Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons)

by Secchia, Marc

  She said it as though she expected this person; there was neither surprise in her voice, nor any sign of the panic that welled in Aranya’s breast.

  Kindly, Oyda added, “Be still, petal. What will be, will be.”

  Aranya gasped as a huge rajal of a man filled the doorway. Yolathion! The very last person she would have expected. He bent beneath the lintel; he could not stand upright within the hut. His face was grave. In his arms he bore a bundle, the tiny body of Zuziana of Remoy.

  “You must be Oyda,” said a deep, familiar voice, which set every nerve in Aranya’s body alight. “Is Aranya here? Is she?”

  His gaze swept the hut. When he saw Aranya, huddled in the couch, a smile touched his lips at last. She trembled, but returned his gaze levelly, refusing to welcome him.

  “There’s but one Dragonship out there,” Nak called, “and she’s flying flags both white and green. What does this mean, Oyda? Aranya? Do you know this Sylakian officer?”

  It took Aranya three tries to persuade a coherent word to emerge from her throat. Green and white. Surrender and friendship. What did this signify? If Yolathion had brought the Princess back to her, then he was committing treason against Sylakia. Where was the rest of his command? How had he found this place? Why had he come?

  “Nak, Oyda, may I introduce Yolathion of Jeradia?” she managed at last. “Yolathion is a Third War-Hammer in the Sylakian army; the man charged with hunting me. He threw me off the Last Walk. Now, he will wreak his revenge.”

  Yolathion stiffened at her words. But his dark eyes did not flash; instead, he nodded, seeming to accept her accusations. He said, “I tried to care for your Rider, Dragon. But I failed. She lies near death. This disease is called the Green Death; there is no proof against it. I brought her to you, that you might by some means try to heal her. When she spoke of this place, she also spoke of Dragon tears.”

  “Dragons don’t cry, pup,” said Nak, stumping forward on his canes. “Don’t ye know nothing, thou wicked rajal of a man? How dare thee deal with Immadia so treacherously, thou shameful son of dishonour?”

  “My presence here is treason, aye,” said Yolathion. “Please, Aranya, if there’s anything you can do … my honour is worth less than dirt. Her life hangs by a thread. Can you …”

  Aranya smiled at Nak. “Dragons do cry, old man. Can it be that I might teach you something about Dragons? Outside, Yolathion. Quickly.”

  Oyda took her arm as she limped past the kitchen table. “Let’s take that splint off your wrist, Aranya. Nak spent hours carving it for you.”

  She paused in the act of taking off the simple dress she wore around Nak and Oyda, thinking that of all the awkward moments in her life, undressing purposely in front of her would-be killer must win out. Aranya did not know what to say to him. She felt Islands apart from him, yet a single kind word from his lips might reduce her to tears. He seemed a dark river, full of undercurrents she did not understand.

  Nak smacked Yolathion with one of his canes. “Avert thy eyes, pup, lest thou ogle the peerless beauty of Immadia.”

  Aranya tore off her clothing and transformed. An Amethyst Dragon bowed her neck over the still form of Princess Zuziana. When she saw how cold and unmoving her friend lay, and the sepulchral hollow of her cheeks, her hearts were moved. A tingling manifested in her cheeks. Tears crystallized on her lower eyelids.

  “She seemed to improve,” Yolathion said, “but only briefly. She asked for you, Aranya. I told her how you escaped our nets and dived into the Cloudlands. She laughed then, a little; she bade me bring her hence, saying I was a fool for thinking I had killed you. Then she collapsed, unable to speak again. I did not kill you, but I hurt you sorely, I fear.”

  Raising her paw to her eye, Aranya settled a drop on her talon. “Open her mouth, Yolathion.”

  Her Dragon ears judged the pounding of his heart as they bent together over the Princess of Remoy. He was afraid. Adrenalin rushed through his veins, telling him he should flee this terrible creature who overshadowed him, who doubtless had every reason in the Island-World to kill him. Yet all she could think of was that Zuziana’s breathing was a whisper, her heartbeat almost too faint to hear. Death had her life in its talons.

  Aranya put her claw to her friend’s lips, and tipped the crystal droplet into her mouth.

  “What magic is this?” asked Nak. “Know thee what this is, o my jewel?”

