Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 107
Now, she danced with an artist’s form and a child’s abandon.
Flame incarnate. Flickering, falling, rising, burning. Zuziana giggled as a lissom leap and flare of the muscular legs exposed Aranya’s very proper cotton undershorts to the world. She wept as white-fire filigree traced her friend’s limbs and flying, flowing hair. Throwing back her head with unconstrained joy, Aranya danced as if the Island-World should ignite and dance with her. Faster. Freer. A gloriously wild leap landed her lightly atop the Dragon-pedestal, which rose eight feet above the sunken seating-area in the main chamber of this famous roost. She twirled upon the air! Feather-light, Aranya spun and pirouetted on a bed of air toward a dark archway that led to Sapphurion’s sleeping-chamber. How – was this a case of the mythical Dragon power of Telekinesis at work?
Zip almost cried out as a hand gripped her shoulder. Ri’arion. He gaped at Aranya in a way that made her imagine clawing his eyes out, yet she understood. “Exquisite,” he breathed in her ear.
Just behind Ri’arion’s left shoulder, Ardan looked on with admiration at least equal to the monk’s, and a pleading light in his eyes. Through the roost’s crysglass windows, they saw lightning playing madly about Gi’ishior’s peak and gushing in multi-coloured streamers off the huge gemstones within the volcanic pipe.
Zip whispered back, “No, I didn’t know she could do this either.”
“Who’s that dancing with her?” asked King Beran, crowding into the roost-entrance with the others. He pointed. “Look.”
Indeed, a breath of flame lived in the air, now; a hint of an arm, the curve of a leg whirling impossibly high in the air. Silvery laughter delighted their ears, making Sapphire chuckle in response. She had perched on Ardan’s left shoulder, curving her body around the back of his neck so that she peered past his right ear.
Ardan said, Do you know anything about this, little one?
Sapphire’s laughter trilled around the chamber. Silly Humans. Hoo-lee … Hoo-a-lee-yah-mah, she sounded out the syllables carefully.
Hualiama? Zip gasped.
Aranya twirled through the twenty feet tall and wide, richly engraved archway into the Dragons’ sleeping chamber, built to accommodate even the largest Dragon. By unseen means, light flared within. Of one accord, Zip, Ri’arion, Ardan and Beran rushed across the roost, just in time to observe Aranya making an intricate, complex series of dance-movements before she stepped through ostensibly solid rock, and vanished!
“Aranya!” bellowed Ardan.
Beran was fastest. He sprinted for the wall where his daughter had vanished, alongside the sleeping-pallets. Everything seemed undisturbed, not even covered by a layer of dust. Zip accidentally bit a hole in her tongue as the men slammed up against the wall, kicked it, felt this way and that for an opening. Ardan moved to Shadow, but the wall denied even his power.
Sapphire launched off Ardan’s shoulder, squeaking in a miniature rage. She called, Stop! Ari all good.
* * * *
When she pressed back through the magical barrier, Aranya found she had gathered an avid audience. “Uh … good, help me with this,” she said, deflecting their questions. “It’s heavy.”
Ardan and Ri’arion immediately bumped into each other, laughed, and helped Aranya lug a painting some eight feet tall by seventeen feet wide out of a solid wall. Zip peeked around the edge, almost tripping her monk. She gasped. “Why, it’s … uh, not you, Aranya.”
The men set the painting carefully against the nearest wall and stood back in awed appreciation.
Beran growled, “Family likeness, eh? Look at the ruff, the arch of the neck, the neatness of those paws and musculature. And he’s –”
“Breathtaking,” said Aranya. “That’s Grandion, the Tourmaline Dragon. Hualiama’s Dragon.”
The artist, probably a Dragon, Aranya thought, had done a masterful job in capturing the gemstone gleam of Grandion’s scales. He had a fantastic ruff of skull-spikes, giving him a raffish, almost piratical air, but the artwork depicted the strapping Tourmaline tenderly curving a wing over a much smaller, midnight-blue Dragoness, who was so identical to her, Aranya felt as if the artist had simply painted the wrong colour, blue for amethyst. So ineffably tender, the way Grandion and Hualiama nuzzled …
“Freakish likeness,” said Ardan, his tone belying his ill-chosen words. “They’re … legendary in love. She’s said to be the mother of all Shapeshifters.”
