The Flight of Dragons

by Vivian French

  Alf, baffled by Gracie’s rejection of his romantic efforts on her behalf, had decided she must be suffering from shyness and took it upon himself to encourage her to talk to Marcus. To this end, he had been asking a stream of questions ever since leaving the House of the Ancient Crones.

  “So, Mr. Prince, is it fun in your palace? What’s it like having a twin brother? Miss Gracie’s only got a stepsister, so she must be ever so lonely sometimes — isn’t that right, Miss Gracie? But having a friend who’s a little bit special must make ever such a difference —”

  “Alf!” Marcus, who was beginning to get a headache from the nonstop twittering in his ear, pulled Glee to a sudden halt. “I’ve just had the most brilliant idea. Why don’t you fly on ahead and check that Great-Uncle Alvin’s in his cave?”

  Alf looked doubtful, but Gracie clapped her hands. “Oh, that would be so helpful. You could tell him we’re coming, and that I’m really looking forward to seeing him again.”

  “OK.” Alf flew up and circled over their heads. “If you say so, Miss Gracie. I’ll be as quick as I can. There and back in two ticks!”

  Gracie began to say that there was no need for him to come back and he could wait for them at Uncle Alvin’s, but she was too late. The little bat had gone.

  “Phew!” Marcus heaved a sigh of relief. “I thought he was going to chatter all the way. How much farther have we got to go, would you say?”

  Gracie glanced about her. “Maybe an hour or two’s ride. And we don’t have to go as far as Fracture itself, thank goodness.”

  Marcus, who knew about Gracie’s unhappy childhood in the village, gave her knee a sympathetic pat. Gracie giggled, and he looked around in surprise. “What is it?”

  “I was thinking of Alf.” Gracie chortled, quite unable to stop laughing now that she had started. “If he’d seen you do that, he’d have had a seizure. . . . Oh, he is so funny!”

  Marcus was silent while he considered. Was Alf funny? He still felt strangely dithery every time he remembered how the little bat had told him to kiss Gracie. He’d even wondered once or twice if kissing her might not, in fact, be rather nice, but each time a dreadful picture of Arioso drooping over Nina-Rose had flashed up in his mind and he’d put the thought firmly away. He and Gracie were friends. Very good friends, but that was all. Absolutely all. It was true that if he had to go on an adventure, he’d much rather go with Gracie than with anyone else — there was no doubt about that — but that was different. So yes, Alf was funny. Marcus began to laugh, and he and Gracie rode on comfortably together until Alf came zooming back.

  “Unc says he’s not in for me, but he is for you, Miss Gracie. And he’ll say hello to Mr. Prince if he has to, but please remember that he doesn’t do bowing or charm.”

  Gracie grinned. “We’ll be there soon. At least, we will if he hasn’t moved — is he still in the same place?”

  “Sure is. Crack in the rock. Which reminds me. I was wondering —”

  “Shut it, kid.” Marlon had flown silently down behind Alf. “Too much gab-gab-gabbing.”

  “WOW! Didn’t see you, Uncle Marlon! Super glide or what! Cool! How do you do that?”

  Marlon, briefly distracted, looked smug. “Trade secret, kid. Trade secret. But I’ve got news.” He settled on Gracie’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “The prof’s made a discovery. There was a nest. A dragon’s nest. Niven’s Knowe, eighty years ago. And you know what? In my book, nest equals egg.”

  “Wheeeeeeeeeee!” Alf let out an excited squeak and looped an ecstatic loop. “An egg! Where is it? When’s it going to hatch? Yipp — OUCH! That hurt, Unc!” He rubbed his ear as he took himself off to a nearby twig.

  “Good,” Marlon said. “Top secret, right? Not a peep. Lips sealed. Mouth zipped. Get it?”

  Alf, wide-eyed, nodded. “Got it.”

  Marcus, suppressing his excitement only a little more successfully than Alf, asked, “How did he find out?”

  “Book of accounts for Niven’s Knowe.” Marlon was enjoying his moment of drama. “Record of nesting straw for dragons!”

  “Was there any other information?” Gracie wanted to know.

  Marlon shook his head. “Nada. Nothing.”

  “We’d better get to Niven’s Knowe as fast as we can!” Marcus was alight with the thought of action. “We’ve absolutely got to find the egg before anyone else does. Tell you what: we’ll go via Gorebreath, and we’ll borrow Arry’s pony so we can travel faster —”

  Gracie put a gently restraining hand over his, saw Alf’s beady eyes on her, and took it off again. “Actually, I think we should still go and see Great-Uncle Alvin. We need to know how old the dragon was, and if the egg’s likely to be hatching soon . . . and he might even know where we should start looking.”

