by Marc Secchia
Rapidly, the Princesses adjusted outfits and Aranya fitted her veil. Then, the stiff-backed Captain conducted them inside the Palace to meet King Cha’arlla.
Softly, en route through the gorgeous, art-decorated corridors of Fra’anior’s Palace, reputed to be the richest Court in the Island-World, Zip said to Aranya, “What are you scheming at, rushing here before your Dad arrives? He’ll have your hide for usurping the negotiations. In case you hadn’t noticed in any of your seventeen ill-behaved years, your Dad does like to be the one doing the upstaging. Rebels alike, the two of you. Shameful behaviour for a royal family.”
Aranya said, “Immadians may be regarded as traditionalists, but you’ll soon discover that wilfulness as thick as the Island-World is wide runs in our makeup.”
“Ooh, can I have that on a scroll, signed with the royal seal?”
She winked at Zuziana. “Only if you play along.”
“Aranya, what–I don’t like that gleam in your eye. Petal–”
“I’ve never been less a petal,” said the tall Immadian, marching into the royal banqueting hall with her head held high.
Time to show the King her most volcanic colours.
Chapter 7: O Fra’anior!
The herald sang out a formal announcement as Remoy and Immadia processed into the sumptuous dining hall. Five steps along a plush rug led to the green marble expanse of the floor and a round jalkwood dining table, hand-carved from a monolithic piece of gorgeous, deep-toned wood. They swept into the best, most formal Fra’aniorian bows they knew, including fourteen genuflections of the head, hand-twirls, a pirouette of respect and a range of dance-steps. Keeping a perfectly straight face, Zuziana linked arms with Aranya and did a little toe-tapping Remoyan jig to finish up.
Aranya resolved to spank the Dragoness for that later.
One servant per chair helped the royals and the Councillors rise from their seats without raising so much as a squeak of wood upon the polished floor. Then, it was formal greetings and exchanges of thanks and congratulations for winning the war; expressions of gratitude for liberating Fra’anior from the Sylakian yoke answered by Aranya’s thanks for troops, Dragonships and warrior-monks; congratulations on the royal wedding and felicitations for the future balanced with the King’s thanks for Aranya intervening on his son’s behalf … so it went on for ten or fifteen minutes, with the Queen and the King’s seven violet-robed Councillors looking on, evidently wondering beneath their beards what two Shapeshifter Dragonesses meant by their impromptu visit.
All the while, Aranya watched King Cha’arlla’s eyes. Friendly, aye, but there was a cloudy guardedness to those violet depths. Good. He would do well to watch his step around a woman he’d had drugged, kidnapped and presented to his son for purchase!
Finally, the King said, “And how may Fra’anior serve Immadia and Remoy this day?”
In court-speak, that meant, ‘state your business’. Most courtiers would now launch into a flattering, veiled dance around to the topic of their choice.
Aranya drew a deep breath. “O King, without disrespect to the long association between Immadia and Fra’anior and our kinship, I wish to speak frankly to you, your gracious Queen and your Council, before the balance of our delegation arrives on Fra’aniorian shores.”
He bowed floridly. “Frankness is a breath of refreshing perfume in this Court.”
Hearing the implied, ‘You’re young and naïve and I can’t wait to dance verbal rings around you’, Aranya swallowed back a draconic surge of ire. Mercy! She snuffed out a fiery whirlwind beneath the table before anyone noticed it. Were her powers growing uncontrollable again? What did this presage?
“O King, my family and I intend to re-establish the dwelling-place of Dragons at the Halls of the Dragons at Gi’ishior,” Aranya stated flatly. “To that end, seventy-two Shapeshifter Dragons fly to your shores and will arrive within three to four hours.”
Several of the Councillors gasped. The King’s shoulders stiffened. But he nodded. “Continue.”
“I request that you and your Councillors work out how Fra’anior Cluster will become a lawfully free zone for Humans, Dragons and Shapeshifters alike, given the historical interrelationship of Human and Dragon rule of certain of these Islands–although not for the last one hundred and fifty years, I’ll grant. There will be fairness and full co-operation in use of the airspace, local resources and so on. I suggest that you demand return payment in the form of protection of your shores by the Dragons, access to and use of draconic mining techniques and sciences–I’m sure you can think of many advantageous and profitable avenues. I can certainly think of some less advantageous avenues should we not be able to reach agreement on these matters. We are family, after all.”
