Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 202
As the morning wore on, the wind’s whistling grew old and the sight of an orange glow around the Island, normal. But the vista beyond was awesome. When Aranya flew to the rim to stretch her wings and refocus, she gazed out over an Island-World sprawling to the very limit of Dragon sight. This was her place. Her patch, she chuckled wonderingly, as huge and beautiful as the Dragon who had first conceived it. Hmm. A storm brewing over Jeradia. Ri’arion had not mentioned it as yet.
She was not the only Dragon goggling at the view; she was but one of several thousand. None of these Dragons had seen the Rim-wall mountains, nor had they imagined the realms that lay beyond. Her eyes returned to an anomaly out there – another storm seemingly rooted above the ocean, which struck her as unnatural. Why did she feel that way? Her scales prickled.
The breeze was picking up. Aranya returned to her labours, helping Silver to make the necessary adjustments.
Too fast? he asked privately.
Just right. The friction will help us if we let it, well, maybe let’s slow a fraction to stop that vibration from picking up.
Freaks, I hadn’t noticed, he muttered.
Silver was powerful, but Chymasion was another matter entirely. He amplified power. Pass anything through him and it returned sevenfold, and oftentimes improved. Impressive. Furthermore, he did not see the world as did any other Dragon, but in a similar way to how she sometimes picked out white fires and magical constructs, he saw the world with magical sight. Just now, he was helping the Land Dragons pick out and annihilate Shao’lûkayn also falling from orbit. They could not possibly destroy them all, she had realised. And she had to wonder what other nasty surprises Dramagon would have concocted in his endless quest to better his shell brother.
By mid-afternoon the Academy had descended five hundred leagues and was bang on course. They had weathered a high altitude jet stream and wrestled themselves back on track. Now she dived overboard with Ardan to go shoo that unwelcome storm away from Jeradia. That was a complication they could do without!
Dragon and Dragoness dived through an eclipse shadow and then into radiant suns-light, matching each other wingbeat for wingbeat.
Ardan called, So, you wielded your sisters to destroy Thoralian? Three as one – that must have been a sight.
It was amazing. I don’t think I knew much about shining before then, I guess. But my grandstars made it seem so natural, and to have real live Dragonstars cheering us on from somewhere across the galaxies … it was surreal. That must be why Hualiama entitled the fourth volume of her memoirs, ‘Dragonstar.’ It was a clue all along, and she never told me. I’m going to have such words with my Aunt …
Some secrets are too wonderful to tell. They must be experienced, Ardan said.
Aye, you’re right. There was one more secret she had treasured up in her heart, and that was for when she returned to her mother.
So, with all those Dragonships hovering around Jeradia, you had better blow that storm away nice and gently, alright? Don’t want daddy dearest ending up in the Rift, for example.
You’re a rotten tease, Ardan. Race you to that thunderhead!
Having the mental depth of the Cognates at paw was almost like cheating. They taught Aranya more about weather in the following four hours than she had ever imagined existed to be known. She was supposed to be the Daughter of Storm. What she had was a headache and a storm that was dissipating into nothingness merely by refined encouragement, as the Cognates put it, with a suitable enormity of smugness.
Ah well. Always good to learn one’s place.
She flitted off to find her father, and Dragoness-hugged the breath right out of him.
“Sparky!” he gasped at last.
“Ha. Do you always turn up so obediently, Dad?” she grinned, settling her wings with a weary rustling.
He smacked her heartily upon the flank. “That’s not how I won your mother, and you know it. So, I hear Thoralian found Dramagon’s service stuck somewhat in his craw?”
“We totally smoked him.”
Beran guffawed, “Ah, you made light of such a mighty enemy?”
“Aye, and just when it was all glowing so well for him …”
“He contracted a terminal case of the vapours!”
As they fell upon each other’s shoulders laughing, Ardan said to others nearby, “Would someone mind explaining Immadian humour to me? I don’t get what’s so funny. How is that funny?”
