The Girl Who Drank the Moon (24 page)

Here is the baby jumping off a high rock into a deep pool in the company of cheering friends.

Here is the baby learning to read.

Here is the baby building a house.

Here is the baby holding the hand of her beloved and saying yes, I love you, too.

They were so real, these visions. So clear. They felt as though they could smell the warm scent of the children's scalps, and touch those scabbed knees and hear those far-­off voices. They found themselves crying out the names of their children, feeling the loss as keenly as though it had only just happened, even those to whom it had happened decades ago.

But as the clouds broke and the sky began to clear, they found themselves feeling something else, too. Something they had never felt before.

Here is the baby holding her own sweet baby. My grandchild. Here is her knowing that no one will ever take that child away.

Hope. They felt hope.

Here is the baby in his circle of friends. He is laughing. He loves his life.

Joy. They felt joy.

Here is the baby holding hands with her husband and family and staring up at the stars. She has no idea I am her mother. She never, ever knew me.

The mothers stopped what they were doing. They ran outside. They fell to their knees and turned their faces to the sky. The visions were just images, they told themselves. They were just dreams. They weren't real.

And yet.

They were so, so real.

Once upon a time, the families had submitted to the Robes and said yes to the Council and given up their babies to the Witch. They did this to save the people of the Protectorate. They did this knowing that their babies would die. Their babies were dead.

But what if they were not?

And the more they asked, the more they wondered. And the more they wondered, the more they hoped. And the more they hoped, the more the clouds of sorrow lifted, drifted, and burned away in the heat of a brightening sky.

I
don't mean to be rude, Grand Elder Gherland,” wheezed Elder Raspin. He was so old. Gherland was amazed that the geezer could still stand. “But facts are facts. This is all your fault.”

The gathering in front of the Tower started with just a few citizens holding signs, but quickly swelled to a crowd with banners, songs, speeches, and other atrocities. The Elders, seeing this, had retreated into the Grand Elder's great house and sealed the windows and the doors.

Now the Grand Elder sat in his favorite chair and glowered at his compatriots. “My fault?” His voice was quiet. The maids, cooks, assistant cooks, and pastry chef had all made themselves scarce, which meant there was no food to be had, and Gherland's gullet was quite empty. “
My
fault?” He let that sit for a moment. “Pray. Explain why.”

Raspin began to cough and looked as though he may expire right there. Elder Guinnot attempted to continue.

“This rabble-­rouser is part of your family. And there she is. Out there. Rousing the rabble.”

“The rabble had already been roused before she got there,” Gherland sputtered. “I paid her a visit myself, her and that doomed baby of hers. Once that baby is left in the forest, she will mourn and recover, and things will return to normal.”

“Have you looked outside lately?” Elder Leibshig said. “All that . . .
sunlight
. It assaults the eye, is what. And it seems to be inflaming the populace.”

“And the signs. Who on earth could be making them?” grumbled Elder Oerick. “Not my employees, I'll tell you what. They wouldn't dare. And anyway, I had the foresight to hide the ink. At least
one
of us is thinking.”

“Where is Sister Ignatia?” moaned Elder Dorrit. “Of all the times for her to disappear! And why aren't the Sisters nipping this in the bud?!”

“It's that boy. He was trouble on his first Sacrifice day. We should have dispatched him then,” Elder Raspin said.

“I
beg
your pardon!” the Grand Elder said.

“We all knew that the boy would be a problem sooner or later. And look. There he goes. Being a problem.”

The Grand Elder sputtered. “Listen to yourselves. A bunch of grown men! And you are whining like
babies
. There is nothing at all to worry about. The rabble is roused, but it is temporary. The Head Sister is gone, but it is temporary. My nephew has proved himself to be a thorn in our collective sides, but that is temporary, too. The Road is the only safe passage. He is in danger. And he will die.” The Grand Elder paused, closed his eyes, and tried to swallow his sadness deep in his chest. Hide it away. He opened his eyes and gave the Elders a steely gaze. Resolute. “And, my dear Brothers, when that happens, our life as we knew it will return, just as we left it. That is as sure as the ground under our feet.”

At that, the ground beneath their feet began to shake. The Elders threw open the south windows and looked outside. Smoke curled from the highest peak on the mountain. The volcano was burning.

39.

In Which Glerk Tells Fyrian the Truth

“Come on,” Luna said. The moon had not risen yet, but Luna could feel it approaching. This was nothing new. She had always felt a strange kinship with the moon, but she had never felt it as powerfully as she did right now. The moon would be full tonight. It would light up the world.

“Caw,” said the crow. “I am very, very tired.”

“Caw,” he continued. “Also, it is nighttime and crows are not nocturnal.”

