by Marc Secchia
She breathed, “I’m sorry. I meant no insult.” Grandion glared majestically at her perceived scorn, his tourmaline eyes visibly sparking. “Just – you’re Human, so very amazingly Human, and you’re so beautiful it aches right in here, but to see you behaving exactly like a Dragon – it threw me.”
“I am a Dragon!”
“And I remain your Dragoness. But I am also Human.”
He did not understand, yet. A fraction of a second passed in the impassioned space between ardour and misunderstanding, before Hualiama extended her right leg into a lithe dance position, saying, “Then know, o Grandion the Tourmaline Shapeshifter, that this is how I feel about you.”
She elevated herself into a finely balanced pointe upon her curved left foot, extending the right way above and behind her, while her arms swept gracefully outward, evoking a Dragon’s wings. Faultlessly balanced upon the delicate fulcrum of her toes. Fingers fluttering. Limbs supple upon the breeze. Grandion gasped as if he had taken a blow to the gut. In a second, the fires already seething within her exploded into motion, wreathing her limbs in unburning white flame. She swirled her hands downward and around the axis of her body, entwining her torso in ribbons of flame. Lia danced toward her man-Dragon, a zephyr yearning for and responding to the breath of his love; he gulped audibly, frozen by the immutable forces her artistic expression exerted upon his soul. Now, she played the Dragoness, pouring into her dance all she had imbibed since that traumatic, triumphant first transformation.
No room for deliberation. Just the unheard music, the dancing; her febrile response intensified in the crucible of his gleaming gaze.
She danced for her one true beloved, and there were wings in her feet.
It seemed time itself genuflected in appreciation.
A moment later, it seemed she found herself in his arms, yet she was panting from the effort. She remembered not a jot of her dance. How long had it been? Humans cheered. Hundreds of Dragons bugled a storm over the Spits. Grandion held her with fierce tenderness, his lips twitching as though he did not know whether to chuckle, scold her, or just start kissing and never stop. From within the protective circle of his strapping arms she gazed up into his eyes, feeling longed-for heartbeat pounding between them, the profound, masculine rightness of his transformed being; knowing that at last, this fate had turned full circle, and sprung the ultimate surprise upon a girl who had once dared to dance with Dragons.
Thou, he murmured.
Our souls did touch … kiss me, she pouted.
Grandion twitched palpably, but a slight flexion of his arms lifted her right off her feet, and brought her lips into perilous proximity with his. He growled, Thou intoxicating beauty of the stars – I … I don’t know … how?
Just kiss with your heart, Dragon. Your body will do the rest.
* * * *
Admit it. She owns you, body and soul, Flicker ribbed Grandion.
Gnarr-gnn-zap-dragonet, he grumbled.
She enflames your every fire.
Something wrong with that, you prattling parakeet?
Dragon and dragonet watched Hualiama as she tried to squeeze the living pith out of her friends Chago and Inniora. Two days, several further, smaller Dragonwings of the Orange-Green flying caterpillars downed, and hundreds of monks rescued. Marauding windrocs toasted in innumerable numbers. Not a bad campaign. Flicker eyed the commotion with a jaundiced eye. Monks were supposed to be staid, religious types. Not the sort to go cavorting with his girl behind boulders and above crater lakes. Poor Master Ja’al. He had lost out badly. Fancy choosing celibate service to the Great Onyx over swooping about the Islands with Fra’anior’s own shell-daughter? Nonsense. And they called dragonets empty eggshells?
Humans were so illogical.
Her kisses made you fire lightning bolts all over the Spits.
Do you blame me? The Tourmaline Dragon chuckled softly. One even downed a stray windroc.
Blame? Aye, I blame you for everything, the dragonet needled him blithely. Grandion was not rising to his bait. Most inconveniencing. You actually enjoyed mashing lips with a Human girl?
It’s like breathing the fire-promises, he returned.
Ugh. Romantic drivel. I saw you palpating her haunches. How did that feel?
I had to hold a tiny girl up for a kiss, Grandion clarified with unrepentant cheer, chuckling as he blew a smoke ring that Flicker somersaulted through. Twice. Dragons value size. She’s diminutive, but no less fiery for it. Like you.
