Song of the Storm Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  Ardan pressed a water gourd into Aranya’s hand. “Drink.”

  “Overnight, you appear to have grown a touch demanding,” she observed drolly, with classic Immadian understatement.

  “And as possessive as a gold-glamoured Dragon,” Ardan said just as deprecatingly, dropping a kiss upon her fingers before pressing a seeded bread-roll into her hand. “Eat.”

  “Um,” said Aranya, eyeing the throng pensively–still thousands strong.

  “Tell you what, my scrrrrrrr-umptious petal,” he said, so Nak-voiced she chuckled again, “you stick to thrashing despots and tipping Islands. I’ll go supervise your sycophants.”

  And so, for five hours straight, Aranya shook hands, bobbed her head, bowed straight-backed and Fra’aniorian-flowery, growled where appropriate, and fretted without trying to seem as if she were fretting. Zip! Oh, what had become of the mischievous, irreplaceable Remoyan? She could not remember, for that moment had passed in a flash, too fast even for a Dragoness’ eyes to register. She had leaped for Zip, meaning to stop the urzul from breaching the barrier of her womb, then flash! Nothing. No Zip, no Sapphire–and she knew she had not left Sapphire behind. She had checked.

  Once the bulk of the Lost Islanders and Lesser Dragonkind were dealt with, save those too severely injured to approach her, Aranya made to step down.

  “Not yet,” said Gang, who had been enjoying a little snooze in the bright suns-shine while others did the real work. “Just a few more.”

  Aranya saw Huaricithe and Tari and … “No. You. Get out of line!” she complained, pointing at Ri’arion. “In fact, all of you–shoo.”

  “Stay put, Scrap.”

  “No.”

  Gangurtharr growled, “Stay put, or I shall sit on you.”

  Aranya give him her most sizzling stare. “I haven’t forgiven you for letting Ardan kiss … whoever it was, whom you’ve all conveniently forgotten.”

  “I’m not convinced he didn’t plant a smacker on my gorgeous backside,” claimed the Gladiator. He was looking somewhat worse for wear, having been liberally chewed in the wings and tail, and oozing blood from a dozen flesh-wounds, but he was otherwise hale and downright curmudgeonly–as usual.

  Spying Marshal Huaricithe in her Human form, an irresistible urge to foment trouble suddenly bit Aranya. Aside to Gang, she said, “Wow. Huari’s really pretty. What do you think about kissing her?”

  The Dragon made a strange, almost strangled noise in his throat as his magic wavered. “It is … inappropriate, as a Dragon.”

  “Don’t you desire her in both forms?”

  “I …” He snapped his fangs together above her head. “Shut your blasphemous trap, Scrap. I do not …” Gang managed to imitate a hundred-and-forty foot, armoured ralti sheep as he evidently realised what his wobbling voice communicated.

  Aranya gave him a mental prod, and a sample of special magic. “You transform like this, Gang.”

  That was how the Princess of Immadia ended up sprawled on her backside in front of her friends, for with an audible pop! Gangurtharr snapped into his Human form for the very first time.

  Those closest to Aranya hushed as the Dragon gazed at his hands in slack-jawed amazement. He tried to take his customarily belligerent four-pawed stance, and promptly fell flat on his face. “Aranya!” he howled. The Dragon sprang to his feet, flexed into a muscles-popping angry-male-Dragon pose, and toppled backward. “ARRRRAAANNNYYAAA!”

  “Aye, Gang?”

  “What have you done?”

  “Me?” The Immadian offered him her hand. “Easy, Dragon. You’ll soon get used to the change in perspective and senses.”

  Bewildered, the huge man scrambled to his feet, having to employ Aranya’s shoulder for balance. That almost staggered her, for he was built like a Dragonship through the beam, all massive, smooth muscle up to the crown of his head, seven inches taller than Aranya herself. He had to weigh four or five times what she did, the Immadian thought in admiration.

  Since no-one else appeared capable of comment, Aranya beamed at Huaricithe. “Well, what do you think?”

  The Shapeshifter blushed spectacularly. “Um … aye!”

  That was when Aranya remembered that Shifters transformed sans coverings, which was fine for a Dragon, but patently impressed or embarrassed most of the women out there. Thankfully, Ri’arion whipped out a piece of cloth and set about draping it around Gangurtharr’s hips.

  The Dragon’s eyes bulged in amazement. “What is this?”

