by Marc Secchia
“N-n-no,” Kaiatha stammered. “Show my waist? No. I couldn’t. Pip, have pity.”
Arranging a length of woven cloth over her friend’s shoulders, Pip chuckled, “I’ll make a jungle girl of you yet. How’s this, Kaia?”
“Smoking volcanoes, Pip, my back’s almost bare.”
Pip sighed and asked for more cloth. Honestly. What was so wrong with skin?
At this juncture, Elder No’otha appeared to hand Oyda the traditional gifts she would give her beloved–a new spear, a Pygmy bow and quiver of arrows, and a special stone called the heart-stone which should be buried in the middle of their hut.
He said, “We begin?”
Oyda nodded. “Alright. Time to change my life.”
Cinti smiled at the younger woman, then bent to kiss Oyda’s forehead. “You’re beautiful, my petal. You’ll knock him right out of his boots. As we say in Herimor, the bride is rainbows over the Islands, the beauty of the twin suns garlanded in all their splendour.”
Tears welled in Oyda’s eyes.
Singing the traditional song called Her Dawn in Ancient Southern, the women led the bride forth. The younger girls, Pip included, broke into gentle, beautiful dance-forms of celebration, mimicking the unfurling of flowers with sweeping motions of the arms and backs extravagantly arched. Nak emerged, and it was all Pip could do not to howl with laughter. He was arrayed as a splendid Pygmy warrior, painted in dark swirls rather than ochre, his beet-red face thankfully mostly hidden beneath a feathered mask fashioned in the likeness of a snarling jaguar. His headdress was a shimmering golden cloth of a fabric Pip had never seen before, which glistened like liquid gold in the firelight, and his loincloth was fashioned of the same cloth, also decorated with white opals. In his hands he bore a magnificent ruby and diamond necklace for Oyda, the greatest treasure of the tribe. It was not one strand of jewels but ten, in totality at least seven inches wide, and the centrepiece of the ensemble, also called the heart-stone, was a marvellously tooled seven-pointed star of what Emblazon wonderingly, in telepathic Dragonish, identified as magical horiatite, a gemstone found only on the holy Dragon Island of Ha’athior.
As she observed Nak and Oyda’s interaction during the ceremony and oath-taking that followed, and saw Duri’s regard for Kaiatha and Silver’s for her, Pip learned a new truth. Love was the harbinger of hope. Love was the glue and the binding, the vine of all peoples, the gelid sap of life.
Having forgotten her cares for some hours after the ceremony, during the feasting and dancing and displays of warrior-skills that followed, Pip allowed her thoughts to turn inward. Would she live to enjoy such a moment with Silver? What did the Ancient Dragon’s talon-tip touch signify? If Star Dragons existed, as Leandrial suggested, where were they in this mess, or was the convergence of usual, even forbidden powers, in her and Silver, Chymasion and Jyoss, meant to address that lack?
She understood so little.
Pip turned and left the cavern, climbing the ravine to a warm, sunny boulder above where the treeline broke just enough to allow a shaft of golden suns-shine to strike and warm the ground, and found Silver there, apparently sleeping in a patch of suns-shine.
Her heart was a butterfly’s wings tickling her throat. To borrow a Yaethi saying, coincidence? Or congruence?
“Join me, Pip?” Silver offered, without cracking open an eye.
Even in Human form, he managed to look improbably feline, stretched out in the suns’ warmth with his arms folded behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles. He was all hanks of lean, corded muscle–woefully skinny, Mistress Mya’adara had opined–and his skin as pale as Oyda’s porcelain dinner set, but did it glisten ever so slightly with the same silvery magic that danced in his unusual eyes? Had she a pair of drumsticks, she could have played a pretty tune on his pebbly abdominals. Roaring rajals! And she had tried to beat a hole in this Dragon’s ribcage?
“Mmm,” Pip teased, “I’m eyeing up a Silver buffet, fetchingly displayed.”
Mercy. Flirtation with the subtlety of a flying war-hammer.
“When in the Crescent, do as the Pygmies do,” Silver replied nonchalantly. Pip lay down on her stomach beside him, her chin cupped in her hands. “Besides, I think I’m growing rather fond of you, you pocket-sized fumarole of mischief.”
