Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons)

by Secchia, Marc

  The girl moved. A moan issued from her lips.

  Aranya gasped.

  This was Garthion’s doing. It had to be. Garthion and his perverted palm-licking. Garthion’s vile whispers. Aranya knew she had to help Zuziana, but horror rooted her feet to the stone. She could not move. Zip must have lain here for three days. Much of the blood was dry; darkened. How could she still be alive? Poor, broken Zip.

  Abruptly, as though tugged by an unseen leash, she jerked her legs into motion.

  Leaning over the bed, Aranya laid her hand on Zuziana’s brow and gave what she had. It was little. Just strength, just a stirring of healing. She spoke to her, words she could not recall afterward. Suddenly Beri rushed into the room. Moments later, Nelthion arrived with a physician in tow, who took one look at the Princess’ condition and shook his head.

  “It’ll take a miracle,” he said. But he bent to his work.

  That evening, Aranya force-fed herself on sweet fruits and cake and then tried to heal Zuziana again. She was stronger, this time. But the effort drained her more. She wished she knew something, anything, about what she was doing, or even how. After Beri showed her how to work pulped fruit down Zuziana’s throat, she whiled away the hours–eleven hours of daylight and sixteen of night in this season–feeding her friend and encouraging her to fight. She tried to heal her whenever she had the strength. Was it helping? She despaired.

  They arranged to move Zip into Aranya’s room to better take care of her.

  Looking down at Zip’s ruined, bandaged body, Beri whispered, “A whipping like that, Aranya? I don’t know if she’ll make it. But the physician said–the only blessing, if any can be found in this–that there was no other abuse, only the whip.”

  “He aimed to disfigure,” said Aranya, shaking. “I saw ribs through her skin, Beri! What kind of man, what evil …”

  Her maidservant shook her head. “May he fall into a Cloudlands volcano and burn to ashes.”

  “What about those nightmares Zip’s been having?” Aranya rubbed her eyes. Using so much healing power had made her so tired, she wobbled on her feet and had to hold the bedpost for support. “She’ll give me nightmares–screaming about burning red eyes–Beri, is it me? Is she afraid of me? My fire?”

  “Could be, petal.” But Beri’s blunt honesty came tempered with a gentle hand on Aranya’s arm. “Don’t blame yourself. It’s more likely the torture.”

  One person dreaming about Dragons and fire was enough. Aranya hoped she had not infected her friend, too.

  The following day, when Aranya asked the physician why he had not stitched Zip’s wounds, he told her that there was not enough skin left to stitch together. Later, when Aranya laid her hands on Zuziana, she concentrated very hard on thinking about how the skin should regrow and heal over the trenches criss-crossing her chest and stomach.

  She finished Garthion’s portrait that evening. Beri’s hand flew to her heart when she saw it. “You’ve captured the spirit of his cruelty, Aranya,” she said. “I’m not sure it’s wise to show that to anyone.”

  Aranya scowled at the wall as though her gaze would melt the stone. “Beri, I dreamed about the Black Dragon again last night. Where do you think powers like mine come from? Do you think there was a connection between that dream, my illness and what happened to Zuziana? Am I growing unstable?”

  “So that’s why you were talking in your sleep.”

  “You put out a fire, Beri. I smelled it this morning.”

  “I did, petal. That I did.” Beri shook her head. “I only wish your mother had told us more about herself, Aranyi. I’m afraid the guards here will start to talk. Nelthion runs a tight Dragonship, but all it takes is one word …”

  Two days later, Zuziana opened her eyes for the first time. The physician, who was unwrapping the bandages from her chest, called Beri and Aranya over. Then he caught his breath.

  “New skin,” he explained. “Look here, and here … amazing. I’ve never seen the like. But it’s good. Very good.”

  “Where am I?” asked Zip.

  “Here, in my room.”

  She whispered something. Beri leaned in close to listen.

  “What did she say?” asked Aranya.

  “She asked if she still has breasts.” She stroked Zuziana’s cheek. “You’ll get better, petal. You’ll see.”

  Tears spilled freely down Aranya’s cheeks.

