Beautiful Fury

by Marc Secchia

  Right now, she had other concerns. Charging into Oyda’s sickbay, she skidded to a halt on her heels, panting, “Oyda! You’re standing up?”

  Oyda held out her arms. “Petal. It is my time.”

  Thunder crashed inside the volcano. “No!”

  “Petal …”

  “Oyda, no!” Aranya glanced frantically at Nak, who simply beckoned. He – the fire had infected him, too! “Nak, no, oh please, you can’t let her leave now.”

  Nak’s eyes were too bright, radiant with a light Aranya both recognised and hated for what it would cost her. She groaned and shook, refusing for an unbearable second to accept that these dear friends, too, she must lose.

  It was as if she heard Fra’anior whisper, These are mine. Let them depart, Aranya. Let them fly.

  I know, but it hurts! Oh, Fra’anior, it hurts!

  She ran to them now, trying her utmost to smile and be happy for them, but all that emerged from her throat was an inchoate whimpering sound. Nak held her as shocking gasps of grief wracked her person, and whispered his final farewell into her ear. Then she stooped to embrace Oyda too, bent with great age but never diminished, and breathed in the inimitable, complex redolence of Fra’anior’s own fires rising within her dear friend’s flesh. How impossible to relinquish those who had guided her from the very beginning, but she must.

  Aranya stepped back, finding at last within her being a smile of peace so lucid, it transcended understanding. She ushered the others with her arms, whispering, Back, back. And then she cried in a great voice, O FRA’ANIOR, RECEIVE THOU THE SOULS OF THY SERVANTS!

  Was it her that thundered, or her ancestor’s almighty larynxes?

  Beran and Iridiana beside her, and Pip before them, retreated in step with Aranya toward the doorway as the room began to grow more and more brilliant, and she dimly heard exclamations in the receiving and service area behind the row of bays. She could not tear her eyes off the Dragon Rider couple. Oyda was smiling and waving gently, while Nak called:

  “Love you, Pip, Aranya, Iridiana … tell that Remoyan she is the splendour of her Isle, and should I have had the chance, I would have smooched her breathless …”

  Nak’s voice disappeared as a crackling and roaring as of a bonfire filled the room, yet it burned nothing; their faces were so suffused with draconic white fires, Aranya had to shade her eyes even as she reflexively drew up a shield to protect the onlookers. There was no heat, just the unbearable brilliance, but she could not stand to look away, for it seemed now that Nak and Oyda, embracing, looked through her and beyond her into eternity. Elation ignited their visages.

  Shimmerith, o my Shimmerith! cried Nak.

  Oyda crooned, Emblazon, you came when I called, noble wing brother!

  Aranya swung around to look as a sound like the wuthering of wind over Dragon wings rushed overhead from behind her. Nothing? Yet as she swivelled again to the fore it was to be greeted by a perfect storm of laughter, deep belling notes that thrilled the soul mingled with soft chuckles like glissades of notes played upon tubular bells, and the old people were caught up in a breathless tangle of paws and tails and hands stroking ethereal scales. Tourmaline and deeper blue notes played amidst the brilliance. Then, a gathering vortex of white fires caught them up into the air. They rose as if her shield was not present. Indeed, by their light Aranya saw right through the infirmary’s rock ceiling and the many layers of tunnels and roosts above, all the way to the skies.

  The foursome of Dragons and Riders seared into the sky in an Iridiana-like comet that left a silvery smear across Aranya’s retinae.

  She dug her knuckles into her aching eyes. The room was dark, the bedclothes apparently undisturbed. The scent that rose to her nostrils was charred cinnamon mingled with lilies and fireflower. Of Nak and Oyda, there was no sign.

  Aranya found that she was on her knees. “Fra’anior? Do I now believe in an afterlife?”

  Beran’s hand clasped her shoulder warmly. “Aye, Sparky.”

  Chapter 28: In Storage

  THE CONFLICT SCORCHED the Rift for hundreds of leagues about as Ardan and his group took the battle to the Storm Elementals with a vengeance. The Foam Riders were more resourceful than Ardan had imagined, and certainly more exercised in terms of seeking revenge for what, within the limitations of their shared language, they understood had been Infurion’s tactic of sacrificing the Foam Riders’ life force in order to placate the Storm Elementals so that they did not club together and overwhelm him.

