Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 69
“My sweet Oyda,” Nak tittered. “Poetry’s just honey dripping from her tongue.”
To her embarrassment, Aranya’s stomach growled at the mention of sheep fat. Delicious, said her Dragoness. Disgusting, said her Human brain. Nak’s cackling from the couch opposite was no help at all. Oyda rebuked him sternly, rounding off a fine tirade with, “Say something worthwhile, thou fool of a husband.”
“Very well,” said Nak. “A Dragon’s soul-fire is an ancient magic, as your Black Dragon pointed out, Aranya. It is also an exceedingly rare power, a secret jealously guarded by the Ancient Dragons. Legend claims that Istariela and Fra’anior exchanged the soul-fire. The Pygmy Dragon’s tale would be incomplete without the fiery love she breathed with Silver. Petal, once you breathed the soul-fire with your dark Dragon, your fate was sealed. You stood no chance – just as a Shifter has no choice about assuming their fundamental nature, their Dragon form. Such magic is not to be trifled with. It … changes things. Fates. The course of the Island-World. Minor details like that.”
He dared to echo the Black Dragon’s warning? Aranya opened her mouth in protest, but Nak cut her off, adding, “I wish I understood why Fra’anior hounds you over this, my precious petal. Do you think it could be connected to your mother, somehow? Or to some Ancient Dragon power he wishes you did not possess?”
“Such as the power to facilitate his brethren’s return to our world?” asked Aranya, voicing the concern uppermost in her thinking.
Stillness gripped the little company gathered in the cosy sitting-room of Lyriela’s cottage. Aranya wished she had not opened her mouth to utter such ill-omened words. Was she not inviting calamity? Was Fra’anior listening, even now?
Oyda stood abruptly. “Who’s for another cup of tea?”
“Well, that would turn a few Islands on their heads,” said Nak, tapping his cane on the floor for emphasis. “Aranya, we can’t allow that to happen. Ever. They’d make the Sylakians seem like … like … Islands’ sakes, even I’m lost for words. We’d breathe new life into the Dragonwars and cast whole Islands of people into the abyss.”
Aranya leaned forward. “Nak, tell me about the Pygmy Dragon. What powers did she have? Do I remember rightly, she was Onyx in colour?”
He said, “As in, ‘Seek the Onyx, daughter of the storm. She’s my child’?”
“The child of my spirit,” said Aranya. “There’s a difference. Obviously, I’m not a child of anything he fancies. I’m the child of his wrathful right paw.”
And if Fra’anior was listening, he could just stuff that down all seven of his throats at once.
Seven? A muscular spasm made her jump. She had no desire to summon up a mental image of the Black Dragon to check if her intuition was correct. If he was so awesome and all-knowing and crammed to the craw with the unimaginable powers of the Ancient Dragons, what could possibly be preventing him from returning in all his wild majesty to claim the Island-World for his own? Why roar at an Amethyst Dragon through her dreams?
She imagined Fra’anior thundering at her, Rebellion, is it? I’ll teach you to rebel!
Ha. I defy you, Black Dragon.
His mocking laughter echoed across the inconceivable leagues and aeons. Indeed, little one? We’ll see.
Or had she imagined it? She had seen and heard so many wild and bizarre things while riding the tempest, Aranya sensed that reality was beginning to slip through her grasp like waters pouring off Islands into the Cloudlands. There was something about the Black Dragon’s behaviour which, oddly, reminded her of her own father – but being disciplined by an Ancient power was a far more daunting prospect.
In a much smaller voice, Aranya said, “What should I do about Ardan and Yolathion?”
“Petal, what does your heart tell you?” asked Oyda.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Running from Fra’anior is no solution, Lyriela put in, but very gently. You might as well flee from the wind, or seek to cross the mountains at the end of the world.
Thanks, cousin, she said, smiling wryly. I wasn’t frightened enough already.
Nak said, “Toss both men into the nearest volcano, Aranya. Grab the Jeradian girl. She sounds positively mouth-watering. I know all about grabbing girls. Did a fine job wooing you, didn’t I, my jewel of Yelegoy Island?”
Oyda’s eyes crinkled at him. “You’re sweet, Nak. Now, to answer your question, Aranya, I was friends with Pip. We both were. She came to us at Jeradia Island.”