As evening spread its gentle breath over Jeradia, the Cognates brought the volcano down at a most decorous pace. The new bedrock, shaped with meticulous care, glowed where the Thunderous Thirty had given it one final going-over and shaping prior to them fusing the old volcano into its new resting place. The Cognates had gone as far as to trace the old magma pipe down into the Island’s roots, following the advice from above that the volcano had once been rather less dormant than had originally been assumed when the Academy was first founded. Dragons did like their water piping hot and their lava baths at a suitably scale-searing temperature, nothing less. A posse of fifteen Brown Dragon engineers were champing their fangs to get into reconnecting the newly opened pipe to ensure even better service than the Halls of the Dragons at Gi’ishior.
Not that Dragons were ever competitive, no.
Offshore and onshore, an audience of thousands watched from Dragonship, the air and on the ground. It looked as if both Jos City and Fra’anior Cluster had been depopulated in anticipation of the great event.
The cheering, however, did take a noticeable wobble when Zankaradia popped her muzzle up above the rim from her hatchling nap and bugled, “Are we there yet?”
King Beran spluttered, “What – who is that?”
“Dad, that’s Zankaradia the Corundum Red, who was lately sharing egg space with the Academy and with Eridoon Island. Want to come meet your second Ancient Dragon? She’s lovely, I promise.”
“She’s the size of an Island!” he exclaimed, with commendable accuracy.
“Glad you retain your sense of proportion, Dad.”
Ardan rolled his fire eyes. “Still not funny.”
Zankaradia, don’t move! Aranya called. We can’t tip the Island just now.
Oh. Sorry. I’m just so excited to see all those tiny Human flying devices and, is that your father? How can your father be so minute, and your grandfather be the Lord of all Dragons?
Our family packs in quality over size, she teased. My maternal and paternal lines are … well, quite different, we could say. Has no one explained genealogy to you?
Not of Shapeshifters. You’re all crazy, teased Zankaradia.
Aranya burst out laughing.
Silver yelled, Who’s laughing like – oh! With respect, noble Dragoness, could you refrain from shaking the whole Island whilst we make the final adjustments?
Teams of Dragons removed the partially embedded eggshell from the volcano’s underside. Now for the touchdown. Silver and Chymasion performed admirably, given as they had dozens of Cognates and an audience of Land Dragons lining the edge of the wind-still tan Cloudlands as the Island descended, all voicing conflicting opinions about what should be done and how. At last the volcano settled to a sizzling rest upon its new cradle. The Thunderous Thirty immediately swarmed around the base, melting rock and blasting here and there with cries of satisfaction in their characteristic gruff, barking draconic dialect. The din they raised drowned out all the cheering save for Zankaradia’s high-pitched bugling.
Rising into the air with her father as her Dragon Rider, Aranya explained, “Showing the Thirty something to blow up is like tossing raw meat to a starving Dragon.”
He shouted back, “I see! This is blast-honour for them?”
“Mighty indeed, and a scrolleaf in legend. Come! I’ve so many people for you to meet. Zuziana is back with us, and there’s Master Kassik who heads up the Academy, and …”
Chattering away, the Amethyst Dragoness zipped over the rim and air-braked just in front of the Corundum Red, who was trying very hard not to look bored at having to sit still. Aranya introduced her father as ‘father of the Star Dragoness’ and the hatchling genuflected gravely to him. When she was told she was free to go but ‘be careful of all the little people,’ Zankaradia instantly began to uncoil with a rushing sound like a storm sweeping over reed-beds, and then she took a few steps up to the rim to goggle at everything and everyone.
They goggled right back.
Meantime, Aranya was doing the rounds with her Dad and Iridiana. When she let slip that she had ‘sort of adopted Pip’ he demanded to know how she had managed to omit this vital snippet of information – but when she explained to him, and again to Silha, he did what her Dad did best.
Kneeling, he took Pip’s right hand in both of his. “My lady Pip.”
“A-Aye?” she stammered.
“I warned Aranya about finding all these potential sisters about the Isles,” he said solemnly. “I said, ‘Pick the best! Only the very best will do.’ But she’s disobedient, don’t you know? Always winging off here and there. Just won’t listen to her old man. So I said, ‘I already have five children.’ I guess listening isn’t a strong point either, is it? Because if I allow this, doesn’t that mean I have to put up with another potential son-in-law?” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at Silver. “Is that one any use at all?”
