Beautiful Fury

by Marc Secchia

  Our family packs in quality over size, she teased. My maternal and paternal lines are … well, quite different, we could say. Has no one explained genealogy to you?

  Not of Shapeshifters. You’re all crazy, teased Zankaradia.

  Aranya burst out laughing.

  Silver yelled, Who’s laughing like – oh! With respect, noble Dragoness, could you refrain from shaking the whole Island whilst we make the final adjustments?

  Teams of Dragons removed the partially embedded eggshell from the volcano’s underside. Now for the touchdown. Silver and Chymasion performed admirably, given as they had dozens of Cognates and an audience of Land Dragons lining the edge of the wind-still tan Cloudlands as the Island descended, all voicing conflicting opinions about what should be done and how. At last the volcano settled to a sizzling rest upon its new cradle. The Thunderous Thirty immediately swarmed around the base, melting rock and blasting here and there with cries of satisfaction in their characteristic gruff, barking draconic dialect. The din they raised drowned out all the cheering save for Zankaradia’s high-pitched bugling.

  Rising into the air with her father as her Dragon Rider, Aranya explained, “Showing the Thirty something to blow up is like tossing raw meat to a starving Dragon.”

  He shouted back, “I see! This is blast-honour for them?”

  “Mighty indeed, and a scrolleaf in legend. Come! I’ve so many people for you to meet. Zuziana is back with us, and there’s Master Kassik who heads up the Academy, and …”

  Chattering away, the Amethyst Dragoness zipped over the rim and air-braked just in front of the Corundum Red, who was trying very hard not to look bored at having to sit still. Aranya introduced her father as ‘father of the Star Dragoness’ and the hatchling genuflected gravely to him. When she was told she was free to go but ‘be careful of all the little people,’ Zankaradia instantly began to uncoil with a rushing sound like a storm sweeping over reed-beds, and then she took a few steps up to the rim to goggle at everything and everyone.

  They goggled right back.

  Meantime, Aranya was doing the rounds with her Dad and Iridiana. When she let slip that she had ‘sort of adopted Pip’ he demanded to know how she had managed to omit this vital snippet of information – but when she explained to him, and again to Silha, he did what her Dad did best.

  Kneeling, he took Pip’s right hand in both of his. “My lady Pip.”

  “A-Aye?” she stammered.

  “I warned Aranya about finding all these potential sisters about the Isles,” he said solemnly. “I said, ‘Pick the best! Only the very best will do.’ But she’s disobedient, don’t you know? Always winging off here and there. Just won’t listen to her old man. So I said, ‘I already have five children.’ I guess listening isn’t a strong point either, is it? Because if I allow this, doesn’t that mean I have to put up with another potential son-in-law?” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at Silver. “Is that one any use at all?”

  Pip just shook her head, unable to laugh, or to cry, or to make any sound at all. She just trembled.

  Zip said, “I count five children and two wives, o King.”

  “Remoyan ways are just expensive,” Beran deadpanned, making his watching family chortle. He pointed at Asturbar. “And I haven’t even started feeding you yet, young man!”

  “He eats marginally less than Zankaradia there,” Iridiana suggested coyly.

  Asturbar rubbed his ample stomach. “Where’s the crime in liking my food, I ask you? Did someone mention a feast this evening?”

  Turning back to Pip, Beran said, “A little dragonet told me you like to be called Pipsqueak?”

  “Not … so much,” she spluttered.

  “Good. Because I’m terrible with nicknames – I love to use them all the time, eh Sparky? And Sparkles. Boots. Mischief.” This was for Zuziana, and now a nod toward Silver. “Working on yours, old-timer. But I haven’t changed my mind, Pip. Not one jot. Stubbornness is definitely a family trait. So when I said before that my door was open to you, I meant it with all my heart. I simply couldn’t imagine any greater honour than what Aranya has not so much proposed, but decreed. Therefore … welcome. Welcome into our family. You shall be one of us.”

  Moving to stand just behind her husband, Queen Silha whom Aranya had never known to speak in public, said, “I also welcome you, Pip. We should make this formal, shouldn’t we, Beran?”

  “In Immadian tradition, that’s the Queen’s responsibility,” he demurred.

