“Oh?” King Beran’s brow lowered. “Oh, is it?”
“Dad! Stop it. Please …”
“Why don’t you whisk the overgrown Jeradian mountain up there, daughter,” suggested her father, pointing at one rather lonely cloud in the sky, “and dangle him by his toes from ten thousand feet, and see if he repents of how he treated you?”
“Dad!” Aranya’s breath smoked out of her nostrils. “You’re so embarrassing. Yolathion, don’t listen to him.”
Yolathion’s throat bobbed as he looked up at the sky. “I think I’d rather prefer my boots on the ground.” But before the disappointment could seep into Aranya’s bones, he added, “For today, at least.”
Zuziana, with a sympathetic glance at Aranya, interrupted them. “Let’s get a physician to see to these crossbow quarrels in her side and belly, first. Yolathion–why don’t you use those Dragonships to quarter the city for stray Sylakians? Ri’arion and I will try to get Aranya back on the wing.”
“Good,” said Beran. “Darron, summon those Sylakian troops milling in the gateway. I’ll speak to them first.”
Ri’arion said, “So, Garthion was a Dragon Shapeshifter. Who would have thought? No wonder you feared him, Zuziana, for so great an evil is not easily hidden.”
“All along while the Sylakians were killing off the Shapeshifters, they were only concealing their own secrets,” said Aranya, shivering. “Why didn’t he transform before? With his size and power, he could have destroyed us all. Why cower in hiding? What happened, Ri’arion, to make him transform at the end? And–this means his father’s a Shapeshifter, too.”
“Or whoever his mother was,” said Ri’arion, examining the quarrel jutting out of her flank. “We need to cut this one loose, Aranya. But it isn’t difficult. The one in the belly, however–that one’s in deep. And your wing’s a mess.”
The physician had never operated on a Dragon. The poor man trembled and shook in the presence of two Dragons, but Aranya and Zip greeted him cordially. Aranya thought she should remember his name, but it would not come to her immediately. When he learned that Zip could transform back into Human form, he quickly suggested she do just that so that he could align and splint an arm rather than a wing. Ri’arion disappeared to find Zip’s clothing while the physician poked at the quarrel stuck in Aranya’s side.
“Caught between the ribs,” he said. “I’ll need to cut a bit to extract the flanges.”
“I’ve healing power. Do it.”
Although he seemed taken aback, the physician pulled out his knives, before clearly having second thoughts about the size of his patient and switching instead to his Immadian forked dagger.
Aranya watched her father gathering the Sylakian soldiers to address them. He balanced on a chunk of rubble, which put him at the same level as a band of dour-faced Jeradians behind him. Whatever did they feed those Jeradian men? Bamboo shoots? Rajal meat? Yolathion was the tallest of the lot. Trust her to pick a man who was clearly ambivalent about any future involving the Princess of Immadia. Ri’arion and Zuziana had it so easy in comparison. Love–simple for Remoy, discouraging for Immadia.
King Beran’s voice carried clearly over the courtyard. “Soldiers of Sylakia, I am King Beran of Immadia. I know that you served the Supreme Commander and carried out his orders to attack and destroy my kingdom. I also know that most of you are not Sylakian. You have surrendered. If you return to Sylakia you will be tried for treason and executed. That is the Sylakian way. But Immadia’s way is different. Listen closely. I offer seven years of service to the crown of Immadia for no pay. You will be fed and clothed and have a roof over your head. You will labour in public works, as do all who serve in my army. But if you commit any crime under Immadian law, however small, the punishment will be death.”
The men watched him, stony-faced. “I know most of you will not have families. But those in positions of command often do, because the way of Sylakia is to ensure loyalty by threatening your families. I offer to bring your loved ones here, under the Immadian flag, at my expense.”
This caused an incredulous murmuring.
“At the end of those seven years, if you have served well, I offer you freedom to go to the Island of your choice. I hope that you may choose life here on Immadia Island. Many are the families who have lost fathers and brothers and sons this day. To tell you the truth, we need each and every one of you. I would be grateful for every man’s help in rebuilding this city and this Island. But if you choose otherwise, it will not be held against you. You who hear me, hear the sworn word of the King of Immadia.”
