by Marc Secchia
BOOM!! The soldiers gathered at the portico’s edge hugged each other unashamedly as Leandrial smashed the bones six feet deep, then raised her paw slowly, and … “Unbelievable!”
Not only had the bones survived, they were now forming sinew and a first sheathing of the magical-and fire-conductive tissues essential to sustaining draconic flesh!
Asturbar yelled, “Honestly, can’t we trust you great ones to finish a job properly?”
Aranya could have slapped his head past Immadia for that thoughtless comment. Idiot!
For her part, the Land Dragoness’ wrath shook the Islands of the Ruby City, demolishing a few perhaps less sturdy buildings and dislodging the crysglass from innumerable window frames, before it returned as thunder from the cliffs. A crafty smile curved the leviathan’s lips as she considered the recalcitrant bones with the air of a connoisseur of destruction. She was proud; a mighty beast of many summers beneath the suns. She was wise. And, the Marshal had just challenged her openly.
There could be only one response.
Her mind meshed with Aranya’s. Examine these constructs, little one. The elemental structure of his bones, the nature of the abominable, corrupted Dark Fires magic he commands … I see it like this …
More … so? suggested the Amethyst.
With an infusion your Star Fire, noble Aranya. I shall supply and direct the Harmonic elements.
Agreed.
Leandrial’s talons gouged through the portico, raising the skeletal Dragon upon a bed of rubble before she flicked her wrist powerfully. Up, up into the deepening emeralds and purples of the night sky the bones flew, forming themselves more fully by the second, while through their mental link, Aranya sensed the mounting tension in the Land Dragoness’ body, the ultimate focus of her fires to feed the power of her eye cannon. She slipped within as bidden, melding her being with Leandrial’s presence.
O Fra’anior, guide our strike, she whispered.
Leandrial’s body juddered as she fired her eye cannon in a series of highly focussed, intense pulses that stripped away Azhukazi’s magic before attacking the fundamental minerals and structures of the bones themselves. The Harmonic magic separated element from element before the incalculable temperatures generated by Aranya’s white-blue starlight vaporised them on contact. The effort cost Leandrial dear. It was as if her friend leaned upon her shoulder, just remembering to breathe as the magical fire life throughout her body dipped, then steadied at the gentle pulsation of healing that Aranya supplied.
Strength, mighty one, the Amethyst Dragoness whispered.
Leandrial’s look told her she knew exactly whose strength had sustained them both. Then, affecting disdain, she sniffed, Help me gather that dust, noble Star Dragoness. I plan to sink it into a volcano thirty leagues from here. How I despise practitioners of Dramagon’s lore!
His necromancy was a manifestation of Dramagon’s dark lore? Aranya was amazed she had never made that connection before
Iridiana whispered, Is he truly gone, Leandrial?
Truly, little one, you own the boasting rights. There is no detectable trace of magic, living or dead, in his remains now. I am so very, very proud of you all, my tiny tyrant slayers!
Iridiana and Aranya chuckled alike.
Then, as one, the Shapeshifter Dragons, the dragonets and their Riders bowed wordlessly to Leandrial. Azhukazi the Iolite Blue was no more.
Chapter 21: Fatherhood, Befouled
HERS WAS THE incomparable face of healing. Zuziana could never tire of the experience of watching a soldier with his or her face crumpled in a rictus of pain, veiling their inevitable suspicion as the tall, veiled Princess reached out, only for her touch to effortlessly spark a smile of unadulterated, childlike wonder. The crustiest, most cussed, screaming-bloody-murder patient would sink back against the ground, or into a comrade’s arms exclaiming gruffly, “Thank ye, lady.” Or, “What ye done … oh!” Then, whispers would dog her barefoot steps, “ ’Tis the Star Dragoness, truly.” “Her worshipfulness, I tell ye no word o’ lie. ’Tis enchantment most mighty.”
She never stinted.
The Remoyan Princess had to wonder, however, at how quickly the word of her best friend’s true nature had slipped out. Was this Azhukazi’s doing?
With dozens of soldiers injured and some in a serious state, her work took the better part of an hour before Aranya slipped away to the bathing chambers at Iridiana’s behest. Zip approved. A girl needed to wash away the stench of battle; most especially, the reek of the Necromancer Dragon’s plotting, betrayal and attempted murder.
