by Marc Secchia
Yukari snorted, Oh, nobly done, youngling. Nobly done indeed. A mighty display of male draconic hormones. Now a harder task–to render them conscious again.
Grandion tried to disguise his smirk with a half-bow of the muzzle, but he knew that blind Dragoness or not, Yukari could read him like an open scroll. Her budding use of Akemi’s sight only made her the more dangerous. Releasing a controlled portion of his magic, Grandion summoned all the water in the air around him, from the ground and from the clouds above. Good. His water stomach swelled with a fresh load, already cooling rapidly. A touch of care, lest he freeze these feckless fools who had dared to disdain his command.
Extending his throat, the Tourmaline exercised his water stomach muscles and sprayed a fine, freezing rain over the nearby group of Reds. Wake up. Time for training.
* * * *
After three hours of flying back toward the Lost Islands, now visible on a storm-mantled horizon, Mizuki twizzled her neck to gaze at her three Riders. “If the Dragon-Haters indeed perfected this geographically circumscribed Command-hold, shouldn’t I be dead fifty leagues back?”
Hualiama snarled, “Aye!”
“The Empress of Liars,” said Saori, feelingly.
“Most intriguing,” said Elki, making a tent of his fingers while trying to look inscrutable. “Hualiama, I’ve never pictured you as a brunette. This is novel.”
“Why, my fine Dragon Rider, this is merely the latest fashion trend–heavenly fragrances pasted to mortal flesh.”
Lia smiled over her shoulder at her dung-encrusted brother, feeling the gunge stuck to her cheeks crack audibly as it dried in the cool breeze generated by Mizuki’s flight. They all resembled brown-black mud statues of indeterminable but emphatically swampy origin, plastered from head to toe in the stringy, tenacious by-product of a vegetal diet. That breeze tore away the worst of the stench before it could permanently cauterise the nostrils–mercifully.
“O Princess, thy perfume doth stink most magnificently!” opined the Prince.
“Art thou Prince Feculence Dung-Blot the Niffy, hailing from the Isle of All Pong?” Lia inquired.
“Ordure! Ordure in my court!” cried Elki, imitating their father King Chalcion’s most pompous tones with great relish.
While brother and sister fell about laughing, Saori folded her arms and rolled her eyes extravagantly. “You two are quite mad. How is this acceptable behaviour for royals, may I ask–Elki! I am not a straitlaced Easterner! You’re the one with the ridiculously conservative traditions, with headscarves and fifty-three types of bows for every occasion–”
Lia needled, “I’m convinced he’s the one who was adopted–”
“Me, adopted?”
“From a troop of monkeys!”
An hour later, when they were all dry, crusty and starting to itch intolerably, Mizuki sang out sight of the Land Dragons upon the horizon.
Hualiama gazed over the khaki fields of Cloudlands to Chenak Island, literally steaming along as its breath frosted at far more regular intervals than she had expected. How fast were they moving now? Three and a half to four leagues per hour? Almost certainly, the Dragon Enchanters had taken control of the Land Dragons and were working them as hard as physically possible. Yet behind, that ever-present localised storm still stuck to the Islands like a wasps’ nest to a stick, its colour noticeably whiter than the black-green band of clouds building on the horizon behind them.
She pointed. “With luck, a friendly rainstorm to soak us to the skin.”
Her brother prodded her firmly in the ribs. “But is it the type of luck that blindly befalls one, or the luck created by Her Most Starry Highness, Burner of Heavens and Bringer of the Mystical Star-Fires to the Presence of Humble Peasants–urk?”
Saori pressed her belt-knife firmly against the Prince’s neck.
“I meant me. I was talking about me,” he gabbled.
“Vain popinjay,” sneered the Eastern Isles warrior, clearly still irked by the ‘straitlaced’ comment. “Some weak-willed females might even consider you handsome. I will decide after you lean back here and give me a kiss. If it isn’t a complete Island-shaker, I shall be most disappointed.”
“A popinjay is a type of Fra’aniorian songbird, might I point out,” Elki said. “And, in my culture, ‘shaking the Island’ is a euphemism for what landed you up with a wriggling dragonet in the tum.”
