Beautiful Fury

by Marc Secchia

  Ardan felt his belly clench tautly against his labouring diaphragm, and forced himself to relax those unruly muscles. Perhaps they hoped they had seen the Thoralians’ worst. What did they dare now?

  “Drakes?” Aranya guessed.

  “Aye.”

  From this distance, the winged predators seemed no larger than gnats as they drifted upward out of the seething Cloudlands, surrounded now by a rising funnel of limpid green, like a Western-Isles dust devil clenched in a draconic fist, upended, and given a lease on life that was as immense as it was ominous. The skies darkened as with an unnatural stormtide. Clouds belatedly began to boil out of the Suald-dak-Doon at a phenomenal rate, riding the escalating storm winds that rivalled anything the Amethyst Dragoness could have summoned – and he knew Aranya’s fury by the rasping of breath between her teeth and the sudden leap in her pulse. That Yellow-White parasite dared to mimic her signature powers; nay, even those of her grand shell-sire?

  A low, sibilant roaring communicated to his Dragon senses. Ardan shook his head in confusion at the odd, distasteful scents conveyed by that small breath of the deeps, but Aranya immediately stiffened upon his back and shouted:

  BRACE!

  He saw nothing. Anticipated nothing. But the perturbation that struck them, rocked every Air Breather to its core. In less time than it took a Dragon to flicker his nictitating membranes, Ardan found himself pinned like an insect to an entomologist’s board as a tremendous storm-wave boomed over them, and though his mind tried to flinch and curl his wings for safety, he seemed impervious. Immobilised. Not even vibrating – nor were the Air Breathers!

  It was only when his Rider groaned and slumped against his spine spikes that he realised what had happened.

  Aranya to the rescue.

  * * * *

  For a change, it was Zuziana who caught a fainting Princess in her paw. Well, her woefully insubstantial paw. That rather squished a Dragon into the proverbial bath-chamber, a popular Remoyan saying. Propping her friend’s body up inelegantly, she swatted away a semiconscious burble of complaint. “Down, petal. And stay down.”

  “Have to …”

  “Have to nothing. She’s fine, Ardan.”

  He rumbled, “She has to release the magic.”

  “As usual, the unstoppable Immadian thought that in one breath she might prevent the Thoralians’ storm from bowling over dozens of Air Breathers, protect the rising Dragonwings from being helplessly tossed and tumbled beyond the beyond, and no doubt she’s propping up the stars and skies all by herself!”

  Hearing herself, Zip promptly bit her lip and clamped her mouth shut before it spouted something even more injudicious. Stupid jealousy!

  Ardan could not turn his head to glare at her, so he tried a mental glare instead.

  Belay that nonsense – most especially mine, the Remoyan said brightly. What’s the plan, Shadow-man?

  Attack –

  Attack? What foolishness is this? You will attend the Council at once! Yiisuriel thundered.

  A split second later, everyone was shouting at everyone else. Zuziana rolled up her mental sleeves, and hurled herself into the fray. She would fight for Aranya. She’d show them!

  * * * *

  Having bowed beneath the fracas as the force of Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron’s will swept all before her, Aranya suddenly found herself stretched across her strange mountaintop, watching the starry skies above be riven even as her body felt riven. In that rift was more than darkness. It was void. Absolute, aching, deathly absence, in which dwelled myriad creatures of such unimaginable malevolence, her spirit writhed as if wishing to flee her breast in stark terror. The stretching sensation, the awareness of magic tested beyond mortal limits, flung her straight back into memories of her suffering during the fullest bloom of the Shapeshifter pox with which Thoralian had tortured her and sought to break her spirit.

  Now, she feared to let go. She feared the backlash. Yet more death? Intolerable.

  Ah … aaaahhhh …

  Hers was the voice that pleaded with the sundering skies.

  When she glanced at her limbs in surprise, it was to find she was pinioned by nothingness. Could she guess, by her own Word of Command? She did not understand. Aranya cried out in a babble of words, trying to undo what she had wrought, but she did not know the correct formula to use. Unbrace? Undo? Let it be undone? Release? Nothing she said appeared to work, nor were any of her other soulmates present with her, which made her doubt if this was her soul space or merely a dream.