  “I don’t,” said Aranya. “But if it saves her life, it will be enough. Oyda, have you–”

  “No, petal.” She knelt with stiff knees and massaged Zip’s throat with her fingers to encourage her to swallow. “But then I never saw an Amethyst Dragon either, nor do I know of lore which speaks of such as you. I’d caution you regarding Dragon magic–”

  “Dragon magic is passing strange,” Nak declaimed, pinning Yolathion with a jealous glare. “Think thee to chain the winds of the morning, Sylakian? Shalt thou despise the golden radiance of the suns, locking them in thy dungeon forever?”

  “Yet if Remoy lives, then I have done my duty at last,” Yolathion said softly. His voice developed a tremor as he gazed up into Aranya’s burning Dragon eyes. “I knew … my heart spoke, but I was deaf to its eloquence. I have been summoned to appear before the Supreme Commander to explain my failure and mismanagement of Sylakia’s forces. He demands to know how one Dragon and her Rider can cause such chaos.”

  Bringing her second teardrop to Zip’s lips, Aranya smiled at him–a deliberate show of her fangs. “Did we turn you into a greybeard overnight, Yolathion?”

  “You destroyed a sixth of Sylakia’s entire Dragonship fleet. You were the earthquake beneath Sylakia’s strategy, turning the invasion of Herimor into an initial exploration.” He made a cutting motion with his hand. “Apparently, the news of your escape was a cruel blow to the son of Sylakia. Some say he has fled the Dragon’s approach. I hear he travelled to Fra’anior in a bid to learn more about Dragons.”

  “Look at the Princess’ skin,” Oyda whispered.

  In the darkness outside the hut, it was clear to them all that something strange and magical was taking place in Zip’s body. Tiny pinpricks of light rose and faded beneath her skin, as though her flesh had become a window to the mysteries of the constellations above. Yolathion lifted the coverings off of Zip’s arm. It was the same.

  “Magic,” said Nak.

  Yolathion extended his hand to help Oyda to her feet. He asked, “Where may I place the Princess of Remoy, Oyda?”

  Now he had manners to match his brutality? Aranya snaked her head into the hut to watch him carry Zip inside, until it dawned on her that she was being silly. As he placed Zuziana in the back room which had become Aranya’s, she transformed and followed the others inside. An appreciative quirk of Nak’s eyebrow reminded her; she snatched up her dress and tugged it over her head at once. When her head emerged from the neck-hole, it was to see Yolathion swiftly averting his eyes. Aranya turned the colour of a fine dawn sky.

  “I must go,” said Yolathion, looking hot under the collar himself.

  “Must you?” asked Oyda.

  “I must rejoin my command before this act of treason is discovered,” he rumbled. Aranya watched with wide eyes as he skirted the table, approaching her. “I hope you won’t disapprove of a little treason, Immadia? I mean, Aranya?”

  “I, well, I–”

  Rather than lifting her broken wrist high, Yolathion bowed to the point of deepest respect. He blew over her knuckles, made the sign of the peace twice and kissed her fingers rather than her palm.

  “I wish you a speedy recovery, Princess Aranya,” he said, wistfully.

  Aranya rather wished he would release her hand, because it was intimately connected to her treacherous heart. Perhaps he would never approve of a Shapeshifter. It must have been a great shock for him when she finally revealed herself.

  She said, “I … wish you well in your endeavours, Yolathion.”

  “If my words matter,” he said, meeting her gaze without reservat
ion, “and if words could ever make amends for my acts of folly, Aranya, which they cannot, then I would wish to offer my sincerest and humblest apologies for all the harm I have done to you. I deeply regret–everything. Many times I have wished to undo these things; the names I called you, the quarrels I ordered to be fired at you, and much besides.”

  His intense, solemn manner dismantled her reserve.

  “Not all is to be regretted,” Aranya replied, almost speaking to herself. “You threw me into a future I could never have imagined. Perhaps there is greater purpose in this than you or I imagine.”

  Yolathion’s dark eyes grew wide. As she stared up at him, Aranya felt the fire stir within her, the delicious, liquid fire that only he seemed able to ignite. The room grew strangely still; a moment where even the hearth fire was unwilling to crackle or spit, and even the usually voluble Nak had nothing to say. The bitterness within her, deep-rooted in all he had done and nourished by her animosity, drained away to nothingness. A weight lifted off her shoulders. Aranya realised that she felt free.

