by Marc Secchia
Beran clapped him on the shoulder. “Sounded like a magnificent slip-up to me, my friend!”
“Waah!”
Aranya allowed their laughter and joshing to wash over her. She needed happiness. She needed to forget the grief, the disappointments, her failure to overcome. Unexpectedly, amidst all the reunions that she had enjoyed this day, the image that slipped to the forefront of her mind was that of Nak and Oyda’s final parting. Theirs was the bliss of a marriage, far from perfect but still one of profound devotion to one another after over a century and a half together, which had been touched by Fra’anior’s ultimate accolade. His fire and light which had marked their faces was something … unearthly; filled with the purity she wished for her own starlight; the transcendent, beautiful fury that was so much more than a desire for vengeance. Perhaps it was akin to the ideal of perfect justice, or the cleansing of untainted flame at a furnace’s heart.
After all that had passed and all that she had seen, was such an zenith of beautiful fury even possible?
Doubt must be shunned. Excised!
Nak. Oyda, she whispered. Burn now with me. Burn in me.
The spreading of her radiance was like dawn creeping up and over an Island. Shining from her position in front of the stage, the starlight tiptoed up the Human- and Dragon-sized steps that led to the Concert Cavern’s tiers of seating. Dark grey stone turned radiant. The places worn by boots and the score marks of talons were thrown into sharp relief. Shadows deepened and thickened, pooling behind seat rests and behind the Dragonharps standing upon the stage, the five-foot tall miniature and its mighty companion, so much taller, broader and heavier in the beams, yet no less a work of art. For a moment her light flickered as qualms intruded, but Aranya had moved to imagining her mother’s rebirth.
Strengthening, her light swept upward and outward.
Ta’armion was the first to gasp, “Great leaping Islands! It’s … music!”
Iridiana clapped her hands excitedly. “Come on, Aranya! Look at what you just found!”
Abazan just rotated in place, speechless, taking in the score that ran all the way around the room, picked out in gleaming white horiatite upon the dark grey substrate. His dumbfounded expression said it all.
Lyriela frowned. Wow, it’s a complicated piece. I see … music for two pairs of forepaws and pedals, besides four distinct vocal lines. One is a descant written in notation unfamiliar to me.
A dragonet descant? Iridiana guessed.
If this is a key and has to be played or sung perfectly, we’ve got some serious practice ahead of us, Lyriela pointed out. Wouldn’t you say, beloved?
“Aye. Just look at those baritone runs,” he said, pointing across to his right. “Can either of you girls manage a coloratura or lyric soprano?”
“Not since the pox,” said Aranya.
“Badly,” said Nyahi. “I had some basic training before I was exiled. What about Pip? She squeaks in her native language, doesn’t she?”
“Ancient Southern,” said Aranya. “Aye, that has some tricky trills and birdcalls. Maybe she could manage some of that part. I could try a lower register, but it’s all a bit rough and wheezy these days.”
Beran said, “Are you sure this is it, Sparky?”
“Well, the mysterious Dragon Librarian hasn’t inked her name to the scrolleaf as yet, so no, Dad. But I have a good feeling about this. Once we apply the magic of that harp to this score, we will discover something … amazing.”
“Did that already,” said he, reaching out to squeeze Iridiana’s hand.
“Different amazing.”
She smiled at Iridiana, whose cheeks flamed with delight at Beran’s words. Her mind was turbulent; focussed on the task. Aranya wondered if she truly understood why she used a superlative in this context. Or what instinct had even led her to this discovery? No. But now was not the time for questioning. Zuziana, the Academy and the Egg all depended on them.
Oddly, it was time to sing. Perhaps a Dragoness must learn to sing before she could truly roar?
* * * *
By dawn, Aranya had to sleep. Teams of scholars were copying the musical scores she had highlighted section by section. Lyriela had transformed into her Dragoness form and set to practising the intricate score upon the main Dragonharp, despite that it was really too large for her size and reach, to Master Abazan’s beatific whispers of approbation. ‘Oh, a deft paw! What touch, what passion!’ Those were the last words she heard.
Aranya dreamed.
