Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 178
After a moment, they remembered that Yazina was also present, hovering just inside the doorway. Since there were only five chairs, Asturbar beckoned the teen to sit upon his knee. To her surprise, Yazina sighed and leaned against his shoulder – the Marshal seemed most uncomfortable at this arrangement, but Iridiana surreptitiously drew his arm about the girl.
Once he had poured the tea with ceremonial precision, Shan-Jarad chose to address the air with a scholarly deliberation to his delivery. “Shapeshifters, a Princess, the Star Dragoness herself, an underworld leviathan, my grown-up daughter returned from the dead, the Marshal of the Mistral Fires, and the very foundations of my life shaken. Some day it has been. Some day. Nor has my ruin ever been more complete. Let me start with this: I loved your mother, Iridiana. I loved her with every beat of my heart. And I now know, since the noble Star Dragoness touched me, that all three of my nemeses manipulated my mind and my purposes with masterful ease. I’ve been a deluded fool. Yet at the last, I too have a secret. You know it already, o Aranya.”
Did she? Curious, she offered, “Chanbar was merely duplicitous. The Chameleon and Azhukazi both possessed subtle mind powers that they employed to their best advantage.”
“Yes.” Uxâtate Shan-Jarad passed Aranya a ruby beaker of steaming tea. The spices were unfamiliar, but smelled delicious. “I have carried my secret for far too long. My revelation is that, I am a repressed Shapeshifter.”
She inclined her head to conceal her shock, and murmured, “Aye?”
He had no idea! Truly, he had no idea why they were here … she swallowed a spike of Storm-fury as the thunder neared, prowling like a spitting-mad Dragoness about the fringes of her consciousness.
“Yes,” he said. “It seems clear to me now that Azhukazi spoke the truth when he revealed that I am infertile. I hail from a long line of repressed Shapeshifters. We have magic in my family. It manifests in small ways – skills, or knacks for particular tasks, say. Gifts of leadership, battle craft, strategy and even the skills of survival in a realm as perilous as that of Wyldaroon.”
Turning to Iridiana, he said, “Let me tell you what I believe you will wish to hear first, Iridiana. When the Chanbar Chameleon first confronted me with the humiliating truth of how I had been poisoned, rendered infertile and betrayed at every turn, I spent much time crying, yes, but then a much greater period of time plotting my revenge. Early on, I struck upon the idea that I no longer wanted my bloodline to be one that displayed repressed characteristics. I wanted power. Huge, undeniable fonts of power. Therefore, I depleted the treasuries in searching for an answer. It took five years, but eventually I felt I had divined the perfect solution – my agents found an uistarikolalion Shifter who had a peerless egg to offer, and the skills to implant it inside of my wife.”
Aranya squeezed her eyes shut. No, Iridiana … NO! Oh mercy, oh please, I can’t bear to hear this …
Ardan touched her knee, evidently trying to will strength into her. Peace. Let the man speak, Aranya.
He did not know how close she was to an eruption. This man, this foul, greedy, grasping fool – what had he done?
Unheeding of her torment, Shan-Jarad continued, “I paid a price for that service which made my royal Treasurer die of a heart attack. You have to understand how desperate I was. I would have done anything. Paid anything. Risked anything. Setting aside any morals or thoughts of where that egg might have come from, I had the uistarikolalion, the egg stealer, perform the operation. I provided of my seed to fertilise that unique egg – or so I thought – and the creature magically inserted it into my wife’s womb.”
“What was the egg like?” Iridiana quavered.
“Shh, my beloved,” said Asturbar gently. I know it hurts …
To Aranya, the unfurling of the Uxâtate’s tale was a slow descent into nightmare. She knew what the truth must be; he had only to find the power of articulation, but to her mounting frustration, the man would not simply blurt it out. After another interminable sip of his tea, he said:
“No, it’s a good question, albeit one calling for a strange answer. We tried to verify the authenticity of the egg before final payment was made – with such sums at stake, I wanted to be absolutely certain, but I was also terrified to lose the opportunity. It was at once an egg, and a spark. I have never seen a clear Dragon’s egg before. This one seemed closer in form to a Dragon’s fire eye than to an egg with impermeable shell about it, but inside there was a silvery mist inhabited sometimes by a spark of pure light, and sometimes the very tiniest impression of a foetus – these pinprick fingers and toes might show for a moment, then they disappeared into the light. The uistarikolalion let slip that the egg was sourced from a White Dragoness.”
