Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons)

by Secchia, Marc

  “Laugh his beard off and demand an invite to the wedding,” said Aranya. Ta’armion really was too ridiculous, she thought. “What did Nak tell you?”

  “I’d rather not repeat it in polite company,” said the Prince. “Aranya, what am I to do about your cousin? I can’t just kidnap her, can I? Look what a fine mess that turned out to be the last time. Ah, she’s a goddess. I’m in love. I’m besotted. Smitten, bitten …”

  Aranya rolled her eyes inwardly. “Indeed. Ta’armion, here’s my advice. Firstly, kidnap her heart by wooing her. Sing to her, write her silly poetry, whatever you Fra’aniorians do. In a week or two the Prince might visit the village again to consult with the monks. Of course, the moment you start travelling regularly to Ha’athior, tongues will start wagging. You might invite her to perform in a concert, where she might meet your parents. That’s when you start getting devious. When you know she’s willing to be kidnapped, that’s when you–not some obnoxious, revolting slaver–go out there and kidnap her as though you are handling the most delicate flower in all creation and whisk her off to the royal palace. At every stage, you must treat her like the princess she’s about to become.”

  “Oh! Oh, oh …” he sighed. “Do you think she likes me?”

  “Ta’armion! I’ll toss you into the caldera myself if you ask that question one more time.”

  Lyriela had asked exactly the same question, once Aranya figured out her signs. The wedding gong would sound for them, she had whispered back. Here she was, approaching her seventeenth summer of age, and she was acting like some nasty old matchmaker. She longed to fly away from it all.

  A nip on her ear reminded her that Beauty was on her shoulder. She was another problem. How could Aranya carry off any kind of disguise with a dragonet perched upon her shoulder, a jewel of a creature that would not let her alone for a second? A picture popped into her head of Yolathion discovering a dragonet in his bed. She chuckled aloud.

  “Plotting my demise?” asked the Prince.

  “Ah, I’m working on my wicked-Dragon chuckle. How was that one?”

  “Bad,” said Nak, suddenly startling awake from his snooze in the corner. “Aranya, I’ve a bad feeling we need to get back to Sylakia. Fast.”

  “What?”

  “I had a dream–look, petal, you might not believe this, but after a few years of being with Dragons, Dragon Riders start to pick up some of their magic, like something just absorbs right into–like I could absorb a kiss from thee, o jewel of Immadia’s crown.”

  Aranya pecked his cheek.

  “Don’t know how you put up with him,” muttered Ta’armion.

  “Would you run away again if I did the same to you?”

  The Prince made a very un-Princely face at her.

  “I have procured thee a present for thy nuptial night, o jewel of Immadia,” Nak said, with so much glee that Aranya stared at him. “What, thou inquirest? Merely a copy of the outfit–barely an outfit–you wore to impress Prince Ta’armion when first he laid eyes upon your wholesome beauty.”

  “N-Nak … Nak, I … Nak!”

  “’Tis my name, o Princess of Perfection. Don’t mangle it so.”

  “Oh, go bury your head in a volcano!”

  “Aye,” sighed Nak. “It struck me as a fine idea at the time.”

  “Nak, after a hundred and however many years, how do you still have no clue about women?”

  Her fuming only made him laugh. “Aye, but I do know what turns a man’s head, petal. Would you look at that sweet Island out there? There’s another kind of beauty. Bet you we’ve received a coded scroll from Nelthion telling us to hurry back. It’s a premonition, just like you Dragons have. Mine always make my teeth ache.”

  “You just want to ride Dragonback, back to Sylakia–admit it,” said Aranya. “I’m glad the monks found that old training saddle that fits me, but it’s only made for one Rider.”

  Without turning, Ri’arion said, “I’ll give up my place to the old man.”

  “He would sit on a thorn bush and call himself comfortable,” said Nak, deliberately loud enough for the monk to hear.

  “My Rider is Zuziana,” Aranya said, crisply. “But Nak–we must heed your intuition. You could return separately, but if you felt able to make the flight, I would consider it a high privilege to carry you. ”

  “Bah, make the flight? The brass-faced effrontery; you rascally pipsqueak of a Dragon.”

  But Aranya saw him wipe his eye surreptitiously.

