The Girl Who Drank the Moon(63)

“I don’t think we are going to be friends,” Luna growled. A weapon, she thought. I think I need a weapon.

“No,” the woman said. “I wouldn’t think so. I am just here to collect what is mine, and I’ll be on my way. I—” She paused. Held up one hand. “Wait a moment.” The woman turned and walked into the ruined village. A tower stood in the center of the ruin—though it didn’t look as if it would be standing much longer. There was a broad gash in its foundation on one side, like an open, surprised mouth. “They were in the Tower,” the woman said, mostly to herself. “I put them there myself. I remember now.” She ran to the opening and skidded on her knees across the ground. She peered into the darkness.

“Where are my boots?” the woman whispered. “Come to me, my darlings.”

Luna stared. She had had a dream once, not very long ago. Surely it was a dream, wasn’t it? And Fyrian had reached into a hole in a broken tower and pulled out a pair of boots. It must have been a dream, because Fyrian had been strangely large. And then he had brought the boots to her. And she had put them in a trunk.

Her trunk!

She hadn’t thought about it again until this moment.

She shook her head to clear the thought away.

“WHERE ARE MY BOOTS?” the woman bellowed. Luna shrank back.

The stranger stood, her loose gown billowing about her. She raised her hands wide overhead and with a broad, swooping motion, pushed the air in front of her body. And just like that, the Tower fell. Luna tumbled onto the rocks with a yelp. The crow, terrified by the noise and dust and commotion, sprang skyward. He circled the air, cursing all the while.

“It was about to fall,” Luna whispered, trying to make sense of what she had been seeing. She stared into the cloud of dust and mold and grit at the pile of rubble and the hunched figure of the robed woman holding her arms outward as though she was about to catch the sky. No one could have that much power, she thought. Could they?

“GONE!” the woman shrieked. “THEY ARE GONE!”

She turned and stalked toward the girl. With a flick of her left wrist, she bent the air in front of her, forcing Luna to her feet. The woman kept her left hand out, pinching the air with clawed fingers, keeping Luna in place from several yards away.

“I don’t have them!” Luna whimpered. The woman’s grip hurt. Luna felt her fear expand inside her, like a storm cloud. And as her fear grew, so did the woman’s smile. Luna did her best to stay calm. “I just got here.”

“But you have touched them,” the woman whispered. “I can see the residue on your hands.”

“No I haven’t!” Luna said, thrusting her hands into her pockets. She tried to force away any memory of the dream.

“You will tell me where they are.” The woman raised her right hand, and even from far away, Luna could feel the fingers on her throat. She began to choke. “You will tell me right now,” the woman said.

“Go away!” Luna gasped.

And suddenly, everything moved. The birds lifted from their roost and massed behind the girl.

“Oh, you silly thing.” The woman laughed. “Do you think your silly parlor tricks can—” And the birds attacked, swirling like a cyclone. They shook the air. They made the rocks tremble. They bent the torsos of the trees.

“GET THEM OFF ME!” the woman shrieked, waving her hands. The birds cut her hands. They cut her forehead. They attacked without mercy.

Luna held her crow close to her chest and ran as fast as she could.





35.


In Which Glerk Smells Something Unpleasant





“I’m itchy, Glerk,” Fyrian said. “I’m itchy all over. I’m the itchiest in the world.”

“How, dear boy,” Glerk said heavily, “could you possibly know that?” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Where has she gone? he wondered. Where are you, Xan? He felt the tendrils of worry wind around his heart, nearly squeezing it to a stop. Fyrian had perched right in between the monster’s great, wide-spaced eyes, and he began scratching his backside madly. Glerk rolled his eyes. “You’ve never even seen the world. You might not be the itchiest.”

Fyrian scratched at his tail, his belly, his neck. He scratched his ears and his skull and his long nose.

“Do dragons shed their skins?” Fyrian asked suddenly.

“What?”

“Do they shed their skins? Like snakes?” Fyrian attacked his left flank.

Glerk considered this. He searched his brain. Dragons were a solitary species. Few and far between. They were difficult to study. Even dragons, in his experience, didn’t know much about dragons.

“I do not know, my friend,” he said finally. “The Poet tells us,

‘Each mortal beast must find its Ground—

be it forest or fen or field or fire.’

Perhaps you will know all that you wish to know when you find your Ground.”

“But what is my Ground?” Fyrian asked, worrying at his skin as though he meant to scratch it right off.

“Dragons, originally, were formed in stars. Which means that your Ground is fire. Walk through fire and you will know who you are.”

Fyrian considered this. “That sounds like a terrible idea,” he said finally. “I don’t want to walk through fire at all.” He scratched his belly. “What’s your Ground, Glerk?”