by Marc Secchia
Pip noticed that the central wooden table, a highly polished oval of dark wood, was laid for dinner for just three persons. It could as well have been a king’s table, she imagined. Gold cutlery. Gold plates. High-backed chairs of flawless craftsmanship, apparently hand-carved. Place settings outlined with a bewildering array of three-tined forks, petite skewers, and dainty, long-handled spoons. Every detail was perfect, down to the flower arrangements standing around the circular, tapestry-screened walls, seven in all. Each tapestry depicted a story or scene drawn from Herimor’s history, she assumed. The artwork was fabulous, perhaps platinum, gold and silver thread.
Yet what was this banquet, a triumphal celebration?
A slight scuffing of boots behind one of the tapestries alerted her to movement. Whirling, Pip saw the Marshal emerge from a hidden doorway, his hand firmly placed upon the shoulder of one she had fervently hoped would be five hundred leagues away by now.
She whispered, “Silver. You didn’t.”
“I’m afraid I did.” And he raised his chin as if daring Pip to deny him his right, to misconstrue what his very presence here betrayed.
She could not. Marshal Re’akka’s wolfish grin spoke volumes, but her heart’s cry was no volcano of fury. It was elation. Ten thousand words could not have expressed his love more clearly; a romantic Dragonflight around the Yellow Moon would have paled in comparison. He had probably doomed himself, but she had never loved him more than at this moment. Sweet agony suffused her breast, despair mingled with exultation over the fate he had chosen. Silver! You chose me!
Re’akka could hardly disguise his glee. “I see you have feelings for my treacherous shell-son.”
“She will not hesitate to slay me,” Silver said. “She has tried twice already.”
Without making any reply, the Marshal seated himself first, indicating that Pip and Silver should take the other two seats. Silver held her chair for her. Pip glanced at him, trying not to blush as she had to scramble up into the seat. Grr. Short legs. Silver wore a golden Lavanias collar, a more complex affair than the one with which he had attempted to bind her. He looked well, unlike his girlfriend with her bruises and swollen lip.
“You’re looking at a poison-dart Lavanias collar,” said Re’akka. “One word from me, and the collar will inject him with a deadly Shapeshifter poison.”
Silver said, “But you left Pip unchained, shell-father. Are you not afraid she will speak a Word and doom our family?”
The Marshal chuckled curtly. “And unleash the Shadow, thus dooming the Island-World’s remaining Dragonkind?”
“Perhaps I am desperate enough to take my chances,” Pip snapped.
“Perhaps there is an auditory magical ward spoken over this Island, denying the only viable form of your foul magic,” said Re’akka. “Allow me to explain. Using your unique magical signature, provided by your old comrade Zardon, my family has spent the last few months preparing this Island to entrap you. We knew you for a risk-taker, a warrior, unlike your pathetic Academy friends. After all, it is only logical that I should hold the key to the Shadow. And I do. This I have already gleaned by eavesdropping on your thoughts via the oath-magic that binds you to my shell-son.”
Silver and Pip gasped as one.
“Ah, yes.” Re’akka waved grandly as a bevy of servants appeared, bringing the first course. “Please, help yourselves. After all, it’s the last meal Silver will enjoy in his … right mind. Tomorrow I shall assign the task of your interrogation to him. I’m quite convinced he’ll find it a tremendous pleasure.”
A glance at Silver assured her that he felt quite sick enough to retch all over the table. Pip locked gazes with the Marshal, feeling her black eyes flash with draconic fury. “And what makes you think he’ll succeed where you failed so miserably?”
The Marshal’s knuckles whitened on the handle of his long spoon as he served himself from a dish Pip could not even begin to recognise. “Oath-magic,” he spat. “The reason none of my progeny will ever become Dragon Riders. So much passes through the link. Zardon was the traitor you suspected, Pip–isn’t it ironic? I’ve already learned so much about you and your precious friends, the forms of your magic and even your so-called special relationship with the Black Dragon, Fra’anior. Derisible! You think I display hubris? You dream of spirit-descent from an Ancient Dragon! The sad fool beneath this Island is you, Pip. Where is your precious Fra’anior now? Fled this Island-World like the craven worm he is!”
