by Marc Secchia
“You need to hear this, Aranyi,” Oyda insisted. “I love you, my beautiful petal.”
“NO!” Her storm-powered shriek broke in the cabin, thrusting Oyda against the door with a furious gust of wind. “No, please … don’t, you’re killing me …”
The old woman lowered her head and braved the blast, walking across the cabin. Reaching out, she cupped Aranya’s ruined cheeks in the palms of her hands. Her touch was not acid, but the warmth of Human affection.
Oyda wept as she added, “Your mother would say this, Aranya. ‘You are the suns sparkling on my terrace lake, and the snows gracing the peaks of Immadia. I will always love you, no matter what.’”
Had Nak spoken those words, she would have punched him.
However, Oyda had poured sweetness into unspeakable wounds. Aranya broke down, and wept on her old friend’s shoulder until she had no tears left to shed.
* * * *
Wiping her puffy eyes, Aranya asked, “How did you keep my father out of here when I screamed?”
“I ordered him,” said Oyda. “One hundred and seventy-seven summers gives one certain privileges over youngsters like Beran. And, on that note, I take issue with something I heard you say earlier.”
If her father was a ‘youngster’, what did that make her? A hatchling? Still stuck inside the shell, as a Dragon might say? She wished she knew more about what Dragon society and culture might have been like. All they had was the old fireside tales and the inexhaustible fonts of Nak and Oyda’s memories–apart from what the Pygmy Dragon had stolen from them. If her visions had been true, Dragons used to live in thriving communities … and Thoralian would toss it all into a Cloudlands volcano.
A brutal return to reality.
Smiling faintly, Aranya said, “Watch out, here comes the inevitable lecture.”
“Nak’s the one who lectures,” said Oyda, a touch astringently. “I warn you, I will do the fearsome mother-Dragon impression again if you take that tone with me, petal.”
“I saw her–Izariela. I saw her in the storm, as I told you, and I saw her here today.”
“You must have the Star Dragon power of visions,” said Oyda, with a secretive and pleased air about her. Aranya wondered if she had won a bet with Nak. “Are you quite certain you’re an Amethyst Dragon, Aranya?”
“It’s my natural form, isn’t it?”
And if Oyda would not rock her Island any further! Aranya spurned the implications, but knew the idea would bother her later. “Oyda, thank you,” she said. “You scared me ralti-stupid, but I survived the experience. You’re the sweetest, kindest … and I’m sorry I made you cry.”
Oyda nodded, her thousand-wrinkle smile almost closing her eyes. “I’m just a surrogate mother for you, petal, until you rescue your real one. You’re catching flies again. Shut the rabbit-hole and open the earholes instead.” Aranya clicked her teeth together with a Dragonish snap. “Here is the product of a hundred and however many years of experience. Ready?”
This is not your fault.
The abrupt switch to Dragonish made Aranya gasp. When Oyda said no more, seeming content just to watch her reaction, she said, “What isn’t my fault? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, let’s see. Sylakia annihilating all memory of their enemies. Magic-fuelled trysts with Shadow Dragons. War upon the Island-World. The impossible demands of Ancient Dragons, the torture of boyfriends by foul cannibal Dragon-Emperors, magic, uncontrollable storms, your tears manufacturing Shapeshifters, fate, the Shifter pox …”
“Oyda,” she said, with an appalled chuckle. “Stop, stop. Point made.”
“Ah, but I know how stubborn you can be. Has it penetrated that incredibly dense lump of material atop your shoulders, I ask?” Oyda wagged her finger beneath Aranya’s nose. “Thoralian started his mischief a hundred and fifty years before you were born. Sylakia invaded nations while your father was gallivanting around the Island-World with a Star Dragon in chains. Beran campaigned for years while you played with your dolls.”
She reddened. “I never played with …”
“Oh, it was Dragons and Princes with you, was it?” Oyda hastily removed her finger as Aranya pretended to bite it. “It’s not your fault! It cannot be.”
Aranya nodded mutely. Perhaps there was a truth within her words that she could learn to believe in.
