Dragonsoul

by Marc Secchia

  Did they not know both Dragons must be listening? So isolated they seemed, this brother and sister, perhaps feeling they stood alone against the world. Dragon Rider. Dragoness. His seventh sense tingled with foreboding. Giants of history-to-be, this pair. Did they hearken to destiny’s summons, as he did?

  Her voice was muffled against the Prince’s shoulder, never sounding smaller, nor more lost. “We can’t be together. We just can’t, Elki.”

  “You can’t control … this?” he asked.

  “No. And even if I could, word would get out. One change at the wrong moment–”

  “Hold on. You’re saying this isn’t a projection? Not a trick, like you said Grandion–”

  “No. It appears to be a complete transformation. My Dragoness vanishes, magically. So does my Human, in the reverse process. Where could we live, brother, that we wouldn’t be ostracised by Human and Dragon alike? Where my freakish, accursed magic wouldn’t doom my Dragonlove? How could I live never knowing when a war-hammer would slam down upon our lives? How?”

  “Shh.”

  She quivered as if consumed with grief; then Hualiama vented a low, bitter laugh. Straightening, she called, “Alright, Grandion and Mizuki. Please don’t pretend not to be listening, whilst I blab all my secrets … oh.”

  The Copper Dragoness clasped Lia’s slight frame in her forepaws. “You will find a way. This oath-bound love cannot be denied.”

  The moisture in her eyes winked like starlight as Lia’s regard shifted; Grandion stilled, awed by the power of that gaze. “I–I guess you know now, Grandion.” She sniffed once, hugely. “Therefore, I must tell you, though it kills me to say–”

  “No!”

  She flinched as if his desperate cry were the slap of a draconic paw. “Grandion, we cannot–”

  He groaned, “No … please!”

  The Tourmaline hated the sound of his pleading. Hot shame swelled his gorge; swallowing hard, he turned his shoulder as if with the bulk of his body, he could deflect the coming storm. Those words must be spoken; their hearts, broken.

  Instead, he heard a light footstep beside his shoulder. A hand touched his neck, stretched up and found the smaller, more sensitive scales beside his left eye. Febrile. Delicate. Trembling at the draconic emotions raging within her tiny breast. For the longest time she simply stood with him, the connection communicating more than the strongest Dragon’s hearts could bear.

  Then she whispered, “I will never regret knowing you, Grandion.”

  Even the most roseate dawn must weep.

  * * * *

  The heir to the throne of the Lost Islands rode Dragonback into Azziala’s stronghold, as she had done once before. What ignorant fools they had been, thinking to raid the Dragon-Haters’ lands on their own, seeking the Scroll of Binding. The Empress would not be fooled–she could lift the information directly from their minds, and any possible subterfuge would be doomed. Azziala held every advantage. The only weapon available to Hualiama was the unadorned truth. What would her mother believe? Azziala was a subtle, calculating creature. She would try to winkle out and understand every nuance and angle before drawing her own conclusions, yet this mystery concerned the deepest of Dragon lore, and extended beyond that, perhaps. Therein lay a chance. If doubt crept in. Error. If the formidable mental machine of the Enchanters could be misdirected …

  When they arrived, the Empress was not present. Lia learned from the mental network that Azziala had flown to Burak Island on a tour of inspection, checking the readiness of her armies.

  Wooden-faced, she allowed Grandion to be led down to the Dragon holding pens. She did not watch him leave, but turned to the Prince. “Where to?”

  Elki rubbed his hands briskly. “What do Haters do for fun?”

  As Lia and Elki walked along a gantry above the Dragonship bays, they collected a discreet escort of Royal Elites, the highly-trained core of Azziala’s forces. No doubt, the Enchanters would be lurking.

  Even for that reason alone, she decided that fomenting trouble was in order. The Dragon-Haters must not be allowed free rein. Arguably, there was good reason to allow Azziala’s and Shinzen’s forces to smash into each other–only, the Kingdom of Kaolili stood between, and the result would not be ugly. It would be genocide.

  And a hatchling must defy Numistar? Even Fra’anior had the grace to sound uncertain on that score.

