Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons)

by Secchia, Marc

  Aranya leaped into space. She counted in her head: one, two, Dragon!

  Dragonets dive-bombed her in their hundreds. Perhaps they confused her with the Dragonship, she did not know. Aranya squeezed her eyes shut and blasted them with a roar. She roared again, battering dragonets with her wings, driving them away from the Dragonship. Some responded by flaring their wings or breathing little gasps of fire at her, but most scattered with high-pitched cries of alarm.

  Aranya circled the Dragonship, partly to test her damaged wing and partly to check that none of the dragonets had continued the attack. Her wing did not hurt too badly. There was a definite tenderness in the joint, however. Such speed on the healing …. a large dragonet approached her–a red male. He seemed to be the biggest of them all at perhaps four feet in length and five feet in wingspan. His ruby eyes whirled gently as he examined her from different angles. Aranya had an impression of confusion, surprise and perhaps awe. The dragonet opened his mouth, complete with tiny fangs, and chirped:

  Ancient one? Angry?

  At least, that was what Aranya understood. Somehow she knew it was speaking a different language, one Human-Aranya did not speak, but Dragon-Aranya understood as easily as her stomach understood how to digest meat. That reminded her, she was hungry. Her Dragon form had not eaten while they flew on the Dragonship to Fra’anior–and, as Nak kept reminding her, she was a young, growing Dragon.

  No, it’s just that you attacked our Dragonship. Her Human mind thought, ‘Huh? That’s a language I’ve never spoken aloud before.’

  Dragonship kill dragonet-kind.

  Um, Humans have different tribes. The different tribes–

  Tribes? The dragonet made a neat circle around her muzzle as it said this, showing off. Pretty scales, see?

  Colours, said Aranya, marvelling at how Dragonish was almost sung rather than spoken. All those different tonal levels, shades and nuances. Trying to keep track of the buzzing little dragonet was also a good way to put a knot in her neck. Different colours and signs. Windroc sign is bad Humans. Fra’anior Dragon sign is good–purple Humans.

  Now Aranya was getting confused. Her Dragon mind had her talking very simply to the dragonet, but her logical mind kept wanting to explain the detail.

  Purple bad?

  Purple good. Purple cloth good. Humans live with dragonets good.

  The dragonet appeared to accept this. Pretty purple Dragon good? Mommy Dragon?

  Uh … Aranya was not ready to be mother to anything yet, least of all swarms of dragonets. But it seemed a good analogy. Mommy Dragon is dragonet-friend. Tell other dragonets purple Humans good?

  Purple good.

  The red dragonet shot off to share the news with his fellows. Within seconds, there were dragonets whizzing in all directions in an explosion of colours and chatter, clearly communicating with each other in a state of high excitement. Aranya blinked. They were not as unintelligent as the Fra’aniorians assumed.

  After a short consultation with the bemused and clearly discomfited Prince across the breadth of her left wing, Aranya agreed to transform again. She dropped on top of the Dragonship in her Human form. As she had bid him, Ta’armion met her on the conspicuously unoccupied gantry beneath the hydrogen sack with a cloak held in his hand. But his eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

  Aranya sighed. “Thank you, Ta’armion. You may look, now.”

  “Your mother’s village is around the western point,” said the Prince, acting overly casual–as if Shapeshifters leaping off Dragonships was an everyday affair. Aranya hid her smile as he added, “The town is on the far side of the volcano, not caldera-side like most of our towns. A peculiar lot, the Ha’athior Islanders. Very reclusive.”

  Aranya eyed the slender young man, sensing something in him that she warmed to. Ta’armion was tall, topping her height by several inches, but he was clearly not the warrior type. He was slender and graceful, and–her eyes widened–just look at those Fra’aniorian ears! He was the first person she had ever met with ears like hers. She touched her left ear beneath her headscarf. Fra’aniorian women wore their headscarves long, she had noticed, another layer to the elegant, filmy layers of cloth they seemed to prefer, but unlike Immadia, a jewelled skullcap held the headscarf in place.