  Rebellion had been simmering for many decades. With the departure of their de facto god, the Foam Riders were released into a killing frenzy.

  Turbulent thunderheads of dark-rimmed fire surged and assembled at every point of the compass around Ardan’s group of brave Cognates as they sprinted at four leagues per hour along the Rift walkway. The Storm Elementals were roused, and they flung themselves upon the invaders in successive waves of thrashing, fiery protodraconic muzzles, limbs and talons, creating a thundering and a roaring like tens of thousands of waterfalls all crashing down at once. In response hundreds of the great molten metallic plates hurtled high through the fires, each casting a disruptive force – or an anti-disruptive force, Ri’arion had to point out – that cleaved clear channels through the Storm Elementals. If they could disrupt one being enough, that was sufficient to dispel their life force, the Foam Riders had declared. The Elementals reformed only slowly. Ardan understood that their future plan was to regularly patrol their environs in an attempt to subdue the bourgeoning population of Storm Elementals.

  The Storm Elementals fought back in fast-moving packs of leagues-tall billows of crimson fury, their voices shattering the air again and again with the rallying cry of their fury. Waves of fire beat down upon the Cognates, sheeting off their low carapaces and rocking them violently side-to-side. Ri’arion, sitting cross-legged with his eyes shut and his hands resting in his lap, had been obliged to add kinetic stabilising elements to their anti-disruptive shielding, which so far had held firm. Mostly. Relaxed as he appeared, the ex-monk was streaked with sweat, groaning and twitching from time to time as he singlehandedly held their mental alliance together.

  Ardan pursed his lips. Clearly, warriors could fight with more than merely physical weapons.

  Across from him in the small Dragonhide chamber, Asturbar was marching up and down, clearly itching to sink his oversized battle-axe into someone or something. He knew that feeling.

  Walking over, Ardan clasped the man’s massive forearm. “Come on. Let’s see if you have mental muscles to match that frame.”

  Asturbar’s brow drew down. “What do you mean by that, Shadow?”

  “Well, not the insult you seem wont to take,” he replied. “If I were to condescend, I’d say, ‘All you need to understand inside that armoured Azingloriax cranium is that this is how we reach Iridiana faster.’ Eh?”

  A slow smile broke across that broad visage. “Yes. And I know I’m talking to a man of literally no substance. How does that sit with you?”

  “Badly!” Ardan laughed, and said, “Although, you could stand to change those soldier socks at least once a year. Iridiana will be extremely grateful that I’ve appraised you of the situation. It’s when the fungus starts oozing out of the tops of your boots –”

  “Huh. Did you barbarians never discover the revolutionary notion that is bathing? You can tell by the way insects keel over and perish as they buzz past your armpits …”

  Both men guffawed, buffeted each other upon the shoulder and said simultaneously, “To work!”

  * * * *

  Aranya gazed around the tiny chamber curiously. The girl – if girl she had been, which seemed plausible given the Human-sized dimensions of this servant’s chamber – had been remarkably difficult to track down. Suspiciously remarkably, Head Librarian Sizmatizara, a Corundum-Topaz scholar Dragoness originally hailing from a small roost-Isle East of Helyon, had joked in her dry, ravaged whisper resulting from a throat wound delivered by none other than Gart
hion himself. Almost as if Auli-Ambar had deliberately elided certain key records, such as any hints pertaining to her actual existence.

  Why?

  Naturally, a royal of her unquestionable integrity had immediately resorted to cheating – cough, splutter – make that, using her connections and skills to shortcut her way to a solution. Hualiama had also been remarkably-suspiciously economical with answers, but she had her reasons, she claimed.

  “A girl, aye, but one of most unusual heritage,” Aranya repeated to herself, trying not to grow any further steamed at the paucity of the Dragonfriend’s helpfulness. “Fra’aniorian father and Pykolese mother. Pykolese? Where on the Islands is that from? Blind from birth. Outstandingly gifted in the scholarly arts, responsible for keeping none other than my dear Aunt alive in her infancy – a useful service indeed – and possessed of a brand of magic no-one has ever heard of before or since, her two most notable skills being, firstly, the ability to sing and play musical magic and secondly, the curse of making everyone around her summarily forget her very existence.”

