Tytiana

by Marc Secchia

  * * * *

  Kissing a girl, all afire.

  Grubbing in the dirt beneath the burgundy light of a gorgeous suns-set that filtered through the fenturi leaves and branches, setting the silver fruit-clusters ablaze like stars.

  Leaping free of a burning tower.

  Sprinting through the orchards with wings of fire in his feet.

  Laughing in a tickle game with his beloved sisters.

  “Fly well, rat!”

  A mighty, full-throated thundering that seemed to shake the very marrow loose of his bones. Fly to safety, Jakani! FLY!!

  He was flying, but not to any safety. He was flying like a Human flung through the skies by a Dragon. Falling. Wind whistling through his hair. Hearing from Tytiana even though she had receded behind the clouds, clasped in the grip of that brutal Red Dragon. Fly? How could he fly? She was the Dragoness, not he! Yet the fire dwelled in him and the power of her command could not be denied. It filled him beyond thought, beyond reason, beyond the limitations of mortal flesh and beyond the ends of all he had always known as Jakani. He was more. He was fire! He was …

  NOOO!!!

  You will remember! commanded the Princess.

  Tumbling. Tangled. Flailing. Flashes of storm sky and white ground and dark, brooding cliffs, then an impact that smashed the breath clean out of his lungs. Incredible pain piercing his arms and side …

  NOOO!!!

  Remember!

  Soldiers sawing at frozen, javelin-like trees that pinioned him in multiple places. The whiteness surrounding his splayed body, the freezing, slowing him down and dulling the agony, threatening imminent death!

  Unnnh – must escape! he roared, tearing upward with his arms.

  Beware, Princess!

  Subdue him! Don’t let him – how the hells! There was scrambling around him, frightened cries as Jakani ripped the manacles and the table apart with a convulsive, terrified flexion of his arms. Beware! Dragon!

  Immense was his power! Furious the fires! Mighty his rage, the song of draconic rage unleashed in his soul!

  Soldiers! Present arms! Shalanya shouted. No killing!

  Something slammed into the back of his head. He dropped to one knee. Again, a brutal strike. And again!

  All flicked to darkness.

  * * * *

  Upon a tempestuous evening two days after Excorion’s devastating attack on Ablazion, the Brown Dragon approached Pla’arna Cluster, a shattered wilderness of Islands surrounded by swirling grey Cloudlands and buffeted by the passing fringes of a winter storm. Strangely, the setting suns shone luminously beneath the Yellow Moon, setting the dark fringes of the cloud battalions alight while seeming to correspondingly deepen their inner darkness. Strewn across the Cloudlands in pockets and piles of rock and shrubbery, some toweringly tall and others as tumbledown as if they had been scattered by a draconic paw, Pla’arna looked exactly as she had imagined it ought to – a haven for thieves, pirates and the scum of the Island-World.

  Ten thousand hiding places. A million secrets.

  As Excorion hid her now within his paw without apology, so that she might not see where he flew, Tytiana reflected upon a strange event the previous afternoon. She had been dozing the leagues away when out of the blue, her fires had swelled immensely and a rage unlike anything she had known before – no stranger was she to fits of fire-inspired temper – had suffused her. Crying out, she had ripped Jakani’s shirt off of her just before … well, she was not quite sure what had happened then. A fiery nothingness exploded out of her?

  Excorion had certainly felt that! He almost dropped out of the sky in shock.

  Who else could do that but him? He who had kissed her into a pyre of flame, and breathed fire with her, and not been consumed? Unbidden, bittersweet faith. O, Fra’anior, be there any way …

  She could not give hope voice.

  Even more oddly after that, the Brown Dragon had suddenly begun to teach her about Dragon powers. How fire-life was the foundation of all draconic magic. He had questioned her at length upon the manifestations of her powers until Tytiana had been forced to reveal Adazara’s assessment of her nature. Excorion disagreed.

  “At your age of sixteen, you would already have come into your powers,” he said. “No, this is some other manifestation of draconic fire-magic. I have heard of very strange forms of Shapeshifters from Herimor, for instance, and not all take on obvious draconic manifestations. It is said that some are creatures of Chaos, the darkest and most forbidden fruit of Dramagon’s dreadful experimentation, who arise spontaneously somehow from the nethermost reaches of Herimor, South of the Rift. Yet you do not actually change form. It is a mystery indeed how fire lives within you – and true draconic fires at that. I cannot say I have ever encountered a creature of your like.”

