Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 188
“Thank you, o King.”
“And if ever you need a home, my door is open. It’s fiercely cold up North, Pip, but for you – always open.”
“My King.” Pip’s voice quavered.
Iridiana was examining the offerings of underwear. What’s with the length of these? Very nice material, however. Is this the famous Helyon silk?
It is. We’re conservative in Immadia, and the climate is cold. Come on. Not silky enough for Asturbar, are you thinking?
For that, she earned a funny look. Why, what does Ardan think of your taste in undies, darling sister?
Iridiana!
What?
You are so inappropriate.
With that, Aranya laced up the back of the floor-length, lavender and royal purple dress with relish and a firm hand, making Iridiana squirm and complain. She certainly filled out her dress much better than her scrawny sister, Aranya thought with a twinge of jealousy. Iridiana then returned the favour, fumbling a little with the unfamiliar fastenings while the silence on the other side of the screen, and the anticipation, deepened. Tie the face veil? No. Her father must see the resemblance right away. Aranya set it aside with a small sigh. Would this ever become easier?
Slippers, Iridiana.
How do I look? Will he – what will he say?
Nyahi’s telepathic tone pulsated erratically. Panicked. Aranya imagined waking her mother again. She would be unnerved, too! You’ll blow him away, she declared. “Everybody ready in there?” Taking her sister by the hand, Aranya looked her straight in the eye. You are a Princess of Immadia. You are about to make a King weep for joy. You will treasure this moment forever.
“Where’s my surprise, petal? Why the mystery?” Beran called.
“Ever since he met our mother, Dad’s been struggling to catch up with his Dragonesses,” Aranya breathed into her sister’s ear, and then she tugged Iridiana impulsively around the screen’s edge, saying, “Hey, Dad, what do you think of … this?”
Beran’s smile froze. His eyes flicked between the two girls, standing holding hands, and then traipsed somewhat frantically back and forth again, his features a study in bewilderment. The silence lengthened unbearably; how Nyahi held her composure, she had no idea. Aranya wished he would say something, anything; but suddenly framed within his welling eyes bloomed such an outpouring of fresh and fragile wonder, it was too much. Too much for either of them. Beran knew for certain what he beheld, and his conviction shone, but the mind simply baulked.
“Sparky …” he croaked at last, his lips quirking into a smile so vulnerable, it arrested her heart and carried it off to an Isle of unalloyed exultation. “Sparky, what on the Islands …”
“D-D-D –” Aranya stammered, overcome. “Dad. Uh – I …”
Iridiana squeezed her fingers gently, as if Aranya were the one who needed comfort. Perhaps she did.
Beran’s hand rose. “You – and this duplicate – girl, how?”
Tears clouded her vision. Aranya tried to choke through a few words, but her emotions were a hopeless mess, too hot and heavy to express. It was Oyda who said, “King Beran, this is Iridiana. She is your daughter – another daughter. It is a long tale, but what you see is the truth.” Poor man, he was rubbing his eyes as though suns-struck; as though this apparition must surely evaporate into the dawn mists. “Fra’anior himself has attested to the fact that Iridiana and Aranya are indeed twins. She is your long-lost daughter.”
“What?” he rasped. “I see the likeness, aye – who couldn’t! But …”
Nak echoed, “Your daughter – your who-so-what … huh? Aranya, my petal! How – this – this beauteous … goddess …” His voice trailed off into reverential awe. Nak was clearly smitten.
“A daughter? My daughter?”
Oyda whispered, “Just hold her, you silly man. Know her; love her …”
The King of Immadia seemed to have lost control of his limbs, for his body jerked as though seeking to step forward, but his immobile boots flouted his heart’s desire. A great, ragged shout broke unexpectedly from his throat, and he began to guffaw in a wild, half-sobbing half-exultant welter of jubilation, punching the air like a madman and capering about in – well, not the most elegant of dances, but certainly the most eloquent.
Beran flung out his arms and staggered toward his daughters, sputtering, “I’m just the happiest man – I don’t understand a jot – but – doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Oh, Dad!” Aranya exhaled.
“Dad!” Iridiana wailed.
