Thistle Moonwhisper's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Thistle came to Celestia's shed at first light, but she was not alone. Lysander stood by the doorway with his arms crossed. Aldric sat on an overturned crate, his silver-threaded robe pooled around his sandals. A woman in a golden robe and pointed hat knelt beside Celestia, unwrapping the linen from her hands. Thistle had not seen the healer before. She worked without looking up. "Aurelia Goldenwing," Celestia said. "She was passing through. She agreed to look at the burns." "The palms will not carry weight for six days," Aurelia said. She set the linen aside. "No lifting. No climbing." Thistle's stomach dropped. "The rite is tomorrow." "I can walk you to the gate," Celestia said. "I can speak. That is all." Lysander uncrossed his arms. "Show me your wings." Thistle turned. His wings were there, thin and pale, folded flat against his shirt. He had never lifted off. He did not know how. Every fairy child he had watched seemed to know from the first try. He had tried in the grotto, alone, and nothing happened. "Try now," Lysander said. Thistle stood in the center of the shed floor. He thought about up. He shook his shoulders. The wings twitched and hung still. He tried again. Nothing. Aldric watched from the crate. "He does not know the shape of it." "Then teach him," Lysander said. "I cannot teach a color I will not name." Aldric's voice was flat. "Silver is not lifted by clan rite. It is lifted by other means. That is what I can say." Thistle turned on him. "What means?" Aldric looked at the floor. "I will not say more today." Lysander stepped between them. He knelt in front of Thistle. "Try one thing. Walk until your feet feel warm." Thistle knew that trick. He had found water under the grotto that way. He did not see how it helped him fly. But he walked. He crossed the shed floor, out the door, along the packed dirt behind the shed. Ten paces. Twenty. His soles began to prickle. Then to warm. He stopped. "Water," he said. "Right here." Aurelia looked up. Aldric stood. Celestia rose slowly. "Cliff daisies grow over an underground seam," Aldric said. "You know that." "I know it now," Lysander said. Thistle looked at his own feet on the warm ground. He tried the wings again. They twitched and stopped. He could find water. He could not fly. "I will fail tomorrow," he said. Aldric shook his head. "You will not be judged by lifting. Not silver. But you will be judged." He walked out past Thistle without meeting his eyes. Celestia sat down on the step. "Then we go anyway," she said. "And we find out what silver is judged by when we get there." Thistle nodded. His feet were still warm. His wings were still folded flat.