Moon Rising

  She was surprised to see that Carnelian didn’t acknowledge the other SkyWing. He had a horrible scar across his snout, as if he’d been in battle, like her. She hesitated for a moment, then let go of that raindrop for a moment to check Carnelian’s mind.

  Flame, she heard Carnelian scoff, shooting him a glare. Talons of Peace.

  Oh, that explained it; he’d hidden with the underground peace movement instead of fighting in the war. Moon wondered where he’d gotten that scar, then, but even brushing the surface of his mind gave her a queasy feeling of overflowing rage, so she decided to stay out of it instead.

  Kinkajou spotted a small blue-and-gold RainWing and dragged Moon over to her, excited sparks going off in her mind.

  “Moon, this is Tamarin. Tamarin, Moon is our new best friend. She’s super funny. Moon, can Tamarin touch your face?”

  I’m super funny? Moon thought. In what universe?

  “It’s all right, I don’t have to,” Tamarin said, smiling. Moon saw the pale film across Tamarin’s eyes and remembered that the RainWing was blind.

  “You can.” Moon let her talons touch Tamarin’s, and the RainWing brushed her claws gently across Moon’s scales, horns, and snout. Moon got a shivering glimpse of a world without sight, of Tamarin’s quiet competence and immense concentration.

  “Have you figured everything out yet?” Kinkajou asked Tamarin. “She had the rainforest all memorized, but of course this is a whole new place,” she added to Moon. “So Queen Glory arranged for her to come early and spend a few days walking all the tunnels. I bet you know Jade Mountain better than anyone now.”

  “Ha,” Tamarin said. “Well, I’m getting used to it. It’s useful to have walls, in a way.”

  “I can’t wait for suntime, though,” Kinkajou said. “Moon, after this we’re going to go sleep in the sun for the rest of the day. Want to join us?”

  “Uh — no, thanks,” Moon said. She’d seen RainWings doing that before, but it still seemed odd to her.

  “Everyone sit!” Webs ordered.

  A muscular SandWing a lot older than the others darted into the cave and sat down next to Tamarin. “Hey,” she whispered. “Did I miss anything?”

  “This is my clawmate Onyx,” Tamarin said.

  Onyx had very black eyes and little black diamonds embedded between her pale yellow scales all along her wings. She wore a metal amulet around her neck and branching black lines were tattooed on her horns and neck. Her gaze was sharp, studying the others in the cave, and her mind was like shifting sand. Moon tipped her head and realized that Onyx was as hard to read as Turtle. Nothing came from her mind but that same weird quiet fuzz.

  How is she doing that? Darkstalker? Can you read Onyx and Turtle? Am I just not powerful enough?

  A pause, and then, No. They are both impenetrable to me as well.

  Really? Are they just really good at shielding?

  I’m not sure. I’ve never seen mental shielding advanced enough to block me, and who would have trained them? But perhaps my powers have grown weaker over time. Or perhaps this kind of shielding evolved over the last two thousand years.

  Moon studied Onyx, then glanced across the cave at Turtle. The two dragons had nothing in common that she could see. How could they both be the only dragons immune to mind reading?

  “Some of you might know who I am,” Webs said, clearing his throat importantly. “For those of you who don’t, my name is Webs, and I used to be part of the Talons of Peace. You may have heard of my son, Riptide, who is the new leader of whatever the Talons of Peace is becoming. I was one of the guardians who raised the dragonets of destiny. I taught them the history of Pyrrhia, and now they’ve asked me to teach it to you. So, we’ll start at the beginning, with the Scorching.”

  “I have a question,” Icicle interjected.

  “Already?” Webs said, ruffled. “I haven’t even begun yet.”

  “About that SkyWing,” Icicle pressed on. “The one who burns everything she touches. Have there been other dragons like that in history? Aren’t they terribly dangerous? I mean, even frostbreath doesn’t work on her. So how have tribes dealt with dragons like that in the past? Is there a way to kill her?”

  “That’s … rather a gruesome topic for our first day,” Webs sputtered.

  “I’d like to know more about Thorn,” Onyx spoke up.

