Song of the Storm Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  “I … uh, I mean, not wholly unchaste thoughts,” he spluttered, blushing up to his bald pate. “Well, I have entertained a few rather un-monkish notions. Here and there. Thank the heavens, I said to myself, that the vows of service to the Great Dragon do not include chastity. It’s assumed by many, of course, o King. But not avowed.”

  “You mean, you don’t anticipate any trouble with your manhood?” Ardan boomed, with a wicked chuckle and typical Western Isles bluntness. “Everything’s in fine working order?”

  “Whaa!” Ri’arion choked.

  “Besides, I’m sure Zip can teach you what you need to know,” he cackled.

  She gave a small shriek. “Ardan! I am not … I have never–”

  “Nor has he,” said the dark warrior, still in wicked-Dragon guise. “But I’m quite, quite certain Ri’arion can be persuaded. Just look at him.” No man living at that instant could more have resembled a fine, purple beet than the monk.

  Zuziana vacillated between wanting to hit Ardan, and deciding if he needed a kiss. Whatever the case, he had neatly usurped all five of her parents. Was that a hint of a smile lurking beneath her father’s moustache?

  Ardan added, “Now listen, all you Remoyans. This man is the most powerful monk-Enchanter of Fra’anior, a status akin to royalty amongst the monks, as I understand it. As their Nameless Man he took special vows, in his youth. But no Nameless Man lives forever. Some days ago, Ri’arion set in process the choosing of his successor. Historically speaking, I believe Ri’arion would be the fifth Nameless Man to choose this route, and it is accounted for in the vows he took–favourably, and with honour. The Great Dragon’s service is not limited to one Cluster in one corner of the Island-World.”

  “Correct. The original vows are not time-bound,” Ri’arion clarified. “Nor do I wish … uh, in light of all things regarding my beloved, wonderful Zuziana … and her being so beautiful and … uh, exceedingly desirable–”

  “He’s happy to sire children?” asked her third mother, Suziala, over the hoots of laugher rocking the room.

  “Lots,” said Zip, restricting her contribution to a diplomatic minimum.

  First-mother Yuhina added, “Like any normal man?”

  “I certainly hope so,” said Zip, with a coquettish glance that did not help Ri’arion’s fuddled, blushing state in the slightest. “Isn’t that so, monk-darling?”

  “Whaa,” he spluttered again.

  Ardan clapped him on the shoulder. “He’s a clever fellow. He’ll catch on eventually.”

  More guffaws greeted this sally as the Remoyans relaxed. Zuziana had never appreciated how much her family’s emotions swung from one pole to the other until she saw them from her friends’ viewpoint. Aye, this morning’s eruption had already subsided. Now there were more catcalls, promising ‘advice’ and making wagers on when the wriggling of ‘guppies in her belly’ would be felt. Had they fresh bread, it could have been toasted on Ri’arion’s cheeks.

  “And then, he’s planning to let you leave for Herimor without him?” Lorman finally managed to wedge a question in between the kafuffle.

  With her eyes, Zip pleaded with Ardan. Ri’arion had survived for days under the Cloudlands, hadn’t he? His mental skills would be invaluable in Herimor. And she didn’t want to leave him behind, oh please, no! Not when there was a chance …

  The dark head bobbed. “No, he should accompany us. What say you, Immadia?”

  “Well, we’ll stick him in the saddlebags,” Aranya agreed, with rising enthusiasm, “and Zip-Zap can pull him out from time to time for a little play!”

  Silence loomed like an invisible Dragon in the room.

  Zip raised an eyebrow eloquently.

  Suddenly, colour exploded into the Princess of Immadia’s cheeks. She yelped, “Mercy! My Dragoness … oh mercy, I didn’t mean that!”

  The Remoyans fell about in helpless outpourings of mirth.

  “Oh, Immadia!” Zip flung her arms around her best friend. “You’re priceless.”

  * * * *

  As the noon suns beat upon Remoy’s lush crown, warmth settled over the Island like a Dragon’s breath. The birdsong of thousands of water-birds inhabiting Remoy’s eighteen concentric lakes hushed, but not because of the heat. The Island was a tall dome, surrounded on its flanks by terrace lakes from one mile to three miles above the Cloudlands, but its standard jade colouration had frazzled a little beneath the brunt of the Southern hot-season. Nary a cloud blotted the skies.