  “Humans wear clothing,” said the monk. “Well, mostly, anyways. Clothing is complicated.”

  “And you … kiss?”

  “Smack on the lips,” said Ri’arion, with the confidence of recently acquired expertise. “We don’t nuzzle and twine necks like roosting Dragons.”

  “Who pinched my Dragon? Scrap? You’d better start squalling, or … I’m a Human?”

  With a twinkle in her eye, Huaricithe sashayed forward to take Gang’s paw in her tiny hand. She peered up at the giant from her five-foot-nothing height. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of questions, Gang. I’ll help you settle in. But first, let’s make our vows to the Star Dragoness. In my culture, men bow like this.”

  Gangurtharr turned to Aranya. Copying Huari, he bowed deeply from the waist. This action promptly deposited the cloth at her feet, thereby presenting several thousand Humans and Dragons to his rear a singularly unforgettable view.

  * * * *

  Ardan stalked into the hangar bay-turned-infirmary, more than ready to yell at Aranya. But he found her tucked into Dhazziala’s forepaw. Someone had covered her shoulders with a thin blue blanket. The wounded Cobalt-Green was deep in earnest conversation with a grizzled Dragon Rider Ardan had recently met, Kantuka of Ergani, the leader of a Vassal State which had lost fifty-three Islands to the Island-shooter. Like many of the Herimor Riders, Kantuka was a proper giant, easily topping seven feet, and that was before the clunky boots and armour better suited to a Dragon than a man.

  He let out the breath he had been holding. Mercy, in that pose, with her raddled cheek tucked away, he could almost imagine Aranya lay untouched by the pox. Ardan wiped his left eye. Leaking again? Precocious enchantress of Immadia!

  “Dragon Ardan,” rumbled Kantuka. “The Star Dragoness was treating Dhazziala, then we spoke, and she grew more comfortable than expected.”

  “Exhausted herself, against orders,” Ardan said flatly. “How fare your wounds, First Hand?”

  The Dragon Rider chuckled massively, rising from his small stool to grip Ardan’s forearm in the manner of greeting these Riders preferred. “You would issue orders to a Star Dragoness?”

  “She could stand taking in paw,” said Dhazziala, not without a hint of resentment colouring her words. “Noble Ardan, I lost my left hind paw, five feet of my tail and the outer left wingtip to the S’gulzzi horde, but I am undismayed. To see the Thoralians cast down was more than worth these trivial wounds.”

  “You are brave,” said Ardan, meaning it.

  “I was being eaten alive when Aranya vaporised the S’gulzzi.”

  “I wish I had my Dragon.” Perhaps he betrayed more bitterness than he ought, Ardan thought, feeling ashamed.

  “You were singing her songs,” Kantuka joshed.

  Dhazziala purred, “Don’t puncture that idea with your Dragon lance, Kantuka. He was Shadow Dragon enough to turn the course of the battle–thrice. The Star Dragoness herself made that clear. She told us you broke the power of a Word of Command, Ardan.”

  “Which ranks alongside plucking stars from the heavens, in my humble estimation,” added the Erganian Rider. “Would you take her to roost now, Dragon Ardan?”

  “I … shouldn’t disturb her. Or you.”

  “Are we that obvious?” asked Kantuka.

  “Obvious?” asked Dhazziala. Ardan could not tell if the Dragoness was dissembling–shrouded in her habitual, devious Herimor glamour. He could never have loved such a woman. Give him Aranya’s unadorned simplicity any day!r />
  Then, he laughed. Unadorned simplicity–Aranya? Who was a prize ralti sheep, Ardan?

  “There is much diplomacy to conduct between the Inscrutables and the Vassal States,” said Kantuka, managing to turn his bland statement into a declaration of unshakable romantic intent. “When will you dive for the First Egg, Dragon Ardan? You do intend to complete your mission, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” His eyes turned compulsively toward the Princess of Immadia. “I’ve several missions in mind. Urgent missions.”

  The Dragoness and the Dragon Rider laughed simultaneously.

  “Aye?” prompted Dhazziala.

  “Aye. I’ll make no secret of it,” said Ardan. Sinking to one knee, he tucked the blanket beneath Aranya’s chin. “She’s dreaming. Look at that magic shining beneath her eyelids.”

  Amethyst. Ruby. Onyx. White-fires. Did a Star Dragoness dream of the beauty of stars?

