Shadow Dragon (39 page)

When she expressed this thought to Oyda, the old woman said, “And what does this teach you, Aranya?”

“That no person is an Island,” Aranya said at once, before looking deeper into her churning feelings. “I should be thankful my thread did not snap at the Last Walk; I should have the courage to accept what happened with Ardan, and–oh, roaring rajals, Oyda, I’m going to say it–I should not blindly rebel against the Black Dragon, but approach his overtures with … maturity, I suppose. Dignity, even.”

“Bravo, petal.”

The Immadian Princess held Oyda even tighter. “You are my master weaver, Oyda. A precious, gentle hand upon the loom.”

“Now, something else,” said the old Dragon Rider, seeming embarrassed by Aranya’s emotional response. “I’ve been thinking about how you change colour–actually, the type of Dragon you are. Acid? That’s for Greens only. Horrible choice of colour, petal. I ask myself why you can’t be any colour you choose? Why, if you have that level of control over your Dragon form, as a Shapeshifter are you restricted to replicating wounds, and scars, and so on? Why should that stop you? Could you not make yourself anew?”

“Because that’s my fundamental nature?” Aranya wondered aloud. Oyda’s small sigh demanded more. “Fine, because if I … if I meddled in a transformation, I might end up like my mother?”

“Ouch. Sorry.”

“You’re … you’re hoping … I can just transform my way out of this?”

A nightmare, or a magical dream?

Oyda sighed. “Oh, petal, it was a ralti-stupid idea. I should have thought about Izariela first.”

Aranya squeezed her hand. “No, it was kind and thoughtful of you. Of course, there are enormous differences between Human and Dragon anatomies. Even Ri’arion cannot explain how it is possible for a Shapeshifter’s instinct to simply
know
how to change between forms. Which part of me knows I’m Amethyst, not Azure? That I am forty-two feet long and not fifty, or that I have five discrete stomachs to replace one ordinary Human one?”

“I’ll leave you to ponder that, petal,” said Oyda, rising.

“Don’t go.”

“I believe your father would like to see you.”

“Then one last request, Oyda.” Aranya tried to smooth out the pain in her voice. “Would you ask Nak not to make any of his usual comments, just for a while? I love him, and all …”

“He’ll understand.”

The old woman paused in the doorway, her eyes sadder and wiser than Aranya had ever seen them. “Petal, I’ve lived a great long time on this Island-World, perhaps longer than a person has a right to. I have seen Sylakia’s evil grow and spread like a cancer. Thoralian nullified your mother before she had her chance. But fate has a funny way of redressing the balance when we least expect it. I truly believe that. You flew when you should have fallen into the Cloudlands. You crash-landed on my doorstep. You saved Immadia and brought hope to the world.”

“I believe with all my heart, and Emblazon would have agreed with me, that you are the one who has been chosen to stand against Thoralian and his schemes, and defeat him. Your suffering is not for nothing; it has worth and meaning and indeed, power. You see, the true battle is not fought with our bodies, but with our hearts. And you, Aranya, have a brand of courage which makes your heart ineffably beautiful, if I may borrow a Nak expression. Izariela would be so very proud of who you have become.”

With that, the old Dragon Rider left.

A perfect rainbow after the storm.

* * * *

Beran brought with him a tray of nibbles–spicy fish skewers, ralti kebabs, a deep bowl of Noxian sweet potato, and enough vegetables and fruit to sink a Dragonship. He also brought Sapphire. The dragonet flashed across the cabin to bury her head in Aranya’s lap, cooing and rubbing her muzzle against her stomach.

“Poor mite, she’s been beside herself,” said Beran.

“I thought she’d stay at Fra’anior with the others,” said Aranya, stroking the dragonet’s soft scales.
Petal, I missed you, but I’m alright now.
“How are the ice-dragonets?”

Sapphire made a cat-like purr, rubbing her muzzle with her paws now in a gesture that Aranya had begun to suspect indicated deep emotion. There was more to these quaint, amazing little creatures than she had ever imagined. Sapphire’s eyes swirled gently, drawing her into their hypnotic depths. She pictured white dragonets mingling with all the other colours in Island-wide aerial celebrations, shy and curious meetings, already a number of pairings …

“Over the Islands, literally,” said the King. “May I sit?”