She called to Ardan, battling amidst towering walls of savage flame. Howling voices swirled around her. He sheltered beneath a slowly-moving Dragon’s shell, perspiring heavily and groaning as he linked with – Ri’arion! She could reach him. The strength of stars to thee, my friend.
The monk did not appear to register her contact, but a slow smile gentled the planes of his ascetic face. Aranya watched, and then reached out to touch their shields with starlight.
The three men laughed gruffly.
Ah, yes! Asturbar roared.
The dream whisked her away over volcano and mountain, through canyon and Cloudlands, to a place where a single sun shone unbearably. She felt compelled to pass by, but a mysterious force thwarted her every attempt. Aranya battled and connived, applied her magic and her commands, and at one point found the Pygmy Dragoness fighting alongside her. Even together, they could not prevail. The dreamscape was strange, riven by baleful sunlight and underpinned by an immensity of roaring that reminded her of Cloudlands-bound waterfalls, yet they sounded wrong somehow. The goal remained out of reach.
She awoke gnashing her teeth.
“Good morn to you,” Pip said cheerfully.
Aranya sat bolt upright and thwacked her skull on the shelf above her bed. “Shenanigans!”
“That’s my name,” said the imp in her singsong voice, smiling uncertainly at the now-awake Immadian. She wore a simple white linen shift that must have been raided from the children’s clothing store. “Come on, sleepyhead. Work to do.”
“I am not – honestly! Awake now, no thanks to you. I was working –”
Pip retorted, “Trapping other people in your dreams? Fine thing for a friend to do. Remind me never to become your enemy.”
“I … did? Sorry. Unintended consequences.”
Swinging her legs off the bed, Aranya tucked back her hair. “Who is Silver, by the way?”
“Nice black eye,” said Pip.
“Excellent accompaniment to the hole in my cheek, wouldn’t you say?”
Biting her lip, the Pygmy girl said, “Sorry.”
“Aargh, sorry! Feeling needlessly snappish. Silver?”
“Huh, your father did warn me you’re a bit single-minded. ‘Implacable’ was his word.” Hastily, she added, “Along with a Dragonship-load of compliments, before you start huffing at me. Silver is my … boyfriend. Dragonfriend. Unfortunately, I meant to warn you about something – Silver is also an unwanted shell son of Marshal Re’akka. Which makes him –”
“Of the lineage of the Thoralians,” Aranya finished in a low hiss. “Flying ralti sheep! I assume he’s true to the cause?”
“Aye.” Aranya noticed how the young teen’s toes curled as they spoke about Silver.
She had begun to stand, but felt awkward about towering over the pretty Pygmy, so she remained seated on the bed, keeping them at eye level. “Good. I can work with that.”
“You can?”
She met the girl’s black-eyed gaze with a firm nod. “Aye. I don’t mean to sound callous, but I understand that these Herimor Marshals see being prolific as both a sign of status and a religious duty. The Thoralians apparently made a habit of destroying those who did not meet the standard – whatever that means. Silver must be quality.”
“The best. But frankly, I’m not sure which is worse – meeting the standard or failing it,” Pip admitted softly. “I …”
“You’re in love.” The girl dipped her eyes. Aranya felt for her. Here was a twist she could not have
imagined. Taking Pip’s hand in hers, she squeezed her dark fingers. “Mercy, girl, you need to meet my Ardan. He’s from the Western Isles; just as dark as you. ‘Jungle girl, meet my beautiful barbarian. Barbarian, meet ferociously cute curly-haired girl –’ ” Pip chortled happily. “Right, as someone famously said, to work.”
The Concert Cavern was a hive of activity. Music stands had been set up, scholars and musicians ran hither and thither, Prince Ta’armion was warming up at an electrifying fortissimo and Lyriela in her Violet Dragoness form had settled herself by the larger Dragonharp. She was discussing several technical points of the score with Master Abazan, seated beside the smaller Dragonharp, in telepathic Dragonish. The annotated talon stretches in the flowing arpeggios and runs appeared to be a challenge for a Dragoness of her size.
“Hey, Sparky,” said King Beran. “Decent black eye there, old girl. I noticed yesterday. Where did you get that?”
“Ahem.” She tried not to look at Pip, who promptly gave the game away with an embarrassed cough.