  Wonderingly, mostly to himself, he said, “I hope she’s dreaming Zuziana back into existence, wherever she might be. And of healing her mother. We’ll find a way, Dhazziala–don’t you see? Fates yield to the Storm Dragon’s song. When my Shadow Dragon returns, we will dive together into the Suald-dak-Doon, and wrest the First Egg from the S’gulzzi, wherever it might be. And then we will breach the Rift-Storm and turn history to its rightful path. Along the way, I will find a way to heal this woman, for if love can find a way …”

  In Dragonish, Ardan whispered, Let it be!

  Aranya stirred in her sleep, mumbling, “Ar? Sapphire?” She settled again, but her eyes flicked rapidly back and forth, and the light shone ever more brightly through her skin.

  Ardan touched her febrile forehead, and stroked her cheek with his blunt thumb. “Sleep easy. Dream of miracles, Storm Dragoness. Dream of Azure.”

  * * * *

  For once, Aranya did not have to scale the cliff or fight storms to reach her soul-space. One moment she was reliving the terrible moment when she lost Zip, the next, she stood alongside her slumbering Dragoness on a flat, onyx mountaintop. Human-Aranya let out her breath soundlessly. Her Amethyst manifestation mirrored her scars, now–what did that mean? Was this place a product of her dreams, or a real connection between her Shapeshifter souls? Why did they call it a second-soul, when both Izariela and Hualiama had stressed the ‘one soul, two manifestations’ mantra?

  Did she have a schism in her soul?

  Almost, Aranya rushed over to wake her Dragoness. Her foot paused, toes delicately poised as if readied, prelude to a dance. What had she just heard?

  Dream of Azure …

  She scanned the cosy mountaintop, and everything from the edges of her domain to the starry horizons. Suspicious. No, Fra’anior was not hiding behind a storm, baiting her. Ardan was not so much a joker, although her first impression of a stern warrior melted daily into a rather more complex understanding. Imagine him singing to her mid-battle? Which had only changed her mindset from raging vengeance to healing–just that minor, destiny-distorting fillip.

  She could paint the Azure, if she had the materials.

  Painting inside of her soul? And the Daughter of Storm leaped gaily off the Isle of insanity …

  No. What if Ri’arion’s faith-claim were true? What if Zip had vanished–uh, somewhere she could not imagine as yet–and only needed to be educed into actuality? Aye, insert an old Immadian joke that compared Enchantresses to cracked pots.

  If she yearned strongly enough, could she evoke her friend? Aranya’s right big toe described a circle on the dark, warm stone. What a magical night sky. The kind of night when anything could happen. Anything at all.

  Zip was dead. Slain by her best friend’s starlight. No, her instinct had been to protect, to love, to enfold–aye!

  Her toes traced long, flowing chestnut hair. An impish nose. The notes of Zip’s laughter lifted her feet. She remembered Hualiama’s lesson, but in her mind, replaced her Aunt with Zuziana. She had never painted her friend, had she? Now, she must correct that oversight.

  Aranya closed her eyes and painted with her dance. She lost herself in the imaginings of a Remoyan laughing, celebrating, teasing, crying, dancing, blushing at that first sight of a monk’s chiselled torso … fainting at Aranya’s first Dragon-manifestation, dying, being reborn. Her limbs moved with the increasing freedom and facility of her newfound belief. She flung back her head, laughing with the joy of all she had shared with Zuziana and with Sapphire, her devoted saviour. Her feet danced on air, over her Dragoness’ slumbering form and back again, dancing the length of a body which still sometimes struck her as unfamiliar and exotic. A miracle of magic that by rights, should not exist.

  Her heart must dance. Her soul must desire nothing greater in the world, or beyond the world, than the gift that was Zuziana.

  A single tear of joy, all she had left, dropped onto her Dragoness’ damaged calf muscle.

  As if that droplet of magic had wrung her out, Aranya spun, and then whirled into a graceful finale. She bowed to her unseen partner. “Thank you for the dance, o Zuziana, joy of Remoy. In sorrow, we–”

  “Aranya?”

  She whirled. “Z … uh? Zip!”

  “Aranyi!”