Pip just shook her head, unable to laugh, or to cry, or to make any sound at all. She just trembled.
Zip said, “I count five children and two wives, o King.”
“Remoyan ways are just expensive,” Beran deadpanned, making his watching family chortle. He pointed at Asturbar. “And I haven’t even started feeding you yet, young man!”
“He eats marginally less than Zankaradia there,” Iridiana suggested coyly.
Asturbar rubbed his ample stomach. “Where’s the crime in liking my food, I ask you? Did someone mention a feast this evening?”
Turning back to Pip, Beran said, “A little dragonet told me you like to be called Pipsqueak?”
“Not … so much,” she spluttered.
“Good. Because I’m terrible with nicknames – I love to use them all the time, eh Sparky? And Sparkles. Boots. Mischief.” This was for Zuziana, and now a nod toward Silver. “Working on yours, old-timer. But I haven’t changed my mind, Pip. Not one jot. Stubbornness is definitely a family trait. So when I said before that my door was open to you, I meant it with all my heart. I simply couldn’t imagine any greater honour than what Aranya has not so much proposed, but decreed. Therefore … welcome. Welcome into our family. You shall be one of us.”
Moving to stand just behind her husband, Queen Silha whom Aranya had never known to speak in public, said, “I also welcome you, Pip. We should make this formal, shouldn’t we, Beran?”
“In Immadian tradition, that’s the Queen’s responsibility,” he demurred.
Silha smiled sweetly at the overwhelmed Pygmy girl. “In the absence of a royal historian or recordist, I’ll just make this up. Pip of the Pygmies, as the reigning Queen of Immadia it gives me great honour –” she paused to dab at her eyes “– and a manner of joy inexpressibly profound, to welcome you into our family. Would you kneel?”
Sapphire chirped, “Iri?”
Beran said, “Aye! Almost forgot. And you, Iridiana.”
The silence grew such weight and significance, it was as if Fra’anior himself breathed his blessing upon this moment, a golden evening upon the day of the Academy’s restoration.
The Chaos Shifter popped through a dizzying series of transformations before somehow managing to find her way to Pip’s side, kneeling. Both of their eyes were luminous, as were their countenances. Starlight shone in them and through them.
Silha said, “Aranya, Beran, come forward. And, can I have the boys and Leanya, too?”
They stood with their hands upon Pip’s and Iridiana’s shoulders, with the twins standing beside their mother and Leanya cradled in Aranya’s left arm.
When everything was arranged to the Queen’s satisfaction, she raised her voice, discreetly amplified by Ri’arion and Aranya, and declared, “Let all bear witness upon this most solemn yet joyous occasion that I, Queen Silha of Immadia, representative of the ancient royal House of Immadia, together with my husband King Beran of Immadia, do of my free and unencumbered will embrace, adopt and confirm into our family our daughters Iridiana and Pip’úrth’l-iòlall-Yò’oótha –” she shared a smile with Aranya as she pronounced the complex name adequately, and Pip almost burst with delight “– who shall share equally amongst our children the rights, honours and duties accorded to Princesses of Immadia. Let all who hear, know that this is the sworn and legal word of the House of Immadia, as irrevocable as it is binding.”
With an unusually effusive gesture, Silha raised her hands to the darkling sky and cried, “I give you their Royal Highnesses … the Princess Iridiana … and the Princess Pip, of Immadia!”
Under cover of the tears and shouting and roaring and general euphoria, Beran leaned down to whisper to them both, “Told you so. I get the very best ones.”
“Alright, pirate-Dad,” Aranya beamed. “Well done!”
That evening was one unending feast, peppered with hugs and tears, and salted with such joy as caused the very stars to dance.
Chapter 37: By the Mountains of Immadia
On a Frost-Bitten midwinter’s morning three and a half weeks after Thoralian’s downfall, Aranya lifted her gaze to behold her beloved mountains of Immadia. Her hands were clasped before her chin, pressing her gnarled knuckles against her mouth. She did not want to cry.
