Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 60
As he stepped toward the saddlebags, Ardan tripped over his own feet and landed awkwardly on his shoulder. “Islands’ sakes, you wretch!”
Laughter bubbled within her, but with the heat of boiling lava. “Oh, how the mighty Western Isles warrior has fallen.”
“Fallen for you, you gorgeous … creature.”
“Creature?”
But as he pressed upward with a simple flexion of those stalwart arms, a shadow crossed his eyes. “Sorry.” He turned to pull on the trousers.
Aranya snapped her fangs together right behind his neck.
“Yee – stop that!” he yelped.
Great burning Dragon fires, she had nearly bitten his head off! Oh no. Aranya retreated, shaking her head. Islands’ sakes, she had to control herself, to distract him … how?
She said, “Teach you to turn your back on a Dragoness.”
“I’m not afraid –”Ardan’s voice cracked, making them share an uneasy laugh.
Having Dragon paws on the job helped them straighten out Yolathion’s leg. Having Ardan tell her five times not to rip his leg right off earned him a testy growl and a snap toward his shaven pate. The warrior flinched, but after that, he did an excellent job of splinting the tall Jeradian’s leg to the haft of his war hammer. He looked on curiously as Aranya drew deep of her healing magic for Yolathion. The Jeradian warrior sank into an easier sleep thereafter. Ardan allowed her to rest her paw upon him, too; he shivered as the healing power flowed deep and strong.
The cool, fragrant evening winds, touched with the freshness of the storm’s aftermath, played about them as Aranya talked Ardan through how to buckle on her Dragon Rider saddle and fix her saddlebags in place between her spine spikes. The twin suns gleamed like two enormous copper coins near the horizon, sandwiched between the glossy Cloudlands and a bank of deep-bellied clouds that promised further storm winds and rain.
Aranya stared at the looming cloud-ramparts, chilled by a different sense of connection – between an Amethyst Dragon and the storm. Undetected by any sense save instinct, the storm asserted its lambent power and her magic responded, soughing softly within her. Chilling. She was one with the storm. It teased her power – or drew from it? Feeding on the chaos within her? She clenched her fangs in trepidation. The Black Dragon always appeared from among billowing thunderheads …
“What is it?” he asked.
“There’s a storm coming.”
Such an inanity, a burial shroud for the truth.
Ardan said, “We should find Kylara. They’ve a good bone-setter at their hideout, a man called Garg. I don’t need to tell you it’ll be dangerous.”
“She’s the jealous type?”
“Typically her enemies don’t stay alive long enough to find out,” he replied. “She and I aren’t on the best of speaking terms. But if the Immadian Fox empowered you to negotiate –”
“What did you just call my father?”
“His Western Isles name. The Immadian Fox. He is your father, right?” Ten feet of flames shooting from her nostrils made him duck. “I guess so. Aranya, sorry. My head’s not right yet.”
“Too much Dragon fire?”
“Aye,” he smiled, yet a quaver in his voice betrayed the torrent of his feelings, “Although I feel this incredible depth of connection with you, I want to say this – please don’t misunderstand, Aranya. It’s very important that I have your honest answer.”
She lowered her eyes to meet his. That sense of soul-deep union jolted her once more. Was it the Dragon fire they had breathed together? How was it possible that she could fall for someone so fast and so completely? Or was she mixing lust with love? She needed space to know. Space from his beautiful dark eyes. Even the guilt, which should be gnawing at her soul, felt remote and trivial. This had to be a temporary madness. But she remained unconvinced, for his gruff Western Isles voice, with its blunted consonants, felt at once like the voice of a complete stranger and the song that trembled her Island.
Ardan sighed. Again, the black eyes veiled a world of emotion she could only guess at.
He said, “Today was otherworldly. I think your magic … well, magic ruled us and we had no choice. It was beyond Human capacity or experience.” His hands balled into fists, before he extended his fingers to touch her cheekbone below her left eye. He replaced his hand with his forehead, groaning against her scales, “But I think I love Kylara. Maybe. It’s complicated. Do you hate me for saying this? I couldn’t bear it if … you hate me already, don’t you?”