Oyda’s expression became pensive, as if she were drawn to a long-ago, faraway place. At length, she appeared to come to a decision. “Aranya, I say this because I hope it might somehow help you. Many years ago, before I met Nak and became a Dragon Rider, a trusted family friend forced himself upon me. I’m not a big, strong woman, Aranya. I could not fight him off, besides that he had a dagger to my throat.”
“No, Oyda. That’s terrible.”
“I felt soiled afterward. So used. So helpless and filled with hate, both for him and within myself. When I trained to become a Dragon Rider, it was because I wanted a Dragon to call upon when I went to take my revenge. But there was a woman at the school in Jeradia who helped me–Mistress Mya’adara. I remember what she said to me, words which I have passed on to you. I see you walking the paths of that same dark Island, and I weep for you, petal, I truly do. Words can never erase it. But maybe, for you, this will be a beginning.”
“Oh, Oyda …”
Now she understood in some small measure why Oyda felt compelled to nurture those in her care, Aranya thought, hugging her friend warmly. She took in stray Shapeshifter Dragons and helped them piece their lives back together.
A new insight struck Aranya. Fate did not so much consist of single, self-contained threads, as the weaving of a tapestry. Her amethyst thread looped, knotted and intertwined with many others–the white of Izariela, Zip’s sky-blue, the dark patterns of a Shadow Dragon. Each thread was precious and unique. Some were thicker than others or more predominant, others thinner and weaker, yet they still formed part of an intricate whole.
When she expressed this thought to Oyda, the old woman said, “And what does this teach you, Aranya?”
“That no person is an Island,” Aranya said at once, before looking deeper into her churning feelings. “I should be thankful my thread did not snap at the Last Walk; I should have the courage to accept what happened with Ardan, and–oh, roaring rajals, Oyda, I’m going to say it–I should not blindly rebel against the Black Dragon, but approach his overtures with … maturity, I suppose. Dignity, even.”
“Bravo, petal.”
The Immadian Princess held Oyda even tighter. “You are my master weaver, Oyda. A precious, gentle hand upon the loom.”
“Now, something else,” said the old Dragon Rider, seeming embarrassed by Aranya’s emotional response. “I’ve been thinking about how you change colour–actually, the type of Dragon you are. Acid? That’s for Greens only. Horrible choice of colour, petal. I ask myself why you can’t be any colour you choose? Why, if you have that level of control over your Dragon form, as a Shapeshifter are you restricted to replicating wounds, and scars, and so on? Why should that stop you? Could you not make yourself anew?”
“Because that’s my fundamental nature?” Aranya wondered aloud. Oyda’s small sigh demanded more. “Fine, because if I … if I meddled in a transformation, I might end up like my mother?”
“Ouch. Sorry.”
“You’re … you’re hoping … I can just transform my way out of this?”
A nightmare, or a magical dream?
Oyda sighed. “Oh, petal, it was a ralti-stupid idea. I should have thought about Izariela first.”
Aranya squeezed her hand. “No, it was kind and thoughtful of you. Of course, there are enormous differences between Human and Dragon anatomies. Even Ri’arion cannot explain how it is possible for a Shapeshifter’s instinct to simply know how to change between forms. Which part of me knows I’m Amethyst, not Azure? That I am forty-two feet long and not fifty, or that I have five discrete stomachs to replace one ordinary Human one?”
“I’ll leave you to ponder that
, petal,” said Oyda, rising.
“Don’t go.”
“I believe your father would like to see you.”
“Then one last request, Oyda.” Aranya tried to smooth out the pain in her voice. “Would you ask Nak not to make any of his usual comments, just for a while? I love him, and all …”
“He’ll understand.”
The old woman paused in the doorway, her eyes sadder and wiser than Aranya had ever seen them. “Petal, I’ve lived a great long time on this Island-World, perhaps longer than a person has a right to. I have seen Sylakia’s evil grow and spread like a cancer. Thoralian nullified your mother before she had her chance. But fate has a funny way of redressing the balance when we least expect it. I truly believe that. You flew when you should have fallen into the Cloudlands. You crash-landed on my doorstep. You saved Immadia and brought hope to the world.”
