by Marc Secchia
Seek Ianthine? she echoed. White Dragoness, how is it that we can speak of such things? Who are you? Where … why …
She questioned the night.
Lia looked upon the Reaving of her flesh as if from a distance, knowing the damage they sought to do, knowing that once more Azziala had betrayed her out of misguided and blind adherence to her Protocols. The Enchantresses were present in the wailing of the wind, their power clawed into her body, bringing on the visions that tormented her. Hualiama touched her body only enough to keep the heart beating, nothing more. All had been surrendered.
Only survival mattered.
* * * *
When first light touched her face, Hualiama did not feel it. She watched thirteen women approach the mountaintop, but it was not with eyes frozen into their sockets that she observed their climb. She watched in the knowledge of a five-moon conjunction, alive to the twin suns’ radiance, and yearned for the dawn.
The Empress touched the pulse of Hualiama’s neck, her face set like bronzed stone.
Feyzuria shook her head. “She didn’t make it.”
Azziala said, “Take her down.”
Right between the twin suns, in a place which could never be seen by eyes of flesh, a tiny flash of blue glinted once, and speared across the intervening space to touch her spirit, at once fleeting and profound, with a peal like the distilled laughter of starlight. It sang, Hualiama!
Shazziya also shook her head, wondering, “How could she perish? We felt her strength. She has your heritage, o Empress.”
“The father’s the weakness,” spat Feyzuria.
“No, he was a great Enchanter,” Azziala said tonelessly, gathering Hualiama’s stiff body into her arms. “This is wrong. WRONG!”
Her grieving cry shook the mountain.
Riding the turbulence of that magic-infused shout, Hualiama’s spirit rejoined her body. Breath ghosted across her rimed lips.
Azziala gasped; placed her cheek close to Lia’s mouth. “Breathe, little one. You must … she’s alive!” For the first time, her voice was raw with emotion. She breathed, “Together at last, my beautiful daughter.”
Lia’s body could not shudder, but her spirit did.
* * * *
Abed, days slipped by in a delirium of recovery, characterised by fires kept blazing in a firepit until the temperature became sweltering, regular meals of mashed, spiced orrican kidney and liver–unspeakably foul–and Yinzi’s massage of her frostbitten extremities. Despite the warmth and liberal application of herbal medicines and magic, each massage was a fresh agony, to say nothing of the state of her brain. Had Grandion enthusiastically stirred up her skull’s contents with a talon and then chargrilled the mash to perfection, she would have felt no less abused. When lucidity returned, Hualiama tried to question the old midwife, but her probing met with fearful non-answers.
Lia learned they had housed her in Azziala’s own chamber. She supposed she should be honoured, but quickly became aware she was still being strictly monitored, in particular by Feyzuria, who seemed to find something distasteful about the new heir-apparent to the throne. Most likely, the political plotting had reached a fever-pitch in the corridors of Azziala’s underground lair. Hualiama would have been unsurprised to find a viper in her bed, or poison slipped into her drink, but she realised that the powers of these Enchantresses must keep at least some of the dagger sinister, to borrow the Fra’aniorian saying, at bay.
Late the fourth evening after her Reaving, the Princess learned what had kept Azziala from her bedside.
Without warning, the oval wooden door of the Empress’ austere chambers banged open. Her retinue of watchers–they all seemed identical, always a pair of blue-robed women with the unnervingly intense eyes and unsmiling golden faces–did not startle, but left the room at once.
“Two days ago, the lizards razed one of our villages,” Azziala announced. No preamble for her. No greetings or happiness that her daughter appeared well. “What do you know of this?”
“Er–as much as you just told me,” said Lia.
“Look into my eyes when you speak, child! The eyes!” Taken aback, Lia raised her gaze. Azziala eyed her narrowly. “Repeat that.”
“Islands’ sakes, what–”
The Empress’ voice shook with wrath. “What do you know of this attack?”
Just then, the door banged a second time. Shazziya charged in, closely followed by Feyzuria.