  Fra’anior in the light of suns-set was even more picturesque than when they had departed at dawn, if that were possible. Luminous sunbeams lent the Island and its town a golden serenity. Aranya allowed a heartfelt sigh to escape her lips. How was it that a place visited only once, so briefly, could immediately feel like home? Had she built up Fra’anior so much in her mind over the years … and the reality exceeded her expectations so spectacularly?

  But then her eye picked out the graveyard. The flame trees marking the graves glowed as though they were truly aflame. She remembered who had visited this paradise before her.

  There was no message scroll awaiting them at the Palace, but Aranya made her apologies to the King anyway, saying that she would fly at first light. “If I am able,” she said, “I will return–for Immadia and Fra’anior should not be strangers.” To Prince Ta’armion, she whispered, “I shall await word of a royal wedding in Fra’anior.”

  Ri’arion helped her with preparations, packing provisions and checking the saddle straps for defects in the leather, for the saddle had been stored in a dry cave for many years. They dined with the Fra’aniorian King and Queen, and Prince Ta’armion, before she retired to bed earlier than usual.

  Aranya fell asleep worrying about her wing joint.

  * * * *

  She awoke before dawn worrying she had not hunted recently as a Dragon. She found Ri’arion already awake, doing exercises in the private courtyard in the midst of the royal apartments. He greeted her with a nod, back to his taciturn self.

  Aranya readied herself swiftly. Nak arose early, too, still the alert Dragon Rider. The King had supplied him with a thick fur-lined robe, gloves, hat and boots for the journey. They walked silently to the private gardens behind the Palace, where Aranya transformed and Ri’arion loaded her up and fixed the saddle in place. Nak mounted carefully. Ri’arion tied the old man’s canes behind Aranya’s spine-spikes and settled himself in the second position, one spike behind Nak.

  Prince Ta’armion said, “Farewell. May the sulphurous breath of the Great Dragon speed your flight.”

  Nak saluted jauntily. He was so excited!

  Aranya gazed at the dawn. Beyond the eastern horizon lay Sylakia, where her Rider awaited her. Zuziana would be so disappointed to have missed out on Fra’anior, she thought. Her Dragon brows drew down. What was that–a flash of sapphire up there in the clouds? The dragonet?

  Taking two steps forward, Aranya launched herself powerfully into the air. The additional weight was unexpected. Zip and Nak were similar in weight, but Ri’arion was a tall, muscular warrior-monk. She pressed harder than she was used to in order to gain height. Why not raise another rumour, she thought? Her throat swelled as she bugled a greeting to the dawn, making birds across the city take off in panicked flocks.

  The dragonet hurtled down to greet Aranya with ecstatic somersaults and little bursts of fire from her nostrils.

  “Is your wing a little stiff?” asked Nak.

  “Yes.” Aranya grinned back at him. “How does it feel, Nak?”

  “Blasted wind’s making my eyes tear up,” he said. “Aye, I lie. I thought I’d never fly again. This is a gift, petal. Just don’t scare our Ri’arion too much, alright?”

  Seen over Nak’s shoulder, the monk’s smile was a thin grimace. “I’m fine.”

  He was not. Aranya heard his heart thumping away double-time. A naughty smile curled her lips back from her fangs. So the mighty Nameless Man had a weakness–why was she so pleased about that? She stretched o
ut her neck and beat her wings in slow, deep strokes, accelerating as she took them up to meet the dawn. She looked back at the yawning caldera between Fra’anior’s Islands, already diminishing as they gained height, and told herself that a Dragon would fly the skies of these beautiful Islands once more–if only to assist in a little kidnapping, should the need arise. Even without that, Lyriela did not deserve to go through life without knowing her family. Maybe she’d like to see Immadia.

  Aranya wondered what rumours had reached Immadia. How soon would it be before the Island-World knew, as all of the Sylakian Hammers in Yolathion’s fleet knew, that the Dragon Shapeshifter was none other than the lost Princess of Immadia? What would the Supreme Commander’s response be? She pictured Dragonships bearing the sign of the screaming windroc spreading across Iridith’s broad face, with a violent shudder. Her little brothers … the baby, King Beran and Queen Silha … hammers rising and falling in a crushing rhythm, and blood, so much blood …

  “Aranya?” said Nak. “What’s the matter, my Dragon-heart?”

  He was so perceptive. Nak must know Dragons extremely well for that note of warning and concern to shade his voice at once, Aranya realised.