“I believe with all my heart, and Emblazon would have agreed with me, that you are the one who has been chosen to stand against Thoralian and his schemes, and defeat him. Your suffering is not for nothing; it has worth and meaning and indeed, power. You see, the true battle is not fought with our bodies, but with our hearts. And you, Aranya, have a brand of courage which makes your heart ineffably beautiful, if I may borrow a Nak expression. Izariela would be so very proud of who you have become.”
With that, the old Dragon Rider left.
A perfect rainbow after the storm.
* * * *
Beran brought with him a tray of nibbles–spicy fish skewers, ralti kebabs, a deep bowl of Noxian sweet potato, and enough vegetables and fruit to sink a Dragonship. He also brought Sapphire. The dragonet flashed across the cabin to bury her head in Aranya’s lap, cooing and rubbing her muzzle against her stomach.
“Poor mite, she’s been beside herself,” said Beran.
“I thought she’d stay at Fra’anior with the others,” said Aranya, stroking the dragonet’s soft scales. Petal, I missed you, but I’m alright now. “How are the ice-dragonets?”
Sapphire made a cat-like purr, rubbing her muzzle with her paws now in a gesture that Aranya had begun to suspect indicated deep emotion. There was more to these quaint, amazing little creatures than she had ever imagined. Sapphire’s eyes swirled gently, drawing her into their hypnotic depths. She pictured white dragonets mingling with all the other colours in Island-wide aerial celebrations, shy and curious meetings, already a number of pairings …
“Over the Islands, literally,” said the King. “May I sit?”
“Dad.” She made a droll face at him, before realising she had no idea if that expression worked, now. “What’s new on the winds?”
“A skinny ex-felon turned up on my Dragonship today. I’ve orders to feed her up.” Beran placed the tray on the bed between them. “We’ve the beginnings of a workable plan for Yorbik. And Sparky, you need to take it easy on your old Dad. I’ve been dragged from the depths of the Cloudlands to the skies, yet again.”
“Sorry, Dad. Yum, the fish is delicious.” She offered Sapphire a chunk. “The Chameleon Shapeshifter was a bit unforeseen.” The dragonet declined, but wound herself around Aranya’s neck, purring contentedly.
“I take it from the blast, your magic has returned?”
“I was provoked,” she replied, feeling exactly that way. Why did he have to jump straight to business? “Only a little magic, mind.”
“Since others have had their bite of you, it’s my turn,” said her father, evidently reading her mood with discomfiting accuracy. “All I’m saying is, your Dragon is important. She’s your other half, so to speak, and she represents hope for Yolathion and Ri’arion, not to mention the entire Island-World. But I didn’t come by to lump more worries on your shoulders.”
“Oh?”
“No, Aranyi.” His grey eyes softened. “It’s a bitter, wicked thing Thoralian has done, chewing you up like this–and I hope he burns forever in a place reserved for villains like him. You probably heard.” He laughed curtly. “I have another purpose, for which I have Nak to thank, as he set my feet on a better path. A wise old man, our Nak, once you ignore the lechery.”
Curious. Spooning more of the tasty sweet potato into her mouth, Aranya considered the man squirming before her. What was so difficult for her father to say? He had always valued directness.
“We passed over Remia, Dad?”
“Aye. We’re bound now for the eastern edge of the Horness Cluster, where we’ll gather our strength. Jendor is too wild to even put Dragonships down. From there, we can practically spit and hit Yorbik. We’ll link up with Commander Darron before making final adjustments to the plan–flying ralti sheep! Shut me up if I start talking strategy, Sparky. I’m not here for that.”
“Fine by me,” Aranya mumbled through her mouthful.
This had to be Oyda’s work. Food and love, her two failsafe ingredients for getting a Dragoness, or a person, back on their feet.
“Close your mouth when you–oh, listen to me.” Beran helped himself to a fish skewer. “You’re seventeen summers now, not seven. No. My business is to tell you about your mother. Not the stories you already know. Details. Snippets. Impressions. Her poetry.”
Aranya paused mid-bite. “Because … Nak thinks I might learn something about being a Star Dragon?”
“That, too.”
“You’ll speak of my Shifter heritage? Of Izariela’s powers?”
