Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 68
“Another bread roll?” said Oyda. Nak ducked. “Aranya, Lyriela says that you and the storm are … connected. Magically.” Aranya rose on her elbow to stare at her relative, she who could be her twin save for the violet eyes and the lack of multi-coloured hair, with astonishment. “She says that if you calm down, the storm will dissipate.”
“If I calm down?” A flare in the hearth fire betrayed her feelings. Aranya sighed. “Lyriela, if you had any idea of the size of that storm …” She thought of poor Jia-Llonya, ensnared by a Dragoness’ magic. “I’ll try. I’ll try anything.”
It was surely impossible that one unusual girl should be the epicentre of a thousand-league storm, Aranya thought. So was being thrown off a cliff and learning to fly. And pulling off a twenty-eighth hour rescue of Immadia. Surely, the Black Dragon’s ‘daughter of the storm’ was not meant as a literal appellation?
But the winds outside shrieked at a pitch she had never heard before. The shutters vibrated as though seized and rattled by an earthquake.
Lyriela made an interrogative gesture.
“I would be honoured,” Aranya smiled.
Lyriela, with that wonderful grace Fra’aniorian women seemed to possess as their birthright, glided over to the corner which housed her tall, intricately carved harp. This was not the instrument she had carried to their meeting with the Nameless Man. It stood six feet tall.
She bowed slightly and laid her fingers to the strings. Glissades of music and magic filled the small house, driving away the sounds of rain drumming on the roof and the wind attacking the shutters. Aranya sagged on the couch as though struck by an invisible fist. The music conjured visions in her mind. She saw a vast volcano inside which Dragons danced to the music of Dragonsong. Amongst the multitude, at the heart of the celebration, was a tiny, gleaming Onyx Dragoness, hardly more than a hatchling, who carolled her joy to the heavens. The other Dragons sang their harmonies from a near-subsonic throbbing deep within the male Dragons’ chests, to the trilling song of fledglings and the clarion purity of the Dragoness’ voices. And the visions moved to her mother, Izariela, and her star-crossed love for a rakish young Beran, and from there to the lives of other Dragons she did not recognise.
The music drew her to a place of quiet contemplation, and instilled all with peace. Lyriela’s offering opened new vistas to her. It soothed her fears, enwrapped her in wonder, and pierced the bloated ulcer of hatred which had grown within her soul.
It made the world anew.
Chapter 17: Ancient Ways
“WHAT’S thE MATTER with that stupid Prince Ta’armion?” Aranya griped. “I’ve a good mind to kidnap him myself.”
“Petal, calm yourself. You’ll bring another storm down on us.” Oyda was right, as usual. Aranya forced herself to relax beneath the ministrations of Lyriela brushing out her hair. “Nak and I abandoned Sylakia just after you winged north to save Immadia, and that’s all we have to say on the subject. We came to Fra’anior. Much more congenial than Thoralian’s back yard, wouldn’t you say?”
“Aye, and these Fra’aniorian women … goddesses, one and all,” said Nak, evidently not as asleep as his snoring a moment before suggested.
Oyda said, “We came to dig into the records. Lyriela is your cousin, Aranya. Your mother had a twin brother called Ja’arrion, a Green Shapeshifter Dragon of reputedly exceptional power. He married Va’assia, a Red Shapeshifter from the neighbouring Island of Ya’arriol.”
“And Izariela –”
“Well, that’s a mystery, Aranya. We couldn’t unearth a single record or memory of the twins’ mother or father.”
“Oh, what a shame.” Aranya regarded Lyriela in the mirror. “Islands’ greetings, beloved cousin.” The image made a fluid Fra’aniorian half-bow. “So, our heritage is unknown? The powers that pass through a family of Shapeshifters –”
“Aye,” said Nak. “As you know, we can trace powers through the generations. That’s why record-keeping became such an obsession amongst Shapeshifters. Izariela’s Star Dragon powers point to an extraordinary heritage. But Thoralian put a stop to that, the poxy son of a windroc. He murdered Ja’arrion and Va’assia –”
“We don’t know that for certain,” Oyda put in.
“He murdered them.”
“They disappeared.”
Aranya quelled the squabble with a hiss. She said, “Do you remember our grandparents, Lyriela?”
“I was very young,” Nak translated.
