“Sounds easy.” Aranya tried a chuckle. It convinced nobody, least of all herself.
“Which might put us in Immadia just the snap of a rajal’s fang ahead of two hundred Dragonships,” said Zip. Her eyes sparkled. Aranya knew what her Rider wanted to do.
“Easier than learning to fly,” she said. Then all she had to do was face Yolathion in battle. Aranya thought she might just throw up. “Rider? Are you ready to fly to Immadia’s aid?”
“Ready, my Dragon-friend.”
“Ri’arion?”
“I am sworn to follow,” said the monk.
Aranya said, “In the absence of any further craziness, Nak, will you tell us how to find these places you mentioned? You have flown that way before, haven’t you?”
“Not as such, no,” said Nak.
Gasps of shock and outrage sounded around the table. Oyda snatched up her rolling pin and chased Nak out of the door, fulminating dire threats to toss him off the nearest cliff.
“Mercy, mercy,” cried Nak, wobbling along on his canes.
“Mercy for thee, thou buffoon?” But Oyda did not chase him as hard as she might have.
* * * *
By evening, their preparations were complete. Aranya wished she felt more ready. After pushing so hard all the way from Fra’anior, she was about to undertake a journey of four times that length. As Nak put it, an exhausted plunge into the Cloudlands would not serve Immadia well. After raising all of their hopes, Nak had revealed his great plan was based on a bet he once lost to another Dragon Rider. Still being sore about his loss seventy years after the fact had sharpened his memory, he claimed.
It was good to know how sound and workable their plan was.
“Fact is, that Rider beat him to Helyon Island,” said Zuziana, picking up a conversation she had been having with herself all afternoon. “Are we taking the dragonet?”
“Are we taking the chattering Princess?” Aranya shot back.
“I wonder what you’d look like with all your scales plucked?” mused her friend.
“I wonder what you’d look like fried in a fireball?”
Ri’arion tested the draw of the Pygmy bow. “Nice weapon.”
“It’s a Pygmy bow,” said Zuziana. “Are you sure you can compete with a Pygmy?”
Zip had also spent the afternoon baiting Ri’arion. Apparently, provoking a deadly magic-wielding warrior monk was all part of the fun for a Remoyan Princess. Aranya wondered if she would cause an explosion at some point. Even stoic monks must have their limits. That she had not found Ri’arion’s limits as yet apparently only encouraged Zuziana. Aranya reminded herself not to mention how Ri’arion feared the Black Dragon. That would add kindling to the fire.
After saying fond farewells to Nak, Oyda and Nelthion, Aranya walked over to the precipice from which she had learned to fly. She spread her wings. Come, Sapphire, she called in her mind. The dragonet immediately launched herself off Nak’s shoulder and darted over to land–not without the customary showy backward double-flip–on Zuziana’s armoured thigh.
Aranya checked her Riders. It felt strange to be carrying two saddles. Ri’arion’s seat, behind Zip, was really just a pad fitted between her spine-spikes with a decent leather strap leading beneath her chest, but Zip had a real Dragon Rider saddle. It fit as though it had been made for them. It had additional straps that buckled around Aranya’s spikes, front and rear, and a clever catch mechanism for the Rider’s thigh and waist belts. Ri’arion had no such luxuries, nor would he want any. Judging by his expression, he thought Zuziana a frivolous piece of fluff and was uninspired to be landed with the job of protecting her. Aranya’s fangs showed in a grin. Zuziana would show him a thing or three about fighting Dragonback.
With a final round of fond farewells, Aranya flexed her formidable thigh muscles and launched them toward the suns-set, hidden behind a bank of gold-trimmed clouds. A sly peek over her shoulder as they dove a thousand feet had Zip grinning her madcap grin and Ri’arion grimacing as though he had a stomach-ache.
“Did you know there are men living down the cliffs here?” she called. “I’ll show you.”
“There are no Humans living beneath the Islands,” said Ri’arion.
Everything was always so definite with him, Aranya thought, even when he was wrong. She hoped having him travel with them would not spoil one of her favourite activities, flying and travelling with her best friend. Why had Fra’anior demanded that she take the Nameless Man under her wing?