“Nak believes that love conquers all, Sparky. I guess in a roundabout Nak way, he’s thinks that if you understand who you truly are, that will give you the best chance of defeating Thoralian. I don’t go for the soppy romantic delivery, but his point is well made.” He pushed four scrolls toward her. “Nak and Oyda interviewed everyone on Ha’athior who might possibly have known your mother or Lyriela’s parents. That information is detailed in these.”
Aranya’s heart pulsed in her throat. Oh, what could she ever do to thank them enough?
Beran took her hand in his. His fingers touched the scarred nodules upon her skin as though wishing to trace, beneath the ruined surface, the Dragon fire that rose within her even as the tides of her emotions waxed like the moons.
He said, “As you know, the magical imperative of destiny is little understood. We say there is love at first sight. We call it star-song and moons-madness and many names besides, all trying and failing to capture the indefinable enchantment that arrests two souls when first they meet.”
This poet was her father? Or was this the man who had courted Izariela, who had later become embittered by her fate?
“The day I met Izariela, I was sailing a single-handed Dragonship to a secret meeting, and followed in idle curiosity what I thought to be a Dragon landing on a Ha’athiorian mountaintop.” His quiet laughter was three parts joy and one part melancholy. “There, I discovered a girl clothed in white, quickly concealing her amazing hair beneath a headscarf as she turned away in embarrassment. Did she summon me? Did fate turn my path aside that day? Did our souls sense each other, and draw us together?”
“I can’t answer those questions, of course. I stopped to ask if she was lost, if she needed help descending the mountain. Izariela was most amused by my concern.”
Aranya smiled at her father. A Dragoness would have been tickled, or annoyed, by such an offer.
“Aye. There this beauty stood, right on a cliff’s edge, and a heavily-armed, bearded foreigner accosted her to offer a ride–in a culture in which kidnapping to wife, is common practice. I’m afraid Izariela must have thought I took her for a fool.”
“Still, she hid her appearance from me, and I knew that nothing else in the Island-World mattered but to catch a glimpse of her face.”
“Your grandfather died young, in a hunting accident, you’ll recall. I became King of Immadia a month shy of my eighteenth birthday. I was in the habit of introducing myself by my title in the hope it would impress the ladies. So I strutted up to her and announced, ‘I am Beran of Immadia, King of the most splendid Island in the world, but you outshine
its beauty by far.’”
Aranya burst out laughing. “You didn’t! You never told me this, Dad!”
“Ludicrous, eh? I used exactly those words. Which was also when she looked up and smiled at me, stole my heart, and my ability to speak right along with it. I was so mortified I beat a hasty retreat–stop laughing, you wretch. I didn’t even ask her name. So imagine my surprise the very next week, when I spied your mother at King Cha’arlla’s nuptial ball. I’ll never forget. Izariela wore a stunning Fra’aniorian lace gown in a colour akin to the brightest of skies, white with just a hint of blue–the same colour as her eyes. Her smile dazzled. She was the darling of Fra’anior, the talk of the ball. The King introduced us. We clasped hands, as you know the Fra’aniorians do, and the rest was history.”
“Dad …”
“Oh, you want details?”
“Stop yanking my hawser!” Aranya cried, and then chuckled in delight at her fiery response. Yes, her magic was returning. But was it enough? She could not sense her Dragon form yet. “What did Mom say? How did she respond?”
To Aranya’s surprise, her father’s ears turned a flaming pink colour. “She said, ‘Islands’ greetings, beautiful Beran.’ Poor Cha’arlla did not know where to look. Nor did she, once she realised what she had said. We were so infatuated with each other, Aranyi, she didn’t leave my side that whole evening, to the dismay of every other suitor at the ball. And they were many.”
“Which was when you kidnapped her?”
She had never seen her father so discomfited. Fascinating! He fidgeted like a little boy caught stealing sweets. “I … was in a tearing hurry, so I … well, asked her permission after the event, so to speak. Given as I had the armies of at least ten Islands breathing down my neck at the time. Aye. Izariela was already in chains aboard my Dragonship when I proposed. Had her uncle and aunt, Ja’arrion and Va’assia, been alive, I believe I would have been roasted by Dragons to boot.”
“You spirited her out of Thoralian’s grasp just in time,” said Aranya.
“And a jolly good thing she loved me, eh?” quipped Beran, making a show of mopping his brow.