  Magic that modified physical records created and overseen by the most meticulous Dragon scholars and administrators? Aranya sniffed unhappily. Not that they had a shred of evidence or proof to support this accusation, save that Fra’anior and Hualiama both claimed she had existed and the records simply did not.

  Guilty by reason of absentia?

  She muttered, “Still, our Auli-Ambar was bonded with a certain Arkurion the Mercury Blue of Tanstoy Dragon Roost in the South. That argues Shapeshifter, doesn’t it? And now I’m supposed to locate the non-existent Scrolls of Fire somewhere in the internecine, secretive Halls of the Dragons, which will recount Miss Invisible’s story and hopefully give us a clue as to how to fly to the Mystic Moon. Quite the scholar, if that’s a trick she’s been hiding up her little sleeve.”

  Aranya gazed around the chamber, wondering what she was missing or where they were supposed to search. Mostly, she chafed at her relatives’ obfuscations. ‘Prophetic necessity, gnarr gnarr,’ she chuntered dolefully, drawing a low chuckle from the doorway – Iridiana had returned. “A blind Librarian – Fra’anior’s beard! What enigmas does he have me chasing now?”

  “Talking to ourselves, sister?” Iridiana teased.

  “Talking to you is like talking to me.”

  “Just have to colour my hair crazy, right?”

  Aranya puffed out her cheeks. “Help me case the place, would you?”

  “Case? Is that Immadian for, ‘Rifle through someone’s private belongings?’ ”

  “Gaah! And I thought Zuziana was the only one who played the tit-for-tat question game. Aye! Put those hands and your magic to work.”

  An hour later, the twins were convinced they had absolutely zero chance of finding anything useful in Auli-Ambar’s old, very empty chamber. They had checked under the small built-in bed, examined the frame meticulously, turned the plain wooden dresser inside out and upside down, and even spent rather more quality time with the bathroom plumbing than might have been expected from a pair of Princesses. The room was bare, slightly dusty and entirely devoid of items, magical or otherwise. It looked exactly as a room unoccupied for the last five hundred years ought to look.

  Eventually, Iridiana settled back on her heels, addressing Aranya over the toilet bowl. “We’re hunting for dragonets on the wrong Isle. Tell me everything Hualiama said, again.”

  “Again?”

  So she did. Verbatim. With extra vigour, given as the hour was by now very late, and she felt wrung out after the high emotions surrounding Nak and Oyda’s departure.

  “Hold on.” Iridiana touched her arm. “Auli was musical, right?

  “Dragonharp.”

  “Right. Are you thinking what I am –”

  “Aye. Music is a key component of her magic – and who taught her?”

  “There’s a harp –”

  “In the Concert Cavern – is it big?”

  “Sister, are Dragons big?” Iridiana chuckled richly. “Pollen head. No Human could possibly play that instrument down there. I mean, even the foot pedals are Dragon-sized.”

  “So she had a smaller one.”

  “Hualiama said Auli-Ambar played for her at the Palace, which implies transportability.”

  Aranya clapped her hands excitedly. “The Hall storage?”

  “And the music records!”

  Va’assia! Ja’arrion! Aranya called mentally. Summon the music historians – uh, if we have any left, that is.

  Iridiana put in, And have the scholars check the records for any notable musicians who might have taught Auli-Ambar around the time of Head Librarian Sazutharr –

  Aranya added, Also, let’s check the length of his tenure against –

  – his death date –

  – and have them cross-check everything.

  The girls glanced at each other as Ja’arrion said dryly, Mental twins, eh? It’s like talking to the same person, despite the differences in your auras. Right. Leave it with me.

  From their location, Aranya and Iridiana had a long walk, traversing a good two-fifths of the volcano’s circumference and descending all the way down from the prestigious roost levels to the below-ground Concert Cavern. Lanterns lit the stone-carved corridors at regular intervals. By following the embossed metal plaques at major junctions, they could easily tell which level, segment and corridor number they were in despite being relative newcomers to the Halls.

  Iridiana touched one. “Look at how the text is raised, Aranya.”

  “Almost as if –”

  “Yes. We know the Halls had a major redesign around that time. They wouldn’t add these features for just any blind girl, would they?”

