by Marc Secchia
Aranya chuckled, “I called Ardan ‘delicious Dragon’ when we first met. He’s anything but–” she broke off with a wheeze of dismay, realising what she had revealed.
Her father said, “Don’t worry, Sparky. I worked that out.”
“He told you!”
“He’s an honourable man, Aranyi. If it matters, I like him even more than sweet but starchy Yolathion.” Her father reached out to clasp her shoulder. “Let’s speak of your mother. Maybe later, you’ll tell me all about this fascinating Shadow beast, and why you rejected him–nothing to do with our bullying Ancient Dragon, is it?”
Her father approved of Ardan? He had guessed why she had rejected him? Great Islands, was her life an open scroll to him? Shaking her head, she said, “Dad, are you quite certain you haven’t any magical powers of intuition?”
“I can read hurt in a man’s eyes, Sparky. After your mother was poisoned, that was all I saw in the mirror, for years.”
“Following which, you’ll kick Fra’anior in the teeth for me?”
“My job as your Dad definitely includes kicking Ancient Dragons in the teeth. Just say the word.”
Chapter 27: Storms Rising
WHILE BERAN’s Dragonhip fleet rode the rising winds to Horness Cluster, Aranya rode the joy and fear of her magic’s resurgence. Joy, because her healing power could ease Yolathion’s suffering. Fear, because the horizon blackened with storm clouds once more and the breezes grew capricious and spiteful, making Ri’arion cast sinister glances in her direction. Aranya shrank from his disapproval. Aye, it was her storm. She could do nothing to control it.
Somewhere, Fra’anior mocked her.
Jia allowed her to minister to Yolathion. The guilt over his condition gnawed at her conscience. Should she give him the magical Dragon tears when they reappeared? Did her healing magic ease his suffering, only to prolong it?
The winds did serve to send the dirigible fleet scudding northward. The fourth evening after they had rejoined King Beran’s forces, Aranya heard the Steersman sing out sight of Horness Cluster. Finally. She had a headache the size of Immadior’s Sea from Ri’arion’s incessant mental training, and now counted amongst her usual, exhausting nightly repertoire, dreams about a Land Dragon running amok.
With Sapphire snoozing on her shoulder and Zip and Jia-Llonya helping her in the medical cabin, Aranya wiped Yolathion’s brow with a cool cloth, before placing her palm flat on his forehead.
“I hate seeing Yolathion like this,” Aranya said, letting her power flood into him. “Our last conversation was a bit unpleasant.”
“How?” asked Zip.
“He told me–”
“No. Not the Dragon,” he moaned. Aranya yelped as Yolathion flapped his right arm toward her. “Don’t make me a Dragon … don’t …”
“Sapphire, no! Ouch.”
Aranya blinked at the sight of three neat cuts in the back of her hand from the dragonet’s claws. Yolathion slumped on the pillow-roll, as pallid as the corpse he nearly was. His chest rose and fell shallowly. The force of his movement had reopened the wounds in his right arm.
Ari hurt?
Sapphire, it’s alright. Sapphire? The dragonet licked her hand. Don’t … oh dear. If my tears heal, I don’t know what my blood might do to you. You were just protecting me. Don’t fuss. Ari is fine.
“The dragonet’s talking to her,” Zip informed Jia-Llonya.
“Wow! So the legends are true.”
“Yes,” said Aranya. “And you just learned what Yolathion and I spoke about. He’s dead set against becoming a Dragon. If I use my tears, he’ll probably turn into a Shapeshifter.”
“But if you don’t, he’ll certainly die,” Jia pointed out.
“If I do, there’s no guarantee the magic would heal him. How would the bones be re-set, for example? How could he fly? He’d live the rest of his days in a chair at best, a bed at worst.”
“You want him to die!”
Zuziana held the furious Jeradian back–to Aranya’s surprise, the tiny Remoyan succeeded against the much taller girl. Dragon strength? “No, I don’t. But how can I make that decision for him, when he has clearly stated he does not want the magic? Would you? Or Ignathion?”
“If I, as the one who actually loves him, assumed that responsibility, would you then be willing?”
Aranya flushed hotly. The little rajal had her claws out! How dare she? She said, “Would I be less of a coward, do you mean?”