“Start your story at the beginning, daft wife.”
“Pip was a Pygmy warrior from the Crescent Islands,” said Oyda. “The Dragon Zardon was convinced there was a new, world-changing power abroad in the Island-World. One day, he winged off to find it. Quite the finest of Dragons, he was. He tracked down our Pip to a Sylakian zoo. She’d lived in a cage for seven years.”
Aranya pressed her fingers against her temples. “Seven years?”
“Aye,” said Nak. “Three feet, eleven and one-half inches tall, she was. Just a mite of a thing. And you forgot that half-inch at your peril. She had my Shimmerith hopping, I tell you.”
“And Nak,” Oyda put in.
“Ha,” he snorted. “I had her cleaning my oldest, smelliest socks.”
“You’d rather slit your own throat than endure that,” said the Dragon Rider’s wife. “Before Pip scrubbed up Nak and Shimmerith’s roost, you couldn’t walk inside for the stench.”
Nak acted so unimpressed by this comment, Aranya had to laugh. He scolded her, “Pay attention, you wayward wretch. Once, Oyda and Emblazon were out on patrol when they were ambushed by Dragon pirates. Pip saved her life. Transformed on her way down, bounced off a mountain, still managed to clutch my Oyda safe in her paws. But the Marshal of Herimor had levitated an entire Island over the Rift, and brought with him literally thousands of Night-Red Dragons, which he had changed somehow and controlled by his power.”
This statement made both her Dragon and Human forms quake simultaneously. Aranya pictured roasting Nak with a handy fireball, the insensitive, uncaring rogue. Aye. She functioned too much as a Dragoness, these days.
“The Dragon Assassins,” Oyda added. “The Marshal controlled them by mind power.”
“The real power was the Shadow Dragon,” said Nak.
Oyda folded her arms ominously. “No, you senile windroc, it was the Marshal of Herimor, corrupting the power of a First Egg.”
Nak’s voice took on a peeved edge. “Who’s telling the story, you demented old bat? Look, the Marshal came from the south with his floating Island, all the way up to Jeradia, where there was a great battle. The shadow creature roamed the Island-World, mesmerising Dragons and drawing them to this Marshal’s Island, where they just disappeared. They acted like stunned ralti sheep. The creature sucked their magic out like marrow from a bone. Slurp!”
Before she knew it, Aranya was on her feet, shouting in horror. She tasted blood on her lips. “I-I … Nak! Oh … d-don’t do that to m-me.” Aranya fell back on the couch, grateful for Human arms to hold her. Thanks, Lyri.
What did you see? asked her cousin.
A nightmare. I can’t talk about it. I just can’t.
Aranya hid her face in her hands. Dark wings overshadowing her soul, a chill more penetrating than the deepest snows of an Immadian winter, and the awareness of life being leached from her body by an insatiable predator …
“Why do I see these things, Nak, Oyda?” she asked, her voice rising. “Why am I connected with an Ancient Dragon? Why strangle that witless girl? Why did I summon the storm? And how many people did that storm kill, on how many Islands –”
“Stop. Petal, stop,” cried Oyda, rushing over as best she could to grip Aranya’s shoulders. Staring into her eyes, she said, “That’s the Island of madness, Aranya. You are good. Your powers are good. But good is sometimes powerful and dangerous, even terrifying.”
Aranya wanted to grumble, but Oyda silenced her with a look. Perhaps a hundred and seventy-seven years of experience taught a person to do that.
Her words settled deep in Aranya’s consciousness. A terrifying good? Braving its dangers? There were significant choices she could make – and had made – with her life. She was just so confused about Yolathion and Ardan, she could see neither Cloudlands nor Island when it came to them. But what did the state of her heart matter, when the Island-World groaned beneath Thoralian’s iron grip? She had to push those men aside. She’d have nothing to do with Fra’anior’s vision for her future until she understood it better.
She said, “Right. Here are my stupid questions.”
“Stupid can be good, too,” said Nak.
“I think I prefer Oyda’s version of wisdom,” said Aranya, wishing her smile would return to working order. “On Jeradia Island, where did you live?”
Nak said, “Dragon Rider Academy, in southern Jeradia. The school was inside a large caldera.”
“Northern Jeradia,” said Oyda.