  Comforting? Most assuredly not!

  She remembered squeezing out between Ablazion’s talon death-grip, and kept that detail to herself. A woman must be allowed some mystery, even if it petrified her.

  At length, she felt her ears popping during the descent, several times, and a while thereafter, Excorion’s wingbeat shifted and he spoke to several Dragons. Then there was a longer descent into full darkness. She smelled the unmistakable dankness of a cave system. A huge door scraped shut behind them, and the Dragon alighted, opened his paw and deposited her upon cool rock. As her eyes adjusted Tytiana saw that she stood inside a broad pit some forty feet deep and perhaps one hundred and fifty feet in diameter. The sides were sheer and perfectly smooth. Above her was a glossy and clearly artificial, most probably a Dragon-fashioned dome of rock in granite grey, cut by three ventilation holes that also allowed in a measure of light. To her left, she saw an access tunnel protected by a strong metal grating, and ten feet from it, a low wooden screen concealing some installation that, after a moment’s reflection, she concluded must be a toilet or washing up area. There was nothing else. Not a soul; just the expanse of the great granite vault which housed this inescapable pit. The echoes suggested a very large space out of her line of sight, all around. Perhaps there were more pits nearby?

  Excorion said, “This an old slaver pit, Tytiana. The one and only entrance to this cavern will be guarded twenty-seven hours a day by my two shell-brothers. I will instruct the servants to bring you meals which you will receive through that grating. You may make ablutions behind the screen. Waste may be flushed down a drain there.”

  With that, he turned as if to leave.

  “Noble Dragon, wait,” she said.

  “I may be away for some days,” he said, pausing with one forepaw set upon the relative cliff that trapped her inside the slaver pit. “I will say this. I am not a Dragon to throw away fire-life unnecessarily, o Tytiana of Helyon. You are not your father. Aye, I will bargain with your life – that is to be expected. But nor am I a Dragon who is carelessly betrayed. I will sniff out the truth here, mark the lay of my paw. And when that happens, I will show you why I am called Excorion after my signature powers: excoriation, and excruciation.”

  He expected her to trust him?

  With that, the Dragon poured upward with that liquid grace his kind possessed in such breathtaking yet lethal measure, and she heard his footsteps receding across the cave above. Massively basso male Dragon voices held a lengthy discussion in undertones beside what she assumed was the doorway he had referred to, before he departed and she was left alone.

  “Not much to this place, then,” she muttered to herself. “Just a pit with unclimbable walls and no amenities. Suffering caroli, what I wouldn’t give to be a Dragoness right now.”

  Good thing, then, that even the Dragons could not agree what she was! What she needed was a living and breathing Shapeshifter to tell her, yea or nay, whether she was a Dragoness or – heavens forbid – some profane creature spawned by the infamous Dramagon the Red! Ugh! Could she imagine her true father might have been some … Herimor beast? She too had read some legends about Dramagon that put the fear of Dragons into her, and her imagination unquestion
ably needed no additional feeding, these days. Maybe trying to find this Na’axion – or whoever her father might be – would be a quest that ended in worse than heartbreak.

  Or maybe Juzzakarr was such a beast in disguise?

  “Nooo …” How bitter was the scream that she unleashed upon these austere walls now!

  Chapter 21: Hatchling Up!

  JAKANI’S SECOND AWAKENING upon the fabled Isle of Immadia was much gentler than his previous one. True, he had a headache worthy of the pounding which had gifted it to him in the first instance, but lately he had learned to appreciate that just being alive was cause for celebration.

  Great. Back inside the cage. Clothed. Not a manacle in sight, which was a significant improvement. Jakani sat up and rubbed his head gingerly. He was starting to recall a few details that filled him with trepidation. What had been flapping about him, tugging at his shoulders as he tumbled through the sky? How had he survived a landing from a mile high? He touched his chest. Ouch. As he peered beneath the neckline of his unfamiliar linen shirt, he saw that his skin was black and blue from his neck to his stomach. Every inch. He dared not look further. Nice colours, however. Snow was clearly a great deal harder than he might have imagined.

  Ah, and there were twenty soldiers standing alertly around his cage, wearing what must be the purple of royal Immadia – in his extensive experience of visiting royal houses, he supposed. Or at least, their dungeons.

