Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 179
Oh … Iridiana? Ho, pretty-scales, are you also awake?
Other girls your age chase boys, Iridiana said. You chase world-dominating, immortal tyrants.
Chapter 22: The Sixth Moon
ONCE ARANYA HAD worked out the ridiculously complicated latch system on the window, she swung it open and raised her other hand, palm held flat in invitation. The eight-inch exemplar of dragonet perfection perched there and squeaked without further ado, “Tell me about Immadia, Aranya. Tell me about your family – our family. Can I say that? Tell me everything.”
“Well, aye. It’s a little complicated, but –”
“Are you having second thoughts about welcoming a Chaos Shifter into the family, sister? You don’t have to, you know. You could leave me –”
“Shut your fangs!” Aranya drew a deep breath, huddled deeper into the blanket she had wrapped twice about herself, and made herself comfortable on the outside couch. When Iridiana peeped in protest, having switched mid-blink to an even smaller draconic form which had the antennae of a butterfly and diamond fangs like tiny needles, she added, “Cute as you are, I say, shut the fangs. One, the family are going to love you. Two, you are eternally welcome – ah, to clarify, welcome to be part of our family and most certainly not welcome to leave. Ever! And three, I am not leaving you behind … big sister.”
Cue just about the most foolish smile which had ever crossed her lips, a smile so broad, it hurt.
“Whoo … I see. What are our parents like?”
Projecting pictures into Iridiana’s mind and speaking at the same time, she told her about their tall, elegant Ha’athiorian Shapeshifter mother, Izariela, and her fiery romance with the King of the most northerly inhabited Island in the Island-World, the famously picturesque Kingdom of Immadia. How Izariela used to love to stand upon her tower and sing to the dawn, or write poetry. How the bearded, piratical Beran had nicknamed their daughter Sparky; how he, despite his grief and black depression over Izariela’s apparent death, had taken it upon himself to train her in so much more than just looking and behaving like a Princess. How they had gone to war together, a father and his Dragoness daughter. She told Iridiana about gentle Queen Silha and her young twin brothers, Feran and Tiran, and her infant sister Leanya. How deeply she missed them. How she ached to hold her mother one more time; all that she knew about the mystery surrounding the disappearance of her grandmother and Fra’anior’s mate, Istariela.
“He’s truly our grandfather?” Iridiana breathed.
Aranya was trying to decide how her latest form, a striking bouquet of lavender flowers apparently coating a hedgehog-like draconic form, could actually breathe. Trying to keep up with Iridiana seemed to be an exercise in dizzying surprises. “Truly he is, and when we are able to rid ourselves of this magical interference in your Kahilate –”
“The vandanite, do you mean?”
“The what?”
The flowers ruffled in apparent amusement, before a delicate muzzle peeped out. “The green mineral. It’s everywhere. We’ve always known it has magical properties – it’s also our primary form of defence against Dragons. It’s said that Dragon powers work differently here.”
“I haven’t had any other trouble – nor you, for that matter.”
“We’re hardly standard Grey-Greens.”
“No, but Ardan and I were wondering how your Dragonships managed to find us as we travelled into the Uxâtaayn Kahilate.”
“It’s the vandanite. It responds to draconic fire life. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“My sister’s a flower. It’s weird. And you still manage the most remarkable expressions whilst discombobulating my poor brain – even your petals are expressive!” Iridiana nibbled fondly at the point of Aranya’s forefinger as she touched her sister’s tiny head carefully. “Just to write the scrolleaf unambiguously, I like weird. Very un-Immadian of me, I know, but I’m growing as a person in all sorts of unexpected ways, these days.”
“Shall we talk about weird walking stars with shiny faces, then?”
Aranya pouted humorously. “Don’t tell me you like weird, too! I do, however, have an apology to make. Mercy, petal! A humungous and rather overdue apology.”
Now her sister had morphed into a sinuous, scaly amaranthine vine that appeared to be climbing the blankets with the intent of introducing her serpentine coils to Aranya’s neck. “Would this be the cunning strategy you neglected to tell me about beforehand, the bit where I was shovelled down Azhukazi’s throat in a terror sweat induced by the realisation that the Star Dragoness had just unearthed a novel strategy to rid the world of one highly inconvenient Chaos Shifter?”