“I-I … oh.” His lazy grin made her stumble over her words. Wretched Shapeshifter. “This morning–”
“Was hilarious. Emblazon wasn’t impressed. But he was chuckling about it afterward, when he was sure you weren’t looking. Pip–”
Uncertain of how she would answer the question she sensed on the tip of his tongue, Pip burst out, “What’s soul-fire, Silver? I’ve heard Jyoss mention it, once. ”
“You’re surprisingly mystical this fine afternoon, for an avowed jungle girl.”
Pip dared herself to stroke his cheek. “Says the silver-skinned lizard from Herimor?”
He drawled, “Besides, Pygmies are allegedly connected to the most ancient of Dragon magic, thou favoured child of Fra’anior’s paw. Small accolade, that. No burden at all.” Pip winced, but he stroked her fingertips gently. “Scared?”
“Not a jot. Brave as the day is long.”
“I see. Brave for eighteen or nineteen hours, and then?” That deserved a rude noise and Pip gave it to him with zest. He added, “Don’t freeze me out, Pip.”
“What?”
Now, Silver’s eyes did open, his expression discomfiting, even hurt. “An Ancient Dragon touches you and you’ve nothing to say?”
“I was just about to ask …” Even to her own ears she sounded overly defensive, which served only to annoy her further. “Islands’ sakes, that’s not what I’m about, Silver. I spent most of my growing years in a zoo speaking to monkeys–can I be forgiven a little self-reliance?”
“All I ask is an open door. Just a crack.”
Pip lapsed into fuming silence. What was this? He couldn’t handle a girl who was stronger than him? Was he jealous of her powers, or of her apparent favour with Fra’anior–not understanding, clearly, how such an encounter might serve to shatter the foundations of a person’s existence, and how it added to the already overwhelming Island of expectations she must shoulder? Might she not claim a little time of her own to process the encounter? Coupled with that, there was the bewildering development of her Dragon powers in directions no-one claimed to understand, an emotional homecoming, her mother’s condition, and her feelings not knowing which Island was which over her Dragoness’ return …
“Soul-fire is a mystical expression of a Dragon’s inmost being,” Silver said, tightly. “It is said that certain Dragons, having breathed soul-fire together, are linked at levels deeper even than the Dragon-Rider oath magic, Dragonsoul entwines Dragonsoul. It forms an irrevocable and exceptional bond. Few claim to have breathed soul-fire. The most famous example in Herimor Dragon-lore is said to have been Tarquira the Turquoise Dragoness and Shendiss, a famously powerful Red Elder. Both were without peer in their mastery of draconic magic. The obvious candidate north of the Rift is Hualiama and Grandion, both Blue Dragons. Shimmerith taught me that Hualiama was the first Star Dragoness.”
“A Star Dragoness?” Pip’s mind leaped to that strange experience during her first walk of the jungle ways. The star she had imagined speaking to her. Could there be a connection?
Words welled within her, haltingly at first, as Pip described her journey between the Islands and the even stranger encounter with the star. She wondered again if she should tell the Silver Shapeshifter all her secrets. Was that the reservation he sensed so keenly? If the Black Dragon indeed claimed some numinous bond with the smallest of Dragons, should she be honoured, or terribly, chillingly afraid?
He growled, “Fra’anior isn’t enough, now you must commune with stars?”
Pip almost hit him. Silver sensed her reaction, for he was up in a flash, seizing her wrist.
“Let me go!”
“Listen, I’m sorry.”
“No you blasted wel
l aren’t! You think it’s all attention-seeking. Silver, I never wanted this. I never asked to be a Dragon nor for this fate!” She did not pull away, but her gaze was all the frost he had accused her of, and more. “If you want me to open up, Silver, then you have to be willing to listen and accept, for if you can’t stomach the truth, who will?”
He said, “It just sounds unbelievable, that’s all.”
“More or less unbelievable than Fra’anior’s appearance, Silver? Answer me! Or did our eyes collectively deceive us?”
He did not reply. He could not.
Pip clenched her fists. “Fine! I’m going for a walk. Don’t you dare follow!”
She stormed off into the jungle.