Then he clasped them both, his daughters identically taller than he, and the King of Immadia buried his face between their shoulders, and time ceased to have meaning.
* * * *
Softly settled the night upon Gi’ishior’s cone, cloaking the inner cliffs and Dragon roosts with a starlit mantle, but this evening, its incipient tranquillity was rather rudely interrupted. Lights shone. Dragons babbled. Humans dashed hither and thither. The Dragon Library was a chaotic hubbub of voices, far removed from its usual musty reticence. The Star Dragoness had come! The need was urgent!
As yet, Aranya had communicated only that they needed to find out everything possible about the first Human Dragon Librarian in history, Auli-Ambar Ta’afaya. To say the Dragonkind were nonplussed by this request was akin to claiming the Moons were made of green Jeradian cheese. Despite the guidance that she had been a contemporary of Hualiama Dragonfriend herself, and indeed the holder of one of the most prestigious titles in Dragondom – the post of Dragon Librarian was no minor affair, being lesser in status to the Dragon Elders alone, besides demanding crucial talents in the political and diplomatic spheres – they could not bring themselves, stubborn, fiery pride and all, to believe it was even possible that a Human had ever held such an honour.
Aranya knew her name was being gnashed between many fangs this night. To her surprise, however, it was her Aunt Va’assia who had been her most vocal support, whipping and browbeating the Dragons into obedience.
“Have you forgotten who salvaged your mangy hides from the ravages of scale fungus and mould in those caves?” she bellowed. “To work! Slothful paws are Dramagon’s paws!”
Leaping Islands! Or did Va’assia secretly wish she would fall spectacularly on her scarred nose?
Right now, she had other concerns. Charging into Oyda’s sickbay, she skidded to a halt on her heels, panting, “Oyda! You’re standing up?”
Oyda held out her arms. “Petal. It is my time.”
Thunder crashed inside the volcano. “No!”
“Petal …”
“Oyda, no!” Aranya glanced frantically at Nak, who simply beckoned. He – the fire had infected him, too! “Nak, no, oh please, you can’t let her leave now.”
Nak’s eyes were too bright, radiant with a light Aranya both recognised and hated for what it would cost her. She groaned and shook, refusing for an unbearable second to accept that these dear friends, too, she must lose.
It was as if she heard Fra’anior whisper, These are mine. Let them depart, Aranya. Let them fly.
I know, but it hurts! Oh, Fra’anior, it hurts!
She ran to them now, trying her utmost to smile and be happy for them, but all that emerged from her throat was an inchoate whimpering sound. Nak held her as shocking gasps of grief wracked her person, and whispered his final farewell into her ear. Then she stooped to embrace Oyda too, bent with great age but never diminished, and breathed in the inimitable, complex redolence of Fra’anior’s own fires rising within her dear friend’s flesh. How impossible to relinquish those who had guided her from the very beginning, but she must.
Aranya stepped back, finding at last within her being a smile of peace so lucid, it transcended understanding. She ushered the others with her arms, whispering, Back, back. And then she cried in a great voice, O FRA’ANIOR, RECEIVE THOU THE SOULS OF THY SERVANTS!
Was it her that thundered, or her ancestor’s almighty larynxes?
Beran and Iridiana beside her, and Pip before them, retreated in step with Aranya toward the doorway as the room began to grow more and more brilliant, and she dimly heard exclamations in the receiving and service area behind the row of bays. She could not tear her eyes off the Dragon Rider couple. Oyda was smiling and waving gently, while Nak called:
“Love you, Pip, Aranya, Iridiana … tell that Remoyan she is the splendour of her Isle, and should I have had the chance, I would have smooched her breathless …”
Nak’s voice disappeared as a crackling and roaring as of a bonfire filled the room, yet it burned nothing; their faces were so suffused with draconic white fires, Aranya had to shade her eyes even as she reflexively drew up a shield to protect the onlookers. There was no heat, just the unbearable brilliance, but she could not stand to look away, for it seemed now that Nak and Oyda, embracing, looked through her and beyond her into eternity. Elation ignited their visages.
Shimmerith, o my Shimmerith! cried Nak.
