by Marc Secchia
An imbalance and a horror.
An idea popped into her mind. Aranya asked, “Is the Rift in balance?”
“An astute question!” Leandrial lowered her voice as its thunder echoed off the surrounding hills. “Sorry. We believe it is not, Aranya. Our sages believe that the Rift is the reason the Ancient Dragons chose to leave our world.”
“Magic is being wasted by the Rift-storm?”
“No, little one. Our sages say it is being sucked away by the maelstrom to somewhere beyond the rim wall, into a greater world beyond this Island-World.”
Aranya considered the strangeness of Leandrial’s beliefs. She had so many questions. How she wished to know more of her Star Dragon heritage! Even a Land Dragon knew more than her.
“That is of lesser importance,” said Leandrial, her voice growing deeper and quieter at the same time, reverberating through her listeners like a slow earth-tremor. “For two hundred of your years, I have sought to return the First Egg to its rightful place. The Theadurial grow ever stronger. Briefly, I even held the Egg in my paw.” She gazed down at the assembly, flexing her talons as though remembering what she had held. “Then, Shurgal came upon me in my weakness. While we battled, the Marshal of Herimor seized his chance and stole the Egg for himself. Only such a calamity could have united the tribes of the Land Dragons. At once, we attacked the Humans who lived above the Clouds. But the Marshal escaped with the aid of a dreadful power, taking with him thousands of Lesser Dragons as he levitated an entire Island out of our grasp and across the Rift.”
Ja’arrion put in, “The Marshall corrupted the First Egg’s power to summon a Shadow Dragon.”
“Who, me?” Every eye turned to Ardan, who squirmed.
“It was not a beast as you are, little one,” Leandrial told him. “It was a creature of otherworldly magic and otherworldly appetites. It fed upon the magic of Dragons. Like the Theadurial, it was a succubus, a parasite.”
The Western Isles warrior cast Aranya a dark, apprehensive glance. She knew he was thinking about the Chameleon Shapeshifter. She ducked her head rather than reveal her churning feelings to him. How could she trust Leandrial’s assessment, given what she had seen? Yet Dragon magic was many-faceted, often startling in its rules and manifestations. She, authoress of a thousand-league storm, ought to understand that better than most.
Could she trust her treacherous heart when it came to Ardan, or the Ancient Dragon’s even more treacherous will?
The Land Dragon continued, “Knowing all this, the Elders sent two dozen of our people, those who had never succumbed to the Theadurial, across the Rift, to pursue the Marshal and his beast. I alone survived that journey. Here, north of the Rift, I sensed a new power in the Island-World, a Lesser Dragon who had the power of the Ancients, the power to Command by magic. Her name was Pip. You call her the Pygmy Dragon. At Fra’anior, I saved Pip’s life. She promised friendship and help, and to summon me at the right time. But she was a traitor. She gave the First Egg to Shurgal instead. Using the Egg’s power, he escaped back over the Rift, leaving me stranded here in strange lands, which I have roamed for a hundred and fifty of your years, while my people suffered in unspeakable ways. I know this, because I have the power of visions, like you, Aranya. And they torment me.”
“You never tried to go back?”
Leandrial shivered at Aranya’s question. “Yes, I tried. Three times. But even a Land Dragon cannot cross the Rift on her own. This last time I was severely injured before I had to turn back. Then, the Black Dragon apprised me of your power and ordered me to hunt you, to set you on the right path–lest not we be mistaken, I thought you were the Pygmy Dragon traitor. I intended to destroy you.”
“We may have sensed that,” Zuziana put in.
“I did not understand,” said the Land Dragon, shaking her enormous muzzle. “You healed me with your magic near Jeradia, with the tears you shed into the Cloudlands. How did you know?”
“I … didn’t,” said Aranya, puzzled and amazed. “I do remember weeping my Dragon tears as I fled into the storm. What an impossible coincidence! But if it helped you, I’m glad I did, Leandrial.”
For the first time, Oyda spoke up. “Coincidence? In a Star Dragon’s life? This from the girl who, of all the places in the Island-World, chose to crash-land on my doorstep?”
“I didn’t choose!”
Oyda said, “Who guided you, then? Not me.”
Allowing her annoyance to curl between her fangs as Dragon fire, Aranya pressed, “So, Leandrial, are we to understand that Shurgal tracked you across the Rift and pinched the Egg behind your back?”