  Carefully, he said, “Islands’ greetings?” No smile cracked any of those stern, bearded faces. Mercy, they were all so tall! Every one of the guards had to be a head taller than him. “Uh, sorry I sort of … overreacted, last time? I won’t misbehave again. Promise.”

  One soldier, who wore a more decorative silver breastplate than the others, stepped forward. “Usually we Immadians are more welcoming, Shapeshifter Jakani, especially toward the noble Dragonkind. I am Commander Alaban. Be that as it may, noble Flicker accused you of egg theft. Your arrival was suspicious. We spotted a stricken Dragonship offshore. You were attacked by a Dragon known to us as a trustworthy ally. However, your flying skills are apparently less than inspiring, shall we say?”

  Four or five of his troop guffawed heartily.

  Jakani stared at the tall Immadian. One of his men had just muttered ‘flew like a ralti sheep, sir,’ and he was picturing ripping the fellow’s guts out through his throat … right. Get a grip on something, Dirt Picker! He said, “What makes you think I’m Dragonkind? Respectfully sir, Alaban, sir?”

  “The Princess. Attention!” barked one of the troop.

  With perfect timing, the men managed to grow petrified trees for spines. Clack! went their boots. Whap! Every hand smashed against their breastplates before they lifted in rigid salutes.

  In strolled the frankly tiny Princess. She would have been small even by lamko standards; certainly smaller than his mother, he’d wager, if she had straight legs. Shalanya was two heads shorter than any of these soldiers. Yet she carried herself with an air of dominion that Jakani was beginning to recognise even from his limited experience of Dragons. Funny how she had seemed much larger yesterday when he had been manacled upon that metal table. The soldiers certainly appeared more than respectful, and he had better behave the same way, he decided, willing his eyes to stop noticing how curvy she was beneath a long, high-collared dress of the ubiquitous royal purple.

  Honestly. Not a shred of self-control. Sorry, Tytiana. All in a day’s betrayal.

  “Noble Dragoness,” he said, standing and bowing.

  Well, it was an attempted bow. He made it only partway before he groaned and had to sit down again. Alright. Nothing about that felt good.

  “Noble Dragon.”

  There was a form of address to give his stomach a decided turn!

  He said, “Princess Shalanya, please forgive my appalling manners yesterday, or whenever I … tried to attack you. I was frightened and confused.”

  “This was your first transformation?” She stopped beside the bars considering him at discomfiting length. Apparently pink eyes could burn like fire.

  “If that’s what it was, Princess. I don’t know what happened there. Look, I don’t have much experience with Dragons or Shapeshifters or being … please, I’m just a Dirt Picker from Helyon. And my … this girl, she’s in trouble. Tytiana. She was flying on that Dragonship with me …”

  “Tytiana of House Cyraxana?” barked the silver-armoured Commander. Noting Jakani’s nod, the man added, “Princess, that would be the missing heiress everyone has been searching for. The redhead.”

  “You have to help me find her!”

  He did not at all enjoy the look that crossed the Princess’ features just then. Haughtily, she said, “I suppose a Dirt Picker of Helyon eloping with the Choice of a Helyon House could be regarded as somewhat more illegal than the matter of stealing a dragonet’s egg. However, noble Flicker is very, very protective of his offspring in his old age, and around here, he’s something of a legend.”

  “We didn’t elope, we were abducted by a rogue Dragon,” Jakani clarified.

  “And you didn’t steal the egg?”

  “No. Tytiana found it.”

  “And you didn’t crash-land on Immadia Island in Dragon form?”

  “No … ah … eeeh. I don’t remember.”

  “I hear many, many tall tales around here, coupled with a very convenient case of memory loss,” said the Princess, twisting her lips as though she had tasted something nasty. “Nor did you tear apart magically enhanced, Dragon-impervious shackles as though they were aged scrolleaf?”

  Jakani said something like, ‘ulp?’

  And speak perfect telepathic Dragonish as though born to it?

  This time he just shut his mouth and kept it that way. Silence had to be his best wisdom.

  The Princess smiled at him. Dragoness to the core. And then, in her lilting Immadian accent, she said, “Funny thing is, I knew I’d seen a handsome lad like you somewhere before.”