“Here,” Luna said, holding out the hood of her cloak. “Ride in here. I'm not tired at all.”

And it was true. She felt as though her bones were transforming into light. She felt as though she would never be tired again. The crow landed on her shoulder and climbed into her hood.

When Luna was little, her grandmother taught her about magnets and compasses. She showed her that a magnet operates within a field, increasing in strength the closer one comes to its poles. Luna learned that a magnet will attract some things and ignore others. But she learned that the world is a magnet as well, and that a compass, with its tiny needle in a pool of water, will always wish to align itself with the pull of the magnetic earth. And Luna knew this and understood it, but now she felt that there was
another
magnetic field and
another
compass that her grandmother had never told her about.

Luna's heart was pulled to her grandmother's heart. Was love a compass?

Luna's mind was pulled to her grandmother's mind. Was knowledge a magnet?

And there was something else, too. This surging feeling in her bones. This clicking inside her head. This feeling as though she had an invisible gear inside her, pushing her, inch by inch, toward . . .
something
.

Her whole life, she never knew what.

Magic,
her bones said.

“G
lerk,” Fyrian said. “Glerk, Glerk, Glerk. I don't seem to be fitting on your back anymore. Are you shrinking?”

“No, my friend,” Glerk said. “Quite the opposite. You seem to be growing.”

And it was true. Fyrian was
growing
. Glerk didn't believe it at first, but with each step they took, Fyrian grew a little bit more. Not evenly. His nose enlarged like a tremendous melon at the tip of his snout. Then one eye expanded to twice the size of the other. Then his wings. Then his feet. Then one foot. Bit after bit grew, then slowed, then grew, and then slowed.

“Growing? You mean I'll be
more
enormous?” Fyrian said. “How can a dragon be
more
enormous than
Simply
Enormous?”

Glerk hesitated. “Well, you know your auntie. She always saw your
potential
, even though you weren't there quite yet. Do you see what I'm saying to you?”

“No,” Fyrian said.

Glerk sighed. This was going to be tricky.

“Sometimes, being Simply Enormous actually isn't just about size.”

“It isn't?” Fyrian thought about this as his left ear started to sprout and expand. “Xan never said so.”

“Well, you know Xan,” Glerk said, grasping a bit. “She's delicate.” Glerk paused. “Size is a spectrum. Like a rainbow. On the spectrum of enormity, you were on, well, the low end. And that is completely, well . . .” He paused again. Sucked his lips. “Sometimes the truth, er,
bends
. Like light.” He was floundering and he knew it.

“It does?”

“Your heart was always enormous,” Glerk said. “And it always will be.”

“Glerk,” Fyrian said gravely. His lips had grown to the size of tree branches and hung off his jaws in a floppy mess. One of his teeth was larger than the others. And one arm was growing rapidly, before Glerk's very eyes. “Do I look strange to you? Please be honest.”

He was such an earnest little thing. Odd, of course. And lacking in self-­awareness. But earnest all the same. Best be earnest back, Glerk decided.

“Listen, Fyrian. I confess that I do not entirely understand your situation. And you know what? Neither did Xan. That's all right, really. You are growing. My guess is that you are on your way to being Simply Enormous like your mother. She died, Fyrian. Five hundred years ago. Most drangonlings do not stay in their babyhood for that long. Indeed, I cannot think of a single other example. But for some reason you did. Maybe Xan did it. Maybe it was because you stayed too close to where your mother died. Maybe you couldn't bear to grow. In any case, you're growing now. I had thought you would stay a Perfectly Tiny Dragon forever. But I was wrong.”

“But . . .” Fyrian tripped on his growing wings, tumbling forward and falling down so hard he shook the ground. “But you're a giant, Glerk.”

Glerk shook his head. “No, my friend. No, I am not. I am large, and I am old, but I am not a giant.”

Fyrian's toes swelled to twice their normal size. “And Xan. And Luna.”

“Also not giants. They are regular-­sized. And you are so small you could fit in their pockets. Or you were.”

“And now I am not.”

“No, my friend. Now you are not.”

“But what does that mean, Glerk?” Fyrian's eyes were wet. His tears erupted in bubbling pools and clouds of steam.

“I don't know, my dear Fyrian. What I
do
know is that I am here with you. I
do
know that the gaps in our knowledge will soon be revealed and filled in, and that's a good thing. I
do
know that you are my friend and that I will stay by your side through every transition and trial. No matter how—” Fyrian's rump suddenly doubled in size, its weight so extreme that his back legs buckled and he sat down with a tremendous crash. “Ahem. No matter how indelicate,” Glerk finished.