Aranya sat very still as Iridiana looped herself about her neck. “Umm … if Azhukazi had actually read my mind, it could have turned out far uglier.”
“Terrible excuse.”
“We triumphed, didn’t we?”
“You weren’t the one tickling the insides of his throat, sister,” Iridiana laughed.
“You’ll have to teach me that cactus form. I can see it coming in very useful in the future.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
“When Ardan’s being grumpy, say?” Soft blue petals unfurled all around her face, and Iridiana managed to kiss her nose, cheeks, eyes, forehead, chin and ears with flowery kisses all at the same time, chuckling merrily. “It was a brilliant ploy, I’ll admit. But in this scintillating vision of future sisterhood we’re discussing here, I humbly submit that you should volunteer to be the one sitting on the Thoralians’ tongue whilst I hang back and protect you.”
“Unlike you, I’d just tie his tongue in a thumping big knot and shove it down his throat,” Aranya suggested delicately. “Job done.”
“I thought Immadians were all about subtlety?”
“About as subtle as your Chaos Beast ravaging Thoralian with fifty maws at once?”
“I’m a Dragoness.”
“Cue the occasional failure of subtlety?” They chuckled together. “Aye.”
Abruptly, the tendrils wound themselves into Aranya’s hair, teasing the strands apart with the air of botanical fingers. “Are all these colours natural? I’ve never seen anything to compare.”
“It’s been that way since I was a baby. Crazy, right?”
“Crazy … or chaotic?” The flowers giggled at the joke. “I know it’s a bit of a stretch of the imagination, but there must be ways in which our magic is similar. So, I know it’s rude and very forward of me, but I wanted to ask –”
“Yes, of course.” Aranya winced as her words emerged brusque and dismissive. “Roaring rajals! Sorry.”
Lightly, her sister said, “I haven’t asked yet.”
But she had learned of Aranya’s discomfort at a potential connection with Chaos magic, inadvertent or not. “I apologise.”
“Aranya, you wouldn’t be the first, nor the only one –”
“I don’t want to be them! I want to be the one who understands, who accepts and includes, who –”
“When I don’t understand myself in the slightest –”
“Who loves her sister for all that she is!”
The flowers seemed stuck somewhere between growing weak-stemmed in disbelief and shivering with delight.
Aranya tried a quirky smile. “Granted, I don’t know much about sisters, mind …”
With a moody sigh, the flowers responded, “I’m sure the pale Northern Enchantress marrying a dark Western Isles barbarian must attract a few looks and comments, right? Let’s not pretend rainbows come without clouds.”
“Indeed.” Grateful, Aranya tickled one of Iridiana’s stems with her fingers, saying, “To finish our earlier conversation – yes, I will gladly make our father cry for joy. Yes, I relish the opportunity to introduce you to Fra’anior and blow that old Dragon off his paws for the first time in millennia. And yes, I hope even to take you as far as Immadia to meet our mother – if you’re willing, that is?”
“I thought we’d finished this argument already, but if you’d like a reprise …”
“I’ve never had a sister to argue with. This is so much fun.”
Iridiana began to chuck her beneath the chin, saying, “The one thing I really don’t want is your crown, mind – yaah! – sorry …”
Aranya teased drolly, “I guess we share the same trouble with clothing, eh?”
“You could offer me at least a corner of the blanket, you heartless fiend.” With this, her own pout appeared full force. It was incredible to see another person’s face making expressions as close to hers as a fine mirror.
Sucking in her lips, Aranya said, “Unfortunately for prospective throne stealers, in Immadian tradition the crown passes down the male line. Good news for a shy girl.”
“How archaic and patriarchal,” Nyahi teased.
“We Immadians are old-fashioned.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Hey!”
“Just putting my little sister in her place.”
She punched Iridiana’s arm. “I’m a deity in these parts. Try not to insult me.”
“Your worshippers are deluded.”
“Your one and only worshipper venerates ankles. I mean, you’re nice and all, but that’s just bizarre.”
