Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 173
Typically, they were enjoying the scenery to the tune of a surprisingly rambunctious, sevenfold snooze-fest.
The Dragon fixed a fiery eye upon his Riders. “Alright there, ladies?”
“I just can’t get used to the idea that this Dragon is also Ardan,” Yazina said, trying to act casual as she sat back again.
“Same guy,” he growled, flexing his forelegs until his back and shoulder muscles popped beneath his Riders.
Aranya kicked him playfully. “Stop showing off. You’ll snap your girth strap in a minute. Why don’t you make yourself useful and teach Yazina about Dragons?”
The Shadow growled, “Alright, listen up, youngster. Dragons are bossy, especially the female ones, and Star Dragons, they’re the worst … just when you’re about to wax romantic about the richness of the crimson suns-rise touching those floating Islands ahead of us, they’re chuntering, ‘No. Get to work, you lazy Dragon. Make yourself useful.’ ”
“Oh, is that so?” Aranya objected. “Here’s some news for you, Shadow. You’re fired.”
Yazina’s eyebrows danced in delight.
Ardan said, “Well, let me tell you a thing or three – actually, I’ll make you a deal. You tell us all you know about Asturbar and Iridiana. Then I’ll further your education.”
Don’t be grumpy, Sha’aldior, Aranya admonished.
Yazina only laughed. “Huh, you sound just like Asturbar, Black Dragon. Is now when I confess that Yiisuriel ordered me to look after you two?” Over Ardan’s rising rumble of aggravation, she said boldly, “So I shall attempt to further your education in matters Wyldaroon – if I may be so bold, noble Ardan?”
Her wistful tone made him chuckle deeply. “I am no Dragon to stand on ceremony, Yazina. We have an understanding, I believe.”
The girl related how she had stowed away on her father’s Dragonship as the Marshal attempted to beat Azhukazi the Iolite Blue to the prize – the Jewels of Instashi – and how Nyahi had accused her father of attempted murder and brought about his downfall as Marshal of the Mistral Fires.
She did not sound embittered, but chattered the hours away as Ardan and Aranya peppered her with questions.
They flew directly northeast for that day and more northerly the four days following, skirting the western periphery of Yazê-a-Kûz territory as they attempted to spy out what countermeasures the notoriously reclusive and impenetrable realm would have put in place against any incursion by Dragons. No data or rumour they had uncovered, not even Huaricithe’s detailed knowledge of Wyldaroon’s magic, had shed any light on what their protections might be. By day they progressed with obdurate haste past flotillas of increasingly lush Islands, inhabited by many species of dragonets and unfamiliar bird, insect and reptilian life, with Ardan and Aranya taking turns to convey the group in their Dragon forms. Around noon of the second day aloft Yiisuriel confirmed by long-distance communication that Chanbar was indeed missing, as was his Dragonship and all of its crew. That could be no coincidence.
In the evenings they took opportunity to rest upon floating Islands and to hunt for the protein that would sustain their Dragon forms for this long haul. Each time Aranya was able to detect what she felt was a hint of disturbance in the Balance caused by Leandrial’s passage, the Land Dragoness was hundreds of leagues ahead. Indefatigable. Fast-moving and dauntless of purpose. Now Ardan flew nights whilst Aranya took the daytime, setting themselves a punishing pace in pursuit of their allies.
At length the triangulation of distances began to work against them and the Shapeshifter Dragons made the inevitable decision that they must strike for the capital city of Sanzukê or risk losing further ground to Leandrial.
Sanzukê lay in a protected bay in the north-easternmost corner of their huge realm, protected by the mountain range called ‘the Roof of the World’ to the East, with many peaks over five leagues tall capped with permafrost and year-round snows. This monolithic barrier separated Wyldaroon from Herimor for over five thousand leagues from the Straits of Hordazar to the Rift Storms of the North – unbroken save for the dangerous pass Zuziana had found before.
One morning Aranya lifted her eyes, seeing through Ardan’s Dragon sight, and whispered, “Oh, would you look at that! Snow! It’s snow, Ardan!”
“Those patches of white?” asked Yazina, sounding baffled by the emotion in Aranya’s voice.
