by Marc Secchia
Meantime Leandrial, Aranya, Ardan and Zuziana would make an initial short foray along the under-Cloudlands ridge to Jendor Cluster, and there assess their progress before pushing South past Horness to Remia, Rolodia and finally, Fra’anior itself.
Simple. Potentially deadly, but simple.
Not half as soul-shivering as having the mighty Onyx Dragon smite the Islands with his thundering at her behest.
* * * *
The Azure Dragoness stiffened until she resembled a smallish, fixed-fin Dragonship in the air. Good for my personal growth, Ri’arion?
I spoke poorly, he replied.
What growth do you think I need, exactly? blazed Zuziana, hating how defensive she sounded.
Be not enraged with me, precious Remoy, he pleaded. Deserving I may be, but I will miss thee … this is a bitter yoke to bear. I sought only to clutch a green shoot of hope in my morass of despair. Truly–his mental voice cracked–I grieve …
Starchy monk, incapable of emotion? A pitiful misjudgement! And when was it that the rainbows of love had illuminated their lives? A curious sensation gripped Zuziana deep in the region of her third heart, as if a fiery paw kneaded her heart-muscle with gentle, ineffable talons. So this was why Dragons talked about the third heart being the seat of love.
Flexing her neck, she bent her gentlest gaze upon the monk seated above her shoulders. My anger blows but a brief squall. My grief mirrors yours.
Although, to taste such words on her tongue was to marvel at the fundamental distinction between her Dragon and Human selves, for her Human was rarely so formal, nor poetic. To her further surprise, all the fires of her draconic being bowed in an inexplicable direction–inward–in a reflection of the Shapeshifter transformation she was slowly becoming accustomed to. Zuziana focussed deeply. There, just at the very fringe of her awareness, she sensed … herself? What?
But this fleeting intuition evaporated as Ri’arion replied, “Good, they’re waiting for us. Leandrial’s enjoying her swim. Look, Zip.”
The Azure Dragoness furled her wings deftly, executing an elegant landing on the blue beach beside Ardan and Aranya. Finally, she was mastering a skill that other Dragons took for granted. She glanced at her best friend, who tilted her muzzle to hide the dreadful wound on her left cheek. The conflict with Sylakia had left them both scarred in body and spirit. Aranya had been the first to heal Zuziana at the Tower of Sylakia after Garthion’s brutal assault and torture; now, Zip had no gift to heal her friend. How, by any measure under moons or suns, could this be fair?
Privately, Aranya said, Hey, girlfriend. Nice to have you on board.
Girlfriend? That’s mighty Dragoness to you, peasant scum, Zip mock-snarled.
Why so melancholy, Zip? The Immadian’s insight seared past her subterfuge. Sorry. Zip-Zap, you’re the best friend I ever snaffled from beneath a tyrant’s nose. Don’t you ever forget–
Did you just read my mind?
I … don’t think so.
Zip grumbled, You’re a wonderful liar. Completely fooled me, there.
Aranya chuckled at this classic Immadian understatement. Your mental state was just very readable.
The nuances of your Dragonish betray you, fledgling, the Azure claimed, imitating Va’assia’s high-handed delivery with devastating accuracy. My cherished protocols demand that you shield your intent with context-indicators of the uttermost linguistic obfuscation.
To her delight, Aranya coughed up a small fireball of fiery mirth, bathing Zip’s flank in momentary heat.
“Ah, the sulphurous fires of friendship,” rumbled the Shadow Dragon.
Ri’arion said, “I see I can trust you to keep Zip hopping, Aranya?”
“A nibble of the wingtips here, a toasty fireball there–it’ll be my pleasure,” purred her so-called friend.
“Right then,” said the monk. “Let’s run over those shield-constructs one more time, girls. Pneumatic and olfactory elements, environment-sensitive responses …”
The Dragons groaned in concert. If only they could have taken the brilliant monk with them, but even Lesser Dragons survived the toxic Cloudlands only under duress; Humans far less so. They lacked the pathways of natural magical resistance and healing that made draconic physiques so resilient. Not for the first time, nor for less than the thousandth, Zip wondered if a magic-user as powerful and creative as the Nameless Man could perform such a feat.
