Dragonlove

by Marc Secchia

  Dancing dragonets, what a close shave. War averted, yet the scales remained delicately balanced. Across the world, Humans stuck to their Islands and Dragons lived where they pleased. The Fra’aniorian arrangement was an eccentric, complex one, where Humans and Dragons had somehow forged an uneasy living arrangement in close quarters–Dragons to the volcanic peaks and caves, Humans hunting and farming the rich slopes above the jaw-dropping vertical cliffs that descended over a league into the active, smoking caldera, and tiny monasteries of Dragon-worshipping Human monks who lived outside the law, clinging like ants to the crags.

  Magic steeped Fra’anior’s very air.

  A sigh escaped her lips. Lia admired the draconic predators dwindling over the caldera, secure in the knowledge that today, no Dragonwing would return in a blaze of fire and fury to destroy her people. Surely her father and his councillors could respect that?

  Hearing a footstep behind her, Hualiama turned to meet the King’s wrath. “Father–”

  He cracked her across the cheek, backhanded, so hard that Lia stumbled to her knees with a sharp cry. “How dare you disrespect me!”

  Gone, her tall, dignified father. In his place a panting monster of clenched fists and blotchy jowls, a man ready to lash out again, to hurt her, if she spoke a single word. Numbly, her fingers explored her throbbing cheek, coming away daubed with blood. His heavy signet ring, the symbol of his kingship, had seen to that.

  “So help me, I’m a peaceful man, Hualiama, but you’ve gone too far this time.” As if aware of the spectacle he was creating, the King stepped back, dusting his hands on his robes. “I may not be your blood-father, but I am your King. I demand your obedience in all matters.”

  Hualiama rose to her feet, too shocked to respond.

  “You won’t speak? Not a word of apology?” Biting off his words as though they stung his lips, Chalcion raged, “Your behaviour is disgraceful! A shame upon this house! Well, daughter, you’re grounded–literally. No more frolicking about in your Dragonship. No more privileges. I absolutely forbid you to leave this Palace.”

  Her cage of gilded splendour. Hualiama lived in arguably the richest household in the Island-World, yet what her heart longed for most could never be found within its walls.

  “You will never again set foot on the sacred Island–do you hear me? And while I’m the King upon the Onyx Throne, you’ll cease this … this pathetic drivel about a dragonet who died years ago. It’s absurd and childish.”

  “Flicker saved our lives, father.”

  The King roared, “Do you not think I know that?” Lia could not help but cringe before his upraised hand. “Answer me!”

  “Yes, father.”

  “Do you dislike this life you have, Lia?”

  “No, father.”

  “Would you prefer to be living in a village somewhere, grubbing in the soil for your food?”

  “No, father.”

  “Is there something you lack? Food? Clothing? Love?”

  “No, father.”

  “Then don’t make me regret adopting you into this family!”

  Now she knew that words could hurt more than blows, because their pain could lacerate her soul. Hualiama felt herself curling inwardly, as though a rajal had gutted her with a cunning blow of its hooked claws.

  Uncle Zalcion sniggered, “Well said, o King. Well said indeed!”

  She loathed him.

  Chapter 2: Summoning

  Kneeling on the punishment board inside the King’s private library, Hualiama whiled away the hours in silent suffering. The board, two feet square, was a mass of uneven, sharpened dowels which dug mercilessly into her knees, calves and feet, pressing in as though intent on drilling through the flesh to torture her bones–an exquisite, crippling type of pain.

  She was to kneel on the board, cradling a heavy, smooth onyx stone on her lap, until someone came to fetch her.

  Fyria, her royal sister, had been as pleased as a rajal kitten wading jowl-deep through fresh cream to bring her the news that morning. Princess Fyria’aliola of Fra’anior–Fyria for short–was a year younger than Hualiama, but also a head taller, and never failed to seize every opportunity to drive home the difference between their positions. Nicknamed Fiery for her titian hair, her sister was also a great beauty–Islands’ sakes, and didn’t she know it! She was her father’s daughter, right down to the barely-concealed vindictive streak.

  Lia also had three brothers–studious, dutiful Ka’allion from her father’s first marriage, Elka’anor, her favourite and a perfect scamp, and Fa’arrion, who could never keep words straight in his head, but was able to sing the very suns out of their nocturnal beds. They had given each other nicknames, growing up. So her brothers became Kalli, Elki and Ari, she became Lia, and Fyria … ugh. She became a monster.