Feeling glum, Aranya arrowed northward, enjoying a slight helping wind.
They passed by the caves of the cliff-men as dusk mellowed toward full night. Aranya drew in close, but not close enough for a speculative arrow-shot, for her companions to take a good look with their inferior eyesight. Even Sapphire peered at them in apparent interest. Zip waved impishly; her gesture raised howls of anger from the men swinging on their vines.
Unexpectedly, Ri’arion muttered, “I owe you an apology, Aranya.”
“Accepted,” she growled.
Several hours later, Aranya winged silently beneath the Last Walk.
“Feels like another lifetime,” said Zip. Aranya knew she was thinking about Garthion. Suddenly, without warning, Zuziana began to talk about their experiences in the Tower; of meeting Aranya, of her paintings, of Garthion’s torture and that fateful dance. It was the first time she had ever spoken voluntarily about Garthion, Aranya thought. Was it a different, cathartic kind of healing? She wanted to weep when Zip described how she, Beri and Nelthion had watched Aranya being thrown over the edge of the Last Walk.
Aranya quietly filled in a few experiences of her own, mostly for Ri’arion’s benefit, telling of how she had escaped, nearly crash-landed on Nak and Oyda’s hut, and how they had taught her about being a Dragon. After that, Zuziana described their travels to and from Remoy. By the time she finished, they had rounded the northern tip of Sylakia, three hours before dawn.
Aranya found a safe place to roost. Zuziana curled up in her customary position beneath Aranya’s neck. But Ri’arion slept outside of that protective nook.
Chapter 23: The Spits
As dawn struggled to find a way past Iridith’s horizon-spanning sphere, Aranya set off for the Spits. Nak’s advice was to cover the first leg during the daytime and then as much of the southerly Spits as possible during the hours of darkness. Windrocs were rarely abroad at night, but that also depended on Iridith’s brightness and the cloud cover. Iridith was waxing toward fullness. There was not a wisp of cloud above.
“Look, a Dragonship,” said Zuziana.
“A trader, I think,” said Aranya, who had spotted the Dragonship an hour before. “I’m trying my best not to look menacing.”
“Fat, scaly, many-clawed, Dragon-sized chance,” snorted Zip.
“Zip, how come you understand the dragonet?”
“You don’t?”
Aranya said, “She doesn’t speak. She never told me she likes the name Sapphire. You seem to know when she’s hungry as well.”
Zuziana thought about this for a while. “I’m not developing Dragon powers, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Aren’t you?
“No.”
Her belly lurched when Zip answered her mental voice. But Aranya realised she might have spoken in Human, not Dragonish. She tried to summon up words similar to those Fra’anior had spoken to her. No, she needed to catch Zip unawares.
Your brother’s a ralti sheep. Zip burst out laughing. A Shapeshifter.
“Aranya, don’t be ridiculous. There are no powers in my family. None. Remoyans were always good Dragon Riders, though. I am just picking up a few things from you–it’s a Dragon and Rider thing. Nak’s always said that, hasn’t he?”
“You aren’t, er, lighting any fires?”
Zip laughed merrily. “Aranya, you’re too funny. Just because you healed me with Dragon tears … petal, are you feeling lonely? Like you’re the only Shapeshifter Dragon in the Island-World and now you’re
wishing I would turn into a Dragon, too? Please, I’d as likely fly around the Jade moon.”
Ri’arion cleared his throat. “Dragons cry?”
“She does,” said Zip. “Healing tears.” Ri’arion’s expression switched quickly from befuddled to serene. The Princess sighed. “Ri’arion, if you imply I’m lying one more time …”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face said everything.”
Aranya smiled at them both. “Children, no squabbling on my back.”
A mutinous silence descended.
At least an hour passed before Aranya asked, “But Zip–don’t you think you’d want to be a Dragon?”
Zuziana leaned forward to pat Aranya’s neck. “Petal, I love the fact that you’re a Dragon and I wouldn’t swap you for anything in the Island-World.”
“Petal?” chortled Ri’arion. “You call this beast ‘petal’?”
Now it was the Dragon’s turn to fly on in an infuriated silence.
