Dragon

by Finley Aaron

  I’ve got my swords on at my hips and my daggers on my thighs, but I’m not sure about putting on my backpack and swords over my flannel shirt dress. “Your shirt is probably going to get shredded when I change.”

  “It’s okay. I have other shirts.” Ram’s words are matter of fact, but the tone under his words and everything in his face says it doesn’t matter if we shred a thousand shirts, we need to get going.

  This does not reassure me.

  “Something else I thought of when I saw you fighting Ion,” Ram talks quickly, squeezing in the information before verbal discussion is no longer possible. “Dragons are armored, you know—our scales are essentially impenetrable, except for the softer scales on our undersides—belly, underarms, inner thighs. It’s nearly as tough, but it can be pierced by dragon horn.”

  “Dragon horn?” I repeat.

  “The horns on the tops of our heads—they’re the toughest weapon I know of, sharpest, too. The only thing that can pierce dragon armor at all, and then only dragon underbelly armor.”

  “That’s why you flew under Ion and gored his belly with his horns.”

  “Precisely. Our talons can scratch, our tail spikes can bruise, but our horns are one of the few ways to really hurt another dragon. It’s tough to kill a dragon that way, though. The horns are too short to reach the heart. Ready?” Ram asks, and takes my hands.

  “Ready.” In spite of my fear, I’m more than ready. I’m eager, not just to get on with our journey and get to our wedding, but to be a dragon again, because to be honest, it was pretty fantastic. Exhausting, heavy even, and terrifying, but also amazing in ways I can’t describe. Because I could fly. And float like a boat. And, theoretically at least, breathe fire.

  “How do you breathe fire?” I ask, now that I’m thinking of it, because if my hunch is correct I may need to use that skill before long.

  “It’s a lot like singing.”

  “Like singing?” I’m surprised by Ram’s answer, not only because I wasn’t expecting him to say that, but also because I’ve never heard him sing, nor can I imagine him doing so.

  But sure enough, with a bit of a sideways smile that says he’s happy to teach me, and maybe even glad I asked, he explains, “It’s like when you sing a high note. You’ve got to raise the soft palate at the roof of your mouth. Do you know how to do that?”

  “Yes.” Back at Saint Evangeline’s we were required to sing in the choir for at least one semester. The director was adamant about teaching us good technique and all the physiology behind it.

  “Like so,” Ram opens his mouth, and then belts out a falsetto “Aaaah,” that’s actually pretty impressive.

  “Aaaaah!” I echo him, in the same key and everything.

  “Precisely. Just do that when you’re a dragon, and you’ll breathe fire.”

  “But you can breathe fire as a human, too.”

  “True, but that takes a bit more practice.” He winks as me, turns his head a bit to the side so he’s not aiming his mouth my direction, and then, making the same face he just made to sing falsetto, he breathes out a billow of orange-tipped flame. Then he closes his mouth and turns back to me. “We should get going.”

  “Thanks for taking the time to show me.”

  “I’m glad to. It’s a skill you might need.” An undercurrent of danger runs through his words, and he glances at me, a quick check to see if I heard that note and if I’m worried.

  Of course I did, and I am. I raise an eyebrow just a twitch.

  Ram closes his eyes, dips his head slightly to apologize for frightening me, and then admits, “I believe there is still danger ahead of us. Also, you should know, in case things happen which I fear may happen, your father is a scarlet-orange dragon. Eudora is yellow, a sickly yellow tinged with green.”

  He has that look on his face again, the one I saw in my hallway the night Ozzie first started growling, the one that says this strong, nearly-invincible man, is worried.

  Maybe even scared.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Changing is not so difficult this time, though it’s still a monumental effort and I’m not sure I could have pulled it off at all if Ram hadn’t been holding my hands, pressing his forehead against mine. And then we fly through the night over the mountains. Ram sets a gentle, gliding pace, so that we reach my village just as the pre-dawn light is beginning to color the eastern horizon.