Above the rising murmuring of his Councillors, the King growled, “Princess of Immadia, you are asking me to give up how many Islands, exactly?”
“I’ve not finished yet.” Aranya locked eyes with him. “You will outlaw the hunting of dragonets.”
He waved his hand. “Trivial.”
She countered, “Essential. Dragonets are intelligent, speaking members of the Dragonish race and deserve to be treated as such. Further, you will declare the monasteries following the Path of the Dragon Warrior legal and therefore, you will take steps to integrate them into Fra’aniorian life–given as they saved this city and helped liberate us all from the Sylakian Empire.”
King Cha’arlla quietened his livid Councillors with a stiffly upraised hand. All pretence of politeness tossed into the nearest volcano, he snarled, “Anything more, Immadia?”
Aranya wondered if she had overstepped her reach, but the inner storm-pressure drove her on. Perhaps landing a massive Dragonwing, suggesting the King summarily divide his Island-Cluster and reminding the Council of their status as a conquered territory all at once, had not been the most diplomatic approach. Then again, she was a Dragoness. They had better remember it, her stony expression suggested.
Softly but clearly, Zip said, “I’m not sure King Cha’arlla asked for or deserved quite that brand of frankness, my friend.”
The fires were too strong in her; storm-winds of magic, soughing through her being. Aranya swallowed again. “O King, finally, I ask that you devote Fra’anior to the cause of advancing the return of the Dragon and Shapeshifter races to the Island-World North of the Rift, so that the balance of magic may be restored, to the benefit of all.”
At once, the man she knew as Ma’arkon, the Chief Councillor, exploded, “The hells I’m listening to some chit of a girl standing in our own banqueting hall, threatening us! King Cha’arlla–”
“Aye!” shouted another Councillor. “Or what, girl? Or what? These are preposterous demands. Preposterous, I tell you!”
She could have said many things. She was a Star Dragoness, descendent of the Great Onyx himself. She had right of conquest, even of Fra’anior Cluster. As Lyriela’s cousin, there were family ties. She had to protect her kind …
Aranya forced all of that away. She growled, “I speak with the fire that is within me. Now let cooler heads intervene, before my rash tongue burns us all. Zu–”
“I agree with everything Aranya said,” Zuziana said, in a voice like rough-cut granite. “As one who knows Aranya of Immadia and all she stands for, o King, I declare that no-one has achieved more, or suffered more, in the service of your freedom and mine. If only for the sake of her sufferings, we should give ear to her words.”
The silence that greeted Zip’s statement seemed formed of the peerless blades of Immadian forked daggers. Aranya’s heart fluttered in her throat. Zuziana! By sheer presence, she arrested them. By the force of her anguish, she commanded their respect. Never had she imagined the diminutive Princess could be the proverbial Dragoness in the room, but here she stood, eclipsing Kings and seasoned rulers.
Zip said, “My appeal is simple. O King and Queen, and honoured Councillors, I believe that Aranya’s vision, which lies within your grasp, represents an opportunity to rise up and
shape the future of our Island-World. This is not a once-in-a-generation opportunity. Not even once in a lifetime. This is a seminal moment in the history of the three great races. I beseech you to listen not only to the fire of her words, but to the song of her heart. Aranya is a Dragoness, as am I. Dragonesses nurture and protect with a fierce and fiery love. They are creatures as proud and wise and noble as all of you gathered here.”
“Fra’anior has always been the luminary in Human-Dragon relations,” the Remoyan added. “Having been brought low, the Dragonkind have now returned and a critical choice is now thrust upon you. I appeal to you to act wisely, with future generations in mind. We are not here to threaten, but I must point out that we are both Shapeshifter Dragonesses. I therefore advise–”
“King, o King Cha’arlla!” the herald burst back into the hall, ashen-faced. “There’s a monster in the caldera!”
The King raised an eyebrow. “What? Gather your wits, man!”
“It’s a Dragon, sire! A Dragon the size of an Island! And it’s coming–”
“Silence!” King Cha’arlla whirled upon Aranya and Zip. “What treachery is this, you adder-tongued–” He pulled up with an effort. “Now the fire is mine. Speak.”
