Lyra Willowshade's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The dragonfly led Lyra to the forest's edge and stopped. Ahead lay a wall of thorns and tangled vines, thick as a fence and taller than her head. No path cut through it. The blue dragonfly darted between the branches easily, then hovered on the far side, waiting. Lyra pushed a hand into the thorns and pulled it back bleeding. She could not follow. Her home was dying, and a hedge stood in her way. "You're pushing again, child." Lyra turned. Her old teacher leaned on his walking stick behind her, white beard catching the light, green robes brushing the moss. He had trained her since she could walk, and he never did her work for her. He only watched. "There's no way through," Lyra said. "The dragonfly crossed. I can't." "You keep looking for a door." He nodded at the thorns. "Ask what grows here. Then ask it to move." Lyra frowned. She had used her gift on sickness and frightened rabbits, never on a whole thicket. But she closed her eyes and let her magic drift into the vines. She felt them, tight and stubborn, reaching for sun. She did not shove. She sent them a slow, coaxing pull, the way she called roots in the grove. The thorns trembled. Then they bent. Vines unwound and drew back like curtains, opening a green tunnel just wide enough to walk. Lyra laughed, shocked at herself. The dragonfly spun once and shot ahead. "Go," the old wizard said. "I cannot come. The grove needs a keeper while you carry its cure." He pressed something into her hand: a carved whistle of pale bark. "For when the road turns hard." Lyra hugged him. Then she stepped into the tunnel and out the other side. The light hit her wrong. Everything was too big. Blades of grass rose like green spears above her head. A pebble stood tall as a boulder. She spun, dizzy, and saw the forest behind her had become a cliff of towering trunks. She had not shrunk. The land was simply built for giants, and she was tiny in it. Far off, footsteps shook the ground like slow thunder. Something moved in the grass. A wolf padded out, white fur marked with blue, a saddle of woven leaves on its back. It was small enough to match her now, or she was large enough to match it. It lowered its head and sniffed her hand, then huffed, warm and patient. Lyra sent it a thread of calm. The wolf's ears eased. It knelt so she could climb. The dragonfly hovered ahead, waiting to lead again. Lyra gripped the saddle and looked at the huge, strange world. The thicket was behind her now. But the road ahead was made for creatures a hundred times her size. "All right," she whispered to the wolf. "Show me how small can travel far."