And then a piece of the puzzle fell into place for Aranya. If Shapeshifter families worked as Nak and Oyda’s research suggested … Lyriela, do you understand Dragonish?
A gulp as the violet eyes flew wide. Her cousin’s throat worked. A-A-A, she stammered, not even words, but the mind-communication possible between Dragons. She wrung her hands, trapped between terror and wonder. A … aaaooo …
Oyda flung her arms around the girl. “Petal, softly now.” Petal, don’t cry. Think your words.
With a clatter, Nak’s stool toppled in one direction and his canes went spinning in another. An impromptu Nak jig spun him around the room, as he giggled, snorted and crowed, “I found me a Dragon! Well, you did, Aranya. We found a Dragon.”
Aranya sprang off her own chair. Lyri … oh, Lyriela! I can’t believe it. She hugged the girl so hard, Lyriela’s ribs creaked.
Poor cousin. She really had no chance, not with two Shapeshifters for parents and a Star Dragon for an aunt. Poor Prince Ta’armion. Her wicked chuckle startled everyone. He was about to marry a Shapeshifter Dragon. That would certainly spice up his life in the future. And she’d have another Dragon ally, bringing the total to four. Four Dragons to stand against the seemingly inexhaustible hordes of Thoralian’s family.
Oyda said, I wonder what colour you’ll be, petal?
Violet for the eyes, said Nak, sounding assured of his ground. Violet is my favourite Dragon colour – next to amethyst, of course. And the sapphire of my darling Shimmerith. You’ve quite the knack for discovering Dragons, Aranya. Or making them, I hear. I think it’s time you told us a story.
Every detail, said Oyda. I want to know why you arrived here in such a state. Who did this to you?
Aranya groaned. In front of Nak? She’d never live this down.
* * * *
Zuziana mopped Ri’arion’s brow with a cool cloth. The monk moaned and strained against his bindings, while the Dragonship likewise groaned and creaked as it sought to make headway against the high winds which had beset their long south-westerly passage to Remia Island. The Steersman complained bitterly that they should turn aside for Horness Cluster and take shelter, but Zip could not abide even an hour’s delay. Fra’anior beckoned. It tugged her heart along as though she were chained to a Dragonship driving ahead at its fullest speed.
Aranya. Something was amiss, and Zuziana was desperate.
The sickly-sweet odour of infection filled the cabin. Despite their best efforts to treat Ri’arion’s wounds, the deep perforation in his shoulder had become inflamed. That, plus the raving delirium of a powerful magician, was not a combination anyone felt safe with. It baffled her how the Nameless Man could not simply just snap his fingers and heal himself. Some magic was like that. Several of her Dragon powers seemed inborn, but others needed to be learned, observed in others, or required some unfathomable signal or crisis before they surfaced.
Or, a thief could steal them. She winced.
“Princess Zuziana of Remoy, exile, escapee, thief and Dragoness,” Zip whispered. “Dragon Rider. Aranya’s friend. A sizeable blue wasp lodged up Sylakia’s left nostril.”
As the word ‘wasp’ left her lips, Ri’arion gripped her arm with feverish strength.
“You were inside me,” he moaned. “You saw; you took.”
“And I love you. I’m so sorry, Ri’arion.”
For the first time in days, the depthless sapphire eyes cracked open. “You did right,” he breathed, forcing the words out of an unwilling throat. “It is I who failed you.”
“You didn’t fail –”
“I was a fool. Forgetting that pain would be transmitted through the mind-meld.” His grip hurt her arm, but Zip did not pull away. “Seeking to control a Dragon.”
“It was a brilliant idea.”
A glistening teardrop squeezed out of the corner of his eye. Zip covered her mouth with her hand to stifle an appalled sob. Ri’arion had never displayed such weakness before. He was a monk, the Nameless Man, the very paragon of discipline and wisdom.
His chest rose and fell. Infection scribed its insidious woes upon his flesh.
He whispered, “You are passion, dawn’s breath upon the world. I am cogitation. As the orbits of the moons are circumscribed, so am I.”
Zip bent over him, stroking his cheek, hurting for him. “Hush your poetry, silly man. If you think I’m leaving you, you’ve monkey intestines for brains. We’ll work this out. And you will get better.”
“Aye?”