Entering the opulent bath chamber clad in just a plush towelling robe, Zip admired the décor through her friend’s eyes. Ruby dominated, of course, but an artificial bathing waterfall was a feature she had never quite imagined – heated, too. Mmm. Could she remodel Remoy’s bathing chambers to this standard? Aranya glanced about. Perhaps the servants had been asked to give her privacy, for no-one else seemed to be present. She approached a range of oils and soaps which had been artfully arranged beside a trio of wide, deep jade lavers by the poolside, clearly puzzling out how the protocol was meant to work.
Clean off here first, then into the pool? Zip suggested. Cold, warm and then baking-your-backside hot?
Huh. I suppose you Remoyans must find all this very familiar.
Why, don’t Immadians bathe?
Aranya startled as a very large, sleek head lifted out of the water. “No, but felines clearly do!”
“Great leaping – not-quite-rajals!” Zip spluttered. “Like a leopard, just –”
“Five times the size,” said the Princess of Immadia, not backing away an inch as the stub-eared feline fixed its baleful yellow gaze upon her. I’m a Dragoness. Bother me and you’ll regret it.
The massive cat blinked slowly before stepping up onto what must be an underwater ledge at the side of the twenty-foot bathing pool, and raising its muzzle quizzically. Aranya reached out her hand. She could not help the leap of her pulse, at which her inner Dragoness snickered with suitable scorn, when the feline’s blunt, spotted tawny muzzle pressed lightly against her skin.
Murrr-arrka-nu-harrr Irana? said the cat, in a purr like slow-rolling gravel.
Feline speech? Aranya stared!
Innurratha, arr-su-hurr Aranya, said Iridiana, appearing at the far side of the pool. “I think she’s a bit confused as to who you are. She thinks you smell like me – she remembers me from when I was a child, you see. Innurratha won’t trouble a guest. She’s kind of a royal bodyguard, and understands basic speech. Now, would you like me to show you the bathing rituals here? Father wants to speak – I’m so afraid, Aranya! Afraid of what he’ll say. And I can’t hope … I must not! Yet I do.”
Zip could have knocked their identical heads together, the silly pair. To her mind, the only outstanding question was one of irrefutable proof. Their resemblance was a forgone conclusion. Shan-Jarad must have his own secrets which Aranya would demand of him. She had the right, but her friend’s rising emotions were betrayed by the tautness of Storm intensifying within her being now. Even Azhukazi had not provoked this response from the Star Dragoness. Thunder rolled without the citadel; a swirl of wind ruffled Iridiana’s hair.
“Nervous too,” Aranya whispered.
“Oh, is that –” the silver-skinned girl queried.
“One of my titles is ‘Daughter of Storm,’ ” said the Immadian. “Fra’anior is an Onyx Dragon, but he is also called the Storm of Storms. I sort of inherited that power … it does get out of control sometimes, understandably.”
“Ha. You’re more chaotic than you let on, Aranya.”
Aranya shucked her robe self-consciously. “Try not to stare.”
“Father – I need to stop calling him that …”
“Maybe.”
Iridiana made a face. “These scars stem from a Shapeshifter pox?”
“Thoralian deliberately had me infected with a particularly pernicious strain.”
“That beast! I ho
pe I never … I’m sorry, Aranya. That was insensitive. Look. You’ve a fresh wound on your forehead. We should dress it.”
After a few awkward minutes as they lathered up before agreeing to help scrub each other’s hair, Aranya said, “Did you know that Asturbar keeps staring at your ankles? It’s the funniest thing.”
Iridiana giggled. “I know! Isn’t that normal in men?”
“Ankles? I don’t believe so.”
Zip said, “Completely bizarre, if you’d care for a Remoyan’s opinion. Nice ankles, however. We have an old friend – as in, well over a century old – who’s a self-declared expert on women and as lecherous as the day is long. He’s definitely a chest and legs aficionado, and not shy about telling you to your face, either.”
“He doesn’t exactly address you at eye level,” Aranya added.
Zip cried, “Ah, shalt I compare thy peerless buttocks to the rondure of the twin suns, o Immadia; yea, the twin suns shining in all their glory!”
Iridiana’s giggling exploded into peals of laughter.
“Zip!” Aranya gasped, fanning her face.