“YES!” The thunderclap of Leandrial’s fury rocked the moored Dragonships and triggered alarms on the Dragonships patrolling above. Beran quickly ordered his Signalman to signal the all-clear.
“I just don’t think Pip could have been a traitor.”
Now, a low, dangerous throbbing issued from the depths of Leandrial’s chest. “Do not test my patience, little one. You will travel with me to Herimor, where you will use your Star Dragon powers to restore the balance of the world. And I will have your oath, now.”
“I-I c-can’t, Leandrial.”
Suddenly, the Land Dragon’s paw darkened the sky above her. “YOU WHAT? THIS IS TREACHERY!”
Chapter 33: Family of Dragons
Aranya TREMBLED BENEATH the Land Dragon’s fury. Leandrial’s magic staggered her, pinning her in place while her paw hovered overhead, ready to slam down upon the Amethyst Dragon and end her life.
“I c-can’t p-promise the impossible,” she stammered. “Leandrial, please …”
The Land Dragon thundered at King Beran, “You gave your word, o King! Speak to your daughter, lest I terminate her life this instant!”
All was silent as Beran rushed down the rope ladder and ran over to Aranya. Leandrial’s paw did not budge an inch.
“Aranyi–”
It was just as she had feared. She said, “How could you make promises behind my back, Dad?”
“I promised you would help Leandrial,” he stated, unrepentant. “Thoralian has undoubtedly set off to find the First Egg. You said that he alone knows the secret of Izariela’s healing, and that if the First Egg ever fell into his hands, it would spell the end of our Island-World. Therefore, you must pursue him. What other choice do we have?”
“But … Dad, I’d help, but it isn’t physically possible.”
King Beran’s grey eyes turned wintry. “And why does Izariela’s daughter balk now, after all she has fought for, and suffered, and won?”
When he was angry with her, she became someone else’s daughter? Molten fury erupted into a scream, “Would you look at me? Look at what he did!”
Aranya had to pause to suck a whistling breath into her blighted lungs. “Look beyond the ugliness and see that I can’t even breathe properly, Dad! I haven’t the strength to battle Thoralian, leave aside the impossibility of crossing the Rift in the storms above it, or in the poisons below. I don’t have the strength to survive such a journey. He ruined my health, Dad. I’m not capable any more.”
Words of the wounded. She had not meant for them to emerge as raw and bleak as a winter storm over Immadia. Aranya hid her face between her paws, unable to bear their shock, their sympathetic glances.
“He’s crushed your spirit,” said Beran.
“Petal, don’t cry,” said Zip, stretching her arms around Aranya’s neck. “I’ll go with you. Ardan will. We’re ready to be your strong right paw.”
Aranya groaned, lifting her forepaws to draw both Zip and her father into her embrace.
“No.” A soft word, arising from Leandrial.
She raised her head. “Leandrial, don’t you see it has to be this way? I want to help. I’d do anything to stop him, and to get my mother back …”
“No,” repeated the Land Dragon, silencing Aranya with a touch of her power. “You cannot know what you are capable of, little one, because you have no heritage to teach you. A Star Dragon’s
power lies in restoration. This is the meaning of the balance I spoke about. Your physical body is in imbalance. Your spirit is in disharmony. I can sense these things, just as I sense that your true form lies somewhere nearby, as if it were only lost or forgotten. Much as I’d love to be the one to supply your need, I cannot, because I’m not a Star Dragon.”
Aranya’s mouth popped open. “You’re saying …”
The white orb gleamed with power, a thrilling Dragonsong that whispered unimaginable winds into her soul. The multifaceted beauty of her music; the harmonies resonating in her bones, caressing her Dragon fires, in its communicative intricacy far outstripping any spoken language. Aranya listened with her entire being–humbled, exhilarated, soul-lost as a hope she had abandoned forever, began to effervesce within her hearts and veins.
The Amethyst Dragon’s entire body trembled as she realised aloud, “You’re saying a Star Dragon can learn not only to heal, but to restore in totality, and in the most infinitesimal detail of its elements, what was destroyed? This is the balance of the harmonies?”
Leandrial inclined her head. She placed her paw carefully on the ground beside Aranya.