After all they had shared, he dared to speak about loving another? Aranya’s claws clenched so hard, she splintered the slab of flint stone she was standing on.
He drew back, clearly trying to master his fear. She eyed her talons. They could so easily end his life, just a Dragon-swift slash – and she would be robbed of the gift he had entrusted to her. Thou, my soul’s eternal … what moved him to jilt her in such a mercenary way, now? Guilt? A desire to punish an Immadian enchantress? How could she even think about her honour, about how she deserved to be treated, after today?
Sadness and empathy pooled darkly within her. Aranya felt dislocated and abandoned, yet her training in courtly ways forced her to say, “I understand.”
“Do you? I don’t want to tell Kylara or Yolathion, Aranya. You’re a special, magical woman.”
“I hear a Dragon-sized ‘but’ about to appear.”
“Would it be weird to admit that I find your Dragon butt improbably attractive?”
“See, you are a Dragon.” Aranya looked down at her paws, pleased and enraged in equal measure. What a stupid, insensitive joke! “Ardan, I do understand. And I thank you for being … gentle, my first time.”
Let that guilt stick in his craw forever!
Well, insofar as two magic-crazed people could be gentle. Aranya gazed at the dark warrior’s wounds. So much dried blood. The entire front of his body was crusted in scabs, as though he had been whipped.
Softly, he jibed, “The first time, or the seventh?”
“You were counting?” Aranya’s belly fires fulminated within her; the embarrassment, volcanic. “Ridiculous man. Then may I ask you a question, with the same requirement for honesty?”
Ardan squeaked as she caught him up in the cage of her claws, hoisting him off the ground. Fixing him with her gaze, she said, “If I asked you right now – if I begged and pleaded with you – to forget Kylara, and be mine and mine alone in all the Island-World, would you say ‘aye’?”
* * * *
Ardan did not struggle in Aranya’s grasp, although his every Human instinct screamed at him to flee. The mesmeric gaze of a Dragoness held him fast, and he was not entirely convinced of the sanity ruling that gaze, from the way she had lunged at him just before to the detectable quivering in her muscles now. One twitch, and he was a dead man.
But her question pounded on his eardrums and resounded in his heart.
“Aye,” he whispered. “I could never resist you.”
“Because I’m a Dragoness?”
He spoke the truth before he could think the better of it. “Because of what fills my heart, Aranya, and how I feel about you.”
She chuckled melodiously. “That’s all I needed to know.”
“You’re such a woman, asking that question,” he said, ducking a scorching snort in response. “Can the glance of my eye captivate thee, o warrior of the Western Isles? Aye, a thousand times and more – but Aranya, I hardly know you. I fear I’ve shamefully mistreated you.”
“And I you, Ardan.”
“I’m a better man than … this.” How could he make her understand that for him, she was not just a pretty face, but a soul behind that face? A person, not a nameless object of Dragonish desire? Aye, there had been the fire they breathed together, but still …
“I am satisfied,” said she, making to set him down. “I will not ask. Are all Western Isles warriors as honourable as you, Ardan?”
“Honourable?”
A twist of the verbal knife!
Her response clamped his chest as though he was trapped in a blacksmith’s vice. A deadly, ten-inch talon slid right up to the soft skin of his throat. Ardan gasped and held very, very still as Aranya evidently struggled to subdue her anger. The pressure suddenly eased; her claws retracted catlike into their sheaths.
Vulnerability shadowed her eyes as she said, “Oh, I fought you off tooth and claw, didn’t I?”
The Amethyst Dragon set him down with a wistful, distant air. Ardan searched for a way past the lump of unknowable emotions snarled in his throat, past the dislocation of realising that this fiery beast gleaming before him was indeed the girl he had pillowed upon his arm, who had transported his soul to places beyond imagination. What could he say? That for him, she had painted his world in a blaze of new colours? That he yearned to unsay his words about Kylara?
“Ardan, I’ve never done anything like –”
He said, “Hush now, sweet Dragoness. I cannot speak for others, only for myself. Here is my offer. None may know what the future holds, so I beg you, save your question.” Clenching his right fist upon his heart, he added, “I promise to answer you as honestly on that day as I have this evening, here on this cliff, at the very edge of the Island-World. May the twin suns bear witness to my words.”
