The Crystal Heart (7 page)

I woke to a house empty of his presence, and it was not a good feeling.

We had stayed up quite late the night before, putting the finishing touches to the collection of figures Kasper was taking to the port. In the end, I'd contributed by adding colourful detail with the use of charcoal, the juice of herbs, leaves and old plum stones. We'd not left the house and, neglecting our other chores, we made a family of woodcutters, three squirrels, a bear, an old witch with a bright scarf, two birds, and a clown in patchwork costume. It had been a day full of laughter despite the hard work, and in the end, we'd been well pleased with ourselves.

Yes, it had been a good day. Thinking of it now, as I went about our usual morning duties with only Fela to keep me company, I wished I had said more of what was in my heart. But I could not, for how would we part as we must one day do? We were safe here for now, away from the world. Yes, it was a beautiful place and the pattern of
our days was a pleasant one. But how long could we really stay like that, suspended in the present, with no path to the future? Only for as long as they didn't find us. And only before the longing for home, the yearning to see the faces of our families, didn't become too great.

Kasper might think now that he could live with it. I knew I couldn't. I couldn't be an exile for ever, even if we were never found. I thought of how my father could spirit us away and protect us. But I also knew he would want revenge, and thousands would die, here and at home. Would I really want all those people to pay the price for my return?

Anyway, if Kasper was right and they'd kept the news of my disappearance quiet, then my father had no idea I was missing. As far as he knew, I was still in the Tower. And I was certain he'd had no notion of what the Supreme Council of Krainos had intended for me. Their plans rendered the treaty null and void, and my father would have come to my rescue long since, with a massive army.

So I was there, alone, for two days and a night. It struck me that I could leave, could head back to the stream where we had left the boat, and find my way to my father's realm by water. I would tell my father how I owed my life to Kasper, and maybe I could make him understand that, for his sake and mine, our countries must never go to war again. Perhaps he'd listen. Perhaps he wouldn't. But wasn't it worth a try?

No. How could I do that? When Kasper came back and found me gone, he'd go looking. He'd be in greater danger than before. And he trusted me to be there when he returned. I couldn't do that to him. It wouldn't be
honourable to leave without a word, an explanation. He deserved more than that. So much more.

As my hands busied themselves with their tasks, I knew I wasn't facing the truth. It wasn't honour that was preventing me from leaving. It was this: in this place, we two were not how the world saw us. We were not escaped prisoner and Tower Guard; we were not
feyin
princess and human youth; we were Izolda and Kasper. We were real friends and, despite knowing that our time here was not to last, I could not bear to be the one to end it. Not yet.

The day passed slowly, much more so than when we were together. At last it was night and I sat by the fire with my bowl of soup, taking little pleasure in either the food or the warmth or Fela's soft cooing. All those long years of solitude in the Tower set against three weeks of joyful company, and already, I found the renewed solitude hard to bear, even in these homely surroundings.

With a pang of longing, I thought of how we were the day before, sitting together in the sunshine, with the fragrant wood shavings at our feet, talking and laughing as we finished the little dolls. At one stage Kasper had broken into song – a traditional one based on the story that had made his village famous. It told of a time many centuries ago when some local people, afraid the moon was dying, had tried to capture her in a net. Her waning reflection shone in the deep waters of the village pond as they tried to nurse the moon back to life. The song was beautiful, with a haunting tune that lodged in the mind; and far
from painting the villagers as silly, it spoke of hope and dreams and magic.

The world might laugh at those simple people, but I didn't. How could I, when a young man from a village that believed in the impossible had actually
done
the impossible and brought
me
back to life? I began to hum the tune, softly at first, then louder. And as I sang, my loneliness ebbed, so that soon I was feeling a lot better.

All at once, my song was rudely interrupted by Fela, who up till then had been dozing peacefully. Jerking awake, she flew up, making me jump. For a terrified heartbeat, I thought someone had found our refuge and was about to burst through the door – but then I saw, emerging from behind the stove, a strange little creature. About the size of a large rat, it had sharp eyes that were black as coal, pointed ears, a hairy face and a body the colour of soot.

It looked at me. I looked at it. Fela was still fluttering around, twittering in protest. Gently, I coaxed her down onto my shoulder. Still the creature stared at me. ‘It's all right,' I said, stroking Fela's feathers. I turned to the creature. ‘Greetings,
domevoy
of this dwelling.'

‘You more song,' it said in a rough, scratchy voice.

‘Very well.' Settling down by the fire again, with an uneasy but quiet Fela on my shoulder, I began to sing. And strange though it sounds, I felt I had been granted a sign. A sign I should stop worrying about the future and about what might be, that I should trust what was real, in the present, right here.

