by Marc Secchia
Father’s anger is not directed at us, she reassured Iridiana.
The dark locks bobbed. How is it that you read me so well already, sister heart?
Could be something to do with you being both my sister and my heart? Aranya suggested. Look at how proudly Dad watches you; how he cannot –
“Sparky, are you two jabbering behind an old king’s back?”
“Uh … sorry, Father.”
Beran’s hearty chuckle echoed in the Concert Cavern’s wide entryway. “When Aranya knows she’s been naughty, Iridiana, she still calls me Father.” Aranya let out an exasperated hiss, and another when he swatted her backside fondly. “Aye, I’m still your Dad and I can still reach despite you growing so confounded tall. Right, Iridiana?”
She yelped as he did the same to her. “What –”
“First time for everything,” he returned boldly, with a rakish grin that Aranya imagined might just have been the one which swept her mother off the Isle.
Iridiana’s silvery-blue cheeks developed a distinct hint of rose.
With that, the key turned soundlessly in the lock and tall Abazan, impeccably clad in his formal turquoise robes of office despite the late hour, pressed the immense jalkwood panels apart. They moved soundlessly upon runners, fifty feet tall and two feet thick, but were so perfectly balanced that a touch of the hand was enough. The gap that eventually opened was over two hundred feet wide.
The hall within was a substantial, large oval with one wall to their left hand cut straight, while to their right hand, tiers of seating rose many ranks tall toward the back of the space. Even their breathing echoed, but Aranya understood that both the architecture and innate magic in the surrounding stone rendered the space acoustically perfect once a performer took the stage. She scanned the hall curiously. Odd. Was there a tracery of horiatite in the walls? Without thinking, she raised her hands.
“Star Dragoness!” the Chief Scrollkeeper hissed. “Magic is forbidden in this space.”
“Oh.”
“It would disturb the balance of the ancient runes and wards used during its construction. Understood?” When she nodded pensively, the severity of his frown lifted a fraction. “Upon the stage is the main Dragonharp, commissioned by none other than Zanthrillior himself, upon which only the most celebrated Dragon musicians play.”
Indeed, the towering X-shaped instrument was as large as Zuziana’s Dragoness, and appeared to have no less than a thousand strings. It was clearly meant to be played by a Dragon standing in the unusual position of upright on their hind legs, while the forepaws worked the strings in tandem. The whole Dragonharp was carved from a single, monolithic hunk of highly polished ooliti wood, set with garnets, carnelians and emeralds in patterns symbolising the scales of Estathya the Pearlescent, younger shell sister to Fra’anior himself, who was famously the Dragoness of Many Colours, Abazan explained in resonant, reverential tones as they approached, sounding as if he were quoting from a lore scroll. Clearly, no girl could have played this instrument. Ten girls furnished with ladders might have stood a chance.
The Master, however, led them right around the stage area and on to a similar door set at the far side of the chamber – the main store of musical instruments at Gi’ishior, he pontificated, producing yet another magnificent specimen of a key.
Naughty, naughty, Iridiana goaded her sister meantime.
I … just … I don’t know what I was thinking, Nyahi.
Obviously – I mean, hold that thought, petal. Aranya blinked. You need to learn to trust your instincts more and not bow so easily to some pompous fusty-head.
Iridiana!
Can’t help it. Pure Chaos runs in my bloodstream. Now, if you were embarrassed before …
What?
As these doors creaked open rather more reluctantly than the previous pair, Aranya’s eyes roamed down a passageway that led between racks of musical instruments to her left hand and to her right, a wide space holding harps, tubular bells, Dragon horns and other historic instruments. Slap in the middle of that space, her eyes lit upon a familiar coterie of snoozing dragonet rascals!
The Chief Scrollkeeper spat, “What is this?”
* * * *
Zuziana wandered the battlefield wishing that she dreamed. In all the conflict she had witnessed while fighting at Aranya’s side or as her Dragon Rider, she had never seen the aftermath as close and visceral as this. Dragons torn limb from limb. Golden Dragon blood, dry yet as vivid as the day it spilled from throats and flanks, had run in rivers across a dusty plain. As far as the eye could see, Dragon and Human fallen littered the landscape.