Her excuses only made her the victim Thoralian had wanted her to be. Slowly, Aranya drew together from her Human and Dragon selves a kernel of resolve, willpower which burned like Dragon fire, pure and adamantine.
“You couldn’t teach me, Leandrial?”
“No, little one. I can teach you those few things I grasp about this power. Lacking the secret Star Dragon lore which should have been passed on from your mother, I cannot teach you its application, only what I understand to be true.”
Speechless now, stupefied as never before in her life, Aranya could only reason that she must not allow hope to take root. She’d only be disappointed when it turned out to be unattainable. But even a Star Dragon lacked the power to command her heart’s desires.
Aranya wanted so badly to believe the Land Dragon, she felt sick with longing. If she could be healed, what else might be possible–restoring Izariela, returning the First Egg to its rightful place, and might she even envisage a relationship and a marriage to the right man? Thou … oh, great Islands! Oh, thou, my soul …
Across from her, Ardan’s mental voice echoed her inner sobbing. I know, Aranya. It’s too marvellous to believe, isn’t it?
Just as quickly as hope had speared into her, so did despair. All she wanted were eyes the colour of night, but they were promised to another. Thunder crashed in the distance. King Beran gazed up to the skies, but he stepped forward to place his hand on Aranya’s neck. From the corner of her eye she saw her friends, and the Dragons, draw closer, but her eyes were for her father alone.
“Whatever happens, Sparky,” he said.
Her hearts swelled with love as she gazed down at her father. To Zip, Aranya whispered, “If you come with me to Herimor, my friend, what of Ri’arion?”
The Remoyan hung her head, looking as wretched as Aranya had ever seen her. “Even a Nameless Man cannot travel beneath the Cloudlands, Aranya. He plans to stay behind, to help build a new Dragon Rider school at Fra’anior.”
“No one can travel beneath–”
“You’re right. The toxins would kill us within minutes,” said Zip. “Ri’arion will teach us the arts of shielding and filtering the air that enters our lungs, and the arts of purging poisons from our bodies. We will experiment here, near Yorbik. It’ll take time, but we also need the time for healing before undertaking such an arduous journey.”
“And what of Kylara?” Aranya asked. “If Ardan accompanies us, what of her?”
Zuziana’s smile was utterly impenetrable. “You’re a silly petal sometimes, aren’t you? Kylara, Aranya says she can’t leave you behind.”
Dazed, forlorn, Aranya watched the Warlord of Yanga approach her with an air of unaccustomed diffidence. Strange, how her dislike of this woman had mellowed–perhaps matured was a better descriptor–as Aranya learned to judge less quickly, and to prize a person for who they truly were. Kylara would be good for Ardan, she thought, sadly. Far better than an Immadian Princess.
“Ardan and I have talked at length, Aranya,” she said, “and it’s a good thing I don’t have a scimitar in my hand when I say this.”
Oh, flying ralti sheep, how had she wronged the Warlord now?
Kylara dropped her voice to a whisper so low, even an Amethyst Dragon had to strain to hear her. “Aranya, I don’t love him–”
“N-N-No.” The breath stopped in her throat with a rattle. “No! You can’t mean it.”
Kylara’s peaceable smile said enough, but she repeated, “Aye. I don’t love Ardan, not in that most Island-shivering sense.”
Had Kylara grown a Dragon’s tail and walloped her over the head with it, Aranya could have been no less stunned.
“I … I don’t accept that,” she said, plaintively.
Kylara said, “You have to. I could never love a Dragon. The truth is, I’ve come to realise that I loved the idea of Ardan more than the man himself. Nor does he love me. In fact, I suspect he might love a certain, very magical someone else, and always has.”
Zip chucked Aranya beneath the chin. “Shut the trap, petal.”
Aranya snapped her jaw shut. “Kylara … Ardan? I don’t understand. Why are you allowing this?”
He drawled, “Because love is for fools. And though they are fools, Shadow Dragons don’t easily take ‘no’ for an answer, o jewel of Immadia.”
“I sense a conspiracy of monstrous proportions!” Aranya complained, not trusting herself to look at Ardan. How could she answer him now, when a storm filled her heart? Ambushed–first by Leandrial, then the Chameleons, and now by Kylara and Ardan, even Zip. Yet, she could not read another’s heart.