  “You mean Queen Thorn,” Qibli snapped.

  “It’s unprecedented, right?” asked Onyx, ignoring him. “There’s never been a queen in history who wasn’t descended from the royal family. Isn’t that true?”

  “Well, not exactly —” Webs tried.

  “Queen Thorn is the best queen the SandWings have ever had,” Qibli flared loyally. “If you think you could do better, maybe you should challenge her for the throne.”

  “But that’s my point,” Onyx said sharply. “Does this mean now anyone could take the throne and become queen? Could that happen in the other tribes, too? I mean, it sounds like asking for chaos and rebellion everywhere. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Er, but it’s rather an unusual — I mean, given the Eye of Onyx — and the situation with the three sisters — this is hardly an appropriate —” Webs flapped his wings around, his mind spinning.

  This might be a good chance to get some answers, Darkstalker whispered in Moon’s head.

  “Are we going to learn about the NightWings?” Moon blurted out. “I mean, historically, like, maybe two thousand years ago? Like, where they lived, or, um —” Where they buried the Darkstalker? How am I supposed to nonchalantly ask THAT question?

  “We may learn more about the NightWings, but not today,” Webs said grumpily. “As NONE of this is RELEVANT to TODAY’S TOPIC, which is the Scorching. Ahem.” He gathered up a bunch of scrolls and thrust them at Turtle. “Give these out, one to each dragonet. We’ll begin AT THE BEGINNING. That means over five thousand years ago, before there were tribes or kingdoms, back when scavengers swarmed over the whole continent. Unroll your scrolls to the first map, please.”

  Moon took her scroll from Turtle with a sigh.

  It was worth a try, Darkstalker observed.

  You said there was something you need, Moon thought.

  Yes. If you can find it, and bring it to me, then I could free myself.

  Moon thought of the general reaction to Peril. If they were so terrified of her, how would everyone react if Moon brought back the creature from their nightmares? Could Darkstalker be trusted any more than Peril? Even if she believed he could be, would anyone else believe it? And wouldn’t they all hate her even more than they already did, for being the one to bring him into the light again?

  She furrowed her brow. Wait … why can’t you use your animus power to free yourself now? Moon asked him. There were those animus-touched tunnels from the rainforest to other parts of Pyrrhia — couldn’t Darkstalker just make one of those and pop out wherever he wanted?

  For a long, nervous moment, Moon had the anxious feeling that exactly that might happen: that Darkstalker might suddenly just burst through the wall and appear in the cave right in front of her.

  I can’t, Darkstalker said finally.

  Why not?

  He chuckled sadly. I was too smart for my own good.

  “There are many stories about life before the Scorching,” Webs intoned. “After so many thousands of years, it is hard to know which ones to believe.”

  What do you mean? Moon asked.

  I had a truly brilliant idea, he answered. After what Albatross did — the massacre — we realized that animus magic took a little of your soul every time you used it. So I gathered all of my power and put it in a … a vessel. Do you see what I mean? If the power wasn’t in me, it couldn’t turn me evil. I could use the vessel to cast my animus spells — as many as I wanted — without ever being affected.

  I thought this would prove to Clearsight that she didn’t have to worry about me. I would always be myself, and what happened to Albatross would never happen to me.

&
nbsp; Of course, that means I need my object of power in order to use it — and of course I didn’t have it with me when Clearsight betrayed me. Wherever I am now, it’s not here. But if I had it back, I could get myself out. You wouldn’t have to do anything except bring it to me.

  Please. I need your help, Moon. I just want to be free. After two thousand years … can’t you imagine? Is that so much to ask?

  Moon rolled a corner of the scroll between her claws. Transferring the animus power to an object — that did sound like a brilliant idea. Had any other animus ever thought of that?

  Maybe Darkstalker was telling the truth. Maybe he wasn’t evil, and never would have been.

  Bring it to you, she thought, which would mean finding it and then finding you and also figuring out how to get it to you. Not that simple.

  I’ll help you, he promised. Any way you need. Please don’t take away my only hope. Please tell me you’ll at least think about it.