* * * *
Far out of any Dragon’s earshot, Pip allowed herself to cry. She curled up beneath a tree and tried to think her way through all that had transpired in a few short months. School. Friends. Dragons. Powers. A world which in many ways had opened to a Pygmy, yet in others, she had been forced to fight and fight again. She laughed quietly at the memories of Kassik bawling her out on his carpet, then wept for the students and friends who had been killed. She sorrowed for brave Maylin and Emmaraz and wished dearly for their safe return. Pip tried to reason through what she had learned about the Shadow beast. There was so much. Too much. Yet she could neither hide nor run away. No longer was she the simple jungle girl, nor was she even a student. Life had chosen to graduate her.
She focussed inward, trying to apply the mental disciplines in which Silver and Master Ga’am had instructed her to the conundrums surrounding her Shapeshifter heritage and the question that constantly plagued her–even if she could by some miracle defeat the Marshal, how could they defeat the Shadow?
Later, Pip heard Shimmerith calling for her, flying somewhere overhead. She glanced up. Should she respond? Put the others’ worries at rest? Ay. This too was part of growing up.
She rose, calling, Shimmerith.
It was Shimmerith with Oyda, no doubt sent because Pip was close to both the Yelegoy Islander and the Sapphire Dragoness. They approached rapidly through the jungle canopy, the Dragoness finding her way adeptly through the dense foliage right to Pip’s side.
She greeted the pair with a wry grin. “Oyda, if I don’t return you right now, Nak’s never going to forgive me for spoiling his nuptials.”
“That old cliff-goat can wait,” Oyda said acidly. “More importantly, how are you, Pip?”
Pip said, “Afflicted with nothing that cannot wait for the morrow, Oyda. Silver and I fought. I’m exhausted and besieged by everything that has happened, but I just need time to think it through and try to reach some conclusions.”
Oyda regarded her with that quirky grin Pip had grown to love. “I knew you’d fought. Silver said otherwise, but that boy’s emotions are an open scroll.”
Shimmerith engulfed Pip’s shoulders with her forepaw. The Silver Dragon worships your wingtips. Be cunning, Pip. Allow him to pursue, to close with you. Allow him to think he’s winning. Males like that. He will pursue you the more ardently for your astute fire-craft.
Relationship advice, Dragon-style! Pip wrinkled her nose at the Sapphire. Is that what won you Emblazon, Shimmerith?
Oyda said, “Are you quite sure you’re alright, Pip?”
“Ay. Let’s walk back. I’ll tell you more, if it’ll put your mind at rest. Especially regarding Silver, Oyda. Boys are so complicated.”
“Boys? Complicated?” Oyda snorted, rolling her eyes. “Great Islands, have you got a lot to learn, Pip!”
Pip chuckled brightly. “That’s what I’m hoping for, Oyda.”
The Dragon Rider began to wave her arms as she launched into a speech which appeared to have enjoyed recent polishing, “Complicated? Nonsense, you silly ralti sheep. Leagues off the Isle of Truth. Boys are a harp with one string. They’re the same meal morning, noon and night, every day of the week. Why, boys even …”
Chapter 19: Jungle Jinx
Silver woke Pip with a posy of flowers and a bold kiss on the tip of her nose. Oyda was wrong. He was no one-stringed harp, she decided instantly. He was the intricate melody of her heart. Pip rewarded him with a kiss that startled them both with its intensity–draconic passion ruling them both, momentarily, before a soft remark of approbation from Arosia turned both Shapeshifters into overheated puddles of embarrassment. Pip touched her tingling lips, staring at Silver with huge eyes. Her first kiss. And it was a sizzler.
Silver clasped her fingers briefly. “There will be more of those, my Pip.”
“Now,” she said, and made good on her words. And a glob of windroc spit for anyone who cared to watch.
An hour later, the Dragonwing made ready to depart, once Nak and Oyda had been extracted from their love-nest and Tik had finished thanking them all for her rescue in piping, earnest tones. She was so happy. Sometimes Pip wished to be a child again, just to experience that precious, fleeting innocence. The kind of innocence Re’akka had no qualms in destroying with fire and sword. Today was about finding the Ape Steps. Today, Elder No’otha and five Pygmy warriors, including Pip’s father Fiò’tí, flew with the Dragonwing to assist with their jungle craft.
Her father flew Dragonback with Pip. “Better your mother did not see this,” he said quietly in the Pygmy tongue. “Storm clouds obscure her mind, Pip. My sadness is as unbounded as the Cloudlands oceans.”