The great jewel-eyes widened. “Did you hear that?”
“I … did.”
The trumpets of heaven? The song of the moons? Whatever it was, that mysterious burst of threnody, half-heard and half-sensed, vanished as quickly as it had risen to their awareness. Something out there had heard that vow. And the fabric of the world had changed.
All glistened with newness.
Together, standing shoulder to shoulder, Ardan and Aranya scanned the never-ending expanse of the Cloudlands. He wondered if the Dragoness longed to fly. Now he grasped that what he had known before was as dust; that real magic lived and breathed in the Island-World, and that he was not mad after all. Could it be, could he believe was a Dragon, like this resplendent creature beside him?
Ardan’s knees buckled. But the Amethyst Dragon’s fore-talon steadied him. Of all people in the Island-World, Aranya must understand how he felt.
She said, “Let’s get my Rider in the saddle.”
And then she spoiled it by referring to her Rider. Ardan bit down on an unexpected, bilious surge of jealousy.
Together, they worked out a way of lifting Yolathion into the saddle, laying him face-down over the worn leather seat and buckling a strap about his waist. For good measure, Ardan tied his ankles with an extra hank of rope to spare him the inevitable buffeting. Then he mounted up as directed, one spine-spike behind the Jeradian warrior.
“I’ll show you to Kylara’s hideout,” he said.
Aranya’s head turned completely about to check his seat. “Hold onto the saddle straps ahead of you, Ardan. Don’t let go. I’ll fly carefully. And whatever you do, don’t transform when you feel me take off, because I couldn’t hold your weight in the air.”
“I’m that big an … um?”
“Dragon? Yes. More than twice my size.” His eyes betrayed wonder. She sniped, “And six times my haunches. You’re built like a flying boulder.”
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Aranya?”
“Jealousy? Ha!”
The Dragoness leaped through the plume of her fire, off the edge of the cliff.
Great Islands! He was flying! Ardan howled for four thousand feet before he managed to clamp his jaw shut. A warrior should display courage. A warrior should not be zipping along, Dragonback, a league above the Cloudlands. With a shudder, he flung his fear into the abyss. The great flight muscles rippled in the body beneath him; supple Dragon wings buoyed her upon the breeze. Aranya was so large he was amazed she could stay aloft – but fly she did, more gracefully than he could ever dream of, he knew, sliding through the air with the ease of a sleek trout slipping upstream. This girl was more than beautiful. She was magical. Lethal, a predator from the ground up. And he had tamed her?
No, she could never be tamed. That thinking was pure ego. Aranya had let herself be captured, as surely as she had captured him. And an elemental magic had responded to his promise. What did that portend? What had she said – he had no idea what powers an Amethyst Dragon possessed? True. Nor did he know his own powers, apart from the ability to stop a blade with his skull. Dragon powers? The idea earned his healthy respect. Truth be told, it scared him ralti-stupid.
“Uh – head north, Aranya. There’s a huge hole up there, a hole through the Island –”
“Oh, we passed it on the way down. I remember.”
Ardan twisted around in his seat, taking in the length of the Dragoness from her muzzle to the tip of her rudder-like tail trailing far behind him, measuring her wingspan with his eyes, watching the flow of her muscles as her wings beat the air. His throat was so chock-full of emotions, it hurt to breathe. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream with jubilation!
Quietly, over her shoulder, Aranya said, “It’s something, isn’t it? Just wait until you fly, Ardan. Dragon senses are so much more sensitive. You’re going to swoon.”
“Aye. Your confidence flatters me.” He smoothed the gooseflesh on his arms. “Aranya, you shouldn’t even be flying. You’ve holes in your wings; are those burns on your back from the battle you mentioned? They look serious.”
“I fought another Dragon, Ardan. He had the power of acid attack.”
Ardan swore beneath his breath. “Tell me more about Dragons. Tell me everything.”
“How many days do we have?” the Dragon riposted. “I need to know everything you know about Kylara, first. We need a plan before we reach her hideout.”
“Well then, we’ve less than a quarter-hour at this speed. Slow down, my exquisite – ah, sorry. Twilight is the best time to sneak inside.”