Covering her mouth, Aranya stifled such a moan as had never been torn from her before, never even in the depths of Thoralian’s dungeons, in the nadir of her life.
Still Shan-Jarad remained trapped in his recollections, not shifting a muscle to acknowledge her agonised reaction as he continued, “The creature called it a droplet of fire life. A unique form of draconic life that could be fertilised by a Shapeshifter such as me, and be drawn from my wife’s being to become inextricably part of us both. Imagine my horror as the Chameleon tried to poison her; imagine my joy when she was born a perfect little girl, and then once more to the pyres of despair … when the chaos came upon her …”
Her teardrops welled helplessly, each falling like a peal of thunder.
Lies, greed and desperation. Did a more toxic brew exist beneath the suns?
Ardan tried to help in his blunt way, grasping her hand as he said, “Petal, oh my petal … it’ll be alright.”
Alright? It was anything but; it was the very opposite of alright! This man had stolen … stolen her birthright, the chance to know Iridiana …
Gazing now at Aranya and Ardan with an evident lack of comprehension, Shan-Jarad said, “Ah … forgive me, o Star Dragoness. I do not understand, yet your tears slay me far more severely than any castigation you could possibly deliver to a ruler who abused his might to steal a life from some other poor, unsuspecting woman –”
“From my mother!” she screamed. Raw, wounded, her thunder crashed around the citadel. Her outcry toppled Shan-Jarad, despite his heavy chair, but her hand snapped out to arrest his fall as if they were linked by invisible chains
“I’ll … I’ll kill you –” She felt her face twist with the violence of her emotions; felt the blood seeping afresh from that new wound upon her forehead, burst open by her fury, but she did not care.
Aranya, precious Aranya … Ardan tried to soothe her. His words were torch to her kindling.
A Star knew the ultimate force of loathing. The unstoppable fury of unalloyed hatred. The corruption of what she had imagined was incorruptible, for the power that curled within her now, begging and thrashing and screaming for release, was as dark and malign as anything she had ever imagined, and she desired it with every iota of her being. She revelled in it. Aranya wanted nothing more than to unleash her Storm and wipe this unscrupulous man, this sister stealer, from the face of the Island-World and his puny realm with him! She would flay them with titanic lightning bolts from the heavens and sweep the blasted, ravaged rubble beyond the Moons with the shattering power of her ultimate tempest!
Shan-Jarad gulped, frozen in mid-air. Her hand; her entire body convulsed. She burned yet could not seem to feel warmth. Mercy!
For the first time in her life, foulness felt good.
Aranya, I beg thee, no, Ardan whispered into her soul. Not this …
Iridiana pleaded, Please, Aranya. This is not the way.
How she shuddered at the thunder crashing through her soul, drowning out the well-meaning pleas of her friends. Release! RELEASE ME! roared her Dragoness, yet also she cried, Don’t, Aranya my soul. We are better than this, better than the Thoralians, the Azhukazis, the haters and destroyers of this age … o mercy, the agony, it burns, how it burns! Nay, we must never become one of them. Do not let us give in!
It was the dread of corruption that swayed her. Fear of becoming like the Thoralians. It was possible. She could seize all for herself, and in becoming a tyrant of her own choice, lose everything she loved, too.
Her laboured breathing rasped more softly.
Slowly, the onyx clouds of insatiable vengeance cleared from her eyes, and she surveyed her companions with both grief and joy – for she knew these emotions were one.
Absently, striving to bring herself back from the precipice by an appeal to the mundane, Aranya muttered, “From my mother … from Izariela … no. It cannot be. How old are you, Iridiana?”
“Twenty-two.”
She knew this. “The timelines don’t work.”
Of course they didn’t, but her friends were not to know she had identified this conundrum already. The sense of kinship with her sister was too close, and too intimate, for there to be any other answer than the utterly impossible – unless Izariela harboured yet more secrets. Star Dragoness secrets.