Aranya was not the only one plucking thoughts out of minds, here. Her own ability stemmed from the mind-meld with Ri’arion which seemed over time to have drawn them into a deep understanding of each other’s thought-patterns. Twins sometimes completed each other’s sentences. She and her monk often completed thoughts and ideas. Therefore, she saw Ri’arion also harboured a deep-seated desire to essay exactly that risk. Perhaps after Fra’anior, she deciphered from the tenor of his thoughts, even though he tried to conceal his mental state from her so as not heighten her distress.
Sweet man. She could just nibble him for breakfast … ah, no. Not as a Dragoness, anyhow. Messy. But undoubtedly scrumptious …
“Say, Aranya,” Zip called, “what was that special Human shield we were working on?”
“Human shield?”
The Remoyan expounded, “The ‘anti forbidden monk-love’ shield, with additional ‘bash a prowling gentleman around the earhole’ refinements.”
“Aye,” said Aranya, with a snide peek at Ardan, “and I’ve perfected the ‘the bigger the rippling biceps, the harder they fall’ twist. Very effective. All flexing, posturing and broadly unspecified male swaggering generates an instant lightning bolt applied directly to the rump.”
Ardan and Ri’arion both made amused noises as Nak tripped over his canes laughing.
“I vote we work on the ‘lecherous old man attractor’,” Zip added, quietening Nak instantly.
The Dragonesses exchanged loaded glances.
“With a double infusion of Princess-petal power?” Aranya suggested. “Perfected that one months ago. Love at first growl. So beautiful, it makes grown Dragonesses weep through thousands of lines of melancholy poetry.”
“Oh, stop, stop!” Nak clutched his stomach. “Mercy, I beg of you!”
Crooking his fore-talon behind the Dragon Rider’s back, Ardan helped Nak sit up.
Nak wiped his eyes. “Now I know how you two beat the Sylakians.”
“Er … how?” chorused Zip and Aranya.
“Secrets,” he placed two fingers over his lips in the Jeradian fashion. “Feral Dragons could crush my bones–”
“I vote we work on the hallucinatory vision-modifier,” Zip proposed implacably.
Catching on, Aranya clarified, “Aye, the devious psychic shield that makes the object of every lascivious glance of a particular Dragon Rider bring to mind a week-old, maggot-ridden windroc’s corpse?”
“Hey!” Nak bleated in alarm. “That’s outright murder, that is.”
“Confess?” growled Zip.
“I’ll admit everything,” he quavered, “because it’s clear to me that you two monkey-nuts just turned up one day, and decided to snark the Sylakians out of their empire!”
* * * *
Aranya chortled all the way across to the western edge of Yorbik Island, where a retaining wall two hundred and fifty feet thick and one thousand feet tall held back a vast body of water. Ri’arion claimed that no engineer could work out exactly how that volume and weight of water would not simply crack apart the walls of a terrace lake, especially given the constant volcanic activity beneath many Islands. ‘Integrity like a terrace-lake wall’, was a renowned proverb of Archion Island.
This ability to fuse rock so perfectly was a prime exemplar of Ancient Dragon magic, Leandrial claimed, with her most pompously draconic know-it-all air. Much could be pinned on Fra’anior, Aranya suspected, her grand-sire, alias fiery old gramps–who, according to the ballads, had to curl up to fit inside the diameter of the eighteen-league wide caldera of Fra’anior Cluster. He of seven heads mantled in
eternal storm, who had engaged in minor creative projects such as raising Islands and populating them with the creatures and peoples of his design.
Did those seven heads gather in conference? What if one head started an argument with the others? Did different heads specialise in different forms of magic, knowledge or perception? Or have different personalities? And how could His Island-Dwarfing Magnificence produce offspring a number of degrees of magnitude smaller than he? She had so many questions, some less momentous than others.
Fit into his paw-prints? Right. That would be the day the Moons turned purple.
Aranya shook her length gently, trying to ease the stiffness in her muscles and joints, also a consequence of the pox. Dragons were supposed to be supple masters of the airy realms, fully at home in their native element, whereas a certain Immadian had to be thrown off a cliff by her erstwhile boyfriend, Yolathion, in order to discover her inner Dragoness. Reflecting upon that incident, Aranya acknowledged the germ of her later breakup with Yolathion. At the crucial moment, he had failed to summon the will and integrity to stand up for right, or more simply, for Aranya. His hands had dropped her over the edge of the Last Walk. Even if he had later declared his regret–how foolish was she to ever have imagined loving or trusting the man who had tried to murder her? She saw this clearly now.