“Aye. And when you’re better, you won’t spout so much beautiful nonsense.” His laughter turned into a pained wheeze. She said, “We’ll defeat Thoralian. You and I will get married. We’ll have ten children. All of them immoderately magical.”
“Children by magic?” His eyes gleamed too brightly. Sweat beaded his brow. “Now who’s moons-mad? If you’ve been turned into a Shapeshifter by Dragon tears, do you think your children will inherit your powers? Oh, by the great Dragon, I ache …”
The Princess of Remoy snapped her fingers at him. “Will you switch that brain of yours to healing? You never stop, even when you’re doing a passable imitation of dying.”
“If you’ll explain to me the mystery of Shapeshifter heritage …”
“I promise I’ll think about it.” Zip laid a finger upon his lips. “You need to heal.”
“Where are we?”
“Making good headway toward Remia.”
He said, “Do you think our meld is doomed to failure, Princess?”
“Be still. Or would you argue with a Dragoness?” She replaced her finger with a kiss, which he returned feebly. “Ha. You are not as ill as you pretend. Ri’arion, can I share my fears about Aranya with you? And you’ll tell me if I’m leaping off Islands?”
His eyes shuttered. “I’m listening.”
Two breaths later, a soft snore informed her of exactly how well he was listening.
Zuziana wished she could fly ahead to Fra’anior, but her place was here, with her monk. “Oh, Aranya,” she whispered. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
* * * *
Nak prodded Aranya in the ribs with his cane. He seemed far from astonished by her story; tickled, surely, but also sympathetic. He said, “Was she a good kisser, at least?”
“Nak!” cried Oyda.
Aranya wished she could have melted through the floor rather than share that detail. “I had my fingers wrapped around her throat, but she thought I meant to kiss … it confused me. Jia didn’t deserve – I wouldn’t ever – Islands’ sakes, what do you expect me to say?”
“Petal, you might not know, but in some segments of Jeradian society it is quite common to kiss on the lips in greeting. Even the men do it,” said Oyda.
Nak complained, “Aranya made it sound so much more interesting than that.”
A Storm-powered roar shook Lyriela’s cottage. Aranya leaped at the old Dragon Rider, her hands clawed, but even as she sprang off her seat, rational thought intruded and she skidded to a halt, slamming her shins into the couch next to him. Aranya groaned, pressing her fingers against her temples.
One more bit of Dragon fire and she was going to explode!
“Sorry. Sorry, everyone. I’m alright.”
She was not – Aranya knew it, and now they all knew, too. She dropped back into her seat, hugged her knees and rocked back and forth. Nothing made sense any more. Her emotions could not find a single Island to rest upon for more than a minute, and while struggling to maintain her integrity, all she had achieved was to heap another disgrace upon herself, this one hugely public. Beran would be mortified by her behaviour. She had gaily dragged Immadia’s reputation through a swamp. She could not even cry about it. Her tears had run dry.
Nak said, gently, “Dragons are fiercely jealous creatures, Aranya, and that girl stole Yolathion from you. I don’t blame you in the slightest.” His eyes took on a misty glaze. “Though, I would have loved to have been there …”
Oyda’s hand clipped his head. “You old degenerate. Her poor father, what he must have thought.”
“Ha, Immadian prudery,” said Nak. “In Remoy, they have the right idea. Besides, I have always admired Aranya’s morals. Nothing has changed – apart from this wild urge I have to thrash that Shadow Dragon within an inch of his life. Blasted Dragon magic upsetting my best girl …”
His wife gaped at the old Dragon Rider.
“I can still surprise thee after fifteen decades of marriage?”
“Aye, that you can,” said Oyda.
“I could still say something wildly inappropriate,” Nak offered, flashing his lustful-old-man smile at Aranya. “Should I clasp thee in mine arms, incomparable Immadia, I would kiss thy blushes most tenderly, and teach thee such things –”
Oyda scolded, “Nak, enough.”
Aranya blushed on cue. “Nak – yes, you’re still the Island-World’s greatest charmer.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
Then she offered him a wicked smile of her own. Patting her knee, she said, “Come perch upon a Dragoness’ knee, my friend, and I shall nibble thy head off thy neck.”
Nak waved his cane rather wildly in her direction. “Desist, thou wicked beast!” He said, “On a more serious note, how many times did you tremble the Islands with that man – Dragon, I mean?”