“He had his reasons.”
Pip’s voice quavered. She tried to disguise her response by helping herself to a few little biscuits artistically piled with unfamiliar minced meat heavily garnished with spices, and a few sticks of a purple root vegetable that looked the least poisonous of the dishes on another platter.
“Try the chiyyifish, Pip,” said the Marshal, waving a servant in her direction. “The flavour is particularly exquisite, matured over the course of a month under exacting conditions.”
For a few minutes they ate in uncomfortable silence. The food was peculiar, but delicious in the main, although it hurt her abominably to chew. Pip waved away a fine Herimor vintage of hesk-wine, a luminous purple drink of which one sniff made her head spin, and requested water in its place.
“Traditionally, Herimor food is highly spiced in order to hide the presence of poisons,” said the Marshal, as if intent on making convivial conversation. “We become experts in different tastes. Unlike my dishonourable agent, that hapless turncoat Telisia–how easy it was to warp her mind–I have eschewed the slightest help from food, poisons, environmental agents or truth-eliciting or mind-altering drugs when it comes to your interrogation. These things are beneath me. But I will have no hesitation in using my shell-son as the gilded dagger of my right hand.”
She did not entirely understand his phrasing. Silver would commit dishonourable acts on behalf of the Marshal? This was acceptable? Instead, she said, “You sound bitter about the Ancient Dragons, Re’akka.”
“Bitter? They abandoned the Dragonkind.”
“But you’re a Shapeshifter, as am I. Our race is a relatively recent player on the Island-World’s stage, stemming from the heritage of Hualiama Dragonfriend,” said Pip, genuinely curious now. “How does this ancient history relate to Shifters?”
Silver said, “My father believes in the ancient seed theory. This hypothesis–”
“Fact!” snapped Re’akka, and every other person in the room save Pip or Silver.
The Marshal added, “Tell the histories truthfully, or be cursed, Silver!”
Did his hand quiver? Silver believed in that curse? Pip stared across the beautiful table as her boyfriend said, “The first denizens of this Island-World following the Ancient Dragons were Shapeshifters, seeded by Fra’anior and his kin. Fra’anior, however, was betrayed by Numistar the White and Dramagon the Red, his shell-kin, and the original magic of that seed corrupted by a great curse known as–the Division, I believe you’d say in Standard–which split that original pure race into Humans and Lesser Dragons, each in their own right far lesser beings than what had been before. Shapeshifter magic was twisted and oppressed.”
“Oppressed and downtrodden!” shouted the gathered Shapeshifters, making Pip startle and spill her drink.
Silver’s voice took on a singsong quality as he recited, “Great was the evil done that day, but greater still the evil to come. For Fra’anior and his ilk summoned the Shadow Dragons from a place far beyond the bounds of our Universe, and abandoned the Island-World to their depredations, intending to wipe out the ill-fated Lesser Dragons and the hidden Shapeshifters forever, paving the way for unopposed Human rule. It was the great Shapeshifters of the Herimor noble lines who learned to bind the forces of Shadow, and thus saved the Lesser Dragons from extinction. Now it is our noble task–”
“Our noble calling,” agreed thirty voices. This time, Pip kept her hands perfectly still.
“–to restore the original, perfect Balance by completing the great work begun by
Hualiama, our beautiful shell-mother, who conceived of and inspired the resurgence of Shapeshifters all over the world, reuniting the debased Humans and Lesser Dragons into perfect Shapeshifters. We are the original creation, the true heirs of the Islands. We are destined to rule all.”
“WE WILL RULE!”
Well, that certainly rattled the cutlery. Pip said cautiously, “So, Shapeshifters have always existed? They were … hidden?”
“Suppressed,” snapped Re’akka.
“Alright, suppressed. And the Ancient Dragons failed to deal with these Shadow beasts?”
“No, they fled, yammering like kicked curs!”
“So how come you own a pet Shadow?” At last, she was learning a few things. Perhaps too late, but that remained to be seen.
“I trapped it. My powers alone brought the ravening creature to heel, and I unleash it only on the foes of true-fire Shapeshifters.” The Marshal wet his lips delicately. “The traitorous Fra’anior granted the Land Dragons knowledge of the magic which summons Shadow Dragons from beyond the fabric of our universe. They desire to steal this Island-World for themselves!”