“Dad.” She made a droll face at him, before realising she had no idea if that expression worked, now. “What’s new on the winds?”

“A skinny ex-felon turned up on my Dragonship today. I’ve orders to feed her up.” Beran placed the tray on the bed between them. “We’ve the beginnings of a workable plan for Yorbik. And Sparky, you need to take it easy on your old Dad. I’ve been dragged from the depths of the Cloudlands to the skies, yet again.”

“Sorry, Dad. Yum, the fish is delicious.” She offered Sapphire a chunk. “The Chameleon Shapeshifter was a bit unforeseen.” The dragonet declined, but wound herself around Aranya’s neck, purring contentedly.

“I take it from the blast, your magic has returned?”

“I was provoked,” she replied, feeling exactly that way. Why did he have to jump straight to business? “Only a little magic, mind.”

“Since others have had their bite of you, it’s my turn,” said her father, evidently reading her mood with discomfiting accuracy. “All I’m saying is, your Dragon is important. She’s your other half, so to speak, and she represents hope for Yolathion and Ri’arion, not to mention the entire Island-World. But I didn’t come by to lump more worries on your shoulders.”

“Oh?”

“No, Aranyi.” His grey eyes softened. “It’s a bitter, wicked thing Thoralian has done, chewing you up like this–and I hope he burns forever in a place reserved for villains like him. You probably heard.” He laughed curtly. “I have another purpose, for which I have Nak to thank, as he set my feet on a better path. A wise old man, our Nak, once you ignore the lechery.”

Curious. Spooning more of the tasty sweet potato into her mouth, Aranya considered the man squirming before her. What was so difficult for her father to say? He had always valued directness.

“We passed over Remia, Dad?”

“Aye. We’re bound now for the eastern edge of the Horness Cluster, where we’ll gather our strength. Jendor is too wild to even put Dragonships down. From there, we can practically spit and hit Yorbik. We’ll link up with Commander Darron before making final adjustments to the plan–flying ralti sheep! Shut me up if I start talking strategy, Sparky. I’m not here for that.”

“Fine by me,” Aranya mumbled through her mouthful.

This had to be Oyda’s work. Food and love, her two failsafe ingredients for getting a Dragoness, or a person, back on their feet.

“Close your mouth when you–oh, listen to me.” Beran helped himself to a fish skewer. “You’re seventeen summers now, not seven. No. My business is to tell you about your mother. Not the stories you already know. Details. Snippets. Impressions. Her poetry.”

Aranya paused mid-bite. “Because … Nak thinks I might learn something about being a Star Dragon?”

“That, too.”

“You’ll speak of my Shifter heritage? Of Izariela’s powers?”

“Nak believes that love conquers all, Sparky. I guess in a roundabout Nak way, he’s thinks that if you understand who you truly are, that will give you the best chance of defeating Thoralian. I don’t go for the soppy romantic delivery, but his point is well made.” He pushed four scrolls toward her. “Nak and Oyda interviewed everyone on Ha’athior who might possibly have known your mother or Lyriela’s parents. That information is detailed in these.”

Aranya’s heart pulsed in her throat. Oh, what could she ever do to thank them enough?

Beran took her hand in his. His fingers touched the scarred nodules upon her skin as though wishing to trace, beneath the ruined surface, the Dragon fire that rose within her even as the tides of her emotions waxed like the moons.

He said, “As you know, the magical imperative of destiny is little understood. We say there is love at first sight. We call it star-song and moons-madness and many names besides, all trying and failing to capture the indefinable enchantment that arrests two souls when first they meet.”

This poet was her father? Or was this the man who had courted Izariela, who had later become embittered by her fate?

“The day I met Izariela, I was sailing a single-handed Dragonship to a secret meeting, and followed in idle curiosity what I thought to be a Dragon landing on a Ha’athiorian mountaintop.” His quiet laughter was three parts joy and one part melancholy. “There, I discovered a girl clothed in white, quickly concealing her amazing hair beneath a headscarf as she turned away in embarrassment. Did she summon me? Did fate turn my path aside that day? Did our souls sense each other, and draw us together?”