Oyda crooned, Emblazon, you came when I called, noble wing brother!
Aranya swung around to look as a sound like the wuthering of wind over Dragon wings rushed overhead from behind her. Nothing? Yet as she swivelled again to the fore it was to be greeted by a perfect storm of laughter, deep belling notes that thrilled the soul mingled with soft chuckles like glissades of notes played upon tubular bells, and the old people were caught up in a breathless tangle of paws and tails and hands stroking ethereal scales. Tourmaline and deeper blue notes played amidst the brilliance. Then, a gathering vortex of white fires caught them up into the air. They rose as if her shield was not present. Indeed, by their light Aranya saw right through the infirmary’s rock ceiling and the many layers of tunnels and roosts above, all the way to the skies.
The foursome of Dragons and Riders seared into the sky in an Iridiana-like comet that left a silvery smear across Aranya’s retinae.
She dug her knuckles into her aching eyes. The room was dark, the bedclothes apparently undisturbed. The scent that rose to her nostrils was charred cinnamon mingled with lilies and fireflower. Of Nak and Oyda, there was no sign.
Aranya found that she was on her knees. “Fra’anior? Do I now believe in an afterlife?”
Beran’s hand clasped her shoulder warmly. “Aye, Sparky.”
Chapter 28: In Storage
THE CONFLICT SCORCHED the Rift for hundreds of leagues about as Ardan and his group took the battle to the Storm Elementals with a vengeance. The Foam Riders were more resourceful than Ardan had imagined, and certainly more exercised in terms of seeking revenge for what, within the limitations of their shared language, they understood had been Infurion’s tactic of sacrificing the Foam Riders’ life force in order to placate the Storm Elementals so that they did not club together and overwhelm him.
Rebellion had been simmering for many decades. With the departure of their de facto god, the Foam Riders were released into a killing frenzy.
Turbulent thunderheads of dark-rimmed fire surged and assembled at every point of the compass around Ardan’s group of brave Cognates as they sprinted at four leagues per hour along the Rift walkway. The Storm Elementals were roused, and they flung themselves upon the invaders in successive waves of thrashing, fiery protodraconic muzzles, limbs and talons, creating a thundering and a roaring like tens of thousands of waterfalls all crashing down at once. In response hundreds of the great molten metallic plates hurtled high through the fires, each casting a disruptive force – or an anti-disruptive force, Ri’arion had to point out – that cleaved clear channels through the Storm Elementals. If they could disrupt one being enough, that was sufficient to dispel their life force, the Foam Riders had declared. The Elementals reformed only slowly. Ardan understood that their future plan was to regularly patrol their environs in an attempt to subdue the bourgeoning population of Storm Elementals.
The Storm Elementals fought back in fast-moving packs of leagues-tall billows of crimson fury, their voices shattering the air again and again with the rallying cry of their fury. Waves of fire beat down upon the Cognates, sheeting off their low carapaces and rocking them violently side-to-side. Ri’arion, sitting cross-legged with his eyes shut and his hands resting in his lap, had been obliged to add kinetic stabilising elements to their anti-disruptive shielding, which so far had held firm. Mostly. Relaxed as he appeared, the ex-monk was streaked with sweat, groaning and twitching from time to time as he singlehandedly held their mental alliance together.
Ardan pursed his lips. Clearly, warriors could fight with more than merely physical weapons.
Across from him in the small Dragonhide chamber, Asturbar was marching up and down, clearly itching to sink his oversized battle-axe into someone or something. He knew that feeling.
Walking over, Ardan clasped the man’s massive forearm. “Come on. Let’s see if you have mental muscles to match that frame.”
Asturbar’s brow drew down. “What do you mean by that, Shadow?”
“Well, not the insult you seem wont to take,” he replied. “If I were to condescend, I’d say, ‘All you need to understand inside that armoured Azingloriax cranium is that this is how we reach Iridiana faster.’ Eh?”
A slow smile broke across that broad visage. “Yes. And I know I’m talking to a man of literally no substance. How does that sit with you?”