Still, she hoped Jia-Llonya and Kylara would track him down soon.
Dawn painted a partially overcast sky with tints of rose. The Jade and Blue Moons stood off her starboard flank, simultaneously in their crescent phase, a semi-annual coincidence. A heavy cloudbank almost obscured the north-eastern quadrant, signalling a weather-front strong enough to concern a Dragonship pilot; however, the winds should aid the fleet on the southward leg. Aranya saw enough to make out soldiers and monks lining the gantries of the Dragonships. They goggled, as did she, at the spectacle of a Land Dragoness gripping the terrace lake wall with her forepaws, her grey-green forequarters towering fifty times the height of a Lesser Dragon into the air, conversing with King Beran as his Dragonships proudly flying the royal purple of Immadia passed overhead.
Aranya and Ardan alighted on the terrace lake wall while Zuziana winged to the Dragonship fleet, where Ri’arion would join Ta’armion, Beran, Ignathion and the Shapeshifters in further discussions. No moment of the journey would be wasted, if she knew her father.
Oh, Dad …
Time was short. Abruptly, she sprang for the sky, startling the Shadow Dragon into a wing-flare. He did not follow; rather, the coal-black, gleaming Dragon assumed his customary four-square stance upon the lake wall as he dipped his muzzle to drink briefly. Aranya flew to Beran. What did he make of a daughter-Dragon’s approach? In her mind’s eye she was transported to that reunion atop Izariela’s Tower, remembering his shock and joy … what would it be like to see her mother return to life? To stand with Izariela atop that tower? She tried to gulp back a huge, hot mass of draconic emotions, but they stuck in her throat like cooling lava.
May it be, Fra’anior. May we rescue–restore? Resurrect? Bring Balance, to your lost shell-daughter?
“Aranyi?” called her father, leaning dangerously over the safety railing.
She gasped, “Uh … Dad? Sorry.” She veered away from the Dragonship before realising she had put them in no danger. “Far away–”
“With your mother, Aranyi?”
Her father knew her this well? She nodded, unspeaking.
“Aye. I know,” he said. “Your Dragoness’ eyes have a special colour when you think about Izariela. I’ve just realised now.”
“W-W-What?” she stammered. Floored. Flummoxed. Almost knocked out of the sky.
“Easy, Sparky,” he soothed as Aranya sieved the air inelegantly.
She darted forward to grasp the gantry just beside his boots, flapping her wings fast and close to her body to preclude her additional tonnage from unbalancing the Dragonship. She curved her head up to address her father nose to nose. He did not flinch. Beran’s famously steely gaze met the torrents of fire coursing through her orbs steadily, before he dipped his head to rest his forehead lightly against her muzzle, right between her eyes.
“You scared, Sparky?”
Again–mercy! She growled, “Dad!”
“Your mother always accused me of deep intuition,” he quipped. “I call it being observant. Usually, I’m terrified before a battle. Aye, scared stiffer than dried rajal meat. Mark my words, Sparky, it’s a battle you’re heading into–first against the mighty elements of the Cloudlands abyss and the Rift, then Herimor’s unknowns, another bite of Thoralian–hopefully fatal–and finally, what these Dragons identify as the greatest magical power in the Island-World, the First Egg. Windrocs’ teeth, girl, you’d better be shaking-your-scales-off scared, or I’d call my own daughter stupid.”
“Dad! Honestly?”
“Honesty,” he corrected. “Now. Remember when we saw that invasion force cresting the horizon near our beloved Immadia, and feared doom’s hammer loomed over our Isle?”
“The first time or the second, old man?”