Aranya said, “The place which according to all Jeradian scholarship and research, does not exist? No, don’t answer that. What was Pip’s great power, Oyda?”
The two old people looked at each other. “Um.”
Aranya could not withhold the snap of Dragon fire that crept into her voice. “Nak. Oyda. This is important. I need answers. You called her power ‘world-changing’. What could she do? Storms, like me? Move the moons in their orbits? Blot out the suns?”
“No, not storms.” Nak scratched his chin like a dog chasing a flea. “It’s just, I can’t quite remember. Something – aye, she did something to Shimmerith, once. Pip brought her friend the Oraial Ape to the school, and you know how large an Oraial is. Pip had just arrived. Well, this Oraial wandered out onto the field looking for her. The alarm sounded and all the students were barricaded inside the dining hall. Shimmerith – oh, my beautiful darling, Shimmerith – swooped down from a height to attack the Ape. Well, Pip, she was as feisty as a fireball on legs. She smashed down the great doors of the hallway, rushed outside, and shouted something magical. And Shimmerith just stopped mid-air. Aye, I remember now. Caught her like a fly in amber.”
“She stopped a Dragoness mid-air? Held her up with hawsers?”
“No, Aranya,” said Oyda. “Magic. She was strong. Stronger than you or I.”
Suddenly, Ri’arion’s dry voice echoed in her memory, a legend he had related about Ancient Dragon powers. Aranya said, “A Word of Command. She had the power of Command.”
“That’s right, petal,” said Oyda.
Unimpressed by this cloud of bewilderment, Aranya narrowed her eyes. Her friends had never acted senile before, despite their age. Was this a ploy? A shading of the truth for the good of an Immadian Princess? Perhaps she should seek a more sinister explanation …
Nak said, “Another time, I remember – this incident happened here at Fra’anior. The Silver Dragon attacked Pip in the Natal Cave. Tied her up. She snapped the ropes, broke out of there, and attacked that Dragon. Hit him like a thunderbolt out of the blue.”
“I thought she loved the Silver –”
“Love came later. After she smashed the living pith out of him.” Nak grinned at Oyda. “Do you remember the Land Dragon she summoned?”
Aranya sat up straighter, beginning to feel rather annoyed and jealous as her friends extolled the Pygmy Dragon’s powers to the heavens. “She summoned a Land Dragon?”
“You really are full of stupid questions, aren’t you?” Nak laughed at his own joke. “Her name was Leandrial.”
“Who, Pip?”
“Great Islands, no, my ralti-sheep aunt who runs around bleating at the moons!” Nak glared at Lyriela, who was overcome with fit of the giggles in the face of his wrath. “Just wait until you’re married, o heavenly Ha’athior. We’ll make your Prince blush like the dawn, you and –”
Oyda barked, “Nak! Don’t get distracted.”
Nak said, “Pip was attacked by half a dozen Night-Red Dragons. They tried to drag her down into the Cloudlands, when along comes this Land Dragon just running up the side of the Island holding Pip on her paw, as cool as a fish in a terrace lake. And Pip turns around and talks to – shut your mouth, petal. You’re catching flies. The Land Dragon was called Leandrial. That creature had claws sixty feet long, and a throat as could swallow a fully-grown Dragon without its wings touching the sides.”
Aranya tried to imagine this monster, and failed miserably. “But Nak, what became of this omnipotent Pygmy Dragon? Where did she go? And all the other Dragons, for that matter?”
Nak shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
How had they not remembered something so fundamental? Granted it was over a hundred years before, but still! Aranya chewed her lip, unable to deny the suspicion that something was amiss. And she did not want to shout at Nak and Oyda again. They deserved better.
“Pip vanished?”
Nak nodded. “There was a great battle at Jeradia. I remember that. The Marshal’s Island was there, hanging in the sky – I just don’t remember how it ended. How did it end, Oyda?”
“Well, she defeated the Marshal, of course,” said Oyda.
Aranya insisted, “But you didn’t see it, did you?”
“No, not exactly,” puzzled Nak. “I remember hiding from the Dragon of Shadow here, at Fra’anior, in the Natal Cave. We spent months in that cave, climbing the cliffs in search of food and forbidding our Dragons to fly anywhere.”