Pip’s tongue uttered words before she could think the better of her reaction. “Shurgal did that?”
Re’akka’s fingers snapped the stem of the crystal goblet he had just raised to his lips. He stared at Pip, his throat working as he appeared to fight an insane desire to leap across the table and slay her. “How do you know of Shurgal?”
“I know the Land Dragons seek the First Egg for themselves,” she hedged, hoping Leandrial would not slap her like a mosquito for the half-truth. “They stalk you even now.”
She was hard-put not to imagine the Marshal and all his progeny having eyes that popped out on stalks at her statement. She heard someone whisper, ‘So the report from Fra’anior Cluster spoke true?’ Re’akka’s eyes darted in that direction, silencing the offender.
Pip could not believe she had been so wrong. The Marshal cast himself as the world’s defender against the Shadow beast and the saviour of all Shapeshifters, destined to restore the beauty of that first creation. The Land Dragons were usurpers, the Ancient Dragons traitors. That part did ring true. What reason could Fra’anior and his kin possibly have to abandon the Island-World, unless they themselves could not combat the Shadow Dragon? Which left her … where, exactly? On the wrong side in this conflict? Herself a traitor to her race, the Shapeshifters? She saw it all now, so clearly. She must surrender her powers to this noble cause. It was the only way.
Her mental armour wavered as she grieved her wrongdoings.
Then, she caught from the corner of her eye a tiny nod from the Marshal as he directed Silver’s next statement. Mercy! Pip pretended to choke on a coil of what looked remarkably like a fern’s tendril but tasted like charcoal mixed with greasy pod-chillies. Genuinely foul, she had to admit, searching within for some sign that the oath-magic had been turned against her. What she identified was her inner fragility. Day after day of unrelenting torture had left its mark, now she was questioning her own mental processes, trapped in a mire of self-doubt. All she knew was that Re’akka must gain no foothold. She must stand firm.
Silver was relating the past, the story of their brave journey across the Rift in search of the singular power which would bring it all together. The Word of Command.
Pip wished she could reach to kick him beneath the table. Deserter! He was already lost, incapable of standing against the Marshal–or could she hope he was playing a double-game, just as the Marshal’s double-bluff had almost slipped through her defences? No. He must be the Marshal’s gormless quisling. Or not. What plan had he devised before throwing himself upon Re’akka’s tender mercies? If he was still in his sound mind, she must never reveal it. Well, here was a teeth-gritting conundrum.
When Silver’s monologue wound to an end, two dinner courses later, Pip tried to school her expression into vacancy. “Have you seen the First Egg, Silver? What’s inside that will help the cause?”
The Marshal’s eyes flickered ever so slightly. “Lore. Power. The greatest font of magic left in this Island-World.”
“The Egg’s power will defeat the Shadow?”
“Of course.”
Pip pretended confusion. “Then I … I will never give up, Re’akka. I mustn’t, because … no. You can’t make me.”
Re’akka raised his glass. “Perhaps a viewing of the Egg is in order, in good time. After Silver’s loyalty has been tested by torturing you.”
“I won’t do it, shell-father. You can’t make me.”
He was either a great actor, or completely in the Marshal’s power. It was only with the greatest effort that Pip kept her voice firm. “He’s weaker than you, Re’akka. How do expect him to succeed this time?”
The Marshal’s smile grew into a masterpiece of devious brilliance. “You’re a poor actress, girl, and you’re trying to deceive one who hails from a culture of deceit. Give it up.”
Pip jutted out her chin, glaring at Re’akka. “Your games have failed, old man.”
His laugh was pure mockery, a Dragon’s fireball fired into the heart of her defiance. “Besides, we both know your weakness, don’t we, Pip? You’re a jungle animal. And that’s an angle of attack you cannot possibly counteract.”
* * * *
Human-Silver ached to kiss her contorted face. Kiss away the screaming. Kiss away the pain and tears. The accusation he read in every glance. Yet could she only have seen through to his anguish, veiled beneath nine layers of the finest Herimor-style mental trickery he and his shell-mother could devise … Pip’s boldness had forced his paw. That knowledge only exacerbated his guilt.