Aranya raised her hands, sighing, “Mercy. Perfect timing. Well, I suppose if we’d really wanted to threaten you, we’d have started differently. O King, that so-called monster in the caldera is our friend Leandrial, a venerable Dragoness who is helping us track down Thoralian, the former Supreme Commander of Sylakia.”
The Fra’aniorians just stared at her.
“Shall we take a Dragonship and go meet Leandrial?” Aranya suggested. “She’s a Land Dragoness of the illustrious Welkin-Runner Clan, who measures about a mile and a half long, and is possibly the oldest living creature in the Island-World.”
More blank stares.
Zip clapped her hands sharply, making everyone jump. “Snip-snap! Listen, Land Dragons are real, the Shapeshifters are coming, and the future governance of this Island-World will be decided here on this Island. Can we shake our boots, people?” She paused to eye up the table. “Actually, belay that. I’m hungry. Permission to grab a bite, o King?”
Just when everyone glanced at each other and started to relax, she deadpanned, “Pun intended, of course.”
* * * *
Sitting alone on her balcony, Aranya moodily stroked Sapphire’s neck as she gazed over the caldera, unable to sleep. From where she sat on her west-facing balcony, she enjoyed a panoramic view over the city’s slate rooftops to the ruddy canyon of half-light beyond, the radiance of the great volcano. Even at night, birdsong played over the city. Ardan had just left her to rejoin the negotiations, which, despite her worst efforts at dunking them repeatedly in an exploding volcano, were reportedly proceeding well. Zip was also in attendance, accompanying Ri’arion as he represented the monks.
Aranya had excused herself, pleading tiredness. If only. More a case of damage limitation; of retreating from a place of wild inner storms and the rash words they had sparked. She sighed heavily, saying aloud in Dragonish, Oh, Sapphire. I’m not much of a negotiator, am I? Saved by the Zippy one.
Sapphire purred happily and squirmed about in Aranya’s lap, presenting her belly for a scratch. More, Ari. More.
Aranya sallies into battle and returns … chastened.
Thankfully, if she read between the leaves of Ardan’s report, everyone else in that room had been far more gracious than Aranya and her flurry of verbal daggers. Whatever had bitten her?
At least we still have each other, Sapphire. You should fly to Ha’athior. Visit your warren.
Warren far. Ari here, murmured the dragonet.
Sapphire, you’ll need to stay at Fra’anior while we travel on to Jeradia. Sadness infused her words with the heaviness of molten lead. I’ll miss you awfully, little one.
Ari here. No Ha’athior, insisted the dragonet.
But you’ll have to, Sapphire, my darling–what?
To her chagrin, Aranya voiced a squeak of shock as Sapphire went from three-quarters asleep to a stiffly-coiled position around her neck, holding her windpipe ransom with the unsheathed claws of an uncompromising left forepaw! The dragonet shifted, her claws pricking Aranya’s shoulders through the thin dress that was all the ever-tropical temperatures of Fra’anior Cluster demanded, until her fully open fire-eyes stared directly into Aranya’s from a distance of but three inches. Crimson, jade and amber whirled in those depths.
The dragonet said, Ari need Sapphire.
Always, petal. But you can’t survive the Cloudlands. I’m–aah, can we treat the neck gently?
Aranya felt a warm trickle of blood reach her left clavicle as she held very, very still. What mood was this? Was Sapphire feral? Aggravated? Dangerous?
Sapphire love Ari. No leave.
I love you too, Sapphire. But we need to be realistic–mercy! Stow the daggers. You win. Maybe the dragonet should have conducted the negotiations. She was certainly insistent in a way she had never known Sapphire to be in the past.
Growing up, her baby.
Oddly, Ardan also reported faster and freer negotiations than anyone had expected, making King Beran scratch his beard mightily; apparently, neither King Cha’arlla nor his Councillors had divulged her earlier outburst! Had her flaming honesty contrariwise turned out a good result? Madness! Or were they holding back a strategic game-piece for later play? Ta’armion said many Fra’aniorians loved a strategy game called ‘Exploding Volcanoes’. How typical of her mother’s people!
Perhaps she should tell Beran–after the negotiations were done. Or now, before they ambushed him with his daughter’s poor behaviour? Mercy, she felt nauseous …
Sapphire’s eye-colour softened toward apricot. Ari promise?
Oh no.
How could she? Yet she must. Her headache flared again, a magic-induced migraine.
