by Marc Secchia
So much to learn, Iridiana admitted. I had no idea my mind had natural wards, nor – you do know that Asturbar speaks Dragonish, don’t you?
Aye, I heard through Aranya, Ardan said. Now, don’t be disheartened by all of this Isles flotsam. Aranya is a master negotiator, every ounce as tricky as her father, who went by the moniker of ‘the Immadian Fox’ –
Fox?
A creature of legendary cunning, in a positive sense, he said. And besides, we’re firmly on your side. In my culture, familial ties are the strongest of all. We say, ‘No thong binds true hearts like the bonds of kin.’ He clenched his right fist over his heart. We’re family, Iridiana!
His intensity brought a tear to her eye. I’m not much used to that sort of sentiment, back in Yazê-a-Kûz. Not very much at all.
Just you try to escape this family, Dragoness! he mock-growled. We’ll hunt you down – you and your mangy metallic hide –without pity or rest …
Their outburst of merriment stopped Asturbar and Aranya mid-flow. As the pair regarded them curiously, Ardan said, “Don’t mind us, Marshal, I’m just threatening your girlfriend over here. She can handle it. Trust me.”
Asturbar’s eyebrows peaked.
“Listen, man, it wasn’t long ago your girl crisped the most powerful Dragon Marshal in Herimor and served him up for toast bread. Don’t get me started on what Aranya’s like. Or Zuziana. These girls are plain dangerous.”
“I can handle her,” Asturbar began to gripe, but at Iridiana’s pointed look, he hastily added, “mostly … uh, yes. Somewhat. Sometimes.”
Zip cut in, “You boys know nothing. Do you think it’s a coincidence you both, and my Ri’arion, all have no hair? Us girls flame things when we get riled, so don’t you start with me, you gargantuan hunk of man meat, or I’ll start rearranging your precious nostril hairs with my talons – do we understand each other?”
Iridiana patted Asturbar on the arm. “Don’t worry, my darling petal, they’re just teaching us what family’s like.”
His helpless guffaws shook the inside of Leandrial’s mouth.
Chapter 17: A Parting of Ways
The SHADOW DRAGON turned to his Rider. “So, petal –”
“Don’t start with me, saith the Zippy one,” Aranya said. “Do you think they’ll take the bait?”
“You’re a girl after your father’s devious heart.”
“I’m a girl, period,” she quipped, drawing a gruff bark of approbation from her mount. “Am I still shining so brightly?”
“Occupational hazard for a star. See? Even this Dragon warrior is learning a few expressions from Snippy Zippy. Good thing she’s sleeping, eh?”
“Troublemaker.”
“Conniver.”
“Ready to help me foment further disorder?”
“Iridiana is such a bad influence,” Ardan averred. “Pure chaos! So, do you think we seeded the idea sufficiently?”
Aranya hugged the spine spike just ahead of her. “I’ve never been happier in my life, Ardan. Well, there have been several notable events recently. Confirmation of my mother’s continued existence. Sapphire’s re-embodiment. Recognising the hope that you and I share together; then losing and regaining you. Now this – this craziness! Aye, I predict that within the hour, Leandrial will be persuaded to travel North and she will leave a magical trace here to try to disguise her departure.”
The Shadow Dragon smacked one massive fist into the palm of his other paw, before gritting between his fangs, “I hope they wring every drop of truth out of that worthless, callous Uxâtate Shan-Jarad’s scrawny neck! Imagine imprisoning your daughter before abandoning her in the Doldrums! If he even is her father …”
“I plan for us to pursue them,” Aranya said.
Startled into expectorating a fireball, he spluttered, “You are not merely devious, you are wholly wicked!”
“I need to know, Ardan.”
“Aye, my beloved,” the massive Dragon crooned, side-slipping a chunk of debris that, true to the immense scale of the under-Cloudlands world, was a torn-off chunk of burgundy plant matter half the size of a respectable Island. I would surely bear thy woes …
No woe is this, but I do thank thee, noble Shadow, she riposted lightly, then chuckled at her Dragoness’ formality. We’re both deeply grateful, Ardan. Likewise, I do ache to carry thine.