* * * *
Landing in a secluded location a good ways back along the secret trail that led to Kylara’s hideout, Aranya helped Ardan transport Yolathion to the ground. He unbuckled and hid her saddle and straps behind a clump of boulders.
“My dress and cloak, please. Don’t peek.”
Ardan quirked one scarred eyebrow in her direction.
“Islands’ sakes,” she huffed, transforming, “you need to at least pretend interest in this Kylara.”
Appearing pensive, he helped her dress and settled a cloak upon her shoulders. He bent to kiss her cheek. He stood a good three inches taller than her, Aranya noticed, while the heroic brawn of his shoulders matched his Dragon form. He would make an awesome subject for a painting.
Great. Forgetting him was going to be so easy.
He said, “Fair Aranya, we return to real life after flying to the heavens.”
“Unfair Ardan, if you continue to tease me …”
Ardan said, gruffly, “Princess, you are not allowed to feel guilty about what happened. No blame. Understood?”
Aranya lowered her eyes, appalled at how easily he had read her emotions.
Yolathion had never read her like an open scroll. How would she ever summon the courage to see this through? Or would it be wiser to end her relationship with Yolathion right now? Would a Jeradian care about her physical state – well, he would surely care if she loved another! But this magical madness could not be equated with love, surely?
“Keep a cobra’s eye out for trouble,” he warned. “Kylara’s fast. I don’t want you eating her scimitar – not as a Human, anyway. Put your hood up. Hide your face and hair.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “Oh, and now you believe in Dragons?”
Ardan puffed out a breath. “Because of you, Aranya, I’ve no idea what to believe any more, and – will you stop snarling at me? Islands’ sakes, girl, I apologised!”
“One little apology sweeps it all off your Island into the Cloudlands?”
Aranya knew she was being irrational, and his expression clearly said the same – irrational, or as crazy as a rabid rajal. But his reply was soft. Thou, Aranya. “I could never forget. I just feel Kylara deserves a chance. Any less would dishonour her.”
Oh, fine words! Chew on that, Aranya. She stilled her fires, hearing the inner laughter cackling as it prowled around the edges of her sanity.
Ardan picked Yolathion up with a grunt, whispering something about her boyfriend weighing more than the average ralti sheep. As they proceeded along the narrow trail, hardly more than two feet at any point from the edge of the drop, Aranya stooped her shoulders, bent one foot inward and began to hobble. The warrior’s startled whistle told her she was doing a fine job.
Beneath the hood, her eyes shifted restlessly over the throng beneath the huge rock overhang – the children playing, the men guarding the cliff’s edge; the coming and going of couples, families and female warriors. Her Dad was right. They looked a savage bunch. Not a single guard’s hand strayed far from her scimitar. Aranya had never quite appreciated how large those swords were until she saw one close up. And the faces owning those swords were the snarl-like-a-leopard type.
But they were not alert enough to stop her or Ardan.
As Ardan led her confidently though a series of caves and tunnels, Aranya studied the Western Isles warrior from behind. This was the man she had tossed Yolathion to the proverbial windrocs for? A shaven-headed, tattooed, scarred Isles warrior with biceps thicker than her thighs? A man with enigmatic eyes that, though shadowed in their depths, turned her insides into prekki fruit mush? How would she ever mist the Island enough to fool Kylara?
The Warlord he loved, rather than her. Oh, volcanic hells! She wished Nak or Zuziana could have been present to crack a few inappropriate jokes. She had to take her mind off the drumbeat in her mind thumping out, ‘What have I done? What have I done?’
They came to a very large cavern, lit by lantern-stands around the edges and further lamps dangling from the ceiling. As Ardan pushed the heavy wooden door open with his foot, Aranya slipped inside with a chary gaze at her surroundings. The floor space was surrounded by workbenches laden with projects in process. A forge blazed cheerfully at the far end of the cavern, its orange heart calling brazenly to her inner fires. She saw a half-opened meriatite furnace engine, three turbines standing along a wall, many chains and strange tools hanging from the ceiling, and crysglass windows stacked neatly in a storage enclosure to her left.