  “Good thinking, kiddo,” Marlon said approvingly.

  “Do you really think so?” Marcus looked crestfallen.

  Gracie nodded, and the prince swallowed a sigh. “OK, then. But we’d better get going.”

  “I’ll lead the way!” Alf flew a speedy zigzag under Glee’s nose. “Come on, Mr. Prince! Follow me!”

  “Hooray!” Marcus set off after Alf at a gallop; Gracie shut her eyes and held on tight.

  It was only another twenty minutes before the rocky slopes that lay below the village of Fracture came into view, and Marcus pulled the pony back to a gentle walk, much to Gracie’s relief.

  “Good work!” Alf squeaked. “Here we are! Third crack in the rocks on the right.”

  Gracie slid off Glee’s back, wondering if her knees were as wobbly as she thought they were. “Shall I go first?” she asked, but she was too late; Alf had already disappeared.

  A second later he was out again, looking dazed and flying erratically. “He boxed my ears,” he complained. “Everyone’s doing it today. My head hurts.” And he made a shaky landing on the back of Glee’s saddle.

  “Like I told you, kiddo,” Marlon said with a distinct lack of sympathy. “Gab-gab-gab. Get what you ask for if you go on like that.”

  Gracie gave Alf a comforting stroke with her finger. “Cheer up,” she told him. “I’ll be back in a minute, and then if we do need to go to Niven’s Knowe, you can show us the quickest way. I mean,” she added hastily, “the easiest way.”

  She could hear Marlon laughing as she made her way between the rocks toward Great-Uncle Alvin’s small, dark entrance, and found herself hoping the next stage of their adventure would be a little less uncomfortable. It’s OK for Marlon, she thought. He can fly. Oh, well — maybe I’ll get better at riding if I have more practice.

  She was interrupted in her thoughts by a suspicious voice. “Is that you, Trueheart?”

  Gracie nodded, realized she couldn’t be seen, and made her way farther into the darkness. “That’s right. How are you, Great-Uncle Alvin?”

  “Still alive. Just. On your own, I hope?”

  The voice was not welcoming, but Gracie smiled as she answered. “Quite on my own . . . Well, I came here with Marcus and Alf and Marlon, but they’re waiting on the path.”

  There was a loud despising sniff. “Waste of space, those two. Don’t know why you have anything to do with them, nice girl like you. Well? What can I do for you? I don’t suppose you came here for the pleasure of my company. Nobody ever does.”

  “I came because you might have some very impor-tant information,” Gracie told him. “In fact, you might be able to save the Five Kingdoms from a terrible danger.”

  The only response to this was another sniff.

  “Come on, Great-Uncle Alvin,” Gracie coaxed. “You know I’m a Trueheart. I don’t tell lies. Just imagine what the Ancient Crones would do to me if I did.”

  “Hmph.” The ancient bat fluttered down to Gracie’s shoulder. “I’ll believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. So what was it you wanted to know?”

  “It’s about the dragons of Niven’s Knowe,” Gracie began — but she got no further.

  Great-Uncle Alvin began a furious muttering that Gr
acie could hardly understand; she caught the words “humiliated” and “disgraced” but little else. At last the muttering died away, leaving Alvin puffing and panting as if he’d flown an enormous distance.

  “I’m so sorry,” Gracie said. “I really am. If I’d known I was going to upset you so much, I’d never have come. P’raps I’d better go. . . . I’m sure we can find out about the egg some other way.”

  “What? What was that?” The bat sidled closer to Gracie’s ear. “Did you say . . . egg? Do you mean . . . a dragon’s egg?”

  Gracie nodded. “That’s right. Professor Scallio thinks there’s a dragon’s egg hidden somewhere in Niven’s Knowe . . . And there are dragons flying around outside the borders — a golden one, a blue one, and a green one.”