Oh Ardan, I never imagined how I’d feel, to see snow again …
He failed to see the attraction, but he understood the wonder pulsing delicately through their oath link. Had he to see Ur-Naphtha again, not scorched but budding once more … Aye, beloved. We shall return. Never fear.
“The weather is much cooler here,” the Shadow Dragon observed aloud, running his shielding checks one more time. They had used every ounce of knowledge they had gleaned from the Dragonfriend’s lore to try to ensure that their approach would remain undetected, or they might face unwelcome delays.
“Look, the colours of the trees are already turning to autumn,” Aranya pointed out.
“They do that?” asked Yazina.
“Not where I come from either – it’s always hot and green,” Ardan said. “Nor is there snow. These Northerners are a strange breed, I tell you.”
The teen chuckled; Sapphire wound herself closer about Aranya’s neck, and her brood of dragonets wriggled reflexively within her warm amethyst robe, as if they were all of one mind. Ardan did agree that the autumnal colours were starting to promise magnificence, with the crowns of the heavily forested Islands starting to turn orange and yellow and russet, while great flocks of golden shimmerbirds wheeled in the skies beneath their altitude, gobbling up airborne insects by the million. Steadily, the ambient temperatures changed from Wyldaroon’s stifling heat to remind the Immadian of the cool, forested climes of her native Isles. Every one of the thousands of Islands they passed was grey beneath and thickly forested atop, aside from clusters which appeared to have been deliberately cleared for farming diverse types and colours of grains, vegetables and unfamiliar fruit. The mountains formed a magnificent backdrop to the sea of floating Islands, and the overall impression where they saw civilisation was of peace, prosperity and abundance.
They had been travelling at a very high altitude of three and a half leagues above the Cloudlands in a tripartite bid to avoid the insects, evade detection and avail themselves of the reduced friction advantages of the thinner air. But they were not catching up with Leandrial fast enough.
The Shadow Dragon stretched his wings, driving himself to yet greater speeds. They must not arrive late. He felt it in his bones.
* * * *
That evening, the fast-flying team passed over two groups of patrolling Dragonships and put down near a large village with the intent of securing culturally appropriate clothing in case they needed to infiltrate the Ruby City. From the cover of a redolent patch of berry bushes, Aranya and Yazina regarded the bucolic village scene with shocked inhalations.
Ardan snorted appreciatively. “Mmm, I’d like to see you in skirts that short, Aranya.”
“That is … so inappropriate!”
He drawled, “They do cover the essentials. I see that Iridiana –”
“Barely! This was a bad idea.”
Zip put in, “I like their style. See, they wear tight silk shorts underneath those slightly flared thigh-length dresses so that, as Ardan noted, they do just about conceal the necessities.”
“Thigh?” he protested. “Barely.”
Aranya prodded Ardan in the ribs. “Stop drooling this instant. It’s despicable.”
“I’m just imagining a certain Princess of Immadia so clad …” He ogled her legs outrageously. “A veritable banquet of delights. Right. Shadowy theft in process.”
“Men!” she accused his invisible, departing person.
As Human Ardan shadowed away in search of supplies and necessities, for which they planned to leave jewels by way of payment, Aranya focussed inwardly, reaching for that faint trace of Iridiana’s familiar signature. Leandrial was virtually invisible, but the touch of her maybe-sister’s mind was a lure too great to resist; similarly to her instinctual connection with Ardan, she had discovered she could detect Iridiana from afar. Leandrial would have called this an echo of Balance. Shortly, she hissed in exasperation.
“We’re still not catching up!”
Zip said, “The maths remains firmly against, right? They’re almost a day ahead –”
“Twenty-three hours,” Aranya clarified.
“Pernickety Princess. Aye, and we have two full twenty-seven hour periods to traverse the 854 leagues to Sanzukê. At our best speed we’ll arrive half a day behind them, give or take. And I can’t shake this feeling that you and Ardan should not overextend yourselves with those tricks you played on each other when we were approaching the Mistral Fires.”
“What do you sense, Zip?”
“Trouble.”
“Nothing unusual where you’re concerned, Remoy. What sort of trouble?”
