Garthion had the entire town lined up before him. He ordered his troops to slay every second person as a punishment.
Aranya wore her Immadian forked daggers openly on her belt. Perhaps the story about the windroc would deter his attention. Her stomach churned. Aranya tried to tell herself that the sense that something unpleasant was about to happen, was just a bad feeling. Her inner fires stirred fitfully, troubled and capricious.
Zuziana ginned impishly up at her. “Are we wearing heels, o Princess of Tree?”
“Do you ever stop fomenting trouble?”
“Rarely. Keep your door locked tonight.”
Two of the Dragonships descended to disgorge a bevy of richly-dressed passengers and two troops of Crimson Hammers–one hundred picked warriors, members of Sylakia’s elite regiment. The third Dragonship hovered overhead. Aranya noted the war crossbows were drawn. A row of archers kept a beady eye on proceedings.
Clearly, where Garthion moved, his Hammers moved in force.
Zip elbowed Aranya excitedly. “Oh, eyes left! He’s leopard. Isn’t that just leopard?”
“Leopard? Where?”
“Him, you silly … as in, I’d like a chunky fillet of that, lightly grilled? As in, he floats my Dragonship around the twin suns?”
“I know that one,” said Aranya, smiling at Zip’s chattering.
As she smiled, the uniformed young giant who was the object of her attention happened to notice her regard. His fellow-officers, obviously perplexed by his distraction, whirled and stared at the two Princesses. One of them punched the tall one on the arm.
“Leopard,” Zip breathed, fanning herself discreetly. “Lean, lithe, luscious … leopard.” Aranya resisted an urge to slap her. “Oh mercy, he’s coming this way.”
He had to be Ignathion’s son. The likeness was unmistakable; he was a younger, slimmer version of his father, but broad-shouldered and muscular enough to be beyond the first growth of manhood. As he approached them, Yolathion removed his helm. He was clean-shaven and angular of cheek and jowl. His eyes smouldered darkly beneath a flip of black hair.
Aranya’s smile widened.
Intending to tuck his helmet beneath his arm, Yolathion dropped it instead, stumbled in scooping it up and came to a skidding halt before the two Princesses. His tan face flushed. “Your smile made me drop my … uh, Aranya? You must be Aranya of Immadia?”
“I am.” Aranya offered her right hand; the giant warrior seized it as though his life depended on it, blew upon her fingers, made the sign of the peace twice, and kissed her palm as though he wished to imprint his kisses upon her heart. The fire within her sighed. This was no flare, but more like a bank of coals glowing red-hot, spreading molten heat throughout her being.
“You’re beautiful,” she sighed. The sharp end of Zip’s elbow rapped her ribcage. “Uh, I mean Yolathion, son of Ignathion? I’m … pleased to meet you, at last. I am Immadia. Aranya, I mean. Princess.”
“Eloquent,” Zip muttered next to her elbow.
“Yolathion,” he rumbled. With endearing earnestness he added, “Princess, I’m eternally grateful to you for allowing the windroc to–ah–not rearrange more than my father’s hairstyle. Allow me to convey the appreciation of my family … my father’s consorts, my brothers, my sister and I. We thank you for your gift. It’s an extraordinary piece of artist. Artwork, I mean.” He reddened. “My tongue is as graceless as you are graceful, o Princess of Immadia.”
She had the impression he had practised this speech. Yolathion’s fingers nervously traced the seating of the red plume on his helm.
“Aranya,” she said. “Call me Aranya.”
Zip cleared her throat.
“Oh–sorry. Yolathion, may I introduce my friend Zuziana, the Princess of Remoy?”
Her friend? Aranya was surprised at herself. When had that happened?
Zuziana looked as though she were about to faint as he kissed her palm. Aranya was on the point of saying something sarcastic and most likely regrettable when Yolathion straightened up. By the mountains of Immadia, he was tall! Aranya was grateful for every inch of her height. And his voice! That bass of his did something inexplicable deep in her belly. She could spend hours just listening to him speak … Aranya shook herself mentally. This was crazy. She had only just met the man.
“You’re tall,” he blurted out. “For a woman, I mean.”
“Heels,” said Aranya.
“Oh.”
