Dragonlove

by Marc Secchia

  * * * *

  Night had fallen, Lia sensed, but the interior of the Dragon library knew no darkness. “Ha. I knew you could find it again,” she congratulated herself. “Pity about the thousand tunnels you searched fruitlessly beforehand.”

  Hualiama had stumbled upon this library once before. Then, as now, the sheer scale of the place astounded her–a Dragon-sized library in a vertical column, perhaps an old volcanic pipe, thousands of feet tall. The walls were lined with leather-bound books and racks of scrolls. At intervals, wooden beams spanned the width of the column, and held giant reading plinths which stood eighteen feet tall, she estimated. Far overhead, a huge crystal formation blazed with an inner light that reminded her of Amaryllion’s Dragon fire, and at intervals down the walls, similar formations provided ample lighting. Lia grinned, examining the crystalline structures with an engineer’s eye for symmetry, detail and function. Magical lighting! Everything was Dragon-sized.

  Gingerly, Lia crept out of the crack between the bookshelves, and set herself the spider’s task of finding her way to the platform fifty feet beneath her position. Gripping the shelves was the easy part. Finding finger-holds between the books was another matter. The tomes on these shelves stood eight feet tall and probably weighed more than half a dozen unruly royal wards all rolled together.

  When her feet found the platform, she breathed a sigh of relief. Now to scale a plinth. This task was harder, but Lia had a core of adamantine stubbornness second to none, as her brother Elki liked to point out. Often. And loudly! Hugging the smooth wood with her legs, Lia crept like an inchworm to the top, and hauled herself over the top edge of the tilted surface which should hold books or scrolls, only, to her intense annoyance, it was quite empty. Flying ralti sheep! Of course she had not checked …

  Welcome, Dragon-kin.

  More than a few of her platinum strands probably turned pure white as she yelped in surprise.

  Speak, and this library shall fulfil your wish.

  I … umm …

  The library said, May I present a menu of options?

  Sure. Why not a talking library? Lia perched on the edge of the plinth. Surprise me.

  Granted, hatchling. Here’s the last reference examined by a visitor. You will appreciate the subject.

  Hatchling? There was a case of mistaken identity if ever … the breath whooshed from her lungs as from the shelves opposite, a massive tome worked itself loose and skimmed over to her on unseen wings. Hualiama ducked as it thumped down on the plinth. With a frantic rustling, the pages flipped themselves to the desired position.

  Clambering down the side of the book, Lia decided that she did not entirely appreciate the way that matters Dragonish made one feel no larger than a gnat. Then, the beautifully illuminated page’s title caught her eye. Gold leaf and fanciful dragonets bearing the runic script aloft could not diminish the horror that sliced like a blade of ice into her innards, exactly where Ra’aba had stabbed her in the lower belly before he threw her off his Dragonship.

  Ruzal.

  How had the library known? Who had been reading about ruzal? Hualiama’s eyes jumped convulsively to the text.

  ‘Ruzal. A branch of spoken magic offering unparalleled control of the mind and emotions of the target creature, similar to a Word of Command but more restricted in effect. Ruzal is regarded as a corrupt or debased form of magic due to the damage it may cause to the subject and wielder alike. For example, a powerful word of binding in ruzal magic is–’

  Lia bit her lip. What was this script–Dragon runes? She eyed the complex character pensively. Perhaps it was better she did not learn the magic which both Amaryllion and the Nameless Man had detected in her, the power of which Ianthine the Maroon Dragoness claimed mastery. Ianthine, who had identified the traitor Ra’aba as her blood-father, had also been the one to rip Lia from her mother Azziala’s bosom … Hualiama touched her head to the page as the memories assailed her. Fighting her father. Defeating him. Heavens above and Islands below, what had Sapphurion’s Dragon justice meant for him?

  For six years, she had barely thought about the man they called the Roc. Oh, the blessed curse of forgetting!

  An icy claw touched her neck.

  Lia screamed, lost her balance, and came within an inch of tumbling off the plinth. An outthrust hand halted her fall, snagging the lip which kept the book in place.

  Dangling from three fingers, Lia found herself facing a Dragon’s head formed from blue mist, which swirled around deep, hollow eye-sockets that although empty, fixed upon her with terrible, inhuman force. The mist-beast snarled, Intruder!

