Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 190
Aranya shivered with excitement. This was it. This dark instrument, crafted with exquisite attention to detail, encrusted with gemstones and gleaming as if it had been polished by a loving hand only yesterday, held secrets. She knew it, too.
Rubbing her hands together, she whispered, “So, Auli-Ambar, let the –”
The strings reverberated to her voice, creating a glissade of sound that filled the chamber with thrilling notes.
The Chief Scrollkeeper startled, exclaiming, “Holy Fra’anior! It’s never done that before.”
Chapter 29: Sung Magic
DESPITE ITS INITIAL response to her voice, the small Dragonharp refused to grant any further hints as to how it might be used or what secrets might be hidden inside of it, or regarding its nature. Eventually giving in to their exhortations, Master Abazan tipped the harp up onto its built-in wheels and trundled it with great care into the main Concert Hall and up a ramp onto the stage.
“No other position would do,” he said a trifle sheepishly.
Then, he played a range of different historic melodies for them in the hope that one would trigger … something. They were disappointed only by the lack of reaction; his musicianship upon the complex instrument was outstanding. Then the girls and Sapphire fell to examining the Dragonharp by every non-invasive means at their disposal, including trying to shift it by Chrysolitic means, much to the Master’s concern. Nothing.
Only, Aranya could practically smell its elusive magic. She and Iridiana agreed that it reminded them in some respects of Chaos magic, but this magic was different. It responded differently, if at all, seeming to slide away from their awareness with liquescent purpose. At least it did not cause them to forget anything, at least not obviously. It just did not do what they expected. The two ‘wings’ of the X-shaped harp, or double harp as some of the lore records had dubbed it, were made to be played by the hands independently. They examined every part meticulously. There did not appear to be any recesses, seams or hidden catches anywhere upon the harp. They even checked underneath.
At length, Aranya sat back on her haunches. “This magic just keeps reminding me of how as a child I sometimes tried to catch the meltwater of icicles in my fingers.”
Iridiana checked off on her fingers, “Watery. Maybe Chaotic. Unique. Definitely something neither you nor I have ever encountered.”
“I wish Leandrial were here to examine its harmonic properties.”
“Well, she is – in your memories, Aranya. Either that, or we beg Master Abazan to let us do what we discussed before, which –”
Aranya!
Lyriela! Ta’armion! Tiredness forgotten, Aranya sprang to her feet. Come on, Nyahi, you’ve another relative to meet. Lyriela of Ha’athior is our cousin. Seems it was only a few months ago that I finally threatened Prince Ta’armion into executing a right royal kidnapping and making her his bride. A bit slow off the mark, our Prince.
He looks sweet.
Remind me to tell you the story of how we first met before you say that! Now, Lyriela’s mute in both forms, but she can speak through telepathy.
Shortly, violet-eyed Lyriela was goggling at Iridiana and another happy family moment was in full swing. Beran and Ta’armion swapped a few notes regarding their respective kidnappings of their wives, while Sapphire made herself useful curling herself about Lyriela’s neck and purring up a minor storm. When they had briefed Lyriela on what they were doing, she immediately said:
The key must be musical, if all you report of this girl is true. Where, I ask you, is the score?
Iridiana shrugged. Your guess is as good as ours.
Aranya’s neck prickled. Musical? Magic … fluidity … musical harmony … Balance … and a score to bind them, she said, slowly turning about on the stage.
Score? What’s the score? Sapphire chirruped. Ari play game?
No, you silly … dragonet descants … the Dragonfriend’s love of dance … what was her favourite piece, again? She had Flicker, I have Sapphire – could Auli-Ambar have kept dragonets, too? Common themes … destiny …
Iridiana touched Lyriela’s hand. Does Aranya often speak to herself like this?
I don’t know, cousin. I’m not sure her brain works quite the same way as everyone else’s – in musical terms, I suppose one could say she is the harmony of starlight, after all, while we are the harmony of Sky Fires. They are fundamentally different.
Aranya chuckled at the two shy girls chatting away to each other. I’m just – what did you say? Lyriela! Say that again!
Her cousin jumped. What? I …
Scowling somewhat fiercely at Aranya, Ta’armion sprang to her side. There, now. Lyriela say harmony star bubble, blap … uh, drat. My Dragonish!