“But you’re taller.”
Aranya desperately wanted to string a few coherent sentences together. Why act like a dazed ralti sheep now? With her eyes, she begged Zip for help. Zuziana seemed to be bottling up a most enormous snort of laughter. Aranya’s cheeks coloured even further.
But before the awkward silence could develop further, Yolathion volunteered, “You must tell me how you slew the windroc, Aranya. Are those Immadian forked daggers? May I see them?”
“Her story was true?” Zuziana interjected. “She really killed a windroc?”
“With these,” said Yolathion, rotating the twin-bladed daggers in his fingers. Strengthened and sharpened by a secret forging process, the daggers were renowned throughout the Island-World. “My father said to inform you, my lady, that the heart is lower in the body, more toward a windroc’s stomach, than at the level of the chest where you first stabbed it. Are your wounds all healed?”
“Yes, thank you. The crysglass cuts were clean and healed fast.”
“Very fast, according to the physician,” he said. “You must tell me all about Immadia, Princess. And Remoy,” he added, although it was clear which one he meant. “Ah, here comes Garthion. Allow me to introduce you.”
Aranya, grateful for the change of topic from her healing powers, was nonetheless displeased at this interruption.
Garthion was stocky and swarthy, her height without the high heels but thrice her girth. Every movement of his body bespoke absolute, arrogant authority. His gaze, seen over her proffered hand, came from eyes of a pale, watered-down blue, which seemed to contain crystals of ice to her fire. Instead of kissing her palm, he licked it.
Licked it!
Aranya started to wipe her hand on her skirts, before stopping herself cold with a shudder.
“I see they’re making women in your size now, Yolathion,” he commented. “You’ll have to tell me what that’s like. I am Garthion, First War-Hammer of Sylakia, firstborn of the Supreme Commander himself. Look kindly upon me, ladies, and it shall go well with your kingdoms.”
He bowed slightly over Zuziana’s hand and repeated the vile palm-licking exercise. Aranya found herself wincing on Zip’s behalf. She could have slapped Garthion for his clumsy attempt at intimidation.
“Remoy,” he sneered. “You and I need to talk about taxes. Your family has reneged on my share of late.” He turned to Aranya with an unctuous smile. “I wish to view these famous artworks of yours. I will visit you in your chambers after dinner. Perhaps I can persuade you to paint my portrait?”
Aranya inclined her head graciously. “As you wish, First War-Hammer.”
“See you at dinner.”
To his departing back, Aranya murmured, “I’d rather paint a slug …”
At exactly the same moment, Zip spat, “I think I’m going to puke.”
“Ladies,” said Yolathion. “You must excuse me, but I have duties to perform, settling in the firstborn scion of the realm in a manner fitting to his station.”
But Aranya saw a wry smile touch his lips. The nuances in his delivery told her exactly what he thought of Garthion’s behaviour.
He clicked his boots together and made to depart.
“Wait!” Aranya blurted out. “Will you escort me–us, rather–to dinner, Yolathion?”
She wished the Cloudlands would rise and wreath her to cover her chagrin. A desperate reach for the moons, Princess of Immadia!
But Yolathion executed a military about-turn. With an engaging grin, he said, “You just saved me too, Princess.”
; And he almost fumbled his helm a second time.
“That went nicely,” Zuziana cooed at Aranya, making a silly face.
“Don’t you say a word!”
“Dazzle him again with your smile and he’ll walk slap into a wall for you.”
“Zip, you’re a pocket Dragon, I swear.”
But, for the first time since her incarceration, Aranya felt light-hearted. What Beri or King Beran would say to a romance with a Sylakian officer, she could easily imagine. But Sylakians couldn’t be all bad–he wasn’t even Sylakian. She remembered Ignathion talking about his family’s roots on Jeradia Island, the same Island where Garthion had carried out his butchery. They had moved from Jeradia the previous century when Ignathion’s ancestor relocated to Sylakia to find work as a stonemason.
He was the enemy.
Her heart winged away over the Cloudlands regardless.
