Dragonsoul

by Marc Secchia

  Grr-grrrr, he purred, while blatantly casting about for a witty reply. “With the three essential ‘B’s’ of course–bite, burn and bury.”

  “Enough said. Slave. Where might I find my clothing?”

  Isiki pointed to a charred metal frame which had once belonged to a barrel. “I’m afraid I put your personal effects in there for safekeeping, Mistress.”

  She voiced a low cry of regret, but her brother patted his tattered pockets. “Scale of White Dragoness and jewel of Sapphurion all intact. Fear not. Thy noble brother hath not neglected to succour his beloved sister’s essential treasures amidst this minor outbreak of violence.”

  “All the way from the Lost Islands? You’re magnificent, Elki!” she enthused.

  “Undeniably.”

  Isiki put in diffidently, “I do have a suggestion, Mistress.”

  “Aye?”

  “You can wear my slave-girl’s tunic. It’s decent.”

  Elki, Saori and Qilong hooted with laughter. Lia shrugged. Fine. She had briefed the King of Kaolili clad only in a bath towel. Why not meet a few warrior-royals dressed as a slave-girl? At least she proposed to wear actual clothes this time.

  Your diplomatic skills are also in dire need of embellishment, Humansoul told her.

  Chapter 31: A Royal Mess

  The Immadians Approached without haste, checking the situation with the calm of veteran soldiers. Their uniforms bore no special insignia, but royal purple featured strongly on belt inlays and scabbards, cloak fringes and armoured headgear. How did they produce that exact colour–was it amethyst, Lia wondered? Striking. She noted the innovative design of their Dragonships–much larger than any she had seen before, beautifully streamlined and armoured with flexible, lacquered layers of what appeared to be wood–and the grim intent of the male and female soldiers clustered around the double war-crossbow emplacements. They were unusually tall. Some individuals had to top seven feet, she estimated, and they were all well-proportioned, with the muscular bearing and alertness of professional soldiers. Swords were the weapon of choice, unlike the war-hammers more common South of the Spits, which separated the far North from the middle-upper latitudes of the Island-World.

  With the same calm, one of the Dragonships sideslipped away from the fleet and lowered a hundred feet. A rope ladder unfurled toward a relatively unscathed patch of snow; a screen of warriors rapidly deployed, then two women descended in their midst. Royals, by their bearing. The foremost was a head and a half taller than Lia, a woman who looked as though she wrestled rajals in her spare time. The second vanished behind the first. Just Lia’s size and as slight as a reed, yet she too moved with palpable authority …

  “Who’s in charge of this mess–this invasion?”

  The tall woman removed her helm as she spoke, shaking loose her long, ice-blonde hair. She was striking. Icy blue eyes. High cheekbones. A mouth set not in hatred, but not in welcome either. Even her brusque, military delivery lilted with half a dozen vowel sounds unfamiliar to the ear, so evocative and lyrical … almost like Dragonsong.

  Stunned, Lia struggled to summon a coherent word.

  “You, Dragon. You are not of the North,” said the commanding woman. “Are you the Tourmaline of Gi’ishior? The famously rebellious shell-son of Sapphurion?”

  “Sapphurion has passed on to the fires,” Grandion growled. “Aye, I am Grandion of–”

  The woman said, “What do I care for Sapphurion? You invaded Immadia’s shores. Wrecked our crops. Dumped five feet of snow all over our city. Now I see our second terrace lake lies empty and my people face a winter of starvation. What have you to say for yourself, fire-breather, before I fill your hide with holes and bury you beneath the snows of Immadia?”

  Hualiama felt the wild note of his fires vibrate the air between them. That callous mention of Sapphurion had touched a nerve. She thought to him, Grandion, stand down. Let me deal with this. Aloud, she said, “I am the Princess Hualiama of Fra’anior–”

  The cold blue eyes appraised her. “You? Dressed like a street urchin?”

  GNNNARRR!!

  “Grandion!” Lia warned.

  “Aye, muzzle the animal,” laughed one of the soldiers.

  The very Island seemed to gasp with the same horror that froze her feet to the spot.

  He sprang! So fast was the coil-and-launch response of a Dragon, the soldiers guarding their leader did not even have time to gasp. Lia slammed up a hard projectile-shield, causing the enraged Tourmaline to skid off thin air a mere foot above the Immadian royal’s head and slew into the dangling rope ladder. The Dragonship lurched as the ladder tore free.