I woke with a jump in the middle of the night. Light and noise filled the room, and for a panic-stricken moment, I thought our enemies were upon us. In the next instant I realised it wasn't the blinding flashlights and gunshots of a hunting party, but a massive storm that raged around the cottage like an angry giant. I'd seen storms before, of course. But in the Tower, with its thick stone walls, even the most violent storm scarcely made an impression. In the cottage, it was utterly different. Thunder crashed, making the whole house shake. Jagged lightning violently lit up every corner of the room, lashing rain beat against the shingle roof, and a howling wind grasped at the corners of the house as though trying to turn it to matchwood. Huddled in bed with the patchwork quilt around me, the trembling Fela hiding in my lap, my fingers twined around my crystal necklace, I sat out the storm, hoping with all my might that Kasper had found shelter.

Suddenly, in the livid light of another lightning flash, I saw the
domevoy
dart out from behind the stove and stop only a few steps away from me. ‘Are you afraid, too?' I said softly. ‘You can come up on the bed, if you like.'

It stared at me for a heartbeat, then gave a flying leap and landed on the bed. But it did not try to burrow in. It just looked up at me, its tail neatly tucked under its haunches. I saw what its eyes were fixed on. My pendant.

‘You've never seen anything like it before, have you?' I whispered. ‘It's from my home, far underground.' I lifted the heart pendant so the creature could see it better. It looked warily at me, then longingly at the crystal, and finally reached out a bony little finger towards it.

As soon as its finger touched the pendant, a bright flash of light shot out from the crystal, startling me and terrifying the
domevoy
. With a wild screech, it leaped off the bed and scuttled off, disappearing behind the stove in an instant.

I was puzzled. The crystal had never done anything like that before. Although, the other day, I'd felt it grow warm under my touch as I said a prayer to the Lady of the Rock. The crystal heart had shown no sign of any unusual qualities during my time in the Tower. But was that because I'd been kept in limbo, quarantined behind a wall that neutralised all magic? Had the crystal, in a sense, been asleep – and was it now beginning to wake?

The next morning I was up later than usual. It was a sparkling sunny day, as if the storm had never been. When I finally ventured outside after breakfast, I saw the damage it had caused, with shingles blown off the roof, and sticks and leaves piled up against the walls. But most dismaying of all was the damage to the garden, with the poor plants mashed into the ground and the earth churned up. We'd have to start over, I thought sadly, surveying the mess and wishing with all my heart that I knew some spell or other to make everything come magically right at once.

But I had no such spell. I had been taught no magic. I might be of the blood of Night but I could not feel inside me any instinct that might tell me what to do. If I'd ever had it, long years in the Tower had taken it from me. What would my people think if they saw me now? I had become a stranger to my home, to my people, to my blood.

There was the crystal, I thought, remembering what had happened last night. I touched it, but nothing happened.
No warmth, no flash of light. Nothing. The crystal lay in my hand, cool, bright, unmoving. If it had been alive, it showed no sign of that liveliness now. With a sigh, I tucked it back inside my shirt and set to work.

Hours later, after stopping only for a hurried bite to eat, I finally flung down my tools and sprawled out on the grass, exhausted and filthy but happy with my work. The debris was cleared, and though I hadn't been able to secure the shingles, I had made the garden look better, reforming the beds and planting herbs I'd gathered in the woods. One of the strawberry plants hadn't been as badly damaged as the others, so I carefully replanted it. I'd also managed to save a little patch of the buckwheat crop – a pitiful amount considering how much we'd had the day before, but at least it was something snatched from the jaws of the storm. What's more, I had done it all on my own, and I couldn't help feeling a sense of pride at that.

I don't know if it was the exhaustion of the hard work or the sleepless night or the warm sun on my face as I lay sprawled in the grass, but I was terribly drowsy. Though I kept telling myself it was late afternoon and I should start the evening chores, my heavy limbs would not obey me. I fell straight to sleep and into the dream where I'm flying, which I'd had not once since my escape. It was different this time, touched with a beat of growing tension, as if at any moment something was going to happen. Not to me, for I flew unhindered, but to the young man with raven-black hair who now quite clearly wore Kasper's face. And then, in the sudden manner that dreams have, it changed again. The tension exploded in jagged horror as blood
bloomed on Kasper's face and breast. He fell, spiralling down, down, down to the earth …

‘No!' I yelled, waking. The sun had gone in, the shadows taking over the clearing. Night was falling. I should return to the cottage and build a fire, I thought to myself. But I couldn't. Shaking and frightened, I sat up. The dream was a grim portent. Something bad must have happened to Kasper. He'd been captured. Killed. And it was my fault,
my
selfish fault for sending him on such a dangerous errand.

