by Marc Secchia
“I’ll … I’ll kill you –” She felt her face twist with the violence of her emotions; felt the blood seeping afresh from that new wound upon her forehead, burst open by her fury, but she did not care.
Aranya, precious Aranya … Ardan tried to soothe her. His words were torch to her kindling.
A Star knew the ultimate force of loathing. The unstoppable fury of unalloyed hatred. The corruption of what she had imagined was incorruptible, for the power that curled within her now, begging and thrashing and screaming for release, was as dark and malign as anything she had ever imagined, and she desired it with every iota of her being. She revelled in it. Aranya wanted nothing more than to unleash her Storm and wipe this unscrupulous man, this sister stealer, from the face of the Island-World and his puny realm with him! She would flay them with titanic lightning bolts from the heavens and sweep the blasted, ravaged rubble beyond the Moons with the shattering power of her ultimate tempest!
Shan-Jarad gulped, frozen in mid-air. Her hand; her entire body convulsed. She burned yet could not seem to feel warmth. Mercy!
For the first time in her life, foulness felt good.
Aranya, I beg thee, no, Ardan whispered into her soul. Not this …
Iridiana pleaded, Please, Aranya. This is not the way.
How she shuddered at the thunder crashing through her soul, drowning out the well-meaning pleas of her friends. Release! RELEASE ME! roared her Dragoness, yet also she cried, Don’t, Aranya my soul. We are better than this, better than the Thoralians, the Azhukazis, the haters and destroyers of this age … o mercy, the agony, it burns, how it burns! Nay, we must never become one of them. Do not let us give in!
It was the dread of corruption that swayed her. Fear of becoming like the Thoralians. It was possible. She could seize all for herself, and in becoming a tyrant of her own choice, lose everything she loved, too.
Her laboured breathing rasped more softly.
Slowly, the onyx clouds of insatiable vengeance cleared from her eyes, and she surveyed her companions with both grief and joy – for she knew these emotions were one.
Absently, striving to bring herself back from the precipice by an appeal to the mundane, Aranya muttered, “From my mother … from Izariela … no. It cannot be. How old are you, Iridiana?”
“Twenty-two.”
She knew this. “The timelines don’t work.”
Of course they didn’t, but her friends were not to know she had identified this conundrum already. The sense of kinship with her sister was too close, and too intimate, for there to be any other answer than the utterly impossible – unless Izariela harboured yet more secrets. Star Dragoness secrets.
Shan-Jarad breathed, “Forgive me, o Aranya, but how is your mother involved?”
“This is how – simply this!” She ripped the face veil away, sickened by the loathing she had revelled in. Sickened by this man’s actions. “Explain this, Uxâtate!”
The ruler took in her appearance with palpable aversion, before it became obvious to all that a second, more profound realisation smote him. He clutched his chest. Dropping his beaker of tea, Shan-Jarad slumped to his knees before her, wailing, “O Star Dragoness, o Iridiana, will you ever forgive this vile deed I have done? Ah, ah, aaaaaaaaahhhh … I am a wicked man, ah, ah … I’m a worm, the lowest of men … aaah! AAAHH!!”
Yazina gasped, understanding at last. “How could he?”
Aranya could only stare. She had no words to forgive him, not now. Not – the breath exploded out of her as Iridiana threw herself into the Princess’ arms, “Sister! Oh, my precious … it’s impossible, isn’t it? Sisters? Can we be, now? Asturbar, tell me – yes? It’s true!”
Asturbar cried, “You must be, yes – I’m overjoyed!”
Overjoyed? Aye, and desolate, sick and heartsore, yet here was the definitive testimony. The unbelievable truth. Izariela and Beran had a daughter that they had never known, and the gift of a sister was … it was just … Aranya squeezed Iridiana to her bosom, suddenly speechless with incredulity, thinking inanely that the girl smelled sisterly, somehow, if that were not illogical; nay, nonsensical! As she had confessed to Iridiana before, nothing in her life could compare. To take vengeance would only sully the unfolding of this miracle.
She whispered into Iridiana’s hair, “To think I wandered all of Herimor to discover such a treasure amidst its ruin.”
The Amethyst Dragoness added, Thou art our restoration, o Iridiana. Our beacon.