  Pain radiated up her spine.

  Sighing, eschewing any movement that would introduce fresh agony to her legs, Hualiama gazed at the tall jalkwood bookshelf facing her. It held great ranks of leather-bound tomes which chronicled Fra’anior’s rich history. Maybe she could read the titles again. Maybe she could recite them in order from memory, forwards or backwards, shelf by shelf. Why had the King not forgotten the punishment board? She had last knelt here three years ago. Of course Fyria, the prekki-fruit of her father’s eye, had never suffered this punishment.

  Amaryllion, her Ancient Dragon friend who dwelled in the caverns beneath Ha’athior Island, would have said that bitterness produced bitter fruit. “A cancer of the soul,” she growled, trying her best to imitate his thunderous tones. Impossible. But she wrapped her fondest memories of him around her heart. When last had she seen the old lizard? With Ha’athior being off-limits to her and Human-Dragon relations sinking further into the Cloudlands by the day, travel to the holy Dragon-Isle grew perilous. Though she had never seen her friend in the light of day, Lia knew Amaryllion Fireborn was the same onyx colour as the stone she cradled–the colour of the greatest of the Ancient Dragons, Fra’anior, for whom both the Island-Cluster and its main Island, Fra’anior, were named. Fra’anior was a famous Dragon philosopher and scholar, mighty in magic, who had codified the Dragon lore, developed the sciences, and written with great eloquence about the worlds beyond the Island-World.

  The stone’s smooth lustrous surface enticed her, tugging at a level below conscious thought. Lia allowed her eyelids to flutter shut. She tried to meditate as the warrior monks had taught her.

  Hualiama.

  Tears sprang to her eyes as she recalled the old Dragon’s parting words after her last visit–the first she had shed since the King had struck her yesterday. She wanted to think the physical blow was a minor issue. There had been many other blows, over the years. No, where she felt most wounded was deep within. Lia stifled a sob. The Ancient Dragon had been a better parent to her than her own father, offering sage advice, learning, comfort, and above all, love.

  Forbidden, profane love. How could she conceive of love between a Dragon and a Human? She ought to be tossed into a volcano, where she’d burn forever.

  Now, Amaryllion was dying.

  Hualiama Dragonfriend, come to me.

  She jerked, almost spilling the stone from her lap. Re-establishing her position would introduce fresh torment to her limbs. Lia held herself perfectly still.

  Er … Amaryllion? Is that you?

  Her thoughts twirled in a dragonet’s dance.

  Hualiama listened until she felt her soul should surely take flight from yearning, yet she heard nothing more. It must have been her imagination, that febrile attribute which regularly landed her in the proverbial lava pit with her family.

  The door of the outer chamber creaked open. By their familiar tread on the floorboards, Hualiama knew her parents had come at last. Chalcion and Shyana stopped just inside the doorway, conversing in low tones which carried easily to her sensitive hearing. Lia had long ago worked out she could hear things others did not. Distinguishing truth from imagination was often the trickier issue.


  The Queen said, “Chalcion. I thought we’d agreed to stop using that barbarous device.”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” he said.

  “Lia’s twenty-one years old!”

  “And she acts a giddy thirteen–but, my sweet flara-fruit, I did not order this punishment. I thought yesterday enough.”

  “More than enough,” said Shyana, her tone taut with anger.

  He had not ordered this? And she was the sixth moon in the sky! Lia bit her lip furiously. How could she believe a word her father said? Even poor, harmless Ari had once been beaten bloody by Chalcion when an accidental jostle spilled red wine on Shyana’s new ball gown.

  “Will you promise to have it burned?” asked Shyana.

  “I shall. Now, get that girl out of here. Hurry up. I’ve an important meeting this afternoon.”

  “Chalcion, won’t you speak to your daughter? You’re in danger of losing her.”

  “When, and only when, she apologises.”

  Lia gritted her teeth. Aye, that would be when the twin suns rose in the west. His statement summed up Chalcion perfectly. Never bend an inch. Always give an ear to the rumour-mongers, to his weasel of a brother and those slippery councillors of his whom she had heard patting themselves on the back for averting a war with the Dragons. As if they had lifted a finger but to make the situation worse!