“I can’t answer those questions, of course. I stopped to ask if she was lost, if she needed help descending the mountain. Izariela was most amused by my concern.”

Aranya smiled at her father. A Dragoness would have been tickled, or annoyed, by such an offer.

“Aye. There this beauty stood, right on a cliff’s edge, and a heavily-armed, bearded foreigner accosted her to offer a ride–in a culture in which kidnapping to wife, is common practice. I’m afraid Izariela must have thought I took her for a fool.”

“Still, she hid her appearance from me, and I knew that nothing else in the Island-World mattered but to catch a glimpse of her face.”

“Your grandfather died young, in a hunting accident, you’ll recall. I became King of Immadia a month shy of my eighteenth birthday. I was in the habit of introducing myself by my title in the hope it would impress the ladies. So I strutted up to her and announced, ‘I am Beran of Immadia, King of the most splendid Island in the world, but you outshine its beauty by far.’”

Aranya burst out laughing. “You didn’t! You never told me this, Dad!”

“Ludicrous, eh? I used exactly those words. Which was also when she looked up and smiled at me, stole my heart, and my ability to speak right along with it. I was so mortified I beat a hasty retreat–stop laughing, you wretch. I didn’t even ask her name. So imagine my surprise the very next week, when I spied your mother at King Cha’arlla’s nuptial ball. I’ll never forget. Izariela wore a stunning Fra’aniorian lace gown in a colour akin to the brightest of skies, white with just a hint of blue–the same colour as her eyes. Her smile dazzled. She was the darling of Fra’anior, the talk of the ball. The King introduced us. We clasped hands, as you know the Fra’aniorians do, and the rest was history.”

“Dad …”

“Oh, you want details?”

“Stop yanking my hawser!” Aranya cried, and then chuckled in delight at her fiery response. Yes, her magic was returning. But was it enough? She could not sense her Dragon form yet. “What did Mom say? How did she respond?”

To Aranya’s surprise, her father’s ears turned a flaming pink colour. “She said, ‘Islands’ greetings,
beautiful
Beran.’ Poor Cha’arlla did not know where to look. Nor did she, once she realised what she had said. We were so infatuated with each other, Aranyi, she didn’t leave my side that whole evening, to the dismay of every other suitor at the ball. And they were many.”

“Which was when you kidnapped her?”

She had never seen her father so discomfited. Fascinating! He fidgeted like a little boy caught stealing sweets. “I … was in a tearing hurry, so I … well, asked her permission after the event, so to speak. Given as I had the armies of at least ten Islands breathing down my neck at the time. Aye. Izariela was already in chains aboard my Dragonship when I proposed. Had her uncle and aunt, Ja’arrion and Va’assia, been alive, I believe I would have been roasted by Dragons to boot.”

“You spirited her out of Thoralian’s grasp just in time,” said Aranya.

“And a jolly good thing she loved me, eh?” quipped Beran, making a show of mopping his brow.

Aranya chuckled, “I called Ardan ‘delicious Dragon’ when we first met. He’s anything but–” she broke off with a wheeze of dismay, realising what she had revealed.

Her father said, “Don’t worry, Sparky. I worked that out.”

“He told you!”

“He’s an honourable man, Aranyi. If it matters, I like him even more than sweet but starchy Yolathion.” Her father reached out to clasp her shoulder. “Let’s speak of your mother. Maybe later, you’ll tell me all about this fascinating Shadow beast, and why you rejected him–nothing to do with our bullying Ancient Dragon, is it?”

Her father approved of Ardan? He had guessed why she had rejected him? Great Islands, was her life an open scroll to him? Shaking her head, she said, “Dad, are you quite certain you haven’t any magical powers of intuition?”

“I can read hurt in a man’s eyes, Sparky. After your mother was poisoned, that was all I saw in the mirror, for years.”

“Following which, you’ll kick Fra’anior in the teeth for me?”