Poor Iridiana could not stop shaking. She could not have believed, truly believed, until now. She protested, “But, it can’t be true. We must be … oh, four and a half summers apart?”
Aranya said, Aye, but the truth remains the truth.
How – yes! stammered the girl. I’m just all jumbled up … sister! Sister-mine, cherished one!
Zip quipped drily, “Of course, I’ve known since the beginning.”
Well, that set them all off!
When she could slide a few words into the conversation with a skill akin to a Dragoness’ knack with her talons, Zip clarified, “Didn’t your Aunty Hualiama teach you that there are peculiar matters a-paw when it comes to Star Dragoness gestation periods? Four and a half years is nothing compared to the couple of thousand she quoted for Granny Istariela, wasn’t it? Shame we can’t talk – well, we will! When we wake up your mother, we’ll ask her how long she might have hosted a pretty spark of starlight in her womb, and –”
“I am not pretty,” Aranya snapped, biting off her words furiously. Now Shan-Jarad must think she was mad, but she was on the cusp of explaining when the Zippy one seized control of her vocal cords and laid on the snark thick and fast.
“Princesses should not lie. Nasty habit.”
AARGH!
The Remoyan would not be stopped, now. “You. Aye you, Shadow! Do something with those musclebound arms of yours, you worthless, recalcitrant excuse for a ralti sheep. And you, muscly lump-a-Dragon-man. You get in here too.”
He joined the hug fest.
Asturbar threw in a teary, slapdash salute. “Willingly, ma’am!”
Ha, I can sure give orders, can’t I, best friend who’s so forgiving of my waspish tongue?
Aranya threw up her hands figuratively. Very well. Finish what you’ve started, petal monster!
“I see who gives the orders around here,” Iridiana teased. Aranya sneaked an arm about Yazina to snaffle the girl into the group. Who cared if hugs were un-Immadian? The chaotic situation appeared to demand a few – a few hundred!
Zip chortled, Don’t think you can escape either, dragonet. Get over here.
Hey, Sapphire shrilled. I know! I know …
What do you know, petal? Aranya asked. Are we missing out on our huggies?
Sapphire said archly, Doesn’t this make the silvery-blue pest a Princess of Immadia? And since you’re younger, Aranya, Iridiana would become the next Queen, wouldn’t she?
Aranya almost choked.
Nooo … Iridiana breathed in horror, turning her unique shade of silvery-rose.
Sapphire could be all too erudite when she wanted to be, for she had another memorable nugget for the Marshal. She chirped, Are you ready to be a King? King Big Boots the First?
Mercy! Judging by the speed at which the blood drained from his cheeks, evidently not.
* * * *
Aranya snapped awake in the early hours after a fitful period of sleep. Her dreams had swung from a sweet memory of her mother’s revival to successive, fragmentary nightmares involving betrayal upon every front – from Zuziana, Ardan, Yiisuriel, her father, Leandrial and even Infurion, mighty Lord of the Rift Storm. Their choleric accusations had swirled about her before resolving into a single chant, Ugly. Ugly. Ugly …
Then Fra’anior fell upon her like a rapacious thunderstorm, bellowing and raging incoherently until dark flames of fear consumed all of her starlight.
So much for bathing earlier. She woke in a sweat-soaked heap upon the floor, having ripped and charred her bedclo
thes. Aranya sat up, rubbing her breastbone to still her crazed heartbeat. On the far side of the bed, Ardan dozed peacefully upon his stomach. No blankets needed for an ever-hot Shapeshifter Dragon, she supposed, severely narked at his ability to sleep through storm, turmoil and apparently, her screaming nightmares. How did men do that? He snoozed in pristine splendour; her side of the bed was a smouldering hole in the soft down mattress.
Rising, she drew a fresh robe about herself against the night’s chill and padded to the antechamber, opened the door, and found the Sadukar of the Royal Guard standing hand upraised in the act of rapping firmly upon the richly carved wooden panels.
Aranya said, “My apologies, sir. A bad dream. Could you have your men bring a large bucket of water?”
“Water? At once, Uxâtati-a-Tân Aranya,” said the soldier, clicking his fingers sharply. His medals and honours jingled upon his immaculate dress uniform at the movement. “Water! Is all well, otherwise?”
