by Marc Secchia
“Yes, of course.” Aranya winced as her words emerged brusque and dismissive. “Roaring rajals! Sorry.”
Lightly, her sister said, “I haven’t asked yet.”
But she had learned of Aranya’s discomfort at a potential connection with Chaos magic, inadvertent or not. “I apologise.”
“Aranya, you wouldn’t be the first, nor the only one –”
“I don’t want to be them! I want to be the one who understands, who accepts and includes, who –”
“When I don’t understand myself in the slightest –”
“Who loves her sister for all that she is!”
The flowers seemed stuck somewhere between growing weak-stemmed in disbelief and shivering with delight.
Aranya tried a quirky smile. “Granted, I don’t know much about sisters, mind …”
With a moody sigh, the flowers responded, “I’m sure the pale Northern Enchantress marrying a dark Western Isles barbarian must attract a few looks and comments, right? Let’s not pretend rainbows come without clouds.”
“Indeed.” Grateful, Aranya tickled one of Iridiana’s stems with her fingers, saying, “To finish our earlier conversation – yes, I will gladly make our father cry for joy. Yes, I relish the opportunity to introduce you to Fra’anior and blow that old Dragon off his paws for the first time in millennia. And yes, I hope even to take you as far as Immadia to meet our mother – if you’re willing, that is?”
“I thought we’d finished this argument already, but if you’d like a reprise …”
“I’ve never had a sister to argue with. This is so much fun.”
Iridiana began to chuck her beneath the chin, saying, “The one thing I really don’t want is your crown, mind – yaah! – sorry …”
Aranya teased drolly, “I guess we share the same trouble with clothing, eh?”
“You could offer me at least a corner of the blanket, you heartless fiend.” With this, her own pout appeared full force. It was incredible to see another person’s face making expressions as close to hers as a fine mirror.
Sucking in her lips, Aranya said, “Unfortunately for prospective throne stealers, in Immadian tradition the crown passes down the male line. Good news for a shy girl.”
“How archaic and patriarchal,” Nyahi teased.
“We Immadians are old-fashioned.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Hey!”
“Just putting my little sister in her place.”
She punched Iridiana’s arm. “I’m a deity in these parts. Try not to insult me.”
“Your worshippers are deluded.”
“Your one and only worshipper venerates ankles. I mean, you’re nice and all, but that’s just bizarre.”
* * * *
They rested for two days, what with her best friend’s idea of rest passing for holding several lengthy meetings with Shan-Jarad in order to forge the terms of a healthy alliance and treating the ruler’s heart complaint, besides sneaking off to heal all of the injured she could lay a hand upon, before they took the Uxâtate up on his offer of a guided tour of Yazê-a-Kûz. Zuziana asserted that Shan-Jarad could be quite personable when he wasn’t stealing peoples’ babies. Aranya promptly forbade her from ever speaking her mind on the matter! As for Ardan and Asturbar, both men appeared to struggle with the ongoing fashion parade that apparently passed for daily life in the ritzy city. She had to admit, she had never seen so many female legs either, not even at the sticky height of a Remoyan summer. Generally, the women were willowy of frame, and not averse to a brand of open ogling of the two unusual men in their midst that had both Shapeshifter Dragonesses steaming like miniature fumaroles. The men seemed gregarious on the whole, and affected outfits that ranged from the outlandish to plain garish, and little between.
In a sweet gesture, Iridiana had joined Aranya in wearing light ‘slacks’ beneath their outrageously short dresses, for it seemed that tailors in the Kahilate did not understand the concept of hemlines that even contemplated approaching the knee. Perhaps material was in permanently short supply? Poor Aranya. Zuziana despaired of ever curing her friend of her devotion to floor-length dresses, preferably with a modest train.
True, she had the figure to look amazing in a flowing gown fitted to her ridiculously spare waist, but still … Ardan had checked her slacks no less than twenty-three times. She was counting.