His answer was the proverbial fracture in the terrace lake wall. The Immadian Princess made a very passable impression of a Dragon as she roared, “So you jump from a non-existent school, amidst the most important battle of your lives – and you can’t even be certain of that – to hiding in a cave in Fra’anior, and you don’t remember a blasted thing? The world changes under your noses, the Dragons all disappear, and you don’t even notice? Ridiculous! I can’t believe what I’m hearing from you two!”
Nak rubbed his ears. “No need to shout, I’m not decrepit yet.”
Aranya smacked her hand to her forehead. “She did something to you. That little Onyx vixen … she made you forget.”
“Oh no, not my sweet little Pip,” said Nak. “She’d never have dared to do that.”
“She chased you away. The Pygmy Dragon needed you to survive, to remember … why? Why, Oyda?”
Oyda hung her head. “Petal, I am so ashamed, I want to cry. Knowing how important these questions are to you – ouch! Mind the old bones, you wretched girl.” Aranya hugged her a little less fiercely. Oyda patted her back. “You’re like my own daughter, Aranya and I’d never hide something like this from you. Look. Nak and I are hopelessly confused. We’ll put our forgetful old heads together and try to agree on the real story. Meantime, you need to relax.”
“That’s the last thing I want to do, Oyda. Fra’anior has me hunting an Onyx Dragon who’s been dead a hundred and fifty years. How does that make even a grain of sense?”
“Shut the trap, petal,” said Oyda, with a sweet but commanding smile. “I’ve just the job for an Amethyst Dragon.”
“I don’t want –”
“Shut it!”
Aranya laughed, but made a silencing motion in front of her lips.
Oyda nodded. “That’s better, petal. Now, while I talk to Nak and dress Lyriela in something suitably gorgeous, you will go fetch that worthless Prince Ta’armion. Don’t you take no for an answer. I’m sure you can be very persuasive.”
“Grab him by the seat of his fancy trousers, if necessary,” Nak chimed in.
Lyriela laughed soundlessly behind her hand, her eyes a-dance.
“Direct him to bring Dragonships, chains and whatever effects his ridiculous tradition demands. It’s time for a right royal kidnapping.”
Chapter 18: A Right Royal Kidnapping
ARanya lauNched Herself off the lip of Fra’anior’s volcanic rim wall, the place where legend told that the world began in the explosion of a vast meteor. Ha’athior Island, one of twenty-seven major Islands located around the caldera, lay above the Natal Cave itself, the magical resting-place of the fabled First Eggs of the Dragons.
She had to remain concealed. How many Sylakian spies still lurked about Fra’anior? Ignathion had shared that the Sylakians had stripped Fra’anior’s garrison bare to supplement the effort at Jeradia – but still, a Dragon could cause Prince Ta’armion a great deal of trouble.
Excellent. Aranya grinned rather grimly.
Angling her wings, she plunged toward the vapours concealing the caldera floor. A league below the Islands, she should be invisible to Human sight – but what if there was another Dragon? She scanned the cloud-mottled skies, the Islands, the swirling mists. Nothing. Only dragonets. Curious to see the Natal Cave close up, Aranya hugged the cliff face, but was soon forced to take a more considered approach due to the sheer number of dragonets and birds flitting in and out of the lush, trailing vegetation.
A mile and a half lower down, the vegetation gave way to the relentless assault of the volcanic heat from lava-filled cracks on the caldera floor. Aranya skirted a huge overhang. Wow! She levelled out, slowing down as she gaped at the cave mouth, an immense bite into the roots of Ha’athior Island. The magic emanating from the Natal Cave’s dark mouth made her scales creep. A long white tongue of Dragon bones descended from its mouth to the volcano floor. Aranya decided she’d explore it another time, perhaps after Lyriela’s wedding. But as she surveyed the bones, a bugle of wonderment sounded from her throat. Not all were white – some were turquoise with sparkling, jewelled veins, others, a deep, ruby-red colour. She winged over the spinal column of some beast whose unending, serpentine ribcage towered two hundred feet over her head. Feeling skittish, and thinking herself foolish to be so, she whipped through the open mouth of a skeletal head, dodging fangs the size of the marble columns in Jeradia’s great hall.
Unbelievable!
If Pip’s Land Dragon had been this size … Aranya was a gnat in comparison to these monsters.