Zip said, “Petal, your face is shining.”
Aranya rubbed her cheeks briefly, feeling the roughness. “Nothing’s changed. But everything has. One moment.”
She ducked back into the chamber, breathing hard. Mercy, her friend had raised a fragile hope that she might be restored in body after that mystical dance, but she was not. Forget it, Aranya. She had the word of the promise-star; she must not be impatient, no matter how it hurt. She had work to do.
Picking out the scrolls Hualiama had listed, and a most precious necklace, Aranya re-emerged into the roost-chamber. Ardan’s dark gaze gleamed upon her, draconic. Zip looked pensive. Beran seemed on the verge of popping with pride, while Ri’arion drooled unashamedly at the sight of an armload of scrolls.
Aranya said, “In case you hadn’t worked it out, that was a … well, not a vision, exactly, of Hualiama Dragonfriend, and I’m pretty sure she’s alive, although she hasn’t told me where, yet. These are scrolls she said we must take on the journey. Ri’arion, these can go in the library once you’ve –”
Zip touched Aranya’s arm. “Give them to me, petal, or I’ll never see Ri’arion again.”
The monk made a pretence of great fuss and annoyance, which ended, predictably, in a passionate kiss.
“This is a White Dragoness’ scale.” Aranya held up a necklace. Her voice betrayed a discernible quaver. “It’s Istariela’s scale – you know, my grandmother. Hualiama gave me gifts of hope and dance, and identified the Word I inadvertently spoke when we arrived at Gi’ishior. It was the secret name of an Ancient Dragon who used to live beneath Ha’athior Island, Amaryllion Fireborn, a name of great and abiding power, as I just about managed to work out for myself. Hualiama also urged the utmost haste on our quest. We must pack tonight and leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Zip snorted. “What’s the hurry?”
“Aye, we won’t have time to analyse these scrolls,” Ri’arion added, sharing an inscrutable glance with Zuziana.
King Beran said, “What was the substance of the Dragonfriend’s wisdom?”
“Let me explain.” Aranya summoned Hualiama’s words. “The Rift is in flux. Its activities appear to be cyclical, but it is not a regular cycle. She said that if we can’t cross this month, we won’t be able to for at least a year, which would give Thoralian that much more time to wreak havoc in Herimor. I understood that she meant the fires and the disruptive magic of the Rift-storms increase dramatically during these cycles. Hualiama crossed the Rift herself –”
“So the legend is true!” Ri’arion crowed.
“Aye. But she also said it was easier back then. And she was severely injured both times she made that crossing.”
Zip groaned, “The mighty Dragonfriend? Mercy! What’re our chances?”
Beran chucked Aranya beneath the chin. “So, Sparky, did you bring back any actually cheerful news?”
She shrugged. “Hualiama wasn’t giving away much, but I do believe your theory about the First Egg might be true, Ri’arion. She called the Egg a ‘time capsule’ and said that – well, she’s an engineer and scientist, I definitely didn’t understand all the terms she used – there’s a chance everything in that Egg might still be alive, kept in a state of stasis or suspended animation. That’s how the Ancient Dragons travelled between the stars. Magically slowed aging … as I said, I didn’t really understand.”
Ardan put in, “Are you saying Pip could come out only a little older than she went in?”
“Aye, that’s what she implied,” said the monk, mining his beard for fleas.
“If –”
Zip cried, “Oh, Aranya, I hate ifs. Can we do without this one?”
Aranya hugged her friend impulsively. “Very well. Here’s the proverbial windroc in the hatchery. We’d need to work out and reverse the exact process the Pygmy Dragon used to suck a volcano, a floating Island and thousands of Dragons inside the Egg. And hope beyond all hope that the Nurguz didn’t somehow enter the Egg too, or that this all-conquering Marshal isn’t resurrected to continue his merry genocidal ways.”
“He looked like Thoralian’s egg-sibling,” Ardan pointed out, confirming Aranya’s suspicion.
They stared at each other. Even Sapphire appeared cowed by their collective dismay. Thoralian might resurrect an army of Dragons. They might unleash an enemy crueller and more powerful than the Yellow-White despot of Sylakia, an enemy that even the legendary, tiny-pawed Pygmy Dragoness had not cast into defeat and ruin.