“I see.” Beran indicated Iridiana to his right hand, who had managed to find a light lilac-coloured lace dress that merely brushed her kneecaps. That was a rare find around Fra’anior Cluster. “Does this explain the split lip, Sparkles? And the limp, Pip?”
All three girls looked in various directions, and none of them at the chortling King.
Drolly, Beran said, “Well, it goes to show we are dealing with Dragonesses here and not a gaggle of simpering court maidens. You’d eat them alive. Good. Hope your voices are feeling strong, because the good Prince has promised to take us in hand this morn.”
On cue, Ta’armion tut-tutted importantly. “Attend!”
Pip called, “Class is in!”
The Prince singled her out at once. “Pip! Front and centre. Second line from the top is yours. Start learning the words.”
“Oh, that’s easy. One minute,” said Pip, flipping through the scrolleaf. “I’ve an eidetic memory.”
“Oh, somebody slap her,” Iridiana groaned.
“All short jokers belong back in the nursery,” the Immadian King chirped.
Pip immediately whirled to glare at him, hands on hips. “I am violently allergic to short person jokes! Don’t even start, none of you!” The cavern fell silent as she shrilled, “We Pygmies were created as we are by Fra’anior himself! One more wisecrack about my size and I promise you, I’ll … I will so – I will hurt you all!”
After a long, painfully uncomfortable silence, she sighed and held up her hand. “Stupidly cranky Shapeshifter over here. Apologies, everyone.”
Aranya pointed at her eye. “I didn’t even make a joke, and look what I earned.”
Pip laughed, but Aranya noticed she had to clench her fists and talk herself into simmering down. Wow. Hibernation rage? Poor girl.
The group fell to learning their assigned parts. Ta’armion worked them hard, patiently taking each line or pairing parts before they started to put the whole piece together. It was a decidedly non-traditional arrangement of the Flame Cycle, usually performed as a balletic dance opera with limited vocal sections, which recounted a draconic reincarnation legend. Although it was arguably the best-known composition around the Cluster, this score had been considerably embellished for two Dragonharp parts plus all the vocals.
It was also Hualiama’s all-time favourite. Intriguing.
After five hours of solid work, the Prince declared a much-needed lunch break. They repaired to the dining cavern to enjoy a traditional assortment of nuts, rustic breads and fruit, washed down with berry wine, fruit cordials or spring water. The Dragons snacked from great brass platters of spiced ralti meat and salted fowl. Evidently, the harried cooks were not accustomed to providing for royal company, but Beran put them at ease with several well-turned and well-deserved compliments. Sapphire and her brood entertained everyone with a spontaneous rendition of the rollicking Rebirth Aria with copious amounts of dragonet-embellishment. King Beran disappeared to arrange a Dragonflight to go check on his inbound family. Nerves? Or wisdom? Aranya fed her gang of four-pawed thieves on fine steak slices, provided by the kitchen upon Ta’armion’s discreet prompting.
Three of the mites promptly fell asleep right there in the palm of her hand. With her fingernail, Aranya scratched absently behind their tiny skull ruffs where dragonets liked it best. Suddenly, her other hand jerked and she spilled her half-drunk goblet of cordial across the table.
“Ardan? Ardan!”
Everyone turned to stare.
Aranya did not care that she had cried out aloud. Using prearranged code words, she conversed quickly with him as best the distance allowed, which was poorly indeed, trying to brief him on their progress. She had just begun to allude to Zuziana’s perilous situation when the communication broke off as though an invisible door had been slammed shut. Foul play? Was that faint, fading signature Infurion’s cunning intervention? Opening her eyes, Aranya relayed what she had learned to the table – that Ardan, Asturbar and Ri’arion safely crossed the Rift with damaging losses to their allies; most particularly, Leandrial had been severely injured.
Tines dropped and appetites faded in the light of her report. Ta’armion led the charge back to the Concert Cavern for a full run-through.
* * * *
The Remoyan Princess threaded her way across the battlefield with purpose. Somewhere amidst this snarl must be a few Dragon Riders. They would be allies from the Academy. Several times she had to skirt the mighty paw prints left by the Land Dragons who had fought here, Leandrial and the traitor Shurgal. More than one imprint had become a grave for a flattened Lesser Dragon or two. She averted her eyes from the most gruesome sights, such as where it seemed one of the behemoths must have rolled over hundreds of Dragons and Human troops locked in battle on the ground.