“Ah, Iridiana, my delicate petal! I declare that the glorious cascade of thine threads of uttermost night shalt slay a man for the sheer wonder of sidereal beauty! Give me but one kiss, o my silvery muse, but one kiss lest I expire!”
She had them both in stitches, of course, but Zuziana was prevented from indulging in a further round of Nak-isms by a firm knock upon the door to the bathing chamber. “Shan-Jarad awaits,” Asturbar called. “What’s all the giggling for, ladies, may I ask?”
Zip answered, “I hear you’re an ankles man, Marshal Asturbar?”
“What?”
“I can practically hear him blushing out there,” she told Iridiana, who was the one turning seventeen hues of silver-rose. “Aye, Asturbar. Would you like to tell us all about Iridiana’s ankles?”
“I … I would not!”
“Aren’t they the loveliest pair you’ve ever –”
“Ten minutes!” His parade ground bellow almost blew the door down.
Zip whispered, “It’s considered very good technique to keep a man guessing. Flirting is first-class, too.” Raising her voice, she added snidely, “Very well! Shall we conceal Iridiana’s ankles for fear of immedicable distraction, Marshal Boots?”
“THRICE-BLASTED REMOYAN INVADERS!”
* * * *
They took a late tea, a Yazê-a-Kûz custom, in Shan-Jarad’s private chambers. “Thank you for waiting so graciously,” he said. “This is the only place I believe we can talk undisturbed. Drinks?”
Ardan, Asturbar, Aranya and Iridiana settled into the hand-carved chairs placed around an oval murzigi wood table, upon which were set crystal decanters holding chilled berry cordials, water cooled with glacier ice mined from the cliffs, and a tea set of surpassing craftsmanship. Naturally, ruby featured prominently, but the gemstones appeared to have been carved by some process that Aranya could only conclude had to be magical. Her eyes narrowed at the sight. Indeed, Shan-Jarad? Iridiana had insisted that her realm had little time for magic, but their experiences in trying to penetrate their defences argued exactly the opposite. Here was further evidence.
For herself, she chose to try the spiced tea, called arrabis.
If he was surprised at the presence of a sapphire dragonet curled about Aranya’s neck and the brood sleeping inside her pockets, the Uxâtate gave no sign. Yet his mien appeared graven from stone. What was he thinking? How would he respond to this audacious incursion into his realm – he, who had also learned this day of his brother’s treachery and murder by Azhukazi? There must still be a very hard conversation to come, Aranya knew, stilling an urge to scratch at her scars beneath her face veil. The Storm was so close, singing urgently through her veins. How could she deny it? Must a storm not break before it could dissipate?
After a moment, they remembered that Yazina was also present, hovering just inside the doorway. Since there were only five chairs, Asturbar beckoned the teen to sit upon his knee. To her surprise, Yazina sighed and leaned against his shoulder – the Marshal seemed most uncomfortable at this arrangement, but Iridiana surreptitiously drew his arm about the girl.
Once he had poured the tea with ceremonial precision, Shan-Jarad chose to address the air with a scholarly deliberation to his delivery. “Shapeshifters, a Princess, the Star Dragoness herself, an underworld leviathan, my grown-up daughter returned from the dead, the Marshal of the Mistral Fires, and the very foundations of my life shaken. Some day it has been. Some day. Nor has my ruin ever been more complete. Let me start with this: I loved your mother, Iridiana. I loved her with every beat of my heart. And I now know, since the noble Star Dragoness touched me, that all three of my nemeses manipulated my mind and my purposes with masterful ease. I’ve been a deluded fool. Yet at the last, I too have a secret. You know it already, o Aranya.”
Did she? Curious, she offered, “Chanbar was merely duplicitous. The Chameleon and Azhukazi both possessed subtle mind powers that they employed to their best advantage.”
“Yes.” Uxâtate Shan-Jarad passed Aranya a ruby beaker of steaming tea. The spices were unfamiliar, but smelled delicious. “I have carried my secret for far too long. My revelation is that, I am a repressed Shapeshifter.”
She inclined her head to conceal her shock, and murmured, “Aye?”
He had no idea! Truly, he had no idea why they were here … she swallowed a spike of Storm-fury as the thunder neared, prowling like a spitting-mad Dragoness about the fringes of her consciousness.
