by Marc Secchia
Let’s go, Silver, Pip ordered, wondering what under the five moons she was supposed to accomplish with a Dragon egg.
Scooping up the Pygmy girl, Shimmerith deposited her on Silver’s left shoulder, saying, Chymasion refuses to hatch. He vexes my wingtips in this. Says the world is far too dangerous and he lacks protection–as if a Dragoness would not safeguard her own hatchling! I’ve never heard of such wing-shivering effrontery. And before you mention it, Pip, I’ve a mind to replace my missing fang with you. I think you’d fit the space quite nicely.
Oyda made the business of scaling her Dragon’s flank look rather easy, especially for someone who had broken both arms a few months before.
As Silver spread his wings and dropped off the balcony, Pip said, “Silver, why didn’t Telisia’s poison affect you? I’ve this unhealed hole in my shoulder and a gash on my side. You–you’re fine.”
“It’s nothing sinister,” he protested. “And, I’m not fine. You fought dirty.”
“Jungle girl,” she smirked.
Over his shoulder, a silvery fire-eye rolled in evident exasperation. “You smug little excuse for a dragonet. Simply put, the nurseries being a hotbed of intrigue and assassination, we trained ourselves from a young age to build up our resistance to all manner of toxins and poisons–Shapeshifter poisons in particular. You had no such resistance. I believe one of the ingredients Telisia used was a necrotic poison, which kills living tissue. There’s no known antidote bar the time it takes for the body to recover–anyways, the medical Dragons cleaned and prepared your wounds according to my instructions. You must have patience, Pip.”
“I excel at patience,” she lied.
“I’m taking notes,” he fibbed in return, without blinking an eye.
Softly, she said, “How am I supposed to fight a war in this state, Silver?”
“Suppose I do the heavy lifting, and you nip in at the last second and steal all the glory?”
“Deal,” she smiled. Perhaps there was no answer. Perhaps she should just grit her teeth and walk under the Cloudlands to Sylakia, free every animal in the zoo and cage up the Marshal instead? Their plan to uncover the Order of Onyx’s secrets had about as much chance of succeeding.
“This business of the hatchling is odd,” said Silver. “I hope I didn’t do any permanent damage when I tried to turn him against you.”
Shimmerith and Silver swept over the luminous green lake at the base of Roost Mountain, before soaring up the slim volcanic cone to Shimmerith and Nak’s roost–a route Pip knew only too well, on foot. Thankfully, Nak appeared to have spruced up his more revolting personal habits. Perhaps that was Oyda’s gentle influence at work. Alighting on the ledge outside the Dragon roost guarded by a Red Dragoness, Shimmerith preceded them through the curving corridor into the main chamber. They heard chirrups of happiness from her hatchlings, the Blue Inzuriel and Amfyrion, a fourteen-foot copy of his amber-coloured shell-father, Emblazon.
Aunty Pip! Silver! They expectorated little fireballs of pleasure.
Amfyrion chirped, Where’s your Dragoness, Aunty Pip? We want to play and you’re too small.
Whipping over to Pip, Inzuriel held up her wingtips for tip-touching, a common greeting between Dragons. Pip patted them in turn with her hands. You’re growing as beautiful as your shell-mother, little … ah, how do you say that in Dragonish?
We’d say ‘fire-sister’ in Herimor, said Silver.
Wing-sister, said Shimmerith. The usage is particularly apt for a Dragon or Dragoness of similar age. Now, Pip, here’s Chymasion’s egg.
Pip whistled softly. The egg was beautiful, a mottled mineral brown that glistened in the lamplight inside Shimmerith’s roost–but it was humungous. Its width was at least the length of a Pygmy Dragon, she estimated, and though the egg lay on its side, it still stood three times her height. She turned to measure the Sapphire Dragoness with her eyes.
Shimmerith chuckled in evident realisation. “No, little one. Dragon eggs are not laid this large–it would be physically impossible. Chymasion appears to be more unique than anyone imagined.”
Silver shook his head in amazement. “A growing egg? I’ve never heard of such a phenomenon.”
Pip giggled as Inzuriel thrust her muzzle beneath her arm, demanding a scratch behind the skull-spikes. “Looks like we need to get him out before he outgrows the roost.”
Inzuriel purred, More.
Go play with Silver, my flame-eyed beauties, ordered Shimmerith.