  We land in the King’s Tower, which I remember from my childhood, a tall, medieval stone tower with high parapets surrounding the flat top, shielding the deck above from the sight of anyone below. I always just figured the name was an ancient one, not a clue to my father’s true identity. I haven’t seen the tower in over a decade, but it hasn’t changed, and I instantly recall memories I hadn’t thought about in years.

  My father used to come down from the tower after trips, whenever he’d been away. He’d enter the city through the door in the base of the tower, dressed in a long, flowing robe.

  As a child, I’d assumed that was normal, because that’s the way he’d always done it. But now I understand how unique and significant his entrance was.

  Ram changes first. He’s still in his boxer shorts, and he explains the procedure to me, pointing. “There are doors—men’s, women’s,” he gestures to each in turn, on opposite sides of the round tower. “You’ll find a robe in there, put it on, go down the stairs. I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

  I nod my purple dragon head and Ram ducks away through the door. I’m alone. It’s not a comforting feeling. I want so very much to be human again, and get through the tower and be reunited with Ram, but I don’t know how to change.

  Yet, even as I want it, and think to myself how very much I want it, and deflate my breath like he taught me, I see that my arms are brown again instead of purple, my fingernails rounded instead of sharp claws. I duck inside the door, slip into a robe, and hurry down the stairs as though someone might be just behind me, chasing me.

  Ram is waiting for me in the large room at the bottom. “Ready?” He takes my hand.

  I slip my hand into his and nod, exhausted and ready for a nap or a meal, preferably both. He’s acting as though stepping through the door is a big deal, and I suppose in some symbolic way, it is—my return to the town of my birth, to the people I was born to protect.

  But it’s not yet morning, not really, and I expect we’ll slip into town quietly, without anyone noticing.

  In that, I was wrong.

  Ram opens the door and we’re greeted by a loud cheer, which startles me out of my drowsiness and makes me think somebody should have told the villagers to keep it down, or they’re going to alert the yagi to our arrival.

  But then, if Ram is right and Eudora has spies among us, I suppose it doesn’t matter if we’re quiet or loud. She’ll know soon enough either way.

  Villagers have lined up all down the central street that runs through town, just as they used to flock to the roadside to welcome my father. Back then, I never minded the crowd because I was always so excited to see my father. Now it’s a tad disorienting, especially considering the sun’s only just coming up, so it’s not fully light out, and I’m zonked from being a dragon.

  Thankfully Ram has firm hold of my hand and guides me down the road. We’re both in flowing robes like my father used to wear—Ram’s a giant cloak-like garment that wraps all the way around him with an extra draping fold that covers his shoulders, a rich navy blue jacquard that’s vibrant and regal.

  I had grabbed the first thing my hand touched that felt right, which turned out to be a teal and white paisley print with highlights of magenta, but it’s at least a sturdy cotton fabric instead of some of the flimsy chiffon things my fingers rejected at first brush. It fits like a wrap-dress, with a tie belt at the waist to secure it closed and adjust the size, and it makes me feel slightly feminine for the first time since I started being a butcher.

  People are waving a cheering and even throwing down leaves and flower petals, like a ticker-tape p
arade, but more organic. Ram waves back, looking every bit like a real king should, kind of reminiscent of the way my dad waved to his people when he entered the village.

  So I wave, too, even though I don’t recognize anyone.

  I mean, I don’t recognize anyone. The buildings are the same, the tower was the same. I know we’ve got the right place, but was I really gone that long? Ten years?

  We’ve walked about a block and I’m starting to get worried again, that maybe I was gone too long, and home was just a dream, and it will never be the same, when I spot the first familiar face I’ve seen.

  And it’s not even human. I mean, it’s sort of pseudo-human. It’s a doll, the embroidered cloth doll face like my friend Arika and I used to play with. This one is being held by a tiny girl who looks barely old enough to stand on her own, maybe two years old at most. And the crowd’s kind of pressing close to us anyway, so I step toward the little girl as we move forward.

  When I reach her, I crouch down and look at the doll.