The day was old before Aranya sighted the Spits. She had tried different altitudes, but as Nak had suggested, there was no helping wind to be found. In the higher altitudes the wind was directly against them, while lower down, the air remained hot and still. From time to time Aranya rested on the wing, but she pushed the pace steadily. One thought dominated her mind. Garthion was ahead, five days ahead. She needed to pace herself wisely.
Even then, what hope did Immadia Island have?
Was that feeling that had struck her in Oyda’s doorway when Zuziana so casually interpreted Sapphire’s name, a presentiment or just surprise? She wished she knew the true power of Dragon tears. It scared her ralti-stupid, as the Immadian shepherds loved to say, to consider what she might have done to Zuziana. Was there still a price to be exacted for her life?
She knew far too little about Dragon magic.
Seen from afar, the Spits were a rock-forest whose winding paths made no sense. Aranya imagined they might once have been an Island which had cracked along fault lines to make the strange patterns which resulted. It was unnatural. Tall, regular columns of rock, broken off at different heights, leaning together as if in secretive conversation. Her eye would just begin to find a pattern, before the columns descended into chaos. That regularity was an illusion–wasn’t it? The only thing she could tell with certainty was that it gave her a headache.
“There,” said Zip. “The ancient Dragon Riders marked the tops of the columns with green paint, Just as Nak told us.”
“It has faded almost to nothing, Zip. How did you see that?”
“Dragon eyes.”
Aranya snorted at the joke, but still squirmed uneasily. Zip might deny it … Aranya would watch her closely. “Windrocs. Look, nesting along the edge.”
Zip asked, “How are you doing, Aranya?”
“I can keep flying for a while yet, but I should rest soon.”
They pressed on into the Spits, following the ancient trail. They rested on a rocky ledge which was no more than eight feet wide and an impossible drop into the khaki-tinged Cloudlands below. Ri’arion found a few twigs and conjured up a tiny fire, first brewing tea and then mixing up a stew prepared from a rock hyrax he downed with a swift flip of his dagger.
Aranya nosed about hungrily. “Mmm, what’s that?”
“There’ll be none left for us,” Ri’arion said.
“Heavens, a joke from the stone of stones himself?” asked Zip.
Muttering something rude beneath his breath, Ri’arion stalked off along the ledge to hunt for a few more hyraxes for Aranya. The plant-eating rodents were a foot to a foot and a half long, and plump enough to look appetising.
Zuziana gazed out at the Blue moon. “I just don’t see those rings you told me about, Aranya.”
“Dragon sight is amazing, Zip. I can count the feathers on those windrocs nesting down there. When I look to the stars without Iridith’s light, I see so many that they appear like the frosting of winter snows upon Immadia’s mountains.”
“I miss it being just us two, Aranya.”
“I know.”
“You scaly excuse for a lizard,” Zip grinned at Aranya and pushed her nose playfully. “How do you know?”
Aranya took a mock-snap at her friend’s hand. “You’re being mean to Ri’arion, that’s how. He’s a good man. Dull as a stick, but a good man.”
Zip chuckled. “Now who’s being mean? The depths of his Island lie deep, Aranya.”
Really? Aranya blinked in surprise at her choice of words. “Well, let’s both try to be less unkind to him, then. I won’t be jealous that I have to share you. I’ll try not to let fear rule my hearts.”
Zuziana’s vivid blue eyes examined hers from a few inches away. “You know what I love best about you, Aranya? Your one heart was big enough. Now you have three.”
Aranya did not think it was possible for a Dragon to blush, but she did.
Ri’arion returned with four hyraxes piled in his arms. “Snack, Dragon? Cooked or raw?”
“Raw,” said Aranya. She could hardly wait for him to deposit her portion beside her nose before gobbling up the offering. “Thanks, Ri’arion.”
“What do you do with the fur and bones, Aranya?” asked Zip.
“Spit them at curious Princesses,” laughed Aranya. “No, I think I digest just about everything. Weird, isn’t it?”
“Efficient,” said Ri’arion.
The monk moved off a few feet to begin his exercises. Zip sampled the stew. “Wow, you can turn rock hyrax into this, Ri’arion? It’s good.”
Ri’arion did not pause his handstand press-ups. “Good. You finish it.”
