The Robe of Skulls (6 page)

Gracie Gillypot was wondering why she wasn’t more tired. She had been following Marlon through the night for what seemed like ages and ages, but her feet weren’t sore even though she was barefoot. She had no idea at all where she was; once they had reached the bottom of Fracture Mountain, they had turned sharply away from the path that led to Gorebreath and struck out into the dark heart of the forest. Marlon had led her between ancient gnarled and twisted trees and through wild tangled bushes, and although Gracie suspected that they were steadily moving west and climbing upward, she couldn’t be certain.

The moon was beginning to fade and the birds beginning to sing happily about dawn and day and worms, when Marlon stopped under a wide-spreading yew tree. “OK, babe,” he said. “Time for a nap. This bat’s one tired flapper. Curl yourself up on a branch and snooze.”

Gracie looked at the tree anxiously. She couldn’t imagine how she could curl herself up on any branch.

Marlon yawned. “Climb, kiddo, climb. And no fretting. No one in this wood touches a Trueheart. See ya!” With a flip of his wings, he flew high into the branches and vanished.

There didn’t seem to be any other choice, so Gracie climbed. To her surprise she found a deep hollow where a couple of large branches met the trunk, and the hollow was filled with soft, dry bracken. “This really is quite cozy,” she murmured. “Although I’m sure I won’t sleep. There’s been far too much happening . . .” Her voice faded away, and her eyes closed. She began to snore faintly.

Marlon, perched several branches above her, chuckled. “Poor little kid. She needs a rest, and there’s nothing like bracken dust to keep your peepers shut. Heigh-ho!” He shook himself, turned upside down, and batnapped for an hour. After that, he flew off on a little private business, but he was back before the sun was high in the sky.

Gracie woke with a start. For a moment she couldn’t imagine where she could possibly be, and then she remembered. She sat up in her nest of bracken and looked around. “How long have I slept?” she wondered aloud. And then, “Where’s Marlon?”

“No worries. Don’t think I’d bring you all this way to dump you, do you, kiddo?” Marlon was perched on the branch above, looking dusty but cheerful. “Ready to move?” he asked.

Gracie stretched. “Yes,” she said. “Of course . . . but is there any chance I could wash my face and hands?” She was too polite to say she was starving.

“Overrated if you ask me,” Marlon remarked. “Washing wears you away. But”— he waved a wing —“there’s a stream down there if you must.”

“Thank you,” Gracie said gratefully, and she climbed down from her tree and hurried to the stream. Ten minutes later, as thoroughly washed as she could manage in a muddy trickle of water, she was back.

Marlon greeted her with a grin and pointed at a clump of stunted shrubs growing nearby. “Breakfast,” he said. “Or whatever. Eat what you can, and save some. We’ll be into the More Enchanted Forest before long. Don’t trust anything there — not unless you’re looking for shakes and shivers and a good deal worse.”

Gracie helped herself to the small black berries doubtfully at first, but once she had tasted them, her face lit up. “Wow!” she said. “It’s like . . . I don’t know what it’s like. It keeps changing! It’s very delicious, though.”

“Toast ’n’ marmalade ’n’ scrambled eggs ’n’ bacon ’n’ tomato ’n’ porridge ’n’ chips ’n’ sauce,” Marlon said, all in one breath.

“Oh.” Gracie was impressed. “Is that what it is? I think Foyce and Mange must have eaten those things when they went to Gorebreath market. I recognize the names.”

Marlon stared at her. “You don’t say. And what did you get, kiddo?”

Gracie swallowed another handful of berries. “They always left me behind, locked in the cellar. And I ate potato peelings, mostly. Or porridge skin.”

“Porridge skin. Ah.” Marlon turned his back on Gracie, and she had a sudden suspicion that he was wiping his eyes with his wing. He looked his normal chirpy self when he turned back, however, and she decided she must have been mistaken. “OK, babe!” he said. “Picked enough berries to keep you going? Time we left. Can’t keep the Ancient Crones waiting. This way!” And he flitted away along a pathway totally invisible to Gracie’s human eye.

Gracie followed obediently, but as she jumped over the small stream, Marlon’s words echoed in her head. What did he mean, keep the Ancient Crones waiting? Did they know she was coming? And if so, how? She pushed away a trailing creeper and scrambled noisily over a heap of slithering stones. Several fell away from under her feet and rattled to the bottom of a slope. “Marlon!” she called. “Marlon!”

Marlon flew a loop over her head and twittered crossly. “Shhh!” he hissed. “No need to tell the whole forest we’re here! News’ll get around quick enough as it is.”

“I’m sorry,” Gracie whispered. “But I was wondering — why are the Ancient Crones waiting for me?”

“What?” Marlon looped another loop. “When did I say that?”

“You said we mustn’t keep them waiting,” Gracie said doggedly.

“Did I?” Marlon sounded shifty. “Just a turn of phrase, kiddo. Don’t you go thinking up stories, now. Just trust your old friend Marlon!” And he was off again, this time flying well in front of her.

He doesn’t want to talk about it,
Gracie thought, and then she shrugged.
But I’m going to have to trust him. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, except that it’s to the Ancient Crones . . . and however scary and peculiar they may be, absolutely
anything
is better than Mange and Foyce.

Lady Lamorna woke early thinking of deeply unpleasant things to do to the innkeeper and his wife. When she had tried to open the outhouse door in the night, she had found it locked, and this had not improved her temper. “Gubble!” she called. “Gubble!”

Gubble was happily asleep in his ditch with his head on his donkey and didn’t hear her.