Aranya thought she was done blushing, but now her cheeks heated up so ferociously she thought she smelled smoke. Ardan and his mysterious, beautiful eyes; that wicked, wicked rajal of a man! And dear, gallant old Nak neither blamed her nor criticised her actions. She wished she could articulate how grateful she was for his acceptance, even if she felt even more muddled as a result.
Magical Dragon fire indeed. Thou, my soul’s fire, its madness, its uncontainable Dragonsong …
She protested, “What does it matter?”
“The Dragon lore surrounding numbers is quite astonishing,” said the old Dragon Rider.
Oyda met her raised eyebrow with a nod. “It’s a serious question, Aranya.”
“Um … seven, Ardan said.”
“Louder. My aged ears fail me.” One more wisecrack and Nak would seal his doom, her scowl told him. Nak’s face wrinkled up in a smile that reached his hairline. “I’m a much better kisser than that Jeradian girl, aren’t I, petal? Admit it.”
“She’s the one who … oh, stop! It was barely a peck.”
Oyda said, “Seven, Aranya? That’s a magical number. At least, our Dragons were always nattering on like parakeets about numerology and the properties of the number seven, most especially.”
Seven signifies the sevenfold power of a vow, said Lyriela.
Aranya screamed, and then clapped her hands over her mouth, filled with chaotic laughter. Lyri, you spoke! Er, in thought. How is it you speak Dragonish so well?
I feel born to it. Lyriela shrugged; tears glistened on the tips of her eyelashes. My mind awoke. She spoke with the care of one who had never been able to speak, and was assembling sentences in her mind before speaking them.
Taking her cousin’s hands in hers, Aranya said, Lyriela, you’re a treasure. Are you aware this means you’ll transform into a Dragon, probably soon? Are you scared?
She bobbed her head. What will Ta’armion think? I am scared, dearest cousin. Petrified.
Marry him, quick, said Nak. Then, you can be all the Dragoness he desires.
I don’t know why he’s still waiting. Lyriela’s evident distress put paid to Nak’s teasing. The old man turned to muttering dark imprecations about Princes who jilted innocent young maidens without so much as a word of explanation. His fulminations quickly developed into the Prince being barbecued in a handy volcano, slowly.
Oyda directed a significant glance in Aranya’s direction. Aye. She could most certainly fly across the caldera to Fra’anior Island and breathe a little fire beneath a tardy, uncaring Prince. It would be her pleasure.
Lyriela, said Aranya, I’ll help you learn how to be a Dragon. And Nak is a great teacher. Now, what did you mean by ‘the sevenfold power’?
The vow you spoke with the Dragon Ardan. It multiplied in power because of the … because of the soul-fire, then the seven times … Lyriela faltered at Nak’s knowing snigger. She added, I knew there was something unnatural about the storm, Aranya. You generated it. But I misspoke. It’s not seven times seven, but seven to the power of seven.
A hundred-year storm resulting from soul-fire breathed and simple vows spoken by two Shapeshifters at the edge of the world? The power of sevens? If that were true, the Island-World was a stranger place than she had ever imagined. Fleetingly, Aranya rode an echo of the storm. She revelled in its raw ferocity. Seen from above, the storm had spanned half the world. If anyone had a right to be scared, it was her.
She had never wanted such power.
Do I have to be as fierce as you, Aranya? Lyriela asked. And hunt for my meals?
Nak beamed at Lyriela. Thou shalt outshine the very raiment of the heavens, Dragoness. Thy breath shall fire our Islands as with the suns of dawn. And the Island-World shall tremble before thy revealed majesty, thou queen of the uncharted aerial domains.
He means to say ‘aye’, said Oyda, regarding him with great fondness. Thou, my soul’s fire.
Thou, the Dragonsong of my hearts.
Aranya’s own heart jumped in response. A sweeter echo than before, the very words she and Ardan had spoken. Did your Dragons teach you to say things like that?
“Petal, Dragons are the most romantic creatures in this Island-World,” said Oyda. “They’re worse than my Nak when it comes to soppy poetry and sweet endearments. ‘Thou, my third heart.’ ‘Thou, the moons above my Island.’ ‘Thou, the breeze beneath my wings.’ Windroc droppings and piles of sizzling sheep fat.”