  “The dragons of Niven’s Knowe!” Great-Uncle Alvin’s voice trembled. He flew down to Gracie’s shoulder, and his soft fur tickled her cheek. “Lumiere, Indigo, and Luskentyre. They’ve come back. Come back at last, after all these years. And Lumiere is looking for her egg. . . . Of course she is.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a long, satisfied sigh. “So . . . I was right. They chucked me out, but I was right all the time. Ha! And HA! And ha-ha-HA!” Great-Uncle Alvin began to stamp a small triumphant march up and down by Gracie’s ear. “Where’s that horrible nephew of mine? Just wait till I tell him! Not that he’s his father, of course, but I can still tell him I was right! Come on, Trueheart! I’ve got a score to settle!”

  Gracie, perplexed by the bat’s outburst but pleased he was so delighted, made her way to the cave entrance as quickly as she could and found herself blinking in the sunshine.

  Alvin, still on her shoulder, raised himself to his full height and looked around for Marlon. “Where are you?” he squeaked. “Marlon Batster! Come here this minute!”

  There was a flutter of wings, and Marlon and Alf appeared, closely followed by Marcus. “Did he . . . ?” Marcus asked, but Gracie put her finger to her lips.

  “Listen to me!” The elderly bat spread his wings wide. “Listen to me! I was right! I was right! Driven out of the Five Kingdoms, taunted, told I was a fool — and all the time I was right!”

  Marlon settled himself on a rock and stared at his great-uncle. “Old bat’s gone batty,” he observed in an undertone. “Lost it completely.”

  Alf hopped up and down on one leg. “Batty batty.”

  “Shh,” Marcus whispered. “Let him have his say.”

  Great-Uncle Alvin glared at his relatives. “You, Marlon Batster and Alf Batster, don’t know anything. I was a respected bat once.” He gave Alf an especially chilly look, even though the little bat had not made a sound. “It’s true. The dragons of Niven’s Knowe trusted me. Lumiere, Indigo, and Luskentyre. They were my friends. The dragon boy relied on me. We were mates. But one day a fire broke out in the market hall, and who was blamed? The dragons. And humans — begging your pardon, Trueheart — get overexcited. They marched to the palace with axes and rakes and pitchforks, and the king gave in to them. The dragons were rounded up and driven away, even though Lumiere was known to be nesting. Any one of them could have turned and avenged themselves, but they didn’t. They went with dignity. It was a terrible day. Terrible.”

  Alvin paused to take a rasping breath, and Gracie looked at him anxiously as he went on. “As the dragons left, I noticed something odd. Lumiere was dragging behind the others and looking over her shoulder. ‘That dragon’s laid her egg,’ I said — but nobody believed me. The dragon boy would have known I was right, but I couldn’t find him. He’d been threatened by the mob, and he’d run away. The other bats laughed; when I went looking for the egg, they laughed even more. Your father, Marlon, laughed louder than anyone, andin the end I left the Five Kingdoms, but now”— Great-Uncle Alvin’s rusty creak of a voice strengthened with pride —“now you see I was right! You’ve found the egg, in the nick of time. Eighty years on. It’ll be hatching any moment. Where was it? Where is it now?”

  Gracie went pale, and Marcus looked stricken. Even Alf was struck dumb. It was Marlon who said, “Sorry, Unc. We don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Then why are you here? We must find it! We must find it at once!” Alvin flapped his faded wings, staggered, gasped, and fell over in a small crumpled heap.

  “Is he dead?” Alf asked in hushed tones.

  “Nah. Tough as old boots, that one. Well . . . so my dad said.” Marlon did not sound convinced.

  Gracie, who was cradling the elderly bat in her hands, shook her head. “I think he’s just old and exhausted. Maybe I ought to take him to the Ancient Crones.”

  “But we can’t! There isn’t time!” Marcus was certain they should delay no longer. “Couldn’t we take him with us?”

  Gracie looked down at the limp bundle of leathery wings and fur and bit her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “ ’Scuse me, but if we’re going to find the dragon’s egg, Great-Uncle Alvin’ll be mad if he doesn’t see the action,” Alf piped up.

  There was a feeble stirring in Gracie’s hands. “More sense to that boy than I thought,” said a faint voice.

  Everyone sighed with relief. “Like I said. Tough as old boots.” Marlon gave his great-uncle an encouraging wings-up, and Marcus pulled out a handkerchief and made a soft bed in his saddlebag.

  “Can you see all right from there?” Gracie asked tenderly as she tucked Alvin in.

  “See?” The voice was now querulous, and Gracie and Marcus grinned. Great-Uncle Alvin was obviously recovering fast. “What would I want to see? I’m going to sleep. Wake me up the second we get to Niven’s Knowe. Don’t forget.” A moment later a series of minute snores suggested that the bat was as good as his word.