“Back off, you two, before you start the clawing and hair-pulling!” snapped Zip, thumping Aranya in the chest and Jia on the shoulder. “We all love Yolathion–” she grinned impishly “–alright, calm down, Jeradia. We all want to see him well.”
Jia turned to Aranya. Only the twisting together of her hands betrayed her misery as she said, flatly, “One factor which may influence your decision, is that we discovered Yolathion betrayed you at some point during your campaign in the Western Isles. Aye, you gasp. He communicated your plan to travel via Mejia and the probable timing of your arrival at Jeradia, to Ignathion’s command. That’s why they were so well prepared.”
“He was talking to Ignathion all along?” Aranya could hardly believe her ears. “Then what was the point of that bluster about being ashamed of his father?”
Zuziana snorted, “Families. I’d bet half of Remoy’s terrace lakes the Chameleon Shifter used that intelligence to time his attack at Fra’anior, and he made you miss Lyriela’s wedding–which is the bit that truly makes my lightning bolts frazzle and spark.”
You’re sweet, said Lyriela.
Aranya jumped, but Zip did not. She must have heard Lyriela’s footsteps with the benefit of her Dragon senses. Aranya growled, Just another thing Thoralian stole from me.
Her cousin added, Zuziana, King Beran asked if you would scout ahead. We need a good Island and a place where he can address all the troops.
“Good,” said Zip. “Aranya, Lyriela, let’s go. Time for a talk amongst us girls. Jia?”
“I should stay with Yolathion.”
Aranya quelled Zip’s half-formed snarky comment with a hand on her arm and a firm headshake. Sometimes the Remoyan was irrepressible.
Zip said, Lyriela, you cannot fly comfortably in a dress. Maybe you’d fit a pair of Aranya’s trousers. What do you think?
Trousers? Lyriela bit her lip. What would Ta’armion say? And, I should ask his permission first …
Zip goggled at her. Islands’ sakes, girl! Which century do you live in?
A Fra’aniorian one, said Lyriela.
Shortly, Zip was delving into Aranya’s bag of clothing with the enthusiasm of a ferret who had scented a meal. Lyriela dressed diffidently. They’re very tight. And revealing. What will my husband think?
His pointy ears will prick up and he’ll start panting like a hound, offered Zip, with a wicked grin.
Lyriela’s cheeks resembled a perfect dawn. That’s it. There’s no way … I feel unclothed. I can’t go in a dress?
No, said Zip, firmly. Dresses are not for riding Dragonback. These trousers fit you perfectly, unlike that underfed waif over there. Thoralian’s dungeon food clearly didn’t agree with her.
Oyda’s feeding me up, said Aranya.
Zip smiled sweetly at her in the mirror. Good, because the next time you run naked into a room full of Sylakian Hammers, you need to give them something to grab.
Z-Zuziana o-of Remoy, spluttered Aranya, slapping down her friend’s hands as she mimed exactly what the soldiers would be grabbing. You’re shameless!
Ha. You don’t see me cavorting with any troops, do you? Anyways. Lyriela. Over here. This is what we’re going to do.
With a firm rap on the door of Prince Ta’armion’s quarters, Zip entered. “Beran’s orders,” she said. “I’m to scout ahead with Aranya and Lyriela. I assume that’s fine with you?”
The Prince glanced up from the map he had been studying. “Of course. You’ll be careful?”
“I’m a Dragon.” Lyriela, now.
Aranya’s cousin twirled just inside the doorway, as instructed, and smiled coquettishly at her husband. She signed, ‘How do I look?’
“Fabbrilwonderzing,” gasped the Prince.
I make that fabulous, brilliant, wonderful and amazing all at once, said Zip. The trousers win first prize, Lyriela. Just look at his face–how that man adores you! Right, go fetch your kiss.
Lyriela stepped across the cabin, almost lost her nerve, and then slipped her arms around the Prince’s neck. ‘A kiss before I leave?’ she mouthed. Ta’armion instantly obliged. He was so obliging, it took some time before he realised he had an audience who could see precisely how much he relished his wife’s foray into her very un-Fra’aniorian trousers.
“Great Islands!” He released her as though he had burned his hands, gabbling, “You do look fabulous, Lyriela. I don’t think I should let you go dressed like that, though. Someone might see.”