She wrinkled her nose at the Uxâtaayn Kahilate title. “All is well. May I request additional blankets and a snack, perhaps? Fruit or bread would be fine, the simpler the fare, the better.”
“I shall dispatch a maidservant at once, Uxâtati-a-Tân. My very life is yours to command.”
“Thank you.”
He tapped his heels together twice with ceremonial exactitude before holding a deep, perfectly rigid bow that allowed him to tap a staccato rhythm upon the hard leather sides of his knee-high parade boots, and withdrew as though his astounding stiffness might of its own accord restore law and order across the Island-World.
Well. The differences in cultures she encountered never failed to fascinate her. Take this man’s extraordinary double moustache, artfully curled at its tips, his desire to place his very life on the line for a stranger, and the fact that the mattresses in this incredible palace were so soft she had almost been swallowed alive!
Very peculiar. Humbling.
Moving to the tall, oval glass doors that led out onto a private balcony which overlooked the Ruby City, Aranya considered her last message from Yiisuriel. The Air Breather had counselled, ‘I believe that the Balance of magic is key. Unless you are able to find ways to repopulate the North, and resolve the issue of falling draconic birth rates as already reported by the Dragonfriend’s lore, the Imbalance will only grow. Even the rise of parasites against Dragons, this documented rise in numbers, powers and subtlety, I believe points to the inevitable battle to come – the battle for our survival. Surely, recovering an Academy full of powerful Dragons would constitute the greatest service a Star Dragoness could render the Dragonkind.’
Was it? A worthy goal, surely, but she had to wonder if anyone truly understood the Thoralians’ plans. That was why they had to chase him to the ends of their Island-World. There was no other choice.
O Fra’anior, beloved grand-shell-sire, this was not as you intended …
No … Despite that the voice was faint and heavily distorted, Aranya stiffened at the unmistakable tones of her ancestor. Know this, Aranya: Urzul is a corruptor, not a sustainer of life. It is no fit vessel … Thoralians stole Necromantic lore for this reason …
The Thoralians want true immortality?
At least … if not the power of –
His voice vanished in a crackling roar. Aranya listened for a long time, but the Great Onyx did not speak again. Nonetheless, she could finish the sentence for him. If not the power of the last Ancient Dragon.
Indeed.
Aranya turned, and yelped at the sight of a tiny silver-white dragonet smiling at her through the glass, right at her eye level.
Oh … Iridiana? Ho, pretty-scales, are you also awake?
Other girls your age chase boys, Iridiana said. You chase world-dominating, immortal tyrants.
Chapter 22: The Sixth Moon
ONCE ARANYA HAD worked out the ridiculously complicated latch system on the window, she swung it open and raised her other hand, palm held flat in invitation. The eight-inch exemplar of dragonet perfection perched there and squeaked without further ado, “Tell me about Immadia, Aranya. Tell me about your family – our family. Can I say that? Tell me everything.”
“Well, aye. It’s a little complicated, but –”
“Are you having second thoughts about welcoming a Chaos Shifter into the family, sister? You don’t have to, you know. You could leave me –”
“Shut your fangs!” Aranya drew a deep breath, huddled deeper into the blanket she had wrapped twice about herself, and made herself comfortable on the outside couch. When Iridiana peeped in protest, having switched mid-blink to an even smaller draconic form which had the antennae of a butterfly and diamond fangs like tiny needles, she added, “Cute as you are, I say, shut the fangs. One, the family are going to love you. Two, you are eternally welcome – ah, to clarify, welcome to be part of our family and most certainly not welcome to leave. Ever! And three, I am not leaving you behind … big sister.”
Cue just about the most foolish smile which had ever crossed her lips, a smile so broad, it hurt.
“Whoo … I see. What are our parents like?”