“My job as your Dad definitely includes kicking Ancient Dragons in the teeth. Just say the word.”

W
HILE BERAN’s Dragonhip
fleet rode the rising winds to Horness Cluster, Aranya rode the joy and fear of her magic’s resurgence. Joy, because her healing power could ease Yolathion’s suffering. Fear, because the horizon blackened with storm clouds once more and the breezes grew capricious and spiteful, making Ri’arion cast sinister glances in her direction. Aranya shrank from his disapproval. Aye, it was her storm. She could do nothing to control it.

Somewhere, Fra’anior mocked her.

Jia allowed her to minister to Yolathion. The guilt over his condition gnawed at her conscience. Should she give him the magical Dragon tears when they reappeared? Did her healing magic ease his suffering, only to prolong it?

The winds did serve to send the dirigible fleet scudding northward. The fourth evening after they had rejoined King Beran’s forces, Aranya heard the Steersman sing out sight of Horness Cluster. Finally. She had a headache the size of Immadior’s Sea from Ri’arion’s incessant mental training, and now counted amongst her usual, exhausting nightly repertoire, dreams about a Land Dragon running amok.

With Sapphire snoozing on her shoulder and Zip and Jia-Llonya helping her in the medical cabin, Aranya wiped Yolathion’s brow with a cool cloth, before placing her palm flat on his forehead.

“I hate seeing Yolathion like this,” Aranya said, letting her power flood into him. “Our last conversation was a bit unpleasant.”

“How?” asked Zip.

“He told me–”

“No. Not the Dragon,” he moaned. Aranya yelped as Yolathion flapped his right arm toward her. “Don’t make me a Dragon … don’t …”

“Sapphire, no! Ouch.”

Aranya blinked at the sight of three neat cuts in the back of her hand from the dragonet’s claws. Yolathion slumped on the pillow-roll, as pallid as the corpse he nearly was. His chest rose and fell shallowly. The force of his movement had reopened the wounds in his right arm.

Ari hurt?

Sapphire, it’s alright. Sapphire?
The dragonet licked her hand.
Don’t … oh dear. If my tears heal, I don’t know what my blood might do to you. You were just protecting me. Don’t fuss. Ari is fine.

“The dragonet’s talking to her,” Zip informed Jia-Llonya.

“Wow! So the legends are true.”

“Yes,” said Aranya. “And you just learned what Yolathion and I spoke about. He’s dead set against becoming a Dragon. If I use my tears, he’ll probably turn into a Shapeshifter.”

“But if you don’t, he’ll certainly die,” Jia pointed out.

“If I do, there’s no guarantee the magic would heal him. How would the bones be re-set, for example? How could he fly? He’d live the rest of his days in a chair at best, a bed at worst.”

“You want him to die!”

Zuziana held the furious Jeradian back–to Aranya’s surprise, the tiny Remoyan succeeded against the much taller girl. Dragon strength? “No, I don’t. But how can I make that decision for him, when he has clearly stated he does not want the magic? Would you? Or Ignathion?”

“If I, as the one who actually loves him, assumed that responsibility, would you then be willing?”

Aranya flushed hotly. The little rajal had her claws out! How dare she? She said, “Would I be less of a coward, do you mean?”

“Back off, you two, before you start the clawing and hair-pulling!” snapped Zip, thumping Aranya in the chest and Jia on the shoulder. “We all love Yolathion–” she grinned impishly “–alright, calm down, Jeradia. We all want to see him well.”

Jia turned to Aranya. Only the twisting together of her hands betrayed her misery as she said, flatly, “One factor which may influence your decision, is that we discovered Yolathion betrayed you at some point during your campaign in the Western Isles. Aye, you gasp. He communicated your plan to travel via Mejia and the probable timing of your arrival at Jeradia, to Ignathion’s command. That’s why they were so well prepared.”

“He was talking to Ignathion all along?” Aranya could hardly believe her ears. “Then what was the point of that bluster about being ashamed of his father?”