A Dragon might rule the skies, but this woman owned his hearts. At the soughing of his protracted sigh, it seemed, his stiff wingbeat smoothed as if every function of the complex joints and ligaments had been simultaneously oiled and then instilled with the knowledge of how to cooperate more seamlessly. He rushed onward beneath the upper plate of a mile-wide blue fungal outcropping like an arrow unleashed by a master archer, this new refinement perfectly in keeping with the formidable oleaginous throbbing of his Dragon hearts. Aranya responded unconsciously to his mood, her thighs moulding to his scales and her body inclining to their direction of travel, while her mind melded gracefully with his.
They flew as one.
Her personal preoccupation with questions of how the theft of an egg could possibly have worked, practically, mirrored Ardan’s own questions. How could Iridiana be older than her, if they were born of the same twin or triplet? Could it be that Izariela had been pregnant years beforehand – and not known it? How could a Star Dragoness, with her delicate knowledge of Balance, miss the fact that she was pregnant or not know how many babies or eggs she carried?
How had that theft not grieved Izariela as only a mother could grieve her lost ones?
At length, Ardan decided to draw her out. He said, “Now, o Jewel of the North, your mind has an air of Immadian subtlety and subterfuge about it. You’re planning to mislead Yiisuriel in order to befog their departure, correct?”
“Correct.”
He clicked his talons in a self-congratulatory gesture. “Do I scent a Chameleon hunt?”
“Correct again. Chameleon is firmly on the menu.”
“Excellent! Ah, and how exactly do you propose we expose what no magical artifice has so far discovered?”
One luminous eye winked at him for his teensy poetic rhyme, an Immadian mannerism which had soundly confused him at first. In the Western Isles, a wink was an aggressive reference to unsatisfied or even malicious ancestral spirits still at large amongst the Islands – most often, a serious insult between warriors in a culture which made an art of insults. ‘May the spirits ravage your village.’ Charming.
Gnarrr, he purred.
“It is a plan rife with certain, shall we say, shadowy elements.”
The Dragon mulled over this, whispering beneath the ragged edge of a tearing, jetsam-laden khaki airstream as he approached the steep, dark flanks of the Air Breathers. At length – admittedly, having resorted to a swift, furtive probe through their oath-connection – he puffed out his cheeks. “Wow. That’s a tall ask.”
“Aye. Are you willing, Ardan?”
“Willing? Of course!” His wrathful wing stroke bounced him ninety feet upward, before he corrected with a graceful flexion of his wingtips. “It shall be as the potentate of all Herimor desires – but if you’re planning to have me fly through every soul aboard Yiisuriel and her kin to discover which ones may display unusual characteristics –”
“You’d best get started the moment we arrive,” his Rider replied serenely. “Only a few hundred thousand persons and Dragons to track and confirm.”
GNARRR!
“I can pay richly. It’s worth a kiss from a Star Dragoness.”
“No less than three kisses,” he negotiated feebly, knowing her mind was long since made up. Born rogues, these two Princesses!
“Three it is,” she agreed, and pressed her veiled lips to his spine spike.
“Hey!” roared the Dragon.
“You didn’t specify where,” she giggled as his belly fires thundered into tumescent life. “That’s one already.”
“Just you wait, Aranya of Immadia! This Dragon will be calling in his debts. And y
ou –” he aimed a talon over his shoulder “– you are mine.”
“Perfect.”
* * * *
Three days later, the deception continued successfully with Leandrial, undetected, having traversed several hundred difficult leagues toward Iridiana’s homeland in search of answers – while Aranya, Ardan and her allies were left bereft of any answers of their own. Forty-three thousand souls examined. Nothing to show for an effort that had drained Ardan’s strength to its dregs.
“Despite copious revitalising kisses,” Zuziana lamented, interrupting Aranya mid-mouthful as they shared an evening repast with Gang, Huari, Ri’arion and First Hand Dhazziala.
She spluttered indignantly as she tried to catch the crumbs tumbling out of her twisted mouth.