  N-N-No! she stammered. I’ve lived on this Island–

  Be silent, creature! Suddenly, a chill attacked her throat, stealing her ability to speak. Art thou a Dragon? Nay, the Guardian Spirit finds neither wings nor Dragon fire. And thou wouldst steal the secrets of ruzal? Thief!

  Hualiama trembled, yet she flung a thought at the creature, But I know Amaryllion. I have–

  Silence! Even her mental voice cut off as though instantly frozen by the breath of the creature that flowed toward her now, seeping around and enveloping her body, rendering Lia powerless. She floated away into a space dominated by the depthless nothingness of the Guardian Spirit’s eyes. A necrotic chill settled in her bones. Never had death seemed more inviting. Yet there was a spark in her that refused its succubus allure, clinging on with the tenacity of ivy to stone, and the breath of her life fanned it into a glow. Abnegation. I am the child of the Dragon. Always, in extremity, this idea seemed to shield her. I am fire.

  A dragonet’s laughter bubbled from her lips. Lia sensed the Guardian Spirit baulk. Encouraged, she willed the bright fire forth. White-golden, the magical fire cloaked and protected her. She imagined wings. Claws. Eyes like Grandion’s, churning with the compelling infernos of the Dragonkind. The deathly chill receded momentarily. Her feet touched the wooden platform beneath the plinth.

  Lia stared at the creature. Now was neither the time nor the place to figure out how she had provoked the Spirits of the Ancient Dragons. How glibly she had evoked them before, back on the Receiving Balcony. How her skin crawled now.

  She looked, and perceived death lurking in the shifting mists.

  A backward step brought the chill mist a step closer. Delicately they danced, shadowing each other’s progress, over to the wall. She saw scroll racks here. These should be easier to climb than the massive bookshelves.

  The mist bulged as though the Dragon opened its jaws. Intruder!

  I possess the gift of a dragonet’s fire-soul, Lia replied. But her voice was far less assured than she would have preferred. Permit me to leave, and I will not trespass again.

  The blue mist stirred restlessly, veils of colour sliding over each other, coalescing around the black-in-black eyes. She touched a shelf.

  TRESPASSER!

  To her surprise, Lia’s white-fires flared up, repelling the assault. No time to reflect on how that had happened. She began to climb. Quick! With a vast, angry hiss, the creature slammed into her fire again. It recoiled. The mist-beast slithered toward her, creeping along the scroll racks, clearly intending to prise her loose.

  Lia kicked out. Begone, spirit!

  The mist-creature’s thundering shook her, but Hualiama kept a white-knuckled grip on the scroll racks. She lashed out with her legs, but the cold seemed as blades sliding through her flesh. Summoning the magic, she tried to warm herself. Blades in her back! Hualiama screamed as pain flared along her old scar-wound, the one Ra’aba had dealt her. Groaning, she dangled above the vast volcanic pipe. The creature coiled and swayed nearby, seeking another, more crippling attack.

  ‘You always take blows right on that definite little chin of yours, zephyr,’ she remembered Master Khoyal, her Nuyallith teacher, admonishing her. ‘Sometimes the path of valour is retreat. Or simply, to flee. The dead do not fight half as well as the living.’ The pain gave her Khoyal’s kind of courage. Abandoning her stand, Lia fell to monkey-climbing th
e wall as though her life depended on it. As she angled for the exit, her route took her out over the chasm, a pipe thousands of feet deep and all of it, lined with the expansive lore of the Dragonkind. There were many platforms down there. Should she fall from this height, visiting one of those platforms would be the last thing she remembered.

  DIE, INTRUDER! Cold thundered over her, as though she had dived beneath an icy waterfall. Lia found herself screaming back almost as loudly. Oh, for a Dragon’s wings! Aye, she was naturally agile, but this was a series of frantic grabs and thrusts, almost missing a grip as she transitioned over a section of bookshelves, launching herself at last into the jagged-mouthed little tunnel from which she had emerged, dragging her feet up behind her …

  Lia shouted furiously as talons of ice gripped her ankles. A monstrous force began to haul her backward. Though her fingers clawed at the stone and her muscles bunched, the Guardian Spirit suddenly seemed to possess the tonnage of an adult male Dragon.

  No! She would not yield!

  Amaryllion, I need your fire now! Her shriek echoed through the tunnels of Ha’athior Island.