  Azziala’s war preparations proceeded with frightening zeal. The Dragonship bays where Mizuki and Grandion had landed were full to bursting with new Dragonships armoured with Dragon hide. Blue-clad engineers screamed orders as they swarmed over the vessels. Pipes hissed. Hammers clanged sharply as a nearby group of blacksmiths forged parts in an open-mouthed furnace, supplemented by a trio of Dragon Enchanters. The Enchanters wore the characteristic sweeping robes of terrace-lake blue and tall, mushroom-shaped hats, while the blacksmiths and other workers wore azure skullcaps, bright blue leather trousers and sturdy boots. Hualiama wondered how they tolerated the cold, going bare-chested even in the chill of the caves, which was barely alleviated by the intensity of that roaring furnace. Intriguingly, the Enchanters and Smiths worked together on shaping the metal, using magic to speed the heating, cooling and hardening processes. Accelerated engineering, she thought. This was how Azziala could build a mighty army in a short space of time. However, the Empress had concealed her true strength from her daughter. What other secrets would she have withheld?

  “We’ve been assigned chambers together in the same sub-cavern set as the Empress,” said Elki, leading the way. “All of our movements are monitored. You’re sharing with Saori.” Lia raised an eyebrow. “Aye, certain matters of propriety must be observed. Our union is not yet sanctioned by the Protocols. So I am assigned an adjoining chamber.”

  “With visiting rights?”

  Elki turned fireflower-red. “Apparently so.”

  Well, that was an Island too far. Lia coloured. “Ah, do you know what became of my blades?”

  “Your Nuyallith swords? In our room. Saori has been keeping them polished in the hope, she says, that you might yet dismember your mother.”

  “Delicate creature, isn’t she?”

  Elki bowed, chortling, “I sure picked the prize prekki-fruit, didn’t I? This way to the lifts.”

  “I think she picked the prize,” said Lia.

  After seeing the state of the war preparations, there was little levity in her tone. Even so, Elki snagged her with one arm and squeezed her shoulders. “You’re the best sister in the Island-World.”

  A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. As far as brothers went, wasn’t he almost tolerable? Occasionally?

  As the lift-cage rattled twenty-two floors upward through the vastness of Azziala’s underground fortress, and the temperature rose a few notches, Elki explained how he and his contingent of fledgling Dragon Riders had run into Sapphurion and his forces in the Eastern Isles. After tangling briefly with the Warlord Shinzen’s outriders, the Dragon Elders of Gi’ishior had declared their intent to chase down Grandion–why exactly, Elki could not say, but the prime suspect was, once again, the Scroll of Binding. The Dragonkind feared that power more than anything else. Sapphurion had divided his force, leaving one third of the Dragons–those unable to sustain a long enough flight to reach the Lost Islands–to ally with the Eastern Dragons and the Kingdom of Kaolili, while he led the rest on an epic northward flight, which had ended in treachery, disaster and defeat at the Dragon’s Bell.

  “After which I, unsurprisingly, had to go chase down my reprobate baby sister once more,” Elki concluded.

  She punched his arm.

  “Wow, I appreciate the rescue, o mighty Prince of Fra’anior,” he added, patting himself on the back.

  “If you say so yourself,” said Lia.

  “You are the very twin suns warming my life, precious sister.”

  “Brother, what do you want?”

  Mercy, it was good to have Elki’s company, she realised. Even if they were dangling half
way down the proverbial volcanic fumarole on the end of a fraying rope, he still managed to find a touch of humour to lighten her mood. That in turn clarified her thoughts, turning them to healthier, more productive paths.

  A swish of blades through the air greeted their entrance into the spacious chamber assigned to the runaway royals of Fra’anior. Saori paused in a ferocious, snarling pose, arrested by Elki’s soft whistle. Evidently, the sight of a perspiration-streaked warrior-woman wearing little more than a loincloth and indecently brief upper-body armour was somewhat distracting to her brother. Perish the thought. And Saori’s form was a swordswoman’s perfection; tall, lissom and strong, unlike the diminutive Princess who was not even slightly jealous.

  Lia punched her brother’s arm again. “You were saying?”

  “Ouch. Stop bruising the royal personage.”

  “Hualiama!” Saori yelled, breaking her pose to throw herself into a very un-Eastern hug. “Elki, you found her!”

  “My awesomeness is catching,” he said, modestly.