  Catapults twanged, but the Dragon was far too fast. He had already sprung up beneath the Dragonship, curving his neck to deliver a huge fireball, when Lia reflexively slapped a shield around him. GRAAARRRGGH! Thunder, muffled. Still, the air shook. Soldiers beneath him clapped their hands to their ears in pain.

  Grandion. Listen! She inverted the shield, but he tore it apart like aged scrolleaf. Feral? No time. Drawing on the Dragon’s own power, Lia smacked a second shield across his nose. Full opacity. Now he was ninety feet of implacable fury wearing an impenetrable helmet. Grandion. I’m going to make you land. Don’t, please don’t fight me. I need you now more than ever.

  She drew his pain into herself.

  The way Hualiama arched her back and roared at his agony made the Immadians scatter, drawing their weapons with oaths and curses; bells clanged on the Dragonships as the crossbow engineers worked frantically to reorient their weapons. Mercy! Grandion reached through her and with a cunning cast of his Storm-power, managed to whisk the soldier who had spoken unwisely up into the air and over to his paw. The Princess whirled to track the movement. Not fast enough.

  It was all unravelling. The script she had developed in her head for meeting the famously proud Immadians was a scrolleaf in tatters.

  If he could snatch her powers …

  As the catapults groaned and men bellowed, at least fifty Dragons took to the air, orienting on the Immadian force. Hualiama swiped Grandion’s thunder right out of his throat and bellowed at both vocal and magical levels:

  “STOP! Dragons, stand down. Hold your fire!”

  She marched smartly over to Grandion; in truth, not having anything as exacting as an actual plan in her mind. Dragons, enough battle for one day. The Winterborn remains at large. Let us reserve our fire for evil, not for allies. And to the Tourmaline, she said, I know your pain, noble Dragon, but we need these Immadians. You’re much too grown-up a Dragon to be playing with toys. Let the poor man go.

  Her wry humour punctured his dark-fires madness. Slowly, the Dragon’s quivering stance eased. His fires settled to a dull roar. Unclenching his fist, he released the soldier, who tottered two steps and fell on his rump, but before anyone could develop further foolish ideas, Hualiama rushed over to him and took the young man by the hand.

  “What’s your name?”

  Her smile appeared to freeze his blood. Eventually, he spluttered, “You command Dragons? Uh … I’m Jemzal, your … uh …”

  “Just Hualiama. Now, who are your leaders?”

  “Their Highnesses.” He coloured under her scrutiny. Inside, Dragonsoul was having a very annoying fit of the fiery giggles at the expression plastered on the befuddled young man’s face. He whispered, “You have pointy ears? Uh, sorry! So sorry. These are Queen Imaytha and Princess Shayitha. Sorry.”

  Lia drew the man to his feet–leaping Islands, he was a young mountain! A boy by the fuzz on his chin, yet a boy who stood six feet eight inches in his boots. “Come. I would like you to meet my Dragon and best friend, Grandion the Tourmaline Dragon, of Gi’ishior. Dragons are fierce and proud creatures, Jemzal, but they respond very well to compliments. Try one.”

  “You’re the girl who … rides … him? We heard, from the traders.”

  “Aye?” Lia said blandly. All the way up in Immadia? Their story had travelled.

  “The tales are true? Humans comman
ding–” Grandion’s growl made him modify his sudden volubility very hastily indeed “–cooperating with Dragons? Riding them? How does that work, uh, great lady? How do you address him? O magnificent … uh …”

  “Noble Dragon will suffice,” said Grandion, holding out his paw. “My response was forged in the fires of grief. I will not attack again.”

  “That’s Dragonish for, ‘I’m sorry I attacked you,’ ” Lia translated, bringing Jemzal’s hand up to press against Grandion’s paw. “And, ‘magnificent Dragon’ will do very nicely. For you are magnificent indeed, my fiery wingéd dawn burning over the East.”

  The Tourmaline began to croon, then cut off the sound with an annoyed hiccough of acrid smoke. Jemzal seemed to want to laugh, but terror had stolen his tongue.