His gaze travelled over them all. There was power in him, Aranya realised. He held these men in the palm of his hand, with simple words spoken from his heart. “This is my offer. You may of course refuse–in which case, I offer you free transport to the nearest remaining Sylakian outpost.” Grim laughter accompanied these words. “If you take an oath of service and spurn it, I will send a Dragon after you.”
More laughter, and nervous looks at the Dragons.
“Those who know me and have fought against me–you veterans, I see you here today–know how Immadia evaded and taunted the Sylakian windroc for twelve summers. Now, Immadia is grown more powerful than ever. Choose wisely.”
Aranya hissed as the physician drew the quarrel out of her side. “Clean wound,” he muttered. “How do you close a hole like this, Dragon?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I can try to stop the bleeding. Clean it with whatever you use to stop infections, Shirmar–”
“You remember my name?”
“I do. You’ve treated the royal family for as long as I can remember.”
“Well.” He dusted something into her wound. “Blood’s clotting already. Magic?”
Aranya nodded.
“Lady, this one in the belly’s going to hurt. Can you lie down on your side? Hmm. I’ll check the knee after that. And about fifty other cuts on your belly.”
As the physician fussed over her, the soldiers of Sylakia began to come forward one by one to take the King’s oath. A scribe noted down their names, ranks and Islands of origin, in a thick ledger. They signed or made their mark beside their name. A small number refused the oath. Commander Darron had them taken to the dungeons under guard. One man tried to strike her father. Aranya blinked at the speed of his reaction–clearly, King Beran had been expecting as much. He sidestepped and punched the man crisply on the point of his jaw.
Ri’arion, having returned with clothes for Zip, glanced briefly at the man lying in the dirt. “King didn’t like his oath? Here. Hide behind Garthion and for the Islands’ sake, try not to jar your arm.”
“Don’t look,” said Zip.
The monk pretended to take offence. “Well, I’m not about to leer at those Sylakian troops, am I? I’ll have to help you dress, Remoy.” Ignoring Zuziana pointedly as she transformed, he added, “I know my curse didn’t change him into a Dragon, Aranya. But I don’t understand how he hid it. You and Nak taught me that a Dragon form must be fed. Could he hibernate? Could his Dragon somehow have been so suppressed within him that this was the very first time he transformed? Yet I did not sense it was so.”
Aranya nodded. Her intuition said the same. She would dearly have loved to discuss the mystery of Garthion’s existence with Nak and Oyda. But she knew they had to secure Immadia first, put out the fires and ensure the Sylakian forces were not regrouping somewhere off shore.
“Under-shift, please,” said Zip.
“What’s an under-shift, o peerless Remoy?”
“Shall I slap you both now and later?” Zuziana grinned behind his back. “The very thin one.”
“See-through?” asked Ri’arion, reddening.
“You’re lacking the most basic education, you poor, deprived monk.”
Aranya tried not to laugh at Ri’arion’s expression. It hurt her belly.
“I fought my way into the Dragonship,” said Ri’arion, in a somewhat unsteady voice. “I sensed all was not right. H
e had many guards about him, all experienced Crimson Hammers. It took time to kill them. Throughout, Garthion was simply watching me with this queer expression on his face–I don’t even know how to describe it. There I was, slaughtering his best warriors one by one, and he seemed utterly unconcerned. When I killed the last man defending him, Garthion laughed at me. Then he transformed. Were it not for my Nameless Man powers, he would have eaten me there and then. As it was, I escaped his fangs by a rajal’s whisker … and you know the rest.”
Aranya considered all of this, trying to ignore Shirmar’s grunts as he sawed manfully into her belly-hide. “This is a deep mystery, Ri’arion. How could he have concealed his Dragon-form? Why did he not transform when I burned him back in the Tower of Sylakia? He must have sensed the magic. Earlier, when he appeared, he said, ‘I am alive’. He can’t have been dead before, can he? Why alive?”
“We’ll work it out,” said Zip, standing on her tiptoes to give Ri’arion a kiss on his cheek. “Worrying about Dragon Shapeshifters is a problem for tomorrow. Ri’arion, will you fly with me when we scout the Island?”