“I rend my face in blood-grief, father,” she bugled back.
“Ay. Now teach this proud Pygmy father how to fly, daughter-of-my-heart.”
Dragons wept tears of fire.
Oceans. What a peculiar word. Pip knew the concluding double-trill signified water, but the word indicated a body of water far larger than a terrace lake. That was a different word in Ancient Southern, with a completely different etymology. She should ask Cinti or Silver. Perhaps there were oceans in Herimor.
Once aloft, Pip used Chymasion and Silver to show the layout of the Islands they required from her memory, but she elided the crucial details of where the Ape Steps commenced and concluded, as agreed. No-one else would hold that knowledge in their minds. Safety first.
Four days, they searched. Four days, they hid in fear and frustration below Island or shielded as the Marshal’s forces crawled all over the Islands, conducting their own search. Only Shimmerith’s mastery, Cinti’s knowledge and Silver’s power kept them from being discovered. That third day, Marshal Re’akka’s Island finally appeared from the mists of its concealment, less than fifty leagues south of their position. Ay, he had been hiding, too. The game grew deeper, the stakes higher.
Pip eyed that forbidding hulk pensively. The Island was perhaps three leagues in diameter and a league and a half tall, shaped like a thick ring with a hole in the centre, hidden from view on the horizontal plane, from which dozens of Dragonwings issued or returned on a regular basis. The Island seemed to breathe Dragons. It looked like a flying vessel, an Island-Dragonship hovering there over the deeps in bleak defiance of any law of gravity or magic. Otherwise the Island was unremarkable. Its khaki-green, moss-covered flanks gave it the appearance of a vast boulder wrenched from a damp swamp, but the moss had been scarred in many places. The Rift storms, Silver noted. Its heights were bearded with a thick layer of deep purple coniferous forests, which made more than one Dragon stare in amazement.
“Purple forests?” Emblazon snorted. “What next, flying ralti sheep?”
Arosia asked, “Silver, if Islands float in Herimor as a matter of course, what’s so special about Marshal Re’akka floating an Island across the Rift?”
Silver gestured toward the Island with his fore-talon. “Ordinarily, it requires the action of multitudes of ragions, our gas-producing bottom-dwelling Dragonkind, to float an Island. You would normally see them clustered in a thick, living layer beneath the Island, the nine-toed talons of each of six legs immovably affixed to the native rock, or gripping each other. However, I believe that the ragions would be utterly destroyed in the fire of the Rift-storms.
The difference is, Arosia, that the Marshal floated this Island with his own Kinetic power and shielded it from the storms of fire from below and chain lightning above.”
The citadel of evil. Almost, they flew beneath its shadow. Pip had steeled herself–well, she did not know for what exactly–only to find the Island had no outward features that might warn a watcher of the malevolence lurking within, but she did sense a vast, ominous magic emanating from its belly. And … Imbalance. She had been trying to teach herself to see with the eyes of Balance, mimicking in some small sense the magic of harmonic inference which Leandrial had taught her. If she was not mistaken, she detected an Imbalance somewhere in the Cloudlands below the Island–Shurgal? Did she sense the presence of the rogue Land Dragon? Yet not even Chymasion’s unique magic could penetrate the Cloudlands, and it did seem that the Shadow Dragon also could not penetrate that gloomy demesne, from what the Land Dragon had told her before. If only they could hide all Dragons beneath the Cloudlands. Not that any Lesser Dragon worth their wings would ever take kindly to hiding from any danger. That was regarded as the worst form of cowardice after outright treachery or acting contrary to the survival of the Dragon race.
Maybe the Cloudlands were the key, possessing some property or element that could defeat the Shadow Dragon? Unusual speed or strength could not be enough. There had to be a different, more intelligent answer.
Four days of hunting high and low brought them no sign of the Island outlines that would indicate the Ape Steps they sought. Pip was frustrated, Emblazon snappish and Silver philosophical. As they gathered deep beneath the jungle boughs that fourth evening to evaluate their progress, in a hollow created by five intertwined jungle giants so massive they created a woody cavern between their roots sizeable enough for multiple Dragons, Jyoss and Durithion flew out on patrol with Tazzaral, who had Cinti aboard. Kaiatha was sick, laid low with a fierce jungle fever.