“Lizard-lover!” spat Shazziya. The royal ward stared. The tall Enchantress’ face glowed with an unholy radiance, as though her skin were lit from within. “Let me wring her scrawny little neck–with respect, Highness. I’ll stake you out for a lizard’s lunch! I’ll rip the truth out of you–”
Feyzuria, in a voice crackling with power, snarled, “We all want to know, Shazziya. Now hold your tongue before the Empress and her heir, before we still its wagging with a blade. Answer the question, child!”
Lia queried, “You’ve outdoor villages? In this climate?”
“THE QUESTION!” Azziala’s roar knocked her bed over and snuffed out the fire instantly.
“Nothing!” Hualiama wriggled out from beneath the tumbled bedclothes, stood toe to toe with her mother, and roared in her best impression of the Tourmaline Dragon, “Nothing! As in, not-one-thing! Now, can someone kindly–”
Azziala gripped her cheeks with the Dragon-pincer grip she seemed all too fond of. She glared into Hualiama’s eyes, before shoving her aside with a growl, “Guiltless. Shazziya!” The Empress whirled. “Confirm this truth.”
Having subjected Lia to the same treatment, Shazziya was forced to admit, “Guiltless. I could have sworn, Highness–”
The Empress cut her off effortlessly. “Councillors. Come inside. We might as well move our meeting into my private chambers.” Her heavy sarcasm did not raise a single eyebrow among her dour-faced twelve, but Hualiama realised that at a stroke, battle lines had been drawn. “Feyzuria, the chalices. We must feed.”
Lia watched pensively as the old woman moved over to a wooden sideboard which held a cloth-covered metal tray. She removed the blue velvet cloth and folded it reverently, revealing a pitcher and thirteen chalices of the finest etched crystal. Golden liquid. Dragon’s blood, poured out thick and beautiful, its exotic spiciness igniting her nostrils with a delicious scent. Unconsciously, Hualiama licked her lips.
Observing her reaction minutely, her mother said, “This privilege is not for you, child. Not yet.”
Freaking feral Dragons! Lia flinched. Since when had she developed a taste for–oh. Since the Reaving.
The Enchantresses received their chalices in solemn procession, before turning toward each other, chanting, “We drink. We feed. May our portion increase!” They quaffed their drinks with evident satisfaction.
Azziala said, “Join hands. You too, child.”
Feyzuria protested, “Is she ready? The imprint cannot have … aye, Highness.”
Imprint? So the Reaving had a sinister motive–or a loving one, depending on one’s perspective. What did that mean? How was she expected to behave? Lia cautioned herself inwardly as she joined hands with Azziala on her right and Feyzuria on her left, completing a circle of ten, with four Enchantresses absent. An eerie force rippled around the circle, akin to Dragons’ telepathic speech, she realised. But Lia had to snatch her hands away, yelping as a shock like lightning struck her palms.
“Sorry.” She wrung her hands.
“Come, Hualiama,” Azziala encouraged. “Feyzuria, I know what you’re thinking. I suspect my heir will prove remarkably adept at this skill, as she is at much else.”
Lia frowned at the threat veiled within her mother’s compliment. Grasping the dry palms either side of her, she closed her eyes, and found a mental representation of the group waiting for her. At once, one of the women, Gyrthina by name, showed them the results of her investigation. Lia saw a village razed, as if massive worms had erupted out of the ground beneath the low log-built lodges, tossing them about like
kindling, before Dragon fire had scorched the remains. No living thing remained.
A migraine blossomed between her temples as the narrative deepened, adding layers of meaning to clarify her confusion. Their telepathic communication was so different to the draconic method. Less efficient, Hualiama noted privately, but multiplied to dizzying proportions by the presence of ten. One Enchantress noted that the Lost Islands had four different types of Dragons. Another put in, with accompanying images, ‘Burrowers, Grunts, Overminds and the Swarm.’ Information blossomed at the touch of Lia’s intellect. All four Dragon types were subclasses of Lesser Dragons. Grunts were massively armoured with what one of the Enchantresses pictured as great ridges of metallic hide, virtually impenetrable. They were so heavy that a fully-grown adult could barely fly a league. New data flickered past her awareness. Tonnage. Wingspan. Lifespan. Strategies to combat … her mind leaped. Overminds controlled the other three types. They were smallish Dragons, mostly of a Jade colour with a smattering of Browns and Blues, possessing telepathic capabilities similar to the Humans’ own, the goal of Dramagon’s breeding experiments. The Overminds were long and serpentine in the body, with four wings rather than two, and short, stubby legs that made them appear much more lizard-like than Grandion. They shied from combat, leaving that to their minions.