  Disaster! Without forethought, her power had spilled across the leagues. Now, she had to act quickly as the demands of that untrammelled outburst sucked away her strength.

  Focussing on the pain, Aranya stilled her spirit. Hualiama? Blue-star, promise-star, I need … uh, I know I always beg for your help when it’s all charring in Fra’anior’s own caldera, but I honestly don’t understand what I’ve done wrong this time.

  Petal.

  She began to turn toward that familiar whisper, when a weight thumped right into her diaphragm and Sapphire snuggled so fiercely against her, it was almost as if her tiny friend wished to burrow beneath her skin. Ari hurt? Ari love, want-my-Ari! burbled the dragonet. Perching happily upon Aranya’s chest, she chattered, Help my petally-girly heal, see? Touch Ari! Good, aye? Goody-goody-good?

  Why was Sapphire so animated? Aye, oh, thanks, Aranya whispered, shifting her head to peer past her friend as coolness invaded her overstretched muscles. A touch of healing. The dragonet’s powers were growing.

  Blue-star! You came!

  Sweet petal, you called, didn’t you? purred the blue-haired twin, the one whom Aranya understood was the embodiment of her Aunt’s Dragoness-soul, or Dragonsoul, for short.

  Where she walked, there had to be – Us, said blonde-Hualiama from the other side, with a concerned chuckle. Sapphire’s wingtip tickled her nose, causing Aranya to sneeze her intended greeting into oblivion. Hold firm just a moment more, dear one. What you are experiencing is, I believe, a visual representation of the Command magic acting upon your psyche. You have to end this Command before you perish.

  Won’t I just – holy Fra’anior!

  She stared at herself. The girl whose approach had been obscured by Sapphire’s antics. The mirror image of herself stepped forward, dropping each of the Hualiama twins’ hands as she smiled at – Aranya blinked – Aranya? Double the Princess? Aranya reproduced in every detail – no, not quite. The other girl certainly had the crazy, kaleidoscopic hair tumbling past her waist. The scarring. The same generous lips and high Immadian cheekbones, lending her large eyes an exotic tilt that she had oftentimes noted in the mirror without thinking much more of it, but now, a pang pierced her breast. She could have been beautiful. Had been, perhaps. But the rest of her life would be lived behind the veil.

  Her head spun. Who was this?

  Like our surprise? chorused the Hualiamas, not failing to hide their glee.

  I’m delighted! the Immadian spluttered. Noble Aunt, how did you … is it –

  Your Dragoness. It’s us, Aranya, replied her twin. I invited her along and she managed to embody all by herself. Aren’t you clever?

  Whaa – uh, why the amethyst gemstone flowers all over our skin, in that case? The prone Aranya had to laugh at her Dragonsoul’s peeved expression. Roaring rajals – her Dragonsoul! Portrait of a Human gone wrong?

  You’re the artist between us, the other Aranya pout-growled.

  She was? Only one of her … was? Peculiar.

  The pattern that covered every visible inch of skin was aesthetically pleasing, as if an invisible paintbrush had produced curlicue tendrils and loops of pale but clearly discernible flowers, most similar in her experience to the Immadian simmis-lily, which bloomed briefly alongside meltwater brooks and in the shallows of the terrace lakes each summer. But the petals were gemstone-faceted, as were the stems, she adjudged. Only the terrible replicated scars, nodules and pits broke the insculpted, almost lacquer-like organic effect just bene
ath her skin.

  Stop grinning at us like that, you lovely loon, Dragoness Aranya added. We are indeed in trouble, as you’ve managed to figure out. O, Humansoul …

  Very fetching body art, my long-lost soul aspect, she returned drolly. Now I know what you – I – think of me. What shall we –

  Ardan’s proximate bellowing shook them all. ARANYA! TO ME!!

  Last she saw, the Hualiama twins broke into identical expressions of alarm. Oh no, you can’t –

  She faded.

  * * * *

  How dare you simply roll over and say yes to everything that Yiisuriel wants, without the slightest consideration of my feelings or opinions? Ardan raged. Were you even listening?