“I know, petal,” her best friend needled. “I’ve never seen Ardan so motivated, have you? Careful. Can the babies and I have a bit more of the spicy lentil miskuti? Very tasty.”
Ardan aimed his tine at Aranya. “Remoy. Stow it.”
“Nowhere to stow anything.”
“Figuratively.”
“Funny how I’m having trouble with figures just now – are we expecting a visitor?”
Security check, Aranya ordered.
Yazina, fourteen summers of age, daughter to Marshal Chanbar; cousin also to the Chaos Beast, most unfortunately, Yiisuriel responded instantly. Poses no known danger. Checked by the Shadow yesterday, three minutes after noon. May I remind you however, that this is the girl who travelled with Chanbar and the Chaos Beast via Mount Morgu-Zayê –
Thank you, noble Yiisuriel.
In a moment, the guards completed their physical checks and the chamber’s circular door slid open to reveal a nervous young teen.
Marshal Huaricithe rose at once. “Yazina. An unexpected pleasure. Share our repast; share life with us.”
The girl cleared her throat. “I thank you, Marshal.”
“Shuffle up, Ardan of Ur-Naphtha,” Gangurtharr ordered, employing his bulk to ensure that room was made.
Yazina was a slim teen of medium height and build, dark and curly of hair in the way of Herimor, and Aranya observed her curiously. If she was Iridiana’s cousin, then they might be relatives, despite the immense physical distance and barriers between their places of birth. Was there a resemblance? She clearly took after her father, Chanbar, but Aranya could not tell if there were definitive familial characteristics or not. She did not know Wyldaroon well enough.
Once Huaricithe had offered a traditional choice portion from the dishes upon the table and Yazina had partaken, even though she appeared a touch off-colour, Dhazziala enquired after the purpose of her visit with uncharacteristic gentleness.
“No, my family doesn’t know I’m here,” Yazina responded to the direct question, colouring noticeably. “It’s not so much a family matter as … as a magical one. I think. I’m sorry to disturb –”
“Disturb away,” Gang invited.
Huari’s scowl over the table at her mate could have slain a Drake at a thousand paces. She turned to Yazina. “What’s bothering you, child?”
“I have a concern about a member of my family who has been acting strangely,” she confessed, speaking indirectly according to Wyldaroon tradition so as to avoid disparaging a relative, Ardan realised belatedly.
“What kind of concern?” Huari pressed.
“One who is close, has not been quite themselves, I don’t feel. And I don’t understand the stresses they might be under, but – there was a peculiar incident when we travelled from the Mistral Fires to here.” Yazina winced, clearly realising how muddled an explanation she had just attempted. “I’m so sorry to bother your illustrious selves with such … I should go.”
Aranya touched the girl’s arm. “No. Please, tell me more.”
She felt the Shadow’s measuring gaze upon her. Aye, he said. A Balance instinct?
Aye.
Twisting her hands together in front of her, the girl said, “While we were doing mental exercises with the noble Ri’arion yesterday, a strange recollection came to my mind. I remember waking that night we travelled in the Land Dragoness Leandrial’s mouth, thinking I had heard someone speaking in a language unknown to me. I opened my eyes and looked, and it seemed to me that a strange light shone beneath this person’s face, and their face was – I can’t describe it well – maybe ‘twisted’ is the word …”
“Twisted, how?” Huari asked.
“In a way I have never seen before,” she said. “It was … cruel. Almost alien, as if a stranger lived within this person – I know them well, you see.”
This time, Aranya lifted her eyes. Shadow? Oh mercy, it must be …
Not examined yet, he said. He was treating with potential allies offshore these last two days. We’d discounted him as low risk for a Chameleon infection – perhaps wrongly so? Furthermore, we’d need protocols of permission to be granted.
Unaware of their confidential telepathic conversation, the Shapeshifter Marshal said, “And what made you bring this matter to us, Yazina? It’s very brave of you, so I imagine you must be deeply concerned about this person.”