So brutal was the scene, she had slumped to her knees clutching her belly, fearing that the pangs she felt must mean premature labour. Not so. Here she was, sole living witness to a battle frozen in time.
Nothing moved.
There were no windrocs nor any other carrion birds to pick over the spoils, nor indeed a sign that anything had endured so much as a day’s decay since that fateful moment the Pygmy Dragoness had drawn them inside the Egg, and trapped herself too.
Her feet stumbled through the ashes of draconic fires. She meandered past legion Lesser Dragons of an unfamiliar sooty black-crimson hue, their spine and skull spikes sticking up garishly, almost obscenely, as though a vile force of magic had wrenched them into a different, thornier and altogether more malevolent aspect. There was no charnel smell. No stench of rotting flesh. Every Dragon lay unmoving where he or she had fallen, as though slain by a single, all-encompassing heart attack.
Hibernating, or dead?
Zuziana might not be alive as most people understood it, but she could cry. As she walked slowly around a knot of Night-Red Dragons and Greens, lying as if casually tossed in a heap, she had to keep rubbing blurriness out of her vision. Ahead lay the volcano which housed the famous Dragon Rider Academy of Jeradia, its black slopes littered with the tiny specks of Human bodies and the larger blobs of Dragons and other creatures she did not recognise. The battle appeared to have a pattern; she realised that she had instinctively set out for its epicentre.
Suddenly, Zip yelped as she almost lost her balance. A paw print! Wow, it had to be ten feet deep – driven into solid stone! That would have been a nasty fall.
Leandrial had been here. Of course.
Skirting the immense print, she began to pay closer attention to the scattered Dragons. Not all were dead, were they? It was more as if they had been frozen by the magic; cast into a strange state of hibernation that slowed physical and biological processes to an amazing degree. Even a bombardier beetle she saw next to a dusty red stone had been ossified mid-step – well, some process similar to ossification, she supposed. If the Pygmy Dragoness had come out alive then there must be others – not that Dragon, its neck skewed at an impossible angle – but many seemed to have taken little significant damage, and a few appeared unhurt at all.
Where would Pip’s allies have been? Would she find this Silver, who she guessed must be a Dragon?
Zip pursed her lips. Could she hope to raise even some of these in time to take the battle to the Thoralians when the time came? Now, there was a bold thought. She had a whole army in storage here, and Aranya had once dared to call her General Zuziana.
The title had a nice ring to it.
The kind of ring with which to wring a Yellow-White Shapeshifter’s neck!
* * * *
Took Ari longest time, Sapphire explained apologetically.
Ari is not cross – she drew a mental breath – but that man is. How did you know we were coming here?
Sapphire has ways, the dragonet said archly. Sapphire clever-wings, aye?
“Well?” sniffed Abazan.
“Frankly, I have no idea,” Aranya responded evenly. “Dragonets know a great deal more than we give them credit for.”
The Chief Scrollkeeper’s expression suggested that young women should not be pert.
Struggling to keep her cool, Aranya said, “Chief Scrollkeeper, I would like y
ou to direct us to all the Human-sized Dragonharps, please. One of these must have belonged to Auli-Ambar, the –”
“The non-existent Dragon Librarian?” he interrupted.
“Aye. That’s who we –”
“And what shall we do about these creatures who you allow to roam unattended –”
ABAZAN!!
The man stumbled backward in shock. So did her father. Iridiana snapped through three form changes before managing to reinsert herself perfectly into her clothing before it had time to crumple to the ground. Aranya wished she knew that trick!
Through gritted teeth, she said, “Much as it pains your sensibilities, Chief Scrollkeeper, I am more concerned with the fate of the Island-World than with the doings of dragonets or the nuances of whatever protocol I appear to have flouted in your eyes. Can we please get to the harps? Now?”
“King Beran …” the man began.
Beran’s eyes were as flinty as she had ever seen them. “I’m with Aranya, Master Abazan. Stop wasting our time!”
Phew. Her Dad could snap like a Dragon when it suited!