The Immadian laughed merrily. Perfect!
Beran put in, “Can someone kindly translate for the left-out King over here?”
“Aranya has a genius idea and she’s getting undressed,” Iridiana said drolly. “Help with the laces, sister dear? Huh, is that Ardan?”
Aranya jumped guiltily. “Where? Roaring rajals, you rotten tease!”
Punching Iridiana on the arm caused her to snap into a dracofloral bouquet the size of a respectable bonfire. Lyriela, Ta’armion and Abazan gaped!
“Excuse me, but I need to try to glow,” Aranya said. “I’d appreciate it if everyone shielded their eyes, and Ta’armion and Abazan – eyes completely shut, gentlemen. Master Abazan, I think I don’t need to do magic in here. Yours was a key clue.”
“Mine?” said he, turned to face rigidly away from Aranya.
Lyriela slapped Ta’armion’s arm. Not a word. Nor a mental picture. I’m watching you, husband.
Mwaa-ha-haa, I’ll catnap you regain! he threatened, channelling Nak rather effectively. Chains over Islands! Tasty wife-napping!
Iridiana pretended to fan her face. “Wow, you Fra’aniorians are a bold people! Has King Beran’s story not taught you the perils of trying to enchain Shapeshifter Dragonesses?”
“And how!” Ta’armion said feelingly. “Do you know how many pairs of my trousers she’s crisped? It seems every other day –”
Iridiana’s and Beran’s dancing eyebrows informed him of the mistake he had just made.
Ta’armion promptly turned purple, and squeaked, “I-I d-didn’t mean …”
Beran clapped him on the shoulder. “Sounded like a magnificent slip-up to me, my friend!”
“Waah!”
Aranya allowed their laughter and joshing to wash over her. She needed happiness. She needed to forget the grief, the disappointments, her failure to overcome. Unexpectedly, amidst all the reunions that she had enjoyed this day, the image that slipped to the forefront of her mind was that of Nak and Oyda’s final parting. Theirs was the bliss of a marriage, far from perfect but still one of profound devotion to one another after over a century and a half together, which had been touched by Fra’anior’s ultimate accolade. His fire and light which had marked their faces was something … unearthly; filled with the purity she wished for her own starlight; the transcendent, beautiful fury that was so much more than a desire for vengeance. Perhaps it was akin to the ideal of perfect justice, or the cleansing of untainted flame at a furnace’s heart.
After all that had passed and all that she had seen, was such an zenith of beautiful fury even possible?
Doubt must be shunned. Excised!
Nak. Oyda, she whispered. Burn now with me. Burn in me.
The spreading of her radiance was like dawn creeping up and over an Island. Shining from her position in front of the stage, the starlight tiptoed up the Human- and Dragon-sized steps that led to the Concert Cavern’s tiers of seating. Dark grey stone turned radiant. The places worn by boots and the score marks of talons were thrown into sharp relief. Shadows deepened and thickened, pooling behind seat rests and behind the Dragonharps standing upon the stage, the five-foot tall miniature and its mighty companion, so much taller, broader and heavier in the beams, yet no less a work of art. For a moment her light flickered as qualms intruded, but Aranya had moved to imagining her mother’s rebirth.
Strengthening, her light swept upward and outward.
Ta’armion was the first to gasp, “Great leaping Islands! It’s … music!”
Iridiana clapped her hands excitedly. “Come on, Aranya! Look at what you just found!”
Abazan just rotated in place, speechless, taking in the score that ran all the way around the room, picked out in gleaming white horiatite upon the dark grey substrate. His dumbfounded expression said it all.
Lyriela frowned. Wow, it’s a complicated piece. I see … music for two pairs of forepaws and pedals, besides four distinct vocal lines. One is a descant written in notation unfamiliar to me.
A dragonet descant? Iridiana guessed.
If this is a key and has to be played or sung perfectly, we’ve got some serious practice ahead of us, Lyriela pointed out. Wouldn’t you say, beloved?
“Aye. Just look at those baritone runs,” he said, pointing across to his right. “Can either of you girls manage a coloratura or lyric soprano?”
“Not since the pox,” said Aranya.
“Badly,” said Nyahi. “I had some basic training before I was exiled. What about Pip? She squeaks in her native language, doesn’t she?”