“You should stay right here, Zip,” he replied. “You’re injured.”
“She’s my Dragon,” Zuziana exploded in a fury. She clapped her hand over her mouth, mumbling around it, “I … what’s happening to me? That’s not me speaking. Aranya?”
“It’s Dragon-Zip, my friend. There’s two of you in there.”
“Ooh. This Dragon thing is creepy.”
Aranya looked meaningfully at Garthion’s body. “Really? You think so?”
Chapter 33: Mysteries
At the back of the royal gardens was a low cliff-face riddled with caves. All of the royals of Immadia were interred within the caves. Slowly, over centuries, their remains calcified in those pure, undisturbed halls, as mineral-bearing water dripped through the rocks above.
Aranya remembered when they had buried her mother here.
It was the day after the battle. One sleep had made the Island-World seem a new place.
Her slow, dragging footsteps halted in front of the large, round stone that blocked the cave’s entrance. She looked gratefully at Yolathion, who had helped her limp along despite the restriction of a bulky cast on her right knee. “Thank you.”
Zuziana had a cast covering her left arm, too, broken just above the elbow when Garthion struck her and broken her wing. Aranya had woken from a nightmare about Zip falling onto the flagpole. She shuddered at the memory. Rather than think about that, she scratched her bandages instead. Too many wounds; too many itches. She had exhausted her healing power on herself and Zip, never mind Ri’arion, who was acting the stoic monk. She sensed his pain, too.
“Are you quite certain about this, Sparky?” King Beran asked.
She nodded. “Just a look, Dad. I can’t shake the feeling. I dreamed about it last night–this, and the Black Dragon roaring at me, again. All night long.”
She stroked Sapphire, seated on her shoulder.
Zuziana and Ri’arion stood to one side, looking pensive. She knew they thought her idea was strange. Alright, completely off-the-Island bizarre. They probably assumed it was unresolved grief stemming from her mother’s death. That was part of the puzzle, for certain. But it was not all. A four summers-old child could not be expected to remember much of the detail. Mostly, she remembered the trauma of that day, of seeing her mother lying so cold and still. Partially changed. Dead.
But what if there was something … more?
Now that she had arrived at her mother’s tomb, Aranya lacked the courage to go through with her plan. She hesitated.
Leaving Queen Silha’s side, King Beran came to stand alongside his daughter. He raised the lantern he was holding. “Why don’t we do this together?”
“Alright.”
A Dragon could fling herself headlong at a fleet of enemy Dragonships. This was harder.
Yolathion helped a quartet of Immadian warriors roll aside the gravestone. Her father’s hand found hers. Aranya had never been more grateful for that Human touch. Beran ducked into the low entrance. A few steps inside, he was able to straighten up. Aranya did the same but much less elegantly. She bumped her head on the roof.
“Down here, Sparky.”
Each of the graves, horizontal slots hollowed into the sides of the tunnels, had a small plaque set above it. Those nearest the entrance were almost a thousand summers old. But the bones within had not crumbled. They were preserved in stark, crystalline casements. As they walked carefully along the slippery, sloped floor, Aranya silently rued her knee, struck by a crossbow quarrel and then chewed by Garthion. Here, she was surrounded by all those who had gone before. She ran her eyes over newer dates, bones less thickly cased in ageless calcites. How many of these had been Dragon Riders, or Dragon Shapeshifters, she wondered? Or was it an unknown woman from Ha’athior who had changed everything?
King Beran held out his hand. “Just around this corner.”
The lantern light crept around the corner first. Aranya followed, her father right behind her. She saw bones. Her eyes jumped off a semi-mummified corpse; a squeak escaped her throat. The light played off fresh drops of crystal, surrounding them with sparkles, dazzling their eyes until King Beran shifted the lantern.
His voice was strangely choked. “This one, Aranya.”