“A what?” Saori blurted out. Her golden Eastern skin-tones blossomed into a fine suns-set colour, those few parts visible beneath her brown mask.
Hualiama closed her ears to the smooching couple and turned to scan the horizon ahead one more time. If only she could enjoy that with her beloved … but hers was a different fate. Leaning closer to Mizuki, she said, So, Copper Dragoness, I’ve heard there’s a Dragon-power which can tell truth from a lie?
If there is, I don’t know it, said the Dragoness.
Liar.
Prove it, Shapeshifter girl. Is your existence not a veiled truth?
Clenching her fists, Lia beat them against the spine-spike immediately ahead of her and then wrung her injured right hand. Mizuki might as well have voiced her true-fires thought. Was not Hualiama’s very existence, at its core, a lie?
Chapter 14: Enchaining Dragons
ELKI caught lia’s arm on her way out of their chamber. “Need a shirt, sis?”
She ensured his left shin understood how solidly Dragon-Hater cobblers fashioned their wares. Her boots were definitely the type made to last fifty years and were only ever likely to win a prize in a beetle-stomping contest. “I’m decent. Livid enough I’m worried this egg will hatch from the heat of my anger, but decent.”
“Stay strong, sister.” Elki was becoming quite the hugger. She peered up at her tall brother, who managed to look faintly smug, as ever. He asked, “Bandages?”
Lia held up her right hand. “Won’t win me an ounce of sympathy with my devious mother, but aye–proof. Physical linkage, existential headache. It’s a Shapeshifter’s life.”
“Actually, it’s dead funky,” he said, shooing her along with his hands. Her Dragoness took a mental snap at his fingers, drawing a chuckle from Human-Lia. “Cheered on by your inner Dragoness? You are a weird one. Go create mayhem. Go on. Channel that dragonet of yours. Better still, stick him in the egg.”
“Elki, you definitely are an egg-head.”
Brothers. Honestly, his brain had exactly three settings–sleep, silly and Saori. She could not wait for him to attempt a traditional Fra’aniorian bride-kidnapping on his beloved. Unmissable entertainment. Actually, Hualiama would likely be the one to organise the event. And to convince the hot-headed warrior not to destroy Elki at the time–perhaps delayed destruction was the best she could hope for? More of a conundrum than planning how to neutralise various armies all targeting Kaolili, and the impossibility of escape from her mad mother.
The hobnailed boots tapped down the corridor to her mother’s door. Lia steeled herself.
At that very instant, she heard, Hualiama, OBEY.
An immense weight settled upon her mind. Lia’s feet jerked forward, slamming her face-first into the wooden door without recourse to use her arms to prevent the collision. “Ouch!”
Ruddy … OUT! Her mind flared; Azziala performed the mental equivalent of a duck and a dive, but not before Hualiama’s natural bastion performed its purpose. She heard a wild yell from within the room and scuffling noises. Ha. Felt that, mother? At least she had command of her own limbs once more. Lia touched a finger to her nose and drew it away daubed with blood.
Pressing open the door, Lia saw the Empress rearranging herself on her customary throne, located at the far end of an oval chamber she used for less formal activities, such as delivering briefings and planning with her Council. A smudge of crimson on the flare of her left nostril proclaimed that she had suffered a similar injury to her daughter. Azziala drank deeply from a goblet of Dragon blood, before fixing her eyes upon Lia over the rim.
“You should tie you
r hair back, daughter. It’s immodest,” she grated.
Lia had not suffered Saori’s irritated, jerky efforts with the brush for a quarter-hour after a much-needed scrub and disinfection–her third consecutive bath since returning from the depths of Siiyumiel’s bowels–for the Eastern warrior to attempt braiding her waist-length hair. White-blonde to the Haters’ habitual brown and black. She was certain she still smelled faintly rank. Nevertheless, as she approached the golden throne-seat, carved with runes of power and the supposed image of Dramagon on the tall backrest, which towered eight feet above Azziala’s petite frame, she made sure to sway her hair a little–saying without words, ‘I am unbound, as free as the Dragons of the air.’
“I have reviewed your report,” Azziala said severely. “I am most gratified by your attempts to bring a further potential ally, or source of power, into our ambit.”