“Ancient Southern,” said Aranya. “Aye, that has some tricky trills and birdcalls. Maybe she could manage some of that part. I could try a lower register, but it’s all a bit rough and wheezy these days.”
Beran said, “Are you sure this is it, Sparky?”
“Well, the mysterious Dragon Librarian hasn’t inked her name to the scrolleaf as yet, so no, Dad. But I have a good feeling about this. Once we apply the magic of that harp to this score, we will discover something … amazing.”
“Did that already,” said he, reaching out to squeeze Iridiana’s hand.
“Different amazing.”
She smiled at Iridiana, whose cheeks flamed with delight at Beran’s words. Her mind was turbulent; focussed on the task. Aranya wondered if she truly understood why she used a superlative in this context. Or what instinct had even led her to this discovery? No. But now was not the time for questioning. Zuziana, the Academy and the Egg all depended on them.
Oddly, it was time to sing. Perhaps a Dragoness must learn to sing before she could truly roar?
* * * *
By dawn, Aranya had to sleep. Teams of scholars were copying the musical scores she had highlighted section by section. Lyriela had transformed into her Dragoness form and set to practising the intricate score upon the main Dragonharp, despite that it was really too large for her size and reach, to Master Abazan’s beatific whispers of approbation. ‘Oh, a deft paw! What touch, what passion!’ Those were the last words she heard.
Aranya dreamed.
She called to Ardan, battling amidst towering walls of savage flame. Howling voices swirled around her. He sheltered beneath a slowly-moving Dragon’s shell, perspiring heavily and groaning as he linked with – Ri’arion! She could reach him. The strength of stars to thee, my friend.
The monk did not appear to register her contact, but a slow smile gentled the planes of his ascetic face. Aranya watched, and then reached out to touch their shields with starlight.
The three men laughed gruffly.
Ah, yes! Asturbar roared.
The dream whisked her away over volcano and mountain, through canyon and Cloudlands, to a place where a single sun shone unbearably. She felt compelled to pass by, but a mysterious force thwarted her every attempt. Aranya battled and connived, applied her magic and her commands, and at one point found the Pygmy Dragoness fighting alongside her. Even together, they could not prevail. The dreamscape was strange, riven by baleful sunlight and underpinned by an immensity of roaring that reminded her of Cloudlands-bound waterfalls, yet they sounded wrong somehow. The goal remained out of reach.
She awoke gnashing her teeth.
“Good morn to you,” Pip said cheerfully.
Aranya sat bolt upright and thwacked her skull on the shelf above her bed. “Shenanigans!”
“That’s my name,” said the imp in her singsong voice, smiling uncertainly at the now-awake Immadian. She wore a simple white linen shift that must have been raided from the children’s clothing store. “Come on, sleepyhead. Work to do.”
“I am not – honestly! Awake now, no thanks to you. I was working –”
Pip retorted, “Trapping other people in your dreams? Fine thing for a friend to do. Remind me never to become your enemy.”
“I … did? Sorry. Unintended consequences.”
Swinging her legs off the bed, Aranya tucked back her hair. “Who is Silver, by the way?”
“Nice black eye,” said Pip.
“Excellent accompaniment to the hole in my cheek, wouldn’t you say?”
Biting her lip, the Pygmy girl said, “Sorry.”
“Aargh, sorry! Feeling needlessly snappish. Silver?”
“Huh, your father did warn me you’re a bit single-minded. ‘Implacable’ was his word.” Hastily, she added, “Along with a Dragonship-load of compliments, before you start huffing at me. Silver is my … boyfriend. Dragonfriend. Unfortunately, I meant to warn you about something – Silver is also an unwanted shell son of Marshal Re’akka. Which makes him –”
“Of the lineage of the Thoralians,” Aranya finished in a low hiss. “Flying ralti sheep! I assume he’s true to the cause?”
“Aye.” Aranya noticed how the young teen’s toes curled as they spoke about Silver.
She had begun to stand, but felt awkward about towering over the pretty Pygmy, so she remained seated on the bed, keeping them at eye level. “Good. I can work with that.”
“You can?”
She met the girl’s black-eyed gaze with a firm nod. “Aye. I don’t mean to sound callous, but I understand that these Herimor Marshals see being prolific as both a sign of status and a religious duty. The Thoralians apparently made a habit of destroying those who did not meet the standard – whatever that means. Silver must be quality.”