  “Stand still!” Saori snapped. Elki yelped as Saori’s sword-point menaced his nose. “Don’t move a muscle.”

  He squeaked, “Just my throat? To scream in unabashed terror?”

  Unexpectedly, the Eastern Isles warrior smiled at Hualiama. “Watch this. I’ve been working very hard on my cultural adaptation skills.” Holding the trembling Prince ransom by dint of pressing the flat of her sword against his neck, Saori rose onto her bare toes and, with a gasp at her own daring, kissed him smack on the lips. “See what I did? In public, too!”

  “My sister is not the public,” Elki protested, rather weakly.

  Saori growled, “Give me due credit.”

  “Right now, I’ll give you anything you desire. Fancy a nice little Island-Kingdom? Twenty-seven Islands and an oversized volcano, all for you?”

  Lia chuckled, “This cultural adaptation must be so challenging for you, Saori.”

  Just then, Yinzi, Hualiama’s old midwife, appeared from an inner chamber. One look, a glad cry, and Lia found herself the recipient of a second hug, an enormous embrace from an enormous woman. “So glad you’re back. And well! Just look at the colour in these cheeks! No longer a lizard.” She pinched both of Lia’s cheeks as if she were a child being shown off to a long-absent relative, and then more pensively, touched her forehead with the tips of three fingers of her right hand. “May Dramagon’s light pervade your life, burning away the falsehoods of those lizards.”

  Hualiama bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood.

  “Saori.” Yinzi spun her about. “We do not kiss a Prince in such a disgraceful state. You reek. Into the bath with you, this instant. You too, chicklet. Go cleanse your body of the sulphurous stench of those vile reptiles.”

  Imagine her Dragoness dunking Saori in the bathtub? Hualiama had to stifle a giggle as a naughty mental image intruded. Anyways, it would be a good chance to catch up with her prickly friend and to share the news.

  With a longing glance at the pair of Nuyallith blades displayed on the stone wall opposite the entryway, Lia ducked into the bath chamber. Some of the Lost Islands technology was perfectly civilised, and hot baths were more a necessity than an option in this frigid climate. The brass bathtub was the variety where a person sat upright on a step, immersed up to the neck in warm water. Judging by the enticing aromas, they also provided a decent line in bath soaps and fine oils.

  Even renegade Dragon-channelling Princesses could appreciate a touch of luxury.

  With a sly poke aimed at Saori’s ribs, she said, “So, stinker, have you seen one of these before? This is called a bathtub, and if you want to impress a Prince …”

  * * * *

  Two nights later, with her mother en route home from Erak Island, the most northerly of the Human cluster, Hualiama snapped into her Dragoness form mid-combat with Saori. The blunted practice blade whanged off her nose-scales.

  “Ancestors!” yelled Saori, scrambling backward.

  Roar! Lash out! At the very last second, Lia pulled her instinctive talon-strike with a cry of dismay. “Saori … I’m so sorry. Oh, roaring–”

  “Get away from me!”

  “I’m sorry!” The Eastern warrior wore two neat claw-lines on her right bicep. Bright blood welled up. “Stupid fulminating rascally Dragon reactions. Elki! Elki, can you help?”

  “Sure, I’ll boot your scaly backside for daring to lay a claw on my Saori,” he growled. Not joking.

  Clutching the wound to stop the blood flow, Saori said, “Do you think combat’s the key, Lia? You were engrossed in your Nuyallith forms. Something about that triggered the Dragoness–maybe you just have to want her enough, and she appears?”

  Hualiama settled her wings with an agitated ruffle. “You don’t hate me?”

  “No. Just a fright.” Saori ran her free hand through her short, dark bristles. Her slanted almond eyes crinkled into a smile as she reached out to remove Lia’s shredded undershirt from her skull-spikes. Her transformation had managed to fling her leggings all the way to the fireplace.

  “Don’t,” said Lia, bracing herself.

  “You’re beautiful and cutesy, but decidedly lethal,” said the girl.

  Cutesy? Her talons clenched, but the desire to yield to the anger and rip something to shreds was not insurmountable. However, her belly region heated up noticeably and smoke poured from her nostrils. Hualiama trembled as she fought to master her surging Dragon emotions.

  That was the exact moment Yinzi bustled into the room, and screamed.