Oyda and Pip laughed as Silver pretended to be bowled over by the enthusiastic hatchlings, letting them nip at his scales and fight mock-battles with his talons.
“Talk to the egg, Pip,” said Oyda.
“Um–what do I say?”
Shimmerith said, “Pip, you know that Dragons mature much faster than Humans. I have spoken with Chymasion since the time he was in my egg-sac. He’s very curious about the world outside the egg–but not willing to venture into it. You speak to him. You’ve the power of … of common-fires.”
“Er–empathy?” said Oyda. “I’m not sure that’s quite the right translation.”
Pip sighed. Right. Speak to the egg. What exactly was that supposed to accomplish? Moving forward, she placed her left hand flat against the egg’s surface, finding the substance surprisingly warm and pliant. Oddly, she had learned that due to an innate magic, no Dragon egg could be opened from the outside, not even by a mother-Dragoness of the Blue spectrum of colours, the greatest magic-users amongst the Dragonkind.
Chymasion? She projected her thoughts clearly. I’m Pip, the Pygmy Dragoness, and I give you my most sulphurous greetings. Why don’t you come out and meet your family?
No, you can’t make me.
As the eggling groaned, powerful draconic feelings and stresses washed over Pip, making her stagger. But Oyda propped her up quickly. What was this–loss? Yearning? A knowledge of … incompleteness? Pip did not understand at all, and as her incomprehension grew, so did the Dragon eggling’s frustration. As she reached out, ideas began to spit into her mind like sparks. The need for protection. Direction. A strange magic Chymasion feared, not so much the power of the Dragon of Shadow, but something that stemmed from within him–a Dragon power which his shell-mother had been unable to identify. He knew he was unusual. He knew he faced a troubled destiny, and he wanted … what?
This protection you want, Chymasion, what does it feel like? Pip asked.
How can I describe what I have never known?
I don’t understand why you’re so afraid. Shimmerith is here, and Emblazon–so many Dragons and Humans, who all wish you well and healthy–
All I see is fires, he interrupted. Mesmerising Dragon fires swirl before me in this strange space that encompasses my fire-soul; this space which restricts my wings and limbs …
Shimmerith said, He often speaks of those fires. I don’t understand. Suns-light should permeate a Dragon’s egg.
Great Islands! He’s blind! Pip gasped. Chymasion …
What do you mean, blind? the Dragon chirped unhappily, causing the sadness of dark-fires to wash over Pip’s senses. I see much. The past, present and future rush before me in never-ending cascades of white-fires. What are these un-magical images you keep pushing at me? That is not the real world. What’s real is fire; what’s fire is real. Every structure you suggest is but a function of limited perception, for you deny its inner image, the true image of what is.
Shimmerith’s wings vibrated in anguish. Oh, Chymasion … thou, my darling fire-heart!
Distress! cried the eggling. See, I distress my shell-mother! I cannot emerge only to increase her sorrow.
Silver, said Pip. Come here.
Poor Shimmerith nuzzled her egg, coiling her body all around it, crooning her love, her concern; how precious Chymasion was to her, how he had always brightened her fires from the very first spark of his life.
What do you need, heartling? Silver’s eye-fires, in contrast, appeared subdued.
Draw close to me, an
d help me show Chymasion what we are, together. Think upon our vows–
That’s it!
Her hatchling’s abrupt shriek frightened Shimmerith so severely, she leaped back against the crysglass panels of her roost’s main window, cracking two of the panels.
Chymasion cried, That’s it, there–and a pain smote Pip between the eyes, yet as quickly as he struck her, so Silver shielded her mind.
Silver thundered, How dare you intrude in another mind? Chymasion!
I abase myself, noble Silver. The hatchling cowered mentally. It was not meant–I saw something. The one. In her mind is … one of your strange images, and I thought I felt a presence, the one I yearn for. I abase myself, noble Pip. I was overexcited.
Rouse your fires, noble wing-brother, said Pip, her mind racing. I am unhurt. Now, watch carefully …
One by one, she began to summon impressions of the people she knew, projecting them toward Chymasion as, to her perception, the hatchling trembled within his shell. On and on. Image after image served up by a Pygmy’s eidetic memory. Whom had she forgotten? Not Telisia, oh please, let it not be her! But Telisia was close–and then Pip laughed. Of course.