  “An ill feeling,” she replied.

  “A Dragon must hasten but husband her strength for the crossing,” he said, gently. “When last did you hunt?”

  “I am hungry.”

  “Aye. So, I will act as your Rider. I can feel by the cadence of your wing beats, Aranya, and by the sounds of your belly, that you need to hunt. We must teach Zuziana these things. Xinidia Island is but ten leagues ahead. There we should hunt and rest a little, before undertaking the longer stretch to Erigar Island. That’s a Sylakian outpost, a place to be wary.”

  “Nak, how many summers did you ride Shimmerith?”

  The old man was silent for a very long time before he replied, “One hundred and forty-one summers, Aranya.”

  “Dragon Riders live that long?”

  “Aye. Longer, if their Dragon lives.”

  Aranya swallowed a huge lump in her throat. “Nak, would you be willing to tell me about Shimmerith? What was she like? Her personality? How did she fight? And speak to you? What you shared … Nak, you’ve so much experience. I’ve been a Dragon for just a few weeks. I need what’s inside your head. Can you just squeeze all of that wisdom into a prekki-fruit and give it to me to eat?”

  “Aye,” said Nak. “Let me be alone with my thoughts until Xinidia Island, I beg you. After that, I will talk until the sheep stand up to sing to the moons.”

  Aranya wanted to laugh, but could not–not when he sounded so melancholy. Instead, she summoned the dragonet to her and bade her curl up in her Rider’s lap. The little creature already showed signs of tiring.

  The Great Dragon’s breath, unseasonably, came from the northwest, speeding their passage to Xinidia, a hilly, boot-shaped Island not a quarter-league above the Cloudlands. There they rested and Aranya hunted, sharing a large wild deer with the dragonet, who ate delicately, but with a surprising appetite for such a tiny creature. After that she launched off a steep hillside, to Nak’s whoop of delight, bearing more southerly toward Erigar. True to his word, Nak talked non-stop all the way from Xinidia to Erigar, sharing with her as many stories and anecdotes and snippets of wisdom as she asked for, until her head felt so stuffed with wisdom that it might start leaking out of her ears. She ignored the times he called her Shimmerith; as his mind wandered from topic, Aranya would gently prompt him back on course.

  The wind continued to assist, allowing her to rest from time to time on the wing, but twilight was already well advanced before she spotted Erigar Island’s forested brow in the distance. She took them in for a careful approach and a concealed landing alongside a tall, coniferous forest.

  After a dreamless sleep, Aranya woke before dawn and hunted a small hare in a nearby field for the dragonet, whose eyes whirled with delight at the offering. Aranya finished off the remains in a single bite.

  That was when her ears caught a clink of metal on stone.

  Her head whipped around. “Nak! Beware!”

  Sylakian Crimson Hammers boiled out of the forest near their campsite, raising their hammers as they rushed Nak and Ri’arion. Aranya growled as she launched herself across the field toward them. How had the soldiers crept so close without her hearing them? She had been sleeping too deeply; not listening, unaware of any unfamiliar sounds. She was too far. Too slow.

  Ri’arion burst from beneath his cloak, swinging that great sword of his in a deadly arc. He danced between the oncoming Sylakians, making them resemble lumbering ralti sheep to his lithe rajal form. The Sylakians dropped in twos and threes, pierced by the sword or struck down by crackling energies cast from his left hand. When his blade stuck in a Sylakian’s armour, the monk abandoned it. Now the daggers whirred out in short arcs, terminating in throats and bellies and knee-joints. The Sylakian charge faltered. Aranya slammed into those who hesitated at the rear, striking with her claws and snapping at a fleeing soldier’s leg. She spat out the limb.

  The monk moved quickly amongst the fallen, finishing off the few he had not killed. Then he looked up. “You didn’t hear them, Dragon?”

  “No. Sorry.” Aranya looked away. “Ri’arion, I’ve not long been a Dragon–”

  “Feeble excuses hurt my ears,” he spat, retrieving his sword.

  To her surprise, Aranya felt her lower lip quiver at the sting of his words. What? She was not six summers old, to be scolded like a child! To cover her chagrin, she pretended to check on Beauty. The dragonet perched on her nose and made silly faces at her until she cheered up. Her speech was a baby-like chirping. Aranya wondered if the dragonet had not yet learned to speak, or could not. A question about her age received no answer other than a backward flip in the air.