* * * *
A massive storm roared in and crashed around the Tower of Sylakia that evening, drowning out even the efforts of the rajals, who seemed strangely agitated. Forked lightning struck the Tower over and over, making Aranya glance nervously up at the vaulted stained glass windows of the dining hall, half expecting the storm to explode through. She did not know if it was the presence of a hundred red-robed Crimson Hammers around the perimeter of the hall, or Garthion and his brooding glances, that made her feel so jittery.
Aranya jumped as the lamps and candles flared around the room. Nerves, girl. Control the fire!
She apologised five times to Yolathion.
She danced the traditional fourth-course interlude with him, but felt clumsy because neither of them knew the other’s style–they danced it differently in Immadia. She wished he would have taken a stronger lead. Did he notice the heat radiating from her body? He kept looking at her a little askance. She picked half-heartedly at the different dishes. The food tasted like ash on her tongue. Her nerves and misgivings, combined with a sense of evil abroad and the feelings of her treacherous heart toward Yolathion, made a part of Aranya long for the evening to end soon.
Another part wished it would never end. Once he conquered his nerves, Yolathion was charming and not nearly as stern as she had imagined–an altogether sunnier personality than his father, she realised, when he allowed his true self to peek out from behind that military exterior. He had her and Zuziana in stitches over his description of a prank he had played on his father involving a pot of glue and Ignathion’s combat boots.
Later, Garthion sat for a preliminary sketch in her chambers and made snide innuendoes in her direction for the duration of the most teeth-grinding half-hour of her life. Aranya knew something was badly wrong when Beri pretended to trip to put out a fire brewing beneath the drapes with a pitcher of prekki-fruit juice.
“Clumsy fool,” sniffed Garthion.
Aranya’s inner response crisped the corners of her sketch paper.
Afterward, she excused herself and went straight to bed.
She dreamed of standing on the highest tower of Immadia’s castle, confronting the storm, her fire raging against the lightning, her screams defying the thunderclaps, a rebellious inferno seething up into her throat and spilling out … and felt Beri’s hand upon her shoulder, urgency in her voice, warning her about a fire blazing in an empty corner of her chambers. She slept. The storm changed, the great thunderheads morphing into a many-headed Black Dragon, as vast and wide as the sky. Its roaring shook her world to its foundations, shattering the cliffs of her Island and battering her mind until it drove her into shrieking insanity.
Beri shook her again. Fire crackled in the corners of the room.
After that, Aranya could not sleep.
“You’re burning up, petal,” said Beri.
“Do you think I’m going crazy, Beri?”
“I think you might be sick. Let me mix you some feverbane.”
Aranya sat on her bed, holding her knees. She rocked back and forth. Maybe she was sick. Maybe the power wasn’t trying to consume her from within. How, if a person held so much fire within her, did she not simply burn up?
She pictured the Black Dragon from her dream. She could never paint him. If she did, he might come alive off the canvas.
The feverbane helped. But Aranya forced herself to stay awake.
After breakfast, taken in her chambers, Yolathion appeared at her door to request that she accompany him for a morning stroll around the Tower. He wore his combat armour. The breastplate was immaculate and his boots polished to a spotless sheen. This time there was no incident with the helmet. He had left it behind.
Ignoring the dangerous glint in Beri’s eye, Aranya accepted his invitation with glee, even though she felt unwell.
Yolathion seemed to know his way around the Tower of Sylakia. Shortly, they exited the building just south of the Last Walk. Aranya had never been so grateful for crisp air upon her cheek. The morning had that unmatched freshness of a storm’s aftermath. The rajals growled and purred in their stone moat. Bald vultures picked busily at a carcass almost beneath the rajals’ noses. Cheeky hummingbirds darted around the massive, shallow stone planters that housed thousands of the red Sylakian fireflowers, which bloomed all year round.
Yolathion led her solicitously around the shattered roof tiles scattering the granite flagstones. He seemed concerned she might slip on a damp patch of rock. Telling herself it was only a pretence of need, Aranya leaned on his strong arm–too good an opportunity to miss. She could barely have kept on her feet otherwise.
“You seem recovered from last night,” he said, after they had chatted in inconsequentialities for a half-circuit of the Tower.
“Actually, I’m dosed up to the eyeballs with feverbane–and feeling faint,” said Aranya.
“Shall we sit awhile?”