  Heeding the Queen’s call, Hualiama set aside the onyx stone, pushed stiffly to her feet, and limped out of the library with all the dignity she could muster. She did not look at the King. Not once.

  * * * *

  Of all her family, it was Fa’arrion who found her the following morning, mooching in the chambers used for music and dance. Hualiama sat plucking idly at a harp, picking out the chords for the sad, mystical Days of Yore, the tale of a Dragon’s quest to find his love who had winged away across the Island-World in search of treasure.

  Ari was useless at sneaking up on anyone, but Lia pretended not to notice. Hands covered her eyes. “Ess goo,” her brother slurred.

  “Guess who?” Hualiama echoed. “It’s a Dragon!”

  “Ess grin,” he laughed.

  She guessed again, several times. A beaming, lopsided grin rewarded her game. Ari was always cheerful. He hated to see her melancholy. He capered a little and then impulsively swung her into a dance. “La-La,” he insisted. Hualiama had to dance with him.

  Suddenly, he froze mid-step. “La ouch?” Ari’s huge paw cupped her cheek hesitantly, touching the wound which Queen Shyana had stitched with thin twine of Seg and dressed with a poultice of turbic-gum. Her brother was a ralti-sized man but as gentle as a lamb–unless roused. Then he could be fearsome, knowing no reason.

  Lia feared to tell him the truth. “Accident,” she whispered.

  She gasped as Ari enveloped her in his stalwart arms, raising her at least a foot off the floor. He murmured, “No Ulz? No Ulz? La-La ‘kay?”

  Great Islands, he remembered Uncle Zalcion! Lia’s already uneasy stomach twinged sharply, a pinprick reminder of scars she still carried.

  Late in the evening after her absurdly lavish eighteenth birthday party, Hualiama had returned to her chambers giggly and skipping with happiness. Music! Laughter! Actual men to dance with, who were not there just to make moon-eyes at Fyria. Her first taste of sweet, delicious berry-wine, which had fizzed straight to her head. Lia shut the door, pirouetted four times across the space of the floor to her folding changing-screen, and slipped behind it to unlace her dress and headscarf. She hung up her lace-trimmed finery for the maid to clean and put away in the morning.

  Humming to herself, Lia tripped over to her hand-carved jalkwood dresser, and smelled him.

  In her nightmares, the smell always came first. Strong spirits mingled with the heavy scent of falgaweed, a tobacco-like narcotic, she had learned later. Strong fingers laced into her long platinum tresses; then, the horror. Lifting Lia by her hair, Zalcion flung her across the dresser, scattering perfume bottles, hairbrushes and the slim Immadian forked daggers she had received as a present from her father. Lia began to scream, but his heavy palm cut off her cries.

  “Shut the trap, wretch,” he rasped. “Nobody’s here to hear you scream.”

  All her warrior training evaporated like the mists of a volcanic dawn, driven away by the tearing pain in her scalp and the ripping of fabric. Cool air trickled down her spine. Lia kicked and thrashed, fearing the worst, but his strength was an Island, immovable. Her hand fell upon a crystal bottle. By blind instinct, she smashed it into her uncle’s face.

  Zalcion still wore those scars.

  Her forehead rebounded off the dresser, the pain crashing between her temples as if she had run headlong into a boulder. Still gripping her hair, Zalcion swung the Princess across the chamber and hurled her facedown on the bed, cursing, “I’ll beat you bloody, you little rajal. Who cares what happens to a royal ward?”

  He knelt on her back, and she could not move him. The bedding muffled her shrieks.

  Then a body crashed into Zalcion, throwing him across the bed. Fa’arrion! Just thirteen, but already as strong as a man; in his frenzy, fiercer by far. He and Zalcion rolled about, punching, grasping, gasping …

  Hualiama shook herself. “Ari, you were my strong Dragon that day. Thank you for saving me. Oof, don’t break my ribs!”