  “Most of the pre-Scorching stories would best be described as ‘legends’ or perhaps even ‘fairy tales,’ ” Webs was droning on. “It is unlikely that scavengers were ever capable of being as organized or advanced as some of these imaginative fictions would have us believe. Stories often change and grow over time.”

  Like Darkstalker’s story? Moon thought. Everything we know about him was passed down by those who defeated and feared him. Maybe there’s more to it.

  But how would I know?

  She glanced around the cave — at her winglet, at these new friends who had accepted her so far. If they found out about her powers, would they be afraid of her, the same way Clearsight and Fathom ended up fearing Darkstalker? Would they think she was dangerous or cursed? Was her mother right, that they’d reject her and maybe even want to kill her?

  Moon curled her talons in and took a deep breath.

  All right, Darkstalker, she promised. I’ll think about it.

  Moon did think about Darkstalker; she thought about him the rest of the day, as she explored the tunnels of the school during Kinkajou’s suntime. She ran into a dead end and thought about what it must be like to be trapped in stone forever. She heard the flurries of anxieties swirling around about how dangerous Peril was, and she thought about having powers you can’t control, and what you can choose to do with them, or whether what you do with them isn’t really up to you in the end.

  Eventually, she realized she was going to have to talk to somebody.

  Worse, she was going to have to talk to a NightWing. One from the tribe, not Starflight or Fatespeaker.

  There were four others at the school. Bigtail wouldn’t be any help, even if he knew anything about Darkstalker. Which left Mindreader, Mightyclaws, and Fearless.

  She searched the school carefully with her mind until she found one of them alone. Mightyclaws was in the art cave, with no other dragons around.

  Was this a good idea? Mightyclaws was one of the more outwardly friendly dragons, but she’d seen darkness and jealousy in his head before. They were close to the same age, and once she’d heard him think, If my mother had any spine, she’d have hidden me in the rainforest.

  She hesitated in the entrance to the art cave. Normally the cave would have been flooded with sunlight, coming through holes in the walls and ceiling, but it was twilight outside now. Art supplies were tucked into every crevice: brushes, all colors of paint, blank scrolls, clay for sculpting, wood and glass and metal and beads, even a loom where someone had already begun a tapestry.

  Clever little wooden dragon statues were perched on outcroppings around the walls, with green or blue or orange glass beads for eyes. There were too many to have been made in the last two days, so Moon wondered who had made them — one of the school founders? Over her head, a giant metalwork sculpture made of gleaming copper wire wound across the ceiling, looking like flames. Several clear glass globes were suspended from it, glowing with firelight now that the sun was going down.

  A black dragon stood in the middle of the cave, considering an easel with a canvas on it. He was not as thin as he had been when she met him five months ago, but he looked as though he hadn’t filled out quite evenly — he had a round belly now, but his face was still lean, with sharp jawbones and deep hollows under his eyes. Even after six months of clean rainforest air and healthy eating, he still had a hint of a rasp to his voice and sometimes his claws shook a little when he reached for something. And he thought about food almost constantly.

  Until he was distracted by something — for instance, her. Mightyclaws looked up and narrowed his eyes when he spotted Moon in the doorway.

  “Hey,” he said, neither welcoming nor hostile. Never know what to say to her, muttered his mind.

  “Hi,” Moon said nervously.

  He fiddled with a few small jars of paint on a table beside him, then glanced over at her again.

  “You here to paint?” he asked. Or just stare at me awkwardly?

  “Um — yes,” Moon said. This was going to be a disaster. How could she get any answers to her questions if she couldn’t even say two words to him? He gestured with one wing to a stack of canvases, and she took one and propped it on an easel not too far from him, but where neither of them could see the other’s painting. It felt like it would be too intrusive to stand where she could watch what he was working on.

  Moon had never tried painting before. She had no idea where to begin. She ran her claws over the different sizes of paintbrushes — smooth wooden handles, neat bristles ranging from fang-sharp thin to fat as a dragon’s ear. After a minute, she chose one somewhere in the middle and brought it back to her canvas along with a few shades of blue and green.