  Pitching her voice with the skill of a trained singer, Hualiama said, “We are very sorry for this royal mess. As I said, I am Princess Hualiama of Fra’anior. I am Grandion’s Dragon Rider. This is the Copper Dragoness Mizuki. Her Riders are Prince Elki, my brother, and Saori of the Eastern Isles. This is Prince Qilong, heir to the throne of Kaolili and his brave Dragonship crew. And here is the Grey Dragoness Makani and her two Riders, Jin and Isiki. Our issue is with Numistar Winterborn, the Ancient Dragoness who devastated your land, and we will do everything in our power to restore the damage. We are a very long way from home and we seek allies, not conflict. We also seek knowledge of Chrysolitic Dragons.”

  The tall Immadian raised her hand in a curt gesture. “Stand down! We will talk, Hualiama of Fra’anior, while you keep your Dragons out of our city. That is not negotiable.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to retort, ‘Then we can’t talk.’ But her inner Dragoness was clearly in a snarky, triumphant mood, interrupting her thoughts to chortle, We really are an all-the-Island-or-none-at-all kind of girl, aren’t we?

  Honestly, Dragoness, you sound like a three-B’s kind of negotiator too.

  Learn to save a few surprises for later, Humansoul. It’s more fun that way.

  Like you waited two decades to ambush me?

  Now you’re learning–street urchin.

  You’ve a brain full of cracked eggshell, you deluded excuse for an overgrown dragonfly.

  I’ll be taking a rest from my monumental labours, now. Dragonsoul yawned ostentatiously. You go figure out how to clean up the mess we created. A royal mess, indeed.

  That Dragoness! She was a hoot. Pop you up on the ornament-shelf, dust you off when needed?

  Dragonsoul pretended to snore. Ostentatiously.

  The Human executed a fancy Fra’aniorian genuflection. “Agreed, o Queen Imaytha.”

  Placing her hands on her hips, the tall warrior laughed. “Oh no, I’m Shayitha, Princess of Immadia. This is Queen Imaytha, my sister.”

  The diminutive woman stepped around her sister, doffing her helm. “Islands’ greetings, travellers.”

  Hualiama stared.

  Behind her, Prince Qilong made a sound like a mewling kitten. “Oh, goddess.”

  The Queen of Immadia effortlessly defined the word ‘beautiful’. Beauty so flawless, it was ethereal; almost otherworldly. Like her countrymen, she had skin of the finest alabaster, but her hair was an impossible golden-orange in colour, as if fire framed her face and tumbled down her back. Her eyes were the famous amethyst of the House of Immadia. To behold her was to wonder if such beauty could even exist in mortal flesh. Gentle and graceful as a bubbling brook she might seem, but Lia saw something more.

  Magic. The legendary Immadian Enchantress lived, and breathed.

  In the Queen’s mesmerising eyes, recognition flickered. Understanding. A sense of knowing one another, as if kindred spirits had journeyed afar and been reunited.

  “She’s moon-song over the deeps,” Qilong whispered.

  Queen Imaytha moved forward as if trapped in a dream of her own, her demeanour provoking a scowl on her much taller sister’s face. Drawing close, she reached out and took Hualiama’s hands in her own. The Immadian trembled, the depths of her emotions, unfathomable. Then, she seemed to melt, for she drew Lia into a warm, heartfelt embrace which she held so long, the Fra’aniorian began to wonder if something were horribly amiss.

  Tears wet her shoulder!

  The Queen drew back slightly, not relinquishing her hold on Lia’s arms. They were of a height, their eyes exactly level, but Imaytha seemed in danger of falling over at a breath of wind, so slight and delicate was she.

  In her chiming voice, she said, “You shall be honoured guests, for truly I proclaim, Immadia is home and hearth to your soul, o Princess of Fra’anior. Share life with us.”

  “Imaytha!” her sister remonstrated.

  “Oh, slay me for but a smile,” Qilong continued to embarrass himself in drivelling worship.

  “Shayitha, you do not understand what I sense.” The amethyst eyes seemed to look far beyond the world, perhaps into the future. “Fra’anior brings a gift of new fires to our land. We must receive her with all honour.”

