Windstone Castle sat atop a high, rocky hill, like a proud falcon. Wind whispered along the castle walls, flags clapped, hooves rang in the yard, and sweet smoke drifted from the smithy. Lily, the stable girl, curried all morning, her brush swishing on the horses' coats like spring rain. She liked the smell of horses, the fresh hay, and her secret dream: one day to wear armor on which the sun would glitter.

That day, however, the forenoon wind brought an unusual vibration. As Lily hauled water from the well, the air suddenly trembled, as if a huge drum thundered softly behind the mountains. The guards standing on the castle wall shouted at once: "Dragon!" Above the distant Koppany Hill, a puff of green smoke rose, and on the meadows, tiny flames skipped, as if red grasshoppers played in the grass.

The knights quickly lined up. Captain Andor, the grim-eyed leader of the castle, pointed his lance at the gate. His armor squeaked like a door in the wind.

Lily nodded, but her heart jumped in her chest, like a little kid. She didn't want to watch the fire - the sound interested her. That deep, humming, restless sound, which didn't seem angry, but rather possessed by a cold.

In the corner of the marketplace, a wanderer woman sold her bells and wooden horns. Her earrings tinkled when Lily stopped before her. The woman smiled, her wrinkles crumpled like an old map.

Lily held her breath. She knew about the sword. It lay above the door of the chapel, under cobwebs, in its rusty sheath. It was whispered that it once sang if the wind danced through the loopholes.

Mark was a thin, freckled boy, his eyes flashed curiously. The two children sneaking into the chapel paused in the twilight. Through the tiny windows, dust motes floated, and the old sword rested there, like a sleeping fish in a stone bed.

Lily carefully put her hand on its hilt. The leather was cold, but in that moment, a barely audible humming started, traveling from the hilt into her arm, from there into her chest, and finally into her throat. The sound was clear, thin, like a glass bell.

Do you hear? - whispered Mark.

A song - answered Lily, and pulled the sword from its sheath.

The blade shone, as if dust hadn't touched it. Lily ran her palm along its flat surface, and the sword really sang: a high, calm sound, which dissolved the trembling of the air.

Behind the stable, Dumpling, the round-bellied, stubborn pony, scraped the ground impatiently. The children hitched up a small cart, loaded the ropes, the thick leather protective gloves, and Smith Eric's long pliers onto it, then swung out through the gate towards the hills. The stalks of grass swished and laughed, reaching the cart's axle.

At the edge of the Whispering Pines, they stopped. In the middle of the meadow, the dragon sat, almost desperately. It was green, but not uniformly green: among its scales were moss-green and sage-green, with gold dots here and there, as if the fingers of the sun sprinkled it with honey. It slapped its huge tail here and there, and as soon as it saw Lily and company, took a big sniff.

Lily lifted the sword, but not as if preparing to slash. With two fingers, she swished along the edge of the blade. The sound that the sword emitted filled the meadow. The wind stepped onto the melody and rocked it, like a boat on the river.

The dragon's head tilted to the side. His eye—two big, amber windows—softened. The smoke didn't erupt in bursts anymore; rather, it curved finely, and its scent was reminiscent of pine.

Friend? - asked the dragon carefully.

We came to help - answered Lily. - I'm Lily, and he's Mark. The sword sings. And you sneeze.

I am Moss - he growled, a smile hidden in his voice, the dragon. - I was hiding in a tangled blackberry bush, because the honey scent lured my stomach there. Then... something started to tickle. And since then it's just been... Atchoo!

Lily stepped closer, already so much that she saw the glint of something grayish-blue in the dragon's nostril.

A thorn is inside - she said quietly. - Mark, give me the leather protector, and the pliers.

Sure? - Mark swallowed, but as the sword started to sing again, the melody seemed to say: "Yes."

Lily pulled on the gloves and put the sword on her shoulder so the melody vibrated. The dragon's breath was warm, but didn't burn. It brought a scent like a broken pine cone. Lily carefully reached for the thorn with the pliers.

The sword rang, Lily pulled, Moss squinted, and the thorn slipped out, like a bad thought. It was as long as Lily's forearm and full of tiny silvery prickles.

The gift of the Prickle-thicket - coughed Moss, then breathed deeply and happily blew it out. The air trembled, but now from joy; white vapor snaked forth instead of smoke, with a fresh mint smell.

Thank you - grumbled the dragon. - My head is as if exchanged.

And the meadow will be grateful too - smiled Lily, when suddenly, clanking, horse neighing, and croaking command words arrived from behind the hill. The knights.

Captain Andor and his men popped up, and the sun flashed on their helmets. The tips of their lances glittered like freshly peeled ice.

Halt! - Lily lifted her hand. Her sword sang, the sound flew in a clear arc towards the knights. The horses' ears stood up, and their knocking steps slowed.

What are you doing, little girl? - growled Andor, but there was more astonishment than anger in his voice, when he saw the dragon's face: peaceful, light, as if just a lizard grown large on a sunlit stone.

Mark held up the thorn.

Moss tried to smile amicably, which, for a dragon, succeeded so well that for a moment he flashed the dandelion fluff hidden between his teeth.

Captain Andor took off his helmet. Sweat beaded on his forehead; his face softened.

That afternoon, they all sat on the meadow: knights, children, and a green dragon. Moss promised to guard the pass and chase away the looters if they strayed this way. In exchange, the castle's people would sow ten rows of blue lily and lavender on the southern slope, because Moss adored their scent. Smith Eric patted Lily on the shoulder, and Captain Andor gave her a leather armored wristband, bearing the castle's coat of arms.

Lily escorted the sword back to the chapel. Now it was not covered by cobwebs, but by a green ribbon that had slid down from Moss's scale as a gift. When the wind caught in it, the blade twanged softly, and the whole castle seemed to breathe just a little easier.

Next morning, Lily, Mark, and Dumpling rolled along the meadow. Moss floated, sliding next to them in the air, like a huge, green scarf. They went around the apiaries, where the bees buzzed like a thousand tiny drums. The world was big and curious. And Lily knew that there are times for which a lance is needed, and times for which a song - and if she paid attention closely, the sword would always tell her when was the time for which.