Beran clapped his hands. “Good. Let’s get packing, ladies, gentlemen and Dragons.”
Aranya groaned, “Who’s going to explain this to Va’assia and Ja’arrion?”
“No need,” came a saccharine reply from the doorway. “When were you planning to tell us about the Dragonfriend’s visit, Aranya?”
She whirled. “Aunt Va’assia!”
“Dragons have ears,” purred her Aunt, in her Red Dragoness form. “So, my lovely plotters, how can Ja’arrion and I help? And Aranya?”
“Ayeeii?” Aranya squeaked involuntarily. She covered her mouth. “Aye, Aunt Va’assia?”
“My itchy nose tells me you had some influence on the frankly astonishing levels of co-operation King Cha’arlla showed in the negotiation process. Is there a confession you’d like to make before you depart our shores?”
Mercy, her Aunt’s Dragon-smile was an exercise in sweat-provoking disquiet. Aranya was quite sure her own colour had summarily migrated toward a pasty swamp-green.
Ja’arrion shouldered his wife aside good-naturedly, as only a Green-Orange of his size, or perhaps Ardan, could have done. “You’ve a way with words, my flame.” That earned him a shoulder-bite. “Seriously, Aranya. We need to know because your Aunt and I intend to see that the will of Aranya is implemented concerning these Isles, the Dragons, their governance – whatever it was you said.”
Aranya raised her chin. “I was candid.”
“Verbal fireballs,” said Zip.
“You threatened him?” asked Ja’arrion, sounding so impressed that Va’assia bit him again.
“I merely reminded the King that we’re family.”
Chapter 11: The Far Shores
THE SHADOW DrAGON spread his wings over the caldera before daybreak. So nascent was the pre-dawn gleam, Fra’anior’s Islands appeared to float upon beds of darkness. Mist and smoke swirling around the base of the Islands lent the Cluster an air of mystique, so that Ardan imagined the Islands might just drift off on the breeze like Dragonships. Fine. This land was stunning. He was growing mawkish, a tough Dragon-warrior developing a melancholic appreciation of natural beauty. Or was this his Dragon’s outlook? Intriguing. For literally, he saw the Island-World through new eyes, and unaccustomed thoughts percolated through his armoured cranium. Just behind his left wingtip came Aranya, and then Zuziana, in the perfect slipstreaming position Ja’arrion had taught them – when was it? Less than two weeks ago?
Leandrial had already set off around midnight, since she and Ri’arion had worked out that given prevailing winds, the flying Dragons should catch her at the latest by Archion Island. Ardan had made the journey to Sylakia in two straight days and nights of flying, but this time they intended to take three, which was Leandrial’s estimate of her under-Cloudlands ability. Besides, there was no point in killing anyone before they partook in the communal delight of tossing themselves into the Rift for a swift and deadly roasting.
Ardan asked, New saddlebags, Zuziana?
Aye. Longer ones made of Dragonship sacking, which strap to multiple spine-spikes. I’m less likely to lose anything this way, she replied. Also, this configuration provides improved protection for all the jolly implements our wise Elders insisted we pack.
Tell me about it, he grumbled, hooking a talon backward at his load. Ardan had been ready to fly four hours before anyone else. At least he did not need to leave his beloved behind. Poor Zip. Her wings drooped at the tips.
Ri’arion had divided the scrolls exactly as specified by Hualiama, some to pack in a treble-sealed package in Zuziana’s saddlebags, while the rest he deposited in the library of Gi’ishior. Disturbingly, he reported a number of valuable scrolls were missing from the library’s racks – Thoralian’s handiwork, Ja’arrion concluded.
Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragons! Aranya bugled unexpectedly.
A spurt of Dragon-hormones roused Ardan’s being into a battlefield of pulsating blood and quivering muscles. Aargh! He expended his energy on driving higher, searching for a Dragons’ Highway. To his intense annoyance, the Dragonesses not only kept up, they were visibly flying more languidly than he and even goading him to fly faster! Rascally females! Ardan tried to focus on wing-form and body posture, but there were few apparent differences, apart from the obvious disparity in size and strength. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see in the spectra which Ri’arion had advised would allow him to observe magical influences, and was rewarded with a view of the air flowing over their peculiarly-shaped aerodynamic shields. Oh! How did they do that?