Shan-Jarad breathed, “Forgive me, o Aranya, but how is your mother involved?”
“This is how – simply this!” She ripped the face veil away, sickened by the loathing she had revelled in. Sickened by this man’s actions. “Explain this, Uxâtate!”
The ruler took in her appearance with palpable aversion, before it became obvious to all that a second, more profound realisation smote him. He clutched his chest. Dropping his beaker of tea, Shan-Jarad slumped to his knees before her, wailing, “O Star Dragoness, o Iridiana, will you ever forgive this vile deed I have done? Ah, ah, aaaaaaaaahhhh … I am a wicked man, ah, ah … I’m a worm, the lowest of men … aaah! AAAHH!!”
Yazina gasped, understanding at last. “How could he?”
Aranya could only stare. She had no words to forgive him, not now. Not – the breath exploded out of her as Iridiana threw herself into the Princess’ arms, “Sister! Oh, my precious … it’s impossible, isn’t it? Sisters? Can we be, now? Asturbar, tell me – yes? It’s true!”
Asturbar cried, “You must be, yes – I’m overjoyed!”
Overjoyed? Aye, and desolate, sick and heartsore, yet here was the definitive testimony. The unbelievable truth. Izariela and Beran had a daughter that they had never known, and the gift of a sister was … it was just … Aranya squeezed Iridiana to her bosom, suddenly speechless with incredulity, thinking inanely that the girl smelled sisterly, somehow, if that were not illogical; nay, nonsensical! As she had confessed to Iridiana before, nothing in her life could compare. To take vengeance would only sully the unfolding of this miracle.
She whispered into Iridiana’s hair, “To think I wandered all of Herimor to discover such a treasure amidst its ruin.”
The Amethyst Dragoness added, Thou art our restoration, o Iridiana. Our beacon.
Poor Iridiana could not stop shaking. She could not have believed, truly believed, until now. She protested, “But, it can’t be true. We must be … oh, four and a half summers apart?”
Aranya said, Aye, but the truth remains the truth.
How – yes! stammered the girl. I’m just all jumbled up … sister! Sister-mine, cherished one!
Zip quipped drily, “Of course, I’ve known since the beginning.”
Well, that set them all off!
When she could slide a few words into the conversation with a skill akin to a Dragoness’ knack with her talons, Zip clarified, “Didn’t your Aunty Hualiama teach you that there are peculiar matters a-paw when it comes to Star Dragoness gestation periods? Four and a half years is nothing compared to the couple of thousand she quoted for Granny Istariela, wasn’t it? Shame we can’t talk – well, we will! When we wake up your mother, we’ll ask her how long she might have hosted a pretty spark of starlight in her womb, and –”
“I am not pretty,” Aranya snapped, biting off her words furiously. Now Shan-Jarad must think she was mad, but she was on the cusp of explaining when the Zippy one seized control of her vocal cords and laid on the snark thick and fast.
“Princesses should not lie. Nasty habit.”
AARGH!
The Remoyan would not be stopped, now. “You. Aye you, Shadow! Do something with those musclebound arms of yours, you worthless, recalcitrant excuse for a ralti sheep. And you, muscly lump-a-Dragon-man. You get in here too.”
He joined the hug fest.
Asturbar threw in a teary, slapdash salute. “Willingly, ma’am!”
Ha, I can sure give orders, can’t I, best friend who’s so forgiving of my waspish tongue?
Aranya threw up her hands figuratively. Very well. Finish what you’ve started, petal monster!
“I see who gives the orders around here,” Iridiana teased. Aranya sneaked an arm about Yazina to snaffle the girl into the group. Who cared if hugs were un-Immadian? The chaotic situation appeared to demand a few – a few hundred!
Zip chortled, Don’t think you can escape either, dragonet. Get over here.
Hey, Sapphire shrilled. I know! I know …
What do you know, petal? Aranya asked. Are we missing out on our huggies?
Sapphire said archly, Doesn’t this make the silvery-blue pest a Princess of Immadia? And since you’re younger, Aranya, Iridiana would become the next Queen, wouldn’t she?
Aranya almost choked.
Nooo … Iridiana breathed in horror, turning her unique shade of silvery-rose.