Zuziana snorted, “Families. I’d bet half of Remoy’s terrace lakes the Chameleon Shifter used that intelligence to time his attack at Fra’anior, and he made you miss Lyriela’s wedding–which is the bit that truly makes my lightning bolts frazzle and spark.”

You’re sweet,
said Lyriela.

Aranya jumped, but Zip did not. She must have heard Lyriela’s footsteps with the benefit of her Dragon senses. Aranya growled,
Just another thing Thoralian stole from me.

Her cousin added,
Zuziana, King Beran asked if you would scout ahead. We need a good Island and a place where he can address all the troops.

“Good,” said Zip. “Aranya, Lyriela, let’s go. Time for a talk amongst us girls. Jia?”

“I should stay with Yolathion.”

Aranya quelled Zip’s half-formed snarky comment with a hand on her arm and a firm headshake. Sometimes the Remoyan was irrepressible.

Zip said,
Lyriela, you cannot fly comfortably in a dress. Maybe you’d fit a pair of Aranya’s trousers. What do you think?

Trousers?
Lyriela bit her lip.
What would Ta’armion say? And, I should ask his permission first …

Zip goggled at her.
Islands’ sakes, girl! Which century do you live in?

A Fra’aniorian one,
said Lyriela.

Shortly, Zip was delving into Aranya’s bag of clothing with the enthusiasm of a ferret who had scented a meal. Lyriela dressed diffidently.
They’re very tight. And revealing. What will my husband think?

His pointy ears will prick up and he’ll start panting like a hound,
offered Zip, with a wicked grin.

Lyriela’s cheeks resembled a perfect dawn.
That’s it. There’s no way … I feel unclothed. I can’t go in a dress?

No,
said Zip, firmly.
Dresses are not for riding Dragonback. These trousers fit you perfectly, unlike that underfed waif over there. Thoralian’s dungeon food clearly didn’t agree with her.

Oyda’s feeding me up,
said Aranya.

Zip smiled sweetly at her in the mirror.
Good, because the next time you run naked into a room full of Sylakian Hammers, you need to give them something to grab.

Z-Zuziana o-of Remoy,
spluttered Aranya, slapping down her friend’s hands as she mimed exactly what the soldiers would be grabbing.
You’re shameless!

Ha. You don’t see me cavorting with any troops, do you? Anyways. Lyriela. Over here. This is what we’re going to do.

With a firm rap on the door of Prince Ta’armion’s quarters, Zip entered. “Beran’s orders,” she said. “I’m to scout ahead with Aranya and Lyriela. I assume that’s fine with you?”

The Prince glanced up from the map he had been studying. “Of course. You’ll be careful?”

“I’m a Dragon.”
Lyriela, now.

“Aye … ay-ay-ay!” The chair crashed to the floor as Prince Ta’armion leaped to his feet, turning pink, purple and white in blotches all over his face. “Lyriela!”

Aranya’s cousin twirled just inside the doorway, as instructed, and smiled coquettishly at her husband. She signed, ‘How do I look?’

“Fabbrilwonderzing,” gasped the Prince.

I make that fabulous, brilliant, wonderful and amazing all at once,
said Zip.
The trousers win first prize, Lyriela. Just look at his face–how that man adores you!
Right, go fetch your kiss.

Lyriela stepped across the cabin, almost lost her nerve, and then slipped her arms around the Prince’s neck. ‘A kiss before I leave?’ she mouthed. Ta’armion instantly obliged. He was so obliging, it took some time before he realised he had an audience who could see precisely how much he relished his wife’s foray into her very un-Fra’aniorian trousers.

“Great Islands!” He released her as though he had burned his hands, gabbling, “You do look fabulous, Lyriela. I don’t think I should let you go dressed like that, though. Someone might see.”

“Who, a few windrocs and a passing cloud?” asked Zip.

“I shall escort you aloft,” said the Prince, gallantly. Lyriela’s smile was radiant as he tucked his arm possessively about her waist.

Aranya taught Lyriela the easiest way to mount a Dragon, stepping first onto her hind paw, then up onto the bend of her knee, before scrambling up the slope of her hindquarters and walking up to the spine-spikes.