  Rising into this perfect day, the head of a Land Dragon surmounted the lake walls, and upon her nose, a wedding-party danced.

  Ardan, hovering a few hundred feet overhead in his Dragon form, chuckled quietly to himself. His job was to keep lookout, for with the entire population of the Island now gathered on a vast, grassy meadow that stretched eight miles from the walled city of Remoy to the first of the terrace lakes to the West, there might be opportunity for brigands or remnants of the Sylakian forces–far too many of the latter–to foment trouble.

  Leandrial had been as startled and delighted as he had ever seen her to be invited to a Human wedding. She tiptoed over the lakes, trying her utmost not to crush too much vegetation, while keeping her head level as the bridal party danced the traditional Remoyan nuptial dances on her nose.

  Now, there was a stage unlike any other!

  All of the women–the Queens and Princesses, Zip’s female relatives and Aranya–wore the palest blue silk of Helyon, making a perfect spectacle against Leandrial’s dark, green-blue hide. Zuziana danced in their midst, a vision of bridal loveliness in a brief chemise that would have passed for scandalous nightwear, he imagined, on most Islands of the world, together with sheer skirts shaped as lily petals, dainty diamond-jewelled slippers, and a slim white gold coronet in her hair to anchor the lilies adorning her unbound, chestnut-brown locks. All of the women in the bridal party had embraced Zuziana’s request to flout tradition in this way; all wore their hair long and loose, none more so than his fabulous Aranya.

  His Aranya? Oh, vain hope!

  Three of the sisters had spent two hours that morning working miracles with makeup, transforming the Immadian’s poor, pockmarked skin into sheer beauty, apart from the hole in her cheek. That could not be disguised, so she alone among the women wore a face-veil. Perhaps people would think it a nod to Immadian conservatism, for the rest of her outfit was most certainly … smoking. He glanced at his scales. Literally.

  His vision washed with the greens and crimsons of commingled jealousy and feverish desire as the Shadow Dragon soared above the crowd of thousands gathered on the hillside. They waved leafy fronds and yelled at the tops of their lungs as the male party, surrounding Ri’arion, danced their way up a spiralling path from the bottom of a small hill to the top, where the ceremony would take place. Drums thumped urgently. Great-horns of brass, twenty feet long, sounded the fanfares, and the flutes crooned incessantly at a much lower register than he was used to–again, a Remoyan tradition. He suspected that more than a few Remoyans were rather well-oiled with ale, despite the hour. The celebrations had raged all night.

  Ardan could not arrest the curve of his neck to bring his superior Dragon sight to bear upon Aranya for the umpteenth time. She was a vision; strikingly tall and reed-slender, queenly of bearing, her unique multi-coloured locks swirling down to her knees in an astonishing treasury of feminine beauty. They had made her pale Northern skin flawless, glinting as if she wore a dusting of diamonds. His eyes drank in the moulding of Aranya’s scanty dress to her torso and a waist so trim, he could encircle it with his Human’s strong hands. He perceived the White Dragoness’ scale fastened to its golden pendant necklace, nestled between her breasts. He had to swallow and avert his gaze. Be not foolish, Ardan! She had been tortured and broken; too damaged to contemplate–his mouth twisted in a sad half-smile–at least a few of Ri’arion’s unchaste ideas. Mercy, how foolish his decision to give her space and time seemed now! He wanted her with an all-consuming passion; his desir
e burned like a volcano’s raging heart. She must sense the tenor of his regard. Did she dream of what Zip and Ri’arion enjoyed this day–the freedom to handfast and make promises to each other?

  All he could do was play his part in her fate, and hope. Ardan’s right forepaw curled into a shaking, painful fist. Whatever it took. Anything. Everything. He would be her man. Her Dragon.

  The Shadow Dragon drifted above the exultant crowd, hunting with all of his senses on high alert. Somewhere among these thousands, he was convinced, would be a Sylakian sympathiser.

  Woe betide any enemy he smelled out.

  * * * *

  This day was about Zuziana’s happiness. Aranya entered into the fun as much as her strength and skill allowed, dancing with the women, dressing Zip’s hair and allowing their high spirits to infect her, too. Yet when Dragon-Ardan’s shadow briefly touched her cheek, she glanced to the skies. What did he think of this … wedding outfit? She had sensed his gaze upon her person, frequently. Did he stare at her bare legs and uncovered throat; might he remember what they had shared before her ruin tore them apart? She shuddered with echoes of flame-desire, of oath-magic run wild …

  She must focus on her friend, and crush these futile thoughts.

