particularly anxious, but there they were, rustling in the leaves a few metres behind her. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to imagine the worry creatures being swept away. It didn’t help. She touched the hilt of her sword. A twig snapped behind a tree.
‘Go away!’ she said, louder than she’d intended.
Marie turned round. ‘Not you,’ said Imogen, but then she saw the look on Marie’s face. Her eyes were big and fearful. ‘What is it?’ said Imogen. ‘What’s wrong?’ She turned. It wasn’t her imaginary worry creatures at all.
There, in the low forest light, was a skret.
The skret was built like a human, but it was smaller and stronger than an adult, with pale grey skin and luminous eyes. The monster crouched down, just a few paces away from where Imogen stood. Spikes ran along its spine and every muscle was tensed.
Imogen backed away, holding her arm out in front of Marie. ‘Imogen,’ whispered Marie. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
The skret growled, revealing triangular teeth.
‘It’s all right, Marie,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m sure it’s more afraid of us …’ Her voice trailed off.
The skret advanced on all fours. An arrow whizzed past Imogen’s neck, landing near the skret’s claws.
‘Stay where you are,’ said Lofkinye. The monster looked at her bow and arrow. She was ready to shoot again. ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ she said.
The skret narrowed its eyes. And then, much to Imogen’s surprise, it spoke.
‘What do you want?’ it said. Its voice was a series of snarls, creaks and hisses, strung together to form words. It made Imogen’s hair stand on end.
Lofkinye hesitated before she replied. ‘We’re on our way to Klenot Mountain. We need advice from the Maudree Král.’ She sounded calm.
The skret pulled back its lips and screeched, rocking on its haunches. It was laughing. ‘The Král does not help humans. Not any more. Not after what you did.’ It raised a hand with meat-cleaver claws, and gestured at the children. ‘He’ll drain your blood and slice up your flesh.’
‘What?’ said Marie. ‘That’s horrible!’
‘Smallest first,’ said the skret, turning its piranha eyes on her.
‘Tell the Král that we’re coming,’ said Lofkinye, still calm. ‘Tell him we expect a warm welcome.’
‘He’ll hollow you out,’ said the skret. ‘He’ll send your empty skins back home.’
‘I feel a bit funny,’ muttered Miro.
‘If he cooperates, we’ll make it worth his while,’ said Lofkinye.
‘What could a pack of pups and a lone woman give the Král? You have nothing. You are nothing.’
Lofkinye strode forward, keeping her bow drawn. She didn’t stop until the arrow was a hand’s length from the skret’s skull. The monster’s eyes followed the point, crossing slightly.
‘Do not talk to me like that,’ she said. ‘My name is Lofkinye Lolo. I belong to the lesni people and we belong to these forests. I am not “nothing”.’ Her voice had lost its calm.
Imogen covered Marie’s eyes and looked away. She didn’t want to see the skret die, even if it was a monster.
When the skret replied, it did so quietly and slowly, with a voice full of malice. ‘You are all traitors. You shall be treated as such.’
When Imogen looked back, the skret had gone and Lofkinye’s arrow was pointing at thin air.
Marie ran towards Lofkinye and wrapped her arms round her middle. Lofkinye dropped her weapon. She had a strange look on her face, as though she had slipped out of time with the rest of them. It only lasted a second.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘At least the Maudree Král can’t say we arrived unannounced.’
‘We’re all going to die,’ said Miro mournfully.
The second tree house that the children and their guide stayed in was smaller than the first. Most of the space was taken up by a double bed.
‘Who used to live here?’ asked Marie.
‘A woodcutter and his wife,’ said Lofkinye. She hung the packs on hooks by the door and lit the stub of a candle. In the flickering light, Imogen saw that the walls of the tree house were lined with shelves. These held everything from pots and pans to glass beads and axes.
The children sat on the tiny patch of floor and removed their boots. Imogen’s feet felt fuzzy and her shoulders were sore. In that moment, it was hard not to think of the things she’d left behind – her mum’s cooking and warm bubbly baths. She wouldn’t admit it, but she missed her home comforts just as much as Miro missed the castle.
‘Lofkinye, thank you for saving us from the skret,’ said Miro. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words.
‘That’s no problem, little prince. I wouldn’t be much of a guide if I let you get sliced and diced.’
‘No, but still. You were fast. You were … good.’
Lofkinye nodded, accepting the compliment.
They ate a dinner of cold venison pie and dried apples. Then the weary travellers crawled into bed, arranging themselves top to tail. Imogen tucked the blanket up round her neck. Her tired limbs sank into the mattress.
The wind outside was picking up, making the tree house groan like a ship in a storm. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Lofkinye. ‘These houses have withstood far worse.’
The howling of the wind was soon joined by the cries of the skret. Imogen wriggled deeper under the blankets, glad that the tree house was so high up.