“The talons-and-fangs sort.”
Aranya shook her head. “Against Iridiana’s people? I’d like to avoid that if – hmm. That’s odd.”
“Odder than an Immadian contemplating showing an illicit quarter-inch of ankle?”
“No, you ridiculous prekki-head,” she said, chuckling hoarsely. Aranya wondered if she was coming down with a cold. “I’m detecting flickers of Ardan’s Shadow self against those buildings over there. He’s definitely making a disturbance which should not be possible in the Shadow state – and it’s not like him to be careless – or something even more peculiar is going on. I don’t like this. We should withdraw.”
Zip’s tsk-tsking informed Aranya that she felt retreat was an unnecessarily conservative measure, but after warning Ardan, they hiked back to a small dell about half a mile from the settlement, deep in conversation. Sapphire also seemed unusually chary, and the Chrysolitic dragonets restive. Ardan rejoined them partway with supplies, and corroborated Aranya’s observation. His presence had clearly been detected; the Islanders had rushed through him with a great uproar and rather less effectiveness. The Shadow was more than annoyed. He was worried. He marched up and down the dell, his bare feet trampling gorgeous mauve flowers and tiny white pepper-daises with abandon as he fulminated, seemingly without drawing breath, for a good ten minutes.
Eventually, Aranya rose and seized him by the right bicep. “Ardan. Calm down.”
Apparently his version of calm involved imitating an active volcano. Yazina looked alarmed.
Zip said, “Try flirting. That always works for me.”
Touching her hot, taut throat in disbelief at her elevated levels of concern, Aranya said slowly, “Look, friends, we’re stuck between an Isles cliff and a volcano. I’m going to call on our resources.”
“What resources?” growled the Western Isles warrior. “And don’t tell me those ruddy strange chain-linked Dragonships aren’t on our tails, too. What technology or magic do these people possess, that they can detect my Shadowed self? This is beyond forbearance!”
“I’m off to consult with Aunty Hualiama.”
Gnarr. “Very well,” said Ardan. “I’ll keep a Dragon’s eye on our surroundings. Keep your mystical muddling to a minimum, alright?”
Aranya tilted an eyebrow rather precipitately at him.
“Aye, and I’ll try to be less grumpy about it,” he grumped, but moved to clasp her hand against the swell of his bicep, and then he guided her fingers to stroke the mound of iron-hard muscle. “In my culture, we flirt like this. Mmm, aye. Doesn’t that feel ever so … squeezable?”
“Ardan!”
He pressed his lips to her scarred knuckles. “Aranya?”
“You are incorrigibly … ah, whatever!”
“Desperate,” Zip suggested.
To Aranya’s further surprise, the dark Western Islander actually managed to colour noticeably. “I am not desperate!”
The Immadian Princess snorted, “What are we teaching the teenagers, might I ask?”
“Bah. Less of the mendacity and more of thee, Immadia,” Zip ad-libbed, imitating Nak rather badly.
On that absurd note, Aranya sat down cross-legged, closed her eyes, and prepared to consult her relative, the illustrious Dragonfriend.
Unsuccessfully.
Over a light dinner of nuts, fruits and unfamiliar bread that was so dark it was almost black, they discussed the strange interference both Ardan and Aranya had experienced without reaching any sensible conclusion, and decided to snatch a few hours of sleep before taking off once again and trying to push right through, two full days on the wing.
Aranya could not drift off. Her thoughts were too preoccupied with Yazina’s sleepy question just before the teen had shuttered her eyes. ‘Princess, if the Chameleon did infest my father, what are the chances he’s still alive?’ She had no answers. Ardan had replied honestly but gently that they should hope for the best but prepare for the worst – exactly how she felt about her own mother. Why, o Fra’anior? Why? Why had he been absent from her dreams for so long? Why could an Ancient Dragon not simply lift this burden from her shoulders?
That was one answer she knew, but knowing made the situation no less painful. Hope could be so tenuous. So unattainable in the now – which was both its power and its affliction, she realised, shifting restively before stilling herself. Ardan must not wake. He had been working so hard.