Abazan was clearly not used to being treated in this manner. Aranya realised that he most likely did not believe half of their story; his role was largely focussed on the preservation of tradition around these Halls, but only over the last couple of months had he been required to deal with the previously unthinkable return of the Dragons, and all the politics, hassle, fiery tempers, demands and suchlike that entailed.
With a pained jerk, he turned away. “This way. They are not many.”
Aranya stayed him with a hand upon his sleeve. “Master Abazan. Much has changed here of late. When you have time, I would like to hear your thoughts on how best to organise these Halls. I hope to usher in an influx of many, many more Dragons. That will upset the balance of power again, and I can only imagine how hard these last months have been on you and your staff. Partly, that’s my fault.”
He glanced back at her in surprise.
“I’m young, stuffed to the ear canals with power, and all these Dragons have to listen to me. I can make your life very much easier – in fact, I’m offering to do so by way of apology. Just as soon as we finish spoiling Dramagon’s plans.”
Evidently not daring to make any reply save a curt nod, the Master led them at a smart clip past the dragonets, who immediately mobbed Aranya with little chirrups of joy, down past the towering full-size Dragonharps to a section much deeper in the stores. Here, they came to a quintet of vault doors recessed into the solid stone, each round metal portal a markedly different colour – ruby, amethyst, white chalcedony, peridot and mellow azure, she saw.
Abazan said, “There is only one one-eighth size instrument which Zanthrillior restored by his own paw in the purported time of the Dragonfriend, and that is held in this vault here. Tradition holds that this is the selfsame instrument which once graced the chamber of Sankira the Grey, who even as a hatchling displayed an unparalleled affinity for music.” Touching a selection of small keys to the vault door in a clearly rehearsed sequence, he added, “The instrument is now in excess of 1,700 years old. I trust –”
“You have my word,” said Aranya.
“Thank you.”
With that, the vault door shimmered and vanished, revealing a low, deep chamber lit by draconic mage lights. A puff of stale air struck their nostrils. Standard hand harps, great harps and small-scale Dragonharps lined either wall in exacting order, perhaps eighty to a hundred instruments in all, with plenty of room to spare. All were in perfect repair.
Pointing ahead to their left, Iridiana said, “It’s that one.”
“Aye, you can feel it!” enthused the Master. “The magic, the touch … we know not how it was done, but this instrument exhibits a brand of magic which has defeated every Loremaster or scholar who has ever studied it.”
Aranya shivered with excitement. This was it. This dark instrument, crafted with exquisite attention to detail, encrusted with gemstones and gleaming as if it had been polished by a loving hand only yesterday, held secrets. She knew it, too.
Rubbing her hands together, she whispered, “So, Auli-Ambar, let the –”
The strings reverberated to her voice, creating a glissade of sound that filled the chamber with thrilling notes.
The Chief Scrollkeeper startled, exclaiming, “Holy Fra’anior! It’s never done that before.”
Chapter 29: Sung Magic
DESPITE ITS INITIAL response to her voice, the small Dragonharp refused to grant any further hints as to how it might be used or what secrets might be hidden inside of it, or regarding its nature. Eventually giving in to their exhortations, Master Abazan tipped the harp up onto its built-in wheels and trundled it with great care into the main Concert Hall and up a ramp onto the stage.
“No other position would do,” he said a trifle sheepishly.
Then, he played a range of different historic melodies for them in the hope that one would trigger … something. They were disappointed only by the lack of reaction; his musicianship upon the complex instrument was outstanding. Then the girls and Sapphire fell to examining the Dragonharp by every non-invasive means at their disposal, including trying to shift it by Chrysolitic means, much to the Master’s concern. Nothing.
Only, Aranya could practically smell its elusive magic. She and Iridiana agreed that it reminded them in some respects of Chaos magic, but this magic was different. It responded differently, if at all, seeming to slide away from their awareness with liquescent purpose. At least it did not cause them to forget anything, at least not obviously. It just did not do what they expected. The two ‘wings’ of the X-shaped harp, or double harp as some of the lore records had dubbed it, were made to be played by the hands independently. They examined every part meticulously. There did not appear to be any recesses, seams or hidden catches anywhere upon the harp. They even checked underneath.