  What she saw writ in Yinzi’s expression, broke her resolve. Blood sapped from the old midwife’s cheeks as if stolen by claws of ice. Betrayal. Horror. In a flash, Lia whipped through the doorway, rebounded off the far wall of the corridor, and fled.

  * * * *

  Reason returned as Hualiama scaled an air vent toward the open air. She paused, clinging on with her talons punched into the natural cracks in the vertical tunnel, deliberately slowing her breathing. Frigid air streamed over her body, down into the fortress. Odd. Surely the reverse flow would make more sense? Her nostrils tingled at the cold; at the unfamiliar smells of damp and tangy minerals and musty pollens flowing from above.

  A frozen world, yet still that liberty beckoned. Did the Dragon Enchanters not consider the air vents a possible vector of attack? They appeared undefended. That said, this thousand-foot vertical tunnel was barely large enough for a Dragon hatchling, but it would be no trouble for smaller Swarm Dragons.

  She knew where she must go. The Place of Reaving.

  Sorry, Grandion.

  She could not sense his mind. Had the Haters applied a Command-hold once more?

  Rapidly, Hualiama scaled the remaining length of grey granite tunnel, emerging into a blizzard. The weather stunned her. She had never seen snow whipping in so fast, it flew sideways in great, stinging flurries. How could she survive in this? She must find shelter–no, that was silly Human-thinking. Was she not a walking furnace? Her skin a natural coat of armour? Laughing at the sizzle of snowflakes striking her eyeballs, Lia cast about in the night. Flying might be dangerous until she became stronger, but perhaps that would develop as her Human recovered–she had improved enough to fight for ten minutes at a time with Saori, but her muscles were still woefully bereft of their full strength. Was the vigour of her two forms linked somehow? Health-wise, that was certainly the case …

  Setting her muzzle toward higher ground, Hualiama pressed herself into a run. She must train this Dragon-form as much as she had ever honed her Human body in the rigours of dance and the martial arts.

  Battered by the storm winds, the Dragoness fought her way up the mountain above Azziala’s fortress to the Place of Reaving, where her Dragon-spirit had safeguarded her life, and she had seen the star Hualiama at dawn. How could a frozen body have seen a star? Mystery. She was disillusioned with mysteries. No. Tonight, she had one simple goal. Retrieve her shell-mother’s scale.

  Child of the Dragon. Daughter of Rebellio
n. Those must be her titles.

  Peering over the edge of the hole, Hualiama was once again struck by a faint yet richly complex aroma she recalled from Ha’athior Island. Dragon-smell. Somehow, notes of cinnamon and vanilla overlaid a slightly sulphurous, smoky odour, yet the bouquet presented to her senses was far more. She struggled to quantify her intuition. Could the physical sense of smell function as a gateway to some higher form of discernment, the notes of which caused hordes of colourful, monad-like impressions to swarm across her senses as though the very act of perception were a harbinger of consciousness itself? Intriguing. She breathed as deep as she dared. Perhaps some form of low-dwelling Dragonkind lived in the subterranean realms, patiently gnawing at the roots of Azziala’s realm?

  Briefly, Lia considered kicking over the hateful archway where the Enchanters chained their victims, there where the gap between the two imaginary nostrils narrowed, but still the person dangled over an unknowable drop. Grandion might rip that archway off the mountain, but this hatchling was in no shape to attempt the same.

  Cold air drifted upward into her face, but not the deathly blast she had endured. Had that been later, during the night? Did she risk being deep-frozen if she …

  Hualiama, lest you forget, we’re a Dragoness, her other-voice chided. Let’s take our courage in our paws. The end will be worth it.

  The Star Dragoness chuckled softly. Thank you, Humanlove.

  Traumatised silence.

  If we cannot learn to love ourselves …

  The girl spluttered, I … oh, mercy, how can we say this? Can we? I’m … speechless. I sense truth. And I know I must not act out of fear. But I can’t, I just … can’t. Yet.

  Hualiama spread her wings, drifting downward into the dark. Very well, what will you call me? I don’t wish to be labelled other-anything, anymore.

  The Human girl said, Right. Sorry if I hurt you–us.

  How strange, to feel herself pondering away, almost as if a second brain were spatially superimposed on the first.