  Ostentatiously flying the flag of royal Fra’anior, the Dragonship rounded the point of the Island and moored outside of a small village of perhaps fifty houses, scattered along the very edge of a half-league tall black cliff. The houses were all simply built in a blue-veined stone. Vegetable patches and flowerbeds alike were perfectly tended. Great walls of vegetation, profuse and verdant from the rich volcanic soils, bordered the village and towered above it to impossible heights–before Aranya remembered they were perched on the edge of a volcanic cone.

  The village was deserted. Aranya raised an eyebrow at the Prince.

  “Garthion’s visit scared them,” he said. “They’ll be watching.”

  “We could scare them a bit more with a Dragon,” Aranya suggested.

  “We could talk politely to them before threatening to eat their children,” said the Prince.

  “Ta’armion, I don’t eat Humans. I eat ralti sheep, mostly, which is pure torture for someone who dislikes mutton.”

  “They don’t know that.”

  Aranya sighed. “I’ll go get changed, shall I? Again.”

  Aranya, Prince Ta’armion and Nak descended from the Dragonship. Holding a white and a green piece of cloth in each hand, they walked up into the village. Aranya felt eyes watching their every move.

  “Good people, I am Prince Ta’armion of Fra’anior,” called the Prince, using his trained singer’s voice to pitch his words right over the houses and into the jungle beyond. “I come in peace. I bear no weapons, nor do my men mean any harm. I bring you warm and sulphurous greetings in the name of the Great Dragon, Fra’anior Himself.”

  Aranya fought an urge to smile and lost. What manner of greeting was this? Greetings that stank like rotten eggs?

  “I have brought you a very special visitor, the daughter of one dear to your hearts, who was born in this village. Will you come greet her?”

  How strange, to be standing in the very place her mother was born. The location felt queerly familiar, as though she had absorbed something of this place through her mother’s milk–which was impossible, but there it was. Aranya turned a complete circle. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

  “That house,” she said, pointing.

  Nak and Ta’armion gasped in concert. Nak blurted out, “I thought you said–”

  “I did, and I spoke the truth. I understand it less than you do, Nak.”

  Putting her hands to her head, Aranya unpinned the unfamiliar skullcap unwound her headscarf. She put the face-veil aside. Ta’armion had the grace not to look too scandalised. Nak just grinned, probably imagining her nude, she thought crossly. She loosened her braids and shook out her hair.

  The silence surrounding them became so deep, it seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

  In a loud voice, Aranya called, “I wonder if anyone here remembers a woman with hair like mine? I wonder if any hand wiped her nose or changed her wet-cloths?”

  A bird trilled in the thicket nearby, while a dragonet sang a wordless song somewhere in a tree above their heads. Aranya called to the dragonet. Come to me. A tiny, foot-long sapphire juvenile flew to land on her upheld wrist. Claws pricked her skin. Aranya’s heart turned over in her chest. The dragonet was beautiful; her jewel-eyes watched Aranya patiently, utterly content on her wrist. She was perfect in every detail, a miniature Dragon.

  “I wonder if you remember one who spoke to dragonets, as I do?”

  She slowly rotated in a full circle, but was greeted only by silence.

  “Would someone like to come and pull on my pointy Fra’aniorian ears to check if they are real?”

  Her irritated shout raised no comment.

  “I know you fear Sylakia,” said Aranya. “But I have come to tell
you that a Dragon flies the skies of the Island-World once more. The Sylakians cower in fear.”

  This time, a querulous voice shot back, “You lie!”

  Nak twirled his cane in his hand. “I am Nak, who flew these very skies upon the Dragon Shimmerith in the days of your grandfathers. I, Nak the Dragon Rider, say that she does not lie. Here before you stands Aranya, the daughter of Izariela of Ha’athior Island See for yourselves, their resemblance is as the twin sun-Dragons are alike.”

  “You’re lying, too.”

  “Bah!” snorted Nak. Affecting an insolent air, he commented, “Bunch of white-hearted worms we’ve found here, Aranya. This lot are content to grub in the dirt and disrespect their Lord Prince. They’ve turned to the Path of the Hairy Worm, for the Islands’ sake. Why, their grandfathers flew Dragonback. They have forgotten who they are. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!”

  “Nak,” Aranya hissed at him.