  “Very clever,” said Aranya.

  From Erigar Island was the longest leg of all, a day-long labour against a rising headwind that truly tested Aranya’s newly healed wing. Nak continued to hold forth as though he had never stopped talking, now with stories and legends he knew about Dragons and their Riders. The imagined heat of Ri’arion’s disapproval fuelled Aranya’s efforts, so that they sighted Archion Island by late evening of that second day. Archion was since ancient times a Sylakian ally, named for the great arch its Island made over the Cloudlands, as though two tall mountains had once leaned together to make a perfect natural archway though which the companions saw the White moon’s rising. Huge layers of terraced lakes surrounded its twin pillars, making the whole Island resemble the legs and torso of a warrior wearing banded metal armour such as Zuziana wore. Even from afar the sleepy twittering and croaking of the millions of great-billed herons, blackwing storks and blue-banded mallards filled her ears with a restless cacophony of birdcalls.

  During the daytime millions of bats roosted in the cave-riddled underbelly of the Island. They flitted around the Dragon and her riders in sharp flurries of attacks. Nak cursed furiously as the bats scratched at his face; Ri’arion struck out efficiently with his daggers, extending his protection to Nak. Aranya tried eating a couple, but it was like trying to chew leather bags stuffed with bones. She spat them out at once.

  Aranya brought them to a safe landing in an isolated spot alongside the second-from-bottom terrace lake. Ri’arion had to carry Nak off her back. After a day in the saddle, the old man was too stiff to move his legs.

  “Not as young as I used to be,” he wheezed, stretching out his legs before him. “Used to fly for days without giving it a thought.”

  Ri’arion passed him a prekki fruit and the waterskin. “Refresh yourself, old man.”

  After slaking her thirst at the lake, Aranya returned to her companions. Nak was on his stomach, groaning as Ri’arion thumped his legs with a massage that to Aranya looked more painful than helpful. “Nak, Ri’arion, why was everyone so surprised at my testing? Aren’t the gifts–fire, lightning, life and healing magic–common among Dragons?”

  “Aye, th
ose are,” said Nak.

  “But not all together,” said Ri’arion. “Nor has any candidate ever displayed the power to reject the testing.”

  “Perhaps it is a Shapeshifter power,” Nak suggested.

  Ri’arion pointed his finger at Nak. “Or an Amethyst Dragon power, Nak. Our records, covering a span of nigh on two thousand summers, show no record of an Amethyst Dragon in the Islands–I had our scholars check before we departed. But I do know this, old man. When a Dragon of such power rises, great events are afoot. The Island-World quakes at its roots. It is a portent we must labour to understand. Where did you find her?”

  Aranya fidgeted at his words. Great. Ri’arion’s expectations of her only reached to the moons.

  “Her roots are in Ha’athior,” said Nak. “You tell me, Ri’arion.” The monk scowled and kept his silence. Nak added, “Lightning and ice are rare enough. But storm power is almost unheard-of, Aranya. Offhand, I can’t remember ever meeting a Storm Dragon.”

  “Fra’anior has storm powers,” she said. Ri’arion gasped and made a strange sign with his hands. “A vast, Black Dragon who appears in a storm of boiling black clouds, his many heads lashing about–”

  “Stop!” Ri’arion barked, leaping to his feet, cold sweat clearly beaded on his forehead. “Stop, stop … please.”

  When it was clear that he would not reveal why her description of the Black Dragon had disturbed him so severely, Aranya said, “Ri’arion, why did Fra’anior demand that you follow me?”

  “Fra’anior asked this?” Nak’s tone clearly communicated his disbelief.

  “I’ve dreamed of a Black Dragon since I was a child,” Aranya said. “I remember my mother once sketching such a Dragon for me and telling me stories about him. I used to think it was just a childhood fantasy, but then, when I was coming into my powers–”

  “You said you saw the Black Dragon when you were falling from the Last Walk,” Nak interrupted.

  “Yes, I did. I dreamed intensely about him in the months before I died.” Aranya swallowed. It had been a death, of sorts. “I mean, almost died. I thought I heard him say, ‘It is time,’ in a voice that, as Ri’arion put it, quaked the Islands. Obviously, I don’t know what that time is, unless either of you–no? Not even the Nameless Man?”