Me?
You’re pure, distilled mischief.
I’m concentrated awesomeness, Flicker chirruped back. She’s sassy.
And how! When she walks, her – ahem! The Dragon coughed a sulphurous gout of smoke, and more so as Hualiama turned a scorcher of a glare upon the idly chatting pair.
My what and how much, Grandion?
You’re curvy, like a Dragoness! he yelped. What’s a man supposed to do – not look?
Flicker wondered how much communicated through their oath connection. Mental pictures, clearly. Compliments that ought to be couched with dragonet-worthy delicacy, not belched out in a huff of choking white smoke, laced with sulphur and draconic aroma-indicators.
She growled, Lecherous lizard!
Well, you seemed to enjoy sewing up my backside afterward.
Her laughter brightened both of their minds. Two whole Islands of yumminess. Remind me to check your stitches later.
They fell out when I transformed back into my Dragon form, Grandion admitted, clearly nonplussed as his Human form advertised his discomfiture with a ruddy suns-set of a blush.
Of course, that set the Dragonfriend’s mind charging off to another horizon. Suddenly, Flicker caught hints of something called a Dragonship engine stoked by her regard for Grandion’s flaming backside and a dragonet’s bubbling misbehaviour … what? Perhaps he mistook that bit.
Doubtful, when a creature was as overwhelmingly brilliant as he.
Just now, Hualiama beckoned them over to introduce Flicker and Grandion to her friends. Flicker thought a Dragon would rather fancy a woman like Inniora, who was tall and powerful, but he supposed a lack of inner fires made her sadly second rate. Chago had his hand curved about his wife’s waist with a patently possessive attitude. Good. He could be taught. Spiralling behind the married pair, he took the man’s hand in his deft little paws, moved it downward, and made him pinch Inniora’s haunches – purely in the way of cross-cultural experimentation. No ulterior motives whatsoever.
She jumped. “Chago – oh, that’s definitely … Flicker! You old reprobate; haven’t changed a jot, have you? Say, Hualiama, I found one of your old outfits in the bottom of my bag. What do you think Grandion would make of seeing you in some proper womanly attire?”
“He would definitely not stop at her backside,” Flicker asserted.
Lia’s hand snapped out Dragon-speed and snaffled him into her embrace. “Remind me to glue your lips together. Rude insect.”
Inniora said, “He really changes into a Human? And you’re a Dragoness? I mean, it sounds amazing, but you don’t seem any different to me.” She peered at Lia as if mere sight could determine the girl’s mysteries. “Well, you always were a fire-snorter. Drove my brother up the proverbial Island cliff – and, far too adventurous for your own good. Fancy chasing a Dragon halfway around the Island-World? Who would have thought you and Elki would come back hitched to the marital cart? Nearly hitched, anyways. What’s that Saori like? Is she good for him? Very pretty, I’ll grant. Shame about the shorn hair.”
“If you disagree with her, she breaks your fingers,” said Flicker.
“Sounds like my kind of girl,” Inniora laughed. “Looks like we can swap baby stories, too.”
“How did you know?” asked Lia.
“She just threw up all over the Prince’s trousers.”
“Your insightful genius out-dazzles the very suns,” sniped the dragonet, surveying the mess with patent intent. “I should check if she had eaten anything tasty.
Pre-digested pickings are best, you know. Say, stealing food from infants is allowed, isn’t it?”
* * * *
Two further days of travel through the Spits, beneath leaden skies, aided by Grandion’s Storm winds, brought the Dragonship fleet safely over the markers that blazoned the aerial route through the forest of stone columns to the far shore. Seg Island loomed like a dark black Dragonship in the distance, standing hip-deep in a sea of dull grey Cloudlands. The remarkable stone columns of the Spits stood behind, fringed with dull grey clouds and the wheeling form of brown-and-tan windrocs, which were aggressive enough to attack even fully-grown Dragons. The sporting Dragonkind had made a respectable dent in their numbers, she imagined, but windroc meat was rancid. Give her a nice rock hyrax any day. Placid, tasty, and not half her Dragoness’ size again.
