Moonlight Moss's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Moss pushed deeper into the Thornwood with her dagger low. The brambles closed over her head. She could not fly here. The branches wove so thick that even the moon did not reach the ground. Somewhere ahead, the Heartstone should glow. She saw only black tangle. Every hour she wasted, another tree in her forest went grey. She needed height, or a light, or eyes better than her own. She climbed a twisted trunk to look. The canopy above was a solid mat of thorns. No stars. No glow. She dropped back down and pressed her fist against the bark. Panic pushed up her throat. Then she smelled smoke. She followed the smoke to a small clearing where a broad-shouldered man knelt in the leaves. His apron was scorched. A little black dragon lay curled in his lap, breathing slow. The man's amber eyes caught her flashlight beam when she clicked it on. He did not flinch. "Fairy," he said. "Put the light down. She hates it." Moss lowered the beam. She told him fast: the Heartstone, the grey trees, the tangle she could not see through. The man, Roric, listened without moving. When she finished, he looked down at the dragon in his lap. "She's sick," he said. "Three days. Won't eat. Won't leave the forge. I carried her out here to find what's poisoning the air." He touched the dragon's snout. "She used to breathe fire bright enough to read by." Moss stared at the small dragon. An idea landed hard. "If she breathed now," Moss said, "even a little, we could see the canopy. The Heartstone shines. I'd spot it from the flare." Roric shook his head. "She can't." Moss knelt in the leaves across from him. She drew her dagger and cut a strip from the mossy grip. Tiny flowers still clung to it. She held the moss under the dragon's nose. "My forest," she said. "What's left of it. She's a forest creature too, somewhere back. Try." The dragon's nostrils twitched. She lifted her head. Her sides pumped once, twice. A thin thread of orange fire coughed out and climbed. It hit the thorn ceiling and spread flat against it for one long second. Moss looked up. Far to the north, past three ridges of black branches, a green-gold light answered through the leaves. Steady. Low. The Heartstone. Then the dragon's flame died and she sagged against Roric's chest. Moss marked the direction in her head and did not let herself blink. Roric watched her. "Go," he said. "I'll follow when I can carry her." Moss stood. Her hand shook on the dagger. She had a heading now. She also had a sick dragon behind her, a blacksmith who would slow, and less time in her chest than when she'd stepped into the Thornwood. She started north.