“The best. But frankly, I’m not sure which is worse – meeting the standard or failing it,” Pip admitted softly. “I …”
“You’re in love.” The girl dipped her eyes. Aranya felt for her. Here was a twist she could not have imagined. Taking Pip’s hand in hers, she squeezed her dark fingers. “Mercy, girl, you need to meet my Ardan. He’s from the Western Isles; just as dark as you. ‘Jungle girl, meet my beautiful barbarian. Barbarian, meet ferociously cute curly-haired girl – ’ ” Pip chortled happily. “Right, as someone famously said, to work.”
The Concert Cavern was a hive of activity. Music stands had been set up, scholars and musicians ran hither and thither, Prince Ta’armion was warming up at an electrifying fortissimo and Lyriela in her Violet Dragoness form had settled herself by the larger Dragonharp. She was discussing several technical points of the score with Master Abazan, seated beside the smaller Dragonharp, in telepathic Dragonish. The annotated talon stretches in the flowing arpeggios and runs appeared to be a challenge for a Dragoness of her size.
“Hey, Sparky,” said King Beran. “Decent black eye there, old girl. I noticed yesterday. Where did you get that?”
“Ahem.” She tried not to look at Pip, who promptly gave the game away with an embarrassed cough.
“I see.” Beran indicated Iridiana to his right hand, who had managed to find a light lilac-coloured lace dress that merely brushed her kneecaps. That was a rare find around Fra’anior Cluster. “Does this explain the split lip, Sparkles? And the limp, Pip?”
All three girls looked in various directions, and none of them at the chortling King.
Drolly, Beran said, “Well, it goes to show we are dealing with Dragonesses here and not a gaggle of simpering court maidens. You’d eat them alive. Good. Hope your voices are feeling strong, because the good Prince has promised to take us in hand this morn.”
On cue, Ta’armion tut-tutted importantly. “Attend!”
Pip called, “Class is in!”
The Prince singled her out at once. “Pip! Front and centre. Second line from the top is yours. Start learning the words.”
“Oh, that’s easy. One minute,” said Pip, flipping through the scrolleaf. “I’ve an eidetic memory.”
“Oh, somebody slap her,” Iridiana groaned.
“All short jokers belong back in the nursery,” the Immadian King chirped.
Pip immediately whirled to glare at him, hands on hips. “I am violently allergic to short person jokes! Don’t even start, none of you!” The cavern fell silent as she shrilled, “We Pygmies were created as we are by Fra’anior himself! One more wisecrack about my size and I promise you, I’ll … I will so – I will hurt you all!”
After a long, painfully uncomfortable silence, she sighed and held up her hand. “Stupidly cranky Shapeshifter over here. Apologies, everyone.”
Aranya pointed at her eye. “I didn’t even make a joke, and look what I earned.”
Pip laughed, but Aranya noticed she had to clench her fists and talk herself into simmering down. Wow. Hibernation rage? Poor girl.
The group fell to learning their assigned parts. Ta’armion worked them hard, patiently taking each line or pairing parts before they started to put the whole piece together. It was a decidedly non-traditional arrangement of the Flame Cycle, usually performed as a balletic dance opera with limited vocal sections, which recounted a draconic reincarnation legend. Although it was arguably the best-known composition around the Cluster, this score had been considerably embellished for two Dragonharp parts plus all the vocals.
It was also Hualiama’s all-time favourite. Intriguing.
After five hours of solid work, the Prince declared a much-needed lunch break. They repaired to the dining cavern to enjoy a traditional assortment of nuts, rustic breads and fruit, washed down with berry wine, fruit cordials or spring water. The Dragons snacked from great brass platters of spiced ralti meat and salted fowl. Evidently, the harried cooks were not accustomed to providing for royal company, but Beran put them at ease with several well-turned and well-deserved compliments. Sapphire and her brood entertained everyone with a spontaneous rendition of the rollicking Rebirth Aria with copious amounts of dragonet-embellishment. King Beran disappeared to arrange a Dragonflight to go check on his inbound family. Nerves? Or wisdom? Aranya fed her gang of four-pawed thieves on fine steak slices, provided by the kitchen upon Ta’armion’s discreet prompting.