  “Impossible! Uh, respectfully meant, o Princess.” He could have used a few more colourful epithets, some of which he had learned from Tytiana. “I’ve never left Helyon’s shores before. Of course, you being the absolute potentate of … various stuff … around these frosty shores, I suppose …”

  His voice trailed off as four servants traipsed into the partly underground room bearing a huge, wood-framed oil painting which stood side-on to his viewpoint. He had to be dreaming. Noble Dragon? Speaking Dragonish with his mind? They truly imagined he was a dangerous creature of fire and magic? This was either simultaneously a stage comedy and the most bizarre conversation he had ever had, or … but as the foursome rotated the painting into full view, he gasped, as did every soldier in the room.

  “That’s me,” he squeaked.

  Princess Shalanya beamed as if she had just pulled off the heist of a lifetime. “Isn’t it just? Except it isn’t. Anyone in this room want to suggest that this man –” she pointed at the painting “– isn’t related to this one I have caged up in my nice Shapeshifter holding cell?”

  Silence.

  Freakily freaky silence!

  On the painting were depicted an Eastern man and woman, and behind them a pretty, slender Grey Dragoness, all three looking warlike and regal. The man had a slightly mischievous smile on his face that Jakani had seen many a time in a mirror, while the woman wore an unfamiliar but ancient-looking type of banded metal armour. Both were Easterners like him, having bronzed skins with golden undertones, angular cheekbones and straight, dark hair, but the resemblance to the man – wow. It was as if he himself had sat for the portrait!

  “Jakani, I’d like you to meet – well, I believe this is your ancestor, Jinichi the Brown Shapeshifter Dragon.” Shalanya pointed to the man. “Beside him is Isiki the Scholar, and the Dragoness is Makani the Grey, a famous warrior poet.”

  Eeeeh … he wheezed again. He was doing a lot of that.

  “I know! Isn’t it amazing? And I reckon this painting is about eight h
undred years old. Give or take. It dates from the time of the Dragonfriend – you know, when Flicker was born.” The dragonet was how many centuries old? He had to pinch his arm. Aye, awake. Awake, bewildered, and by now reasonably convinced that he was looking at insanity from a very uncomfortable angle. “It’s one of our oldest, anyways. We Immadians have a very ancient and noble lineage. Of course, we’re not sure if you’d trace your ancestry from Makani or Isiki.”

  “How’s that, Princess?” he asked.

  “Very unusually, Jinichi was married to Isiki and bonded with Makani. Something like having two wives, one for each Shapeshifter form.”

  His mouth formed a wide ‘O’.

  “We Immadians are strictly monogamous, but other cultures can be shockingly liberal,” the Princess explained, fluttering her eyelashes playfully at him. “So, Jakani … how old are you? And if I let you out of my holding cell, do you promise to be a very well behaved Shapeshifter and not start tearing our castle apart? Word of a Dragon?”

  Oh no. Was this Princess making eyes at him?

  “I’m still not sure I’m … one of those,” he said, sounding horrendously feeble.

  “Huh,” she said. The longer she spoke, the more the royal formalities dropped out of her speech and the younger she sounded. “You’ve a great deal to learn, noble Jakani, and I’m just the person to teach you. I know all about being a Dragoness. Even if I am afraid of wide-open spaces. Agoraphobia, you know. It’s a terrible affliction – that’s why they all left me here in charge of the kingdom while they flew off to attend a royal kidnapping. It’s all the rage in Fra’anior Cluster, haven’t you heard? No? Has been for centuries. Well, I’ll tell you all about it. Now, be a good boy-Dragon and make your fire oath.”

  Jakani stared at her.

  “Right now.”

  “As if!” came an aggrieved screech from the iron doorway. The allegedly prehistoric Flicker tottered in, looking as infirm as his eight centuries might suggest. “Now listen here, you two pond-tiddlers, the matter of my egg isn’t settled to my satisfaction. No, I don’t care what colour your pretty scales are, boy. Wool does not pull over my eyes. For I am Flicker the awesome, sage of the ages, choice companion of the Star Dragoness, and I have not decided upon your dreadful punishment as yet.” He caught Shalanya rolling her eyes behind the dragonet’s back. “So you can just park your disgustingly scrawny backside right there on that table, and, by Fra’anior’s own beard, which overweening dullard dared to remove your manacles?”