  Leandrial’s chin came to rest at the base of the small hill Zuziana had chosen for her outdoor ceremony, her tail-tip resting perhaps six or seven lakes downslope, such was her size.

  Such were the Remoyans, the frenetic drumbeat barely faltered. If a Dragon twice the size of an average city had been peering over her shoulder, Aranya suspected the sensible reaction would have been to faint or run away screaming. Zip’s people, however, were famously enamoured with Dragons. To have a Land Dragoness turn up on their doorstep was an unprecedented opportunity for the balladeers to tune up their instruments, the artists to make a mad rush for canvas and paints, and the storytellers to buff up their finest adjectives and adverbs. The din the people raised upon sighting Zuziana, now standing apart on Leandrial’s nose, was enough to make every hair on her neck stand to attention. Sapphire launched into the air, mewling in consternation.

  From the brow of the hill, Ri’arion gazed at his beloved. The artist in Aranya consciously committed every detail of his expression, every line upon his face and the crinkling of his eyes with his bedazzled smile, to memory. Unguarded love. If she cried, she’d ruin her makeup. She did not care. What they shared was precious; beyond reproach.

  Come on, beautiful bride, she said privately to Zip.

  Several sisters somersaulted or produced neat handsprings to take them onto Leandrial’s proffered paw. Aranya took Zip by the hand. No broken ankles needed now!

  Is he there? Does he look nervous? Zip asked breathlessly.

  Atop the hill. Can’t you see him?

  Stupid tears, said Zip, even as she smiled at the crowd with a princess’ poise.

  Aranya dabbed her friend’s eyes very carefully with a silk handkerchief she had been given for exactly this purpose. Better? He’s the handsome one looking rainbows-over-the-Isles. Which reminds me–Ardan?

  Your majesty. The massive Shadow Dragon made an aerial bow. Thou … his voice broke with a soft oath. Then he rallied with, Thou art the rainbows over my Isle.

  No! Unrelenting Ardan. She whispered back, Try to do your job without making me cry, because that’ll ruin this façade I’m wearing.

  Waving his paws, Ardan extended an optical shield he and Aranya had conceived of the previous evening. Heart-shaped pink and azure rainbows spread over the Jade Isle. Leandrial voiced a throaty chuckle. Oh, you little ones, so enamoured with beautiful silliness. Zuziana, may I sing for you?

  Zip turned to bow. We’d be honoured, mighty Leandrial.

  Without warning, the Land Dragoness boomed, “Let every person and Dragon present hearken to the blessing of oath-bound lovers.”

  She sang in a Dragonish dialect so ancient that Aranya understood but one word in four, but it was the exquisite musicianship of her performance that stilled the great crowd. Her voice was many instruments combined in harmonies so gorgeous and delicate, so complex and compelling, that the heart recognised a foretaste of the divine; an interlude of enchantment so deep, it transcended the boundaries of aeons and species. Men wept. Women broke into spontaneous harmonies and descants. Even the smallest child stilled to hear inspiration writ upon their very hearts. Overcome with emotion, Sapphire fainted into Ardan’s paw, but he assured Aranya the dragonet was fine.

  By the time Leandrial’s last note echoed off the hills, the Land Dragoness’ paw rested upon the earth and it was a mere matter of sliding seventy vertical feet down from her digits to the ground, which they accomplished by using the natural curvature of her talons. Then the drumbeat picked up again, and the wedding-party danced into the waiting crowd. Onward. Deeper. Aranya’s feet danced for her as she followed her radiant friend on her slow, winding course uphill. She laughed and sang breathlessly with the others, hearing the crowd’s clamour as the roaring of a single, faraway voice.

  Fra’anior’s voice?

  His speech reached her as if through battle; Aranya heard fire crackling and the full-throated booming of draconic thunder. Thou hast conversed with mine rebellious shell-daughter, little one? She helped thee. I am not displeased, Aranya. Thou needest no permission of mine to know thine family.

  Thank you, shell-grandfather, she said. A gracious word? Heavens forfend!

  The heat sucked at her strength and will, and drained her pathetically shallow resources. Fire consumed her lungs as Aranya tired. The crowd’s roaring rose and fell, the sky brightening toward white-fires, and she wailed:

  Oh, Izariela, how thou art lost! Might I not see thee once more?