At length, Aranya sat back on her haunches. “This magic just keeps reminding me of how as a child I sometimes tried to catch the meltwater of icicles in my fingers.”
Iridiana checked off on her fingers, “Watery. Maybe Chaotic. Unique. Definitely something neither you nor I have ever encountered.”
“I wish Leandrial were here to examine its harmonic properties.”
“Well, she is – in your memories, Aranya. Either that, or we beg Master Abazan to let us do what we discussed before, which –”
Aranya!
Lyriela! Ta’armion! Tiredness forgotten, Aranya sprang to her feet. Come on, Nyahi, you’ve another relative to meet. Lyriela of Ha’athior is our cousin. Seems it was only a few months ago that I finally threatened Prince Ta’armion into executing a right royal kidnapping and making her his bride. A bit slow off the mark, our Prince.
He looks sweet.
Remind me to tell you the story of how we first met before you say that! Now, Lyriela’s mute in both forms, but she can speak through telepathy.
Shortly, violet-eyed Lyriela was goggling at Iridiana and another happy family moment was in full swing. Beran and Ta’armion swapped a few notes regarding their respective kidnappings of their wives, while Sapphire made herself useful curling herself about Lyriela’s neck and purring up a minor storm. When they had briefed Lyriela on what they were doing, she immediately said:
The key must be musical, if all you report of this girl is true. Where, I ask you, is the score?
Iridiana shrugged. Your guess is as good as ours.
Aranya’s neck prickled. Musical? Magic … fluidity … musical harmony … Balance … and a score to bind them, she said, slowly turning about on the stage.
Score? What’s the score? Sapphire chirruped. Ari play game?
No, you silly … dragonet descants … the Dragonfriend’s love of dance … what was her favourite piece, again? She had Flicker, I have Sapphire – could Auli-Ambar have kept dragonets, too? Common themes … destiny …
Iridiana touched Lyriela’s hand. Does Aranya often speak to herself like this?
&
nbsp; I don’t know, cousin. I’m not sure her brain works quite the same way as everyone else’s – in musical terms, I suppose one could say she is the harmony of starlight, after all, while we are the harmony of Sky Fires. They are fundamentally different.
Aranya chuckled at the two shy girls chatting away to each other. I’m just – what did you say? Lyriela! Say that again!
Her cousin jumped. What? I …
Scowling somewhat fiercely at Aranya, Ta’armion sprang to her side. There, now. Lyriela say harmony star bubble, blap … uh, drat. My Dragonish!
The Immadian laughed merrily. Perfect!
Beran put in, “Can someone kindly translate for the left-out King over here?”
“Aranya has a genius idea and she’s getting undressed,” Iridiana said drolly. “Help with the laces, sister dear? Huh, is that Ardan?”
Aranya jumped guiltily. “Where? Roaring rajals, you rotten tease!”
Punching Iridiana on the arm caused her to snap into a dracofloral bouquet the size of a respectable bonfire. Lyriela, Ta’armion and Abazan gaped!
“Excuse me, but I need to try to glow,” Aranya said. “I’d appreciate it if everyone shielded their eyes, and Ta’armion and Abazan – eyes completely shut, gentlemen. Master Abazan, I think I don’t need to do magic in here. Yours was a key clue.”
“Mine?” said he, turned to face rigidly away from Aranya.
Lyriela slapped Ta’armion’s arm. Not a word. Nor a mental picture. I’m watching you, husband.
Mwaa-ha-haa, I’ll catnap you regain! he threatened, channelling Nak rather effectively. Chains over Islands! Tasty wife-napping!
Iridiana pretended to fan her face. “Wow, you Fra’aniorians are a bold people! Has King Beran’s story not taught you the perils of trying to enchain Shapeshifter Dragonesses?”
“And how!” Ta’armion said feelingly. “Do you know how many pairs of my trousers she’s crisped? It seems every other day –”
Iridiana’s and Beran’s dancing eyebrows informed him of the mistake he had just made.
Ta’armion promptly turned purple, and squeaked, “I-I d-didn’t mean …”