“Who, a few windrocs and a passing cloud?” asked Zip.
“I shall escort you aloft,” said the Prince, gallantly. Lyriela’s smile was radiant as he tucked his arm possessively about her waist.
Aranya taught Lyriela the easiest way to mount a Dragon, stepping first onto her hind paw, then up onto the bend of her knee, before scrambling up the slope of her hindquarters and walking up to the spine-spikes.
Zuziana isn’t made of eggshells, laughed Aranya, seeing Lyriela creeping along. Sit here in the front saddle position. Buckle the waist belt and the thigh straps. Make sure everything’s tight. Your bow. Secure the quiver in this loop. I’ll be right behind you, and when we take off, don’t forget to breathe.
Lyriela laughed her soundless laugh. I love this already. Oh! Oh dancing dragonets …
That was when the Azure Dragon walked to the platform’s edge. Spreading her wings to catch the breeze, she took off. Ardan’s watching from way, way above, she said.
Lyriela’s mental voice wobbled madly as she cried, This is glorious, Zip!
No sneaky turning into a Dragon, Zip admonished.
Aranya spread her arms, playing with the steady flow of air generated by Zuziana’s wingbeats as they rapidly left the fleet in their wake. How she longed to fly. Just last night, she had dreamed of flying low over the Cloudlands, the airstream tingling upon her scales, scenting the aroma of exotic, faraway Islands, when … Ancient Dragons roamed the Island-World, thundering in watery realms far larger even than the terrace lakes of Yorbik Island, and Land Dragons vaulting out of the waters like archer-trout leaping for iridescent insects, and … her head snapped around.
What was that?
She desperately needed her old eyesight back. Aranya tried to scan the Cloudlands to the south, but no amount of squinting would bring the world into focus. Darkness crowded about the edges of her vision, as though she saw through an age-stained pane of crysglass.
“Aranya?”
“I saw … I thought I saw … is there something behind us, Zip?”
The Azure Dragoness scanned the Cloudlands from horizon to horizon. “Only our Dragonships ten leagues behind, and the twin suns peeking above a storm obscuring the southern and eastern skyline, Aranya.”
Aranya said, “Will you help me, Zip? I need to find a way to convince Jia-Llonya and Ignathion that Ri’arion needs my power. I haven’t the strength to serve them both, and it’s your monk we need more in the coming battle with Thoralian. I must stop treating Yolathion, for Ri’arion’s sake.”
“Oh, Aranya.”
Lyriela said, Will you speak Dragonish, please? I can’t lip-read a Dragon.
Sorry. Aranya repeated their brief conversation to her cousin.
Aye, she said. Aranya, we must allow your father to break this news, difficult as it is. It cannot come from Zip. We can offer the monks’ healing power in exchange.
To keep Yolathion alive and suffering, Aranya thought. Every time she saw him, it twisted her up even more inside. What had she done to him? Her stupid choices, her hounding him into turning traitor against the Sylakians–had he done so willingly? Or for her alone? Ironically, only to be betrayed by an Amethyst Dragon’s failure to control her passions.
It’s a wise approach, Lyriela, said Zip, sounding relieved.
Was it so evil for her to want Sha’aldior? A dancing, crooning Shadow Dragon stalked Aranya in her mind; without warning, he turned into a seven-headed monster sweeping down upon them from the storm. Aranya jerked so hard against her saddle-straps that she knew she’d have weals on her thighs afterward.
Petal? Zip worried. What is it? I hear the drumbeat in your chest, I smell fear …
I’m struggling to find the Island of sanity, Aranya admitted. The pox changed me … changed something, Zip, but even before, especially in the storm, I was starting to see waking visions and I can’t tell now if what I’m seeing is real or the past or the future, and I see Ancient Dragons disporting themselves amongst the Islands, and war breaking over our world with the power, sweeping whole Islands to their doom …
Petal. Shh.
Aranya gazed to the horizon. The storm’s thunder was the Black Dragon’s vexation, the boiling thunderheads his breath, the darkness moving beneath the murky storm-front his fury sweeping over the Island-World.
You’re frightened, dear cousin. Lyriela twisted about in the saddle to put her arm around Aranya’s shoulders. You need to confront Fra’anior, or the strain will drive you mad, and wreck our Island-World.