  * * * *

  The following day, Immadia paid its traders in the currency of pure white diamonds of Pla’arna, and all available trader and military Dragonships travelled southeast in search of supplies to sustain the people through the coming winter. Grandion and Yuhurak the Brown flew down to the second terrace layer to assess the damage to the retaining wall, which was severe. There could be no recovering the lost water, but the coming winter would refill the lake if the wall could be repaired. They set five Browns to the restoration work, with a further twenty Reds and Greens in support, carrying boulders to the site. Other Dragons flew Immadian soldiers to the outlying villages to survey the storm damage. Numistar’s storm had crushed many huts or staved in roofs; all needed urgent repair before the real snows arrived. Immadia City was in better shape, for the sturdier stone buildings had withstood even a very heavy snowfall and punishing quantities of hail. The building site of their new fortress, however, a castle atop a hill overlooking the small city, had taken a severe battering from the lightning.

  From the rooftop balcony of the palace, the fur-draped Fra’aniorian gazed over the city as its lamps winked in the early evening dark, and shivered. Bitter, bitter cold. A thick blanket of snow. What a peculiar, exotic place! The people rode flightless birds called terhals through the streets; the mountains shadowed all, but with a presence more motherly than ominous. Somewhere amongst the snowbound peaks, Flicker was helping the dragonets establish colonies. Like it or not, Immadia had acquired a population of white dragonets.

  Mercy. Mercy had allowed Numistar to escape–perhaps. Could she have done differently?

  No, Humanlove. We are who we are. Her Dragoness wriggled sleepily. Besides, two evils don’t cancel out to make a good.

  But how can we find these Chrysolitic Dragons, o my soul? These Immadians don’t even know what lies fifty leagues beyond their northern shore. A border of mist, storm and legend, they say. No sane pilot would travel there.

  Now we’re sane? How you insult us!

  Human-Lia laughed. The Immadians certainly were touchy and traditionalist, but not in a bad way, she sensed. Besides, insanity was to contemplate taking a Dragonship to that eerie northern border when she could take her Dragon instead. She said, Ice-Dragons haven’t been seen for two hundred years. Life in the North is hard. Harder than my home Cluster, by far.

  We’ve landed amongst friends, Humansoul. And remember, the Winterborn mentioned Ice-Raptors. Not Dragons.

  The curse of Numistar. Thanks for the reminder.

  Vanished Dragons. Ice-Raptors were apparently a fireside tale for scaring little children … yet she knew she would travel beyond that border, beyond its eternal, cloying mists. Numistar must be defeated. Then, the long journey South to confront her mother; to oppose whatever mischief she intended for the Dragons of Gi’ishior.

  Hearing a footstep behind her, Hualiama turned, expecting Queen Imaytha. “Jin!”

  He was wild, shambling, his dark shoulder-length hair mussed as though h
e had just woken from a sleep spent wrestling a thousand dragonets. His face twisted strangely as he regarded her.

  “Jin?”

  “I … I … what’s happening to me?”

  “What do you–mercy!”

  The teenager held his hand outstretched. There, in the palm between them, a flame burned. It did not wink out or sear his skin, but appeared to rise and fall slightly in rhythm with his breathing. His grey eyes pleaded with Lia; in the semidarkness, they burned with a distinct inner light.

  He cried, “It’s always been … the flame. It calls. Burns. Fills my dreams. And when my people died, I was the one, the only one, to escape. Do you understand?”

  She shook her head mutely.

  “It carried me through the battle. There’s something wrong–a curse upon my life.”

  “No, Jin. It’s right.”

  “No! You’ve made it worse.” A blade winked in his hand. A dagger, curved and deadly. “The trouble began when I met you.”

  Hualiama extended her hands, her Dragoness poised within. “Jin, put the knife down. Listen to me.”

  “No! You stole my Dragon, gave me another–how can you love a Dragon, woman? You’re sick!”

  “I am a Dragon.”

  Why this? Why now? Hualiama did not understand the forces driving this young man. How had his troubles ever begun with her? That was an excuse. A convenient lie. For all she knew, he had murdered his own people–no. Now it was her leaping to crazy conclusions. She clenched her fists. Only one living soul had ever been infected with fire like this, and she had her Dragonsoul to show for it. This boy was Human. A tortured, hurting soul, frightened of the fire within.

  Frightened of the fire … his own fire.

  Every hair on her arms stood to attention as the unthinkable truth crashed down on her. Impossible. Wild optimism. Fear. The knowledge that she need not be alone. The necessary abdication of pride in the perception of her own uniqueness. Aye, she was unique, but only in that she carried the parting gift of Amaryllion Fireborn to her Island-World.