That afternoon, they idled the time away at the palace waiting for Leandrial’s return. This time the soldiers and defences had strict orders to provide her an honour escort. The Land Dragoness’ reaction to this arrangement was predictably gruff and bemused, but Zip thought the old bottom-hugger might just be pleased by the whole affair. She certainly had an audience easily upward of twenty thousand lining the edges of every Island as she strolled into the bay, muzzle held high.
“Alright, ready?” purred the Iridium Dragoness.
Aranya turned from the balcony to regard her Dragoness sister. “You really think this will help?”
“Chiropractic manipulation with a Dragon’s strength, accompanied by the application of healing oils. What are you afraid of?” said Iridiana, cracking her knuckles gleefully.
“It won’t work if you turn into a flower, will it?”
Apparently Human Aranya was not about to wriggle out of this arrangement with such a weak argument. Half a minute later, she found herself being dunked in an oversized barrel of decidedly odd-smelling warm oil by the enthusiastic Iridium Dragoness. Zip observed that they must have added aromatic elements to disguise a fundamentally noxious concoction, like disguising stale vomit with a herbal wash. Still, through Aranya’s senses the warmth and relaxation combined with the complex, soothing herbal scents did not seem unpleasant. Perhaps it was just her pregnancy. Wonky senses were meant to be part of the package.
She missed Ri’arion. Nothing wonky about her monky.
Monkey? She giggled. Oops.
“It’s all good,” said Iridiana, reaching down to grip Aranya’s head between her first-thumb and fore-talon, while her other paw gently but inflexibly stabilised her shoulders.
The Remoyan observed, “Word of warning, Immadia is a famously stiff-necked nation.”
No sooner had she said this, when Iridiana’s paws turned sharply. Crick!
“Yeeeeooow!”
The Dragoness cooed, “Now the other way …”
“No –” Krack! “Ouch! Holy Fra’anior, you torturer, what are you – oh! That does feel … oddly, much better.”
“Minus a few vertebrae better?” Zip put in. “Sounded mortal.”
Aranya twizzled her neck from side to side as she probed with her fingers. “How did you – Iridiana, that’s fantastic. I thought that sore spot was a permanent fixture after the pox.”
“Again? More?”
“Umm …”
A silvery fore-talon tapped Aranya drolly upon the forehead. “A little trust please, sister. Are we scared?”
“Me, scared of a staggeringly good-looking flowerpot?” Aranya snorted. “Bring it on!”
* * * *
When Ardan found the sisters, Iridiana was rolling Aranya between her knuckles, and the Immadian Princess was groaning as if Thoralian himself had just bent her spine into that exact contortion – a touch theatrically, perhaps? Drama was rather unlike Aranya.
Oddly, he missed the Remoyan’s antics. He must be going soft in the head.
“Ho!” he laughed, “what new game is this? Can I join in?”
“Sure. Come take my place – ooo-aaah!”
Affecting a fine swagger, Ardan approached them. “I think I’m content to observe the technique from over here.”
“Baby,” Aranya accused.
“Wise man.”
Iridiana’s fire eyes gleamed with a mesmerising light. “Do you want to reconsider that statement, Ardan of Ur-Naphtha?”
“I’m just consumed by such admiration of your dazzling skills, my lady, I could not possibly interfere at this delicate stage of the treatment.”
Aranya winked at him. “Oh save me, mighty Shadow Dragon. Ooh!”
He pretended to consider her entreaty. “No.”
“I’m a maiden in distress. Ouch. The mean Dragoness is bullying me.”
“Release the prisoner, o fiendish fire breather of mauve-acious hue,” Ardan suggested, making a negating gesture with both hands.
“Brute,” the victim complained. “Ooh-arrrgh – roaring rajals, Iridiana, you’re jolly strong, do you know that?”
The Dragoness paused, saying, “Confession?”
“What?” Aranya asked suspiciously.
“I’m doing this just to learn all of these adorable Northern expressions you use. Leaping Islands! Unholy smoking fumaroles!” The Princess hissed crossly. “Roaring rajals. Quadruple overlapping rainbows! It’s quite the linguistic adventure.”
“Iridiana, you are so – yeow! I felt that one.”