At one point as she looked behind her, she saw a floating Island that looked just like one from Herimor – Eridoon, she realised, the Marshal’s stronghold from which he had staged his devastation of the North. The ragions beneath had been severely fire-blasted, but the Island still floated in the apparent ‘sky’, if the white blankness surrounding this scene, lending it a dreamlike cast, could be called such. Only Zuziana knew this was real. All too real. And it was up to her, who had not the slightest breath of healing power, to start reviving these people and Dragons.
“Oho!” Zip crowed softly as she spotted a Dragon Rider pair. “Excellent.”
She walked past Dragons and Riders now, dozens who had been surrounded by these Night-Reds before everyone simply lay down together, until she found several for whom Leandrial and Nak’s faulty memories had nonetheless supplied names.
Here lay the unmistakable Kassik the Brown, a thickset Brown Shapeshifter and Master of the Academy, and to Nak’s risqué amusement, his student beloved, Casitha, clasped in his forepaw. Nak had delighted in pointing out how entirely inappropriate their relationship was. And here must be Emmaraz the Red and his Eastern Rider, Maylin! Aye! Half covered by Emmaraz’s outspread wing lay the Jade hatchling, Chymasion, who Nak had recalled had unique Catalytic powers – the cause of much speculation since. Now where was his Rider, Arosia, who had been Pip’s closest friend since she had lived in the zoo? There, a dozen yards further on, lay a young beauty with honey-brown hair splayed about her like a misplaced blanket. She could simply have been asleep, her serene face upturned to the sky.
“Arosia,” Zip whispered. “And here is Yaethi of Helyon. Must be. Ah …”
A refulgent lump of silver resting several tens of paces away arrested her gaze; a striking yet misshapen ingot, slumped in a way that made her hand flutter instantly to her throat. Pip’s question – Silver? There could be no mistaking such a singular colouration. Yet, the young Dragon lay so crumpled, folded up like a ghastly replica of a spiced pretzel cake so beloved of her native Remoy …
Silver! Oh no. Oh great Fra’anior, please – no!
Zip lurched into a run.
Chapter 30: Ascending, We Shine
<
br /> Aranya frowned at Abazan, who frowned at Lyriela, who frowned at her husband. Frustration etched every forehead.
Prince Ta’armion scratched his beard thoughtfully. “ ’Twas boldly and ably sung, but I sense a lamentable lack of reaction in this hall. Excellent descant work by the dragonets, close to note perfect on the Dragonharps, and the vocal section held together – mostly.”
Iridiana winced. “My fault.”
The Chief Scrollkeeper crooked a finger at Aranya. “Young lady. Come play this harp.”
“Me? But my hands –”
Beran said, “Sparky, Sparkles, both pairs of hands to the well crank. We’ll take any advantage we can get. Dad’s orders!” When they turned identically quirky looks upon him, he added, “Couldn’t resist.”
Shortly, the haunting opening passages of the Flame Cycle were once again underway, with Aranya picking out a line of music – having to use two hands to reach the long, spidering chords due to her gnarled fingers. Iridiana stood behind her, resting one hand upon her shoulder and the other upon the harp’s frame. Abazan coached from the side, mouthing, ‘G-sharp is here. E-major. Watch out for the diminished chord coming up …’ He also played the foot pedals because Aranya was preoccupied enough with trying to find the right strings as she followed along. Maybe she should be more thankful, to use Beran’s words, for her ‘proper royal tutelage’ in the musical arts. How she had once chafed at her mother’s instruction!
When you wake, Mom, I’ll thank you properly for putting up with a stroppy, ungrateful daughter.
How time changed one’s perspectives, growing up.
Her emotions seemed to gush from her soul into her fingers, enabling them to find greater touch and deftness than before. Deep into the second movement, however, her neck began to prickle with unfamiliar magic. Her crow of delight instantly chased it away. Nodding encouragement at the others, she bent to her task, trying by any means possible to elicit a response.
Auli. Auli-Ambar Ta’afaya. Even her family name had been impossible to pinpoint. Won’t you come –