Here, it had all started that dawn Commander Ignathion’s fleet hove to before Immadia’s battlements, and took King Beran’s surrender. What a day. She had downed her first Dragonship. Yet, being taken into exile had only been the first Isle in a journey that spanned despair, rebirth, bitterness, treachery, glory and learning to shine for all that she believed in.
This was another incredible day. Zankaradia the Corundum Red swam with leisurely, sinuous flexions of her coils into a bay on the eastern edge of Immadia, a bay of Cloudlands as delicately tinted as the pearlock-eggshell blue of the overarching, cloudless skies. The Isle stood stark in frosted majesty. Its sheer basalt and granite cliffs were a deep grey, broken by the layers of frozen turquoise terrace lakes. So clear was the morn, the pristine white peaks seemed carved of honed blades that loomed above the walled city nestled beside their hafts. Closer at hand a tiny fishing village clung to the cliff edge, just a few handfuls of dwellings tucked into snowy white collars. A group of three fur-clad children were ice-skating on the uppermost terrace lake level just below the houses. As Zankaradia smiled down at them, filled with unabashed curiosity at their activities, the children’s faces painted a picture of astonishment.
The Ancient Dragoness’ nostrils ejected mighty clouds of steam above the village as she delicately brought her muzzle to rest in a clear, snowy field just beside the outermost walled vegetable garden, allowing her passengers to alight – King Beran and Queen Silha, Aranya and Ardan with Sapphire, Zuziana and Ri’arion, Asturbar and Iridiana, and Silver with his arm thrown about a shivering bundle of furs – Pip, engulfed.
“Heat shield?” Aranya offered.
“I must get used to this,” chattered the invisible teeth from beneath a thick fur ruff.
“Surviving, Ardan?”
“I’ve never been so cold in my life,” he growled, stamping his thick boots vigorously. “You Northerners call this winter? Brr! It’s unbelievable – both the temperature and the beauty.” Catching hold of her hand, he walked with her toward the gong that stood forlorn in the snow beside the village. “No wonder the balladeers go all mushy over your Island, Aranya. It’s something, isn’t it? Quite unique.”
“All frozen-mushy,” Zuziana put in. “How does one even scribe with iced-up ink, Iridiana?”
“We find ways,” returned the Chaos Shifter. With a bold wink at Aranya, she added, “After all, I come from a vast, technologically advanced Kahilate.”
Aranya just returned a raised eyebrow.
Beran said, “It’s tradition that when a King returns victorious from war, he rings this gong seven times to honour the blessing of the Great Dragon. Last time –” his voice cracked audibly “– last time I returned, I had to pass it by.”
Aranya’s heart squeezed in her chest.
Picking up the cloth-bound hammer from its place beneath the gong, which was like a great brass dral hung between two tall pillars, he dusted the snow off of it. “Don’t get to use this too often. Thankfully.”
“It’s the King!” squeaked a surprised voice from the lake’s edge.
Beran turned with a broad grin. “Well, come on then, Jazan, Karabi and … is that Alimzan? Who wants to help me sound this gong?”
“Will she bite?” said the boy called Jazan, who was perhaps eight years old. He pointed suspiciously at Zankaradia.
“Come on, silly,” Karabi scolded her brother. “It’s the King. I told you so. And this means we get to go to the city and eat cake!”
“I won’t bite, children,” Zankaradia fluted gently.
“Ha. Who ever heard of a Dragon that doesn’t bite?” the boy said scornfully.
With a low rumble of fires, the hatchling growled, “I might if you continue to be cheeky.”
Jazan blenched.
“I want my mummy!” wailed the youngest of the trio, little Alimzan.
Silha quickly shuffled through the snow to pick him up. “Now, don’t you worry, Alimzan. This is Zankaradia and she’s an Ancient Dragoness, like those in the stories you hear at school. She’s younger than you, and very kind and lovely.”
“She’s soooooo beautiful!” Karabi sighed, putting her hand dramatically upon her heart and pretending to swoon. “Race you to the gong, Jazan. I get the hammer first!”
Zuziana placed a hand upon Zankaradia’s scales. “Aye, you are beautiful.”
The hatchling purred up a small earthquake.