  The Dragoness’ scale scalded her chest. She heard, or perhaps imagined, a woman’s tones nearby, and sensed a hand stroking a swollen belly, feeling its tender vibration within. Thou, beloved shell-daughter, said a sweetly evocative voice. Oh, mother! I shall name thee Aranya, a strong name for the bastion of the Dragonkind, the name by which Dragons shall live again. Oh I weep at the fate I foresee, my shell-daughter. Shall we rise? I fear … look ahead! Look beyond!

  Her mother’s cry mingled with Ardan’s mental roar from on high, Aranya! In the crowd!

  As if in a nightmare, Aranya saw from the corner of her eye an upraised hand, deep in the crowd beyond her best friend, release a dagger. It winked with metallic menace, spinning end-over-end toward her friend’s throat. She was too far back. Too many heads bobbed between her and Zuziana. Why? Why had she allowed herself to be consumed by foolish visions? The bride turned slowly, as if trapped in a dream, and Aranya saw herself reach out in terror and desperation, a scream clawing her throat. Ardan!

  Pain lanced into her hand. Zip, still turning, accepted a posy of lilies from a child with a bright smile. Aranya emerged through her friend. Ahead of her in the crowd, she saw swords and cudgels rising and falling in brutally brief mob justice. She stared at the small throwing dagger embedded in the back of her right hand. What had just happened? How … Zip brushed past her back and continued on her way, oblivious.

  Pretend everything’s fine, Ardan’s voice entered her mind. The man’s dead. I don’t sense further danger, but I’ll keep sniffing about.

  Fine? Why was there no pain? A knife right through the hand, and she felt no pain?

  We don’t want to spoil Zip’s celebration. Your blood, Aranya! Cleanse!

  Poison. Of course. She was not about to fall prey to that again. Aranya focussed on her hand, feeling the tickle of Leandrial’s presence in her mind. The Land Dragoness showed her the special tang and spread of the poison; Aranya drew deep of her healing power to deny it any further ingress into her flesh, then with a wince, drew out the knife. Returned to his station a quarter-mile above the throng, Ardan told her to be careful with the poisoned blade, but one of the Palace guards gripped her forearm.

  Aranya straightened imperiously, but the man snapped, “How the hells did you do that, lady?”


  “What?”

  “You’re fifteen feet back of the Princess then I blink and you’re this side of her. I watched the hair, lady. I know what I saw.”

  “I … er …” Aranya stammered. “This knife is poisoned. Be careful.”

  The soldier bowed, before accepting the blade with care. With gruff respect, he added, “You saved our Zuziana’s life, Princess. Remoyans never forget.”

  Aranya stared after the young man. Ardan? Did you see–

  Faster than Shadow, he said, sounding troubled.

  Faster than what? You’re joking.

  It was no jest, Ardan’s irascible growl informed her. The Shadow Dragon scanned the crowd relentlessly as Zip, entirely unaware of any drama, reached the summit and pirouetted into her beloved’s circle.

  The Remoyan handfasting ceremony was a curious mixture of formality, beauty and playfulness. Firstly, the young men of Ri’arion’s circle responded to Zip’s precipitous arrival by stealing her away from the groom. She had to win him back with an elaborate dance-performance which inevitably ended up with the bride’s triumph. Zip knocked men spinning, bowled them over with a flirtatious tweak of an eyebrow–overplayed in a style that Aranya remembered fondly from her cousin Lyriela’s wedding–and even danced past an uncle only to whirl and apply the royal slipper firmly to his expectant backside. Then the older men paired off with Zuziana’s retinue, presenting them with rich gifts, or offerings of poetry or dance. Ri’arion was supposed to make a dance-offering to his bride, which he accomplished by cleverly adapting a martial arts sequence Aranya had often seen him using for training, a beautiful, flowing exposition of the Fra’aniorian martial arts forms.

  Didn’t know Mister Inflexible could frolic like that, Ardan commented drolly.

  Aranya gave him a light-hearted mental shove by way of reply.

  King Lorman, subtly amplified by Leandrial, delivered a rousing and oftentimes hilarious speech that ranged from Ri’arion’s new powers as a member of the Remoyan royal family to some blushingly pointed advice about the exploits he was expected to perform later.