  “How would she read ink on scrolleaf, Iridiana?”

  “Ooh … must be magic,” her sister replied in a sepulchral tone, prodding Aranya in the ribs.

  “Don’t tickle me.”

  “Say, urgent clarification. Does being a Princess come with a decent shopping budget?”

  “Uh … aye? We can ask Dad. Why, what do you need?”

  “Oh no, it’s a you-need issue. Tell me, does the capital possess any boutiques that might sell underwear rated as less than ‘my ancient granny’s best?’ ”

  “Iridiana!”

  “Poor Ardan!” Iridiana pouted, shaking her head with mock-gravity. “Seriously, Miss ice-britches, have some pity on the man –”

  Blushing, Aranya spluttered, “I am not icy – you are so mean!”

  Nyahi said innocently, “Oh, no ice? Then what do you have down there, sister?” Miming an explosion with her hands, she mouthed, ‘Fire!’

  “Iridiana!” Aranya’s blush did exactly that. It had been many months since she had ignited whirlwinds of fire around her, but her twin’s teasing slipped right through her vaunted self-control and fanned her every flame.

  The Halls were neatly arranged in a slightly irregular heptagon around the central lake, with a logical structure of connecting passages designed for draconic or Human traffic, or both, running in both the vertical and horizontal dimensions. Accustomed to multitasking, Aranya had the scholars checking the plans meantime for Auli-Ambar’s fingerprint. They immediately replied that the layout improvements were attributed to a certain Arkurion the Mercury Blue, who was not otherwise reputed to have an architectural bone in his body.

  “Hmm,” said Iridiana, miming stroking a beard.

  “Indeed,” Aranya agreed.

  Meeting up with Beran on level twelve, who avowed an inability to sleep due to the excitement, the trio rapidly descended through the levels to the lower working areas of the Halls, and then took a major spoke around to the Concert Cavern’s entrance. Here the newly appointed Human Chief Scrollkeeper of Gi’ishior, a direct seventeenth-generation descendant of Master Chamzu who had held the post at the time of Hualiama Dragonfriend, met them with his special keyring of magical master keys – such a variety, Iridiana’s eyes popped and Beran gave a snort of appreciation.

 
; The King said, “A king’s ransom in gemstones and rare metals there, Master Abazan.”

  “Aye,” said Abazan in his stuffy, cultured bass, selecting a ruby key from the keyring. It measured almost three feet long, a perfectly sculpted piece of draconic artwork in the form of flaming talon. “This is a place I most especially love.”

  “Girls, Master Abazan is also a renowned singer and more than a decent hand upon the Franxxian ten-stringed Sykamîti zither.”

  “Prince Ta’armion is my superior in matters of voice,” demurred the Master, essaying an obsequious bow with a mere four hand twirls – pithy, by Fra’aniorian standards. Nyahi’s eyebrows peaked.

  “Ta’armion! Lyriela – we have a cousin I haven’t told you about!” Aranya exclaimed. “She’s also a Shapeshifter, Iridiana, and –”

  “And she’s winging over with the noble Prince as we speak,” Beran said dryly. “Lyriela is a master harpist worthy of the title, Iridiana. She’s utterly agog to meet you, I understand from Va’assia’s partial relayed message – conditions over the caldera being poor tonight given as someone apparently called in a thunderstorm.”

  “Ah,” said Aranya, colouring. “Dad, are Silha and the boys here? What about Leanya? Is she well?”

  “They’re two days away by Dragonship, with a Dragon escort,” he replied. “The family’s well, last I heard.”

  “Escort?”

  “Times are not easy, despite the camaraderie we enjoy around these Halls, Aranya,” her father said gravely, and she knew she must question him on the subject when she had a chance.

  “Dissenters scrambling for power after Sylakia’s fall, Dad, or rogue Shapeshifters?”

  “Both, petal,” he said curtly. Something in his tone made her glance at the Chief Scrollkeeper, whose spine appeared to have been instantly petrified by the tone or content of her question. Strange. Here were threads of politics she did not begin to grasp. Why was her father playing this role around the Chief Scrollkeeper, unless a young rogue of a King might have had dealings with him in the past? Interesting.