Gripped by a compulsion no less peculiar than the dragonet’s, Aranya whispered, Upon my oath, Sapphire.
Now, how by Fra’anior’s breath would she convince her companions this was right?
* * * *
Following the semi-planned meeting of King Cha’arlla, accompanied by his coterie of tall advisors robed in their risible, eye-watering violet, with Leandrial, Ardan returned to his Human form and threw himself into negotiations. Aranya excused herself with a weak appeal to exhaustion; when he briefed her later, she seemed tired and taciturn, unwilling to share her burdens. There must be many; none more so than the meddling of her shell-grandfather, the mighty Fra’anior. She deserved rest. Perhaps she needed time to process the horrors she had seen and experienced. He tended to her immediate needs before returning to the all-night negotiations.
Behind a warrior’s calm exterior, his mind seethed. Leave it to a practical man to accomplish the necessary. He and the Immadian King were of a mind. When Cha’arlla called for his Councillors to withdraw for a private discussion, he immediately fell to plotting with Ignathion and Beran.
Thereafter, events proceeded with gratifying speed. Before dawn, Ri’arion and Zuziana vanished to the secret monasteries to convey the King’s invitation to seal a pact so fresh, the ink practically dripped off the scrolleaf. He searched for Yolathion, but found no trace of the Brown Dragon or of the Riders hunting him. Aranya sent Sapphire to make enquiries of the local dragonets, and the Shapeshifters and monks descended on Gi’ishior in force. Almost immediately, two men and four Dragons died in booby-traps both magical and mechanical. With those parting gifts of treasure hunters and unknown Dragons dealt with, the great libraries of the Halls of the Dragons buzzed with activity as one hundred and eighty monks and over fifty Dragons scoured the lore and histories for information, which emerged with frustrating reluctance over the course of the following days.
Ardan grumbled his frustration to all and sundry.
* * * *
As a dawn of tempestuous volcanic majesty broke over Fra’anior Cluster, five days after their arrival, Beran appeared to j
oin Ardan and Aranya as they broke their fast on her balcony. “Hey, Sparky.”
Aranya chuckled musically. “Security let you in?”
“And me,” said Nak.
“You’re no trouble at all, old man,” said Ardan, rising to offer Nak his stool.
He almost fell as his wrenched knee caved in. Training at hand-to-hand combat with the Nameless Man had become a ritual humiliation; he, Aranya and Zip had been hard at it since Ri’arion had suggested he teach them ‘essential skills’ at Yorbik. Ardan was far too proud to admit how fervently he wished he had never acceded to the monk’s invitation. Necessary? Aye. Wise? Dragon or none, he felt as if he had been wrestling ten rajals as large as the black cats wandering the Palace grounds below–taller than a man at the shoulder–every time he fought that warrior monk. Aranya had fared no better. She nursed a sprained right rotator cuff and a purpling eye.
“Bah, youngsters,” snorted the elderly Dragon Rider. “Not stopping, petal.” He nodded at Ardan. “Definitely not a petal. Just you perk up those pointy ears, Aranya. All that kafuffle up at Gi’ishior–they’re scrimmaging over scraps. Yesterday’s leftovers. Oyda and I agree all they’re going to find is dust and sneezes.”
“Useful dust,” King Beran put in, stooping to hug Aranya. She winced. “Plenty of scientific and historical dust. How was your trip to Ha’athior yesterday?”
The veil crinkled as she wrinkled her nose. Ardan was learning to read these signs.
Aranya said, “Aunt Va’assia and Uncle Ja’arrion were perfect hosts, thank you for disparaging them with your tone, o Robber-King of Immadia. Sapphire discovered a legend of another Dragon library at Ha’athior, dating back to the era of the Dragonfriend. Our merry clan of Shifters are intrigued. What did you mean about dust?”
Beran began, “Well, the Dragonfriend–”
Nak interrupted, “Speaking of which–off!” Ardan yelped as Nak belted him with a cane, before pinching his seat. The Dragon Rider sniffed, “Just you treat my petal better than all the treasures of Gi’ishior, you great, galumphing lug.” Turning to Beran, he added, “Usurping my storytelling, you muddy-kneed whippersnapper? My Shimmerith–oh, what a beauty she was–would’ve chewed your ears off for such insolence. Now, where was I?”