  The girl looks at me with round eyes. She doesn’t seem afraid of me, but she’s watching me carefully. I smile. “When I was a girl, I used to play with a doll like this. But I don’t remember her name.”

  “Tulip.”

  “Tulip, that’s right!” I stand, coming eye-to-eye with the little girl’s mother, who’s also holding two babies—twins. But that’s far from my biggest surprise.

  “Arika?”

  My friend smiles, and I recognize her, in spite of the ten years that have passed between us.

  “Welcome home, Ilsa.” When she speaks, her English strong but accented, I remember in a rush things I hadn’t thought about in years. Like the fact that I grew up speaking Azeri until I was eight years old, which is why I remembered that yagi means enemy, even if I’ve forgotten most of my native tongue. I also recall that Arika and I learned English together, taking lessons from a tutor who came to my house. The reason Arika learned the language was so I’d have a friend to practice speaking with, besides my father, who spoke English well.

  On some level, my father must have always known he was going to send me away to Saint Evangeline’s. That’s why I had to learn English.

  But all those realizations come in an instant. I smile at Arika in wonderment, taking in the changes. She’s taller and more mature now, of course, but she also has children. Three of them! Granted, I seem to recall she was a bit older than I was, maybe even a year or two, but that would only make her nineteen or twenty at most.

  And she has three children.

  Ram squeezes my hand and we keep moving. I wave back at Arika and smile, and she and her daughter wave happily back, but inside me, my exhausted mind has kicked back on, mulling thoughts I hadn’t thought to think.

  Arika has three kids. Granted, twins are not a common thing, but still, that could be me in another couple of years. Will be me, if the dragon-babies plan comes true.

  I glance back, over my shoulder.

  Arika looks happy. Her children look happy.

  I pass the rest of the walk in a daze. This is craziness, you know, the plan for me to marry and have children. I’m eighteen years old. I don’t care if dragons are nearly extinct, and if they need me, and if it’s perfectly normal, even expected, to marry young in my native village, where life continues more like it did a thousand years ago than today.

  We reach the stoop of the house where I grew up, a pale yellow stucco house that’s taller than most of the others in town, with blooming plants cascading from the second floor balcony, their vines encircling carved stone columns, filling the air with fragrant scents.

  My father is watching from the top step, but comes down to greet me, scooping me into his arms. “You were supposed to wait for me to come get you! What happened?” He sounds pleased to see me, but concerned, just the same.

  “Ion brought a message that it was time to leave. He said you’d sent him.”

  “I did not. I would not.” My father straightens suddenly and looks at Ram solemnly. “Ion is no longer welcome here.” He shakes his head and turns to me. “Events of late have made it impossible for me to leave.”

  I glance around at the village, which seems so peaceful, full of flowers and villagers scurrying back to their work.

  My father clears his throat and leans close to Ram, speaking in a hushed voice. “Eudora is a crafty one. We’ve rooted out three of her spies in the past two months. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more. She knows Ilsa is coming of age, and she’s frantic to stop our plans from progressing. Speaking of, what does Ilsa know of what’s to come?”

  I turn back from looking at the village, and watch my father and Ram carefully. I know Ram can communicate perfectly well without words, especially now that his face is uncovered, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my father shares his talent.

  Ram lifts both eyebrows in a gesture like surrender, and my father looks surprised, then glances at me.

  Just as I suspected, they’re talking without words. In spite of my exhaustion, I’m alert, watching them carefully, unconvinced they’ve shared all their secrets with me.

  “How much does she know?” My father whispers. Perhaps he suspects I can read their faces as well as they can read each other. In the case of Ram, I very nearly can.

  “Of the wedding? Everything.”

  “And of Eudora’s plans?”

  “She knows as much as I know—that Eudora intends to prevent our union. She’s bent on eliminating dragons from the earth—judging from the number of yagi we’ve slain on our way home, she’s quite determined.”

  “Hmm.” My father’s lips twitch as he listens to Ram’s report. I realize now, looking at him, that he doesn’t look any older than the last time I saw him or the last time I was in the village, or ever. And yet, according to Ram’s claim, my father is more than 200 years old. I can almost see it in his eyes, which are a startling bright scarlet-orange.