Aranya eyed the walkway, which seemed to sway uneasily. She felt airsick–and she had never been airsick in her life. Whatever was the matter with her? She let Yolathion lead her to a stone bench. Aranya settled on the stone thinking she should simply lie down to try to absorb some of its coolness. His hand touched her brow.
“By the Islands!” he gasped. “Aranya … Princess!”
“Can I lay my head on your lap?”
She did not care if it was an unthinkable breach of protocol. Yolathion shifted to accommodate her. Lowering her head, Aranya’s stomach heaved. She lurched forward, vomiting her breakfast down his leg and all over his boots.
“Oh … oh, sorry.” Aranya moaned as her stomach clenched. More flooded out of her mouth. “Oh, Yolathion …”
“You’re ill. You’ve a raging fever,” he said, holding her gently. “Come. Back to your chambers, now, Immadia.”
“I don’t think–”
Her world lurched. “No problem.” Aranya realised he had lifted her with no apparent effort. She put her arms around his neck. Resting her head on his shoulder, she concentrated on not throwing up all over him again.
Halfway back around the outside of the Tower, Aranya groaned. Yolathion had the presence of mind to aim her at a nearby bush.
After an interminable time of bobbing against his shoulder, her nostrils filled with the redolence of a warrior’s leather and metal body armour, she heard knocking at a door.
“We’ve not said the promise banns yet,” she sighed.
Yolathion chuckled. “I’m not depositing you outside of your doorway, Princess. Straight into bed with you. We shall wink at tradition.”
“Oh. You’re a dreadful seducer …”
Beri said, “The Princess?”
“She’s ill. Delirious,” said Yolathion. “A high fever. Best get more feverwort into her. I’ll have ice fetched from the kitchens. They’ll have had nets out for the hail last night.”
“And several buckets,” said Beri.
Buckets? Buckets of water for the fires she might spark? Or for her rebellious stomach?
Aranya sighed as her head touched the cool pillow-roll. For a moment her fingers clung to the nape of Yolathion’s neck, befor
e her hand flopped onto the bed.
She wept at the loss.
* * * *
By the evening of the third day after being taken ill, Aranya felt greatly improved. Anything was better than hanging wretchedly over a bucket while her intestines tried to turn themselves inside-out. She had even managed a little painting that afternoon.
As she walked down to the dining hall with Beri, she asked, for the tenth time, “Zip hasn’t been … she hasn’t called by?”
“No,” said Beri. “That little scrap’s probably just busy with her other friends. You know how fickle she is.”
But when everyone at dinner claimed not to have seen her for days, Aranya knew something was wrong. Badly wrong.
She ran.
“Get help!” she yelled over her shoulder, exiting the hall.
She rebuked herself for an idiot. All those feelings. All that uneasiness–it was as clear as crysglass to her, now. She sprinted upstairs and along the corridors. Her slippers smacked the floor, helter-skelter. She cannoned off a corner. Sobbing. Panting. Pumping her arms and legs as she flew along those endless, dingy corridors. Wildfire burned in her throat. Aranya sprinted on the wings of a conflagration. A curtained alcove ignited with a soft whomp! She sprinted by.
Selfish, Aranya, she screamed inwardly. The illness. All things Yolathion. Stupid, prekki-fruit mush-brain, what had she been thinking? An open threat about Remoy’s taxes. Garthion was the key. He had done something to her friend. Aranya’s gut twisted and knotted at her anguish. She careened around the final corner.
She skidded to a halt outside Zip’s door. It had been guarded that night. What had happened? Why had nobody else noticed?
Her hand hesitated on the door handle.
Pressing open the door, Aranya saw Zuziana lying abed. She lay terribly still. A stench pervaded the room. Death. All around Zip, the sheets were soaked with blood. There was so much blood, it had dripped through the mattress and marked a trail toward the doorway. Bloody boot-prints stamped the floor and rugs. She bit her knuckles. Her senses took in the details, but her mind was too numbed to process them. A man lay beside the bathroom door–a Tower guard, his head skewed at an impossible angle. Rats scattered at her approach. Zuziana lying so crumpled, so torn, her dress shredded across her torso, the crusted mess of blood-sodden cloth …
Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) Page 7