‘So you’ve seen your first skret in these forests,’ said Lofkinye. ‘What do you think? Still want to meet the Maudree Král?’
‘Not really,’ said Marie. There was a long pause.
‘Shall we go back?’ said Miro.
‘We can’t,’ said Imogen. ‘This is our only chance of getting home.’
Marie turned to Lofkinye. ‘Isn’t there someone else we can ask about the door in the tree?’
‘If I had any better ideas, I would have mentioned them already,’ said the huntress. ‘Besides, I’ve heard the skret talk of these doors before �
�� back in the old days, when relations between people and skret were a little less frosty.’
‘I can’t imagine being friends with those monsters,’ said Marie. ‘Things must have been very different back then.’
‘Oh yes, very different,’ said Lofkinye.
‘But why?’ said Imogen. ‘What changed?’
Lofkinye pulled the candle close so it illuminated the bottom half of her face. ‘Well, I suppose I did promise to tell you how the mountain lost its heart. Though, in order for you to understand that, I’m going to have to go back further.’
Imogen could feel Marie’s body heat next to her and she was grateful for the warmth. For a split second, she felt as if she was back home, tucked into her mum’s big bed.
‘It’s quite a long story,’ warned Lofkinye.
‘Those are just the kind we like,’ said Marie.
‘I’m not listening,’ said Miro, turning from grateful to grumpy in an instant. ‘I already know this one.’
‘Not like this you don’t,’ said Lofkinye, and she blew out the candle.
Lofkinye unwrapped her story in the dark. She’d been carrying the first part of it since she was a child. Sometimes she could feel its weight in her pocket, like a stone worn smooth by the touch of her fingers. It had been a long time since anyone had asked her to take it out.
Many of the lesni people carried similar stories. Some of the older generation carried so many that you could almost see the stones in their pockets, dragging them down. They kept their secrets to themselves. But the children had asked for a story and those first familiar words were already there, right on the tip of Lofkinye’s tongue …
‘Many hundreds of years ago, the lesni were the only people in these parts. We lived in the forests. The skret lived in the mountains and the valley was empty. No fields, no stone walls, no castle and no město.’
‘What’s město?’ said Imogen.
‘It’s a stupid lesni word,’ said Miro. ‘It’s what they call the people of Yaroslav.’
‘I thought you weren’t listening,’ said Lofkinye.
‘Well, I am and your story makes no sense.’
‘Hush!’ said the girls in unison.
Lofkinye cleared her throat. ‘It was our world, the forests. Our place. There had been travellers from beyond the mountains before and some had stayed and built their houses among the trees. Others came and went. But the město were different. When they first arrived, they imagined that the valley and all that surrounded it was theirs. They had no idea that the lesni even existed.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ cried Miro. ‘How does she know? She wasn’t alive back then.’
‘True,’ said Lofkinye. ‘This happened a long time ago, but the story has been passed down. The město arrived in the valley on horseback. They came from beyond the mountains and they’d been travelling for years.’
‘My father’s family has always lived in Yaroslav!’ cried Miro. ‘We were here long before any— Ow! Who kicked me?’
‘As I was saying,’ continued Lofkinye, ‘your father’s ancestors were hungry. They were weary. They were half frozen and they hadn’t got anywhere to call home. When they saw this great green valley, surrounded by luscious forests and protective peaks, they thought they’d found paradise. The only thing was they didn’t realise that paradise already belonged to someone else.’
Miro huffed and puffed, but he kept his mouth shut.
‘When the lesni heard the město horses approach, they dissolved into the forests, but they didn’t go far. They hid, watching the people on horseback.
‘The město stopped in front of the first line of trees. It didn’t matter how hard they squinted into the forest depths, they couldn’t see lesni people looking back out.
‘The newcomers set up camp at the bottom of the valley and the lesni continued to watch and wonder what to do. Some of the elders wanted to fight – send the město back where they came from. They spent many days discussing their options. Meanwhile, the greedy město continued to chop wood and cut stone and eat the fish from the river.’
‘So what did the lesni people do?’ asked Marie.
‘It wasn’t the lesni who had the idea. It was the old ruler of the skret: the Maudree Král. She wasn’t much to look at. Her skin was covered in warts and her claws were yellow with age, but they say that Král was wise – wiser than all the other Králs put together.’
‘The Král is not a woman,’ said Miro.
‘He might be male now,’ said Lofkinye, ‘but centuries ago it was different … The Král arrived at the elders’ tree house. She told them that, together, they could easily overpower the newcomers. The battle would be over in a day and the město would be sent packing.
‘But the skret had no use for that swampy land at the base of the valley. They preferred their mountain caves. And the Král suspected that the lesni felt the same way about their treetop homes. There was no use fighting for land they didn’t want. So the Král suggested that, as long as the město paid for the wood and the stone that they needed, why not let them stay? The lesni elders agreed.