“Badly!” Ardan laughed, and said, “Although, you could stand to change those soldier socks at least once a year. Iridiana will be extremely grateful that I’ve appraised you of the situation. It’s when the fungus starts oozing out of the tops of your boots –”
“Huh. Did you barbarians never discover the revolutionary notion that is bathing? You can tell by the way insects keel over and perish as they buzz past your armpits …”
Both men guffawed, buffeted each other upon the shoulder and said simultaneously, “To work!”
* * * *
Aranya gazed around the tiny chamber curiously. The girl – if girl she had been, which seemed plausible given the Human-sized dimensions of this servant’s chamber – had been remarkably difficult to track down. Suspiciously remarkably, Head Librarian Sizmatizara, a Corundum-Topaz scholar Dragoness originally hailing from a small roost-Isle East of Helyon, had joked in her dry, ravaged whisper resulting from a throat wound delivered by none other than Garthion himself. Almost as if Auli-Ambar had deliberately elided certain key records, such as any hints pertaining to her actual existence.
Why?
Naturally, a royal of her unquestionable integrity had immediately resorted to cheating – cough, splutter – make that, using her connections and skills to shortcut her way to a solution. Hualiama had also been remarkably-suspiciously economical with answers, but she had her reasons, she claimed.
“A girl, aye, but one of most unusual heritage,” Aranya repeated to herself, trying not to grow any further steamed at the paucity of the Dragonfriend’s helpfulness. “Fra’aniorian father and Pykolese mother. Pykolese? Where on the Islands is that from? Blind from birth. Outstandingly gifted in the scholarly arts, responsible for keeping none other than my dear Aunt alive in her infancy – a useful service indeed – and possessed of a brand of magic no-one has ever heard of before or since, her two most notable skills being, firstly, the ability to sing and play musical magic and secondly, the curse of making everyone around her summarily forget her very existence.”
Magic that modified physical records created and overseen by the most meticulous Dragon scholars and administrators? Aranya sniffed unhappily. Not that they had a shred of evidence or proof to support this accusation, save that Fra’anior and Hualiama both claimed she had existed and the records simply did not.
Guilty by reason of absentia?
She muttered, “Still, our Auli-Ambar was bonded with a certain Arkurion the Mercury Blue of Tanstoy Dragon Roost in the South. That argues Shapeshifter, doesn’t it? And now I’m supposed to locate the non-existent Scrolls of Fire somewhere in the internecine, secretive Halls of the Dragons, which will recount Miss Invisible’s story and hopefully give us a clue as to how to fly to the Mystic Moon. Quite the scholar, if that’s a trick she’s been hiding up her little sleeve.”
Aranya gazed around the chamber, wondering what she was missing or where they were supposed to search. Mostly, she chafed at her relatives’ obfuscations. ‘Prophetic necessity, gnarr gnarr,’ she chuntered dolefully, drawing a low chuckle from the doorway – Iridiana had returned. “A blind Librarian – Fra’anior’s beard! What enigmas does he have me chasing now?”
“Talking to ourselves, sister?” Iridiana teased.
“Talking to you is like talking to me.”
“Just have to colour my hair crazy, right?”
Aranya puffed out her cheeks. “Help me case the place, would you?”
“Case? Is that Immadian for, ‘Rifle through someone’s private belongings?’ ”
“Gaah! And I thought Zuziana was the only one who played the tit-for-tat question game. Aye! Put those hands and your magic to work.”
An hour later, the twins were convinced they had absolutely zero chance of finding anything useful in Auli-Ambar’s old, very empty chamber. They had checked under the small built-in bed, examined the frame meticulously, turned the plain wooden dresser inside out and upside down, and even spent rather more quality time with the bathroom plumbing than might have been expected from a pair of Princesses. The room was bare, slightly dusty and entirely devoid of items, magical or otherwise. It looked exactly as a room unoccupied for the last five hundred years ought to look.
Eventually, Iridiana settled back on her heels, addressing Aranya over the toilet bowl. “We’re hunting for dragonets on the wrong Isle. Tell me everything Hualiama said, again.”
“Again?”
So she did. Verbatim. With extra vigour, given as the hour was by now very late, and she felt wrung out after the high emotions surrounding Nak and Oyda’s departure.