We are Dragonkind! Her second-soul produced a petite drumroll of inner thunder.
Dragoness-Lia grimaced. Aye, those feral cliff goats are not worthy of the touch of our talons, Humansoul. I’m just feeling –
Sparky? Me too.
The Shapeshifter Dragoness glared at the clouds above. She snickered at the Cloudlands below. The bitter easterly wind earned itself a royal sniff of disdain, and the large snowflake that sizzled upon her muzzle, evaporated in an irritable curl of smoke. Why was it that the weather around Sylakia and its outlying Islands was always so flaming miserable, entire epic sagas had been scribed about the subject? Give her Fra’anior’s volcanic balminess and blusterous storms any day.
The Dragons had been talking. Suspicion was rife. Turning Dragons into monk launching pads and soldier-toting fortresses was one matter. Turning into a Human or Dragon on the whim of a springtide breeze was a bird of another feather, and she was reminded how hidebound Dragons were, figuratively as well as literally. There would be no basing her Dragon Riders at Gi’ishior, she suspected – nor would King Chalcion ever countenance the idea of Riders living and training on his Human-controlled Islands. She must stoke a few idea-fires with Grandion.
The Island-World is our playpen, he broke in. You’re stormy today, my third heart.
Worries.
Leave the conundrum of your proposed Dragon Rider Academy with me.
One less worry? She smiled wanly. Thanks, Mister Dragon.
My shoulders are big enough for two, he boasted, with the tiniest self-negation indicator in his tone to communicate drollness.
Aye?
Aye. Also, as a Dragoness, you’re in absolutely no danger from ‘Mister Dragon,’ he said – implying that as a girl she was most unambiguously imperilled by his Human manifestation. His expression switched to a blatant leer. Not this week, anyhow.
This Dragon grew bold. She muttered, First, you must make obeisance before a Star Dragoness.
First, you must sing the fire-promises with me.
Dawn bloomed in her heart. How did he do that? A word, a glance toward her position flying just aft of his starboard wing, and a thousand butterflies tickled the innards of her chest, making even the miserable weather and her fears about facing Azziala seem insignificant. Her Dragoness-being was just so responsive to his fires! She felt deliciously delirious. One tiny spark to her tinder …
He said, “Aye, the Dragons have been talking, but not all as you imagine. Mostly, they are concerned about the bargain you struck with Numistar. Legend speaks no good word of the Winterborn.”
“Was there another way, Grandion?”
“Few think so.”
“Why?”
“Because, as you allowed, I replayed your memories of the encounter for them. You were on the verge of collapse. The Winterborn was ascendant. The bargain was masterfully made. You thought it through with due, even draconic, care.”
“Oh, mercy. Am I secretly a Dragoness?”
The Tourmaline Dragon chuckled on cue, setting off his other Riders.
From farther afield, Mizuki said, “My Riders and I concur. There was no fault in your intentions or logic. What the Dragons fault is the whole enterprise.” Hualiama began to spit back a response, but the Copper Dragoness cut her off with an acerbic broadside, “Aye, they’d rather be dead with perceived honour rather than alive with potentially greater honour in the future. The terrace lake of this argument holds little water for the short-sighted, fulminous ones amongst the Dragonkind. Naturally, the argument turns to more riches and spoils to compensate for the alleged dishonour.”
“Fra’anior was less than impressed,” Hualiama said softly.
“So we observed,” Grandion said.
“You … how?”
“While you slept, storms played behind your eyes,” Flicker said. “We assumed –”
“Correctly.”
Hualiama bit off her words. Why could her shell-father not trust her? Well, she could think of a million reasons, starting and ending with, she had no idea what she was doing. Sniffing out Balance. Dancing. Failing, falling, flailing into a bargain she might very well live to regret – she just could not penetrate Numistar’s reasoning. Do away with the Empress, certainly. But why this way? Why the need to assume her full corporeal form, to amalgamate her myriad souls into one body? Why not, say, remove the daughter first and destroy the mother immediately thereafter? All the signs pointed to her single form being a tactical disadvantage, a major victory for the forces allied to the Star Dragoness. What if she had made a terrible miscalculation? If seven hundred Dragons could not mangle Numistar’s angle on the bargain, or whatever the saying was, then why did she fear this odious necessity?