Lady Lamorna cursed fluently and pulled a small spell from the battered leather pouch she had tied to her belt before leaving the castle. “What a waste,” she muttered. “I was saving this for a time when it was really needed!” She blew a small puff of powder onto the lock, and the door opened easily. Lady Lamorna stormed out and pulled Gubble’s nose as hard as she could.

Gubble woke up, shouting and waving his arms, and the donkey got frightened and began to bray loudly.

“Silence!” shrieked Lady Lamorna. “Silence!” And she flicked the donkey on the nose. At once it was quiet, but it was too late. The innkeeper and his wife and the dog were hurrying toward them, the innkeeper brandishing a fearsome pitchfork and his wife waving a rolling pin.

Lady Lamorna hesitated. All her instincts were to turn the innkeeper and his wife and his dog into stone, but even though she was incandescent with anger, she knew that would be a mistake. Not only would awkward questions be asked when they were found, but more important, it would use up a large reserve of her powers.

She made a decision. “Hurry!” she shouted, and grabbing Figs by the bridle, she vaulted onto its back and kicked it sharply. Figs immediately broke into a shambling gallop, and the innkeeper, his wife, and their dog were left to face Gubble. His night in the ditch had made him extremely muddy, and the pulling of his nose had made him extremely cross. Cross enough to forget that he usually gave all dogs a wide berth. He scowled heavily. “I bites,” he told the dog. “I bites
hard
!”

The dog whimpered, turned tail, and fled.

Gubble grinned a mirthless and toothless grin and took a step forward. “That’s what I does,” he growled at the innkeeper. “I bites
HARD
!”

The innkeeper lowered his pitchfork and looked nervously at Gubble, then at his wife.

His wife dropped her rolling pin and took her husband’s arm. “Norbottle,” she said, “come back to the inn this minute. Don’t you go forgetting we’ve got a pretty young lady to look after! We’ve no time for riff-raff like this!”

And the two of them hurried away, leaving Gubble feeling marginally better. He hauled his donkey out of the ditch and set off after Lady Lamorna as fast as he could.

Foyce, peeping from behind the lacy curtains of the inn’s best bedroom, had seen everything that had happened. She had even seen the puff of purplish smoke floating from the outhouse door before Lady Lamorna had come out. She had also noticed the expression of thwarted fury on Lady Lamorna’s face as she had ridden away.

“Things aren’t going right for her,” Foyce told herself, and smiled at her own enchanting reflection in the mirror. “All the better for me!” And she took herself downstairs for a delicious breakfast of lightly boiled eggs and toast. After she had eaten all she could, which was a surprising amount for such a slender young woman, she explained to the hovering innkeeper that she had no money to pay for her night’s lodging. She fluttered her long, long eyelashes as she spoke, and Norbottle was more than happy to cancel her debt in exchange for a kiss. His wife snorted but did not protest. There was something about Foyce that was making her uncomfortable. The young woman was just as pretty as she’d been the night before, she thought, but when you looked at her eyes, it made your bones go icy cold.

Foyce walked away feeling that life was good, while Norbottle rubbed at his cheek. It was red and inflamed, and as the day went on, it began to itch unbearably.

On the same morning, Prince Arioso of Gorebreath and his twin brother, Prince Marcus, also got up early. Arry wanted to have plenty of time to get dressed in his finest clothes. Marcus wanted to get his lines written before his family went off to Dreghorn.

“Goodness, Marcus!” Arry said in amazement as he watched his brother scratching away with his quill as if his life depended on it. “If you keep writing at that speed, you’ll be finished in time to come with us after all!”

Marcus hastily crossed out the last ten lines and dropped his quill nib down on the wooden floor. “Bother,” he said as convincingly as he was able. “Now I’ll have to go and find a new one!”

“Oh, bad luck!” Arry said. “Here, would you like mine? Shall I sharpen it for you?”

“That’s very kind,” Marcus said, “but I’m sure to spoil it. I’ll fetch one from the library later. Don’t worry about me — just get yourself ready to go. Look, I’ll fetch your shoes for you
and
your coat!”

“Goodness, Marcus!” Arry opened his eyes wide. “I really think I should ask Mother —”

“Don’t!”
Marcus said, and bundled Arry into his waistcoat.

Despite Marcus’s efforts to rush his brother, it seemed hours and hours before the coaches finally rolled away down the long drive. Right up until the last moment, Arry had been helpfully suggesting that Marcus might still be allowed to come to the party, and Marcus was all but worn out with the effort of avoiding such a dreadful fate. But now, at last, they were gone. He waved a final good-bye, then sprinted up the stairs to the royal library.

He crashed through the doors and slid across the polished wooden floor — and came face to face with Professor Scallio. “Oh,” Marcus said blankly. “I mean, good morning, sir.”

“You mean,” the professor said blandly, “you weren’t expecting to see me here.”

“Erm . . . no. Th-that is,” Marcus stammered, “I thought you’d gone with the others to Dreghorn. . . .”

“And leave one of my pupils all alone? I think not.” Professor Scallio adjusted his spectacles. “Have you finished your lines?”

“Yes!” Marcus dug inside the pocket of his trousers. “Here you are!” And he handed over the crumpled sheets of paper.

“Thank you so much,” the professor said. “Perhaps I might give you this in return?” And he picked up a roll of cracked and discolored parchment from his desk and handed it to Marcus. “This was what you were coming to collect, was it not?”

Marcus’s mouth opened and shut several times, but he was quite unable to speak.

“Prince Marcus!” His tutor frowned. “Kindly do
not
display the characteristics of a goldfish! Surely you did not think I was unaware of your interest in this item?”

“Erm . . . yes, sir. That is . . . no, sir.” Marcus felt he was not doing well. “That is — I mean, thank you
very
much, sir!”