To win his father’s trust, he must torture Pip to the utmost of his considerable expertise. Love did not beat the beloved. Yet he was either too dim-witted, or too cowardly, to conceive of another way.
He was also so depleted, sweat ran in rivulets down his face and neck.
The inmost layer screened off his true self, first locked away and then veiled in the guise of latent fears. The third and fourth layers were a construct and a shield, a compliant mind concealed behind an armoured psychic shell, identified by that oxymoronic notion of false true-self indicators. Should Re’akka breach the outer layers, this one should convince him he had reached the depths of Silver’s psyche. The fifth to ninth layers comprised another fake mind and three layers of disparate, powerful mental shields–exactly what the Marshal would expect. The trouble was the strain of keeping up all that pretence.
With a final mental blow that would have snuffed out most Dragons’ minds like a pair of fingers pinching out a candle, Silver collapsed on the torture-plinth beside Pip. He coughed and spat blood on the floor.
See, shell-father, my devotion to you.
Re’akka did not respond, but Silver knew he was watching. Always watching.
Pip lay limp against the manacles. Only the pulse in her neck and the slight rising and falling of her chest betrayed the life still flowing in her veins. For that, he was grateful.
Briefly, Silver considered killing himself. Too good a fate.
Her head turned. He felt her breath stirring the air over his ear. Then a thought, just a faraway echo of a whisper, Sacrifice was my right.
She knew! Almost, Silver’s reaction betrayed him, but he clamped down at the last instant.
Her eyes touched his. Drew him in. Wells of darkness, inhabited in their depths by a curl of living flame. She spoke not a word. She did not formulate a thought in Dragonish. Pip knew the Marshal would be listening and watching. She examined him as if his every secret was hers to know. Then, she changed. She opened herself and drew him in by a magic Silver could not begin to fathom.
To gaze that deep was a soul’s journey. He dived into profundity so immeasurable, a Silver Dragon experienced a sense of vertigo for the first time in his life, for it seemed he could see into her very soul.
There, where onyx power enwrapped a glimmer of starlight.
Chapter 25: Egg
Lore
A Bevy of seRVANTS roused Pip and bade her follow. Lord Zardon commanded her presence. She stumbled behind, before collapsing, too weak to walk more than a few steps. The last session with Silver had been brutal, for he had learned much and grown in power since their encounter in the Natal Cave. Did he draw power from the First Egg, as she suspected the Marshal did in secret?
And then there had been that moment of connection–could she hope? Was it but a spark of compassion she had seen there in a mind dominated by the Marshal, or was Silver playing a deep game? Sacrificing himself, becoming her substitute?
He must think she could not wrest the Marshal’s secrets from him. Truth be told, he was right. Pip recognised that now.
The servants returned to kick her into motion.
“Stop.”
Pip glanced up, holding her ribs. “Zardon. One more broken bone hardly matters at this point, does it?”
The tall, elderly Shapeshifter regarded her with asperity. “Dying is not written in the plan. On your feet, Pygmy warrior.” When she only groaned something about feeling more like a slab of tenderised meat than a warrior, he swooped unexpectedly to gather her in his arms. “Patience is not a draconic character trait, either. No, be silent. Your chatter annoys me.”
Zardon? Pip did indeed hold her tongue, for his behaviour did not ring true. Heavens, he was strong for such an old-timer. He carried her with ease along corridors and up flights of stairs, quickly entering parts of the underground warren Pip did not recognise. Black, spiky Assassins repeatedly checked his progress and allowed them to pass without comment.
He said, “We have forged far into the Middle Sea, out of sight or reach of land. Escape is impossible. The time has come to take you to the First Egg, to test your animal strength there.”
Pip said nothing, but found the temptation to rest her head against his chest too much to deny. Zardon had been a father to her. For the first time since her flight to Eridoon Island, she began to cry–not sobbing or moving in any way, just tears leaking from her eyes to wet his chest and crooked arm, and her plain green, sleeveless tunic top. Zardon did not appear to notice. On and on he walked through the well-lit granite tunnels, until at last Pip sensed a change in the air–no, the presence of magic.