Before midnight, the travellers left that small pile of charred sticks on the ledge and glided on through the Spits, meandering through a rocky wonderland. Iridith and Blue made the night glow, so that their passing disturbed the windrocs, but none of the birds dared attack them–yet. Aranya wondered if that would change come the dawn. She increased the pace of her wing beats, weaving between spires and tracking past tumble-down cliffs covered in scratchy bushes and vines with thorns ten inches long.
“Smoothly,” said Zip. “Ease into the corners like Nak taught you.”
“The greater the change in direction, the greater the cost in velocity,” Aranya quoted back. “Velocity equals energy. The best fliers are also the most graceful for a reason, you stubborn, gawky excuse for a teenage Dragon.”
Both of her Riders burst into laughter. Zip was so surprised at Ri’arion’s dry guffaws behind her that she laughed a second time.
Dawn brought the first attack.
Aranya, having broken out into a valley among the rocky spires, ledges and mesas of the Spits, had taken the opportunity to close her eyes briefly when Ri’arion shouted the alarm.
Her startle reflex flared her wings and a windroc plummeted past, missing the attack by a rajal’s whisker. “Phew,” said Aranya. “Air brakes.”
“Nice manoeuvre, Dragon,” said Ri’arion, scanning the sky.
Aranya watched the windroc flapping hard to gain height. “He’ll be back. That’s a mad one.”
“How can you tell?” asked Zip.
“The eyes,” Aranya replied.
“We should take turns to shoot,” said the monk, nocking an arrow to his bow. “We’ve limited arrows, so let’s make each shot count. Can you shoot, Princess?”
“Passably,” Zip said, through clenched teeth.
“Good,” said Ri’arion. “Call your target and take the shot.”
Aranya felt compelled to add, “We used flaming arrows on armoured Dragonships, Ri’arion. Zip can do more than just land an arrow in a huge balloon.”
A raised eyebrow signalled his displeasure. “I said I trusted her. Is that not enough?”
Fire boiled in Aranya’s belly. But she said, “Ri’arion, we would hear and learn from you. Nak had a hundred summers and more Dragonback. In comparison, we have days.”
“A warrior watches how his companions handle their weapons. A wise warrior watche
s how they handle their hearts.” Ri’arion stretched out his arm. “I believe it is common Island manners to allow a lady the first opportunity. Ready, Zuziana?”
The windroc screamed as it rose to accost them. Aranya told herself that she’d have to take care of that cruel beak and hooked claws, or a wing could easily be shredded. Her torn wing was fine now. The Pygmy glue had disintegrated with the help of prekki-fruit juice, revealing completely healed wing membrane beneath. Even Nak had not known the Pygmy glue-trick. “Dragon scales and hide renew themselves just like Human skin,” he had said. “The glue would eventually have peeled off the layer of new membrane beneath.”
Zuziana aimed and released. The windroc spiralled down into the Cloudlands.
“Hmm,” was the monk’s response.
Throughout the morning, windrocs rose from their nests in the surrounding towers of rock or swirled in from the strong winds above the Spits, either to investigate and leave the Dragon well alone, or to attack with their favourite dive-and-shred assault. Aranya decided that Zip was the better archer, while Ri’arion was faster on the draw and reload.
They rested in a shallow cave from midday to suns-set. Aranya dreamed about giant windrocs eating her wings. She was unable to fight back, somehow mute and powerless. Aranya awoke to find Zuziana and Ri’arion both patting her with concern and asking what was wrong. Embarrassed, she hung her head and muttered crossly. They ate dinner–most of a mountain goat for Aranya, and part of a haunch shared between Zip and Ri’arion, again spiced to perfection by the resourceful monk. They set out again after dark.
Their route led through a maze of towering black columns, so tall that their tops were lost in the sullen grey clouds gathered above. “Dragons’ breath,” said Ri’arion, looking up with distrustful eyes. The trail led them on into blind canyons that miraculously opened before them, through hidden clefts in rock faces, and several times beneath titanic boulders or whole columns balanced above yawning chasms. It was a tough challenge for Aranya, a flying obstacle course that kept her constantly on edge.
Come dawn, the windrocs appeared in force.
Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) Page 31