Ardan grinned as one sister finally released the other and Aranya emerged from that paw staggering as if her knees had turned to pliant reeds. Her skin evinced a most fetching sheen, what appeared to be oils lit from beneath by her natural starlight radiance. Catching the tenor of his gaze, Aranya coloured fetchingly and slipped behind a tall, slatted reed screen to dress.
Sometimes he forgot how young she still was, this girl who had chosen to defy the preeminent powers of the age.
Ardan said, “Leandrial wishes us to take our leave. And she wishes to speak to us the moment we board. My guess is that the Thoralians have been creating trouble again.”
“Moving the Egg faster?”
“She spoke of a mounting presentiment of Imbalance.”
The silence from behind the screen spoke volumes. Whatever Leandrial meant, it could not be joyous tidings.
Three hours later, by his reckoning, as the surprisingly early suns-set courtesy of the fringing mountains drew its partial shadows over the always agleam Ruby City, they took their final farewell of Uxâtate Shan-Jarad. He begged forgiveness of Iridiana and Aranya once more, promised to act upon the accords he had agreed with the Star Dragoness, and sent with them private communications intended for King Beran and for Izariela, should they be able to revive her.
He and Iridiana embraced stiffly, and then the ruler bowed to them all.
Ardan wondered if they would ever see him again.
Perhaps in all this, no-one had lost as much as he. Did Iridiana feel the same? It was hard not to nurse hatred for those whose self-serving actions had set one’s life upon a markedly different course, as he should well know. Or one’s own regrettable actions. How did Aranya feel about trapping her best friend inside of her own person?
If only there was an easy way to rise above it all.
Standing in the crack of Leandrial’s jaw together with Asturbar and Iridiana, an overawed Yazina, Aranya and her dragonets, as they departed, Ardan reflected soberly upon the nature of how character might be built. The Land Dragoness moved with fluid strides, taking care that her flanks or tail should not brush up against any of the seven main Islands, or shortly against any of the defensive emplacements around the entrance to the bay. He and Aranya might be homeward bound, but the Marshal and Iridiana planned to leave behind everything that they knew.
Breaking out of the bay, the suns’ last light filtered through the hazy bands of Islands in the distance, making them appear to float upon a carpet of orange, crimson and citrine fire. Since the ground beneath the clouds was shallow and there was no need to hide, Leandrial strode forth magnificently, hugging the curve of the peninsula to squeeze between the cliffs and the nearest clusters of inhabited Islands. Her riders gazed down at the little houses from a vantage point over four hundred feet above.
Yazina whispered, “Alright, that’s just freaky.”
Aranya touched the girl’s hand. “How are you doing?”
“A House besieged.”
“Ah … I see.”
“Aranya, when does it stop hurting?”
The Princess exhaled gustily. Mercy, o Fra’anior … grant me thy wisdom … she said, “At first, it’s crushing and overwhelming and you can’t think of anything else. The world seems grey, not golden as we see ahead of us. You wonder how you can live, or breathe; how you can ever laugh again.” She placed an arm over Yazina’s shoulders. “It fades slowly. One day you discover you can think about something else. Another day, you find your food tastes good, and then you might chuckle at something, but you feel guilty about being happy.”
Ardan dabbed at a treacherous dampness in the corner of his eye.
“Gnat?” Asturbar rumbled.
“Absolute pests.”
Aranya whispered, “They say life is there to be lived. But few people will tell you how to do that when the skies rain Drakes and the Thoralians butcher people like hapless sheep – or when those you love most are stolen from you, Yazina, or murdered by a beast. You question everything.”
Uncaring of her tears, the girl stumbled, “How …. how do you keep going, Aranya?”
“I wish I had glib answers, Yazina. Clever answers. One view might be that when the call came, I answered. I held up my hand and said, ‘Count me in. I will fight.’ Now I’m just too blasted proud to stop.”
Her reply was a soft sigh of dissent.
“Maybe I had no idea under the suns what I was doing, only that something had to be done by someone. By me. One something led to another, then to another …”
Aye, my soul’s starlight, Ardan encouraged. That is white fires truth.