Sapphire could be all too erudite when she wanted to be, for she had another memorable nugget for the Marshal. She chirped, Are you ready to be a King? King Big Boots the First?
Mercy! Judging by the speed at which the blood drained from his cheeks, evidently not.
* * * *
Aranya snapped awake in the early hours after a fitful period of sleep. Her dreams had swung from a sweet memory of her mother’s revival to successive, fragmentary nightmares involving betrayal upon every front – from Zuziana, Ardan, Yiisuriel, her father, Leandrial and even Infurion, mighty Lord of the Rift Storm. Their choleric accusations had swirled about her before resolving into a single chant, Ugly. Ugly. Ugly …
Then Fra’anior fell upon her like a rapacious thunderstorm, bellowing and raging incoherently until dark flames of fear consumed all of her starlight.
So much for bathing earlier. She woke in a sweat-soaked heap upon the floor, having ripped and charred her bedclothes. Aranya sat up, rubbing her breastbone to still her crazed heartbeat. On the far side of the bed, Ardan dozed peacefully upon his stomach. No blankets needed for an ever-hot Shapeshifter Dragon, she supposed, severely narked at his ability to sleep through storm, turmoil and apparently, her screaming nightmares. How did men do that? He snoozed in pristine splendour; her side of the bed was a smouldering hole in the soft down mattress.
Rising, she drew a fresh robe about herself against the night’s chill and padded to the antechamber, opened the door, and found the Sadukar of the Royal Guard standing hand upraised in the act of rapping firmly upon the richly carved wooden panels.
Aranya said, “My apologies, sir. A bad dream. Could you have your men bring a large bucket of water?”
“Water? At once, Uxâtati-a-Tân Aranya,” said the soldier, clicking his fingers sharply. His medals and honours jingled upon his immaculate dress uniform at the movement. “Water! Is all well, otherwise?”
She wrinkled her nose at the Uxâtaayn Kahilate title. “All is well. May I request additional blankets and a snack, perhaps? Fruit or bread would be fine, the simpler the fare, the better.”
“I shall dispatch a maidservant at once, Uxâtati-a-Tân. My very life is yours to command.”
“Thank you.”
He tapped his heels together twice with ceremonial exactitude before holding a deep, perfectly rigid bow that allowed him to tap a staccato rhythm upon the hard leather sides of his knee-high parade boots, and withdrew as though his astounding stiffness might of its own accord restore law and order across the Island-World.
Well. The differences in cultures she encountered never failed to fascinate her. Take this man’s extraordinary double moustache, artfully curled at its tips, his desire to place his very life on the line for a stranger, and the fact that the mattresses in this incredible palace were so soft she had almost been swallowed alive!
Very peculiar. Humbling.
Moving to the tall, oval glass doors that led out onto a private balcony which overlooked the Ruby City, Aranya considered her last message from Yiisuriel. The Air Breather had counselled, ‘I believe that the Balance of magic is key. Unless you are able to find ways to repopulate the North, and resolve the issue of falling draconic birth rates as already reported by the Dragonfriend’s lore, the Imbalance will only grow. Even the rise of parasites against Dragons, this documented rise in numbers, powers and subtlety, I believe points to the inevitable battle to come – the battle for our survival. Surely, recovering an Academy full of powerful Dragons would constitute the greatest service a Star Dragoness could render the Dragonkind.’
Was it? A worthy goal, surely, but she had to wonder if anyone truly understood the Thoralians’ plans. That was why they had to chase him to the ends of their Island-World. There was no other choice.
O Fra’anior, beloved grand-shell-sire, this was not as you intended …
No … Despite that the voice was faint and heavily distorted, Aranya stiffened at the unmistakable tones of her ancestor. Know this, Aranya: Urzul is a corruptor, not a sustainer of life. It is no fit vessel … Thoralians stole Necromantic lore for this reason …
The Thoralians want true immortality?
At least … if not the power of –
His voice vanished in a crackling roar. Aranya listened for a long time, but the Great Onyx did not speak again. Nonetheless, she could finish the sentence for him. If not the power of the last Ancient Dragon.
Indeed.
Aranya turned, and yelped at the sight of a tiny silver-white dragonet smiling at her through the glass, right at her eye level.
