The Girl Who Drank the Moon(38)

“I shall never snore,” Fyrian promised. “Dragons do not snore. I am sure of it. Or maybe just dragonlings do not snore. You have my word as a Simply Enormous Dragon. We are an old and glorious race, and our word is our bond.”

“You are making all that up,” Luna said, tying her hair back in a long, black plait and hiding behind a curtain to change into her nightgown.

“Am not,” he said huffily. Then he sighed. “Well. I might be. I wish my mother were here sometimes. It would be nice to have another dragon to talk to.” His eyes grew wide. “Not that you are not enough, Luna-my-Luna. And Glerk teaches me ever so many things. And Auntie Xan loves me as much as any mother ever could. Still.” He sighed and said no more. Instead he somersaulted into Luna’s nightgown pocket and curled his hot little body into a tight ball. It was, Luna thought, like putting a stone from the hearth in her pocket—uncomfortably hot, yet comforting all the same.

“You are a riddle, Fyrian,” Luna murmured, resting her hand on the curve of the dragon, curling her fingers into the heat. “You are my favorite riddle.” Fyrian at least had a memory of his mother. All Luna had were dreams. And she couldn’t vouch for their accuracy. True, Fyrian saw his mother die, but at least he knew. And what’s more, he could love his new family fully, and with no questions.

Luna loved her family. She loved them.

But she had questions.

And it was with a head full of questions that she cuddled under her covers and fell asleep.

By the time the crescent moon slid past the windowsill and peeked into the room, Fyrian was snoring. By the time the moon shone fully through the window, he had begun to singe Luna’s nightgown. And by the time the curve of the moon touched the opposite window frame, Fyrian’s breath made a bright red mark on the side of Luna’s hip, leaving a blister there.

She pulled him out of her pocket and set him on the end of the bed.

“Fyrian,” she half slurred and half yelled in her half sleep. “Get OUT.”

And Fyrian was gone.

Luna looked around.

“Well,” she whispered. Did he fly out the window? She couldn’t tell. “That was fast.”

And she pressed her palm against her injury, trying to imagine a bit of ice melting into the burn, taking the pain away. And after a little bit the pain did go away, and Luna was asleep.



Fyrian did not wake up to Luna’s shouting. He had that dream again. His mother was trying to tell him something, but she was very far away, and the air was very loud and very smoky, and he couldn’t hear her. But he could see her if he squinted—standing with the other magicians from the castle as the walls crumbled around them.

“Mama!” Fyrian called in his dream-voice, but his words were garbled by the smoke. His mother allowed an impossibly old man to climb upon her shining back, and they flew into the volcano. The volcano, rageful and belligerent, bellowed and rumbled and spat, trying to hock them free.

“MAMA!” Fyrian called again, sobbing himself awake.

He was not curled up next to Luna, where he had fallen asleep, nor was he resting in his dragon sack, suspended over the swamp, so he might whisper good night to Glerk over and over and over again. Indeed, Fyrian had no idea where he was. All he knew was that his body felt strange, like a puffed-up lump of bread dough right before it is punched back down. Even his eyes felt puffy.

“What is going on?” Fyrian asked out loud. “Where is Glerk? GLERK! LUNA! AUNTIE XAN!” No one answered. He was alone in the wood.

He must have sleep-flown there, he thought, though he had never sleep-flown before. For some reason he was unable to fly now. He flapped his wings, but nothing happened. He beat them so hard that the trees on either side of him bent away and lost their leaves (Did that always happen? It must, he decided) and the dirt on the ground swirled up in great whirlwinds as he heaved his wings. His wings felt heavy and his body felt heavy and he could not fly.

“This always happens when I’m tired,” Fyrian told himself firmly, even though that wasn’t true, either. His wings always worked, just like his eyes always worked and his paws always worked, and he was always able to walk or crawl or peel the skin off ripe guja fruits and climb trees. All of his various bits were in good operating condition. So why weren’t his wings working now?

His dream had left an ache in his heart. His mother had been a beautiful dragon. Impossibly beautiful. Her eyelids were lined with tiny jewels, each a different color. Her belly was the exact color of a freshly laid egg. When Fyrian closed his eyes he felt as though he could touch each buttery-smooth scale on her hide, each razor-sharp spike. He felt as though he could smell the sweet sulfur on her breath.

How many years had it been? Not that many, surely. He was still just a young dragonling. (Whenever he thought about time, his head hurt.)

“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone home?”

He shook his head. Of course no one was home. This was no one’s home. He was in the middle of a deep, dark forest where he was not allowed, and he would probably die here, and it was all his own stupid fault, even though he was not entirely sure what he had done to make it happen. Sleep-flying, apparently. Though he thought maybe he had made that term up.

“When you feel afraid,” his mother had told him, all those years ago, “sing your fears away. Dragons make the most beautiful music in the world. Everyone says so.” And though Glerk assured him this was not true, and that dragons, instead, were masters of self-delusion, Fyrian took every opportunity he could to break into song. And it did make him feel better.