Nor could she make sense of this storm, not now, not when she was being battered from every side. Aranya fled in another direction. Turning to Jia-Llonya, she asked, “What of you, Jia?”
“Once Yolathion is healed, I will–”
As the Jeradian girl began to speak, a mighty roar sounded from the medical tents, followed by screams and the sound of crysglass smashing. Every eye, Shapeshifter, Human and Land Dragon, snapped toward the ruckus.
A huge shape struggled there, winged, mighty in size for a Lesser Dragon. His bellow was an abhorrent scream, a wordless declaration of insanity. The Dragon lifted off, belching fire at everything and nothing, the suns gleaming off his Brown Dragon hide. Yolathion! Flying with jerky, uncoordinated movements, he winged over the hills toward the east, twice firing fireballs which did not even appear to be aimed at the windrocs straying into his path.
What trepidation trembled her Dragon hearts as Aranya watched Yolathion disappear behind the hills. Feral, or insane? Had the torture snapped his mind? If so, the Yorbik Islanders were in terrible danger.
At once, Ja’arrion called, Yedior? Will you do as we discussed?
At once, Ja’arrion.
Yedior, who was also a Brown Dragon, winged rapidly over the shipyards, coming to a neat landing beside their council. His beautiful, turbulent yellow eyes regarded them all, and Aranya sensed a nobility in him, a largeness of spirit. He was a much younger Dragon than her uncle, but still over eighty feet in length, his hide a lustrous, dark brown tending to tan in the underparts. He began to step toward Jia-Llonya, before his paw arrested in mid-air.
Oh … what is this? Why do I–Ja’arrion? I feel so odd. Faint.
The Green Dragon rose to his feet, scanning the throng. He said, What has caused this feeling, Yedior?
Aranya had the sense that her uncle knew exactly what was happening, but chose to play along. A secretive smile curved Oyda’s lips. Aranya shivered delicately. How much magic thrilled the air? An inexplicable but familiar magic, one that tugged her back to the cave where she and Ardan had first met. One soul touching another. A power beyond magic, even.
Her. That one. His claw rose, moving beyond Jia-Llonya to point at Kylara. The Brown, huge as he was, gulped like a shy teenager.
What power is this, Ja’arrion?
Ask her the question, Yedior.
Kylara stumbled forward as though impelled by an unheard command. Her mouth worked, but no words emerged.
Yedior sank to his knee in a deep bow, swinging his muzzle down toward the Western Isles warrior. “I’m supposed to take Jia-Llonya,” he protested, but his eyes were for Kylara alone. “Oh, by my mother’s egg! I, Yedior the Brown, beg, no, I entreat you … will you do me the honour, Kylara, of becoming my Dragon Rider?”
The Warlord seemed frozen somewhere between horror and awe. She blurted out, “I’ll sharpen my scimitar on your head if you give me any trouble,” and then clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling a shriek.
“That passes for ‘aye’ in the Western Isles,” said Ardan, dryly.
Next to Aranya, Zuziana shouted with laughter.
Kylara stumbled toward the Dragon in a daze, throwing her arms as far as she could reach around Yedior’s muzzle. “Of course, I’d want nothing more in the Island-World, you beautiful … you handsome oh, flying ralti sheep, you’re a Dragon!”
“Then let’s burn the heavens together, as Dragon and Rider!” cried Yedior.
Kylara and Yedior made moon-eyes at each other.
Ja’arrion put in, “That would be right now, Yedior. Take Jia-Llonya and Kylara, and go catch that Brown Dragon before he causes too much trouble.”
“Aye, Ja’arrion,” he and Kylara chorused.
More gently, the Green Dragon said to Jia-Llonya, “We can hope he is only feral, little one, and that your love will restore him to his senses.”
As the threesome rushed away to find weapons and supplies, Ardan winked at Aranya. “Never love a Dragon, eh? How long did that last? A whole minute?”
She shook her head, thinking that magic and love were a wondrous and confounding combination. What if her health could be restored, inwardly and outwardly? What if it could not? Did any of that matter if she and the Shadow Dragon were linked by the soul-fire? Stubbornness was not unknown to the Princess of Immadia, so did that mean she was only kicking back at the goads because this was the Black Dragon’s apparent scheme for her life, for which Yolathion had paid so dearly? She intended to have words with Fra’anior. Many words, perhaps harsh ones.