  Her bones felt deep-frozen. Her legs and hips dangled in the air. Lia clutched an outcropping with both hands, but her fingers began to slip, a quarter inch, now two inches, as the creature exerted its strength.

  Then, her cry returned as fire. Beautiful, clean, crystalline fire shot toward her in a form that suggested a dragonet’s wings, as if she had somehow evoked the power of Ha’athior’s magical crystals which had sustained Amaryllion’s life for so many centuries.

  Flames blossomed around Lia, unfolding in vast yet transient petals of colour, blue and white and gold. The pressure vanished. With a terrible cry, the Guardian Spirit released her legs.

  Heaving herself into the tunnel with a dancer’s upper body strength, Lia surged to her feet, and fled as though she had indeed grown wings.

  Chapter 5: Remembrance

  EmERGING from the hidden stairwell behind the prekki-fruit tree just after dawn the morning following Amaryllion’s passing on, Hualiama ran headlong into the bare, muscular chest of Rallon, who cried, “It’s her!”

  “Detain the miscreant. Master Ja’al will see her at once,” ordered Hallon, his twin brother. The bearded monks seized her, one to either arm.

  Great Islands, did these monks never wear more than a loincloth? With her newfound clarity of recollection, Lia remembered how she had first met the twins. She could not ignore the opportunity to foment mischief. She drawled, “Well, boys, and what of your vows?”

  “Our vows?” rumbled Rallon, staring down at her from his gigantic six feet and seven inches stature. “What do you mean, scrap?”

  “Firstly, you lay hands on the royal ward, part-time Princess of the realm. Secondly, I’m a female. You are monks, sworn to chastity, fidelity, and service to the Great Dragon. Thirdly–”

  “What of it?” growled Hallon, his Dragon’s-paw grip on her upper arm swinging her off the ground in concert with his twin. “Enough of this nonsensical dragonet-chatter.”

  “If you don’t put me down, I’ll make you blush.”

  “Blush?” chorused the giant twins.

  “Like simpering Fra’aniorian maidens on their first appearance in Court,” Lia clarified.

  “Bah,” snorted Rallon. “Just you try.”

  “Bah,” Hallon imitated his brother. “We’ve learned a great deal about you since the day you first pulled the proverbial ralti wool over our–” his voice rose an octave “–what’re you doing?”

  “Ooh, you’re so muscly,” Hualiama cooed. “I was just playing.”

  “Stop that!”

  She curled her fingers around his muscular bicep. “But it’s just so … yummy.”

  Rallon laughed uproariously as his brother’s ears heated up to a fine, flaming pink. He said, “We should unhand the Princess at once.”

  “Indeed,” said Hualiama, whirling upon Rallon with a gleam in her eye that caused the monk to backpedal, but not fast enough. Laying her hand flat against his stomach, she teased, “My, what girl would not want to hike over boulders like these?”

  Rallon’s blush emulated the roseate dawn breaking over the monastery. Even Lia gasped at her own impudence. Truth from a dragonet’s mouth, was the Isles saying.

  “Apprentice Hualiama!”

  She jumped, and then clucked crossly. “Ja’al! Don’t sneak–”

  “Aggravating my monks again, I see?” he cut in, grinning broadly. “Just like the Lia of old.”

  Had she forgotten more than she imagined? Hualiama’s light-hearted mood–a fleeting distraction from the soul-ache over the loss of a dear friend, she realised now–faded into puzzlement. Should she take this for a flash of insight, or merely a chance comment? Either way, this new grief had punctured her heart like a single, clean thrust of a whetted blade.

  Turning to the twins, Ja’al rapped, “Don’t you have duties?” They rushed away. The monk-leader’s voice softened. “Are you alright, Lia? We heard a commotion …”

  “Amaryllion died.”

  She would not cry. Lia defied her tears, but though she lowered her eyes, the gentleness she sensed in Ja’al’s regard introduced an uncontrollable tremor to her lower lip. The warmth of his arms encircling her shoulders made the sobs tear loose from a place so deep, they seemed to gash open fresh wounds on their way out. Suddenly, she was a Cloudlands squall breaking above an Island. Ja’al could only pat her back and murmur soft words that reverberated against her cheek, nestled into his chest.