Here, Chymasion.
The egg leaped on its bed of soft ralti furs, there in the depression where Shimmerith brooded over her clutch. Who is this perfect creature? A whisper, rife with longing.
Pip smiled at the memory. Her father was my mentor; she became my teacher and my friend. This is Arosia. She pictured a rose. Named for this flower. She is Arosia, daughter of Balthion and Shullia, sister of Durithion, who rides the Albino Dragoness Jyoss. Silver–
Already on my way, my third heart. Because I like this idea of causing trouble.
Ask her nicely, Silver.
He answered with a smoky draconic snigger, already fading into the distance as he winged rapidly toward the Academy buildings.
A sharp tapping emanated from inside the egg. Evidently, Chymasion was not prepared to let any scale-mites grow beneath his wings! Pip chuckled happily at the mental image of a Dragon frantically quarrying his way through the egg shell; she yelped as Oyda patted her sore shoulder.
“Sorry. Congratulations, Pip. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
Shimmerith snorted right behind her shoulder, making Pip jump. “No. Only you could have produced this miracle, Pip. You are not a troublemaker. You are an instigator.”
“Now there’s a promotion for you,” Oyda teased. Pip sniffed disdainfully. “Shimmerith, is there any way under the suns we could help Chymasion?”
The Sapphire Dragoness made an eloquent, massively muscular draconic shrug. “If you feel you need the exercise, noble Rider, do not stint. But my fire cannot burn that egg, nor my claws dent it, nor does any Dragon magic penetrate the shell.”
Oyda threw up her hands. “In other words, toss that stupid question onto the nearest bonfire.”
Shimmerith’s laughter gurgled in her belly. She snapped out a paw to catch Amfyrion’s attempted ambush of Oyda. No, my flame-heart. Humans are delicate. Sheathe those claws.
Aw, Mamafire …
Don’t you ‘aw Mamafire’ me, my scorching flame-son. Shimmerith rebuffed him with a playful cuff of her forepaw, drawing a fierce snarl from the hatchling. Fight. Where are your fires? Amfyrion pounced at once; the Dragoness rolled him with a deft flick of her tail. Good! Faster still, Amfyrion. Show me a Dragon who will grow into his shell-father’s paws.
While the Dragons played, Pip wandered into the Human-sized kitchen area to track down a snack–dried prekki fruit and roasted mohili grain–and to take a swig of cool, fresh water piped from a reservoir near the top of the mountain. Somehow, she had expected a longer respite after the first battle for the Academy. She had merely survived the opening skirmish. Silver had been dispatched to deliver a pre-emptive blow, to capture the Dragoness with the power of the Word of Command. He had failed. Yet was there not a chance that Silver was an unwitting dupe in a deeper, long-term strategy being played out by Marshal Re’akka?
She must not slacken her guard.
Pip worried at her lower lip. Heavens above and Islands below, did she not have enough concerns already without lumping Silver on top of it all?
Abruptly, Oyda put her arms around Pip’s shoulders. “Hey, Pipsqueak. Need one of these?”
How did she know? Pip pressed her forehead against Oyda’s shoulder, and heaved three Dragon-sized sighs in a row. So many pressures, such a perfect storm of possibilities which could carry her off in an unexpected direction at any moment. Mercy.
“Oyda, I just feel so unready.”
“Tell you a secret? We all do. As someone once said to me, ‘I only want you to be happy.’ Do you remember?” Pip bobbed her head. “When I first became a Dragon Rider, I was so overwhelmed by the implications of the responsibility I had taken on, I tried to run away. Emblazon tracked me down before I did anything truly stupid. I thought, then, ‘I’ve done it. He’s going to roast me in Dragon fire, and I deserve no less.’ But he wasn’t angry. All he said was, ‘You need to remember, my precious Rider, that the suns will continue to rise in the morning, and the moons will orbit our Island-World in courses unchanged since the dawn of history.’ And he was right. Each day, we can choose to put forth our worthiest foot, and the rest?”
She finished her statement with a shrug.
They’re here, Shimmerith called.
“Time for more mischief,” said Pip, rubbing her hands.
Maybe she ought to stop putting the idea into peoples’ heads?