Zuziana isn’t made of eggshells,
laughed Aranya, seeing Lyriela creeping along.
Sit here in the front saddle position. Buckle the waist belt and the thigh straps. Make sure everything’s tight. Your bow. Secure the quiver in this loop. I’ll be right behind you, and when we take off, don’t forget to breathe.

Lyriela laughed her soundless laugh.
I love this already. Oh! Oh dancing dragonets …

That was when the Azure Dragon walked to the platform’s edge. Spreading her wings to catch the breeze, she took off.
Ardan’s watching from way, way above,
she said.

Lyriela’s mental voice wobbled madly as she cried,
This is glorious, Zip!

No sneaky turning into a Dragon,
Zip admonished.

Aranya spread her arms, playing with the steady flow of air generated by Zuziana’s wingbeats as they rapidly left the fleet in their wake. How she longed to fly. Just last night, she had dreamed of flying low over the Cloudlands, the airstream tingling upon her scales, scenting the aroma of exotic, faraway Islands, when … Ancient Dragons roamed the Island-World, thundering in watery realms far larger even than the terrace lakes of Yorbik Island, and Land Dragons vaulting out of the waters like archer-trout leaping for iridescent insects, and … her head snapped around.

What was that?

She desperately needed her old eyesight back. Aranya tried to scan the Cloudlands to the south, but no amount of squinting would bring the world into focus. Darkness crowded about the edges of her vision, as though she saw through an age-stained pane of crysglass.

“Aranya?”

“I saw … I thought I saw … is there something behind us, Zip?”

The Azure Dragoness scanned the Cloudlands from horizon to horizon. “Only our Dragonships ten leagues behind, and the twin suns peeking above a storm obscuring the southern and eastern skyline, Aranya.”

Aranya said, “Will you help me, Zip? I need to find a way to convince Jia-Llonya and Ignathion that Ri’arion needs my power. I haven’t the strength to serve them both, and it’s your monk we need more in the coming battle with Thoralian. I must stop treating Yolathion, for Ri’arion’s sake.”

“Oh, Aranya.”

Lyriela said,
Will you speak Dragonish, please? I can’t lip-read a Dragon.

Sorry.
Aranya repeated their brief conversation to her cousin.

Aye,
she said.
Aranya, we must allow your father to break this news, difficult as it is. It cannot come from Zip. We can offer the monks’ healing power in exchange.

To keep Yolathion alive and suffering, Aranya thought. Every time she saw him, it twisted her up even more inside. What had she done to him? Her stupid choices, her hounding him into turning traitor against the Sylakians–had he done so willingly? Or for her alone? Ironically, only to be betrayed by an Amethyst Dragon’s failure to control her passions.

It’s a wise approach, Lyriela,
said Zip, sounding relieved.

Was it so evil for her to want Sha’aldior? A dancing, crooning Shadow Dragon stalked Aranya in her mind; without warning, he turned into a seven-headed monster sweeping down upon them from the storm. Aranya jerked so hard against her saddle-straps that she knew she’d have weals on her thighs afterward.

Petal?
Zip worried.
What is it? I hear the drumbeat in your chest, I smell fear …

I’m struggling to find the Island of sanity,
Aranya admitted.
The pox changed me … changed something, Zip, but even before, especially in the storm, I was starting to see waking visions and I can’t tell now if what I’m seeing is real or the past or the future, and I see Ancient Dragons disporting themselves amongst the Islands, and war breaking over our world with the power, sweeping whole Islands to their doom …

Petal. Shh.

Aranya gazed to the horizon. The storm’s thunder was the Black Dragon’s vexation, the boiling thunderheads his breath, the darkness moving beneath the murky storm-front his fury sweeping over the Island-World.

You’re frightened, dear cousin.
Lyriela twisted about in the saddle to put her arm around Aranya’s shoulders.
You need to confront Fra’anior, or the strain will drive you mad, and wreck our Island-World.

Aranya asked,
The storm is normal? Real?

Real enough,
said Zip, scanning the horizon behind them.
But normal? No. Even I can sense a strangeness about it, the presence of great magic.