He placed a hand flat upon her muzzle; despite her scale-armour, the sensitive nerves conducted every nuance of his touch to her ultra-responsive awareness. “Both. I grow weary of war. In my lifetime, I’ve many times been confronted by ostensibly hopeless situations. That’s when I think upon those I love. I keep the images I most treasure here, in my mind. Love has always brought me to a place of true courage–I don’t mean bravado, or false hope. Perhaps courage is another face of desperation, but I’ve found that allowing love to strip away the non-essentials produces the kind of mettle I’ve seen you demonstrate on numerous occasions, Aranyi. One’s foundations must be built on what is real and noble, and just and beautiful. That type of courage cannot fail–such as when you saved your enemy, Ignathion. When you extended Yolathion undeserved grace. When you returned to the Tower of Sylakia to kidnap your best friend–these actions shape character and soul–ah, I didn’t mean to slip into kingly lecturing mode. What were we talking about?”
Aranya whispered, “All I’ve ever tried to do is to fit into your boots, Dad.”
He glanced at his feet, his eyes glistening suspiciously. “By the mountains of Immadia, at least I picked a good pair today. Don’t bother with the rest of my wardrobe.”
She laughed, “Izariela. We spoke of her.”
“White,” he said promptly. “A white so pure it is almost transparent, like the suns-shine glistening off spiderweb, so effulgent, it is like … like words fail this weary King.”
“Like starlight,” she whispered. “Like the white-fires of creation’s very heart, so untainted …”
“Aye,” he whispered back.
Aranya could not begin to capture the sensation that gripped her third heart then–similar to love, but this was the core of a roaring furnace. It was a vision an artist sees in the mind, but must labour and sweat and struggle to bring to life upon the canvas. As she said her farewells, it was as if another person spoke for her, and another power that flexed her wings to catch the breeze.
Then, the Amethyst Dragoness free-fell into the void, where the Shadow Dragon twirled on his wingtip to meet her.
Chapter 3: Deeper
Leandrial surged SINUOUSLY over the terrace lake wall, mindful not to pierce the precious buttress with her mighty talons. Aranya thought the Lesser Dragons might pull ahead in uninhibited flight as they negotiated the increasingly steep gradient of Yorbik’s scrub-pocked slopes, especially where the final two miles dropped away in an eighty-three degree plunge into pristine cream clouds below. The Amethyst glided into formation with Ardan, taking advantage of his greater bulk for slipstreaming. Glancing back, she saw Leandrial briefly poised on the brink, teetering like a mountain perched on an impossibly tiny fulcrum. Then, the Land Dragoness poured onward in a mighty avalanche of Dragonflesh. As she began to run, Aranya gasped. Her weak eyes surely deceived her, for she’d wager Immadia’s crown jewels that nothing short of magic could pierce the bas
al rock with such ease. The great blades stabbed ninety feet deep as Leandrial ran on her talon-tips, giving the Dragoness-mountain the absurd air of a mincing dancer flutter-stepping across the largest stage in the Island-World; only, that stage tilted rapidly toward the vertical–and, mincing was what her talons did to solid rock.
Untold tonnes of Dragon power and presence poured downhill in pursuit. Given as her every running step spanned several thousand feet, the Land Dragoness had not the slightest trouble keeping up. Ardan and Zip immediately accelerated to maintain their lead, making her chuckle quietly. Dragons were not competitive, oh no. Never.
Dragon-Aranya shook the dust off her own wings.
Hardy brown cliff-goats roamed the upper slopes in huge numbers, while lower down, amidst the tough berry-bushes and tufty tan grasses, she spied several troops of miniature bright-bottom baboons, celebrated in many a ballad for the vibrant blue hues of their splendidly unattractive rear ends. Ardan blasted low over a vine-festooned outcropping, startling a black rajal into a mane-shaking rage.
Aranya’s Dragon-senses adjusted steadily to the increasing pressure as they descended several miles through the cool morning air, angling toward the southern fringe of the leagues-long shadow Yorbik Island cast over the Cloudlands. Her ear-canals creaked. Her secondarily eyelids, the transparent nictitating membranes, washed her eye-orbs several times to remove a sudden bespattering of airborne grit. A temperature inversion tingled her scales as she passed through a warmer layer that smelled of acrid pitch tinged with fresh windroc droppings, before they plunged unexpectedly into a chill airstream whipping around the Island’s base. Long, straggling strands of russet lowgrass fluttered and swayed just as a girl’s hair had once waved in the wind as she dropped off the Last Walk.
Her eyes squeezed shut at the visceral force of that memory. She recalled hearing her mother crying out, mid-fall, Freedom is flying, Aranyi! And the Black Dragon thundering, It is time!