  From that day on, the Princess of Remoy began to recover–but the process was slow and painful, even though Aranya healed her repeatedly. The Zip who emerged was subdued and spoke little. She would say nothing about what she had endured. She did not weep, but there was a lingering sadness in her eyes that Aranya yearned to lift.

  * * * *

  “Ooh, Dragons,” said Zip, chewing thoughtfully on a chunk of dried haribol fruit as she peered at the painting Aranya was working on.

  “Ooh, highly illegal,” said Aranya. “Don’t look.”

  Zuziana started to snort, but a piece of the violently tart fruit–Aranya refused to eat haribol–stuck in her throat. Aranya swooped in and thwacked her on the back.

  “Ouch! You’re stronger than you think, Immadia.”

  “Sorry, Remoy,” Aranya wiped her brow, paintbrush in hand.

  She wished the old fizz would return to Zuziana’s personality. Now, a month after her ordeal, the diminutive Princess just dropped her gaze and went back to chewing that gum-frazzling fruit with a blank expression on her face. Aranya wondered if she ate haribol to punish herself. How could she think that whipping was her fault? She had overheard Zip and Beri whispering one night after the Princess awoke, whimpering.

  She had all sorts of nasty, creative thoughts about what she’d like to do to Garthion, given half a chance.

  “Aranya,” Zuziana whispered. “Fire.”

  Sighing, Aranya popped the paintbrush into her water-cup to put out the fire. It was ruined. Just one hot thought had ignited the brush. She tried to ignore how Zuziana shrank from her when the fire manifested.

  Fire came to her all too easily, recently.

  Zuziana said, “You’ll learn to control it, Aranya. I know you will. Maybe if you thought about Dragons less, the fire wouldn’t appear?”

  She picked another paintbrush to chew on. “Hmm.”

  “You have a thing for Dragons.”

  “I’ve a thing for an enemy officer. I threw up all over him last I saw him, Zip. Now he’s off campaigning against pirates. He’ll be gone for months.”

  “Meantime, this Princess I know spends ten hours getting a Dragon’s haunches exactly right. That, my friend, counts as a thing.”

  Heat flared in Aranya’s cheeks. “You imp!” Reflexively, she dunked her paintbrush in the water. It sizzled. “I do not have a thing for Dragons. How’s your chest?”

  “Not as fine as a Dragon’s mighty chest. But it’ll do–I’ve you to thank for that.”

  “You don’t mind having a friend … a weird friend?”

  Aranya thought she might make a joke, but Zip only said, very softly, “You were the one who came for me. That’s worth a million times weird.”

  Aranya had to duck her head to wipe her eyes on her sleeve. “Uh–Beri said she’d never seen a Princess of Immadia lose her dignity so fast.” A deep, ragged breath steadied her inner fires. “Zip, what do you think happened to all the Dragons? They lived with us; lived among Humans until a hundred years ago. Then they just vanished. The stories were wiped out as thoroughly as the Dragons. All the Dragon lore-books and scrolls were banned and burned; the last Dragons driven away or killed. What happened? What went wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” said Zuziana. She twisted her hands in her lap, but suddenly her blue eyes appeared to brighten. “But I do know Remoy would be the place to ask. We had the last Dragon. Remoy’s always loved the old ways. It was only when the Sylakians invaded that the old Green Dragon was found in the deep forests of the interior. It took two whole Hammers to defeat him. He killed thirty-two men. They thought it so g
lorious, Aranya. He was old, blind and could not fly.”

  Aranya digested this for a long time before she asked, “Zip, the dates in my head don’t add up. How many summers have you spent here in the Tower?”

  “Only two,” she said. “My older sister died here. Blood fever. I’m her substitute.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I wished I had died, too, Aranya. But then I realised they’d only demand another member of my family. Maybe it’s better this way.”

  Aranya could think of nothing to say to this, so she resumed painting.

  Zip was right. She packed away the Dragon. It would only end up roaring at her in her dreams.

  Chapter 6: Changeling

  With the arrival of spring, three months after the attack on Zuziana, Supreme Commander Thoralian organised a banquet to be held at the Tower of Sylakia in honour of his conquest of the Island-World north of the Rift. It was rumoured he intended to announce his impending invasion of Herimor, and to make a spectacle of two notorious pirates, forcing them to walk the Last Walk.