  “How much trouble did the yagi give you?” My father asks.

  “We managed,” Ram says simply.

  “The yagi weren’t as bad as Ion,” I offer. “He kept trying to drag me off.”

  My father nods sharply. “That’s it. That’s her plan. The yagi were just a distraction. Not that they aren’t dangerous, of course. But they were mostly there to keep you busy so Ion could deliver Ilsa to Eudora.”

  His explanation fits with what my instinct told me all along. “Why is Eudora so determined to get her hands on me?”

  Ram and my father exchange worried looks.

  “What’s the latest word?” Ram asks in hushed tones.

  “My spies say it’s ready. She hasn’t been able to test it, of course. That’s why she’ll stop at nothing to capture a test subject.”

  “Me?” I guess in a whisper. Maybe I’m picking up on their non-verbal cues, or maybe it’s just because of my limited knowledge of Eudora, but I suspect that whatever it is Eudora wants to test, it’s probably related to her experiments that ultimately killed my mother.

  Whether it’s the thought of that, or simply the fact that I’ve been walking and standing for far too long in spite of my utter exhaustion, I slump against Ram unsteadily.

  He props me up, half hugging me, half carrying me as he climbs the steps and guides me through the front door. We sit, exhausted, on a sofa, and I lean against Ram while my father runs to the kitchen, returning with coffee and the promise of meat.

  I clasp the warm cup with both hands, letting the heat seep through my fingers as I sip.

  “We should get you to bed,” Ram suggests. “You need to sleep.”

  I shake my head. “The wedding—”

  “Won’t be until this evening at the earliest,” my father finishes my sentence. “Until then, rest is the best thing for you.”

  “I’ll rest after I’ve eaten. Until then, tell me what Eudora’s up to. Please. I’m tired of secrets.”

  Something passes between Ram and my father. I’m too drowsy to catch it all—most of my attention i
s focused on raising my coffee cup to my lips without spilling any. But I think Ram communicated, in that effective wordless way of his, that my father does need to tell me everything.

  I’m grateful he’s finally on my side on that issue.

  My father clears his throat. “It’s a serum. For decades Eudora’s been working on a serum to change dragons into humans. She thought she had it figured out nineteen years ago when she sent word throughout the dragon world that she could transform anyone from dragon to human.”

  “Wait—the dragon world, what is that?”

  “Dragons and their supporters,” my father explains. “Everyone in my kingdom and Ram’s kingdom is part of the dragon world, even though only the three of us are dragons. The dragon community has traditionally been connected through messengers who travel from one village or island to the next, sharing news. It’s not known how many actual dragons there are left, because most of them live in hiding, their true identity kept secret for their safety. Your mother was one of those. Those closest to her were aware of what she truly was, but she didn’t let on to outsiders.”

  “So, a messenger brought word to my mother that Eudora could transform dragons into humans, and…she went?”

  Pain crosses my father’s face. “This is the cost, you know, of living in hiding, keeping the secret of who were really are. She felt so…alone. Her parents were long gone, killed in the battles against dragons centuries before. She had her kingdom, yes, and they loved her, but she had no hope for the future, no children, no reason to keep going. She believed—strange as it may sound—that dragons no longer have a place in this world. That we should have all died off long ago, buried with our legends and heroes of old. That she’d been passed over. And this was her chance to rectify that.”

  I could have told him that I didn’t think it sounded strange, not strange at all, but I don’t want to interrupt his story.

  “So, she went to Eudora, to her fortress deep in the wilderness of Siberia. But even before Eudora attempted to use the serum on her, Eudora shared with your mother her ideas and philosophies, about destroying all dragons, about ridding the kingdoms of the dragon world of their protectors. Your mother began to doubt whether she’d made the right choice. In fact, she started to think perhaps we dragons ought to try harder to work together—that we’ve feared one another far too long, but should instead band together, united by our common dragoness.