  Her brother set her down as though she were a fragile vase. Lia smiled brightly. Anything to banish those memories. Her uncle still watched her with a sardonic grin curving his lips, making her feel unclean. Zalcion had never sought to enter her chambers again. But he was right. Nobody cared about a royal ward’s behaviour, as long as she was discreet. Lia could do as she wished–should she choose to, which she did not–whereas Fyria’s unmarried state was the fodder of energetic gossip and an even more energetic posse of suitors for the royal hand. According to the time-honoured traditions of Fra’anior, the chosen one would have the honour of kidnapping her sister, and after seven days of formal nuptials, making the Princess his wife.

  Meantime, one of Hualiama’s roles in life was to protect the royal honour and reputation. She could say any number of unsavoury things about that!

  Lia forced out a chuckle. How could she tell him the truth? “Ari, dear one, will you sing for me? It would cheer me up so.”

  Fa’arrion’s chest swelled. “La-La ingame.”

  “Er … you want me to sing along? Fine.” She waggled an eyebrow at him as if intending to joust with a tiny baton. “You take the first verse, though. Make it good. I want to hear the dragonets join in.”

  Ari helped her wheel the harp to the outer chamber, which opened upon a balcony commanding a panoramic view over the caldera. A series of delicate archways separated the interior of the Palace from the open balcony, so festooned with flowering vines that it was difficult to see the stone beneath. Two green dragonets darted away with sharp cries as the Humans approached, only to perch on a nearby pot-plant to goggle at the goings-on.

  Impulsively, Lia said, We’d be honoured if you’d sing with us, little ones.

  The dragonets’ eyes whirled with excitement. It was such a shame not all dragonets spoke Dragonish, as Flicker had. These were juvenile males, just a foot long, but perfect little Dragons in every detail, right down to the skull-spikes, multi-jointed wings and delicate, razor-sharp talons.

  Perching straight-backed on a stool beside the harp, Hualiama’s fingers glided spiderlike over the strings, weaving her web of music. Fa’arrion pitched a soft, penetrating C-sharp with such perfection, it made her nape tingle. To produce such a high note so quietly was fearsomely difficult, but he made the technique seem effortless. His tenor soared even higher to the E, before launching as if he were a Dragon taking wing off a cliff-top into the demanding opening passage of Days of Yore. The piece was written in a supple, shifting harmonic minor that tested a singer’s musicianship to the limit.

  The dragonets spiralled heavenward on the wings of his song, trilling joyous descants and counterpoint harmonies as they began a f
renetic aerial dance. A mating pair of violet-crested lovebirds peeked shyly from behind the trailing vines to add their own sweet notes to the production.

  Tingling with inspiration, Hualiama sang the part of Jynissia, the Amber Dragoness, as she pined for the love of Xaradon the Brown. Lia had a well-trained singing voice, as was proper for a member of the royal household, although she could not match Ari for volume. He was capable of uncorking a volcanic eruption all of his own. Nonetheless, her soprano was rich and effervescent, often astonishing listeners with its lyrical range.

  However, the greatest surprise was that when he sang, Ari’s mouth produced words in perfect Island Standard.

  Teardrops splashed on Hualiama’s sleeve as she considered how unfair it was that Fa’arrion would never be able to speak intelligibly. Her throat thickened, giving her voice especial resonance as stanza after stanza recounted Jynissia’s descent into the volcanic hells of despair and madness–a feeling she knew all too well. Three dissimilar loves; three losses beyond her control. Now, she treated her heart as a sacred treasure. Lock it away and bury it deep. That way, she could never be hurt again.

  Hualiama glanced up to see her mother listening in at the doorway, accompanied by their elderly music tutor, Ga’allio–a musical prodigy if ever one had been born.

  When brother and sister finished their ringing finale, Shyana and Ga’allio applauded in the dignified Fra’aniorian manner. “You made yourself cry.” The tall, slender Queen set her hand upon Hualiama’s shoulder.

  “Zees voss pure geniuz!” cried Ga’allio, in his peculiar brogue.

  “Will you dance with me today, Lia?” asked her mother. “And Ari, my treasure, will you accompany us?”

  “I’d love to!” Lia bounced to her feet, making her mother startle and laugh. Ari made a formal Fra’aniorian half-bow.

  “The Flame Cycle has been on my heart,” said Shyana, allowing Lia to clasp her hand and tug her into the costume-chamber. “I’ve always felt it’s such a free-spirited dance–and if ever I needed a taste of freedom, it is today.”