  But a slow movement began all around them. The street filled with villagers, young and old, coming from the houses and the woods, until they surrounded the trio of visitors. Aranya looked about her with lively curiosity; finding many of the people were similar to her in height, build and physical characteristics. Their clothes were plain but fine, the women wearing long dresses dominated by turquoise, indigo and azure colours and unadorned skullcaps in royal blue; the children clean and happy, the men tall and bright of eye. Suddenly, amidst the crowd, she saw a girl of her own age gazing wide-eyed, violet-eyed, back at her. The connection between them was immediate, as sharp as a blade. The man beside her pulled the girl behind him with a stern word.

  An old man, older even than Nak, tottered out of the crowd. Without further ado, he fell upon Nak’s shoulder and began to sob, “Nak. Little Nak. You saved my life at the battle of Ermiada Island, my friend. When my Bronze Dragon Ferrial was slain by the treacherous war-band of Herimor, you carried me off the field. I could never forget.”

  “Aye,” said Nak, wiping his eyes. “I remember, now. You are Tra’ibel. Everyone called you Trouble.”

  “I will convince these unbelievers. This is Nak, my brethren. He is a Rider, and a man of the highest honour.”

  “I nursed thy mother when she was ill,” said another woman, moving forward. Aranya gasped. She sounded exactly like her mother!

  “And I played with her. I’d know Izariela’s daughter anywhere.”

  “Then she must be tested.”

  His was a quiet voice, but it carried a rasp that curbed the rising babble. Aranya turned. It was the stern man, he of strange, blazing yellow eyes, whose gaze spoke directly to the fires within her and bade them stir from their slumber.

  He said, “All Fra’aniorian children are tested in the summer of their seventh year. You are past the age, Aranya, who claims to be the daughter of Izariela. But I would know what the Nameless Man says about your gifts before we of Ha’athior Island reveal any more of our secrets.”

  It was as though his words cast a spell over the villagers, conveying a strange power of command, which broke up the assembly. But he and the girl remained, watching her along with Nak and Ta’armion, until with a curt bow, the man said:

  “Come. The Nameless Man awaits.”

  Chapter 20: Testing

  Aranya’s eyes followed the girl compulsively as she entered the same dwelling she was convinced had been her mother’s. The girl could have been her sister. The family likeness was too striking, too accurate in every detail to be mistaken. She emerged from her home carrying a musical instrument, a large harp by the shape of the carrying-bag, which she lifted herself despite Prince Ta’armion’s low offer of assistance and placed upon her shoulder.

  But the man was not her father. Her ward, perhaps? Was it as she feared, that the Sylakians had destroyed her heritage here in the Fra’aniorian Islands? Was this girl the only one left?

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  The girl made a sign toward her mouth and followed it with a complex set of hand signals. Aranya blinked.

  “May I present the gracious Lyriela of Ha’athior,” said the Prince, falling into step with them. His hands made the signs for his words as he spoke. “I am Prince Ta’armion. I have the honour of accompanying Aranya, Princess of Immadia, to your Island home, my gracious lady.”

  “Follow me,” said the flame-eyed man, who had introduced himself as Ja’alion. He cast Lyriela a pointed look, making her hide her face–and a shy smile, meant for the Prince?

  After that Lyriela fell a little behind them, leaving the Prince to speak with Ja’alion as Aranya followed him along a narrow trail leading out of the village.

  The trail led for some distance between walls of tumbling jungle vegetation and veils of hanging vines, before a towering black cliff rose from the greenery, and they broke out upon a narrow ledge that skirted the very edge of the abyss. Red, orange and emerald-green Dragonets played above and beneath them, darting acrobatically into tiny caves and catching insects in the air. The cliffs were alive with birds and small, scurrying mammals feasting on the abundant hanging fruits, many of which Aranya could not have named. Without being bidden, her steps lagged slightly, until Lyriela bumped against her back. She must have been watching her footing.

  Aranya caught Lyriela’s hand to steady her. Not everyone could be a Dragon, unafraid of heights. Lyriela’s eyes, violet to her amethyst, yet so alike in their depths, flashed a smile at her–she seemed just as curious about Aranya as she was about her potential relative. Her eyebrows lifted. Lyriela pointed back past Aranya’s shoulder.