Alright, Ardan. Time to eat humble gristle, as his people said. He growled, Teach me to shield like you!
The Amethyst Dragoness eyeballed him in a way that made a Dragon’s blood boil. Are you asking or demanding, thou paragon of soot and fire?
Please, he barked. Uh … please, would you teach me, thou … um? Dragoness? Ardan burned at the ineloquent words snarled up in his throat. By his wings, he had better work on the romance, as Ja’arrion had quietly advised. He was no silver-tongued Immadian, but even a gruff word well-turned could shiver a Dragoness’ wings …
Ooh, that was nicer, said Zuziana, with a pert waggle of her tail.
You don’t want to make a grown Dragon beg, he snorted. It’s not pretty. How’s about a little Aranya-style negotiation?
How does that work? asked the Amethyst, playing the innocent.
Ardan said, First I burn your pretty rump from here to Sylakia, then – hey! Aranya’s mischievous wing-slap caught him unawares, sending the Shadow Dragon into a spiralling part-stall.
Catch me if you can, floated back to him on the breeze.
GRRROOAARRGGHH!!
* * * *
Three days later, the Lesser Dragons dived into the Cloudlands to join the Land Dragoness at the southern tip of Sylakia Island. Over the howling of the wind as they plunged, Zip called, “This is where the fun starts, according to Leandrial.”
They had tarried briefly at Nak and Oyda’s old cottage, finding only a note from their friend Nelthion and enjoying the pick of Nak’s herd of ralti sheep, who had continued to patiently fatten themselves on the sword-grass without a herder to care for them. Zuziana dropped by the nearest village – in her Human form – to send a note by message-hawk to Nelthion suggesting he meet Nak and Oyda at Fra’anior. A man of his administrative gifts could easily find employment at Fra’anior or Gi’ishior, or with King Beran.
With an unseasonal snowstorm closing in, which they could not blame on Aranya for a change, the threesome opted to shoot the breeze and dive off Sylakia’s edge, cutting through a driving blizzard which Zuziana teasingly suggested was ‘home and hearth to a Northern paleface’.
Aranya favoured this with her snootiest snort.
It seemed difficult to believe that travel in the dense layers beneath the Cloudlands could beat travel through the grey, stormy skies above, but with the blizzard firmly set against them, choices appeared limited. Down they speared, battered by the gale-force winds swirling around Sylakia’s peninsulas. Ardan’s lead took them several miles offshore on a steep descent aimed to obviate any chance of striking the cliffs, even though Sylakia’s massif plunged a jaw-dropping three leagues beneath the Cloudlands, right into the middle-lower and lower layers. There was no distinction between blizzard and toxic cloud, only an awareness of sinking into a realm where the snow fell ever more imperceptibly, and predatory bodies cut through the murk around them in search of easy pickings.
Aranya’s developing senses identified the primitive forms of Harmonic magic these creatures hunted with, responding to disturbances in the aether, either magical or physical. The light intensified rapidly as they descended through a drifting swarm of shihurior, an untranslatable word in Dragonish which described a class of light-producing, single-celled organisms which converted ambient electro-magical waves into light. Feathery, transparent bodies teemed against their shields. Though these appeared to be the benign form of shihurior, Leandrial had adjured them to be alert for other, more aggressive subspecies.
Thus, their wings stirred a cauldron of ever-changing, blue-white light as they descended into a realm where the deadly masqueraded behind serenity. Four times they dodged or hid as inquisitive monsters sought them out, from bubble-bodied, swift electrical Stingers to the lazy, mile-long Harvesters, which consumed everything in their path. Beautifully-patterned, butterfly-like insects the size of Dragonships concealed deadly stinging probosces beneath the pretty ancillary wings lining the undersides of their abdomens like sweeping lace skirts. In this middle layer the colours of plants and animals were vivid and variegated, like the view from one of Gi’ishior’s underwater windows which opened on the terrace lake. Stripes and spots and shimmering colours abounded, so unlike the realms they had traversed further north. This was the start of the Middle Sea’s vast expanse, stretching from Jeradia to Remoy along the full length of the Southern Archipelago, a sea so broad and untamed that no Dragon or long-range Dragonship would attempt such a flight.