  A chestnut-haired blur flung itself over the space at Aranya, squealing with childlike delight–and now a flash of blue, as an Azure Dragoness ambushed the sleeping Amethyst! Aranya’s Dragonsoul woke with a snort of incredulity, and then voiced an unending bugle of pure delight as Sapphire whizzed overhead too, gurgling with such a surfeit of joy that she could not even chuckle or sing properly. The Dragonesses nuzzled fondly.

  Human-Aranya and Human-Zip whirled each other around and around until they were dizzy, shouting:

  “Aren’t you dead, Zip?”

  “No, petal.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “I must be dreaming in the colours of starlight!”

  Zip stamped her foot, laughing merrily. “Which part of you shall I pinch to prove it, petal? I’ve never felt more alive.”

  Aranya stopped, staring wildly about her. Sapphire thumped into her chest; she cuddled the dragonet. “How many babies?” She pointed at the Azure Dragoness, then the Human. “Six?”

  “Silly Humanlove,” said her Dragoness. “There are, of course, three egglings or foetuses displaying six manifestations–and don’t roll our eyes at us.”

  Aranya cried, “It’s impossible! They aren’t really … are they? Love can’t make this happen, surely?”

  Little Zip folded her arms rather crossly. “Don’t make me start, Immadia! Do I need to lecture you on the nature of love? Love enfolded my womb in starlight. Love stole my babies away from the taint of urzul, and before that, your love gave me the power to resist the Thoralians even though I betrayed you. I took the higher path because of you, Aranya. I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

  Suddenly, she reached up to touch Aranya’s injured neck. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Aranyi. I’m so, so … desperately …”

  Aranya took her friend in her arms, and the Dragonesses embraced simultaneously. “We love you, petal. Uh, petals? Whatever! You’re forgiven. I can only imagine how that threat must have torn the living pith from your hearts, but you beat back the Thoralians! You! Zip, how can we get you back? Are you inside of me? How did you come to be inside my soul-space, if I’m not dreaming?”

  “You folded me away, like a monk in a handbag.”

  That made Aranya’s Dragoness and Human burst out laughing at once. “Oh, Zip! You’re a hoot.”

  Human-Zip said, “I’m serious.”

  Then, the Azure Dragoness added, “You see, Ardan loves you. You love him. And now that you’ve worked that out–certainly took you long enough, you obdurate offspring of a storm in a puddle–you have freedom from fear. It’s about finding the way to the light. You of all people should understand that, Aranya. You are light.”

  * * * *

  Aranya woke with a song in her heart and the wind in
her heels. She ran out of the hangar and found her way to Ri’arion and Ardan’s room. Bang-bang-bang!

  “Ri’arion’s at breakfast–Aranya?”

  “Come with me, Ardan! Call–call everyone!”

  She ran two doors further. Bang-bang! “Gang, you scurvy old reprobate! Shake a wing. Stop cuddling Huari and come listen. That’s an order.”

  Laughter trickled out from beneath the door.

  Tari! Leandrial! Yiisuriel! Genholme! Wake everyone and come with me, all you Dragonkind. Watch-Dragons, sound the bugles of joy! Let there be joy!

  Uh … we don’t know those protocols? Dhazziala’s mental voice puzzled.

  Aranya’s crazed feet winged her down the corridor, down five levels of circular stairs, and out into the kitchen quarters of Dhazziala’s fortress. Dimly, she heard Ardan charging after. “Aranya? Alright, madwoman, I’m with you!”

  To the winds, she shouted, Work it out, First Hand! You’ve thirty thousand minds to help. Thunderous Thirty! Wake the Dragons of dawn! Shake the suns in their eternal courses!

  BRAAA-BOOM!!

  Well, their instinctive response certainly swept the cobwebs out of a few sleepy heads.

  By the time Aranya found Ri’arion in the third mess-area she tried, her lungs burned and she skidded to a coughing, spluttering halt at the table the monk shared with Bane and Lurax. Judging by the diagrams on the scroll lying unfurled on the table, Ri’arion was teaching the boys warrior-monk lore. His finger paused mid-point to take in the whirlwind that was Aranya.

  “What?” he said.

  “Wait.” She coughed violently.

  “What is it?” Ri’arion’s voice rose; his lips quirked upward in response to her helpless, jubilant smile. “Aranya? What’ve you done now?”

  She made him wait for the others to crowd into the room, and for the mental congregation to be watching through their eyes and ears and magical senses, even though she wanted to burst for sheer exultation. Then, she whispered, “Well–”