Privately, Grandion said to her, Because they are Ancient Dragons, and we are Lesser. Their thoughts and ways are above ours.
I am the shell-daughter of Fra’anior! Wow. Boom and bluster. Moderating her heat, she added, And, it counts for so little. No Star Dragoness could ever tread in his paw prints. He would not even reason with me. He only voiced contempt. Sheer, unmitigated contempt.
Chastisement is a way of showing love.
What, like Chalcion?
Nothing like your adoptive father, he said regretfully.
Do you think I was wrong to bargain with Numistar, Grandion?
He was silent for a very long time before he replied heavily, Aye, Lia, but fear must never rule the flight of our wings. We are one. You are no traitor to me for choosing this path.
No, only a traitor to all Dragonkind, and most of all to her shell-father. Even Grandion’s shrewdest delivery failed to conceal the profound misgivings he held. He thought her deceitful. Yet, who could know a Dragoness’ heart but herself? She must assault a Cluster where her birth mother had established her new throne, and her adoptive family would undoubtedly be held hostage against her compliance. She would never follow in Azziala’s footsteps. Earn the title ‘Empress of the Lost Islands?’ Never! It was up to her to find another way.
Hualiama had never felt lonelier.
* * * *
Seg to Fra’anior was not far as the Dragon flew, but the distance seemed as great as the distance between two hearts, or four or six, depending on their manifestations. Human-Lia would be the first to confess that patience ran thinly through her veins. Action was her strength. Waiting? Far less comfortable. Interminable strategy sessions designed to while away the delay caused by their waiting upon Numistar’s deigning to turn up at the proposed field of battle, triggered copious itching.
She stalked off in search of trouble – namely, Flicker.
“Wake up.” He snored happily, having wormed his way into Elki’s pack to raid his small store of snacks, evidently. Only his nose showed. She prodded the pack with her toe. “You. Undernourished floor-polisher. Get up.”
Flicker grinned. “I’ll answer to my rightful title, thank you, Princess.”
Lia scratched his chin where he liked it best. “Was that, ‘ungainly son of a snowflake,’ or, ‘Majestic Lord of all Vexation?’ ”
“What about, ‘O Most Virile Paragon of Wingéd Glory?’ ”
“If you can help me do to Brazo and Zanya wh
at we discussed, you can have … uh, most of that title,” she replied, with an obligatory chuckle. “I think Brazo’s started enough accidental fires for one lifetime, hasn’t he? I’ve been trying to teach them but for me, harnessing the magic is so instinctual … just you stop making that face. Rude dragonet.”
“So instinctual,” he parroted.
“How I ever stuffed all that resplendent brazenness into one tiny white egg is beyond me,” she mused. “Go fetch Grandion. Quick-wings.”
Flicker, who loved a prank more than most creatures, flitted with a gurgle of laughter in anticipation of the actual event. Lia found the twins and set about instructing them, as planned. “Right. As before, focus on my thoughts. This time I’m going to work through the mechanics of Dragon flight. Concentrate on being a Dragon. Feel the wings spread. Now, feel the trickling of wind across your delicate scale nerves as we accelerate …”
For long minutes, she led them through the visualisation exercise. The twins were fine students but had not yet achieved the breakthrough. Would it arise spontaneously? Her transformation had been triggered by Ra’aba trying to burn her alive. Jin’s arrived amidst a battle. These –
GGRRAAARRGHH!!
Grandion’s thunderclap of a challenge detonated right behind the twins, scaring them right into their hides. Both of them. One second Hualiama was standing in front of a pair of tall Immadians, the next, she wore Brazo’s undershorts over her head and left eye, and lay flattened beneath the crook of Zanya’s right elbow. She glanced about quickly, hardening a body shield in case the Dragoness chose this moment to shift and make pancaked Dragonfriend. They were Blue Dragons, perhaps Ice-Blue, if she could use the phrase, for they had a glassy, gleaming quality about the very pale blue of their scales.
Her nose wrinkled. Brazo’s … bloodied … underwear.