  Aranya blinked slowly. Uh … mercy, Ardan –

  Mercy? You dare beg mercy? The Shadow shook the girl in his paw, alarmed by the urge he had to squeeze her frail Human body until she screamed. No! Ferality? He thrust the sense of imminent peril aside. He was entirely sane, just enraged. Who do I have here? Zip, or Aranya?

  Aranya.

  Then – what’s the matter with you? Focus, my – he swallowed hard, trying to control the fires searing his arteries – my beloved. Where were you?

  Meeting my Dragonsoul twin for the first time. You took me away.

  She spoke factually, but he heard petulance. You never regard me in situations like this. What about me, Aranya? Am I to be your lackey? Your distant second? Your husband for a season, whose lot is to be cast aside whenever it suits the Star Dragoness’ purposes?

  Hurt sprang into her eyes. Welling tears. Ardan, I am doing my very best –

  Aye, doing your utmost to satisfy everyone else’s needs! the Dragon roared. Despite his better intentions, the words spilled forth, each more incendiary than the last. Every bloody request, every endless demand, every insufferable burden, you try to carry them all because, you tell me, you should and you alone must and it’s just impossible, Aranya. Impossible! Don’t you start crying again, I’m sick of the tears! We need to fight! The enemy is out there and all I hear from your lips is the Princess of Immadia, the Star Dragoness, the freaking grand-shell daughter of Fra’anior himself shrivelling before the will of others! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

  He had never seen her look so shocked. She was meant to be the unflappable Princess of Immadia, and he had just injured her inmost being. Ardan hated himself. He abhorred exposing his inner putridity to anyone else’s awareness, but most of all to Aranya, for he realised that he lived and died by what she saw in him. He was weak! Selfish! How could she claim to love a creature like him?

  Beloved Shadow, I have neglected thee –

  Aye, this is all about me! he lashed out thunderously. Me first, for once in our lives!

  Again, she flinched. That was not what Aranya had been about to say, and he knew it. The emotions were scribed upon her unguarded features, and this warrior-Dragon felt sick. Shuttering his primary eye-membranes, he drew in a deep, shuddering breath that incongruously tantalised his nostrils with the very tips of her long, wavy locks. Nor what he had meant to say. Ever.

  Why did the words just knot up in his throat every time he spoke to her? Why not tenderness; why not the eloquence of a balladeer to celebrate how he felt about her?

  His eyes snapped open. For the longest time, they linked gazes, and with all of his soul, Ardan willed her to see beyond the bluster to the inner pain. The regrets. He always hurt her. Always! From the very first, when he had surrendered his will to the seductive call of the oath magic and selfishly made her his alone, he had been the one to inflict distress upon this woman’s incomparable heart. She deserved better – couldn’t she see that? Captured by her amethyst eyes, he knew yearning. Dignity. A hint of the many-splendoured facets of her being. He thrilled to the brightness of her living fires, and a sensation of sinking, or even falling … was it him into her, or her into him? The Dragon found that his muzzle rocked forward, ever so slowly, until they touched lightly, skin to scales, her forehead resting against the skull-ridge between his flaming orbs, and she lifted her hands to embrace him tenderly with her arms curved just beneath his eye-sockets.

  They communed.

  She did not move her arms, but he became aware of her hair rising, spreading across his sensitive scales, yearning. Caressing. Exploring. Calming and understanding. Was this enough?

  Ardan grated, I’m … sorry. So sorry, Aranya, for … everything …

  His tongue shunned eloquence, yet communicated his shame all too clearly.

  I will fight for you, my Ardan.

  Don’t. They speak sense. Perfectly detestable mountains of good Isles sense. We are wrung out like sapless trees. We should fall back; consolidate our strength. To attack is a terrible idea.

  For thee, she said. Not because I must or I should, but because I want to, Ardan.

  No. You mustn’t.

  Great as his Dragon hearts were, they laboured almost to a standstill beneath the force of the emotions cramming through their portals now, throbbing heatedly, searing like the molten heart of a Star Dragoness’ whitest fires. Each hearts-beat was thunder. Each realisation, breathtaking. This woman. This oath-bound love. This paragon of enchanting insanity. This was what he had fallen into.