The teen wet her lips. “It was … that when they saw me awake, this person raised their hand … and I felt them. I felt them in here. Inside.” She touched her right temple. “It wasn’t … it wasn’t my father!”
Granted. Go, Shadow! Yiisuriel hissed in their minds.
As Huaricithe comforted the sobbing teen, Aranya called after Ardan, Take care. Do nothing to alarm the Chameleon, if indeed it is him.
Gently, Huari drew out the rest of the story. How Yazina had forgotten the incident until Ri’arion’s exercises had returned the memory to the forefront of her mind. How anxious she was; how she feared that Azhukazi or Thoralian had attacked her father’s mind. How she had travelled with and seen much of Asturbar and Iridiana and observed her father’s atypical handling of their situation.
Ri’arion leaned forward to clarify gently, “He knew Iridiana’s location? He deliberately dispatched Asturbar to the same Island, and then, you say, he changed his mind?”
“It was something to do with the Iolite Blue’s takeover of our House,” the girl whispered. “But I know my father, noble Ri’arion, and now I feel I don’t know him at all.” She eyed Ardan’s clothing, slumped in his previous place beside the table. “Where did the other warrior go?”
“To investigate,” Aranya said simply. Sha’aldior?
In a moment, Ardan replied, Right outside, Aranya. Please bring my clothing. I just don’t know. I do sense something different about Chanbar, but it’s almost like an echo of a taint. If a Chameleon literally subsumes their victim’s entirety, how would you know that they are wrong, as such? How long ago might Chanbar have been infested? Would the mind not be indistinguishable from the original, if a perfect assimilation had been made?
I don’t know. Come back. We need to discuss this.
Clothed and returned to their company, the group rapidly discussed the bones of the matter telepathically before electing to take Yazina into their confidence.
Aranya said, “Yazina, we’re hunting a Chameleon Shapeshifter who we suspect might be hiding somewhere within the population of these Islands. You know about Chameleons – aye?”
“Only the legends,” moaned the girl.
Time to tread a careful line. She was scared enough already. “Chameleons can perfectly take on the appearance of a person, Yazina. Not only that, but they are able to take on all aspects of a host – mannerisms, memories, patterns of speech and suchlike.”
“They kill them?”
The Princess of Immadia silently applauded her. No fool was she, and her courage showed in the straightness of her back as she faced the table.
Everyone looked at everyone else. “We just don’t know, child,” Huari responded eventually. “We don’t know enough about Chameleon Shapeshifters to confirm whether or not one might have attacked your father – all we have to go on is your intuition and what, forgive us
, Ri’arion and Yiisuriel have seen in your mind.”
Ardan said, “Yazina, one of my powers is to be able to see inside of people. I see souls – Human souls and the fire souls of Dragons and Shapeshifters. With Shapeshifters I see the Human manifestation or the Dragon one, but each to my insight appears individually, not even as some form of echo or trace. Recently, I have started to recognise the subtle draconic patterns of minds like Aranya’s, Huari’s and Gang’s. They are all Shapeshifter Dragons. In your father, I saw a purely Human mind, but unfortunately, that is exactly what a Chameleon’s power would present to examination. They are unique among Shapeshifters.”
“Perhaps we might more accurately label them shape-morphic draconic beings,” Yiisuriel observed, projecting her voice into the chamber.
Yazina said, “You saw nothing wrong with my father?”
“It’s complicated.” Ardan spread his hands. “What I felt in him as I passed through – uh, passed through his soul –”
Bravely spoken, my Sha’aldior, Aranya encouraged him.
There are times I hate this power! said he.
I’m sorry, my fiery love.
Seamlessly, he continued “– was more akin to a fey shiver. Upon reflection, I am concerned that he felt my presence and reacted to it, perhaps employing some innate protective capability.” Yazina pursed her lips, following his words very closely. “I have passed through tens of thousands of people and Dragons these last few days. None felt like him. It could be that he possesses latent magical powers, but, forgive my Western Isles bluntness, I don’t think so. I sense there’s something different, I just couldn’t identify exactly what. I am also exhausted, so it may be that my thinking is clouded.”