Aranya asked, The storm is normal? Real?
Real enough, said Zip, scanning the horizon behind them. But normal? No. Even I can sense a strangeness about it, the presence of great magic.
Yet I sense something else out there, only, I don’t know what, Aranya said. Zuziana could not sense what she knew, the eerie melody of magic run wild, drawing her soul like a string tied to a kite. I rebuffed the Black Dragon. Now I fear that the full scope of his retribution is still to be visited upon us, and I cry, ‘Haven’t we suffered? Haven’t enough people died?’ It’s too costly a price, Zip. Too painful to bear.
That is why we will see this fate through to its end, together, said the Azure Dragon.
Together, said Lyriela. Not least for my parents. For Aunt Izariela. For Rolodia and Naphtha and all who have burned on the pyre of Thoralian’s madness and ambition.
You’d do that?
Zip’s nodding bobbed them up and down. Aranya, a whole army back there says we’d do that. It is time for good to be seen under the suns. We’re the tools to forge the future.
The Princess of Immadia turned once more to stare with half-blind eyes at the cloud-covered realms they had crossed. What was hidden there? What mysteries haunted her, above cloud and below? Did her storms reach into the Cloudlands to destroy the territories of Land Dragons?
Zip said, Petal. Lyriela must play for you when we return. But if I could teach you the mind-meld Ri’arion taught me, you’d be able to see through my eyes. Would that help ease your mind?
Aranya nodded. It would.
Her heart beat–doom, doom, doom.
* * * *
That afternoon, Beran’s forces sprawled out over a wide, boulder-strewn meadow on an eastern Isle of the Horness Cluster. The soldiers were more than happy to disembark after days of being cooped up inside the Dragonships. The commanders quickly set the warriors to work pitching tents, organising camp, and playing war games to work off their excess energy.
Nak arranged a fire-pit to roast enough ralti sheep for three thousand troops. He was in his element, tottering about on his canes, slapping shoulders, barking orders at the ‘youngsters’ and accidentally pinching a female Western Isles warrior’s backside. He nearly lost his head for that indiscretion.
Later, as no less than thirty-two ralti sheep sizzled on the enormous spits–they had decimated someone’s flock, Aranya thought–tru
mpets sounded and the troops gathered around a large boulder to hear King Beran’s address. The King stood with Ignathion at his shoulder, while the Shadow Dragon looked over the throng from nearby. He had no need of a boulder to see over everyone.
“Men and women of the Isles!” her father shouted. “There comes a time in our lives when we must choose to stand up for what we believe in. We must stand for truth and justice. We must choose the right. I see before me brave men and women from all over our Island-World, and my heart gladdens at this vision of the Islands united as never before.”
Raising his fists to the sky, Beran hollered, “Do I hear Jeradia’s mighty ones?” Cheers and hoots rose from the right. “And the famous warriors of the Western Isles?” A thunder of scimitars against shield-bosses. “And the monks of Fra’anior Cluster, who follow the Path of the Great Dragon?” A dignified clapping of hands. “Do I hear the roar of Dragons?” Ardan and Zuziana drowned out the clapping with fine, reverberating challenges.
Ignathion thumped King Beran on the shoulder. “Who is from Immadia, Island of the free?”
“Immadia!” shouted the troops from the North. Aranya found herself shouting right along with them.
“You all know me,” boomed Ignathion. “I once invaded this King’s Island. I counted him my worst enemy, the Immadian Fox. Now, we stand together as brothers, united against an evil that threatens to enslave and destroy us all!”
As the two leaders spoke, exhorting the troops and outlining the basic strategy for their invasion of Yorbik Island, Aranya’s weak eyes wandered over the crowd. Tall, tanned Jeradians stood alongside dark, loincloth-clad Western Isles warriors and pale, bearded Immadians. A pool of purple robes denoted the elite troops of Fra’anior, commanded by the Prince, a number restricted by the carrying capacity of their Dragonship fleet. The shaven heads belonged to the monks. And here, standing beside her, were two brave and precious souls–Nak and Oyda.
Oyda’s fingers laced with hers. She said, “The tragedy is, Princess, that in peacetime, dying is for the old. But in war, it is for the young. How many of these will see their next summer?”