  Aranya would unveil her portrait of his son Garthion at the banquet.

  She dreamed vividly and often of the great Black Dragon, but could not understand what he was roaring at her. Every time she thought of Garthion’s impending arrival at the Tower, Aranya burned something–clothes, hangings, or one of her paintings. Often, small whirlwinds of fire developed in the corners of rooms she was in. She saw Beri and Zip watching her wide-eyed. But she had no choice. She could not escape. She would have to attend the Supreme Commander’s ball. Every exile who attended would be chained to a Sylakian warrior, so that escape was impossible. That was Nelthion’s command.

  Only Zuziana was excused. Beri had negotiated her release from the evening on the grounds of ill health. Zip did not say it, but Aranya knew her friend would rather die than face Garthion again.

  “Immadia was not invited,” Aranya groaned.

  “But I’ve arranged a surprise for you.”

  She gazed at Zuziana, eyebrows raised. “What? I thought you were going into hiding?”

  “I am. Wear your new heels.”

  “You haven’t stopped teasing me about Ignathion and Yolathion’s attendance, Zip. Is your family coming from Remoy?”

  She shook her head, and withdrew like a mountain tortoise into her shell.

  On the eve of the banquet, Aranya could not stop fidgeting. She wore a fine Helyon silk gown which matched the amethyst of her eyes, floor-length even over the stylish and no doubt outrageously expensive four-inch heels Zuziana had directed Beri to purchase, over Aranya’s protests. She positively towered over Beri and her friend–not that she could see them. To her great disquiet, Zip had blindfolded her.

  “Wait here,” she had instructed.

  Aranya fretted.

  What luckless guard of Nelthion’s cohort would she draw for the evening? And what dancing could she manage, chained to a fully-armed escort?

  The door opened and creaked shut.

  Footsteps approached. Boots, she thought, swallowing down the fires of fear. Unseen hands fitted the prescribed chain about her waist and left wrist. She heard the clicking of oiled locks being snapped shut. Why the mystery? What had Zuziana arranged? Did she hear breathing above her? Above her height?

  “Incomparable Immadia,” a voice whispered in her ear. Her right palm tingled at the customary three kisses. “We meet again.”

  Aranya shivered right down to her toes. “Yolathion!”

  She blinked as he removed the blindfold. “Aye,” he rumbled. “Will you consent to accompany me to this ball, Princess Aranya?”

  A brilliant smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “What choice has this poor captive, o dread pirate?”

  The deep tan of his skin made his grin flash unexpectedly. Aranya was grateful for that, because the way he overshadowed her was not entirely comforting. He said, “Nay, forsooth, for I hold thee chained aboard my Dragonship, o maiden most fair, bound for exotic Isles hid beyond the farthest horizons. Treacherous Remoy hath betrayed thee into my hand. As truly as I live, never again shall our ways be parted.”

  “I tremble, thou monster.”

  “I heard about Princess Zuziana,” he said. “Is she recovered enough to attend?”

  “Not enough, but she’s much better. Thank you for asking.”

  Yolathion tugged lightly on her chain. “Walk with me, Aranya. My father had you fifteen days in captivity. I have only just begun.”

  Flame stole into her belly at his words. Were all Sylakians like this, she wondered, glorying in the subjugation of the Islands? He said it flippantly. But how much truth lay behind his smiles? How much had Ignathion primed him–because if she judged the father correctly, Yolathion would not have been left uninformed about the Princess of Immadia.

  She could not expunge the image of Zuziana’s broken, bloodied body from her memory.

  So the banquet and the dancing became a strange time for her. Aranya felt somehow a traitor to Immadia, to her father and brothers and the Immadian people. Her volatile feelings swung from the pleasure of being with Yolathion to utter despair. What future could a political exile have with a rising star of the Sylakian realm? Could she hope that the exiles would one day be freed? The system of hostage-taking was nothing more than an archaic, unnecessary affectation of the Sylakian overlords. What had they to fear save Herimor? And no-one expected an invasion from there.