  The sapphire dragonet hung upside-down from a branch just above the trail, watching them with her head askance. She looked very pleased to be noticed. Aranya had barely begun to frame a word of greeting when the dragonet swooped, darted three times around her head with the speed and manoeuvrability of a bat, and settled upon her right shoulder. Claws dug into her shoulder. The tail curled possessively around her neck, its spines pricking her skin not unpleasantly. Evidently, Aranya had made a friend.

  Aranya chuckled softly. “Oh, making ourselves comfortable at home and hearth, are we? Shall I hunt for you when I’m a Dragon? Must I name you if you stay? How shall you be named: Blue, or Beauty? For you are beautiful.”

  The tiny mouth opened and the fangs pricked her earlobe.

  “Ouch! Have it your way, then.” Addressing the girl, she asked, “Lyriela, is this normal dragonet behaviour?”

  The girl watched Aranya’s lips before shaking her head.

  But as she turned to the trail again, Ja’alion’s yellow-eyed gaze examined her from an expressionless face, conveying austere disapproval. Aranya arched an eyebrow and mentally suggested he go find someone else to intimidate. She was not afraid. Ja’alion stalked on.

  Nak chattered away to the men coming along behind them, telling a tale of his exploits as a Dragon Rider when he campaigned with the ancient King of Fra’anior, Ta’armion’s great-grandfather. Aranya gazed hungrily over the cliff-edge to the Cloudlands below, hidden in a mist or humidity that gathered about them as they walked along the trail; the day grew dimmer, but no less sultry. Aranya smelled damp and moss as they walked past the entrance of a cave. She would have loved to explore these Islands in her Dragon-form. There was a surprise around every corner.

  “The Dragon’s Lair,” said Ja’alion, indicating the cave. “Come, the crossing is just ahead.”

  Lyriela did not release Aranya’s hand. Aranya wondered suddenly what colour her hair was. Aranya was three or four inches taller, but Lyriela had that Fra’aniorian grace about her, as though she walked to an inner melody. Her mouth, even at rest, seemed never to stop smiling. She was golden of skin in the way of the Fra’aniorians, unlike the pale Northern cast which was Beran’s bequest to Aranya. Her eyes were vibrant, full of life and laughter and mystery–and magic, Aranya thought suddenly. But she had never felt such a sense of a kindred spirit. She longed to speak with her, but did not know the sign-language which came so easily to Ta’armion
.

  Rounding a huge outcropping, they came to a rope bridge, a simple hawser with two guide-ropes spanning an unknown abyss, leading from the main Island to a slim volcanic cone some two hundred feet distant, sheathed in mists that coiled in sinister ways about the bearded green foliage which rose sheer from the depths and towered above them. Aranya’s Dragon senses prickled. What place was this?

  Prince Ta’armion moved back through the group to offer Lyriela aid, and when she shook her head with a slight smile and a gesture that Aranya interpreted as gratitude, he approached Nak.

  The Prince said, “Will you shelve your pride this once, Dragon Rider, to ride upon a man’s shoulders across the abyss? I am no Shimmerith, truly, but I would be honoured to bear you.”

  “Ha!” cried Nak. “Am I so unsteady, pup?”

  “Yes,” said Aranya. “Nak, please. Or I’ll have Oyda to answer to.”

  “Ah, very well, for your sake, Immadia, I shall accept the offer of a brave soul.” He bowed with one of his flourishes. “Arise, Prince Ta’armion, to thy acceptable service.”

  Prince Ta’armion caught Nak’s arm as the old man slipped on a patch of moss. Aranya’s heart leaped into her throat, thinking she’d have to transform to go fetch Nak from an unfortunate flight, but the quick-thinking Prince saw him safe. Ta’armion was a strange one. Afeared of kisses, but full of hidden strengths. How she had misjudged him.

  They crossed over the rope bridge to the volcanic cone. Lyriela came pale and trembling to the far side, but none of the other Islanders seemed concerned.

  “This is the home of the Nameless Man,” said Ja’alion, indicating a narrow cleft in the mountainside. “It is a warrior monastery, as you may have guessed. This is the place where all Ha’athior Islanders come to test their children, the place where the spirit of the Great Dragon Fra’anior resides in power. Haste, now. The Nameless Man must not be kept waiting.”