Projecting pictures into Iridiana’s mind and speaking at the same time, she told her about their tall, elegant Ha’athiorian Shapeshifter mother, Izariela, and her fiery romance with the King of the most northerly inhabited Island in the Island-World, the famously picturesque Kingdom of Immadia. How Izariela used to love to stand upon her tower and sing to the dawn, or write poetry. How the bearded, piratical Beran had nicknamed their daughter Sparky; how he, despite his grief and black depression over Izariela’s apparent death, had taken it upon himself to train her in so much more than just looking and behaving like a Princess. How they had gone to war together, a father and his Dragoness daughter. She told Iridiana about gentle Queen Silha and her young twin brothers, Feran and Tiran, and her infant sister Leanya. How deeply she missed them. How she ached to hold her mother one more time; all that she knew about the mystery surrounding the disappearance of her grandmother and Fra’anior’s mate, Istariela.
“He’s truly our grandfather?” Iridiana breathed.
Aranya was trying to decide how her latest form, a striking bouquet of lavender flowers apparently coating a hedgehog-like draconic form, could actually breathe. Trying to keep up with Iridiana seemed to be an exercise in dizzying surprises. “Truly he is, and when we are able to rid ourselves of this magical interference in your Kahilate –”
“The vandanite, do you mean?”
“The what?”
The flowers ruffled in apparent amusement, before a delicate muzzle peeped out. “The green mineral. It’s everywhere. We’ve always known it has magical properties – it’s also our primary form of defence against Dragons. It’s said that Dragon powers work differently here.”
“I haven’t had any other trouble – nor you, for that matter.”
“We’re hardly standard Grey-Greens.”
“No, but Ardan and I were wondering how your Dragonships managed to find us as we travelled into the Uxâtaayn Kahilate.”
“It’s the vandanite. It responds to draconic fire life. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“My sister’s a flower. It’s weird. And you still manage the most remarkable expressions whilst discombobulating my poor brain – even your petals are expressive!” Iridiana nibbled fondly at the point of Aranya’s forefinger as she touched her sister’s tiny head carefully. “Just to write the scrolleaf unambiguously, I like weird. Very un-Immadian of me, I know, but I’m growing as a person in all sorts of unexpected ways, these days.”
“Shall we talk about weird walking stars with shiny faces, then?”
Aranya pouted humorously. “Don’t tell me you like weird, too! I do, however, have an apology to make. Mercy, petal! A humungous and rather overdue apology.”
Now her sister had morphed into a sinuous, scaly amaranthine vine that appeared to be climbing the blankets with the intent of introducing her serpentine coils to Aranya’s neck. “Would
this be the cunning strategy you neglected to tell me about beforehand, the bit where I was shovelled down Azhukazi’s throat in a terror sweat induced by the realisation that the Star Dragoness had just unearthed a novel strategy to rid the world of one highly inconvenient Chaos Shifter?”
Aranya sat very still as Iridiana looped herself about her neck. “Umm … if Azhukazi had actually read my mind, it could have turned out far uglier.”
“Terrible excuse.”
“We triumphed, didn’t we?”
“You weren’t the one tickling the insides of his throat, sister,” Iridiana laughed.
“You’ll have to teach me that cactus form. I can see it coming in very useful in the future.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
“When Ardan’s being grumpy, say?” Soft blue petals unfurled all around her face, and Iridiana managed to kiss her nose, cheeks, eyes, forehead, chin and ears with flowery kisses all at the same time, chuckling merrily. “It was a brilliant ploy, I’ll admit. But in this scintillating vision of future sisterhood we’re discussing here, I humbly submit that you should volunteer to be the one sitting on the Thoralians’ tongue whilst I hang back and protect you.”
“Unlike you, I’d just tie his tongue in a thumping big knot and shove it down his throat,” Aranya suggested delicately. “Job done.”
“I thought Immadians were all about subtlety?”
“About as subtle as your Chaos Beast ravaging Thoralian with fifty maws at once?”
“I’m a Dragoness.”
“Cue the occasional failure of subtlety?” They chuckled together. “Aye.”
Abruptly, the tendrils wound themselves into Aranya’s hair, teasing the strands apart with the air of botanical fingers. “Are all these colours natural? I’ve never seen anything to compare.”
“It’s been that way since I was a baby. Crazy, right?”
“Crazy … or chaotic?” The flowers giggled at the joke. “I know it’s a bit of a stretch of the imagination, but there must be ways in which our magic is similar. So, I know it’s rude and very forward of me, but I wanted to ask –”