  She wondered if he wanted to kiss her.

  Would she kiss him back, or transform and bite his head off?

  In the end, he bowed once more, saying in a thick voice, “I really must go. The Supreme Commander awaits my report.”

  As he made to depart, Yolathion glanced back over his shoulder to catch Aranya’s wide grin. His head slammed into the lintel.

  “Oh, for the Islands’ sake,” he growled.

  “Mind your head,” Nak put in, cheekily.

  Aranya raised her hand in farewell. “Watch out that the hunter does not become the hunted,” she said, biting her tongue in mortification as the words slipped out.

  Nonplussed, Yolathion stammered, “I shall watch the dawn skies for the sign of Immadia.”

  He fled out of the door.

  * * * *

  Nak teased her until Aranya shouted at him. She did not want to hear innuendoes about placing the Third War-Hammer in her Dragon hoard, hunting warriors for sport and shamelessly disrobing in Yolathion’s presence. She did not want to consider what might have been.

  Oyda, in her customary fashion, kicked Nak out of the hut to look after the sheep.

  Aranya, feeling Oyda’s regard even though the old woman was cleaning berries preparatory to making a preserve, said, “How’s Zuziana doing, Oyda?”

  “Sleeping a healing sleep,” said Oyda. “Much better, methinks. A pinch of colour in the cheeks, a scrap of broth kept down … aye. Aranya, what’s troubling you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Indeed?”

  She could never hide anything from Oyda. Her father, yes. Oyda–no chance.

  “Spit it out, petal. You’ll feel better afterward. Cup of redbush tea?”

  “You and your tea, Oyda.” Aranya gazed at the wall.

  “Shall I guess?” Oyda busied herself with the teapot. “You regret parting on good terms with a man who has tried to kill you multiple times. You’re thinking that with one word of apology from that young Jeradian, your heart is soaring over the Cloudlands. You feel weak and silly. No Dragon, least of all she who rocked the very foundations of Sylakia, should be undone by a mere word.”

  “Yes, yes, and yes!”

  Aranya jumped as fire roared up the chimney. Oyda clucked irritably. “That’s one less eyebrow for me. Here’s your tea, petal.”

  “Sorry, Oyda. Thanks. I’m–well, I feel like a thunderstorm brewing over Immadia.”

  “Is he so very evil, petal? Is he Garthion, for example?”

  She burst out, “He chose duty over me, Oyda!” Then she stared at the old woman. “Oh, dear. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m insulted because–it’s just plain, ugly vanity, isn’t it?”

  “Aye. That young man chased you all over the Cloudlands, yet at the end, prevented his warriors from injuring you unnecessarily. Now he goes to face the Supreme Commander’s displeasure.” Oyda pointed her spoon at Aranya. “You want him to suffer for making you suffer.”

  “I do.” Aranya was appalled. “Am I so … terrible, Oyda?”

  “You’re probably looking for the word, ‘Human’, Aranya. Yes, you are still Human, and Human hearts will play us all for fools. I made Nak chase me for seven years, Aranya–do you want to know why? I wanted a taller man.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I was, petal. Now, maybe you should think about hunting that young man, however Dragonish that might sound. But I’ve a different idea. Zip’s recovery will take at least a week, even with your Dragon magic. So I’m going to suggest a distraction for you. A little journey–to Fra’anior. Nak and I knew the old King of Fra’anior. Your Islands are allied by marriage. I suspect a Princess of Immadia will be well received. You might learn things about your family even the Supreme Commander of the Island-World will never learn.”

  What a wonderful idea. Aranya’s heart turned over in her chest. Visit the Islands where her mother grew up? She had never visited because of the war between Sylakia and Immadia. After that, she had been exiled. By all the Islands, she was excited!

  “But I can’t fly, Oyda. I can’t travel on my own, surely?”

  “You’ll go by Dragonship, escorted by Nak,” said Oyda. “Nelthion has arranged everything.”

  “You know Nelthion? The one I know–Tower of Sylakia Nelthion?”

  “Better still,” said Oyda, smiling. “He’s our great-grandson.”