“Yes,” he said. “It seems clear to me now that Azhukazi spoke the truth when he revealed that I am infertile. I hail from a long line of repressed Shapeshifters. We have magic in my family. It manifests in small ways – skills, or knacks for particular tasks, say. Gifts of leadership, battle craft, strategy and even the skills of survival in a realm as perilous as that of Wyldaroon.”
Turning to Iridiana, he said, “Let me tell you what I believe you will wish to hear first, Iridiana. When the Chanbar Chameleon first confronted me with the humiliating truth of how I had been poisoned, rendered infertile and betrayed at every turn, I spent much time crying, yes, but then a much greater period of time plotting my revenge. Early on, I struck upon the idea that I no longer wanted my bloodline to be one that displayed repressed characteristics. I wanted power. Huge, undeniable fonts of power. Therefore, I depleted the treasuries in searching for an answer. It took five years, but eventually I felt I had divined the perfect solution – my agents found an uistarikolalion Shifter who had a peerless egg to offer, and the skills to implant it inside of my wife.”
Aranya squeezed her eyes shut. No, Iridiana … NO! Oh mercy, oh please, I can’t bear to hear this …
Ardan touched her knee, evidently trying to will strength into her. Peace. Let the man speak, Aranya.
He did not know how close she was to an eruption. This man, this foul, greedy, grasping fool – what had he done?
Unheeding of her torment, Shan-Jarad continued, “I paid a price for that service which made my royal Treasurer die of a heart attack. You have to understand how desperate I was. I would have done anything. Paid anything. Risked anything. Setting aside any morals or thoughts of where that egg might have come from, I had the uistarikolalion, the egg stealer, perform the operation. I provided of my seed to fertilise that unique egg – or so I thought – and the creature magically inserted it into my wife’s womb.”
“What was the egg like?” Iridiana quavered.
“Shh, my beloved,” said Asturbar gently. I know it hurts …
To Aranya, the unfurling of the Uxâtate’s tale was a slow descent into nightmare. She knew what the truth must be; he had only to find the power of articulation, but to her mounting frustration, the man would not simply blurt it out. After another interminable sip of his tea, he said:
“No, it’s a good question, albeit one calling for a strange answer. We tried to verify the authenticity of the egg before final paym
ent was made – with such sums at stake, I wanted to be absolutely certain, but I was also terrified to lose the opportunity. It was at once an egg, and a spark. I have never seen a clear Dragon’s egg before. This one seemed closer in form to a Dragon’s fire eye than to an egg with impermeable shell about it, but inside there was a silvery mist inhabited sometimes by a spark of pure light, and sometimes the very tiniest impression of a foetus – these pinprick fingers and toes might show for a moment, then they disappeared into the light. The uistarikolalion let slip that the egg was sourced from a White Dragoness.”
Covering her mouth, Aranya stifled such a moan as had never been torn from her before, never even in the depths of Thoralian’s dungeons, in the nadir of her life.
Still Shan-Jarad remained trapped in his recollections, not shifting a muscle to acknowledge her agonised reaction as he continued, “The creature called it a droplet of fire life. A unique form of draconic life that could be fertilised by a Shapeshifter such as me, and be drawn from my wife’s being to become inextricably part of us both. Imagine my horror as the Chameleon tried to poison her; imagine my joy when she was born a perfect little girl, and then once more to the pyres of despair … when the chaos came upon her …”
Her teardrops welled helplessly, each falling like a peal of thunder.
Lies, greed and desperation. Did a more toxic brew exist beneath the suns?
Ardan tried to help in his blunt way, grasping her hand as he said, “Petal, oh my petal … it’ll be alright.”
Alright? It was anything but; it was the very opposite of alright! This man had stolen … stolen her birthright, the chance to know Iridiana …
Gazing now at Aranya and Ardan with an evident lack of comprehension, Shan-Jarad said, “Ah … forgive me, o Star Dragoness. I do not understand, yet your tears slay me far more severely than any castigation you could possibly deliver to a ruler who abused his might to steal a life from some other poor, unsuspecting woman –”
“From my mother!” she screamed. Raw, wounded, her thunder crashed around the citadel. Her outcry toppled Shan-Jarad, despite his heavy chair, but her hand snapped out to arrest his fall as if they were linked by invisible chains