* * * *
They rested for two days, what with her best friend’s idea of rest passing for holding several lengthy meetings with Shan-Jarad in order to forge the terms of a healthy alliance and treating the ruler’s heart complaint, besides sneaking off to heal all of the injured she could lay a hand upon, before they took the Uxâtate up on his offer of a guided tour of Yazê-a-Kûz. Zuziana asserted that Shan-Jarad could be quite personable when he wasn’t stealing peoples’ babies. Aranya promptly forbade her from ever speaking her mind on the matter! As for Ardan and Asturbar, both men appeared to struggle with the ongoing fashion parade that apparently passed for daily life in the ritzy city. She had to admit, she had never seen so many female legs either, not even at the sticky height of a Remoyan summer. Generally, the women were willowy of frame, and not averse to a brand of open ogling of the two unusual men in their midst that had both Shapeshifter Dragonesses steaming like miniature fumaroles. The men seemed gregarious on the whole, and affected outfits that ranged from the outlandish to plain garish, and little between.
In a sweet gesture, Iridiana had joined Aranya in wearing light ‘slacks’ beneath their outrageously short dresses, for it seemed that tailors in the Kahilate did not understand the concept of hemlines that even contemplated approaching the knee. Perhaps material was in permanently short supply? Poor Aranya. Zuziana despaired of ever curing her friend of her devotion to floor-length dresses, preferably with a modest train.
True, she had the figure to look amazing in a flowing gown fitted to her ridiculously spare waist, but still … Ardan had checked her slacks no less than twenty-three times. She was counting.
That afternoon, they idled the time away at the palace waiting for Leandrial’s return. This time the soldiers and defences had strict orders to provide her an honour escort. The Land Dragoness’ reaction to this arrangement was predictably gruff and bemused, but Zip thought the old bottom-hugger might just be pleased by the whole affair. She certainly had an audience easily upward of twenty thousand lining the edges of every Island as she strolled into the bay, muzzle held high.
“Alright, ready?” purred the Iridium Dragoness.
Aranya turned from the balcony to regard her Dragoness sister. “You really think this will help?”
“Chiropractic manipulation with a Dragon’s strength, accompanied by the application of healing oils. What are you afraid of?” said Iridiana, cracking her knuckles gleefully.
“It won’t work if you turn into a flower, will it?”
Apparently Human Aranya was not about to wriggle out of this arrangement with such a weak argument. Half a minute later, she found herself being dunked in an oversized barrel of decidedly odd-smelling warm oil by the enthusiastic Iridium Dragoness. Zip observed that they must have added aromatic elements to disguise a fundamentally noxious concoction, like disguising stale vomit with a herbal wash. Still, through Aranya’s senses the warmth and relaxation combined with the complex, soothing herbal scents did not seem unpleasant. Perhaps it was just her pregnancy. Wonky senses were meant to be part of the package.
She missed Ri’arion. Nothing wonky about her monky.
Monkey? She giggled. Oops.
“It’s all good,” said Iridiana, reaching down to grip Aranya’s head between her first-thumb and fore-talon, while her other paw gently but inflexibly stabilised her shoulders.
The Remoyan observed, “Word of warning, Immadia is a famously stiff-necked nation.”
No sooner had she said this, when Iridiana’s paws turned sharply. Crick!
“Yeeeeooow!”
The Dragoness cooed, “Now the other way …”
“No –” Krack! “Ouch! Holy Fra’anior, you torturer, what are you – oh! That does feel … oddly, much better.”
“Minus a few vertebrae better?” Zip put in. “Sounded mortal.”
Aranya twizzled her neck from side to side as she probed with her fingers. “How did you – Iridiana, that’s fantastic. I thought that sore spot was a permanent fixture after the pox.”
“Again? More?”
“Umm …”
A silvery fore-talon tapped Aranya drolly upon the forehead. “A little trust please, sister. Are we scared?”
“Me, scared of a staggeringly good-looking flowerpot?” Aranya snorted. “Bring it on!”
* * * *
When Ardan found the sisters, Iridiana was rolling Aranya between her knuckles, and the Immadian Princess was groaning as if Thoralian himself had just bent her spine into that exact contortion – a touch theatrically, perhaps? Drama was rather unlike Aranya.