  She spent a pleasant hour reacquainting herself with First War-Hammer Ignathion. Did his eyes glitter when he saw Aranya chained to his son? Ignathion introduced her to his two heavily made-up consorts, who were wearing traditional Sylakian gowns in deep red. She was pleased to be half a head taller than either of them, for their evident jealousy seemed only a little mollified by Yolathion’s presence at her side. But at one point in the conversation, like a squall striking unexpectedly out of the Cloudlands, Ignathion said:

  “There’s a rumour doing the rounds in Sylakia, Aranya, that no-one who paints like you can be of mortal stock. They’re saying you have powers. Some wonder who she is who resides in the Tower of Sylakia, who commands fire and lightning and storms.”

  Aranya manufactured a laugh. “And I fly over the Cloudlands by night in the form of a monstrous bat?”

  But the oil lanterns in the great hall flared in cadence with her words.

  Ignathion’s consorts exchanged glances.

  Later, just before she was to present the portrait, Aranya caught sight of the two women moving away from Garthion’s table. Had they spoken to him? About what–an Immadian enchantress? What did this portend? The fires churned afresh in her stomach.

  Sparky. Trust her mother to choose such a fitting nickname. How could she have known?

  All of the glittering notables of Sylakia were present at the Supreme Commander’s banquet. Few leaders, nobles and royalty from the other Islands had been invited. Reds and burgundies dominated the colour choices for the evening, from the ladies in their Sylakian evening gowns, flared from the waist into a wide train, to the hundred elite Crimson Hammers guarding the room in their black uniforms and red cloaks. Yolathion wore his dress uniform, highly polished black combat boots and black gloves. A ceremonial silver hammer hung from his belt. But his cloak was amethyst in keeping with her chosen colour for the evening. A brave choice, Aranya thought, wondering what it signified. Five medals of bravery and two of honour decorated Yolathion’s chest.

  What passed for honour amongst Sylakians? Aranya held her head high. She was a Princess of Immadia.

  The blast of a trump cut through the babble.

  “Come,” said Yolathion. “It’s your turn.”

  There had been speeches–mercifully brief speeches–between each of the courses of the magnificent banquet. Perhaps a long speech earned a hammer-blow to the toes. Aranya felt dizzy and grateful for Yolathion’s presence as he led her up to the small stage, which had been installed for the occasion. She eyed the large lampstands at the rear of the stage wi
th trepidation. The lights beckoned her, seducing her senses, kindling the powers within her.

  She had considered calling her work The Butcher of Jeradia. It would have been apt. Instead, she had left it untitled.

  Garthion waited on stage. His father Thoralian sat in the seat of honour, front and centre. His dark eyes hinted at dark, unspoken emotions as she passed by. ‘Immadia’ she heard someone hiss. And, ‘enchantress.’ Clearly, little had been forgiven or forgotten. Aranya stiffened her back. She would represent Immadia with honour.

  The herald, dressed in unrelenting crimson, looked like a blot of blood onstage. He raised his arms for silence.

  A touch awkwardly, given the chain linking her to Yolathion’s right wrist, the Immadian Princess and her escort ascended to the platform.

  Clearing her throat, Aranya pitched her voice to carry out into the hall. “I have not lived many summers upon the Island-World. Those I remember were consumed with the battle between the forces of Sylakia and Immadia,” she said, grateful that her voice remained clear and steady. “In the fall of last year, First War-Hammer Ignathion brought King Beran’s resistance to an end, thus completing Sylakia’s conquest of the realms north of Herimor and the Rift.”

  A great roar of approval from the throng startled her into silence. The Sylakians stamped their boots and thundered their fists on the tables, making the fine porcelain leap about. A crystal glass shattered somewhere further back in the hall. At length, the herald beckoned for calm.

  “I am honoured to represent the Kingdom of Immadia before you today–”

  “Slave!” someone yelled.

  A round of cruel laughter echoed amongst the rafters. Yolathion touched her elbow as if wishing to transfer strength to her.

  “Without further ado,” she announced, bright of cheek and pulsating of heart, “I give you my portrait of Garthion, son of the Supreme Commander.”

  She tugged the cover off the painting.