  Aranya breathed, This I would do for the joy of loving thee, Ardan.

  * * * *

  In a flash, Zuziana saw a picture fashioned within her best friend’s mind, as clear-cut as finely wrought crystal. Two of Aranya, one bending over another to kiss her forehead. Sapphire’s paw upraised as if the dragonet were making a grave point. Two unfamiliar girls, whom she mistook at first for Marshal Huaricithe, stood calmly beside Aranya’s prone, splayed form as she convulsed, and then screamed a word that the Remoyan did not understand. Bedazzle? Bespeak?

  BEZALDIOR!!

  As if unsnapped from invisible catapults, the aftermath of the Thoralians’ storm slammed into the Air Breathers and the Dragonwings clouding about their peaks, but the overwhelming force of the first perturbation had passed them by. This, the Land Dragons could withstand. This, the Dragonwings could shield against. They gamely fluttered back to the relative safety of their hangers whilst the Shadow Dragon hovered with greater power and steadiness above Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron’s peak.

  Rising within the Shadow Dragon’s paw upon trembling limbs, Aranya said, I am ready.

  Ready for what? Yiisuriel inquired acidly.

  I have decided to attack. Ardan is right, and I know how we will achieve it.

  HOLD! We must regroup –

  You will regroup, the Immadian interrupted, colour blooming in her cheeks as Zuziana’s warm regard hugged her within.

  My friend! That’s my friend! she thought fiercely.

  You’ll be essential to this enterprise, Zip, Aranya said privately to her. Summon Ri’arion, Gangurtharr and Huari. We’ll need them all.

  Warily now, and clearly angered, Yiisuriel demanded, What are you planning, Star Dragoness? We need to examine this vector from every angle and assemble our predictive battle scenarios. It is not inconceivable that the Thoralians are also tired and damaged, and therefore vulnerable to a surprise attack, but you will need the full support of –

  Then accord us your support, Aranya cut in again, not disrespectfully, but in a tone that booked absolutely no countermand. We’ll need you and your brethren, Yiisuriel, and every ounce of your strength, or we shall most assuredly fail.

  But what will you do? What’s the plan? the mighty Air Breather almost howled.

  Zuziana whispered a word into her friend’s heart.

  We plan to improvise, said Aranya.

  With that, she leaped out of Ardan’s paw and transformed.

  * * * *

  The seething of Yiisuriel’s ire was like flying headlong into the caldera of Fra’anior, where Hualiama had once battled the power of an Ancient Dragoness, and her very own mother, and won. Aranya knew she had insulted a mighty ally. Touchy, the Dragonkind, and few mightier, wiser or more hidebound by tradition than these �
� yet she also sensed that the last response Thoralian would expect was an attack right through that storm he was building out there. Conventional and unconventional tactics had taken them so far, but their nemesis had contrived to escape every time. Now he held the First Egg within his grasp. Should he learn to use it, or corrupt its power, they might never enjoy this chance again.

  There was a time for debate, analysis and synthesis, as she well knew from her strategy sessions with her father. But there was also a time for improvisation. After all, she and Zip had contrived to bring down the Sylakia’s tyranny by precisely that means. Well, she scowled to herself, throw in a decent slice of luck and the fact they had no clue what they were doing when they started …

  The power of ignorance, Zuziana chuckled within her. Petal, are you staying we were so stupid we were unstoppable?

  She grinned. Nak swears by flying by the seat of his trousers.

  Depends where that seat might have sat.

  Like, atop an active volcano?

  Zip quipped, It’s nice in here – in other words, your resourcefulness kept me and my brood alive. For someone who hadn’t a clue, that’s a pretty respectable result, if you ask me.

  Bah, but for a glimpse of thy peerless pulchritude, o Remoy, Aranya imitated Nak adroitly, turning to watch the substantial form of Gangurtharr hurl himself upon the winds, with two Riders upon his back –Huaricithe and Ri’arion. I owe that much to your lovely monk, anyways.