  Silha smiled sweetly at the overwhelmed Pygmy girl. “In the absence of a royal historian or recordist, I’ll just make this up. Pip of the Pygmies, as the reigning Queen of Immadia it gives me great honour –” she paused to dab at her eyes “– and a manner of joy inexpressibly profound, to welcome you into our family. Would you kneel?”

  Sapphire chirped, “Iri?”

  Beran said, “Aye! Almost forgot. And you, Iridiana.”

  The silence grew such weight and significance, it was as if Fra’anior himself breathed his blessing upon this moment, a golden evening upon the day of the Academy’s restoration.

  The Chaos Shifter popped through a dizzying series of transformations before somehow managing to find her way to Pip’s side, kneeling. Both of their eyes were luminous, as were their countenances. Starlight shone in them and through them.

  Silha said, “Aranya, Beran, come forward. And, can I have the boys and Leanya, too?”

  They stood with their hands upon Pip’s and Iridiana’s shoulders, with the twins standing beside their mother and Leanya cradled in Aranya’s left arm.

  When everything was arranged to the Queen’s satisfaction, she raised her voice, discreetly amplified by Ri’arion and Aranya, and declared, “Let all bear witness upon this most solemn yet joyous occasion that I, Queen Silha of Immadia, representative of the ancient royal House of Immadia, together with my husband King Beran of Immadia, do of my free and unencumbered will embrace, adopt and confirm into our family our daughters Iridiana and Pip’úrth’l-iòlall-Yò’oótha –” she shared a smile with Aranya as she pronounced the complex name adequately, and Pip almost burst with delight “– who shall share equally amongst our children the rights, honours and duties accorded to Princesses of Immadia. Let all who hear, know that this is the sworn and legal word of the House of Immadia, as irrevocable as it is binding.”

  With an unusually effusive gesture, Silha raised her hands to the darkling sky and cried, “I give you their Royal Highnesses … the Princess Iridiana … and the Princess Pip, of Immadia!”

  Under cover of the tears and shouting and roaring and general euphoria, Beran leaned down to whisper to them both, “Told you so. I get the very best ones.”

  “Alright, pirate-Dad,” Aranya beamed. “Well done!”

  That evening was one unending feast, peppered with hugs and tears, and salted with such joy as caused the very stars to dance.

  Chapter 37: By the Mountains of Immadia

  On a Frost-Bitten midwinter’s morning three and a half weeks after Thoralian’s downfall, Aranya lifted her gaze to behold her beloved mountains of Immadia. Her hands were clasped before her chin, pressing her gnarled knuckles against her mouth. She did not want to cry.

  Here, it had all started that dawn Commander Ignathion’s fleet hove to before Immadia’s battlements, and took King Beran’s surrender. What a day. She had downed her first Dragonship. Yet, being taken into exile had only been the first Isle in a journey that spanned despair, rebirth, bitterness, treachery, glory and learning to shine for all that she believed in.

  This was another incredible day. Zankaradia the Corundum Red swam with leisurely, sinuous flexions of her coils into a bay on the eastern edge of Immadia, a bay of Cloudlands as delicately tinted as the pearlock-eggshell blue of the overarching, cloudless skies. The Isle stood stark in frosted majesty. Its sheer basalt and granite cliffs were a deep grey, broken by the layers of frozen turquoise terrace lakes. So clear was the morn, the pristine white peaks seemed carved o
f honed blades that loomed above the walled city nestled beside their hafts. Closer at hand a tiny fishing village clung to the cliff edge, just a few handfuls of dwellings tucked into snowy white collars. A group of three fur-clad children were ice-skating on the uppermost terrace lake level just below the houses. As Zankaradia smiled down at them, filled with unabashed curiosity at their activities, the children’s faces painted a picture of astonishment.

  The Ancient Dragoness’ nostrils ejected mighty clouds of steam above the village as she delicately brought her muzzle to rest in a clear, snowy field just beside the outermost walled vegetable garden, allowing her passengers to alight – King Beran and Queen Silha, Aranya and Ardan with Sapphire, Zuziana and Ri’arion, Asturbar and Iridiana, and Silver with his arm thrown about a shivering bundle of furs – Pip, engulfed.

  “Heat shield?” Aranya offered.

  “I must get used to this,” chattered the invisible teeth from beneath a thick fur ruff.