  “Right!” Marcus swung himself onto Glee’s back and held out a stirrup so Gracie could climb up behind him. “Let’s go!”

  “We’ll need to go slower than before,” Gracie pointed out. “We don’t want to hurt Great-Uncle Alvin, and we absolutely mustn’t draw attention to ourselves. Remember we’ve got to find the egg before anybody else does!”

  “Oh. Yes. I suppose so,” Marcus agreed, but as Glee set off down the track that led to Gorebreath and beyond, he made sure the pony was moving at a swift trot.

  King Horace was deep in thought. He had been fed a rather less than substantial breakfast at Mrs. Basket’s cottage, and it had been made very clear that he could not expect to continue to dine at that good lady’s expense unless she was formally reinstated as palace cook. Mr. Trout — sitting in front of a plate piled high with eggs, mushrooms, bacon, beans, tomatoes, fried bread, and fried potatoes — had supported Mrs. Basket’s point of view, but with rather more deference and the offer of a couple of mushrooms. The footmen were too busy playing cards in a corner to make any remark, and the housemaids and pages were nowhere to be seen. King Horace could only presume they had gone home to their respective families.

  Hmph, the king said to himself as he wandered back across the park. Wonder if Bluebell’s had any ideas about cooks? Might call on her. He pulled his watch out of his pocket and consulted it. Not far off till lunchtime. I’ll pop home and see how the two young ’uns are doing, and then I’ll take the carriage and go to Wadingburn. Unless the coachman’s gone as well, of course. Better go around by the stables and check.

  His visit to the stables was reassuring, and King Horace made his way into the palace. To his amazement, he was greeted by a delicious smell of roast chicken and potatoes, and his eyes shone as he hurried toward the dining room. He burst through the door and found Tertius and Fedora sitting at the table, and in between them was the most astonishing array of food laid out on a snow-white cloth.

  “Well, well, well!” The king rubbed his hands together as he settled himself beside Tertius and beamed at Fedora. “You’ve found us a cook, and a very good one, too, by the look of things. What a clever little thing you are!”

  Fedora smiled a slow lazy smile, and King Horace jumped. She looks . . . fat! he thought. But how can that be? I saw h
er only this morning! He turned to Tertius and saw that he, too, had a puffy look about him.

  “Food’s fantastic,” the prince drawled. “Help yourself, Daddy-o. After this we’ve ordered lots ’n’ lots of different desserts . . . and we’re going to gobble them all, aren’t we, my cuddly-wuddly-duddly princess?”

  Odd, thought the king. Very odd, indeed. He leaned forward and absently helped himself to a large plateful. “Don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to find a butler yet? Or any footmen?”

  “Who cares . . . ’s long as we’ve got desserts.” Tertius stuck a fork in what was left of the chicken and waved it above his head. “ ’Ray for Mer . . . Mer . . .”

  “Mershy Grinder.” Fedora nodded enthusiastically before toppling forward, her head in her plate.

  “Oh, my goodness!” King Horace leaped to his feet. “Is she all right?”

  Tertius tossed the chicken away. “Little diddums is fine. Eat your din-dins, Daddy-o, and don’t be a fussy-wussy ol’ fusspot.”

  King Horace frowned. Something was wrong. Very wrong . . . but he had no idea what it was or how to deal with it. Fedora had begun to snore, so she was evidently not exactly ill — but Tertius? He had never spoken to his father like that before. The king rubbed his hair until it stood straight up on end and, while he was thinking, took a mouthful of crispy roast potato. At once a strange peacefulness wrapped around him. He took another mouthful and wondered what he had been worrying about. All was well. All was very, very well . . . and as he continued to eat, his cares fell away, until all he could think of was the entrancing crunchiness of the carrots, the sweetness of the peas, and the delicious creaminess of the cauliflower.

  Down in the kitchen, Mercy Grinder was filling dishes with chocolate mousse, lemon sponge, apple pie, strawberry cheesecake . . . all the requested desserts. Saturday Mousewater’s arms were already aching from carrying heavy trays; Bobby, who had helped himself to several spoonfuls of cherry trifle when nobody was looking, was sitting in front of the fire with a dreamy smile on his face, ignoring requests for help. With a weary sigh, Saturday picked up yet another tray and set off for the stairs. When she reached the top, she began the long walk to the dining room; on arrival she found the three members of the royal family sprawled in their chairs, fast asleep.