Through the canopy of aromatic jastunimki hardwoods fringing the dell, with their characteristic clover-shaped leaves hanging from spreading boughs, Aranya watched the stars watching her. Maybe out there were other Stars like her, or perhaps unimaginably different beings enwrapped in robes of eternal light – beings who spoke in chimes like the notes that tinkled upon her very brow now, it seemed, drawn to her – she laughed soundlessly to herself – elemental starriness? Her throat strained to reproduce the lucent sounds she had heard once before.
/Stardrop./ Were such a miracle true … This stardrop needs serious help, her Dragoness helpfully teased.
No words came, but a transcendent awareness of bourgeoning peace caught Aranya entirely unawares. Breathtaking! It was as if at this moment, every last scintilla of her being breathed in oneness with the cosmos, and whispered poems of effulgent enigma into her soul. Was this the wonder which had gripped those Ancient Dragon star travellers, or had it been terror? What power in the universe could possibly threaten an Ancient Dragon?
Despite these thoughts, the unexpected sense of tranquillity only deepened.
“Awake, beloved?”
Ardan’s husky whisper was accompanied by an equable squeeze of her arm. She had pillowed her head upon his stomach and lay at right angles to him, with his left hand resting warmly upon her crooked elbow. Just a touch possessive. An oh-so-draconic, mine. She liked that.
“The moons are bright,” she temporised, struggling to articulate her feelings.
“That’s you lighting up the dell,” said he.
“Oh.”
His hand moved to her cheek. “So erudite this evening? What troubles you?”
“I just – beware!”
Mercy! Her light winked out as Aranya reflexively yanked her hood over her face. Sight? No mind. She had other senses that responded to the sound and scent of soldiers on the slight night breeze, and the muffled wuthering of turbine propellers as unfamiliar Dragonships approached. Through Ardan’s sight she realised that the crews had stilled the engines in order to approach undetected, but the slight forward motion still stirred the propellers and that was what she had heard. Great nets shot over the trees. The cords glowed greenish in her magic-enhanced sight rather than the familiar chains of runic magic language she knew; that fact alone stopped her from transforming.
Great leaping rajals, these people were smart; better-prepared for draconic or even Shapeshifter incursion than she had ever imagined!
Ardan –
GRRRAAOORRGGHH!! The Shadow Dragon’s monstrous challenge split the night, making Yazina scream. CAPTURE ME, WILL YOU? Dark crimson fires lashed Aranya’s mind as her mate went feral, charging into the darkness, tangling up in the nets, demolishing trees and leaping at the incoming Dragonships. Such was his power, even the anchored nets did not stay his crazed course. Threads of pain laced his hide and then pierced him sorely as the soldiers struck back with their weapons, great multi-stringed upright bows and ten-foot lances tipped with the same green … mineral?
Aranya paused. “Yazina. Steady now. Sapphire?”
Ready for Ari’s word, panted the dragonet.
Collect your brood but be very, very careful of those nets, alright? That green mineral is dangerous.
A mineral akin to chrysolite? Its antithesis? Even the houses of that village had been constructed from this green stone, which somehow appeared reactive to draconic life and even to the Shadow state – or Flow, as her Aunt’s writings named it, she remembered.
Inflamed by pain, Ardan leaped and smashed three of the Dragonships together, bringing an end to the rain of green-tipped arrows. His body looked as if he had run headlong into a gigantic thorn bush. His backside alone had to sport forty quarrels. He ripped up a tree and managed to kinetically hurl it back across the clearing where they had slept, damaging a further flight of Dragonships. The slender vessels, linked by light chains for reasons beyond Aranya’s ken – they are their own net, Zip panted as if she was running about in there, pregnant with triplets – slapped together and tangled themselves up.
Seizing Yazina by the hand, Aranya ran in the direction of Ardan’s thrashing. That was probably the last direction the teen would have wanted to run, but the instinct to rescue her Dragon overrode all else. The dragonets fluttered all about them in a cloud, chittering in alarm.
Ardan. ARDAN!
Nothing. It was as if he had vanished into a black spiral of madness, his normally unflappable presence subsumed by the most basal parts of his draconic being. A reaction to being captured again?