“Thank you, Glerk,” Fyrian sniffed.

Glerk held up all four of his hands and lifted his great head as high as he could, uncurling his spine and standing on his back legs at first, and then lifting his body even higher on his thick, coiled tail. His wide eyes grew even wider.

“Look!” he said, pointing down the slope of the mountain.

“What?” Fyrian asked. He could see nothing.

“There, moving down the rocky knoll. I suppose you can't see it, my friend. It's Luna. Her magic is emerging. I thought I had seen it coming off in bits and pieces, but Xan told me I was imagining things. Poor Xan. She did her best to hold on to Luna's childhood, but there's no escaping it. That girl is growing. And she won't be a girl for much longer.”

Fyrian stared at Glerk, openmouthed. “She's turning into a dragon?” he said, his voice a mixture of incredulity and hope.

“What?” Glerk said. “No. Of course not! She's turning into a grown-­up. And a witch. Both at the same time. And look! There she goes. I can see her magic from here. I wish you could, Fyrian. It is the most beautiful shade of blue, with a shimmer of silver lingering behind.”

Fyrian was about to say something else, but he stared at the ground. He laid both his hands on the dirt. “Glerk?” he said, pressing his ear to the ground.

Glerk didn't pay attention. “And look!” he said, pointing at the next ridge over. “There is Xan. Or her magic, anyway. Oh! She's hurt. I can see it from here. She's using a spell right now, transformation by the look of it. Oh, Xan! Why would you transform in your condition! What if you can't transform back?”

“Glerk?” Fyrian said, his scales growing paler by the second.

“There's no time, Fyrian. Xan needs us. Look. Luna is moving toward the ridge where Xan is right now. If we hurry—”

“GLERK!” Fyrian said. “Will you listen? The mountain.”

“Speak in complete sentences, please,” Glerk said impatiently. “If we don't move quickly—”

“THE MOUNTAIN IS ON FIRE, GLERK,” Fyrian roared.

Glerk rolled his eyes. “No, it's not! Well. No more than normal. Those smoke pots are just—”

“No, Glerk,” Fyrian said, pulling himself to his feet. “It is. Underground. The mountain is on fire under our feet. Like before. When it erupted. My mother and I—” His voice caught, his grief erupting suddenly. “We felt it first. She went to the magicians to warn them. Glerk!” Fyrian's face nearly cracked with worry. “We need to warn Xan.”

The swamp monster nodded. He felt his heart sink into his great tail. “And quickly,” he agreed. “Come, dear Fyrian. We haven't a moment to lose.”

D
oubt slithered through Xan's birdish guts.

It's all my fault,
she fussed.

No!
she argued.
You protected! You loved! You rescued those babies from starvation. You made happy families.

I should have known,
she countered
. I should have been curious. I should have done something.

And this poor boy! How he loved his wife. How he loved his child. And look at what he was willing to sacrifice to keep them safe and happy. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to un-­transform and explain everything. Except he would surely attempt to kill her before she could do so.

“Not long, my friend,” the young man whispered. “The moon will rise and we will be off. And I shall kill the Witch and we can go home. And you can see my beautiful Ethyne and my beautiful son. And we will keep you safe.”

Not likely,
Xan thought.

Once the moon rose, she would be able to capture at least a little bit of its magic. A very little. It would be like trying to carry water in a fishnet. Still. Better than nothing. She'd still have the drips. And maybe she would have enough to make this poor man go to sleep for a little bit. And maybe she could even ambulate his clothing and his boots and send him home, where he could wake up in the loving embrace of his family.

All she needed was the moon.

“Do you hear that?” the man said, springing to his feet. Xan looked around. She hadn't heard anything.

But he was right.

Something was coming.

Or someone.

“Can it be that the Witch is coming to
me
?” he asked. “Could I be that lucky?”

Indeed,
Xan thought, with more derision than was likely fair. She gave the man a little peck through his shirt.
Imagine the Witch coming to you. Lucky duck.
She rolled her beady little bird eye.

“Look!” he said, pointing down the ridge. Xan looked. It was true. Someone was moving up the ridge. Two somethings. Xan couldn't account for what the second figure was—it didn't look like anything that she had ever seen before—but the first thing was unmistakable.

That blue glow.

That shimmer of silver.

Luna's magic. Her
magic
! Coming closer and closer and closer.

“It's the Witch!” the young man said. “I am sure of it!” And he hid behind a tangled clump of undergrowth, keeping himself very still. He trembled. He moved his knife from one hand to the other. “Don't worry, my friend,” he said. “I shall make it very, very quick. The Witch will arrive. She will not see me.”

He swallowed.

“And then I shall slit her throat.”