  “Surviving, Ardan?”

  “I’ve never been so cold in my life,” he growled, stamping his thick boots vigorously. “You Northerners call this winter? Brr! It’s unbelievable – both the temperature and the beauty.” Catching hold of her hand, he walked with her toward the gong that stood forlorn in the snow beside the village. “No wonder the balladeers go all mushy over your Island, Aranya. It’s something, isn’t it? Quite unique.”

  “All frozen-mushy,” Zuziana put in. “How does one even scribe with iced-up ink, Iridiana?”

  “We find ways,” returned the Chaos Shifter. With a bold wink at Aranya, she added, “After all, I come from a vast, technologically advanced Kahilate.”

  Aranya just returned a raised eyebrow.

  Beran said, “It’s tradition that when a King returns victorious from war, he rings this gong seven times to honour the blessing of the Great Dragon. Last time –” his voice cracked audibly “– last time I returned, I had to pass it by.”

  Aranya’s heart squeezed in her chest.

  Picking up the cloth-bound hammer from its place beneath the gong, which was like a great brass dral hung between two tall pillars, he dusted the snow off of it. “Don’t get to use this too often. Thankfully.”

  “It’s the King!” squeaked a surprised voice from the lake’s edge.

  Beran turned with a broad grin. “Well, come on then, Jazan, Karabi and … is that Alimzan? Who wants to help me sound this gong?”

  “Will she bite?” said the boy called Jazan, who was perhaps eight years old. He pointed suspiciously at Zankaradia.

  “Come on, silly,” Karabi scolded her brother. “It’s the King. I told you so. And this means we get to go to the city and eat cake!”

  “I won’t bite, children,” Zankaradia fluted gently.

  “Ha. Who ever heard of a Dragon that doesn’t bite?” the boy said scornfully.

  With a low rumble of fires, the hatchling growled, “I might if you continue to be cheeky.”

  Jazan blenched.

  “I want my mummy!” wailed the youngest of the trio, little Alimzan.

  Silha quickly shuffled through the snow to pick him up. “Now, don’t you worry, Alimzan. This is Zankaradia and she’s an Ancient Dragoness, like those in the stories you hear at school. She’s younger than you, and very kind and lovely.”

  “She’s soooooo beautiful!” Karabi sighed, putting her hand dramatically upon her heart and pretending to swoon. “Race you to the gong, Jazan. I get the hammer first!”

  Zuziana placed a hand upon Zankaradia’s scales. “Aye, you are beautiful.”

  The hatchling purred up a small earthquake.

  With the help of the children, Beran set the great gong ringing with great gusto. He passed the hammer to Aranya for the seventh blow. That was the one that choked her up properly. It really was finished, wasn’t it? What did an Amethyst Dragoness do when she was not flying to war? Or repairing Moons? There were so many new questions to face. So many unknowns.

  Aranya set down the hammer. “Friends, it is finished.”

  * * * *

  When a King returned home, a kafuffle was sure to follow. Having a King return with an Ancient Dragoness in tow brought his entire kingdom to a flabbergasted standstill. Aranya was sure Zankaradia rather enjoyed the impression she created as she delicately tiptoed – courtesy of Ri’arion’s handiwork with kinetic energies to ensure that she did not destroy roads, fields and forests in passing – up to a frozen city that she dwarfed. Settling her coils over perhaps twenty-five fallow fields that Beran indicated to the west of the city, she propped her muzzle upon her gleaming flank, and peered avidly over the crenelated battlements at all the goings-on below her. Squawking, panicking terhals. Exclaiming and pointing people. A couple of trader Dragonships heading out to the villages behind the mountains. Smoke rising gently from chimneys as people rose for the day, and then completely forgot about a warm breakfast as they rushed into the snowbound streets first to gape at a Dragoness bigger than their entire city, and then to cheer for their victorious King.

  As he walked unhurriedly through the streets, Beran paused many times to offer pithy explanations. “Aye, the Thoralians are dead.” “Aye, we conquered.” “Aye, Aranya has returned victorious from the South.” “Those lights you saw a few weeks ago, that was the Star Dragonesses fighting Thoralian. The Mystic Moon will heal, aye. It’s only a temporary problem.” “The Corundum Red Dragoness is our ally; she is called Zankaradia.” “You are all safe. There is nothing to fear.” “These are the finest warriors from around the Island-World …”

  Eventually, they reached the Palace. Pausing in the doorway, Beran said, “Welcome home, my lovely wife, and all my children.”