  “Islands’ sakes!” she sniffled, drawing back at last. “I’m a royal mess.”

  “Never.”

  Hualiama made to find a scrap of cloth to wipe her face, when she was arrested by Ja’al’s strong, lean fingers pinching her chin between thumb and forefinger and raising her head. He considered her so long and so searchingly, that Lia feared she might succumb to another madcap desire to kiss the monk. Oh, great Islands! Why did Ja’al have to be so volcanically gorgeous, and so forbidden by vow and by faith?

  Aye, the day Grandion battled Razzior the Orange Dragon and Yulgaz the Brown, and had been buried in a cave beneath a landslide for his trouble–the pain of that memory seared her afresh. To evade the Dragons’ scrutiny, Ja’al had kissed her with devastating sweetness and passion, and then promptly turned about-face and declared he was therefore convinced he must take his vows! Callous fiend. Rotten, uncaring, inviolable monk-monster–she chastised herself. He was a good man.

  Thus, their paths had diverged. Ja’al had pursued his faith, and Hualiama found the Tourmaline Dragon beneath the mountain, only to be burned by him in his unthinking, feral state.

  Still, Ja’al’s fingers gripped her chin.

  “What?” she protested. “What have I done?”

  “You’ve changed.” He shook his head slowly. “You’ve … there’s something about your eyes. I can’t fathom it. Something’s changed.”

  “I’ve grown shorter?”

  “No. You’re … back.”

  “Back?” she echoed, not understanding. “Back how? From where?”

  Slowly, as if voicing an understanding only just percolating into his mind, Ja’al said, “Your soul has journeyed afar. You’ve only just returned. I thought it grief, Hualiama, a natural reaction to discovering who your father was and taking back the Onyx Throne at his expense, and then Grandion’s departure … you shocked the living pith out of me, you know.” His finger wagged before her eyes, but Lia was so captivated by his words, she did not even blink. “Fine. I confess, I was jealous. You were so obsessed with that dratted reptile, so cutesy-sweet with him–”

  Hualiama asked, “Ja’al, have I neglected you?”

  “Nay. But–I do feel as though I have stepped back six years in time. Amaryllion did something to you. And now you’ve remembered everything, correct?”

  Wordless, Hualiama nodded. She had forgotten the power of his insight. As he peered at her, cocking his head slightly this way and t
hat, Lia mentally traced a fingertip along the stubble of his firm jawline–Islands’ sakes! Had she no self-control around this man?

  Ja’al’s thoughts were on another Island. He cried, “The spark is back! The flame! And, I do declare, your eyes have changed. Less smoky green. More, as Flicker would’ve said, a handsome blue like mine.” Lia chuckled quietly even in the depths of her amazement, but Ja’al rushed on, “I see Dragon fire! I see power and the Nuyallith forms swarming in your head and I know you’ve decided to go find Grandion and oh, Lia! I just can’t find words … I’m fizzing with excitement. You’re back!”

  “No over-excited kisses from you, Mister Monk,” she deadpanned.

  “Lia! Of course not.” Had a dragonet bitten her normally stoic friend, she wondered? Normally she was the effusive one. “Maybe a windroc’s peck.” Dropping her chin, he gripped her fingers instead and placed a feather-light kiss on her left cheek. “Impish Princess, do you not see? This is the trigger. The prophecy must come to fruition and you–I sense it so clearly–are about to turn our Island-World on its head once more.”

  “Riding Dragonback was not enough?” she protested.

  “Not half the nuisance I know you’re capable of perpetrating,” said he, with a broad smile to take the sting off his provocation. “Now, snip snap, quick wings. Before Hualiama thinks about travelling anywhere in this Island-World, we must hasten to Ya’arriol Island to consult with my mother.”

  “Big tough Master Ja’ally needs his mommy?”

  She could have sold Ja’al’s expression for half of the jewels in her kingdom. He huffed, “How such a Dragon’s tonnage of vexation ever came to be distilled in such a tiny frame, Lia, I cannot fathom!”

  She dipped into a Fra’aniorian courtly bow, complete with the obligatory hand-twirls. “I humbly obey your commands, Master Ja’al.”

  “This way to your Dragonship, your royal tininess,” he retorted, seeming rather steamed beneath the collar–not that monks seemed to regard clothing as much more than a frivolous affectation. “And you’ll tell me what happened?”