I cried out, the pain and terror of the thought cutting into me like a knife. Tears trickled through my fingers as I buried my head in my hands. I don't know how long it was I stayed there, in a fog of terror and grief. But then, quite suddenly, piercing through the pain, there was his voice anxiously calling my name. I looked up, astounded, and for a moment thought I was dreaming again as Kasper emerged from the woods, a heavily laden pack on his back, his face strained and tired.

No thought entered my mind as I ran across the clearing, only a wild surge of feeling that lent my feet wings. Dropping his pack, he raced to meet me, and we landed in each other's arms. He smelled of sweat and earth and wood smoke, and I thought it the most beautiful smell in the world. There were no words at first as we clung to each other, warmth to warmth. Then he said my name in a deep, throaty murmur, and I answered shakily with his. Then he bent his face to mine, our lips met, and we kissed softly. It was as though the earth had paused in its spinning and held us in a thrilling timeless bubble of utter and perfect delight.

Presently, we drew apart. ‘Oh, Kasper,' I said unsteadily, ‘I am so glad you are back.'

‘Me too,' he said, with a little laugh in his voice, and kissed me again.

It was as the kiss ended that I saw the long, deep scratch on his wrist. ‘Oh, you are hurt!'

‘It is nothing, my sweet. I just came unexpectedly on a wild cat sunning herself on the path. I've treated it with herbs. It will heal.'

I picked up his hand and examined the wound. ‘Oh my love, it's so deep I fear it will leave a scar.'

I kissed the wound gently while he murmured, with a catch in his breath, ‘I will treasure such a scar, for it will always carry the imprint of your lips.' He then drew me to him and held me close. With his arm still around me, he picked up his bag and we walked back to the cottage.

Along the way I told him about the storm and my efforts to restore the garden. He smiled and said, ‘You've done an absolutely wonderful job, my love, and you've made sure the garden will recover. We'll work on it together, and we'll never let ourselves be beaten by anything that comes our way, all right?'

‘Oh, yes,' I said fervently. ‘Always.'

He smiled and kissed me. The bad feelings from my dream had evaporated completely, as had the loneliness and the uncertainty. This was real, more real than the fast-fading sadness of the past, and much more real than the fears of an imagined future. The present would be enough for me, for now.

Once I dressed his scratch with a salve made from moss, Kasper emptied his bag and showed me what he'd bought. ‘I sold all the toys,' he said. ‘They were a big success. I could have easily sold three times as many.' He smiled at me. ‘You and I, we could go into business as toymakers!'

He had spent every last coin he'd made. Out tumbled small paper bags of dry goods – salt, flour and buckwheat. There was a small box of four fertile eggs, so we could hatch chickens; seeds for the garden; string and nails and other sundry items; and treats – smoked fish, cured bacon, gherkins, a bag of boiled sweets. And, finally, a knobbly parcel wrapped in brown paper and string.

‘For you,' Kasper said softly, handing it to me.

Unwrapping the parcel, I gazed at what was inside: three pencils, a box of watercolour paints, a drawing pad and a lovely little book called
Tales from the Forest,
which was beautifully illustrated with woodcuts. My throat tightened and my eyes pricked with tears.

‘I don't know much about artists' needs – are they the wrong kind?' Kasper said anxiously, watching my face. ‘I thought that –'

‘Oh, Kasper,' I choked out. ‘All of it – it is all so beautiful. It's so perfect I'm almost afraid … I just can't …' The tears that had been stinging my eyes burst out and I began to sob.

‘Don't cry, Izolda,' he said tenderly, taking me in his arms and holding me tight. ‘And never be afraid. Never again. For whatever strange magic it was that brought us together, I vow that no power on earth will part me from you.'

I gave a little gasp.

‘What is it?' asked Kasper.

‘You shouldn't say those kinds of things,' I whispered, unease rippling over my skin. The crystal heart had grown cold as ice. ‘Someone might be listening.'

His face darkened. ‘Who, Izolda? Did someone come while I was …'

I shook my head, unease still thickening in my chest. ‘Nobody at all, except the
domevoy
.'

‘You saw the
domevoy
?' he exclaimed, momentarily diverted.

‘Yes, he showed himself twice.'

‘Aren't you the lucky one,' Kasper said, his face lighting up with laughter. So beautiful he was – so bold and carefree – that I felt the unease fading away. ‘You must not worry, Izolda, my sweet. Nobody has the slightest idea we are here, for like I thought, they've been looking for us in quite the wrong places.'