Oddly, he missed the Remoyan’s antics. He must be going soft in the head.
“Ho!” he laughed, “what new game is this? Can I join in?”
“Sure. Come take my place – ooo-aaah!”
Affecting a fine swagger, Ardan approached them. “I think I’m content to observe the technique from over here.”
“Baby,” Aranya accused.
“Wise man.”
Iridiana’s fire eyes gleamed with a mesmerising light. “Do you want to reconsider that statement, Ardan of Ur-Naphtha?”
“I’m just consumed by such admiration of your dazzling skills, my lady, I could not possibly interfere at this delicate stage of the treatment.”
Aranya winked at him. “Oh save me, mighty Shadow Dragon. Ooh!”
He pretended to consider her entreaty. “No.”
“I’m a maiden in distress. Ouch. The mean Dragoness is bullying me.”
“Release the prisoner, o fiendish fire breather of mauve-acious hue,” Ardan suggested, making a negating gesture with both hands.
“Brute,” the victim complained. “Ooh-arrrgh – roaring rajals, Iridiana, you’re jolly strong, do you know that?”
The Dragoness paused, saying, “Confession?”
“What?” Aranya asked suspiciously.
“I’m doing this just to learn all of these adorable Northern expressions you use. Leaping Islands! Unholy smoking fumaroles!” The Princess hissed crossly. “Roaring rajals. Quadruple overlapping rainbows! It’s quite the linguistic adventure.”
“Iridiana, you are so – yeow! I felt that one.”
Ardan grinned as one sister finally released the other and Aranya emerged from that paw staggering as if her knees had turned to pliant reeds. Her skin evinced a most fetching sheen, what appeared to be oils lit from beneath by her natural starlight radiance. Catching the tenor of his gaze, Aranya coloured fetchingly and slipped behind a tall, slatted reed screen to dress.
Sometimes he forgot how young she still was, this girl who had chosen to defy the preeminent powers of the age.
Ardan said, “Leandrial wishes us to take our leave. And she wishes to speak to us the moment we board. My guess is that the Thoralians have been creating trouble again.”
“Moving the Egg faster?”
“She spoke of a mounting presentiment of Imbalance.”
The silence from behind the screen spoke volumes. Whatever Leandrial meant, it could not be joyous tidings.
Three hours later, by his reckoning, as the surprisingly early suns-set courtesy of the fringing mountains drew its partial shadows over the always agleam Ruby City, they took their final farewell of Uxâtate Shan-Jarad. He begged forgiveness of Iridiana and Aranya once more, promised to act upon the accords he had agreed with the Star Dragoness, and sent with them private communications intended for King Beran and for Izariela, should they be able to revive her.
He and Iridiana embraced stiffly, and then the ruler bowed to them all.
Ardan wondered if they would ever see him again.
Perhaps in all this, no-one had lost as much as he. Did Iridiana feel the same? It was hard not to nurse hatred for those whose self-serving actions had set one’s life upon a markedly different course, as he should well know. Or one’s own regrettable actions. How did Aranya feel about trapping her best friend inside of her own person?
If only there was an easy way to rise above it all.
Standing in the crack of Leandrial’s jaw together with Asturbar and Iridiana, an overawed Yazina, Aranya and her dragonets, as they departed, Ardan reflected soberly upon the nature of how character might be built. The Land Dragoness moved with fluid strides, taking care that her flanks or tail should not brush up against any of the seven main Islands, or shortly against any of the defensive emplacements around the entrance to the bay. He and Aranya might be homeward bound, but the Marshal and Iridiana planned to leave behind everything that they knew.
Breaking out of the bay, the suns’ last light filtered through the hazy bands of Islands in the distance, making them appear to float upon a carpet of orange, crimson and citrine fire. Since the ground beneath the clouds was shallow and there was no need to hide, Leandrial strode forth magnificently, hugging the curve of the peninsula to squeeze between the cliffs and the nearest clusters of inhabited Islands. Her riders gazed down at the little houses from a vantage point over four hundred feet above.