Perfect fingers. Aranya gasped. Perfect fingers covered in silvery Dragon scales, so like a dragonet’s hide that she glanced involuntarily at her little friend perched on her shoulder. Sapphire’s eyes whirled faster than she had ever seen them move before. Her eyes leaped back to the body. Hope choked her throat, quickly stilled. Izariela of Ha’athior seemed only to sleep. Beran’s reaction confirmed that impression. Nowhere on her flesh was there the slightest sign of decay. Her eyes were closed, serene. She was beautiful. She was more beautiful than the frozen crystal encasing her flesh.
Then she saw that her mother’s body had been arranged so as to conceal her partial transformation. She lay with her left side outward. The right foot sported a Dragon’s claws. The right side of her face had an unseemly bulge running from below the cheekbone up to where it was hidden by her hair. Multi-coloured hair, just like Aranya’s own locks. Izariela’s right arm and hand were hidden back in the shadows, but Aranya could make out enough to see the beginnings of wing struts jutting out of the length of her arm. Her right eye was twice as large as the left, half-hidden behind the perfect bridge of her nose.
Aranya wanted to reach out and touch her. She breathed, “Partial transformation. Impossible …”
“Sparky?”
She did not realise she had spoken aloud until her father replied.
“Dad, she’s been dead twelve years. Thirteen, come the autumn.” Aranya’s hand shook so hard she pulled it back to her side. “Mom’s dead … isn’t she? Don’t people–don’t they … I feel such an idiot even thinking it …”
“Decompose?” Uncharacteristically, his voice cracked. “We’ve grown older and she’s still young, Aranya. How does that work? No heartbeat. No breath filling her chest. Oh, I miss her as though it were yesterday. Why didn’t you tell me, Izariela? Why?”
Tears streaked down both of their cheeks.
Aranya mulled this over for so long that a worried query came from without the cave.
“We’re fine!” Beran called.
“She was protecting us. Protecting me,” Aranya said, thinking aloud. “I don’t know why, but that’s what Mom was doing. Maybe from the Sylakians. Maybe from an even greater threat.”
A simultaneous shudder communicated through their linked hands.
“Our mission is to find out from what, and why, Sparky,” King Beran said, slowly. “That’s the least we owe Izariela.”
Aranya laughed hollowly. “Minor issues first, Dad–such as rebuilding a kingdom and defeating an evil empire which probably has a Dragon Shapeshifter for its leader, never mind the rest of the Supreme Commander’s family. Would you be offended if the others–especially Ri’a
rion–took a look at this? At Mom, I mean.”
Her father squeezed her hand. Then he put his arms around her. “I love you, Aranya. Always have. It’s not just a Dad thing. Izariela would have been proud, too.”
“Love you right back, Dad.” She wiped her cheeks.
“Aye, your friends should come in. You’ve made wise choices, there. Exceptional people. You should treasure them.”
“Even Yolathion?”
Beran’s expression told her he saw right through her question. With a gentle touch, just fingertips upon her arm, he said, “All that talk of honour hides the heart within. He reminds me of a young Immadian King before he grew a beard and a little more wisdom with it. I think he has learned that Dragons are hard to kill. Since that day, he has been chasing you across the Islands, Sparky. But I’m not so convinced my daughter wants to be caught.”
Aranya masked the deep impact of his words by joking, “Did I tell you I raided his Dragonship, Dad, and left a scroll on his pillow-roll?”
“He rebelled against Sylakia for you, Aranya. Only for you.”
“Dragons are hard to kidnap, too.” She regarded Izariela tenderly. How she longed to speak to her as daughter to mother, not as the four summers-old child she remembered. “She loved you so much, she walked into your snare and willingly remained in it.”
“Aye? I was unworthy of her.”
“Don’t say that.” Aranya held him as he had once held her, by the shoulders, as though the force of her gaze alone could change his thoughts. “I don’t believe that. This–lying here–is neither her choice, nor yours. Dad, while I remember it, you need to add returning to Fra’anior to your list of tasks. I’ve a cousin there called Lyriela. She and Prince Ta’armion of Fra’anior are mutually smitten with each other. I may need to abet in a proper royal kidnapping, quite soon. I promised the ice-dragonets I would take them to meet their kin on Fra’anior.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “Come on in, friends!” he called. “Aranya, you’re never one to do things by halves, are you?”
Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) Page 44