  Mightyclaws didn’t say anything for a while. He looked as though he was concentrating on his painting, but his thoughts were swooping in all different directions like a disturbed cluster of dragonflies. No idea what I’m doing. Why does Starflight think this will help me? Would it be weird to go back to the prey center again tonight? Maybe there’ll be some sheep left. Three meals in one day; will anyone notice? Or yell at me? Why is Moon here? Maybe Starflight sent her, too. Although she doesn’t have any trauma to work through. With her perfect life in the rainforest, always as much as she wanted to eat, no adult dragons yelling at her, no classes on lying, no death smoldering right over her head all the time …

  “Do you like it here?” Moon finally said, breaking into his thoughts to try and stem the flow of resentment about her.

  It worked; he stopped and twitched his tail, staring at his painting. “I guess.” It’s more like the fortress here than the rainforest, except it smells better and there’s sunshine. And prey, and dragons of all colors.

  “It’s weird being around all the other tribes, isn’t it?” Moon tried.

  “Definitely,” he said. “We were always told to stay away from them unless we were on a mission. Like, to deliver a prophecy or put the fear of NightWings in them. Otherwise, stay away so they don’t figure us out.”

  “That we’re ordinary, you mean?” Moon asked.

  He flicked his wings with a frown. “NightWings aren’t ordinary.” Of course she would think so. “We’re more intelligent than any other tribe. We shape the world; other dragons just live in it.” She could hear that he was parroting lines he’d heard — over and over again — from older NightWings.

  “I mean — I just meant, that we don’t have the powers we — say we do — right?” Moon stammered.

  “Maybe we don’t right now,” Mightyclaws said. He looked away from her and stabbed his paintbrush into a pot of red paint. “But we did and we might again one day. We should have let everyone keep believing in them. We were well trained; no one would have guessed, if we were careful. Especially after the success of the dragonet prophecy.”

  “Well trained?” Moon echoed.

  “Our classes.” Mightyclaws slashed his brush across his canvas. “How to lie, how to develop a convincing prophecy, how to sound like you’re reading someone’s mind. You missed out on all of that.” Lo
unging around with sloths, eating bananas all day. “But we had to trade all our secrets for safety. Now, thanks to Queen Glory and Deathbringer and Sunny and Stonemover, the whole world knows that NightWings have no powers. No one respects us anymore.” The looks the other dragons give me here — like I either ate their favorite scroll or I might suddenly burst into flames, and they don’t know which.

  “But is it true?” Moon said hesitantly. “That no one has powers anymore? Not anyone?”

  He shook his head, glaring at his painting. Not in hundreds of years, he thought. If the old scrolls were true. If we ever had them in the first place.

  “Why do you think we lost them?” Moon wondered.

  Mightyclaws shrugged. He looked as if he was hoping to get out of the conversation by focusing on his canvas. But in his head she heard, Maybe the volcano sucked it out of us, and she felt the heavy smoke and heat that lingered in his memory.

  They painted for a while in silence.

  “Um,” Moon said finally. “Do you know anything about the Darkstalker?”

  Mightyclaws jumped as if she’d flung paint all over him. “Don’t talk about him! Why would you ever talk about him?”

  “I just wondered,” Moon said, startled. “I thought he was a ghost story.”

  “No, he’s definitely real, and he’s definitely coming back to kill us all one day,” Mightyclaws said with a shudder. “My father used to tell me about him while he taught me to fly. He’d say, ‘Flap harder! Imagine the Darkstalker is chasing you!’ or ‘If you can’t twist into a dive faster than that, the Darkstalker will catch you and rip off your claws and eat your brain!’ He told me about how the tribe buried him a long time ago and then ran away to hide, but he’s slowly clawing his way out, and one day he’ll break free and come to kill us all for revenge.”

  Moon blinked at him for a minute before she realized she was dripping cerulean paint all over her talons.

  Wow, Darkstalker whispered in her head. I seem to have gotten a lot scarier in the last two thousand years.

  You must have been pretty scary to begin with, Moon observed, if the whole tribe moved to hide from you even after you’d been defeated.