Master Balthion came striding into the main roost-chamber with a vexed frown creasing his usually serene face. Mistress Shullia could have started a thunderstorm with her expression. And Arosia? Her shy friend’s green eyes appeared as large as a cat’s, full of trepidation and curiosity and no small measure of relief upon alighting on Pip. Arosia was barefoot, and her long, rich brown hair dripped water around her toes. She wore nothing more than what appeared to be a bed sheet.
Crossing her arms, Pip fixed Silver with an ominous glare as he sauntered into the roost, patently chuffed with his efforts. “You hauled her out of the bath, didn’t you, Silver?”
“Through the window!” growled Balthion.
“Naked and screaming to the heavens,” shrilled Shullia. “What do they teach Shapeshifters in Herimor? He brought ten Dragons and twenty guards down on us.”
“Almost started a war!” Master Balthion said.
“Well, I did see Pip naked when–ahem,” Dragon-Silver coughed, taken aback by the hostile reception. “Do I sense a nudity taboo in your culture?”
“In theirs, not in mine,” said Pip, with a little growling of her own. “Arosia, on behalf of the Lord of Beautiful Boorishness over there, I apologise. We jungle animals clearly have more refined manners.” As Silver’s belly-fires roared in indignation, she held up a hand. “All fireballs outside, Dragon.”
Silver lunged through the entryway to unleash his rage over the caldera.
“Very good,” said Pip, as the thunderous echoes faded. “Master Balthion, I assume you have some inkling of what this is about?”
“An egg which requires our Arosia’s help.” The Master glanced about. “Where’s the egg–great Islands! An Ancient Dragon? That can’t be real.”
Beckoning Arosia to her side, Pip smiled up at her tall, damp Sylakian friend. “Sorry about the bath, but I think you’ll find this much more exciting. Arosia, inside that egg is a Dragon eggling.” Arosia quirked an eyebrow drolly. “I know! Amazing, isn’t it? His name is Chymasion and I think he’ll make just about the biggest hatchling in history.”
At the mention of his name, all activity within the egg suddenly stilled. Pip had the sense that the eggling listened with every pore of his body.
Shimmerith added, “We all think my shell-son has special powers, Arosia. But he’s afraid to come out without encouragement. Without … you.”
The silence seemed as thin as fragile blown glass. Arosia
stared at the Sapphire Dragoness, who essayed a draconic shrug of her wings. What explanation could anyone advance? This matter was beyond the rational realm, a matter of elemental Dragon lore.
Pip snagged Arosia’s trembling hand. “Come. Let’s you and I have a little chat with this Dragon.”
She knew. Her friend felt that first incredible, meaningful breath of destiny’s winds ruffling the secret waters of her soul, and by the intake of Shullia’s breath behind them, her mother realised it, too. Master Balthion stood with his arms folded, affecting that scholarly-thoughtful look that had been his staple when he studied a certain Pygmy girl behind the zoo bars. But his eyes sparkled.
“Go on,” Pip whispered.
Arosia lifted her hand. Touched the eggshell. “Chymasion?”
Poor girl, her voice wobbled and cracked like a dragonet’s chuckle. The instant she spoke, the egg shook and suddenly a frantic, redoubled tapping commenced in the interior. Arosia snatched her hand back with a tiny yelp, but the egg did not topple. Instead, it began to rock. It groaned, bulging here and there, as though the Dragon were stretching its limbs in imitation of a babe exercising within its mother’s womb.
“Again?” Oyda suggested.
“Do you think that’s wise?” Shullia said.
Suddenly, Arosia tore free from Pip’s grasp and, rushing forward, pressed herself bodily against the egg, arms akimbo and trembling, as if she wished nothing more beneath the five moons than to meld with the creature within. In a wild voice she cried, “Chymasion, come to me! Arise!”
The egg tipped precipitously. Before Pip or Arosia could even begin to duck, there came a violent ripping sound like a Dragonship’s air sack bursting in a storm, and bucket-loads of hot but not scalding liquid splattered them from head to toe. In a flash of green scales, the newborn hatchling bowled Arosia over, laughing, gurgling, licking her face and limbs with a bright purple, forked tongue, mewling with pleasure as the girl flung out her arms and hugged anything within reach. Arosia was laughing too, begging for relief; the hatchling leaped at Pip and slurped the sticky albumen off her face in one enormous lick, before bounding off in a welter of enthusiasm and running headfirst into his shell-mother’s flank.