  Chapter 19: Fra’anior

  The following day, Nak and Aranya took a fast carriage up from the village to a town south of Sylakia, where a trader and his Dragonship impatiently awaited them. Over her bandaged wounds, Aranya was dressed from head to toe in Fra’aniorian finery, including the customary face-veil for an unmarried young woman of rank. Only her eyes showed above the face-veil, which felt unaccustomed and not a little strange. She wondered how her mother and father had met. Prince Beran, he would have been, courting the mysterious Izariela of Fra’anior. She wondered if her amethyst eyes would reveal her identity, but nobody they met seemed concerned.

  “We’re late for the morning breeze,” the trader greeted them.

  “Thank you for waiting for my grandfather and I,” Aranya said, hiding her hot response. “How many days to Fra’anior, trader?”

  “Four. Four with this breeze,” he said. “Five or six for the homecoming. Will you be staying long, lady?”

  “It’s my home. Ha’athior Island, actually, one of the cluster.”

  “Ah, Ha’athior,” he said. “Beautiful place, but dangerous. Home of the dragonets. Fierce little things, but no brains. They can repeat words like the grey parrots of our Sylakia.”

  “Dragonets,” Aranya breathed.

  The trader’s word was accurate. A straight journey across the Cloudlands with the wind directly from astern, the Dragonship made very good time. The wings were kept fully extended and turned to catch the breeze, while the trader kept his ‘runners’–his crew–working flat-out on the back-breaker that drove the turbines. No wasting money on meriatite for him, Aranya thought, disliking the man. She did not care for the way he looked at her.

  On the evening before they arrived at Fra’anior Island, Aranya and Nak took their meal in their cabin, as usual. Nak had managed to tell her stories about Dragons for four days running without repeating himself once, which was an impressive feat. Nak checked her wrist and pronounced it much better–the benefits of Dragon healing magic, he declared. Even her torn-off toenails were healing rapidly. But, after dinner, Nak said he felt tired and decided to turn in early. The fish had tasted odd, he said. Aranya had tasted nothing amiss.

  Aranya tucked him in with a fond kiss on his cheek. Nak declared his undying love and devotion in twenty lines of verse.

  During the night, Aranya heard strange sounds in their room. Voices, far away, sounding as though they echoed down a long corridor. She felt cold manacles snap closed upon her wrists and ankles. A hood covered her face. A strange, cloying sweetness stuck in the back of her
throat. There was a sensation of movement, but it seemed to be happening to someone else’s body. She did not care. She was passed from hand to hand before being taken somewhere in a carriage. Aranya giggled to herself. What a nice adventure.

  Colours reeled across the inside of the hood. Aranya saw lights; someone checked her ears and commented approvingly. The hood closed over her head again. She dreamed of a Dragon attacking huge balloons filled with men; she listened to the many-headed Black Dragon’s urgent roaring, but did not understand anything.

  “One for the Prince,” said a man’s voice, in a harsh accent which rolled over its vowels, squashing them into submission. “At last. You’re going to make me rich, my beauty. Get her changed.”

  More hands, female hands, changing her clothes. “You’ll like this, my girl. The Prince will pay a high price for you.”

  Time drifted by. The sounds were starting to become more distinct. She was in a carriage, driving somewhere. Aranya felt ridiculously giddy. She sang a silly song. When the man’s voice told her to keep quiet, she laughed at him. The world was filled with colours, filled with Dragons flying around inside her head.

  They stopped. More voices, demanding to know their business. They moved on again, rattling across cobblestones. Hands helped her alight from the carriage. The humidity immediately made her clothing stick to her skin. The clothes felt strange and light, not at all like she was used to wearing. A hand snapped a collar about her neck and she was jerked forward, forced to follow or fall flat on her face with no hands to catch herself. A short chain linked to her ankles forced her to shuffle awkwardly, while her wrists were chained somehow to her waist. Aranya felt she should be angry about this treatment, but instead, she felt happy and carefree.

  They waited a long time somewhere.

  “Ah, my King,” said the man’s voice. “This is the one. I’ve kidnapped a young lady of perfect nobility and standing to become your son’s wife.”

  Aranya burst into a fit of giggles. Imagine–a kidnapping. Hilarious.

  “Drugged, Zarbok? You drugged this one?”