Lia’s jaw barely avoided a nasty collision with the rush-covered floor. What? She studied her mother warily. The hands lay upon her thighs, resting lightly upon the blue Helyon silk dress she wore. Azziala was further covered from shoulder to elbow by a dark-blue, orrican wool cloak against the cold of her underground lair. Neat boots shod her small feet. The jewel-tipped, golden rod of office rested against her right hip, whilst at her throat, she wore a white jewel Hualiama did not recognise, although she readily identified the mineral as horiatite, the magical stone from Ha’athior Island. The jewel was massive, as large as Lia’s splayed fingers, a seven-pointed central star surrounded by stylised runes, many of which she did not recognise. Power over … abyss … eternity–that much she could read. She committed the text to memory nevertheless.
The Empress leaned forward, her golden face set in planes as hard as a granite statue. “Assess for us the threat from the South.”
“If Numistar seeks this unknown treasure and the Land Dragons are concerned enough to launch an expedition across the Rift–which is apparently far less uncrossable than legend would have it, for the Dragonkind at least–then we can conclude it must be an artefact or secret of great power,” Hualiama said. “Numistar’s true motivation is unknown. We must exercise extreme caution where she is concerned. Any development, any stirring amongst the dragonets, must be treated as an emergency. Less so the far South. We can wait for the Land Dragons to decode the message or for fresh intelligence. Meantime, we must prepare for Kaolili.”
“The Kingdom does not concern me. The false disciples of Dramagon are our initial target. However, should Kaolili not provide the utmost cooperation …”
She made a cutting gesture at her neck.
Aware of minds snooping around hers, Lia said flatly, “I’ve met the King. He’s a shrewd man, a calculator of odds like you. His honour will not allow your forces unopposed access to his Kingdom’s airspace or resources.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said Azziala.
Her mother’s new Councillors did not have the gumption to interfere, as did the old. Hualiama glanced around her as the Empress’ glacial pronouncement made more than a couple of her inner circle quake visibly. Gurzia. Pure hatred. The Councillor to her right, a tall, heavyset woman with what appeared to be a permanent scowl graven upon her features, which still showed a hint of the natural pink skin-tone beneath, must be the new recruit. Payturki of Irak. In addition to the usual heavy blue robes, she wore a sky-blue wimple over her greying hair as if to underscore her devotion and piety.
Odd. Did she feel a vibration from the dragonet’s egg?
“So, daughter, an artefact of great power?” At last, Azziala cracked a smile–literally, for her strange skin folded upon unnatural, geometric lines. “Such as the Scroll of Binding?”
Hualiama kept still. The egg jiggled again. No. Not now, little one.
“You don’t think you could be Numistar’s target, do you? Considering Istariela’s special relationship with Fra’anior the Onyx–” her lips twisted the words until they suggested the utterly abhorrent “–I wonder that a Dragoness of similar powers might not be her goal. Or a useful tool.”
Wetting her lips, Lia replied, “What could I offer Numistar that she doesn’t possess already? Not that I would. I–”
Azziala’s face twisted so sharply, Hualiama wondered if the ghastly twin was about to make an appearance. “The unstoppable power of ruzal. Conveniently suppressed in that cranium of yours. Putting together what we learned from the Maroon lizard, we Councillors conclude that ruzal is a magic most intimately related to Dramagon’s signature talents–and therefore, it is of great value to us. Infinitely greater value than, say, your continued health or life.”
Through blood-bitten lips, she replied, “Dear mother, how very charming you are.”
The Empress regally ignored the bait. “I considered Reaving you again, but that is against our Protocols and oddly, I find the Place of Reaving was destroyed during the lizard’s unsuccessful attack. Strange.”
“I wished it gone,” Lia laughed hollowly. “I didn’t expect the ever-noble Sapphurion to listen to me.”
Azziala said, “I think you lack the proper motivation, Hualiama.”
“I think you’re taking over the Dragonkind again.”
“The larger ones, yes. And a few to bargain with, such as Sapphurion and what’s-her-name, the Copper lizard?”
Lia forced her expression to remain neutral, but her voice constricted as she traded verbal punches with her mother. “Because your geographically bound Command-hold never existed?”