Knowledge poured into her. Hualiama staggered, but Azziala squeezed her hand, steadying. “Control the flow.” She barely heard, occupied with accessing population numbers and maps and invasion plans for the Eastern Archipelago and rosters of soldiers and logistical arrangements–the levels of available detail seemed endless. Each Enchantress had her specialties and responsibilities. They documented nothing, storing it all in the minds of their people, as if each Enchanter or Enchantress were a walking archive of lore and information.
The Burrowers were short, stubby Brown Dragons with massively oversized forepaws which gave them a mole-like appearance. As Gyrthina flashed up images of a different village under attack, Hualiama realised how powerful they were. Writhing Dragons exploded out of the ground, ripping half of the village off the edge of an Island and tossing it into the abyss.
Ruzal flickered beneath Hualiama’s shields, rising in response to the minds surrounding her, dark, calculating minds bent on the Dragons’ destruction. So much hate! The concerted labours of an Island-nation working toward the Dragons’ downfall!
Unconsciously, her tone mimicked their hatred as Hualiama arrested the circle, demanding, “Why do I stand accused?”
Was this her? The new, Reaved Hualiama?
“Show her,” Azziala intoned.
A single image stabilised amidst the chaos. Lia bit her lip sharply. The Dragons had left a personal note, constructed in runic script made of charred bodies and timbers from the former village. It said, ‘Hand over the Dragonfriend, or perish.’
She tore away from the circle, panting, quivering as though she hung once more, naked and defenceless, in the mountain’s arctic cold. Her stomach heaved. She could not prevent it, stumbling to the firepit to expurgate the remains of her last meal. Though she was not part of the circle, the Princess of Fra’anior sensed their approval. Aye, the imprint was working. She gagged again, fighting to swallow down the lurking, power-hungry ruzal, which sang to her spirit the ability to one day conquer these women, to seize power for herself, to rule over Dragons and Humans alike, for she had the gift and the power … desperate to distract their attention, Lia lashed out with an image of Fra’anior thundering amidst his storm. The Enchantresses threw up their hands and cried out in momentary terror.
“Leave me alone,” she muttered, sickened by what she had glimpsed within herself. This was the Dragonfriend? This twisted, greedy, grasping thing?
“What light does the Dragonfriend shed upon these developments?” asked Shazziya, unmindful or uncaring of Lia’s debility. Her tone made it clear that using the title ‘Dragonfriend’ was a personal swipe at Azziala.
“Razzior,” said Lia.
Feyzuria said, “Razzior? He can’t be here. None of our intelligence indicates it.”
“Yet the pattern of the attack is new,” said Gyrthina. “The lizards have never acted in such a coordinated fashion before.”
“Can you show me?” asked Lia.
“None lived, who observed the attack,” replied the Enchantress.
The mental link touched Lia again. Judiciously, she imbibed their knowledge, noting how they could trace Dragons over vast distances–especially the movement of large numbers of Dragons, by the magical wash or disturbance they generated in the fabric of the Island-World. Feyzuria in particular was adept at tracking Dragons. She saw them as rippling lights, as if the Dragons were the aurora of the far north she had read about. But none of these Enchantresses had detected Grandion’s approach, a tiny counterpoint voice pointed out in her mind. She saw two groups. One had to be Razzior and his kin, hurtling in a flat-out sprint for the Lost Islands. Behind them, Sapphurion and his Dragonwing?
“If the level of co-ordination and precision execution you posit from the evidence is true, my instinct would identify Razzior as the culprit,” said the engineer within Hualiama, coolly. “Are you certain–”
“Quite,” said Feyzuria. “Highness, there must be a link.”
Lia growled, “I was not aware of chatting to the Dragons on that mountaintop, Feyzuria, unless those Overminds detected your little showpiece. Magic isn’t as predictable as you think.”
“Insolent puppy!” spat the old women.
Aye. She had learned conversational tactics from a Dragon.