  “Ooh, heated floors!” cried Pip, kicking off her shoes as fast as she could. “Somebody shut that door and bolt it until springtime. I’m a – what do you call those shiny hanging things?”

  “Icicle,” said Silha.

  Zip prodded Iridiana in the ribs. “Not half as rustic as you thought, Nyahi?”

  Asturbar gazed about curiously. “Iridiana says it’s missing a few rubies.”

  “I did not,” Nyahi protested, but she too was rubbing her nose. “This must be twice as cold as the Kahilate. It’s … cosy. I like your palace, uh, Dad.”

  Beran’s quirky smile made her blush instantly. “Dad’s the word!”

  That probably helped re-warm her extremities, Aranya decided, once more amazed at how different a twin could be.

  The walls were thick and in the wintertime, additional crysglass panels were fitted treble thick against the cold, but the interior of the Palace and indeed, many homes in the city, were kept warm by water piped from thermal springs just south of the city’s main gate. Aranya supposed that in comparison to Yazê-a-Kûz, it was a homely sort of palace rather than being ostentatious, but she loved it, and judging by the delight sparkling in Iridiana’s eyes and Asturbar’s contented sigh, her friends and sisters would too. The pictures lining the walls were familiar, the servants’ faces glad, and it even smelled just right.

  Silha immediately bustled away, calling gladly to the servants and soldiers as she started to make the necessary arrangements, but Beran turned to Aranya. He made a shooing gesture. “Go ahead, Sparky. All this arriving nonsense can wait.”

  She sprinted to her mother’s tomb.

  * * * *

  Ardan found Aranya with the help of King Beran’s discreet directions. The tomb lay behind the Palace in the formal gardens that abutted the city’s rear wall, which stood hard up against the mountains that appeared from this perspective to launch into the sky. He had seen many views in his travels, but this was one he knew his warrior heart would not easily grow used to.

  After a brief glance, he ducked into the tomb’s low entrance.

  Here, many generations of Immadian royalty had been interred in grottos carved into the sides of underground tunnels. The very low temperatures combined with unique mineral deposits seeping from the walls and roof combined to preserve the rem
ains with extraordinary fidelity, even though the features or clothing were difficult to pick out beneath the calcifying layers of – well, he wanted to call it crystal, but he was not certain. He walked quickly into the darkness, following Beran’s instructions, toward the more recent remains. Soon he saw a pool of light.

  Aranya half-turned, gratitude registering on her face. “Ardan. You came.”

  “Of course.”

  Aranya’s mother was not originally Immadian, but Ha’athiorian. She rested in a side tunnel in a carved grotto at his chest height, so that by the merest dip of his head, he could gaze upon this woman who had so long preoccupied his beloved Amethyst Dragoness’ thoughts, hopes and dreams.

  She was beauty, distorted. Izariela lay upon her back with one hand folded upon her breast in a queenly pose that would have done no poem shame. Her multi-coloured hair lay in petrified waves all about her, as long as Aranya’s and just as lush. But behind her body, indeed, all the right half of her body, was arrested in a grotesque partial transformation. The beginnings of wing struts protruded from her outflung arm, her right leg was misshapen, and her skull had begun to display skull spikes. Her right eye was twice as large as the left, while white-silver scales gently dusted much of her skin.

  Izariela was encased in this strange crystalline substance, as though preserved for a museum display. He shivered involuntarily.

  Aranya’s hand sought his. “O Ardan, would you …”

  “Of course, petal.”

  Sending forth his Shadow power, Ardan searched Izariela’s mortal flesh for signs of life.

  Almost immediately, he said, “Aye. Aye, Aranya … here, meld with me and sense what I sense. This is her fire life, see?”

  “So … sluggish. And abnormal.”

  “That’s the signature of the toxins, similar to an Imbalance,” he replied, unable to restrain a rising lilt in his voice as he exclaimed, “Izariela’s alive – oh, Aranya!”

  She clasped him fiercely, dabbing ineffectually at the corners of her eyes. “I … I just can’t believe …”