“Fool. Of course not.” Azziala snapped her fingers. “Other structures do work, however, which you would do well to beware of. A ban and a bane upon infighting. Death upon treachery. Debilitating pain sufficient to stop a Dragon’s heart. But I didn’t summon you here to talk about petty distractions, Hualiama. I want to taste your devotion to the cause. I need you to convince that lizard-spirit which possesses you, to give up its secrets.”
“She’s incorrigible.” Ha, take that, Dragonsoul.
She sensed her Dragoness close at hand, listening with a stillness that in turn, brought sombre overtones to Human-Lia’s thoughts. What had Dragonsoul … did she have a premonition?
“You will therefore assign ten Dragons apiece to investigate each of these Land Dragons’ nostrils and to destroy any dragonet eggs or hatchlings they might find. Further, you will choose fifty Dragons each day to investigate that storm.”
Hualiama gasped, but not for the reason Azziala thought. The egg tapped sharply against her sternum. Would it crack soon? Yet she knew Azziala’s decree would spell death-sentence for many Dragonkind. She dropped her gaze. Choose? Who could make such a choice? How could a commander send troops into battle knowing many would die; how could they live with their conscience thereafter?
“Perhaps the deaths of fifty Command-held Dragons a day will convince you to more assiduously seek a way to share the ruzal magic with a wider audience? A righteous, deserving Human audience?”
How could she circumvent this order? Or turn it to the Dragons’ advantage? But Lia had barely half a second to think furiously before Azziala continued:
“And as for thinking you may hatch a dragonet’s egg–that is odious, daughter, and it will not happen in my stronghold.”
Lia froze, sensing the unveiling of a vindictive purpose in her mother.
DRAGON, DIE!
* * * *
Sobbing, cradling the egg to her bosom, Hualiama fled her mother’s presence. Begging … don’t die, little one. Don’t … but the fragile flame was gone. Snuffed out.
Azziala’s sick gratification! The pinch of her monstrous fingers upon the candlewick of a life!
Rough laughter chased her down the corridor, beating her ears like feral windrocs, abruptly cut off by the door slamming shut behind her. She burst into her room. Lia stumbled over the threshold, her bad hand stuck in her clothing as she tried to extract the egg from its pouch. Elki’s attempted catch turned into a despairing lurch. She crashed upon his outflung left leg, curling instinctively around the egg, the
protective mother-Dragoness.
“Lia, what–”
“No, no, she can’t … she killed him! Just like that, oh, Elki …”
Crimson was the colour of hate, the crimson of blood, thundering in her ears and pumping wildly in her heart. How dare she? How dare her mother–
“I heard. It’s alright.”
“No it isn’t, you stupid–don’t you see! He’s dead!” Lia held out the egg, pleading, “Bring him … bring him back …” Who was she even asking?
Just so, she had lost Flicker.
Catapulted back in time, a scene flashed into Lia’s mind. Lamentation. A grief so deep, her life’s-Island felt quarried out from the inside, the remaining structure too fragile to endure. Her apprehension not only of Amaryllion’s sorrow, but of the Ancient Dragon somehow communing with the remnant of Flicker’s fire-soul before it flew to the eternal fires. When it flew? Before? It was not too late!
Hope was a crossbow bolt, a shaft of burning, consuming ecstasy fired through her heart.
For the sake of thy spirit, Amaryllion … a deep, rattling groan shook Hualiama as white-fires cascaded through her body. All was washed in white. She saw into the egg. She traced the expiring flicker of life, the merest wisp of smoke. Her Dragon-form whispered the truth that where there was smoke, there was fire … and within her being, another gift trembled on the cusp of incarnation. Willing. Tremulous, yet ready to soar.
Fire rose, lambent–the fire of a dragonet’s spirit once breathed into her being. Thick beads of sweat pearled on Hualiama’s brow, soaking her clothing; made the Prince somewhere, far away yet holding her person affectionately, exclaim in shock. Elki’s idea. Genius. A chance for wholeness–not that tragedy could ever be expunged, but perhaps there was an opportunity, a second beginning, that might by some miracle beyond her limited understanding redeem the past.