The Empress’ psyche jabbed them both, not gently. “We’re in a war situation. The intelligence my daughter shared with us is rapidly becoming clear. Two mighty Dragonwings approach. Feyzuria, revisit our detailed preparations lest our Dragon Enchanters be overwhelmed by the sheer number of lizards as they approach. We must assume these Dragons, mortal enemies or none, will band together to overrun us–for they fear us enough.”
Lia observed the ebb and flow of the mental conversation with interest. So the Dragon Enchanters could be overwhelmed? Swarmed, as the name suggested? Establishing a command-hold took time, she ascertained from another Enchantress’ brain. Those minutes could be vital. Feyzuria pinged off mental commands to her subordinates to file new reports, to check the defences and disposition of the troops and to inspect the Dragon holding pens–mercy, how many Dragons did they keep, on how many Islands? At the speed of thought, Lia sourced Grandion’s location. She reviewed the feedback from Enchanters tasked with long-range Dragon tracking, and had to admit, the two groups were distinct. Could Sapphurion be chasing Razzior? Or was the Orange Dragon playing a deeper game?
Azziala recaptured Lia’s hand. “So, daughter. Found out all that you need to know?” The Empress’ eyes glittered with magic as she skewered her daughter with the import of her question.
“Just overawed, honestly,” Lia spluttered. “I had no idea–”
“How powerful we are?”
Everything, she wanted to say. Magic. Power harvested from drinking Dragons’ blood. Command but a thought away. Lia was aware of the other Enchantresses focussing inward, directing the activities of the nation as if they plinked stones into a pond, the ripples spreading outward seemingly forever. Somehow, the cold calculation of this mental machine terrified her more than the sight of Shinzen’s giants rampaging across an Island–they were yet to come, she reminded herself. Here were two opposed forces which could turn the Island-World upon its axis.
Time to pull no punches.
She said, “So, mother, I do know one way to advance our cause.”
“Oh?”
“Why don’t we consult the Maroon Dragoness?” Lia turned her most ingenuous smile on Azziala. “You were planning to tell me about Ianthine, weren’t you, mother?”
She hoped to shock Azziala, but the perverse maternal pride her goading provoked was more shocking by far. The golden visage cracked into an openly avaricious grin. She said, “Oh,
we’re not quite the ingénue we pretend to be, are we, my little star? Very good. Let’s you and I go question the Dragoness about your unexpected flair for the dark pathways of ruzal, shall we?”
Despair turned her hopes to ashes. Lia knew she was embroiled in a battle for her soul.
Chapter 31: A Promise Kept
WHY, AFTER ESCAPING from her prison in the Spits, would Ianthine choose to return to the Lost Islands? This question throbbed foremost in Lia’s aching head as she walked with her mother to the Dragon holding pens, many levels down into the bowels of her underground stronghold. Was this Ianthine’s cunning in action? It had to be deliberate. What did she stand to gain? If the Maroon Dragoness knew she would be enslaved, the reward must be commensurate with the sacrifice, according to most draconic logic–but Ianthine was no ordinary Dragoness. She was a maverick. A loner. Quite possibly insane.
Ianthine was also the only Dragon Azziala had referred to with a modicum of respect. Hualiama puzzled away at the similarities she sensed between her mother and the Dragoness as they traversed a floor of extensive Dragonship engineering works–preparations for war roaring along twenty-nine hours a day–creating a ripple of stiff, respectful bows. Lia was dressed in an old tunic top, dark leggings and a deep blue robe borrowed from Azziala’s trunk of cast-offs, with her Nuyallith blade belted at her right hip. Time and again, the Islanders they encountered mistook her for the Empress, before taking in her wealth of white-blonde hair and doing a double take. Not encouraging for someone who might be planning to skulk in a few dark corners …
The ripe, spicy odour of many Dragons corralled in close quarters attacked Hualiama’s nostrils as they took a cage-lift down a further eight levels to the holding pens.
“To your right, the harvesting pens,” said Azziala, playing the guide.
Disguising how dizzy she felt, Lia coolly watched two Dragon Enchanters tapping into the artery of a Red Dragon’s wing–a Red of the southern Archipelago Dragons, she realised, as sleek as Mizuki and half as large again. He stood by stolidly as his golden blood spurted into a large bucket.