Aranya whispered, “I fear it will not be worth the cost. When it hurts most, I cry out like Fra’anior belling amidst his Storm, ‘Why? Why must they suffer?’ And then I remind myself that is why I am here. I am here because some cannot speak, or they will never have a voice. Because some cannot believe. Because some cannot dream – I must be their voice, their belief, and their hope. Maybe if I can learn to shine brightly enough, despite all this, some might look to the light. Some might follow.” She was shuddering now; it was Yazina who was holding the taller girl, and they shook together as the Immadian Princess whispered, “Then we will discover that we can be more and become more. We can cherish our values, loves and dreams, and know that there can be goodness despite ruin, and hope that springs from destruction. We will learn that we can live and find beauty and laugh and curse evil and cry … and rejoice … and it will all mean something.”
Yazina clutched her so hard, Aranya’s recently Dragon-bruised ribs protested audibly.
Sensing movement, Ardan glanced over at Asturbar.
“Suffering murgalizards, that gnat got me too,” grunted the soldier, twisting his knuckles against his left eye.
“What gnat? What does this expression mean?” Leandrial asked curiously, but Ardan could literally feel the bent of her mighty maternal fires toward Yazina and Aranya. After a brief pause during which Zuziana explained, the Land Dragoness gurgled, “I think a gnat found my eye cannon also. Yazina, when I was alone and cut off from my kind for one hundred and fifty years, I kept going because I realised that to not hope, was to not live. I had to abide in hope. For me it was not even a choice I could allow myself.”
Yazina bowed her head. “Thank you both.”
The Land Dragoness continued, “Now, little ones, the First Egg has already been enfolded in the far mountains, as if it traverses a mighty tunnel or canyon. The Thoralians have accelerated beyond all projections, achieving speeds in excess of twenty leagues per hour by channelling a stormtide through the Passage of Dark Fires. From there, Yiisuriel reports that they have deployed the rearguard of their army to block our entry.”
Ardan asked, “The secret passage is open?”
“Blown wide open by the Egg’s power,” Leandrial rumbled.
“And the Thoralians have essentially abandoned their armies at the entrance?” Asturbar clarified.
The Dragoness bobbed her head. “So it appears, Marshal.”
“Seeking to delay us.” Asturbar narrowed his piercing grey
eyes, scanning the horizon as if the secrets of the Thoralians were writ thereon for his perusal. “Interesting. That means the Thoralians no longer need air support for whatever they intend ahead. They have passed through the Rift unmolested before.”
“Perhaps they expect help from Infurion?” Ardan suggested. “Could that be the Imbalance Leandrial sensed?”
“Infurion would surely balk at crossing Fra’anior, wouldn’t he?” Aranya disagreed.
“The Great Onyx is no longer here to protect his territory,” argued the warrior. “But you’re right, we received aid from Infurion before. He holds no love for the Thoralians.”
For the benefit of their companions, Aranya recounted all that had passed as they attempted their first Rift crossing, and the bargain that they had struck with Infurion in exchange for his aid and blessing. They debated the matter until the fierce golden suns finally dipped beneath the Cloudlands, but came to no new conclusions. Ardan wished that Fra’anior had revealed something of Infurion’s motives or background when he had spoken with her before, but his enmity with the Thoralians appeared genuine – they had parasitized his creatures, after all. Whether he possessed the power to obstruct their wiles, supported by the First Egg, or how he would react when the Egg reached the Rift that he regarded as his own, sacrosanct territory, was another question entirely.
Leandrial counselled, “That he has no history of treachery proves nothing, little ones. Infurion is an Ancient Dragon and will regard himself as far higher than any of us. His needs will always assume pre-eminence in his thinking.”
Aranya said, “Fra’anior alluded to a greater issue, one I cannot imagine how Thoralian might aim to achieve – but we must be aware –”
You never told me, Ardan accused.
I … didn’t, she apologised with her tone. Forgive me?
Trying to read her strangely pensive mood, he said, Aye, in advance for whatever delightful secret you’ve been hiding from me.
I’m sorry, Ardan!
No need to be.