‘A welcome party went down to talk to the newcomers. At first, the město were reluctant to enter into any agreements. After all, they’d been getting what they needed for free. But the Maudree Král had thought of all that. She’d come with a box of precious stones. These stones were quite unlike any rocks the město had seen before. They sparkled as brightly as newly formed stars. The Král let the město keep one stone as a goodwill gesture. The rest would have to be bought.
‘That is how the město got their home and that is where the old tale ends. But I have my own chapter to add: the story of how the mountain lost its heart.’
Miro groaned. Lofkinye ignored him.
‘For generations, there was peace. Just like before, merchants and travellers continued to come from beyond the mountains. They arrived every summer. Some stayed in the city, with the město, and some stayed in the forests, with the lesni. But most moved on once they’d rested their legs and sold their wares.
‘The město traded wool and crops. The lesni traded wood and the things they made with it. The skret traded rocks, but there was one stone they would never sell. You might have heard of it before: the Sertze Hora.’
‘There’s no such thing,’ said Miro.
‘The Sertze Hora is a beautiful stone,’ said Lofkinye, ‘but it’s more than just a pretty object. Millions of years ago, it fell from the skies. It was a gift from the stars, and the mountains sprang up to protect it.’
‘The Sertze Hora is a myth,’ said Miro.
‘When the mountain’s heart is where it belongs,’ continued Lofkinye, ‘everything around here flourishes. The forests are full of life, the rivers are full of fish and the sky is full of birds. When it’s not … well, we have the Žal. And where do you think Klenot Mountain’s heart belongs?’
‘In the mountain?’ said Marie.
‘Correct,’ said Lofkinye. ‘And that is where it has always been. So imagine my surprise when, centuries after my ancestors decided to let the město stay, I saw a thief sneaking through the forests with the Sertze Hora clutched to his chest.’
‘Who was it?’ cried Imogen. ‘Who took the mountain’s heart?’
‘King Drakomor,’ said Lofkinye. ‘King Drakomor took the mountain’s heart. He had it wrapped up in his cloak, but you don’t mistake a parcel like that. It made the forests thud. It made the tree houses shake. It wasn’t supposed to be there.’
‘What you’re saying is treason,’ said Miro.
‘No,’ said Lofkinye. ‘What your uncle did was treason. He betrayed us all – město, lesni and skret. Ever since he took the heart from the mountain, things have been dying. The Žal is down to him.’
‘Lies!’ shouted Miro, wriggling around in the bed. ‘Uncle says lesni do nothing but lie!’
‘Miro!’ cried Imogen. ‘Lofkinye’s helping us and you haven’t even paid her like you promised. You’re the only person in this be
d telling lies. And stop moving. You’re messing up the covers.’
‘She calls my uncle a thief when she steals rabbits?’ cried Miro. ‘These forests don’t belong to her and neither do the animals in them! It all belongs to me!’
Marie gasped. Imogen couldn’t believe her ears.
‘Call me a liar or a thief once more and you’ll spend the night outside,’ threatened Lofkinye.
‘I’m going to sleep anyway,’ snarled Miro.
They waited for the prince to stop squirming and for his breathing to slow.
‘But haven’t the skret been able to get the mountain’s heart back?’ whispered Marie.
‘Why do you think they attack Yaroslav every night?’ said Lofkinye. ‘That’s what it’s all about. That’s why I lost my home too.
‘The current Maudree Král seems to think all humans are the same – lesni and město. As soon as he realised the Sertze Hora was missing, he sent skret into the forests, raiding our tree houses, killing our children. The lesni were forced to leave and seek the shelter of Yaroslav’s walls.
‘People have stopped visiting from beyond the mountains too. It used to be dangerous to cross in the winter. Now, with the skret as they are, it’s dangerous to cross all year round.’
‘And it’s all because of King Drakomor?’ asked Marie.
‘Yes,’ said Lofkinye.
Imogen thought back to Andel, the clockmaker. So much had happened since she’d met him that she’d almost forgotten his tale. ‘Stealing isn’t the only thing Drakomor’s done wrong,’ she declared. ‘I met a man who said the Royal Guards gouged out his eye.’
‘None of this is true!’ cried Miro.
‘You said you were going to sleep,’ snapped Imogen.
‘I command this story to stop.’
‘You’re in luck, little prince,’ said Lofkinye. ‘It’s over.’
‘It’s a terrible story!’ cried Miro. ‘I hate it. I hate you.’
‘Hate all you like, but it won’t change the facts,’ said the huntress.
‘I’ll tell you the facts.’ There was more wriggling as Miro sat himself up in the bed. ‘There is no Sertze Hora. The lesni moved to Yaroslav because they were too lazy to make things from the trees and they had nothing left to trade. You were little more than beggars. My uncle says he did you a great kindness allowing you into our city.’
A Clock of Stars Page 17